Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (26 page)

Beck worked on his coffee for a time, thinking things through. This was so confusing and made his head buzz worse than the whisky. “Then what did the priest mean?”

There was another lengthy silence as Stewart stared into the fire. “Even Harper doesn’t know this, and it’s best none of the others do, either.”

“Know what?” Beck asked, his patience wearing thin.
Would this man ever answer the question?

“Hell didn’t want us ta die the other night.”

“No way,” Beck retorted.

“It’s all part of the Grand Game, the one that keeps everythin’ in balance. Hell does somethin’; Heaven retaliates. Back and forth across eternity. The trick is not ta push the other too far, or there’s war.”

“But—”

Stewart held up his hand for silence. “Neither God nor Lucifer want Armageddon. They both know it’ll go badly and the balance will be upset. Now a few of the Archangels and the Fallen, they’re hot ta fight. So there’s always tension, in Hell particularly.”

Beck ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. “I respect ya and all, but there’s no way ya can say Hell wasn’t tryin’ its best to slaughter us.”

Stewart locked eyes with him, his face somber. “Those angels, the ones that kept us alive. Who do ya think sent ’em?”

Damn silly question
. “Heaven, of course. Who else would bother savin’ our butts?”

“No, lad,” Stewart replied, his voice almost a whisper. “Those warrior angels were sent by the Prince of Hell himself. I swear it on the Stewart name.”

The old man is serious. He really thinks Hell saved our butts.
Beck’s mind fought against the obvious question:
If those were Lucifer’s folk, then who sent the demons?

T
WENTY-THREE

Driven by some internal autopilot, Riley found herself at St. Brigid’s. She parked and turned off the car’s engine. Blowing her nose again, she flipped down the visor. Her mascara had realigned itself into vertical smudgy trails down her face. She mumbled a caustic swear word and mopped off as much as she could with a tissue. Hopefully the stuff would come out of her sweater. Not that she’d probably ever wear it again: It’d just remind her of
him.

“I was such a fool.” She’d daydreamed of their future, what it would be like if she and Simon had married, how many kids they’d have. She’d fallen hard for him, and now all that was gone, washed away by his irrational paranoia and a lukewarm bottle of Holy Water.

“You self-righteous hypocrite. How could you do that to me?” He’d really cared for her, she knew it. She’d felt it when they were together, and yet he’d thrown it all away as if it were nothing.

Once inside the room, she sat at the table. This was her life from now on. Once Ori killed the Five she wouldn’t have to spend it on hallowed ground, but not much else would change. She would never find a boyfriend who would understand what she did, what she had to do. Beck had been right: There was a huge price for keeping Hell in line, and she was going to pay it for the rest of her life.

The twin roses sat in a glass in the center of the table—the one she’d found on her car and the one Ori had given her the night before. She pulled the glass closer and tested the fragrance. Still strong. The scent seemed to calm her. She closed her eyes and tried to remember Simon before he’d been injured, but the memories were there but too painful to address.

Her cell lit up. If it was Mr. Righteous and he thought he was going to apologize …

It was Beck. “Yeah, what?” she snarled.

“I just got a call from Simon. He’s carryin’ on like a crazy person; says yer workin’ for Hell. What’s goin’ on?” he demanded.

Oh, no.
She hadn’t wanted Beck to know her love life had imploded.

He didn’t wait for her reply. “Here’s the deal, girl: I got too damned much on my plate as it is. I don’t need this silly kid drama right now.”

Kid drama?
“Gee, you’re all heart.”

“Yer boyfriend issues are not my problem. Ya steer clear of him.”

How’s that’s going to work? We have the same master.

And right on cue, her caller added, “Maybe now’s a good time to call yer aunt.”

Riley hung up on him. To her relief, he didn’t call back.

*   *   *

There was more
crying over the bathroom sink, choking sobs that felt more like she was standing in front of Simon’s coffin than just breaking up with him. Then the doubts came to call, dark, insidious, like nightmares that never give you a moment’s peace.

Maybe it’s my fault.
Maybe if she’d done something different and—

“Stop it!” she shouted at her reflection. “It’s not your fault. You did what was right. You saved his life.”

And lost him forever.

Riley crawled into the bed, her nose stuffy from crying. Simon’s ugly words kept throwing themselves at her like missiles. How could he turn away from her so quickly?

Her phone rang, vibrating across the table and bumping into the drinking-glass vase. She ignored it. It rang a few minutes later. She turned to face the wall, unable to talk to anyone right now without melting down into an emotional mess. Then a text came through. Then another.

Maybe it was something really important. Maybe something had happened to Beck.

It was Peter. His final text message read: CALL ME NOW! I HAVE TO TALK TO SOMEONE!

That sounded ominous, so she gave in and dialed his number. “Peter? What’s wrong?”

“Hold on.”

There was the sound of footsteps across wood, a door opening and then closing.

“Okay, I’m outside now.” His voice was as rough as hers, like he’d been crying.

Peter was never like this, and it scared her. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“I finally told Mom I wasn’t going with her and the ghouls to Illinois.”

Riley winced as she climbed back into the bunk bed.

“She totally lost it. She cried a lot and accused my dad of brainwashing David and me. They had a big fight. It was totally nuclear here.”

“That sounds absolutely ugly.”

“Yeah. Maybe I was wrong, you know? Maybe I should go with her and…”

Her friend sounded so confused. “Where do you think you should be?” Riley asked.

There was a long pause. “With Dad. It’s way less tense when I’m with him.”

“Then you made the right decision. Your mom is going to have to straighten herself out, and you aren’t going to be able to help her do that.”

“Dad said the same thing. He wants me to stay here. He says it’s time I had space to make my own mistakes.”

“Well, if you’re anything like me, they’ll be stellar,” she muttered.

He sighed heavily into the phone. “This is the part where you’re supposed to tell me it’s going to work out just fine,” he said.

“No way I’m saying that. Not with Simon and…” Her sigh matched his. “He … we broke up this afternoon.”

“But I thought you two were doing really well.”

“We were until he lost his mind.” She blurted out all the gory details, including the “you sold your soul to Hell” accusation.

“Damn,” Peter said. “Is there, like, something in the water? First my mom goes crazy, now your … ex-boyfriend.”

“Seems like we’re the only sane ones,” she said.

“Always have been,” he agreed. “Don’t worry, someday you’ll meet some cool dude and he won’t be an asshat.”

Her mind drifted to Ori, but she yanked it back immediately. Two roses did not equal someone who wouldn’t break her heart.

“You hold it together, okay?” she urged. “Your mom will be better once she’s with her family. Maybe they can get her help.”

“That’s Dad’s hope. Call me in the morning, will you?” Peter asked. “My uncle is going to be here with a U-Haul, and I’m helping Mom pack. I’ll need the sanity break from the serious guilt trip she’s going to lay on me.”

“I’ll call. Don’t worry; you did the right thing, Peter.”

“Then why does it hurt so much?” he murmured.

*   *   *

Beck pushed open
the doors to the Armageddon Lounge, did his perimeter check, then moved toward the bar. If he was going to talk to the press, it would be on his home turf. As a peace offering, he placed a quart jug of Holy Water on the counter.

“That what I think it is?” Zack asked, drying his hand on a bar towel.

“Sure is. Put a line outside all yer doors. It’ll keep the evil things out. I’ll bring more when ya need it.” He didn’t like the expense, but he didn’t want to have to change bars. Not when he had this one broken in.

Zack nodded his gratitude and asked, “Shiner Bock?”

“Soda,” Beck said. That earned him a raised eyebrow. “Been hittin’ the whisky heavy tonight; don’t need to put beer on top of that.”

“You go sober on us and we’ll have to close.”

“Ha, ha.” Beck leaned against the bar, waiting for the beverage. “What did your boss say about the other night?”

“He swore a lot. Thought about banning trappers from the bar.”

“Not our fault they were here. Maybe he should change the name of the place, ya know?”

“I suggested that. This”—Zack tapped the jug with a finger—“will help settle his nerves.”

Beck paid for his soda and took it to a booth. An open pool table called to him, but he ignored it. A couple of the regulars gave him nods and he returned them. They seemed at ease with him here. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around what had happened with those Fours. He’d have to tell Stewart about them once all the other hassles died down. Maybe between them they could take the fiends out.

Beck sipped his icy soda, deep in thought. He respected the old master a lot, but the Scotsman’s claim that Hell had saved the trappers’ bacon was just too far-fetched. Stewart had said the rest of the tale would have to wait for another time, which meant Beck had no clue who was fielding those demons.
Gotta be Hell. The old guy must have hit his head harder than we thought.

At least the thing between Riley and Simon was over. He’d been hard on her, but right now his head was full of more important issues that her boyfriend hassles.

Beck groaned.
That’s no excuse.

He remembered what it’d felt like when Louisa had ditched him and now he’d been stone cold with Riley when she was going through the same thing.

Sorry, girl.

If he could talk her into visiting her aunt for a while, maybe Simon would get his head together. Not that she’d ever go back to him: Once you dissed a Blackthorne you were done for life. Simon had been all lined up and he’d managed to throw away the best girl he’d ever meet.

“What a dumbass,” Beck muttered. “No way I’d have done that.”
Like I’ll ever have a chance.

The twin doors to the lounge pushed open, and all his thoughts about Riley evaporated.

“Well, damn,” he said. Justine scanned the room, then her eyes lit on him. Her smile appeared genuine, like she really wanted to be here.

As she headed for the booth with long, sure strides, every eye riveted on her. It was easy to see why: Justine was dressed in a pair of skintight blue jeans, a cream sweater that hugged her breasts, black boots, and an ankle-length black leather coat that flapped open as she moved.

Mighty fine.
He rose. “Justine.”

“Good evening, Beck,” she said.

Remembering his manners, he helped her out of the coat, admiring the rear view as he did. It proved just as enjoyable as the front one. After stashing the coat on the bench seat, Justine slid in and placed her phone on the table.

Beck realized he should buy the lady a drink. “What would ya like?” he asked.

“Something fruity,” she replied. “With alcohol.”

He wasn’t particularly sure what that might be, but he went to the bar and put in the order anyway.

“So who’s the hottie?” Zack asked, keeping his voice low enough so the lady in question wouldn’t hear him.

“A reporter.”

“Niiice,” the bartender said, then jammed a slice of orange on the rim of a tall glass and slid it across. Beck paid for it, grimly noting that the more fruit in the drink, the more it cost.

As he approached, Justine delivered a smile that would have knocked a lesser man to his knees.

“Thank you,” she said. A quick sip of the drink, a nod of approval, and then the notebook, pen, and digital recorder appeared on the table.

Those implements of torture brought Beck back to earth. “So what do ya want to know?”

“I have talked to some of the other trappers,” she said. “Is it true that you remained inside the Tabernacle longer than any of the others? That you saved lives that night?”

Beck felt an uncomfortable twitch crawl over his shoulder blades. “Not really.” No need to have people thinking he was better than any of the other trappers. “I just did what I had to do.”

“Some might call you a hero.”

He frowned. “No. Don’t go there,” he retorted with more force than he’d intended. “I know what heroes are like; I fought beside them in the war. I’m not one of ’em.”

Justine dipped her head in concession. “Then I will not use that word in my article.”

“Thank you.” He let his tension drain away. “Sorry. Sore subject.”

“No, I understand.” She took a long sip of her drink. “Why do you think the demons are acting this way?”

“Maybe Lucifer’s testin’ our defenses. He does that every now and then.” That made more sense than Stewart’s weird-assed notions of some game between Heaven and Hell.

“You have met with the hunters. What is your impression of them?”

Beck hedged, sensing a trap. “They’re pros,” he said. That was a safe reply.

“Is that all?” she pressed, smiling at his discomfort.

“Yup.”

“They have an impressive track record.”

“And one helluva body count,” he said before he could stop his tongue.

“Can I quote you on that?” she asked, pen posed over the notebook.

There was no safe answer, so he decided to take the plunge. “Go ahead.”

Justine took another long suck on her straw. He found himself watching her more closely than was warranted.
Might as well ask.
“Yer accent isn’t anythin’ I can place. Where are ya from?”