Forgiven (33 page)

The tide slowly began to turn in favour of the humans. Some of the shop owners had died from claws or teeth, but the rest of them weren’t giving up.

As Riley made her way through the tent city and the damaged trailers, she stopped to help the injured. There wasn’t much she could do but offer sympathy, or hold down a compress to slow the bleeding. Most of the injured had claw marks and those would be infected very soon if not treated properly.

As she held a young boy’s hand, she instructed his father to pour Holy Water on to the child’s leg wound. The boy cried out in pain the moment the liquid hit it.

‘It’s supposed to do that. You’ll be OK,’ she said.

‘How do you know?’ he demanded, fat tears rolling down his face.

‘Because I’m a demon trapper,’ she said, feeling pride at being able to say that.

‘Where the hell were you? Why didn’t you stop them?’ the child’s father demanded, his worry shifting to anger now that he had a viable target.

Riley’s pride faded. ‘We’re trying.’ She pointed at the bottle of the sacred liquid. ‘That’s the good stuff. Keep using it on his leg every two hours. It’ll heal him.’

She moved on down the line, testing every bottle of Holy Water she found. Running a wet finger over the label told her if it was fake or real. She was tempted to use the demon claw to test the liquid, but given the mood of the survivors that might not have been a smart idea. If the Holy Water proved to be fake, she poured the liquid on to the ground and explained why. Not everyone believed her.

‘What the hell are you doin’?’ one man complained. ‘I need that for my buddy. The stuff’s supposed to cure him.’

His buddy had a gaping stomach wound and wasn’t going to be around for long if his friend kept treating him with tap water. ‘Take him to the hospital. They’ll have real Holy Water there. This stuff is fake. It will kill him.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘No,’ Riley said, shoving the empty quart bottle into the guy’s hands. ‘I’m not. Get him out of here! Now!’

The guy actually backed off. ‘OK, don’t go psycho on me, girl.’

‘Sorry.’

When a team of paramedics trotted by, followed by a policeman, Riley realized the battle was over. Looking back into the heart of the market was like seeing an open wound. There were cries and shouts and the sound of a fire engine in the distance.

Riley aimed for the one place that might offer sanctuary. To her relief the witches’ tent was intact. Three of the practitioners were fanned out in a semi-circle. They all had some weapon in hand, including her friend Ayden, who held a sword like she knew what to do with it. Then Riley saw a body near the tent. It was a witch, an older one, and she was cradled in the arms of a weeping girl.

Not even the magic users were safe.

‘I figured you had to be in this hell somewhere,’ Ayden said solemnly.

Riley’s eyes were still caught by the dead woman. ‘I sorry. I didn’t think . . .’

‘That witches don’t get hurt and die? We’re as mortal as you trappers. At least Elspeth went quick. She’s in the Summerlands now and . . .’ Ayden blinked away tears. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can do for the living.’ She tossed her sword to one of the others and headed out into the market.

Riley lost track of time as she and the witch made the rounds. A few people wouldn’t let her friend near them. Harsh words came their way, but Ayden held her tongue.

‘They need a scapegoat,’ she explained as they moved on after a man called them names. ‘Soon it’ll be all over the city that we summoned the demons in the first place.’

The witch veered towards where one of the fiends lay sprawled in the dirt. It was in multiple pieces, evidence of the crowd’s fury. Ayden knelt and then hovered her hand in the air above the thing’s severed head. She closed her eyes, murmuring something. A frown came next. Then she went totally still. Riley gasped.

The point of a sword rested against the back of Ayden’s neck.

‘Don’t you think it killed enough folks today, witch?’ a man growled. His shirt was scorched and he had a wicked burn on his cheek. He appeared to be one of the vendors, a money bag tied round his waist. ‘You trying to raise it from the dead again?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’ Ayden replied evenly.

His sword arm shook in rage. ‘Because you’re one of Hell’s own.’

Beck came out of nowhere, his face sweaty and jacket smeared in demon blood. ‘Ya know, it’s been a bitch of a day,’ he said. ‘Let’s not make it any worse, OK?’

‘Why the hell do you care?’ the man asked, glaring at the trapper.

‘Because yer about to make a mistake that’s gonna cost ya yer life,’ Beck said, casually wiping the blade clean on his jeans. ‘This lady is not a threat.’

‘I don’t see any of their kind bleeding.’

‘I’m sure the dead witch at their tent might disagree,’ Riley retorted.

The guy hesitated. ‘You trappers are as bad as these damned witches. I should kill both of you right here and now.’

It might have got uglier if Captain Salvatore and two of his men hadn’t pushed through the crowd and joined them.

The leader hunter assessed the situation immediately. ‘Why do you have this woman at sword point?’ He was using the
don’t screw me, I’ve had a really bad night
kind of voice.

‘This witch was trying to call the demon back to life. I saw it myself,’ the man reported. ‘I want you to arrest her or something. Burn her, maybe.’

Ayden’s mouth flattened in a thin line.

‘The Church is long past that horror,’ Salvatore scolded. ‘Step back and put the sword down.’

‘But she—’

‘Is not your problem,’ Salvatore replied. He snapped his fingers and his escort flanked their captain in one step, hands on their weapons.

The vendor shook his head in disgust, but the sword fell from his fingers. ‘The trappers and the witches are fooling all of you.’ Then he marched away in disgust.

Ayden rose and dusted off her skirt. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘You’re welcome.’ Salvatore rubbed his neck pensively as he keyed his radio. ‘This is Team Gabriel. I need four men to spread out through the market to keep an eye out for trouble.’ The order was acknowledged immediately.

The captain addressed his escort. ‘Müller, you and Tamson take a prominent position near the pagans’ tent, in case somebody decides to get creative.’ After two ‘yes, sir’s’, the hunters hiked off at a brisk pace.

‘Again, thank you,’ Ayden said.

Salvatore gestured towards a set of wooden benches. ‘Let’s have a talk, over here, where it’s quiet.’ As they walked, the captain eyed Riley.

‘I know, I was supposed to say out of the middle of things,’ she said. ‘It’s not working out that way.’

‘Apparently not.’ He moved his attention to Ayden as she sank on to a bench. ‘What were you doing with the demon corpse?’

‘I was hoping to sense the magical signature, get an idea of who is behind all this. What I felt was part necromancer, part something else. The something else was very old, no pagan or summoner magic.’ Her eyes were on Riley now, trying to send her a message.

‘Come to the Westin. We can talk about it there,’ the captain offered.

‘No. Somewhere neutral,’ she replied, voice strained. ‘If I come to your headquarters, that implies guilt. One mistake and the pagans in this town are going to be paying for something they didn’t do.’

Salvatore considered her observation. ‘What about Master Stewart’s house? You have good relations with the trappers, don’t you? That would be neutral ground.’

‘If it is OK with Master Stewart, I’m good with it. Give me time . . . to get things taken care of.’

‘I understand. I’m truly sorry about your loss.’

The witch seemed caught off guard by the compassion. ‘As I am for yours,’ she said, then swept away.

‘Who’d ya lose?’ Beck asked as he mopped off his forehead with the cleanest coat sleeve. It still left a smear of black on his skin.

‘One of our newer hunters,’ the captain replied. Salvatore’s gaze drifted back towards the centre of the market. Vendors were trying to retrieve their goods from the wreckage. A line of bodies lay near one of the tents, covered by whatever was at hand.

‘Why didn’t y’all have swords?’ Beck asked. ‘Ya knew bullets are useless.’

Salvatore’s eyes flared at Beck’s dressing down. ‘The Vatican is weighing the issue,’ he said tersely. ‘They’re not known for making decisions lightly. Or with any speed.’

‘So more folks are gonna die while they’re talkin’ it out?’ Beck snarled.

‘Isn’t that always the way?’

It was Jackson who took Riley to collect her car. He wasn’t his usual jovial self, too caught up in what had gone down at the market. Riley was grateful for the silence.

Should I tell the hunters about Sartael? No, better not.
It would open up questions as to how she knew about the Fallen and that would lead right back to the talking statue in the cemetery. Consorting with the minions of Lucifer is what they’d call it and she’d be back in custody in a heartbeat.

To her annoyance Riley found a note stuck under her windshield wiper – it was from Allan. It had his phone number and e-mail address and his usual terse commands:
Call me! Tonight!

She crumpled it up, dropped it on the ground and then pulverized it into the cracked concrete with the toe of her tennis shoe.

By the time she’d made it to Stewart’s house and taken a shower, the blowback from the market’s attack had heated up. The phones wouldn’t stop ringing. Riley heard only one side of the conversations with the mayor, the governor and the National Guild. All had the same order: put the demons back in the bottle.
Now.
No doubt Captain Salvatore was receiving the same butt-chewing from his superiors in Rome.

No one needed to tell them that. If the trappers and hunters failed, the city would turn into a feeding ground for every ravenous demon in the area. For some reason, the higher-ups always felt the need to state the obvious.

It was nearing eleven when the phone calls finally tapered off. Stewart decided that dessert was the solution to all their problems. Harper begged off and headed for bed, which left Riley alone with the Scotsman and a hefty piece of peach pie with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

Stewart pushed his plate away first. ‘I talked ta Mort earlier this evenin’. Yer father has settled down a bit, but he’s still . . . out there. I wish I had better news for ya.’

Riley hadn’t expected any. ‘What’s so important that Ozymandias would do that to my dad?’

‘Masters know a fair amount of demonic knowledge, but I’m not sure exactly what the necro was hopin’ for. We may never know.’

‘What about Grand Masters?’

‘Ah, well, we are taught a lot more about demons and angels and all that.’

‘You really would have killed my dad?’

‘Aye,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ve had another friend who went dark. His face still haunts me.’

Riley pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

Stewart sighed, then brightened. ‘Ya play chess, lass?’

‘Sometimes. I’m not very good at it.’ Actually, her father beat her every time. That didn’t bother her at all – it was Dad face time.

Stewart pushed back his chair. ‘Come along. I’ve got somethin’ ta show ya.’

Though this really was the last thing Riley wanted to do, she followed him anyway. He’d taken her side against the hunters, given her a place to live and treated her with respect. A chess game wasn’t going to kill her.

Stewart retrieved a plain black box from his office and carried it into the library where he set it in the centre of the table. The set was old, ancient even, carved out of wood, each piece hand painted. The white pieces wore kilts.

‘The Scots versus the Sassenach,’ Stewart said, laying out the pieces. At her bewildered expression, he added, ‘The Scots versus the English.’

‘Oh,’ Riley said, picking up a kilt-clad knight who held a honking huge sword. ‘How old is this set?’

‘About three hundred years. It’s been passed down through the family.’

‘1718?’ she said, astounded. ‘I can’t even imagine what it was like then.’