Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (23 page)

T
WENTY

Usually Beck slept in until at least noon after a night of trapping, but for two mornings in a row he’d had to crawl out of bed early. Too early by his way of thinking. Now, as he stood in front of the Atlanta City Hall, he muffled a yawn with the back of his hand, earning him a bemused look from the Scotsman. The bandage on the master’s forehead was gone, replaced by a neat row of transparent strips across a healing wound. He was dressed in a colorful kilt, which seemed odd, but maybe there was a rule about what a master wore when you met the hunters. Beck had opted for a clean pair of jeans and a blue shirt, topped off with his leather jacket. He felt naked without his duffel bag, but Stewart had insisted he leave it in the truck.

Where they stood gave them an excellent view of the street below. The street itself was clear, but the sidewalks on either side were jammed with people, eager to get a look at the Vatican’s boys. It reminded Beck of the day after the Tabernacle attack. Some of the same sign wavers were back, and a new group insisted that Atlanta was doomed because of the gays and the unbelievers. Another yawn overtook him and this one he couldn’t stop.

“Late night?” Stewart asked.

“Trapped a Pyro near Lenox Station. It was settin’ dumpsters on fire.” He tried to convince the fiend to tell him where to find that murdering Five. No luck. So he’d hauled the thing to Fireman Jack and sold it. At least that part of the evening was a success.

Beck zeroed in on the signs again. “I wonder if Jack knows he’s one of the reasons this city is goin’ to hell.”

The master pointed toward a large sign with bold letters and blood-red flames around the border: “Kill Every Demon. Make America Safe for Our Kids.” He shook his head in despair.

“What would happen if we
did
kill all the demons?” Beck asked. He knew that was impossible because Lucifer had an endless supply of the fiends. Still, it was something to think about.

“No demons and ya got no balance,” the master replied solemnly. “I’ll tell ya how it all works when yer ready ta become a master.”

“Another year then,” Beck replied.
At least.

Stewart gave him a sideways glance. “I’d say sooner.”

Before he could follow up on that comment, there was the sound of sirens in the distance. Beck perked up.

Stewart grunted. “That’ll be hunters. They do love a show.”

“So what’s gonna happen here?”

“In front of the cameras they’ll be all friendly-like,” the master replied. “Behind the scenes it’ll get dirty. The Vatican knows how ta pull strings with the best of them. Comes with centuries of practice.”

“Ya sound like ya know them pretty well.”

“Aye, lad. My family’s been trappin’ fiends for over eight hunnerd years. The hunters are the reason for that.”

Beck looked over at him, confused. “What?”

“It’s a tale best told over whisky.” Stewart shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I want ya ta trap with Riley every chance ya get. Where I respect Master Harper, I’m not fond of his methods.”

“No way he’s gonna let me work with her.”

“As long as he gets a cut of the money, he’ll be happy.”

Beck doubted that but decided not to argue the point. If they did trap together he could keep a closer eye on Paul’s daughter. Maybe keep her from getting hurt again. “Yeah, I like that idea,” he said, but for an entirely different reason than the master’s.

Sirens wailed and rose in intensity. The sound abruptly cut off as two police cars turned the corner onto Mitchell Street, lights flashing like they were leading a parade. Right behind were four sleek vans followed in turn by a white limousine. The black vans were identical and displayed the papal coat of arms on the side doors.

“Where’d they get their rides?” Beck asked.

“Airlifted them in from New York City. Money isn’t a problem for these folks, not like it is for us.”

The lead van halted in front of the building, the others quickly lining up behind it. Flashbulbs lit up as bystanders began to push against the barricades. Some were crying. The lead van’s doors slid open and two men hopped out, one on each side of the vehicle. Both were clad in black military fatigues and combat boots and they carried specially modified assault rifles. The men scanned their surroundings then beckoned to their comrades. Five more men exited the van, remaining on alert. Once the first vehicle was empty, the third van in line followed the same drill, then the fourth.

“Smart,” Beck said, impressed. These guys weren’t mugging for the cameras, but eyeing the terrain for potential trouble, human or demonic. They were a mixed lot—white, black, Asian, and Latino. One thing for sure: They’d all be Roman Catholic. That was a job requirement.

Only when the scene was deemed secure did the side door on the second van slide open. A man stepped out. He was taller than Beck, six feet two or so, with a Mediterranean complexion and a goatee. Inky black hair ended at his collar. He was wearing a dark navy turtleneck with epaulets, navy trousers, and combat boots and was armed with a pistol at his waist. Over his left breast was the demon hunters emblem—Saint George slaying the dragon.

“Head dude?” Beck asked.

“Aye. That’s Elias Salvatore, the team’s captain,” Stewart replied. “He’s thirty-two, the youngest leader they’ve ever had.” Another man hopped out of the van. “That’s Lieutenant Maarten Amundson, his second-in-command.”

Beck scrutinized the hunter, watching his body language. He was older, beefier than his superior. “He doesn’t like his captain. Not one bit.”

“How can ya tell?” Stewart asked, intrigued.

“The way he looks at him. It isn’t respect; it’s somethin’ else.”

The master trapper nodded his approval at the assessment. “Amundson figured he’d be top dog by now and he’s none too happy about Salvatore takin’ his job. What else are ya seein’, lad?”

“Their men are well trained. They’re on alert, like they expected to be ambushed. Can’t think that’s just for the cameras.”

“It’s not. They were attacked in Paris by a pair of Archdemons a few years back. Got five of them dead, and they’ve not forgotten that humiliation. They’re tired, too. It’s not jet lag but somethin’ deeper here. They’re bein’ pushed too hard, I think.”

The master was right: Beck could see it in how the hunters held themselves. They were still deadly but not totally in peak condition.

“If they were trappers I’d say they need some R and R. Get drunk, get laid, get their attitudes adjusted,” he said.

Stewart chuckled. “Well, that’s not gonna happen, and the reason is in that limo.”

Beck hadn’t noticed the vehicle until the master pointed it out. As if on cue, one of the hunters marched back to the car and opened the rear door. A priest stepped out. He was older, maybe sixty, his dark hair lined with silver and his eyes sharp like a hawk’s. He was wearing a cassock.

As the priest approached a wave of tension passed through the hunters’ ranks, as if a wolf had just entered into their midst. “They can’t stand this guy,” Beck observed.

“He’s nothin’ like our Father Harrison. This one’s the Vatican’s man—Father Rosetti. He’s here ta make sure the hunters stay on the straight and narrow and don’t embarrass the Holy See. He’s known ta be overzealous. Even Rome thinks so.”

Beck turned to the Scotsman, astounded at the man’s inside knowledge. “How do ya know all this?”

“I have contacts here and there. Comes with bein’ a master. It opens up all sorts of doors.”

The captain and his lieutenant had their photo op with the governor, the mayor, and a few of the city council members, all eager to be shown with the Vatican’s team. Then it was the trappers’ turn to meet the men who might turn this city into a war zone.

To Beck’s surprise, the lead demon hunter made the first move, striding past the mayor and the governor, extending his hand toward the older trapper. “Grand Master Stewart. It is a pleasure. I’ve long wanted to meet you.”

“Captain Salvatore. Welcome ta Atlanta.”

Grand Master?
Beck had never heard of that title before. He’d have to ask Stewart about that sometime. Hell, he had a lot of things to ask, once everything died down.

“I believe you met my father many years ago,” Salvatore said.

“Aye, I remember it well,” Stewart replied. “It was in Genoa. He’d killed an Archfiend that day, and you’d just been born. We shared a bottle of whisky ta celebrate.”

“He recalls that occasion very fondly.” Salvatore’s face sobered. “The hunters are truly sorry about your men.”

“Thank ya for that.” Stewart looked over at his companion and gestured. “This is Denver Beck, one of our journeymen. He’ll be yer contact while yer in Atlanta. He knows the city and her demons better than anyone.”

Flustered by the compliment, Beck shook hands with the captain and murmured his greeting. The priest didn’t look happy. Was it because Salvatore was being too friendly with the good ol’ boys? Father Rosetti said something in Italian that caused the captain to stiffen like a dog at the end of a leash. Salvatore said something back and the priest frowned.

“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” the lead hunter said. He returned to the podium, where the mayor, never one to miss an opportunity, shook the captain’s hand again knowing it would set off a flurry of flashbulbs.

“The citizens of Atlanta will sleep easy in their beds tonight knowing the Vatican’s Demon Hunters are here,” Montgomery proclaimed.

Beck ground his teeth. Funny how the citizens hadn’t realized they’d been sleeping easy all these years thanks to the trappers. As the mayor droned on, Beck’s eyes skimmed over the crowds at street level. It was funny how you can’t resist trying to find someone you know in a pack of people. The red hair caught his notice immediately. Justine waved and smiled. He resisted the urge to wave back. Then suddenly it was all over: The hunters loaded back into the vans, and the motorcade drove off.

Stewart didn’t budge. “A wee word of advice, lad. Be verra careful with the hunters. They’re not a bad lot, but it’ll get ugly if they think they’re bein’ made fools of.”

Beck nodded his understanding. “What do ya want me to do?”

“Just try ta keep them from burnin’ the city ta the ground. That’s all I ask.”

For a moment Beck thought the master was messing with his head. Then he saw the expression on the Scotsman’s face.

Oh, God, he’s serious.

*   *   *

“I do believe
this qualifies as torture in most civilized countries,” Peter groused. He was hunched up in the passenger seat of Riley’s car, staring mournfully at the other side of the street where the recycling guys were loading Holy Water bottles into the back of a truck.

Riley speared him with a look. “Remember the Allan transfer disaster?” she retorted. “You. Owe. Me.”

“I know. I just thought there’d be more excitement.”

Riley took another lengthy slurp of her soda. “Yeah, this is a snore, but I have to know how this all works. Somewhere there’s a break in the chain.” Which was why they’d been following this one collection truck all over the city for the past two hours.

“You sure the counterfeit-water dudes aren’t just buying new bottles?” her friend quizzed.

“I don’t think so, not with a tax stamp on them. Those are specially made, and you can’t buy them anywhere but from the city.”

Peter gave her a dubious look. “How do you know that?”

“I went to the city’s Web site and checked it out.”

That response earned her a nod of respect. Any interaction with the Internet was righteous, according to Peter. “Can we get food after this?”

“Sure.” She wasn’t hungry, but her buddy seemed to eat his weight every day. Apparently he was in another growth spurt. She wondered how his dad could keep enough food on the table with two boys in the house.

Bored, Riley checked her phone for something to do. Not a word from Simon. She had the volume as high as it would go so she wouldn’t miss his call, but that only worked if he actually made the effort.

“He’s not talking to anyone,” she grumbled.

“Your dude?” Peter asked.

“Yeah. He’s all caught up in himself.”

“Maybe you’re not giving him enough time to pull his head together,” Peter said. “You can be impatient, you know.”

Harsh as it sounded, her friend was correct: She was expecting things to happen faster than they did in the real world. Maybe she was pushing Simon too hard. He’d admitted he’d never had any serious trials in his life, and then he’d landed a huge one. He needed time to get a grip on it all.
But his mom wants me to get him talking.
Riley typed out a text message to her boyfriend: THINKING OF YOU!

If he replied, she’d back off for a while. If not … There was a resounding lack of a response as the minutes crawled by.

Riley growled under her breath: Simon the Silent was definitely getting a visit this afternoon. She would not let him stew in his pool of depression any longer. It was time to move forward, even if he was confused and scared.
We can be that way together.

“Ah, here we go,” Peter said with exaggerated relief.

When the recycling truck pulled into traffic, Riley fell in two car lengths behind. Being big and loaded with plastic bottles made it easy to follow.

“So how many stops was that?” she asked.

“Four. No, five,” Peter said, consulting his notebook.

“The thing’s full.”
So either they go to the plant or …

But they didn’t go to the Celestial Supplies plant. Instead they followed the truck to a large brick warehouse near East Point.

“So what just happened here?” Riley demanded as she maneuvered the car onto a side street. “This isn’t the Holy Water plant. That’s up in Doraville.”

“Seems to be some sort of recycling center,” Peter said, unbuckling his seat belt. “I’ll go get a closer look.” Before she could protest, he was out the door and hiking up the street.

This is a waste of time. Even my dad couldn’t figure it out, and he was way smarter than me.

Her cell phone pinged. A text from Peter: IN POSITION. She rolled her eyes. At least her friend was enjoying himself. Then another text: I’M GOING INSIDE.