The Demon Trappers: Foretold (41 page)

‘He can’t die. Not after all this,’ she pleaded. Her friend’s reply was a tight hug.

Through the sheen of tears, she watched as Harper gently peeled back Beck’s jacket and then his shirt. The wound was high on his chest, but it wasn’t bleeding. In fact, it had sealed
over as if it had already healed. This was something different. Something very frightening.

When her eyes met Harper’s, his had saddened. ‘This isn’t good, Riley,’ he said. Then he was up on his feet, talking to Stewart in hushed tones.

‘Aye,’ the Scotsman said in reply. ‘The lad will want ta be in his own bed when . . . Remmers, you and Simon carry him to my car and take him ta his house.’

‘Shouldn’t he go to the hospital?’ Remmers asked.

‘There is . . . no need,’ the old master replied, his eyes meeting Riley’s.

It was then she knew that the man she loved was dying.

Riley remembered little of the journey, other than sitting in the back of the car with Beck’s head in her lap. The longer they drove, the more his colour grew ashen, his
breathing increasingly shallow. She hung on every one of those breaths, afraid that it would be his last.

He can’t die. Not now.

After Peter helped her disable the alarm – she had trouble seeing the keypad – the trappers carried Beck to his bed. Simon stripped off his boots and Remmers helped remove the
injured man’s outer clothes. Once Beck was settled under the covers, Riley sat near him, holding his hand.

As she bent down to kiss him, the scent of his aftershave caught her nose. It brought back memories of them in this very bed, laughing, making love, talking about their future.

Through her fog of grief, snippets of conversation came from the front of the house. One of the voices belonged to Carmela, the Guild’s doctor.

‘I want to examine him,’ she insisted.

‘Aye, I understand, but there is nothin’ ya can do for him,’ Stewart said. ‘Mortals are not supposed to kill an Archangel. Angelic wounds are unlike any other and the
healin’ must come from within him, not from without. There is nothin’ ya can do for him.’

‘My God,’ the doctor murmured. ‘What are his chances?’

‘Astronomically poor,’ Stewart replied, his voice catching. ‘We’ll know within twenty-four hours.’

Riley lowered her face to Beck’s ear. ‘I don’t care about those odds. Those mean nothing to me. All I know is that Rennie and I need you, so don’t you dare die on us, you
hear? Don’t. You. Die.’

Then she closed her eyes and began to pray.

Later, when Carmela insisted on examining her, Riley tried to push the woman away until Stewart intervened.

The doctor’s touch was gentle. ‘Your face has a bad sunburn from the angel’s sword. I’ll give you some ointment for that. As for your eyes . . . I’ve got some
drops. Use them every two hours. A cold compress wouldn’t hurt either. If your eyesight isn’t better by tomorrow, you’ll need to see a specialist.’

Riley nodded, but none of that mattered. There was nothing in this world she wanted to see without the man she loved at her side.

As time passed, Beck began to murmur in a nonsensical language, like the one Ori had spoken right before he’d died. Stewart said it was the mother language of the angels,
but how would he know?

Sometime near midnight, Father Harrison joined her for the vigil. It felt good to have him here, even if she wasn’t Catholic. He had a way of offering hope even when you were surrounded by
impenetrable darkness.

‘I spoke with Father Rosetti an hour ago,’ he said. ‘They’re offering a healing mass for Beck at St Peter’s Basilica in the morning. And there are prayer chains
active throughout Atlanta.’

Maybe God would listen to all those people if He didn’t listen to her.

‘What about the demon exorcist guy?’ she asked. ‘Is he alive?’

‘Yes. He’s not saying much. I think he’s as frightened as everyone else.’

‘No need to be. Not any more.
Sartael is dead.
’

Hours passed. Friends came and went: Fireman Jack, Peter, Simi, then Ayden and Mort. Even Justine called to wish Beck well.

Every now and then someone would bring her a drink – water or juice. Riley took what was offered, but refused anything else in the way of food. Sometimes she’d talk to Beck like he
could hear her. Other times she’d just hold his hand and will him to live.

Towards dawn, he grew more agitated, calling out in delirium. At his cries, Stewart stirred from the chair on the other side of the bed. The old master hadn’t left the house since the
battle, still wearing the same blood-stained clothes from the night before.

‘What is happening to him?’ Riley asked.

‘He’s bein’ tormented . . . in Hell. It’s the fate of anyone who kills a Fallen.’

She jolted back in surprise. ‘He doesn’t belong there. They don’t own his soul.’

‘Aye, but that’s what’s happenin’.’ He looked over at the injured trapper. ‘Despite how bad it looks, he has somethin’ to fight for now. Yer the
lighthouse in his storm, lass.’

‘Will it be enough?’

‘That’s up ta God.’

She’d used her one favour for Ori, not realizing that Beck would be in dire need as well. She knew what the angel would have done – he would have insisted her favour be given to the
mortal she loved.

Which is why you deserve to be in Heaven.

‘Maybe if I talk to Lucifer . . .’

‘I know ya love this lad more than yer own life,’ Stewart replied, ‘but if yer thinkin’ of makin’ a deal with the Prince to save him that would be a mistake. Beck
has ta do this himself. Ya ken?’

Her eyes began to cloud. ‘No, I don’t
ken
. Everyone gets what they want. For once, why can’t I?’

‘It
has
ta be his battle. I know that makes little sense ta ya, but that’s the way of it.’

She really didn’t want to believe the old master, but in her heart she knew he was right. If she did a deal with Hell to save Beck’s life, it would never be the same between
them.

Riley bent over and laid her head on her boyfriend’s chest, tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘Come on, Backwoods Boy,’ she said fiercely. ‘Don’t let them win.
Don’t let them take you away from me.’

As she sobbed, Stewart’s hand touched her shoulder. It shook as the older man wept with her.

Beck heard her calling to him. Though Riley urged him to live, he felt so alone in this barren place. He should have known he’d been damned either way—if he killed
Sartael or not. Hell never played fair.

When he was a kid, the preachers always conjured up gruesome descriptions of fiery pits full of boiling sinners or maniacal demons cutting people into pieces and roasting them over open
flames.

This Hell wasn’t like that. At least not the part he was in. There were demons here, but he felt them more than saw them. They pressed around him, touching him, cursing him for daring to
venture into their realm. It was like being clawed to death by invisible rats.

That was bad, but what really frightened him were the faces of the damned in the walls and the ceiling of the long corridor in front of him. Tormented eyes followed him, mouths cried out to him.
Some insisted they were here by mistake. Others, more cunning, offered to help him if he would just free them. All he needed to do was touch the entombed face and then they’d show him the way
out.

Beck knew better than that. He heard the lies, so he kept walking, praying that the corridor would end and he would find himself outside of purgatory.

The Prince of Hell materialized out of nowhere. There were wide swatches of black demon blood smeared across his armour, but he wasn’t carrying a sword.

‘Denver Beck. Welcome to my domain,’ he said magnanimously. ‘What do you think of it?’

Beck kept walking. The ache in his left shoulder grew a hundredfold now, throbbing with each rapid heartbeat. He was miserably cold, as if he was already in the grave, though the air around him
was filled with steamy mist.

‘I can send you home,’ the Prince continued. ‘You could be back with Blackthorne’s daughter this very instant. Just say the word.’

Beck forced one foot ahead of the other. The Prince didn’t bother to catch up with him, but just appeared further down the hallway in front of him.

‘I don’t see one of Heaven’s angels offering to help you out,’ Lucifer said slyly.

Beck ground to a halt in front of Hell’s ruler. ‘I may not have any more time with the woman I love, but my soul is still my own. That’s not gonna change. So go torment some
other poor bastard.’

‘What will it matter? You’re here, whether your soul is yours or not.’

‘It’s a pride thing,’ Beck said. ‘Now leave me be, angel.’

‘Well, I did try,’ Lucifer said lightly. ‘It is my job, after all.’

Then the Prince vanished, leaving him with only the voices of the damned for company.

An eternity later, Beck began rethink the proposal. He could be free of this place, with Riley, and no one would ever know he’d bargained his soul to save himself. They
could get married and have kids and . . .

She had given up her soul to save the world. Why couldn’t he do it to save himself?

The damned all began shout at once, a roaring sound that beat at him like a solid wall of sound. Beck covered his ears, trying to shut them out, to prevent them from driving him mad.

‘God, help me!’ he cried out.

Someone touched him on the shoulder and he jumped in surprise.

‘Momma?’

His mother wore the dress Riley had chosen for the burial. Her eyes burned with that same eerie fire like those in the walls.

‘Come, boy,’ she said, offering her bony hand. ‘Ya don’t belong here.’

‘I’m not givin’ up my soul.’

‘I know that. Come on!’

He dare not trust her. She had lied and hurt him all her life, left him to die in the swamp. And yet here, in this purgatory, he had no one else to trust.

‘Come on, Denver. Don’t be a fool,’ she said. ‘The girl is waitin’ for ya.’

The moment he offered his hand, Sadie yanked him forward. They moved at incredible speed, their feet never touching the floor, as the faces in the corridor blurred to grey.

Sadie abruptly halted. The area in front of them held . . .nothing. No faces, no walls or ceiling. Oblivion. She pointed into that endless nothingness. ‘Go there.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘Yer not dead, boy. If ya fight hard enough, ya might make it back alive.’

That was the one thing he did know how to do: he’d fought all his life.

‘Come with me,’ he said, tugging on her hand.

She pulled herself free. ‘I can’t, Denver. I belong here.’

This might be the last time he’d see her. ‘I love ya,’ he said. ‘I know ya never loved me, but that didn’t matter.’

Her face tightened. ‘I know. I see what it all means now. I’m sorry, Denver. I truly am.’

The shade that was Sadie Beck faded away.

‘Goodbye, Momma,’ he said.

It seemed colder now and Beck shivered from head to toe. With uneasy steps, he moved forward, his hand clasping Paul’s ring so tightly it dug into his skin.

He just had to trust his mother one last time.

Maybe this time it wouldn’t be a lie.

When Beck’s eyes jerked open, a soft light touched them. He blinked a few times and the scene became clearer. It was morning and he was in his own bedroom. Someone was
sitting in a chair near the bed, reading aloud. The words were from the Bible, he thought.
Psalms.
When he cleared his throat to try to speak, the man looked up.

‘Lad?’ Stewart said, dark, heavy bags under his eyes. ‘Oh, thank God.’ The master placed the book on the nightstand and leaned closer. ‘How are ya
feelin’?’

‘I hurt like hell,’ Beck said. He cautiously shifted his left arm and was pleased to find it was no longer numb.

Someone was missing. Panicking, he tried to rise off the mattress and failed. ‘Riley? Where is she? Is she hurt?’
If she’s dead . . .

‘Riley’s friends are tryin’ to force some food down her. She’s barely left yer side since ya were wounded.’

She’s alive. Oh, thank God.
Beck took a deep breath to calm himself. ‘It was so weird. I . . . was in Hell, for real.’

‘Aye, ya would have been. We’ll talk of that when yer stronger.’ Stewart gently placed his hand on Beck’s uninjured shoulder. ‘I’m verra proud of ya, lad.
Well done. Now I’d best go tell yer lady the good news or she’ll have my head.’

When the master reached the kitchen, Beck heard voices, one of them Riley’s. She was telling someone exactly where they could put the sandwich they’d made for her.

Yeah, that’s my girl.

Stewart announced the news, and for a moment there was profound silence. Then a whoop of joy followed by someone racing down the hall. Riley didn’t launch herself on the bed like
he’d figured, but sat next to him, looking worse for wear. Her face was blotchy, crimson in places, and she wore a pair of sunglasses . . . inside the house.

She pulled off the glasses and set them aside, revealing swollen eyes and puffy cheeks.

‘You OK?’ he asked. ‘Yer eyes . . .’

‘Are getting better,’ she replied, her voice huskier than usual. ‘That’ll teach me to get close to a fiery sword.’