Forsaken (27 page)

And that will be?
She didn’t dare ask, not with his black mood. Harper barked orders at Simon, and then they were gone, the old Dodge belching smoke. Going somewhere to sell the Four.

But not to Roscoe. Now why is that?

Her dad had spoken of this Roscoe dude, that he sold adult videos, barely legal sex toys, and bought demons on the side. How he’d received Church approval to be a trafficker, no one knew. Her dad had warned her to stay away from the sleaze unless he was with her. Now Harper was sending her to Roscoe on her own. It was like throwing a chunk of bunny entrails in front of a Three.

“Bet you didn’t do that to Simon,” she groused.

Riley found the four fiends sitting in their individual sippy cups on Harper’s desk. They were all Biblios.

One was sleeping, but the others got in the finger before she stowed them in her messenger bag. The paperwork went in next. It was in quadruplicate—a copy each for the trapper, the trafficker, the city, and another page for when the demon trafficker delivered the fiends to the Church. Every demon sale was tracked from the time the fiend was captured to the time the Church took control of them.

According to the Trappers Manual the paperwork went all the way to Rome. She could imagine the accountants in the Vatican pouring over the reports, tallying them into some huge ledger that dated back to the Middle Ages. Maybe the pope got to see the ledger with his coffee every morning. Which meant maybe someday he’d see Riley’s name and all the demons she’d caught.

How cool is that?

TWENTY-SIX

Fewer cars should equal more parking.
That hadn’t been Riley’s experience. The city’s predatory search for revenue, including converting the empty parking spaces on Peachtree Street to makeshift shops that had to pay a monthly fee, made it difficult to find a place for her car. As she waited for a blue van to finish unloading so she could scoop up the parking place, Riley tugged out the manila envelope and leafed through the pages. Peter had separated the contents into specific stacks with sturdy binder clips. She studied the first batch, flipping up her eyes every now and then to see how the unloading progressed.

“The History of Holy Water”

Her father never approached a subject by half, and he hadn’t changed his approach when it came to the sacred liquid. In her hands was a detailed account of Holy Water’s legends and folklore in minute detail. He had a list of miracles attributed to the sacred liquid, old wives’ tales regarding its use, even a chart that showed how Holy Water was manufactured and distributed in the Atlanta area.

Riley checked the van—still unloading—then returned to the page. The local manufacturer, Celestial Supplies, created the Holy Water in a plant in Doraville. From there it was sent to a licensed distributor who supplied various stores in the city. Every single pint, quart, and gallon of the holy liquid was tagged with a sales tax seal and cataloged by batch number.

“And we care about this why?” she said, frowning. Maybe her dad was going to write an academic paper or something. “But who would read it?” She’d admit that some of the folklore was kind of cool, but the rest was a snooze.

Farther on she found page after page of numbers, an inventory from Celestial Supplies that represented every single batch of Holy Water produced in the last six months.

“Whee!” she said, rolling his eyes. This wasn’t getting her anywhere. She looked up to see a stocky guy close the van’s rear door and lock it. He jumped in and pulled out of the parking spot.

“Mine,” she said, grinning.

Riley trudged past the Westin, one of the few hotels still open downtown. Smokers huddled together outside the front door, puffing away. One of them had a Deader standing near him, holding his briefcase. The live guy in the expensive suit was talking rapid-fire over his cell phone, pacing back and forth, leaving a long tail of cigarette smoke behind him.

Riley’s eyes met those of the reanimate, a petite Hispanic woman in a black pantsuit and white shirt. The combination did nothing for her gray skin. Her hair was held back by a clip, and she looked so sad. Maybe she’d been this guy’s secretary before she died and he didn’t want to replace her. No matter what, she was his slave now.

That has to suck.

Riley gave the woman a sympathetic nod. The Deader returned the nod. That surprised her. They usually stared at the world through empty eyes. The woman’s owner gestured and she came closer, opening up the briefcase and offering its contents for his inspection. He chose a sheaf of papers and returned to his marching, ignoring everyone around him.

Sorry,
Riley mouthed. She didn’t get a response.

The intersection of Baker and Peachtree lacked a traffic light. Constant bike and moped traffic zipped past her, and one rider nearly clipped her toes. At least horses weren’t allowed in downtown anymore since no one really wanted to wade through the manure.

A few doors down from Max Lager’s, a popular brewpub, sat Roscoe’s Emporium. You’d have to be blind not to find the place. It was dripping in neon.

In the front window a sign announced “Don’t Dick with America!” Right below was a giant condom. Just to make the point that Roscoe was a deeply patriotic sleaze, it enlarged to ridiculous proportions and then changed colors, rotating through red, white, then blue while “America the Beautiful” played through a pair of ancient speakers.

The strap on her messenger bag slipped and Riley adjusted it. Tiny voices rose, barely audible. She tapped the side of the bag.

“Knock it off.” Silence fell. It was safe to assume that middle fingers were hoisted in her direction.

Riley stood outside for at least a full minute hoping God or whoever was in charge of the universe would step in and she wouldn’t have to do this. When there was a disappointing lack of divine intervention, she shuddered and pushed open the door.

As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she saw the huge video screen on the far wall. From a set of audio speakers came the low moans and the “Oh, baby,” murmurs of the siliconized porn star hooking up with a hunky Latino. A knot of customers were clustered in front of the screen, fixated, mouths agape.

My dad is spinning in his grave.

Roscoe spied her immediately, like he’d been expecting her. He stood behind a lengthy glass counter showing a potential customer something Riley didn’t recognize. Whatever it was, it certainly didn’t look comfortable no matter where you might put it.

“Be with you in a sec,” he called out, drawing all eyes to her.

Thanks, perv.

While she waited, Riley rooted herself by the front door, refusing to wander through the shop. Not that she was a prude or anything, but a few of the customers looked scary and they watched her every move.

Eventually Roscoe huffed his way over, his big belly arriving ahead of the rest of him. His rusty brown hair was too curly to be natural. He had tattoos on both arms that proved mermaids were
really
into sailors.

Even before she had a chance to say a word, he licked his lips and grinned. “This way, girlie. We’ll do the deal in the office.”

Girlie.
She shook her head. Apparently Harper had called ahead so this should go fast.
Anything to get me out of this place.

It was hard to tell where the store ended and Roscoe’s office began. Rows of rainbow-colored vibrators sat on uneven shelves behind a rusty metal desk. Nude calendars adorned the other walls, while a small television featured a truly disgusting video involving cheerleaders. There was even a framed photo of Roscoe on the wall. The newspaper clipping below it said that the “adult entertainment czar”—Riley smirked at that—had paid over fifty thousand dollars in state licensing fees and sin taxes in the past five years. Which was why the city tolerated his smut. As her dad would say, they got their cut.

Roscoe crunched down into a worn leather chair. The move made his vast stomach roll over the top of his jeans, fighting a battle against the tight T-shirt. It wasn’t an attractive sight. Especially when the T-shirt had a line drawn across the nipples and lettering that said “Must Be This Tall to Take This Ride.”

Uck.

Roscoe kept staring at Riley’s chest like he’d never seen breasts before. Then his eyes went cunning. “I can get you work. Three hundred a film. Might as well use those assets of yours for something worthwhile.”

“What?” Riley asked, confused.

“Once you know the ropes you can bring in some serious cash. Maybe even a grand a pop,” Roscoe explained.

He wasn’t talking demons.

A thousand dollars to star in a porn flick?
That made trapping wages look anemic.

“If you want to make some money on the side, well, you could charge a lot being so young. I got contacts, you know? Get you right to work. Course I take a cut, but we can trade it out if you want.”

Trade it out …
Acid rose, burning her throat.

Riley made sure the office door was open behind her.

With a dry chuckle, Roscoe ran his eyes up and down her body, assessing her as if she were a piece of prime beef. “So let’s see the goods.”

The urge to run slammed head-on against her assignment. Harper would be furious if she didn’t sell the Biblios, and she knew revealing Roscoe’s plans for her cinematic future wouldn’t make a bit of difference.

How would Simon handle this? She discarded that thought immediately. He was too polite. Beck? That’s who she should be channeling right now.

Riley glared at the porn king. “Okay. Goods it is.” He leered until she removed the Biblios from her messenger bag, lining them up on his desk, though she didn’t like getting
that
close to him. One of the fiends was working on his lid, feet braced on the sides of the sippy cup in a vain effort to unscrew it. She tightened the lid just in case.

“I’m here for Master Harper,” she announced. “Nothing else.”

Roscoe looked crestfallen. “You sure?” She nodded defiantly. “Damn. Passing up some good money. You’ve got a fine body. It’d look good under the lights.”

“Not happening. Now can we get on with the deal
for the demons
?”

Roscoe leaned forward, the grease on his nose shining like a beacon. The expression on his face almost made Riley vomit. “Ninety a head,” he offered, scratching his belly thoughtfully.

Ninety?

He interpreted her silence as a stall for more money. “Alright. A C-note for each. At that price I’ll take all of them you can find.”

“As many as we can trap?” she asked, hedging. Harper had said to expect seventy-five. What was she missing here?

“You heard me. A hundred apiece. That’s my deal.”

Harper said to sell them and it would be righteous to see his face when she returned with that much extra money. Maybe the Church had authorized higher payments and Harper hadn’t gotten the word yet. Riley pulled out the paperwork and laid it near the cups. “You’ll need to sign for these.”

Roscoe’s forehead bloomed in sweat. “Don’t need the Church’s paperwork. I’ve got a new buyer. They pay more, and that’s why I’m giving you more.”

“Who’s buying them?” Riley asked.

“Not your concern, Baby Doll.”

Baby Doll? Double uck.

“I can’t sell demons without the paperwork,” she said. It was the law.

“Okay, make it one-fifteen a head,” Roscoe replied. “That’s as high as I can go. Tell that old bastard you got seventy-five each and you lost the paperwork, then you pocket the difference.”

Her cut would be $160, enough to buy groceries for a month. If this was a setup, Harper was making it real tempting.

It isn’t right.

Riley reluctantly shook her head. “Unless you sign the paperwork, no deal.”

“Don’t get a bug up your ass, girlie. I’m doing this as a community service. As far as I’m concerned you could flush them down the toilet.”

Riley began to repack the demons into her messenger bag, her stomach sour at the way this had played out.
Harper is going to lose his mind.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Roscoe asked, lurching out of his chair.

“Doing what I’m supposed to,” she said, packing faster now, eager to get away from this weirdo.

“One-twenty,” Roscoe said. “That’s more than you’ll make anywhere else.”

The sleaze bled desperation; she could taste it in the air. Something was going on with this guy, but it wasn’t her problem. As she tucked away the last demon his sweaty hand grabbed her arm.

“You can’t do that. You have to sell them to me,” he barked.

She jerked her arm away, sickened by his touch.

“You’re being stupid,” he growled.

“Not the first time.”

Riley pushed her way through customers and employees. The moment she reached the street, the demons erupted into a chorus of raucous cheers.

Even Hell has standards.

*   *   *

Fireman Jack had
been fairly easy to find since there weren’t that many vintage firehouses left in the city. Riley squared her shoulders and poked at the doorbell located next to the overhead door. No answer. She pushed again and the service door began to open.

“Hello?” A hand waved her in. It was attached to a young guy, probably in his twenties. He was clad in blue overalls and wore high-top black-and-white-checked tennis shoes. His hair was a nest of spikes. Simi would love this dude.

“Yes?” he asked, eying her critically.

“I need to do business with Fireman Jack,” I said. “I’m Riley Blackthorne.”

“Blackthorne?” An eyebrow raised. “Right this way.”

As she followed him inside, Riley realized a fire station was a good choice for a trafficker. The trappers could pull their vehicles inside the building, close the overhead door and offload the larger fiends. No chance for the things to get loose and maul a passerby.

Her nose caught the brimstone stench of demons before she heard the growls. There were a half dozen Threes lined up along a back wall in their individual steel cages. They all slobbered and flashed their claws, fur rippling in waves. The floor beneath them was spotless. She wondered if the guy in the high-tops got stuck with cleanup duty.