“Now the recyclin’ plant inventories those bottles when they arrive and when they leave. So the only way ya can steal any is when they’re inside the buildin’.”

  “But if you take any of them the count will be off.”

  Stewart smiled. “Not if ya replace them with new ones and put them in the bins with the cleaned bottles.”

  Riley worked back through the logistics. Dirty bottles in, clean bottles out. Bad dudes steal some of the dirty bottles but leave behind new ones so the count is right.

  “But wouldn’t the guys who clean the bottles notice if some of them were missing?”

  “Not if they’re on the late shift and are bribed ta keep their mouths shut. Saves them work, and they get some money on the side.”

  “And as long as the count is right when the bottles leave…” she mused.

  “Everybody is happy. The counterfeiters have bottles with legitimate tax stamps on them. All they need ta do is fill them with tap water and reprint the labels so the consecration dates are current. Then they sell them and make a killin’.”

  “Why not just steal the stamps from the city or Celestial Supplies?”

  “A lot harder to do—the revenue types keep close control of them because they want every penny now that the city is bankrupt.”

  “My dad was right all along. He knew something was wrong with the Holy Water.”

  “Aye, he saw it before the rest of us,” Stewart replied. “He just didn’t know how it was done.”

  “Someone is making a lot of money,” Harper said. “These guys will silence anyone they see as a threat. Best to keep your mouth shut.”

  Riley wondered if her friend realized that yet. “I’ll warn Peter.”

  “Already done, lass.”

  “We need to find out where that truck takes the stolen bottles and where they’re refilling them,” Harper said. “That’ll require another stakeout.”

  “I’ll get it organized,” Stewart offered.

  Maybe not everything was going wrong after all.

  “Can we do it? Can we really shut them down?” she asked eagerly.

  “It’s possible, lass.”

  Master Harper sported a rare smile. “The payback’s gonna be a bitch.”

  * * *

  The bedroom that Stewart had pronounced as “hers” for the duration was the kind of room you never wanted to leave: The bed was mind-numbingly comfortable, and the thick down comforter was the stuff of legend. After another shower, Riley burrowed under the covers. Despite the snuggly warmth, she was annoyed to find that her mind refused to shut down.

  Her father referred to it as cataloging the past. He’d always claimed that a life was like a book, line by line written as each day passed. Once those lines were on the page, they couldn’t be changed.

  So much of what had happened in the last few days Riley would have gladly erased. It’d been a roller coaster of emotions—her time with Ori in the mausoleum, her meeting with Lucifer, the brutally painful confrontation with Beck, and the sickening realization that deep down he’d always hoped they had a future together.

  Riley rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. Why can’t I stop screwing things up?

  That wasn’t being fair. She’d done okay with the Demon Hunters, and she’d helped the masters with the Holy Water investigation. Not everything was bad. But the parts that were never stopped hurting.

  It was times like this she wished her dad or mom were here, sitting by the bed, telling her a story like they did when she was a child. It always made her feel better. All she wanted was one more tale with a happy ending. Even more, she wished it was hers.

  * * *

  What seemed only a few minutes later, Stewart roused her with a knock on the door. She moaned in response. Go away! Another knock, more insistent this time.

  “Duty calls, lass! It’s stakeout time,” her host called out, then his footsteps retreated.

  She hadn’t been in bed that long.

  When I’m old, I’m going to sleep all day.

  A few minutes later, she trudged down the hallway, yawning widely, her mind foggy from the heavy slumber. As she descended the staircase, Riley spotted a figure by the front door clad in a familiar pair of worn work boots. Beck’s trapping bag sat on the floor next to him.

  She froze on the stairs. What is he doing here? Stewart wouldn’t send her out with this guy, would he? He knew what had happened between them, at least the Ori part. Even he couldn’t be that cruel.

  The master appeared in the bottom of the stairs. “Ah, there ya are.”

  When she reached the last step, Beck glowered at her like a constipated gargoyle.

  The master ignored him. “I need the pair of ya ta watch the recyclin’ plant. If a truck takes anythin’ out in the middle of the night, follow it and find out where they’ve set up their business.” He shifted his eyes to Beck at this point. “Then ya will call me, ya hear? Do not go after those bastards alone.”

  “Yes, sir.” Beck angled his head toward Riley. “Don’t need her. Just tell me where I’m goin’.”

  Riley winced at the acid in his voice.

  “I say it’s the two of ya on this job.”

  Her protest came at the same time as Beck’s.

  “Silence, both of ya,” Stewart cut in. “Ya’ll do what a master says, or ya have no place in the Guild.” He gave each of them a stern look in turn. “Since ya’ll be tagether for a few hours, work on those personal problems. Get it sorted, ya hear?”

  He stomped off, his cane thumping against the wood floor with every other step.

  Oh, crap.

  Beck shot her another glare, as if this were all her fault, then disappeared out the front door. She could imagine Harper pulling this kind of stunt, but the Scotsman? Does he really hate me that much?

  Riley returned to the bedroom and layered her hoodie on top of her shirt and sweater, then put on her coat. No way would Beck be as prepared as Peter had been, and she wasn’t about to freeze her butt off all night.

  She clomped out the front door into the cold night air.

  I don’t want to be here. Not with you. Not after …

  The ominous expression on Beck’s face proclaimed that his head was in the exactly same place.

  Riley climbed into his red pickup, then gave him the directions. Turning away, she watched the streets roll past. There were a few people out, and some were clearly drunk by the way they weaved along the sidewalks. As the truck headed toward East Point, the silence felt so sharp it would have drawn blood if given physical form. A panic attack began to manifest—the tightening breaths, the swirl in her head. She rolled down the window and sucked fresh air in as deep as she could, trying to think of anything but spending hours with someone who hated her.

  “Shut the damn window,” Beck growled. “It’s cold.” The next breath tightened even further, and he noticed. “Ya okay?”

  Riley shook her head, trying hard not to let her lungs constrict any farther.

  “Need me to pull over?”

  She shook her head again, focusing on Peter and how great he’d been with her when he’d learned the truth about Ori. Why couldn’t Beck have been like that?

  The tightness slowly dissipated, and it became easier to breathe. Riley rolled up the truck window and leaned back against the seat.

  “Ya okay now?” Beck asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Panic attack,” she said. “I’m getting them more often now.”

  He grunted, then jammed a CD into the player. He skipped past two songs to the third. It was low, mournful, the message clear: I gave you my heart, and you destroyed it. I will never trust you again.

  Guilt was one thing. Being bashed over the head with her sins was another. Riley pushed a button and jettisoned the CD, which immediately earned her Beck’s furious glower.

  “Don’t like the music, get out,” he said.

  “Can’t. Stewart said I’m stuck with you, so I have no choice.”

  “Yeah, well, same thing on this side, girl.”

  The question flew out of her before she could stop it. “Why did you tell the hunters I was at your place?”

  “I don’t know what yer talkin’ about.”

  “You were on the phone when you drove off. You called them, didn’t you?”

  “No, I called Stewart, and he gave me hell for not bringin’ ya to his place. By the time I turned around to pick ya up, the hunters were there.”

  “I thought…” She’d been too quick to blame him.

  “Ya thought wrong.” He pushed the CD back in, and the music drowned out anything she might have said in apology.

  * * *

  After what seemed an eternity of depressing country music, they reached the warehouse. The neighborhood was as gloomy as it had been the night before. Primarily an industrial district, it’d fallen on hard times and revealed its distress in shattered windows and vivid gang graffiti. One place had burned and now seemed to be the neighborhood dump, if the discarded sofa was any indication.

  He quickly maneuvered the vehicle around until it was backed into an alley. Only then did he get out, duffel bag on his shoulder. Poking out of the top of the bag was his steel pipe.

  “Where were ya when ya filmed them?” he demanded.

  “On that roof,” she said, pointing. He studied the location and grunted his approval with her choice. They crossed the street, then edged into the building.

  Beck halted after a few steps. “Ya didn’t say it was junkie heaven.”

  “Watch where you walk, and you’ll be okay,” she said, pushing past him. He caught her arm, and she shook herself free. “I know the best way to the roof, so stop playing the hero and let me do this.”

  “Then go for it, girl. Don’t bitch at me when ya break yer leg.”

  Riley didn’t break a leg or anything else by the time she reached the roof. Once Beck joined her, she carefully rearranged the debris on the stairs as Peter had done.

  “That’ll make it harder for us to get down if we have to go in a hurry,” he complained.

  “Yes, but it keeps the scary people down below.” Except you.

  This time there was no sleeping blanket, no friendly Peter, and no yummy food, just the cold, hard asphalt of the roof grinding into her butt and Beck’s hostile presence.

  Riley leaned against the short wall that faced the plant, crossed her arms over her chest to conserve body heat, and tuned him out. This was Stewart’s payback. Couldn’t be anything else. He really couldn’t expect her to settle things with Backwoods Boy during this lifetime, let alone the few hours they had to be together.

  Her companion’s cell phone began oinking, causing him to swear. He muted it immediately, then rose and walked toward the center of the roof to take the call, out of sight of the street below.

  Probably his squeeze wondering why he’s not knocking boots with her.

  Sour jealousy rose inside her, which she didn’t really understand. Beck wasn’t anything to her, not anymore, and yet she was angry that a flirty perfect chick was working him over. Don’t think about it. It’s not your problem. She turned her mind to math equations—anything but picturing Beck and Justine together.

  The math solution failed miserably.

  Beck returned a few minutes later and settled on the roof again without comment.

  “That was her, wasn’t it?”

  “What?” he asked, confused.

  “Justine. She missing her bed buddy?”

  He eyed her. “Jealous?” She shook her head. “Yer lyin’. I can see it in yer eyes.”

  “Okay, maybe I am. I don’t trust her.”

  Beck looked away, his jaw tense. “Yet ya’d trust that winged bastard?”

  “Oh, now who’s jealous, huh?” she taunted. “Ori treated me like I was worth something, not like some stupid kid. You wouldn’t have done a thing for me if it wasn’t because of my dad.”

  “What? Yer not—” Beck began, then went quiet. His don’t go there face appeared, and that was the end of it.

  A few minutes later his phone vibrated on Beck’s lap. He answered the call without moving this time, which told her it wasn’t the stick chick.

  “Yeah, I’ll check it out. Thanks.” He flipped the phone closed.

  Beck did a quick peek over the edge of the building toward the plant, then back at his boots, as if he couldn’t stand to look at her.

  Riley gnawed on one fingernail, then another. Her gut churned like a witch’s cauldron, and her cramps would have dropped a horse in its tracks. That meant she wasn’t pregnant, right? That meant Ori hadn’t lied to her, and if he hadn’t fibbed about that, then maybe …

  Stop it!

  The agonizing silence stretched on.

  When Beck finally spoke, it startled her. “Yer daddy’s insurance check came today,” he said. “I’ll have to slip ya the cash. No other way to do it. If we open a bank account, the loan dudes will take it all.”

  “Do I get a weekly allowance?” she asked sarcastically.

  Beck’s hurt showed in an instant. “No. It’s all yers, girl. That’s the way Paul would have wanted it.”

  “Still does,” she said, before she could stop herself.

  Beck turned, his eyes riveted on her. “What do ya mean, still does?”

  Good move there, Riley. Oh well, he might as well know. “I found Dad. He’s safe, with Mort.”

  Beck double blinked. “When were ya gonna tell me that?”

  She skirted the question. “He’s … okay. Well, he’s still dead. Sometimes he’s like he used to be, then…”

  Beck’s flare of anger faded. “Does he remember ya and all?”

  “Yeah. His memory’s good but he’s not quite right.”

  “Why did that damned necro think he had the right to summon Paul from his grave?” Beck asked, his tone chillier now.

  “He didn’t.”

  After that, he kept peppering her with questions about her father and Ori, but she refused to answer any of them.

  “Then I’ll ask Paul myself,” Beck said, defiant.

  Go for it. You won’t like the answer.

  Riley turned away and curled up in a ball on the asphalt, trying to sleep. It was too cold. Her mind went to the angel and how cold it must be for him in the cemetery.

  Ori had placed a stick of dynamite inside her heart and detonated it, and now there were pieces of her spread all over. Beck wasn’t helping her pick them up. If anything, he was grinding them under the heel of his boot.

  * * *

  The truck arrived a little earlier than the night before, and for that Riley was grateful. Beck was instantly on the alert, but it took her longer to move into a crouched position with her cold-cramped muscles.

  “That the same one?” he whispered.

  “Looks like it.”

  Two guys hopped out of the vehicle at the same time the door to the warehouse slid upward.

  “That’s them,” she said, remembering the man with the giant eagle emblazoned on the back of his denim jacket.

  It was the same drill as the night before, but this time Beck zeroed in on the bottles with a pair of night-vision goggles.

  “Yeah, they’re the ones with the tax stamp,” he said. “Stewart got it right.”

  Actually, Peter had gotten it right, but arguing with Backwoods Boy wasn’t worth it.

  “Time to go,” he said, carefully moving away from the side of the building so as not to be seen.

  The junk on the stairs proved to be their undoing. Not only did it make a great obstacle course for any druggies keen to check out the roof, it made their hurried departure impossible.

  Beck grew angry at the delay and would have tossed stuff in all directions if Riley hadn’t warned him about the noise. By the time they made it to the ground floor, the recycling dudes had finished loading the bottles and fired up their truck.

  “Move it!” Beck ordered, taking off across the debris field inside the building at a near run. Riley followed him but with more caution. She wasn’t wearing thick-soled boots. By the time they’d reach Beck’s ride, the other truck was gone. He began to curse, every fourth word an expletive. Any other time it would have been impressive.

  “Just drive. Maybe we’ll see them,” Riley said.

  “I warned ya about that shit on the stairway.”

  “Just drive,” she repeated, refusing to buy in to his anger.

  They took the main street and after covering about a mile in either direction, it was obvious their quarry had escaped.

  THIRTEEN

  “Dammit,” Beck complained, slamming a palm down on the steering wheel as they waited for a garbage truck to clear an intersection. “We should have stayed in the truck, not gone up on that freakin’ roof.”

  “No way. We did it right.”

  Beck flipped on his turn signal. “Stewart is not gonna see it that way.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Before I call the Scotsman and tell him we effing blew it, I need food and coffee. There’s an all-night burger joint a few blocks from here.”

  He’s given up. Riley would have driven all over trying to find that truck, but he’d backed off.

  “I’ll come back tomorrow night. Alone,” he added.

  As he pulled up to a stop sign, Riley broke out in a smile. She pointed at the truck chugging through the intersection—it was the one from the recycling place.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Beck muttered. “Sometimes ya do get lucky.”

  As the vehicle moved away, the license plate became visible. Riley scrambled to find a piece of paper and a pen in her backpack. “Was that an eight or a nine after the one?” she asked.

  “Eight.” Which told her that Beck might not be able to read words very well, but numbers weren’t a problem for him.

  “Don’t crowd them,” she warned. “They’ll see us.”

  “I know what I’m doin’, girl.”

  They hadn’t had to follow the truck for long when it turned onto a side street and eventually lumbered to a halt in front of a run-down warehouse in yet another industrial district. As if on cue the building’s overhead door began to rise at a crawl. To avoid being spotted, Beck pulled over and parked on the street a half block away from the structure, then turned off the motor.