Forsaken (24 page)

The demon hissed and backed into the corner of the steel cage.

“That’s better.”

Riley finished digging out the mound under the cage and added the crap to the heap behind the shop. Harper was right: There were dead roaches in a four-foot radius of the pile.

“If the pest control dudes could figure out how to use this stuff they’d make a fortune.”

Riley swore she could feel the flesh melting off her bones, so she fled to the bathroom. Hitting the light switch with her elbow, she prepared herself for the worst a guy bathroom had to offer. There was an unwritten code that they had to be disgusting.

To her relief this one was better than most, even though the toilet seat was up. She stared at the pile of adult magazines on the floor, and then up at the bimbo poster on the wall. The blonde was only wearing a neon green G-string, and her melon boobs clearly weren’t anything close to natural. A blue tattoo sat just below her navel. Riley leaned closer to read the words.

Welcome to Heaven.
An arrow pointed downward.

“Right,” Riley huffed. She wondered what Simon thought of that. Knowing him, he probably kept his eyes averted while he peed, in case he might be tempted into sin.

The sink was clean but didn’t stay that way by the time she finished washing her hands and arms with the dishwashing soap she’d found on the top of the toilet tank. Now her hands smelled lemony fresh, but they still burned.

It took another few minutes to return the sink to its previous state. No way was she going to let the guys claim she’d messed up their bathroom.

That left hosing down the floor under the cages. As she worked, the demon jammed its face up against the bars trying to reach the spray. Did the things drink water? Did Hell even have water?

She turned down the pressure and aimed the stream so the fiend could reach it. It drank greedily. Then it issued a lengthy and profound burp.

Riley shook her head. “You and Beck. Separated at birth.”

There was a chuckle, and she turned to find Simon watching from a respectful distance. For a half of a second, she thought of wetting him down just for the smirk on his face.

“Looks good,” he said encouragingly.

“If you say so.”

He angled his head toward the outside door. “Got something for you.” She looked toward the office, on the alert for Harper. “Passed out,” Simon mouthed.

Stepping into the sunlight, Riley gasped when she saw her arms. Blotches of bright red and dark purple covered her skin, making her resemble a plague victim. Her nails were black. Simi would love them.

“No blisters,” Simon observed. “That’s good news.” He retrieved something off the car seat, broke the seal, and offered it to her.

It was a quart of whole milk.

Riley blinked at him. “Ah … thanks. I’m thirsty.” Actually she was.

“It’s for your arms. The fat in it’ll cut the sting. Jackson told me about it when Harper pulled that stunt on me.” He gestured for her to hold out her arms and then did the honors.

It looked stupid, all that white liquid splashing off her and coating the gravel. But it worked. The burning sensation damped down considerably.

“You still may end up with some blisters, but not as bad as if you hadn’t treated it.” He handed her the bottle. “Drink the rest. Maybe it will work from the inside out.”

She gulped down the remainder of the moo juice. “Good!”

“Just like in the commercials.” He executed a cautious look toward the warehouse. “Don’t tell Harper I did this. He’ll be pissed.”

Pissed because you were nice to me? That sucks.
“Why is he such a dick?”

“Don’t know.” He took the empty container and put it the car. “You’d best get in there before he wakes up.”

As he turned away, she touched his arm. “Thanks, Simon.”

“Watch yourself, okay?” he said, his brow furrowed in worry.

“You too.”

When she returned to the office Harper was still asleep in his chair, his mouth open, snoring. The whiskey bottle was empty and lay discarded near the trash can. Riley placed the bucket and scrub brush in the corner, trying not to make any noise. When he didn’t stir she hurried out into the office. As she saw it, the smelly demon was better company than her new master.

TWENTY-THREE

“Déjà vu,” Riley grumbled, pulling into the parking lot near the defunct Starbucks. She’d been here a few years ago on a date when the coffee shop was still open for business. The guy behind the counter had been seriously adorable. Model-level cute. She’d mentioned that, and Allan, her then boyfriend, hadn’t taken it well. That’s when she’d learned that male egos and fruit had a lot in common: Both bruised easily.

The moment she stepped outside the car she saw the other kids. There were three distinct groups plus a few stragglers. She’d probably end up being one of those.

Wish Peter was here.
He was the one constant in her life, the friend who’d helped her transition through the last four school changes. He viewed change as an opportunity. Riley only saw it as a hassle.

Why bother?
In a few months the Powers That Be would move all the kids around to new locations, like throwing a deck of cards in the air. The educational types had fancy names for the reshuffling, but in the end it was the students who got the worst of it. Why become friends with someone who’d be gone in a couple of months’ time? If Riley didn’t play the game, the kids would think she was stuck up or weird or both. But did she really care?

“Nope. I’m sitting this one out,” she announced. With all that had happened in her life, it wasn’t worth the effort.

The closest group was all girls about her age. They dressed nicer than she did but couldn’t be from rich families or they wouldn’t be going to school in a defunct coffee shop. As she moved closer to the entrance, she studied the pack. The girl in the center, a tall, stick-thin brunette with large brown eyes and full lips, was surrounded by five others who gazed up at her like androids waiting for instructions. All of them were wearing the same color. Give the main girl a few years and a boob job and she could pose for pictures like the one in Harper’s bathroom.

Tattoo and all.

Riley suspected they were not destined to be best buds.

The girl pointed at Riley’s car. “Is that yours?”

Didn’t I just get out of the thing?
“No, I stole it on the way over here. Mine’s a red convertible.”

One of the other girls giggled but shut down immediately when The Self-Proclaimed Center of the Universe shot her a dirty look.

“So what’s your name?” the girl asked.

“Riley. Yours?”

“Brandy.”

Of course.

“You’re new here,” Brandy observed. “Where’d you go to school before?”

“A grocery store over on Moreland.”

“Sounds gross.”

“It was.”

Before Brandy could throw more questions her way, the double doors swung open and an authority figure waved them inside. According to Riley’s paperwork, that would be Mrs. Haggerty. It wouldn’t be hard to guess what the kids called her behind her back.

Mrs. Haggerty looked fifty with silver streaks at her temples. Her hair was cut short at the collar and she dressed in layers. An angel pin decorated the lapel of her cloth coat.

Riley queued up, and the moment she crossed over the threshold, she took a deep breath.
Coffee.
The place would always smell like that, even though it had been some time since the last bean had been roasted.

Better than moldy cheese.

The students clustered toward the front of the store near the big windows, still in their groups. As they settled into their seats, Riley did a quick look around. The counter was gone, as were all of the displays. The benches along the rear wall were still there, and all the original tables were still in place, though they looked way worse than she remembered. More tables had been added and lined up in rows facing the front windows. Riley picked one of the smaller ones. The way the thing wobbled told her why no one wanted to sit there. Riley bent over and jammed the strap of her bag under one of the legs, and the table became pretty stable. The top wasn’t something she could fix. It was covered in graffiti, most involving the
F
word. In one case it was spelled wrong.

When Mrs. Haggerty finally paused behind the card table that posed as her desk, Riley rose and made her way to the front. She knew this drill: Hand transfer papers to authority figure, receive acknowledgment of her existence, then return to her seat. Mrs. Haggerty eyed the forms, looked up, frowned at Riley, then looked down at the name and sighed.

“You were supposed to be here last Monday.”

“I couldn’t make it,” Riley said. “I was ill.”
Like dying from demon cooties
. It was a good bet every single student was listening to this conversation, trying to scope out the new kid. Maybe the teacher would let it drop.

“Attendance is very important,” the woman replied. “You have to think of your future.”

That’s a laugh.
Riley nodded obediently. Teachers were less hassle if they thought you agreed with them.

“I’ll need a parent’s signature for your excuse,” Mrs. Haggerty added.

“Sure.”
I’ll just dig him up.
Luckily she was pretty good at forging her dad’s signature.

“Students? This is Riley. Please welcome her to our class.”

Cool. She didn’t use my last name.
Maybe this was going to work out after all.

Then Mrs. Haggarty pulled the pin. “You can sit down, Miss Blackthorne.”

Crap.

As she headed for her seat, Riley could see her last name rattling around in the students’ heads. Their eyes widened when it hit home. If one of them was clueless, another would lean over and whisper in an ear. A couple pulled out their cell phones, no doubt hunting up one of those online videos.

Now that her secret was out, Riley wasn’t surprised when the kid sitting next to her, the bony one with the dull brown hair, watched her out of the corner of his eye like she was going to conjure up a fiend in the middle of class.

Sometimes I wish it worked that way.

Mrs. Haggarty immediately dug into the classwork. It was the same as at the other school, following the state-mandated curriculum, so they started with a half hour of math, which really wasn’t a stretch for Riley. Then a half hour each of English, science, and literature. The final hour was history, in particular the Civil War. Riley had that down cold, courtesy of her dad. During Mrs. Haggerty’s snore-inducing account of the Battle of Lookout Mountain, she thought she could hear whispering behind her.

The three hours moved quickly, despite the smirks and the chatter behind her. Five o’clock came and went. Then it was 5:10. Riley began to fidget because class was supposed to be over by now and she had to get to the cemetery. If she wanted something to eat, that would chew up even more time. The cemetery volunteer would stay put, but they’d charge her extra if she wasn’t there by sunset.

Money I don’t have.

Mrs. Haggerty kept talking. And talking. Riley glanced at her watch again 5:15. She began to pack her stuff. That immediately caught the teacher’s notice.

“Miss Blackthorne? We’re running late tonight. That happens from time to time.”

Riley stood. “I’m sorry, I have to go. I have … something I have to do.”

“Which is?” Mrs. Haggerty asked, giving her the teacher stare.

Damn.
“I have to sit vigil over my dad’s grave,” Riley replied.

The teacher blinked. “You’re
that
Blackthorne?”

Apparently the teacher was the only one in the classroom who hadn’t connected the dots.

“Okay class, we’ll call it an evening. Read the chapter on Sherman’s destruction of Atlanta for Sunday.”

Riley shouldered her messenger bag and hurried toward the door, but it took some time to get outside, as everyone seemed to be in her way. The reason for the delay became obvious when she reached her car. A message was scrawled on her windshield.

“Demon whore!”

The color of the lipstick looked familiar.

Riley shot a venomous look at the pack of girls. Brandy grinned at her, waving a lipstick tube like a mini light saber.

Bitch.

Riley hopped in the car, flipped the lever to clean the windshield. Bad plan. The lipstick spread itself across the glass in long, greasy smears. She kept working the lever until there was a clean patch, then drove away using language only demons would understand.

In her rearview mirror, the pack brayed in laughter.

*   *   *

With only minutes
to spare Riley hustled up the road as fast as she could, clutching her father’s trapping manual to her side. It had been under the spare tire, but so far she’d had no time to dig into it.

Rod, the volunteer, issued a welcoming smile as she approached.

“I’d stay and talk, but it’s league night.”

“League?” she asked.

He slipped off his coat far enough for her to see he was wearing a red bowling shirt. “Six Feet Under” was embroidered on the back.

The Six Feet Under Pub & Fish House sat across the street from the cemetery. On rare occasions her dad would take her there as a special treat when they had a few extra dollars left at the end of the month. The trappers held their parties and their wakes there. Yet another tradition.

“Need any help?” Rod asked. When she shook her head, he hurried off.

Riley set the circle with only a brief twinge of anxiety, then dialed Peter.

The moment he answered, she started in. “You won’t believe what happened at school!”

Her friend wisely listened without interrupting.

“Wow, they sound like complete dogs,” Peter commiserated. “Sorry I wasn’t there.”

Riley sighed. “It’s the usual crap, Peter. They have to pick on someone, and I’m it. I’m always it.”

“Not always. Sometimes I am. We’re different, and that bugs them.”

“I have no clue how I’m going to get the lipstick off my windshield,” she grumbled.