Forsaken (17 page)

Riley had everything she needed—her dad’s trapping gear and the special steel mesh bag to hold the Three after she’d caught it. She’d spent nearly forty-eight dollars for a pint of Holy Water and three spheres from a gun shop on Trinity Avenue. Only one thing was missing—guts.

I can do this.
She’d been saying the same thing to herself for the last ten minutes, ever since she’d called Beck and lied to him.

Not a lie. I am tired.

But she had lied, at least about class running late and that she needed to get some sleep and could he watch her father’s grave until midnight?

He’d agreed without giving her any hassle. It would have been easier on her conscience if he’d been a jerk. Instead, he’d sounded really concerned, and that made the lie turn to rock in her stomach. Would borrowing money from him be the end of the world?

Yes.

Time was passing.

Riley tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. If she was truly Paul Blackthorne’s daughter she’d be out there hunting a Three rather than worrying herself sick in the car. She’d be taking care of herself rather than waiting for someone else to do it for her.

Her hand shook as she reached for the door handle.

“I’ll just see what it looks like, then decide,” Riley said, trying to find some middle ground that didn’t allow the stone in her stomach to grow any heavier.

After the trunk lid popped open, she slipped the straps of her father’s trapping bag on her shoulder. It seemed heavier than when she’d hauled it out of the apartment.

“No wonder he lifted weights,” she grumbled, dropping it to the ground. There was the sound of breaking glass.

“Ah, crap!” She’d broken one of the spheres. They were designed to crack easily, and she only had three. Squatting down, she rummaged in the bag. One of them had split open and a sea of Holy Water flooded the interior.

She gingerly fished out the broken glass, trying not to slice her fingers, and tossed the shards into the gutter. After removing the bag’s other contents, she drained the water onto the ground. It splashed on her tennis shoes and her feet began to tingle. Now she’d have cold and holy feet all night.

Her ham sandwich was soaked. That was okay. When she caught a demon she’d haul it over to Fireman Jack and collect her money. Then there’d be a celebratory trip to McDonald’s for supper on the way to the graveyard. She might even supersize the fries.

An odd, shuffling noise caught her notice. She leaned around the truck lid. An old black man made his way up the broken sidewalk, dwarfed by layers of clothes like he was wearing everything he owned. He hunched against the cold, shooting glances over his shoulder every few steps as if he expected trouble.

Once he was gone, Riley repacked only what she needed into her messenger bag and slipped the strap onto her shoulder.
Better.
After slamming the door and pocketing the keys, she set off into the heart of Demon Central, her heart thudding in her ears.

Fifty feet down the abandoned street she came to a stop.

“There just had to be holes,” Riley muttered. She hated them. Things lived down in those holes. Things that would love to eat her.

She paused and studied the closest abyss. It was jagged and deep, with pieces of metal sticking out from the edges like porcupine quills. She thought she heard water running somewhere underground.

This place was a Three’s dream home—loads of trash strewn around and hardly any light. What light there was seemed to be timid, barely illuminating the center of the street and avoiding the corners entirely. She strained to see into one corner, but it was impossible. Anything could be watching her, waiting, choosing the moment to bring her down.

A few streets over a coyote howled, high and throaty. The howl was picked up and amplified into a wild and energetic chorus. Riley began to shiver.

Was Beck this afraid when he trapped his first Three?

She wasn’t sure. He didn’t seem to be scared of anything, but then her dad had been with him, and that would have made all the difference.

As Riley edged forward her shoes crunched on something. Broken glass and white powder spread in a wide arc on the rippled asphalt. Debris had swirled around that circle, like a hurricane does its eye. Edging closer, she found tracks through the powder. She knelt. The powder came from a shield sphere, and the tracks were from work boots. Like the kind trappers wore. Dry, rust-brown stains were splattered like someone had shaken out a paintbrush. She picked up a strip of ripped brown leather crusted with dried blood and examined it.

It was from Beck’s coat, the one he’d been wearing the night her father died. She could remember what it had looked like in the hallway, slashed and shredded, coated with his blood.

Riley lurched to her feet, stumbling backward. She barely stifled a cry of anguish.

This is where her dad had died.

What am I doing here?

Her dad and Beck trapped as a team. That wasn’t to keep each other company. Apprentices didn’t start trapping Grade Threes until almost six months in, and then only with a master at their side. Even then, they still died.

Get the hell out of here!

It was her father’s voice, echoing deep inside her head.

Riley executed the turn as slowly as possible, eyes darting from hole to hole, expecting a furry body to be crawling out of every one. She wanted to run, but she kept her movements steady. Demons chased their victims. If she acted as if she were in control, maybe nothing would come after her.

Four steps later she heard the sound.

“Just a rat,” she whispered. Not that she’d seen any, but they had to be down here, right?

The sound grew louder. A sort of sloppy snarl. Muscles tensing and heart jittering, Riley looked over her shoulder. Crouched in front of one of the holes was a Grade Three demon. The thing looked like some monster out of a science fiction movie—four feet tall, a patchwork of black-and-white spiked fur with scimitar claws and horrifically sharp teeth that protruded beyond the lower jaw. The creature rose, stretching like it was limbering up for gym class. It examined her with menacing red eyes.

“Oh … my … God.”

“Blackthorne’s daughter,” it bayed. It slicked its thick tongue across its lips. Drool rolled down its chin.

“Niiice demon … That’s it. Just stay there.” Riley fumbled in the bag and pulled out the cow entrails she’d retrieved from the freezer. Slinging the package as hard as she could, it landed with a plop on the asphalt. Louder snarls came from the beast. In a move that seemed impossible for its bulk, it leapt on the food and swallowed the entrails and the plastic wrapper in one big gulp.

“Ah, God,” she said, stumbling backward. That had been her only diversion and it was long gone. Her hand closed on one of the spheres. “I’m leaving now. No need to get upset, Mr. Demon.”

“Chew yourrr bones!” it cried, waving its arms in the air.

A second later, all Riley could see was a whir of black and white, all teeth and claws, moving toward her at frightening speed. She stumbled, nearly falling. Cursing, she tossed one of the spheres at the oncoming fiend. It missed and smashed to bits on the uneven ground close to where her father had breathed his last.

Riley ran, the messenger bag banging into her side. Once she got to the car the thing wouldn’t follow her, would it?

The beast had other ideas, growing closer, calling out her name. It snarled and clawed the back of her jacket, spinning her around like a top. Falling hard, the wind knocked out of her, Riley rolled to protect her final sphere. She shrieked as the demon dove at her, claws raking across the asphalt in a trail of sparks just inches from her face. It yowled in frustration when it missed. Riley regained her feet only a second before it dodged sideways, sending its glistening ebony spikes at her belly. She forced the bag forward, trying to block its lethal reach. It gnawed on the canvas, snarling and growling as she fumbled for the last sphere.

A thick paw arced around the bag and dug into her left thigh, burying the claws deep into her flesh. Riley screamed in agony and slammed the sphere into the fiend’s open maw, imbedding the glass into the beast and deep into her palm. In slow motion, the Three ripped its claws out of her leg and sank to the ground, bloody and unmoving.

Riley fell to her knees and began to retch, the adrenaline making her heart thud so fast she thought she’d faint. Prickles of light danced at the corner of her eyes. She forced herself to slow her breathing, studying the still form. The demon was taking quick puffs of air through its mouth, its laser red eyes staring up at nothing. Black blood dripped from its tongue onto its neck. Riley forced herself to her feet and, with fumbling hands, broke open the seal on the steel bag.

How do I get this thing inside?

In the end, she kept jamming the fiend’s legs, body, and arms into the bag, like stuffing a pillowcase with foul-smelling fur. The thing stank like sulfur and rotten meat, making her stomach roil and acid singe her throat. She worked left-handed as the right was bleeding, waves of pain telegraphing up her arm.

With incredible effort, she locked down the two clamps that secured the demon inside the bag. She’d actually done it—caught her first Grade Three Hellspawn.

Rising to her feet, Riley wobbled for a few seconds. The adrenaline was gone, leaving a sour stomach and a sick, pounding headache. It was only then she dared look at her thigh. Thick red blood bubbled out from the six holes in her slashed jeans, one for each claw. The leg felt numb, which was weird. It should be hurting like hell.

“Trapper … scores,” she said weakly.
Sorta
. Folding out the steel bag’s handle, she dragged the dead weight up the street one-handed. It was slow going; the fiend was much heavier than she’d expected.

How am I going to get this thing in the trunk?
It certainly wasn’t riding up front with her.

“One problem at a time,” she said, refusing to admit this was more than she could handle. Riley looked down at her catch. She couldn’t wait to see Beck’s face.

Hey, Backwoods Boy! Guess what I did tonight?

It was going to be
sooo
sweet.

She heard laughter. For a moment it didn’t register as a threat.

“Hey, girlie!” someone called out.

Riley whirled around to find two guys following her. One of them was chunky, like a Beck gone to seed with a roll of flab around his middle. He was wearing a faded ball cap, and his long hair needed washing.

“She looks tasty for a trapper,” the second said. He was short and wiry, with an unlit cigarette dangling out of his mouth.

Just a couple of jerks from the Guild trying to psyche me.

Riley fired up the attitude. “I’m with Beck,” she fibbed. “He’s not going to be happy you’re messing with me.”

“So where’s this guy?” the first one asked. He had a load of chew in his mouth and he kept working it.

“Down there,” she lied, pointing toward the end of the street.

The big man spit. “Ain’t no one down there. You’re on your own.”

“Just the way we like ’em,” the second added.

This was bad. These guys weren’t trappers. They were too shabby, and neither of them had any trapping equipment with them.

“What do you want?” Riley asked, tightening her grip on the steel bag.

The sick leer that formed on the big man’s face sent a frigid shiver to her toes. “The demon … to start with.”

Riley shook her head. “No way. Go catch your own.”

“Seems we just did. That thing’s worth a lot of money.”

“You can’t sell a demon,” she protested. “You have to be a trapper.”

“Hear that, Dodger? She says we can’t sell it.” He chuffed. “Never stopped us before. It’ll get us five hundred, no sweat.”

Five hundred? Who’s paying that much for a Three?

The wiry guy began to circle around her. “How’s about we share, girlie?”

“Yeah,” the big man agreed. “Get some booze, some blow, and have a party, just the three of us.”

Oh, God.

“I get first crack,” the man added. “I like breakin’ ’em in.”

Rage-laced panic exploded inside her. She couldn’t escape with the demon. It was too heavy to move quickly. Even if she dialed 911 it’d take the cops too long to get here, even if they could be convinced to come to Demon Central. By then …

The demon or these sick perverts?

Slinging a torrent of hellish curse words at them, Riley dropped the bag and limped off as fast as her injured thigh would let her. The wounds fired to life, sending jolts of pain into her leg. If she only had a steel pipe, anything that would keep them away from her. Keep them from touching her and …

“Run, girlie!” Dodger taunted as he started after her. His heavy boots crunched across the pavement, moving closer with each step. He was just playing with her. There was no way she could outrun either of them.

A strange sound filled the street, a combination of a throaty howl and a deep, raspy snarl.

“Oh, shit,” the big man shouted. “The thing’s awake. Help me with it!”

Riley risked a glance over her shoulder. The small guy was still gaining on her. Behind him, the demon clawed and bit at its steel prison like a rabid dog, thrashing so the metal bag rolled around the pavement.

The smaller man was catching up. She scooped up a charred piece wood, holding it like a club, and turned to face him. A hundred words came to the tip of her tongue, but she was too scared to say any of them.

The big man was losing his battle. “Dammit, Dodger, forget her! She’s not worth the five hundred.”

With a snarl that would have impressed any fiend, Dodger whirled and ran at top speed to help his partner.

Riley limped away, pushing as fast as she dared. As she turned the corner she saw the two men wrestling with the bag as the Three tried to tear it apart.

“Go, demon,” she urged, blinking away tears of anger. Maybe it’d get free and rip those losers apart. Eat them both. “That’d be so righteous.”

By the time Riley reached the car, she shook like a dog in a thunderstorm. Her thigh felt as if it were boiling from within, shooting pain into her groin and all the way down to her toes. Popping open the trunk, she grabbed the pint bottle of Holy Water, broke open the seal, and soaked her thigh, jeans and all, making it look like she’d wet herself. Instead of the burning pain she’d expected, it only stung a little then eased off.