Soul Thief-Demon Trappers 2 (31 page)

“What were you playing at?” he shouted, his hands fisted. “Why did you reveal me? You nearly ruined everything.”

Sartael observed his anger with cool detachment. “You know why.”

Ori’s fists unclenched and he ruffled his wings in agitation. “The rogue demon will come for her and I will kill it. That’s been my plan all along.”

Sartael eyed him gravely. “I have heard all this before.
He
is not pleased with your progress. If that does not spur you on, then you are a fool.”

“I will speak with Him—”

“That is not necessary. You are to use your
special talents
this time.”

Ori studied his foe, unsure if he could trust him. “Is that His order?”

“You would question Him?” Wings beating in unison, Sartael rose into the sky, sending decaying leaves billowing underneath him in a whirlwind. “If you do not prevail, I shall. And I promise, you will not like the outcome.”

T
WENTY-SEVEN

As the morning newscast droned on the television in Harper’s office, Riley worked on the record keeping. It put her in the unpleasant position of having her back to her master, but he seemed less likely to leave bruises these days, what with his injured ribs.

“Done yet?” he asked, muting the sound.

“Yes, I got it. Between the money for the demons we’ve trapped, the disability payment from the Guild, and the scrap metal sales, you’ve got one thousand, two hundred and eighty-seven dollars coming in over the next three weeks.” She turned in the squeaky office chair. “Is that enough?”

Harper gave a slow nod. “Better than I thought it’d be. I’ll be able to take you and Saint out next week sometime. In the meantime, you trap with Beck.”

Trapping demons with Beck?
That had been okay in the past, but after last night she wasn’t sure if she wanted to be anywhere near him.

“Okay,” she replied. There wasn’t any other answer she could give.

The front door to the warehouse pushed open, causing Riley to take a deep breath and hold it. Was it the hunters? What would her master do if the Vatican came calling?

“Master Harper, good morning,” Simon said, moving slowly into the office. She noticed he didn’t bother to include her in the greeting.

“Saint. How you doing?” their master called out.

“Better.”

“Simon,” she said. Only then did his crystal-blue eyes move in her direction.

“Riley.” His voice was as cold as a tray of ice cubes dumped down her back.

More drama. Just what I don’t need.

She moved out of the chair and let her former boyfriend sink into it. His face was as pale as his white-blond hair, and he had one hand placed on his abdomen like he expected his intestines to fall onto the floor at any moment.

The fact that he was up and moving at all was astounding. Heaven really did deliver on their promise, even if it did have unintended consequences.

“You sure you’re good enough to be here?” Harper asked, rising from the recliner.

“For a little while. Thought I could do the paperwork.”

“Give him the reports, then,” Harper said and shuffled off toward the bathroom.

Riley moved the stack of papers in front of Simon. “I haven’t gotten to these yet.”

A nod. Then he picked up a pencil and began to work through the trapping reports. The moment Riley heard the bathroom door shut, she knelt down until her eyes were level with his.

“You sicced the hunters on me,” she accused, keeping her voice low.

Simon’s eyes bored into her like fiery blue lasers. “If you’re innocent, no problem,” he said levelly.

“How could you do that? I thought we had something, Simon.”

“We did, until you showed your true colors.”

“I haven’t changed,” she said. “You just think I have.”

“Don’t try to reason with me,” he retorted. “I know what you are, and I know who you work for.”

“And just how can you tell that?” she demanded. “Is there like some mark on my forehead or something?”

“I just know,” he said, his voice less sure now. “I’m not the only one who’s figured it out. He told me all about—”

When Harper exited the bathroom, she lurched to her feet.

“If you don’t need anything else, sir,” she said, wanting to put distance between herself and the cold-hearted monster sitting at the desk. This time it wasn’t her master.

Harper waved her off. “Keep your phone on. If a call comes in, I’ll need you to take care of it.”

As she left the building, she could hear them talking. She bet Simon would waste no time telling their master all about her “deal with Hell.”

And Harper will believe every word of it.

*   *   *

With time to
kill before class, Riley flopped onto her own bed and stared up at the ceiling. She’d managed to cross off one item on her To Do list—groceries. The really big things were still undone, looming over her head like some ancient curse.

Though the tenant upstairs was vacuuming the floor and every now and then there would be a thump as the vacuum bumped into a piece of furniture, it felt good to lay in her own bed. The sounds of domesticity comforted her. The ache in her chest was still there, aggravated by seeing Simon in all his cruel and unrepentant glory. He really did believe she was evil. Maybe Heaven hadn’t healed him as well as they thought. Maybe the lack of oxygen to his brain did do some damage.

Either way, Riley knew from past experience that this loss would eventually contract to a hard knot but never disappear. She still had one for Allan and one for Beck after he’d blown her off a couple years before. Simon’s would be the biggest.

The vacuuming ended and there was relative silence. Riley’s eyes closed, and for a brief moment she swore she could taste watermelon on her tongue as the soft brush of wings in her mind lulled her to sleep.

The knock at her door roused her out of a totally X-rated dream that involved a certain hunkalicious angel, no clothes, and much heavy-duty horizontal exercise. “Oh wow,” she said, fanning herself. It was good she was at home. Having that kind of dream at the church was probably a mortal sin.

Another series of knocks. “Miss Blackthorne?” It was a female voice, one with a strange accent.

Riley relaxed. It wasn’t the demon hunters; they didn’t have women on their crew. Maybe they’d decided it wasn’t worth the hassle to check her out.

And I’ll be winning the lottery any day now.

She dragged herself out of bed and cautiously opened the door, leaving the safety chain in place. Her visitor was taller than Riley, probably five nine or so. She was a complete package: a sculpted nose, perfectly arched eyebrows, and thick hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a red riot. Her suit had to be custom-made the way it molded to her figure. It was green tweed with an asymmetrical collar, and the pants ended at just the right point above her sleek black heels. Her fingernails matched her hair. Even worse, the vivid green eyes weren’t from contacts.

Riley instantly disliked her, an automatic response from one female to another when the other looked this good. Especially when Riley had opened the door clad in stained and ripped blue jeans and a T-shirt that had been tie-dyed by demon pee.

“Miss Blackthorne?” the woman asked. Her eyes flickered across Riley’s clothes. To her credit she didn’t gag.

“If you’re here from the collection agency, don’t bother. My dad’s long gone and I have no idea who has him.”

“I am not from any collection agency,” the woman replied. Something floral wafted into the apartment as she offered up a business card with a delicate hand. “I’m Justine Armando.” She stated the name as if everyone would recognize it instantly.

Riley studied the card:
FREELANCE JOURNALIST.
“I don’t talk to the press,” she said automatically. That was one of the first lessons drilled into an apprentice’s brain: Talking to the media was a big no-go.

“I am aware of that, but Beck said it would be fine,” the woman replied.

That didn’t sound like Backwoods Boy. “I doubt that.”

“On the contrary, I’ve already interviewed him … extensively,” the woman added.

The words
interviewed
and
extensively
had a certain weight to them, like the reporter meant something entirely different.

Riley eyed her visitor again, assessing the package. “Stroke his ego, did you?”

Ms. Armando’s mouth curved into a knowing smile.

Ah, jeez. You’re knocking boots with a reporter? Come on, Beck. That’s just wrong.

“I thought it would be wise to hear your perspective on trapping with the men,” the woman explained. “That cannot be easy for you.”

As much as Riley would love to tell her side of the story, if she talked to the press without Harper’s permission, he’d be all over her. She just didn’t need the hassle.

“Sorry, I can’t do it, not without my master’s okay,” she said, and shut the door before she lost her nerve.

The reporter knocked again, calling out, but Riley ignored her, double-checking that the chain lock was engaged. She curled up in bed, trying not to conjure up the image of Backwoods Boy and the reporter chick doing what she and the angel had been up to in her dream. She thumped the heel of her hand against her forehead, hoping that might dislodge the slide show. It didn’t work. In fact, the images only became more graphic.

“Euuuuu!” she said, grimacing. “La la la la la…”

If they were hooking up, there was only one reason that woman would pick Beck as a lover: The red-haired stick chick was using him to further her career.

“I mean, look at her. She’s
so
not your type.” Not that she knew what Beck’s type would be, but Riley suspected it would be someone into country music and who liked to hang at the Armageddon Lounge and shoot pool all night. That was not Ms. Perfect Size Eight.

Riley finally drifted into an uneasy sleep. Seconds later, or so it seemed, someone pounded on the door. She sat bolt upright, glowering. It was like there was a neon sign on the top of the apartment building that said “Riley Is Trying to Sleep. Visit Her Now!”

“If this is the stick chick again…”

This time it was all guys, two of which were in military garb, wearing sidearms and sporting a special patch on their vests depicting a dude slaying a dragon. Behind them was a priest, clad in solid black like an aged crow. It wasn’t Father Harrison.

Simon’s call to the demon hunters had borne fruit.

“Miss Blackthorne?” one of the men asked, his accent thick and hard to understand. He was tall, Nordic blond, and pretty scary. “We are demon hunters, here by special permission from the Vatican.”

Here
being Atlanta, she hoped, rather than on her doorstep in particular.

“I can only talk to you if my master is present.” It was a good response to about anything she didn’t want to do.

“Those rules don’t apply to us,” the man insisted.

“They do for me.”

“We have the power to detain you for questioning,” he replied, his voice taking on a harder edge. “We will use that power if needed.”

I so don’t need this right now.
“This is because of Simon Adler, right? What he said about me?”

The priest nodded. “Mr. Adler has concerns about your loyalties.” He moved closer to the door at this point. Maybe he thought he had a better chance of convincing her to play along.

“Did he tell you we used to date?”

“He stated that you had coerced him into a romantic relationship.”

“Co … erced?” she sputtered. Simon had been the one to ask her out, not the other way around.

“We need to speak at length about this issue, Miss Blackthorne,” the priest replied. “Please let us in.”

“I don’t know what else Simon told you, but I didn’t break the ward. Neither did my father, who is dead and has been reanimated, just in case you haven’t heard. I have no idea why the demons came after us, and I have class in an hour,” she said in a rush of words. “That’s all you’re getting from me unless my master is present.”

“These charges are serious: You have been accused of working for Lucifer,” the priest replied.

“Not a chance. Now good afternoon,” she said, pushing the door closed.

The big blond man slammed his palm against the wood, straining the chain lock. With only a little more effort the chain would snap and they’d be inside.

Panicking, Riley backed off, grabbing her cell phone from the coffee table.

“You stay outside or I’ll call the cops,” she warned, brandishing the phone like a weapon.

“You let us in and the door stays in one piece,” the big man replied.

She had no other option but to dial Harper, gambling that he hated the hunters more than he hated her. As the phone rang there was rapid-fire conversation between the priest and the Nordic guy, all in a language she didn’t understand. When her master answered, she unloaded the situation in a breathy voice.

“What do I do?” she asked, crossing the fingers of her free hand behind her back where the hunters wouldn’t see it.
Please don’t make me do this.

“Let me talk to the priest,” Harper ordered.

Riley handed the cell phone to Father Rosetti through the wedge of open door. There was a brisk exchange, and then the phone came back to her.

“Sir?” she asked, her fingers still crossed.

“You’re not to talk to them unless I’m with you. If they arrest you, call me and we’ll take it from there,” Harper said. “And don’t think you’re out of it. If you’re working for Hell, I’ll kill you myself.” The phone went dead.

Oh goody.

The priest issued an order and the big man backed off. “You will talk to us eventually,” the cleric said, giving her a thin smile. If it was supposed to reassure her, it did the opposite.

“The Guild won’t let you touch me,” she said defiantly.

“They will if we find evidence of your guilt. They will throw you to us just to clear their name. It is better to plead your case now. Unlike God, our mercy is not limitless.”

“I haven’t done anything,” she insisted. “So just go away and leave me alone.”