Forsaken (8 page)

“Sweet Jesus,” Beck murmured, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Edging sideways, he picked up the pipe in his sweaty hand, dropping the two-by-four. Keeping a wary eye on the Three, he moved backward, step by step, until he was even with his friend. His fellow trapper was on his knees, bent over like he was in prayer.

“Paul?” No reply. “Ya okay?”

His mentor slowly raised his head, his face a bluish gray. In the fading glow of the grounding sphere’s magic Beck saw a quarter-sized dot of blood over his friend’s left breast.

Paul took a tortured, sucking breath, one that made his whole body shake. “Lies…” Terror filled his eyes. “Riley … Oh, God, Riley…”

As his mentor crumpled into Beck’s arms, the remaining demon charged.

SEVEN

Beck began his slow ascent. Right leg. Left leg. Right. Left. He concentrated on the movement up the two flights of stairs, sixteen steps total to the second floor and the apartment where Riley Blackthorne slept. There was one step for each year of his life before it’d been forever altered by the girl’s father.

Beck didn’t remember much about his first two years—probably for the best. From age three on he remembered too much. Nights alone in a cold room, his mom gone. When she did come home she was too drunk to know who he was. No food, not even a hug. Night after night he curled on the floor in a makeshift bed of dirty clothes, thinking he’d done something to make her hate him. On his fifth birthday, he remembered, his mom had been passed out on the worn plaid couch in their living room, the man who’d come home with her zipping up his pants. When Beck had told him it was his birthday, the guy had laughed, tousled his hair, and gave him a dollar bill. Beck had cried himself to sleep that night, wondering why he hadn’t gotten real presents like the other kids.

At ten he knew his father was a phantom, someone who had picked up Sadie’s bar tab the night he’d been conceived. Probably on that damned plaid couch. He also knew what his mother was—an alcoholic whore. No, that wasn’t right. Whores sold themselves to make ends meet. His mother just got drunk and didn’t care who fucked her.

By the time he turned eleven, Beck knew she wanted him to run away. He refused. That would have been too easy for her. As he reached the thirteenth step he recalled the beatings. One of the men who’d moved in had taught him fists were a great weapon. Beck learned that lesson well and used it on other kids. On anyone who challenged him. He’d spent his next two birthdays in juvenile detention.

In his sixteenth year he’d met Paul Blackthorne. The history teacher hadn’t treated him like some of the others at school. Hadn’t told him he was a loser headed for prison or an early grave. Instead, Blackthorne talked about the future. In his own way Paul had seeded Beck’s desire for revenge—the ultimate revenge—turning out better than his alcohol-soaked bitch of a mother.

When Beck reached the seventeenth step he moved onto the landing, like his own life at the same age. He’d bailed out of high school early, barely getting his diploma. For three years in the Army he took on an enemy he never understood, watching friends die while they cried out to God and to their mothers. Beck didn’t believe in either. At twenty he was back in Atlanta. Back with Paul—the only person in the world who ever gave a damn about Denver Beck.

In the end he’d proved his teacher wrong. The smart-mouthed kid with no future wasn’t any better than his mother or the bastard who’d knocked her up.

He halted in front of the apartment door feeling the blood cracking on his face, the pulsing burn on his right hand, the prick of glass in his left knee. Raising his fist, he let it hang in the air, not wanting to take that final step. Finally he hammered on the door. A decade passed. Riley’s sleepy voice asked who it was. He told her.

“Dad?” she called out. “Are you there?” When he didn’t answer, she began to frantically undo the locks. “Dad?”

As she wrenched the door open, their eyes met.

Beck’s heart turned to ashes.

*   *   *

“What do you want?”
Riley asked. When he didn’t reply, she shoved past him, not caring that she was in her nightclothes. “Dad?” she called out.

There was no one else in the hallway.

She whirled around. “Where’s is he? Is he hurt?”

A shudder coursed through Beck’s body. “Gone,” he murmured, then looked down at the floor.

“What do you mean gone?”

“I’m so sorry, girl.”

Confusion gave way to anger. “Is this some sick game?” she asked, jamming a finger at him. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“I tried, but there were two of them and … He’s gone, Riley.”

Her hand was in motion before she realized. He made no effort to block the blow, and the slap landed soundly on his cheek. Before she could strike him again, Beck snagged her arm and pulled her up against him. Though she struggled and swore, she couldn’t break free.

“Goddammit,” she heard him whisper.

He hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe, then broke his embrace.

Unable to think of what this meant, she shoved him away. Her hands came away sticky, imprinted with blood.

It was only then she saw the gouges on Beck’s face and hands, the long strips of leather missing from his jacket that revealed a shredded T-shirt underneath. Both legs of his jeans were ripped and stiff with dried blood.

The rational part of her examined those injuries, cataloged them and told her that if Beck was that badly hurt, her dad wasn’t coming home.

Her heart refused to accept it.

No. He’s alive. He’ll be here in the morning and …

With each passing second the pressure built inside her. It coiled around Riley’s chest, forcing itself up into her throat. She wrenched herself away and fled into the apartment, stumbling into the bedroom. Only then did she let the scream loose into the depths of her pillow, let it rend her throat until she had no more breath. Then the tears came, streaming hot, salty. She tried not to let them overwhelm her, but it was no use. She choked on her sobs, hammering the bed with her fists.

Images of her father came to mind—teaching her how to ride her first bicycle, comforting her after she took a headlong tumble down a flight of stairs when she was five, holding her hand at her mother’s funeral.

Not this. Please, not him.

How long she cried she couldn’t tell; her sense of time stripped away. When Riley could finally catch her breath, she wiped her eyes and blew her nose with a wad of tissues from the box on the nightstand. There was the sound of running water in the bathroom. When it shut off she heard thick sobs through the thin wall.

Beck.

Her father was really gone.

Later, when she rolled over in the bed she found Beck sitting on the chair near the door. His eyes were swollen, dark red, and he stared at nothing, unaware that the wounds on his face were still oozing. He only roused when she pulled herself up against the headboard.

Beck hoarsely cleared his throat. “We tried to catch … that Three. It got away. We were walkin’… to the truck when—” He broke off and looked down at the floor again, his elbows on his knees. His jacket was off and there were claw marks on his chest. “A Five popped out of nowhere. Then the Three came back. They were workin’ together.”

That wasn’t what she wanted to know. “How did he…?”

“A piece of glass got through the shield. Doc said it hit his heart.”

Now she knew. It didn’t help.

“Where is he?”

He looked up at her. “Oakland Cemetery. None of the mortuaries will have anythin’ to do with a trapper.”

“I want to see him,” she said, shifting her feet to the edge of the bed.

“Not ’til mornin’.”

“I don’t want him alone.” She bent over to try to find her socks.

“He won’t be. Simon’s with him.”

She ignored him.

“Riley, please. Simon will watch over him. Ya need to stay here.”

Beck was right, but it robbed her of something to do when every minute promised unbelievable heartbreak.

Riley sank onto the bed. “I have no one left now,” she said. “No one.”

“Ya have me.”

She glared him. How could he possibly think he was interchangeable with her father? “I don’t want you!” she snarled. “If you really cared for him, he’d be alive and you’d be the one who—”

Beck took a sharp intake of breath like she’d broken something inside of him. She turned her back on him and let the tears fall. A door closed, and then there was silence.

A few minutes later something touched Riley’s knee and she jumped. It was Max. He settled next to her, leaning into her body, purring as loud as she’d ever heard him. At first she resented his presence, but he kept rubbing up against her. Finally she gave in and hugged him tight. His thick fur soaked up her tears.

“Riley? I have tea for you, child,” Mrs. Litinsky offered. Riley pried her face out of the cat’s fur. Her elderly neighbor stood in the doorway, a cup in hand.

“No … thanks.”

“It is chamomile. It will help you rest. That is what you need right now.”

Knowing Mrs. Litinsky wasn’t easily put off, Riley sat up and took the cup. The herbs smelled fresh and they helped unstuff her nose.

The old woman settled on the side of the bed in a robe, her pure white hair in a braid that nearly reached her waist. She seemed almost ethereal, like a fairy. “Mr. Beck has left. I urged him to get his wounds treated. They look bad.”

Then what does Dad look like?

Riley nearly choked at the thought. She forced herself to take a sip. It was hot and tasted sweet, like there was honey in it. She took another long drink, accompanied by the old woman’s approving nod.

“Mr. Beck said to tell you he took the demons with him. They were making considerable noise.”

“What?”

“The small ones in the cupboard,” the woman explained.

“Oh.” Which was why Max was lounging on the bed rather than trying to tear the kitchen apart. She reached out and stroked his thick fur.

“He will stay with you tonight, keep you safe,” Mrs. Litinsky said.

That seemed silly. What could a cat do?

The yawn caught Riley unawares. She finished the drink and handed the empty cup to her neighbor, her hands quaking.

“I’ll be out on the couch,” the woman announced. “Call if you need me.”

Before Riley could protest, there was the soft shuffle of slippers and then the door closed. She fumbled for a photo on the nightstand. It was one of her and Dad from last summer mounted in a picture frame they’d bought at a dollar store. It had orange kittens running around the edge. Dorky, but cheap.

They’d gone on a picnic that day, just the two of them. She’d made sandwiches and cupcakes and lemonade. She could almost smell the fresh lemons and see the blue sky draped like a canopy above them. The picture had been taken by a young man who was there with his new wife. They’d been all over each other. Her dad was embarrassed, but she’d thought it was cute.

Her father looked younger in the picture, content, like all the bills and worries didn’t exist. She hugged the frame close to her body, wishing time had stopped that day in the park. Then she and her dad would be together again.

Max moved closer to her, wedging himself up against her stomach, his rich purr reverberating throughout her body. She curled around him, clutching the photo to her chest. The last thing she could remember was him licking her hand and her father’s reassuring voice saying that everything would be okay.

EIGHT

Riley woke to household noises, the sound of clanking pans and water running in the sink. Her dad was making her breakfast. He often did that, even though he was exhausted from being up all night.

She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, puzzled why she was so tired. There was a thump as something tumbled to the floor. Bending over, she saw the framed picture. She stared at it, her heart tightening.

“Dad?” she called out. “Dad?!”

The noises ceased in the kitchen, followed by heavy footsteps in the hall, the same solid
clomp, clomp
her father’s work boots made on the wood.

“It was a nightmare,” she whispered. And an ugly one at that.
But how could it have felt so real?

When Beck’s unshaven and scored face appeared in the bedroom doorway, Riley shoved herself up in bed, biting back a sob. Without saying a word he returned to the kitchen. She jammed a hand over her mouth, feeling the tears prickling on her cheeks. It hadn’t been a nightmare or Beck wouldn’t be here. Her dad was dead.

The tears burst free, scorching her throat raw, making her nose drip and her neck wet. When she finally hauled herself to the bathroom, the face in the mirror seemed alien. Hollow, puffy, red-rimmed eyes stared back at her. She doused her cheeks with cold water, blew her nose again, and then jammed her hair in a clip, not caring that it stuck out like a porcupine. Tugging on fresh underwear and her last pair of clean jeans, she dug in the clean clothes basket until she found a T-shirt. It had a tombstone on the front.

With a sharp cry, she slung it away in revulsion. More digging unearthed a plain one. It had been her dad’s. She slipped it on, the thin cotton brushing against her skin like a whisper.

Now came
the firsts
. The first morning without her father. The first breakfast, the first day, week, month. She’d gone through this painful accounting after her mom died. After a few months she’d ceased the mental math, but this morning there was no way to shut it off.

Her visitor had his back to her. He was being domestic, cooking something on the gas stove despite his bandaged hand. For a moment she wanted to believe it was her father, though he wasn’t the same height and his hair was the wrong color.

Beck looked over his shoulder, ruining her delusion. “I’ve got some breakfast for ya.”

“You’re not my dad,” she said defiantly.

“I can’t be if I tried.” He pointed toward the table. When she didn’t move, he put the oatmeal in a bowl and set it down, along with a plate of scrambled eggs and some sausage. Mismatched silverware followed. “Come on, girl, ya gotta eat.”

She stared at the food, wishing it would disappear with the guy who’d made it. When Beck pulled out her dad’s chair to join her, she snapped, “Don’t sit there!”