He paled. “Yeah, that would be a bummer.”

  “I’d better go see what Backwoods Boy wants,” she said, looking over at Beck again.

  “Call me later, will you?” Peter said, climbing into his car.

  “Sure.” As she walked away, she heard the door locks engage. He was driving away by the time she reached Beck’s truck.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “Stewart wants me to take ya to the summoners’ meetin’,” he said, his eyes tracking Allan across the parking lot as her ex headed toward his ride.

  “You know, I have a car. I even have a license. I’m capable of driving there on my own,” she replied.

  “The order was that ya come with me. Ya gotta problem, call Stewart.”

  Which he knew she wouldn’t do. It wasn’t fair to rag on the messenger, so she climbed into Beck’s ride. His truck was less cramped as he’d somehow scrounged up a backpack—camo, of course—and it took up a lot less space than his duffel bag. It was worn and had tears and rusty brown spots on it, which made her wonder if it was the one he’d used in the Army.

  “How’s the head?” she asked.

  “Better.” He turned onto Peachtree Street and joined the flow of traffic. “Jackson and Remmers picked up those two guys who ripped off your demon a few weeks back. The losers are bein’ real helpful.” He smirked at the thought. “They gave us the name of the dude who’s buyin’ the Hellspawn under the table. I’ll be settin’ up a meetin’ with him. I’m lookin’ to bust that racket wide open.”

  “Cool. Just be careful,” she cautioned.

  “Don’t worry; Jackson’s comin’ along as backup. We’ll get it done.”

  Beck maneuvered them through a crowded intersection with a minimum of horn honking. “I know it’s probably none of my business, but that big guy who was standin’ next to ya in the parkin’ lot? I’m thinkin’ he’s got issues. The violent kind.”

  Riley looked over at him, intrigued that he’d figured out Allan so quickly. “Why do you think that?”

  “He feels … bad. He thinks he owns the world. The way he was lookin’ at ya made the hair on my neck stand up.” Beck executed a turn, then added, “That doesn’t mean ya should go out of yer way to date the dude because I don’t like him. I made that mistake with the angel.”

  Riley grinned, savoring the irony. “Too late. Already been there. That’s Allan, the psycho ex. Well, the first psycho ex, if you count Simon.”

  “The one that hit ya?”

  “Yup. He’s in my class now. Isn’t that special?”

  “If he…” Beck took a deep breath and swallowed whatever he had planned to say. “I figure ya can handle him. If not, let me know. I’ll be happy to pound his ass into the ground for ya.”

  Who are you, and what have you done with Backwoods Boy?

  “Thank you,” she said, not sure what had just happened.

  If Allan tried anything, she’d head for the cops. That had been their mistake the last time: Rather than earn the abuser a police record, her dad had talked to his parents, hoping to get the creep some professional help. Instead her ex had gone on to terrorize other girlfriends.

  “Ya be careful,” Beck said. “I’ve seen the type before. They beat ya, then apologize. Then they hit ya again because they can get away with it. No matter what, yer always to blame.”

  There was too much emotion overlying his words for this to just be a warning.

  “Did that happen you?” she asked, fearing the answer.

  Beck nodded.

  How many monsters are hiding in your closet of horrors?

  TWENTY-FOUR

  The Summoners Society was housed in a grand three-story building where ivy clung to the weathered gray stones and ran riot over mullioned windows. There was a portico at the front of the building, but Beck ignored that and parked in a lot on the south side near Stewart’s car. When he climbed out, he whistled his appreciation of the structure.

  “I’m thinkin’ I should have been a grave robber.”

  “I think they do their spells in Latin, Beck.”

  He scowled. “Yeah, well, then I’d be screwed.”

  They were met at the entrance by a portly butler who looked like he’d been an extra in an old British movie. After he ensured that their names were on the official guest list, they were led down a paneled hallway to a set of double doors.

  Beyond those doors was a ballroom littered with summoners. Riley guessed there were at least fifty of them, all in colored robes befitting their status within the society. Clusters of them gossiped away in a room that would have been fashionable during the Civil War. Two massive fireplaces sat at either end of the room, both giving off generous heat that promptly headed for the ceiling at least fifteen feet above them. Weighty, bloodred damask drapes hung at the windows, sealing out the night’s chill while a string quartet played something by Bach.

  It’s like out of a Victorian novel.

  They found Master Stewart near one of the fireplaces. He steered them away from closest summoners.

  “No matter what,” he said in a lowered voice, “do not mention the undead beasties we’ve been seein’. If that becomes public knowledge, there will be panic. Ya ken?”

  They both nodded.

  “Do you think they’ll give Dad back?” Riley asked.

  “I don’t know, lass. We’ll give it our best.”

  A few minutes later, the meeting was called to order. Riley, Beck, and the master were shown to chairs near the front of the room as the final strains of J. S. Bach melted away. Behind them, summoners found their own seats, as if this were a performance. Maybe to them it was.

  The man running the meeting, Lord Barnes, laid out the complaint in excruciating detail. Then it was Stewart’s turn. The master spoke of her father’s death, how Beck had valiantly tried to save his friend’s life. Riley’s eyes burned, on the verge of crying as she dug her fingernails into her palms to keep the tears away. Beck’s face was stony now, no doubt reliving that night in vivid memories.

  The master movingly described the many nights she’d spent in the graveyard protecting her father’s corpse, and the summoners’ attempts to buy his body. He took particular care in describing Lord Ozymandias’s heinous magical tricks. There were murmurs behind her, and they weren’t happy ones. Apparently, some of the necros thought the Dark Lord’s behavior had been over the top, at least by their standards.

  Where is he? Did the jerk not even bother to show up?

  The question was answered a moment later, when the rear doors opened. Heads turned.

  Lord Ozymandias was in his customary black cloak and carrying his staff, the sigil on his forehead pulsing like a star.

  “Really, Master Stewart,” he said, sweeping dramatically down the aisle, “you make me sound like a predator.”

  “That’s because ya are. Weavin’ magic against a young lass ta steal her father’s body is dishonorable. It’s not what bein’ a summoner is all about, and ya know it.”

  “Oh dear, I have been chastised.” Ozymandias laughed, touching his chest in mock horror. Then his tone went icy cold. “I do what any summoner does—I reanimate the dead. If that corpse happens to be a master trapper, one known for his skills, I will do anything I can to achieve my goal. Even if it frightens a little girl.”

  Little girl? Riley would have risen, but Beck’s fingers closed around her arm.

  “Stay put. Let Stewart handle it,” he whispered. She gritted her teeth and remained seated.

  “On behalf of the Atlanta Demon Trappers Guild,” the master began, “we demand the return of Master Paul Blackthorne ta us so he may go ta his final rest.”

  “Demand?” Ozymandias moved closer to the front of the room. “That’s a bold statement.”

  “Ya don’t want ta make enemies of us.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about the International Guild now. It may come as a surprise, but I have no awe for you Grand Masters. You’re just jumped-up rat catchers.”

  Riley gasped at the insult.

  “Ya son of a…” Beck murmured.

  Stewart held himself in check, his eyes flinty. “Return Paul Blackthorne, and we’ll back away from this like gentlemen.”

  “I need a better argument than that, trapper,” Ozymandias replied, toying with the master.

  Mort shot up from among the pack. “Lord Barnes, I would like to speak if I may?”

  “The chair recognizes Summoner Alexander.”

  The necromancer trudged to the front of the room, then turned toward his fellow summoners. There was a sheen of sweat on his face, which told Riley he was about to do something risky.

  “Section Four, Item Thirteen of the Summoners’ Code allows for the transference of ownership should the original summoner no longer be able to conduct his or her duties in regard to the reanimate.” He placed a document on the podium in front of Barnes. “Paul Blackthorne has designated me his summoner of record. Therefore, in conjunction with the Trappers Guild, I request that his body be returned immediately to my care.”

  Go Mort!

  Ozymandias glared at him. “You challenge me, Summoner Alexander?”

  “No, Lord Ozymandias, I will not challenge you to a duel of magic, though I have adequate cause.” Mort drew himself up. “You shattered the wards on my house, you stole Paul Blackthorne without my permission. Those are heinous crimes within our Society.”

  The summoners began to whisper among themselves. If Ozy could do that to Mort, he’d do it to one of them. Suddenly, the whole stolen-corpse problem had become personal.

  “Order!” Barnes shouted, waving his hands. It seemed odd that he didn’t do something magical to get their attention.

  It was Stewart’s turn. “The proper paperwork has been issued, and Summoner Alexander has requested that this society do what is right in this matter.” He shifted weight on his cane. “Paul Blackthorne was a good man, and he deserves ta be returned ta his daughter’s care.”

  Ozymandias thoughtfully adjusted a cloak sleeve. “I somehow doubt that a good man would be summoned from his grave by the Prince of Hell himself.”

  A collective gasp ran through the room.

  Oh, great. Now the whole world knows.

  Beck grabbed her arm again, eyes wide. “For God’s sake,” he said in a tense whisper, “tell me he’s lyin’.”

  “No,” she replied. “He’s not.” Which is why Dad never told you the truth.

  Riley dislodged his fingers and rose. She fidgeted while the confusion died down.

  “Miss Blackthorne,” Barnes said. “You wish to add something?”

  Since it was out in the open, why not use it for her advantage?

  She turned so that all the summoners could hear her. “It’s true, Lucifer did summon my dad,” she said. “He did it for one reason—to keep my father out of Ozymandias’s control.”

  “Lord Ozymandias,” her nemesis replied.

  “Whatever,” Riley snarked back, ignoring Ozy’s glare. “All I want is my dad. I don’t care about the rest of this. Just give him back.”

  Her nemesis delivered a cunning smile. “How eloquent,” Ozymandias said. “However, as a token of my appreciation for Paul’s assistance in my … studies, I’ve cleared your outstanding loan.”

  The necromancer produced a single sheet of paper from nowhere and sent it sailing to the podium. It landed in front of Barnes with a rustle. “There is the paperwork. The debt you owe for your dead mother’s medical care is no more.”

  He’s trying to buy me off. “I don’t care about the damned money,” Riley declared. “I want my dad. How hard is it for you to get that? You want me to beg? Okay, I’ll do it. Please return my father, oh High Lord of all dark things!”

  “Careful, lass,” Stewart warned.

  Nervous whispers erupted around them. Instead of a blast of magic, Ozymandias seemed amused by her outburst.

  “The child did say ‘please,’” he replied, chuckling. “How can I resist such courtesy?” With a theatrical wave of one hand, the necromancer vanished in a swirl of blinding light. In his place was a bewildered Paul Blackthorne.

  “Dad?” Riley cried. She rushed forward, trying to wriggle through the crush of chairs and bodies. When she reached where he’d been standing, her father was gone.

  “Dad?” she called out. “Where are you?” If this was all a trick …

  When a summoner pointed toward the double doors, Riley took off at a run, barreling past the startled butler and down the long expanse of hall. She found her father cowering behind an azalea bush near the far end of the building. He would have been weeping if that were possible. Instead, he trembled from head to toe, his face tormented by horrors only he could see.

  “Dad?”

  His pale brown eyes tracked up to hers. “Demons, demons everywhere,” he said, rocking back and forth like a toddler awakened from a horrific nightmare.

  “Dad? It’s Riley.” When she touched his arm, he jerked away in fear, as if she were a stranger.

  Mort knelt near them. “Paul? You remember me? I’m Mortimer.” The summoner’s calm voice made her dad look up at him. He seemed less freaked by Mort than anyone else. Even his own daughter.

  It took a quarter of an hour of the summoner’s patient coaxing until Riley’s father would rise from the ground. The curious crowd of necromancers who’d gathered around hadn’t helped the man’s skittishness. Once Paul was mobile, Mort steered him toward the parking lot.

  “We’ll take him to my house,” he said, his attention never leaving the frightened man.

  “I want to come with you,” Riley replied.

  “No, you’ll only confuse him more. Right now he needs to rest. I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”

  She wanted to argue, but Mort was right: Her father was in his own little hell-filled world, and the compassionate summoner was the best person to help him. As her dad and Mort prepared to leave in one of the summoner’s car, Riley touched the car window that stood between her and her parent.

  What if he never remembers me again?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Numb from shock, Riley went on autopilot. She climbed into Beck’s truck, clicked the seat belt, then stared out the side window. She didn’t ask where they were going. It didn’t matter. If she went home, she’d be alone in the apartment, surrounded by echoes of her dead father—the refrigerator that still held his favorite soda, his clothes in the closet, and his toothbrush in the bathroom.

  Riley choked up, jamming a fist to her mouth.

  “Hang on, girl. I’m takin’ you somewhere quiet,” Beck said softly. “We’ll talk it out, just the two of us. I won’t leave ya alone, not until ya want me gone.”

  “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “I know. Me neither. Not right now.”

  In time, he parked behind a multistory apartment complex, one designed for older people. It was probably built in the seventies, but it was well maintained and offered a decent view of Centennial Park.

  “What is this?” she asked, puzzled. “Why are we here?”

  “Ya’ll see,” Beck said. He retrieved a pair of blankets from behind the seat and draped them over an arm. “This way,” he said, gesturing to a side door.

  He produced a key and ushered her into a hallway, then a service elevator that went to the top floor. Despite everything that had happened, Riley’s curiosity began to grow.

  At her quizzical expression, Beck explained. “I trap here every now and then, mostly Magpies. The supervisor made it so I can come and go without troublin’ him.”

  When they reached the top of the building and stepped outside, Riley shivered in the brisk breeze. “Can’t say I like roofs that much, not after the last one.”

  “It’s safe. No demons on this one.” Beck laid the first blanket on the far side of a stack of air-conditioning equipment, which provided shelter from the wind “Have a seat. The show will start in a little bit,” he said.

  Show? Still confused, she did as he asked, tugging her coat closer for warmth. When he joined her, he dutifully tucked the second blanket around them, which put her in close proximity to him, close enough to smell his aftershave and see the short blond stubble on his chin.

  “What am I supposed to be doing?” she asked.

  “It’ll be a while. Just wait,” he said. Below them, cars and people went by, but up here was another world. Quieter. Like they were looking down from Heaven and watching all the little people scramble around. As if the world weren’t bent on destroying everyone she loved.

  The silence split open her grief. Riley closed her eyes, trying to seal it shut, but it broke through in a choked sob. At the sound, Beck’s arms went around her, pulling her close.

  “Go on, ya’ve earned the right,” he said. “Hell, I’d do the same if I could.”

  The tears came in unrelenting torrents. Riley wept until there was no more to give. When she finally looked up, Beck’s eyes were moist. She offered him a tissue, but he shook his head.

  “Guys don’t use those,” he said, trying hard to sound tough.

  “I won’t tell anyone.”

  He took one from her but didn’t wipe his eyes.

  Nestled against him, Riley blew her nose. “Talk to me, Beck. Talk to me about anything but necromancers, dead fathers, and weird demons. I want some normal for a change. I want to stop hurting inside.”

  He sighed in her ear. “So do I, girl.”

  Beck thought for a time, as if he had to struggle for a topic that was safe. “Did … you see that computer program I got? It was on my desk.”

  Riley nodded, though she had no idea why he’d thought of that subject. “Is it helping you?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “I’m readin’ better. I listen to it when I have time.” The corners of his mouth tugged into a smile. “Would ya … you be willin’ to help me?”

  It would be her way of honoring her father’s legacy. “Sure, I’d be happy to, Beck.” Riley blinked—something was wrong with what he’d said. “‘You?’ What happened to ‘ya’?”

  Beck took a slow and deliberate breath. “I’ve been workin’ on how I talk.”