Ori’s mental pull had been so strong, she hadn’t thought of the consequences to her and Stewart if the Vatican found out she was hanging with a Fallen.

  To give herself time to calm down so the masters wouldn’t know something was wrong, she called Peter to bring him up to date on what had happened with the Holy Water scam. He didn’t answer his phone—probably in the shower—so she left him a lengthy message and promised to work on her homework assignments for class.

  When she couldn’t put it off any longer, Riley headed for the back door. The moment it opened, she was greeted by the enticing scent of freshly baked cinnamon rolls. After hanging her coat on the rack, she headed toward the kitchen, putting on a neutral expression. At least one she hoped didn’t say Ask me where I’ve been. You will really love the answer.

  She found the Scotsman and Harper at the large kitchen table, eating their breakfast. A woman—ample of bosom, rosy-cheeked, and with silver streaks in her dark hair—stood in front of the stove. She wore black slacks, a red shirt, and an apron that proclaimed SUPPER IS READY WHEN THE SMOKE ALARM GOES OFF.

  That wasn’t encouraging. Still, the cinnamon rolls were causing Riley’s stomach to growl in anticipation.

  “Good mornin’, lass, yer just in time for breakfast,” Stewart said more cheerfully than she thought humanly possible.

  “Brat,” Harper added, which was about as cheery as he got but better than she’d expected.

  “Sirs,” she said. She chose a chair opposite the two masters. Neither of them seemed to be in a bad mood, so maybe they had good news. More important, they didn’t seem worried about where she’d been.

  “Mrs. Ayers, how’s about we feed up this lass?” Stewart said after a sip of coffee. “She’s too thin for my likin’.”

  “My pleasure. What do you usually eat, Riley?” Mrs. Ayers asked, her words overlaid with a lilting British accent.

  “Ah, usually some cereal or oatmeal.”

  “That’s all you eat?” When Riley nodded, Mrs. Ayers shook her head in dismay. “Oh, no, not in this house, luv. We eat a proper breakfast here.”

  Five minutes later, Riley learned what a proper English breakfast entailed. It could have fed at least two more Rileys. There was a cooked egg, fat sausage links, grilled mushrooms, a tomato, and baked beans, all jostling for space on one plate. To top it off, a massive cinnamon roll sat on a napkin near a tall glass of orange juice.

  Who eats beans and tomatoes for breakfast?

  Riley made a brave effort anyway and soon came to realize that the hunters had done her a huge favor by requiring her to stay at Stewart’s house, even in the short term. The food immediately calmed her nervous stomach, and she could feel her energy level rising though she hadn’t had much sleep.

  “Everyone fine?” Mrs. Ayers asked. There were nods all around. “Then I’ll leave you to it,” she said, and headed into the main part of the house. Apparently she doubled as Stewart’s housekeeper as well.

  As Riley ate, the two masters talked back and forth, analyzing the raid and what they’d netted out of the warehouse.

  “The paperwork Beck salvaged is mostly an inventory of the bottles,” Harper explained for her benefit. “Nothing that tells us where they were selling the fake stuff.”

  “What about the computer?” Riley asked.

  “That’s where we got lucky. There wasn’t much on the thing itself, only the files for the labels. But it was registered to the city.”

  “What?” Riley said, fumbling one of the sausages in surprise.

  “We don’t know which department yet, but I’ve got a cop buddy of mine working on that.”

  She pondered on that as she scooped up a forkful of beans. “How about the department that hands out the tax stickers?”

  Stewart shook his head. “No. Someone higher up. I’ll swear it.”

  “The building’s owner is raising holy hell,” Harper said. “He claims we planted the explosives.”

  “We need ta get our side of the story in front of the public,” Stewart said. “I’ll call CNN.”

  “Have Beck talk to that woman reporter,” Harper suggested.

  Riley halted midchew. That woman reporter would be Justine. Like Beck needed an excuse to spend time with her.

  “He’ll be with her anyway,” Harper added. “He might as well be talking up the party line when they’re not screwing.”

  Riley nearly choked.

  “Something wrong, lass?” Stewart asked, studying her.

  “No. Just getting full,” she fibbed.

  Harper set down his fork and extracted a pill out of his shirt pocket, then washed it down with a sip of coffee. It didn’t look like the pain medication he’d been toting around since he’d been injured at the Tabernacle.

  He noticed she was watching him. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He was so different now. Get him off the booze, and he was almost human.

  “Did the doctor check out Beck?” Stewart quizzed.

  “Yeah. She said he’d live. He insisted on driving himself home,” she said, rolling her eyes. “He’s such a moron sometimes.”

  Stewart snorted. “Comes with being twenty-two and invincible. Give the lad a few more years, and he’ll learn ta listen ta those aches.”

  “God, that’s the truth,” Harper said.

  Her master left the kitchen a short time later, and Riley waited until he was out of earshot. “Is he sick?” she asked. “That was a different pill than he usually takes.”

  “The medicine keeps him from drinkin’,” Stewart replied. “He’ll get hellishly ill if he takes any alcohol when he’s on those things.”

  That’s why. “He’s better this way. Less … volatile.” Less likely to leave bruises on her as he had in the past.

  “Aye. This is the way he used ta be before his son died.”

  Son? “He said he’d lost his dad, but…”

  Her host lowered his voice though there was no way Harper could hear them.

  “His eldest lad was a trapper in Detroit. He was killed about three years back. Donald found the best way ta cope was the alcohol.”

  Donald. She hadn’t even known her master’s first name.

  “Losin’ two family members ta Archdemons makes it verra hard for him. Especially since yer father survived his battle with one.”

  Now she knew why Harper had hated her from the moment they’d met. In his shoes, she might have felt the same way.

  SIXTEEN

  About four in the afternoon Riley joined her father in Mort’s garden. His eyes were closed, breathing slowed, like he was meditating. A bottle of stabilizer sat at his elbow, and a book lay on his lap. As she set it aside, she wasn’t surprised to see it was about the Civil War.

  Her dad stirred to life, smiling when he recognized her.

  “Pumpkin!”

  Riley grinned at the nickname: She was beginning to like it more every day. The embrace came next. When it finally ended, he took a long sip of his drink. That was her clue to talk.

  “The hunters say I have to stay at Stewart’s,” she reported.

  “There are worse fates,” her father said, smiling.

  Riley thought of all the yummy food. “So I found out. If I behave, the hunters will leave me be.”

  “It’s never that simple with the Church. Just be careful with them, okay?”

  She nodded. “We kicked butt last night.” Then she told him how Beck had been the total hero of the raid.

  “Is he okay?” The concern was as strong as it would have been if he’d asking about her.

  “He was bitching up a storm when I last saw him, so that’s always a good sign.”

  Her father laughed. It reminded Riley of what it’d been like before he’d died. How much they’d enjoyed talking to each other, even about stupid stuff like how many cat hairs constituted a hair ball.

  “I told Beck you were here. I hope that was okay.”

  “Good. I want to see him again. I miss him.”

  That meeting would be wicked hard for both of them. Beck would have to go through the same Omigod, this is creepy adjustment as she had. All the grief would come back again. Not that it ever went away.

  “He wants to know who reanimated you,” she warned.

  “I’m sure he does,” was the swift reply. “Do the masters know where I am?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her father stared at the fountain and the stylishly nude nymph cavorting in the center of it. “I wish now I’d refused to let you become a demon trapper,” he said.

  “Why? I’m doing okay,” she said. “Really, I’m getting better. I haven’t trashed a library this week.”

  He chuckled. “It’s not about your being a good trapper, because you are. It’s what the job does to you. When I look at you, you’re still my sweet daughter, but your eyes tell me you’ve aged. Seen too much, too soon.”

  “Like Beck?” He nodded. “If you hadn’t gotten me my license, you would have been in trouble with Hell, broken your deal with them. They want me in the business.”

  “True, but I had the option to blow them off.”

  “They would have killed you.”

  “They did anyway. At least I would have had the satisfaction of knowing you’d grow up in an easier life.”

  “What, in Fargo, with Auntie Nasty?” she said. “Or as a foster kid? Those don’t sound easier to me.”

  Her father placed his hand on her shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze. “So how’s school going?”

  “It goes. We’re still slogging through the Civil War, and my grades are okay.”

  “Just okay?” her dad asked, an eyebrow twitching upward.

  “As and Bs. I’m good. Oh, and Allan is in my class now.”

  Frowning, her father muttered something under his breath she couldn’t catch. “If he’s bothering you, tell the teacher. If that doesn’t work, let Stewart know. Do not let that boy hurt you again.”

  “I’m not giving him a second chance.”

  He sighed in relief. “How are you and Beck doing?”

  “It’s really bad right now. He’s angry at me because of Ori, and I’m … mad at him about Justine.”

  “Who?”

  Riley told him all about the stick chick and why she was sure that Ms. Perfect was going to hurt Beck in the long run.

  “Beck’s such a hard guy to talk to,” she said. “You get too close, and he clams up.”

  “Keep trying. He’s worth … the effort. He has so much potential.” Her father’s eyes began to blink. Apparently, they were closing in on his nap time.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll come tomorrow. I promise.”

  “Listen to Beck and Stewart. They’ll … watch out … for you.”

  Then he shut down.

  It’s like he’s a really old guy. Awake for a while, then asleep.

  Riley watched him rest for a few minutes, not eager to leave her remaining parent behind. Carefully placing the book next to him on the bench, so he could find it when he woke, she left her father dozing in the garden.

  Each separation grew harder. One day there would be no more talk, no more time together. Her father’s body would be laid to rest, but his soul would be Lucifer’s for eternity.

  There has to be a way to set him free.

  * * *

  A text reached her as she drove back toward Stewart’s. It was from Peter.

  Hot chocolate. Homework. You game?

  Riley pulled over into a grocery store parking lot before she replied.

  Buy me lemon cake & I’m yours.

  The reply came instantly. You’re so easy! See you there.

  Laughing, she turned the car around and headed downtown. She beat him to the coffee shop by only a few minutes.

  “Hey, you awake?” Peter asked, placing his computer bag on the table Riley had chosen near the back of the shop. His coat came off next.

  “Barely. It was a rough night.”

  “Well, pull it together. I doubt Mrs. Haggerty will accept ‘I’ve been taking down bad guys’ as an excuse for not finishing your homework.”

  Riley glowered up at him. “You promised me hot chocolate. And lemon cake.”

  “And I hang with you because…?” Peter gestured for her to fill in the blank.

  “I could drop a demon inside your computer that would turn it to expensive mush.”

  “Got it.” He trotted off to buy the promised goodies.

  Homework seemed pointless in a nonapocalyptic sort of way. What if the world did end? Would it matter if her grades were As, Bs, or Cs?

  The world might not care, but her father the teacher sure would. If the world didn’t blow up, and he remained in Mort’s care, he might be around for another year or so. It was a safe bet Dead Dad would want to see her report cards. If her grades weren’t up to par …

  It’s not like he can ground me anymore.

  Still, she needed to get back into the normal flow of things. Not everything in the world was about demons and angels.

  It took two servings of hot chocolate before Riley’s brain began to click at full speed. Hopped up on the caffeine and the sugar from the yummy lemon cake, she dug into her math homework. It was lucky she was good at quadratic equations because she had a whole page of them to do.

  Peter was working on his sociology assignment about a tribe in New Guinea that sent their young boys into the rain forest to kill a monkey or a boar as a rite of passage. He seemed fairly uninterested in the topic, but perked up when someone plopped into the seat next to him. That someone was a girl.

  Simi’s multicolored hair was more monochrome at the moment, varying shades of blue ranging from navy to turquoise. It wasn’t as eye-blinding as some of her color schemes.

  “Hey. I thought it was your day off. What are you doing here?” Riley said.

  “Coffee. I get it free,” Simi replied, hefting a large paper cup as evidence. She popped the top off, added three packets of sugar, then covered it. No wonder she was wired all the time.

  “Your hair totally rocks,” Peter said.

  Simi unabashedly checked Peter out, then nodded her approval. “Yours, too. I like the brown tips.”

  He shrugged like it was no big deal, but Riley could tell he was pleased she’d noticed.

  “I bought those tickets for the Gnarly Scalenes’ concert,” Simi added. “Consider it an early birthday present.”

  Way early since Riley’s birthday wasn’t for a few months.

  “I have money to pay for them.”

  “So do I,” Simi replied. “How’s the smoking-hot dude? You know, the one I met on the street. Ori?”

  Peter choked on his iced tea.

  The one time she actually remembers a guy’s name. “Ah, well…”

  “I told you to go wild, but you didn’t listen to me, did you?” Simi asked.

  Her friend would not back down until she got all the deets. “Ah, I did go wild.”

  Simi blinked. “For real? You let him kiss you?” she gushed. At Riley’s nod, Simi pressed on. “What was it like? Awesome. Brain melting?”

  “Totally soul-stealing,” Peter said with a smirk.

  Riley kicked him under the table. “It was okay,” she said.

  “So you two going to hook up?”

  Been there. Got the mark to prove it. “No,” Riley retorted. “No way.”

  “Ah, damn,” Simi muttered. “That sucks. So who are you going out with?”

  “Why do I have to be dating someone?”

  Simi rolled her eyes in mock despair and turned her attention to Peter. “What about you? You seeing anyone?”

  His mouth locked up for a second, then he got it in gear. “No. Not at the moment.”

  “God, you guys are, like … dull.”

  Before Riley had the chance to explain why that was a good thing, someone called out her name. It was Beck, his trapping bag on his shoulder. For once, she welcomed the interruption.

  Simi jumped up and offered him her seat. “I’m outta here. You guys can talk demons and”—she pointed a figure at Riley’s homework—“stuff. I’ll catch up with you later, girlfriend.”

  Beck waited until Simi was out of the way, then asked, “Mind if I join ya?”

  When Riley shook her head, he settled into the chair opposite her, dropping his Braves cap on the table. At least Backwoods Boy wouldn’t be talking about Ori.

  “Peter, right? I saw ya at Paul’s funeral,” he said, offering his hand.

  “That’s right.” They shook. “How goes it?” her friend asked.

  “Not bad.”

  As the two males traded harmless chitchat, Riley tried to work out exactly why Beck was at the coffee shop. He wasn’t the social type unless there was a pool table involved, so there had to be some other reason behind his sudden appearance.

  She finally interrupted, unable to stop herself. “Why are you here?” It was Peter’s turn to kick her under the table. She glowered at him in response.

  Beck ignored their drama. “Ya didn’t answer yer phone, so I figured ya might be here.”

  What? Riley dug out the offending piece of technology. The battery was dead, and the charging cord was in her bedroom at Stewart’s. “Sorry.”

  “No big. I’m goin’ trappin’ tonight,” he said. “Thought ya might like to come along.”

  “What about your shoulder?”

  “It’s better. The pain pills are helpin’.” Beck paused, and added, “We’d need to leave about eight. That work for ya?”

  No, it does not work for me. Riley did not want to go trapping. She wanted to stay in the coffee shop, do her homework, and talk to Peter. Then maybe she’d go back to Stewart’s, catch some TV.

  “Do I have to go?” she asked, trying to determine if this was an order issued by one of the masters.

  “Ya don’t want to?” Beck asked, confused. Then he nodded in resignation as if something had suddenly become clear. “Ya don’t want to go with me, is that it?”

  Peter sprang up from his seat. “Okay … I think I need … a refill on my iced tea. I’ll be back.” He was headed toward the counter before Riley could respond, though his glass was still three-quarters full.