Forsaken (31 page)

“I’m thinking coyote,” Simon replied.

A little farther on she spied a brawny man pounding something out on an anvil. A glowing red fire blazed behind him. A shower of sparks would fly into the night air when his young assistant worked a ragged set of bellows. The man was stripped to his waist, but even in the cold air he was perspiring from exertion, sweat defining the ropy muscles on his arms and chest.

“A smithy?” Riley said. “Guess it makes sense.”

“Cheaper to fix what’s broken than buy new,” Simon explained.

Riley stopped in her tracks and did a slow one-eighty. “This is like something out a movie,” she said. “Like an Arabian market or a medieval faire.”

“With a Southern twist,” Simon said, pointing toward a tent. The menu posted on a hand-lettered sign included grits, collards, fried chicken, and sweet potato pie. The pie sounded good, but she was still full from Beck’s magnificent barbecue.

Simon paused in front of a tent stocked with different-sized bottles of Holy Water. Riley picked up a pint. It was manufactured by Celestial Supplies, the company her father had mentioned in his notes, and the date stamp said it had been consecrated two days earlier. She rotated the bottle in her hands and checked out the city’s tax stamp, which shimmered in the dim light. Since Atlanta couldn’t collect money from the Church, they taxed their by-product.

“Always check the date,” Simon advised. “It has to be fresh if you’re treating demon wounds. If you’re warding your house, not so much.”

Riley thought about the Holy Water she’d used on her claw wounds. Carmela had said it must have been old, but the guy she’d bought it from had assured her it was fresh. So which was it?

“You’re frowning,” Simon said.

“Just confused. I read in the manual that you have to reapply a Holy Water ward at regular intervals, but it didn’t say why.”

“It’s thought that it absorbs evil and becomes less potent. That’s why they sell a lot of it to prisons and jails.”

“And nursing homes, hospitals, schools, government buildings—you name it,” a hefty salesman explained. He was dressed in a blue suit like he sold life insurance. His hair was patchy at the top, and he clutched a sales pad in his hand. “It’s the only way to keep your family safe from Hell’s terrors,” he added.

At that he shoved a multicolored brochure into her hand that extolled the virtues of Holy Water and its protective properties.

“So how would I know if this is fresh or not?” she asked, thinking back to the demon-wound fiasco.

The salesman tapped a fingernail against the pint she was holding.

“Each bottle and every glass sphere has a batch number that includes the date the Holy Water was consecrated. It’s state law.”

She already knew that. “But can some of it be less potent?”

“No,” the salesman said curtly.

Well, that got me nowhere.

“How much is this?” Simon asked, holding up a pint bottle. “It doesn’t have a price.”

“Ten.”

“Whoa, that’s high,” Simon protested, his eyebrows rising in astonishment.

“The city raised the tax rate again.”

The salesman spotted another potential customer and took his sales pitch elsewhere.

“Ten for a pint? It used to be that much for a gallon,” Simon muttered. “That’s outrageous. No wonder the price of the spheres has gone up so much.”

Riley tucked the brochure into her messenger bag, and her hands brushed against the papers inside. They reminded her of her father’s research.

“Is there any way a demon could become immune to Holy Water?”

Simon immediately shook his head. “No way. All Hellspawn react negatively to the concentrated power of divinity.” It sounded like he’d quoted that from some book.

Then why was my dad so fixated on this?

Simon took her by the elbow and gently steered her to the right. “The stall we want is this way.”

As they rounded the corner, Riley gasped. The bright orange tent in front of them was full of dead people.

“They sell them here?” she asked, appalled.

“The necros always have a tent at the market.”

Riley did a quick count: There were seven Deaders and one live guy. He was doing all the talking. The Deaders stared off into space, probably wondering what happened to them. At least the salesman wasn’t hawking them like used cars or that would have really set her off.

“How much do they sell for?” she whispered.

“I’ve heard as high as five thousand,” Simon replied. His voice hardened. “It makes me sick.”

She frowned. “What happens to their souls?”

“I asked Father Harrison about that,” Simon replied putting his arm around her waist. “He said the Church isn’t really sure what happens, but they believe the soul isn’t completely free if the body is walking around. Only the necros know for sure, and they aren’t talking about it.”

“What if the body goes rogue or something? Starts eating people.”

Simon laughed softly. “That’s only in the movies. These guys aren’t good at thinking things through, and they’re definitely not zombies. They don’t eat at all.”

“But they’re not mindless,” she said, thinking of the woman on the street with the briefcase.

“No, somewhere in between.” He steered her elbow again. “Come on.”

As they walked away, she noticed a man watching her from the tent where knives and other sharp pointy things were sold. He was holding a sword. Not holding it actually, but owning it, like he knew exactly what he was doing. His sleek black hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tied with a leather cord. A glossy black leather jacket covered his broad shoulders and muscled arms. With a bit of imagination Riley could picture him on the cover of a romance novel. He turned in her direction, then saluted with the blade like a cavalier might his queen.

It was an effort not to melt in her tracks.

“Riley?” her companion nudged.

“Ah, sorry,” she said, but she really wasn’t.

When she looked around again, the man was gone.

Who was that guy?

“Bell, Book and Broomstick,”
Simon announced, unaware her mind was elsewhere. The midnight-blue tent was sprinkled with gold and silver stars, and there was a long table in front of it laden with amulets, velvet bags, and other witchy stuff.

Riley knew Simon well enough not to use the
W
word. He was way touchy about anything supernatural and somehow had convinced himself that the spells inside the crystal spheres weren’t really magic. No matter what he called it, it
was
magic and the trappers used it or they ended up dead.

And sometimes they died anyway.

Behind the counter was a tall woman in Renn Faire garb, her russet-brown hair an unruly mass of curls. A multicolored dragon tattoo started at her neck and descended deep inside her dark green peasant blouse. When she saw Simon, she leaned over the counter, displaying ample cleavage for his benefit.

“Hey, how’s my favorite trapper?” the witch asked. From her tone, Riley could tell she loved playing with Simon’s head.

Riley’s boyfriend noted the cleavage but pulled his eyes away with amazingly little effort. “Just fine. Ayden, this is Riley,” he said, gesturing. “She’s an apprentice trapper.”

“Paul’s daughter?” Riley nodded. “Goddess…” the witch replied. She stepped from behind the table and enveloped Riley in a big hug. Her hair smelled of patchouli incense.

“We all miss him,” the woman said, stepping back, her eyes clouded.

An awkward silence fell between them.

Riley cleared her throat. “Beck would like you to tell me about the spheres.”

The witch brightened. “Ah. Sphere Lecture One-Oh-One. My pleasure.”

“I’ll wait here,” Simon said, his hand in the pocket where he kept his rosary.

“I promise I won’t turn you into anything that eats flies,” Ayden teased.

Simon stiffened, but didn’t move.

The witch waited until they were inside the tent and then leaned close to Riley. “I love messing with him. He’s a real sweet guy, but he hasn’t learned that his faith isn’t in competition with anyone else’s.”

“Did you give him the sphere lecture, too?”

She nodded. “He wasn’t that receptive.”

As they walked deeper into the tent, the soothing scent of jasmine enveloped them. Lanterns hung from the tent poles and in one corner someone was having a Tarot card reading. Waving her forward, Ayden knelt in front of a large wooden chest adorned with arcane symbols. Some of them Riley recognized—an ankh, the Eye of Horus. The rest was anyone’s guess. Celtic maybe.

“We keep them in the chest because they’re easily broken,” Ayden explained, opening the lid.

Tell me about it.

The witch dug out three spheres and placed them in Riley’s hands. One red, one white, and one blue. It made her think of Roscoe’s front window, which wasn’t a good thing.

“So how do you make these?” Riley asked.

“We buy the glass spheres, blend the ingredients, and fill them using a funnel through that little port.” Ayden pointed toward a small cork plug on the side of the sphere. “Once they’re filled, we reseal them. Then we go into the forest on a full moon and charge them with magic,” the witch said.

“Do you dance around a fire or something?”

“Depends on the magic. Sometimes we’re skyclad, sometimes not.”

“Sky … clad?” Riley asked.

“Nekkid, as they say in these parts,” Ayden said, winking.

“The mosquitoes must be a bitch.”

The witch issued a rich laugh. “You should come sometime.”

Not if I have to be nude.

Riley slowly turned the sphere in her hand. “The Holy Water bottles have a tax stamp. Why don’t these?”

Ayden groaned. “I hear that’s on the legislature’s agenda next year, but our lobbyist is trying to push that back. They want to tax all magical items.”

“How much do you charge for these?” Riley asked, tickled to find someone who would give her straight answers for a change.

“We ask for a donation to cover our costs. It doesn’t seem right to charge you guys for keeping evil at bay.”

Riley’s appreciation of the witches rose even further.

“Okay, I admit we have an ulterior motive, besides the good karma, that is. It makes it harder for some of the radical groups to claim we’re in league with Hell when we’re supplying the means to take them down.”

That made sense.

“First thing I always say about the spheres: Think outside the box. The trappers like to believe that a certain sphere should only be used on its primary target. Like a Babel sphere for Fours or a snow globe for Pyro-Fiends. That’s shortsighted.”

“Why?”

“Because the magic can be used in a number of ways. Think about the properties of the spheres and match them to the effect that you want to create. You can combine the spheres so they enhance each other’s properties. Every time I mention something like that to a trapper they get all weird on me.”

“Even my dad?” Riley asked. He’d always been open to new ideas.

Ayden spread her hands. “Paul was beginning to come around, but old habits are hard to break.”

Riley’s cell phone chirped. She pulled it out and muted it. Probably Peter checking up on her. After Riley dumped the phone in her bag, Ayden held up a sphere. White particles swirled inside like a vintage snow globe. The only thing that was missing was an ice skater in the center.

“So let’s start with a white and go from there,” the witch said.

A half an hour later Riley was outside the tent, her head swimming in details. Whites were created using air and water magic. The grounding spheres were a combination of earth, air, and fire magic. It went on from there.

I’ll never keep all this stuff straight.

She found Simon pacing outside the tent. “You done?” he asked, clearly eager to be somewhere else.

Riley nodded. “Want some hot chocolate?”

“No, thanks. I need to get home.”

Oh. So much for making this a date.

Riley checked her cell phone. Three calls, all from Beck. He hadn’t left a message.

I knew it was too good to last.

THIRTY

Quit stallin’.

Beck sorted out his trapping bag, which hadn’t needed the attention, then did it all over again in a new configuration. If he’d had his gun-cleaning supplies he would have stripped his Sig and given it a thorough cleaning. None of his efforts helped him forget the Two’s voice calling out Riley’s name. Lower-level fiends didn’t do that. To them all trappers were the same.

In his gut he knew it meant something. He needed advice, but who could he ask without screwing up Riley’s future with the Guild?

“Harper?” he mused. “No way.” The bastard would use the information to throw her to the wolves. “Stewart?” That was a better choice, but the master might feel inclined to let the Guild know Hell was taking a personal interest in Paul’s daughter.

“Ah, damn.” What could he do?

After much thought, Beck decided on a less-risky course of action. He waited until Mortimer had made his rounds and then fired up his cell phone, his nerves pushing him along. The call was to an old trapping buddy in New York City who he could trust with a secret.

“Patterson. What kind and where?” the gruff voice asked.

“Jeff? It’s Beck.”

“Hey, Den. What’s up? Long time, no hear.”

“Got a couple questions for ya. Ever seen demons workin’ together? Like a Geo-Fiend and a Three?”

“Nope. That’s the only thing that saves our asses. If they ever get smart, they’ll nail us. Why?”

“It’s happenin’ here. That ain’t all. Ya ever hear tell of lower-level demons callin’ a trapper by name?”

“No, only Fours and above. It’s not until they reach that level they have that sort of knowledge. And an Archfiend, hell, they can tell you the size of your dick and when you last cheated on your wife.”

“Good reason not to get married.”

Jeff laughed. “Why are you asking?”

“We got an apprentice who’s bein’ called out by every demon from a One on up.”

“Damn. Has Lucifer got his hooks in the guy? That might explain why Hell knows him.”