Forsaken (4 page)

“They’re just slaves,” she said. “Once you’re dead you should be left alone.”

“Amen to that.” Beck cleared his throat. “Well, ya won’t have to worry. If a trapper gets chewed up by a demon, the necros don’t want ’em.”

Now that’s great news.

Riley watched as the Deader piled the packages into the trunk of a car. When he was finished he climbed into the backseat. They were good for simple tasks, but driving wasn’t one of them.

Riley turned back toward their destination. Built of red brick, the Tabernacle had clocked over a century of use. It’d been a Baptist church, then a concert hall. She’d come here for an Alter Bridge concert to celebrate her dad’s thirty-fifth birthday when they’d lived in Buckhead and her mom was still alive. Back when her parents were teachers at a real school and everything was good.

Beck paused at the entrance, leaning against a rope that served as a handrail. The metal ones were long gone. Still holding his duffel bag in one hand, he turned toward her, his face unusually solemn.

“It’s not just because yer a girl,” he said in a lowered voice, his mind still on their earlier conversation. “A lot of these guys are gettin’ older, and they’re not happy competin’ with younger trappers.”

“Like you?”

He nodded. “Don’t expect a good time, okay? But don’t let ’em push ya around. It was a good trappin’ gone wrong. That’s happened to every one of us. Don’t let them claim anythin’ different.”

Then he left her on the street, putting distance between them like he didn’t want to be seen with her.

Creep.

Her dad was waiting inside that building. What would he say? Would he tell the Guild he’d made a mistake, that she wasn’t trapper material? Or would he try to defend her?

If he does, they’ll roast him.

That thought pushed her forward. Her father wasn’t going to face this alone. This was
her
mistake, not his.

Riley limped up the steps and entered the building, closing the street door behind her. Nothing much had changed since the last Guild meeting: Cobwebs still hung from the ceiling, and the floors were laced with dust and discarded foam cups. A sneeze overtook her. Then another. Pulling a tissue out of a pocket, she blew her nose as she wandered into the huge auditorium. It was a vast space with uncomfortable wooden benches in three sections that rose to the rear of the building, most of it in the dark now. There used to be a pipe organ but it was long gone. Metal was too valuable.

On the floor in front of her was a wet line in the dust that encircled the area where the meeting was being held. Why the trappers bothered to have a Holy Water ward never made sense to Riley. No demon would wander into a roomful of trappers. It’d be a way-dumb move. Still, it was tradition, and it fell to an apprentice to ensure the ward was properly applied. One day it would be her turn.

This was only the second time she’d been in front of the Guild. The first hadn’t been a blast, with lots of argument over whether to issue her an apprentice license. Most of the trappers hadn’t cared either way, but a few clearly resented her. Not because of her dad, but because she wasn’t male. They’d be her foes tonight.

And I gave them all the ammunition they need.

Only the ground-floor General Admission Section was illuminated. Above her, dust hovered in the bright streams of light pouring down from the floods. The lights doubled as a heat source, which left the rest of the building uncomfortably chilly.

The meeting had already started, and her dad was at one of the round banquet tables, arms crossed. It was his you’re-standing-on-my-last-nerve pose. He was wearing his Georgia Tech jacket and sweatshirt and faded blue jeans. His brown hair really needed a trim. Just like an average dad—except he trapped demons for a living.

“How’d this simple job go so far off the rails, Blackthorne?” an older man asked. He was gray at the temples and had a deep crescent-shaped scar that ran down one side of his face. His nose had been broken and hadn’t healed right. It made him look like a cross between a pirate and a convict.

Harper.
The most senior of the three master trappers in the Atlanta Guild.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” her dad replied, his voice clipped. “Riley should be here soon; then we can hear the full story.”

“Don’t care if she’s here or not. She’s done as far as I’m concerned,” Harper replied. The sneer on his face pulled the scar out of alignment.

“We’ve all made mistakes.” Her dad pointed toward a beefy black man at a nearby table. “Morton destroyed a courtroom trying to trap a Four right after he became a journeyman. Things happen.”

“What did I know?” Morton said, spreading his hands. One of the few African Americans in the Guild, he looked like he should be selling houses rather than trapping fiends. “The defense lawyer acted just like a demon. I’m still getting sued over that one.”

There was muted laughter.

Her dad nodded. “My point is that Riley is smart and she listens to instructions. She’ll learn from this, and the next trapping will be picture perfect.”

“That’s better than your last apprentice,” someone joked. “He never did listen.”

Beck stepped into the circle of light. “Evenin’ all,” he said.

“Speak of the devil,” the same trapper called out. “What do you say about this, Mile High?”

From the way Beck tensed, Riley could tell he didn’t like the nickname. He just shrugged and parked himself at her father’s table, then pulled two beer bottles out of his duffel bag and set them in front of him. Twisting the top off one, he took a long swig and settled back like he was there to watch a stage show.

You selfish jerk.
He wasn’t going to stand up for her. How many times had her father saved his butt?
So much for gratitude.

Gnawing on the inside of her bottom lip until she drew blood, Riley stepped into the light, blinking to clear her vision. When they spied her, some of the trappers snickered. She held her ground, hands knotted at her side.

“There’s Little Miss Fuckup now,” Harper said.

Riley’s father glared. “Keep it clean, Harper.”

“If she can’t take it, she shouldn’t be here.”

“There’s no need to be crude,” another trapper insisted. It was Jackson, the Guild treasurer. He was a tall, thin man with a goatee and ponytail. He’d worked for the city before the first round of layoffs a few years back. In lieu of a response, Harper spat on the floor then dug out another wad of chew.

Though Riley really wanted to run into her father’s arms, she took her time crossing to him. She refused to act like a scared little girl in front of these jerks, though deep inside she was freaking out.

Her dad stood and put his hands on her shoulders, looking deeply in her eyes. When he saw the damage to her face, he winced.

“You okay?” She nodded. He squeezed her shoulders for support. “Then tell them what happened.”

He’d treated her like an adult, not a frightened kid. That simple gesture gave her the courage to face this.

She scanned the circle of men around her. There were about thirty of them. Most were middle-aged, like her dad. They’d become trappers when their other careers had ended, destroyed by an economy that had never found anything but the bottom. Bitterness hung on them like a heavy winter coat.

Riley cleared her throat, preparing herself. Harper snapped his fingers impatiently. “Come on, spill it. We don’t have all damned night.”

“Don’t let him goad you,” her father murmured.

Hoping her voice wouldn’t quaver, she gave her report. Her words sounded so insignificant inside the cavernous building, a mouse squeaking to a pack of lions.

When she finished Harper huffed and crossed his arms over his chest, revealing a blood-red tattoo on his forearm. It was a skull with a writhing fiend in its mouth.

“Demons don’t work together,” he said. “Every apprentice knows that. ’Cept maybe you.”

He made it sound like she was lying.

“How else would you explain all the damage?” Morton asked.

“Don’t know, don’t care,” Harper said. “All that matters is that we’re the laughingstock of the city, and we know who’s to blame.”

Murmuring broke out among the men.

“It’s not as easy as that,” her dad began. “If the demons are banding together, we need to know why they’ve changed tactics.”

“You’re just trying to save your brat’s ass, Blackthorne. She would never have been given a license in the first place if she wasn’t your daughter.”

Beck stirred and set his beer bottle down on the table with a clunk. “Why not? She met all the requirements.”

Harper swung his dark gaze toward him. “Why do you give a shit? Looking to get a piece of that, are you?”

Riley’s dad shifted in his chair, his face growing red with anger. Beck, on the other hand, was icy calm. It wasn’t what she’d expected of him.

He popped open the top of the second bottle, took a long swig, then smacked his lips. “Nah, she’s too young. She can’t buy me beer.”

“Damned straight,” someone called out. “Nothin’ more than jailbait.”

Her father’s frown deepened.

“I say we eyeball the library’s security tapes,” Beck said in a thick drawl, heavier than usual. “That’ll tell us if there was another demon there.”

“Take too long to get them. We need to vote on this,” Harper argued.

“We don’t need the tapes, Master.” That was Simon Adler, Harper’s apprentice. He was tall and blue-eyed with bright blond hair that swirled in waves. When Riley was small, her mom bought an angel for the top of the Christmas tree; Simon’s hair was the same color. A couple of years older than her, he wore jeans and a Blessid Union of Souls T-shirt. A wooden cross hung from a thick leather cord around his neck.

“There’s already a video of it on the Internet,” he said, gesturing toward a laptop on the table in front of him. She was surprised he’d bring it into this dustbowl.

Harper threw him a furious look. “Who the hell asked you?”

“Sorry,” Simon replied, “but I thought we’d want to know the truth.”

“You keep your goddamned mouth shut unless I say otherwise, got it?”

The apprentice winced at the blasphemy.

Beck cut in. “Come on now, Simon’s doin’ what any
good
trapper would do—keepin’ tabs on the demons. That’s what yer teachin’ him, isn’t it?”

Harper’s face turned dark with anger, making the scar stand out.

“Let’s see it,” Jackson called out. “Maybe it’ll make our report to the Church easier.”

The Church.
The trappers only captured the demons; the Church was responsible for dealing with them after that. It was a complex arrangement, but it had held together for centuries. The Guild always went out of its way not to piss off the Church.

Simon tapped away on the keyboard as men crowded around. There were too many trappers, so it looked like they’d have to take turns watching the screen. A running commentary began at the same time as the video.

“Damn, look at that flying tackle,” Morton said. “That had to hurt.”

It had.

“She got him!” one of them called out.

“Oh, my God, look at the—”

Bookshelves.
A tremendous crash came from the computer speakers. Exhausted and shaking, Riley sank into the closest chair. Her dad pushed a bottle of water her way. She twisted off the plastic cap and sucked the cool liquid down, gulp after gulp. Her stomach rumbled, a reminder she’d not eaten since breakfast.

Her dad hadn’t hurried over to watch the video. There was only one reason for that.
He thinks I screwed up.

That hurt more than the burning demon bite.

Finally, Simon set the computer in front of her father. “Just press this key and it’ll play,” he said. He gave Riley a quick smile and retreated.

Trappers moved in behind her, talking among themselves. One of them was Beck. She gritted her teeth at what was to come.

“You ready?” her dad asked.

She nodded.

It was worse the second time around. Like watching one of the
Demonland
episodes on television, only this time she was the star and there was no stunt double. Whoever captured the video did a pretty good job, though the picture would swing wildly every now then.

This is all over the Internet.
People in foreign countries would watch it and laugh at her. Mock her. There would be no hiding from this.

“Look at all that stuff blowing around,” someone exclaimed.

Beck sucked in a sharp breath as the bookshelves committed suicide. The final portion of the video showed Riley limping out of the library, bloody and battered.

“My God,” her father whispered, pulling her into an embrace so tight she couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t mad at her or disappointed. He only hugged that hard when he was scared. When they broke apart, she saw it on his face, though he tried to cover it. Then he smiled, soft crinkles appearing at the corners of his brown eyes. “You did very well, Riley. I’m so proud of you.”

Her mouth fell open as the threat of tears returned.

“Ditto,” Beck said as he returned to his beer.

When she looked up, all eyes were on her. A couple of trappers gave her a nod of respect. Jackson looked over at Harper, then back at her.

“That sure as hell wasn’t just a Grade One,” he said.

“I agree. That’s a Geo-Fiend for sure,” another said.

Harper straightened up. “Doesn’t matter. We can’t give this one a pass. Makes us look bad.”

“Oh, go screw yourself, Harper,” Jackson growled. “You’ve hated every apprentice we’ve had. Those you train you treat like dirt. I should know.”

“If you weren’t such a jerk-off, Jackson,” the master began.

Her dad tugged on her sleeve. “Why don’t you go outside? It’s going to get nasty, and I’d rather not have you hear it.”

“But what about my license?” she asked.

“That’s why it’s going to get nasty.”

Oh.

Beck tossed his keys on the table in front of her. “Keep the demon company, will ya? He’s probably missin’ ya by now.”

She glowered at him.