“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 gotten uglier if Captain Salvatore and two of his men hadn’t pushed through the crowd and joined them.

  The lead hunter assessed the situation immediately. “Why do you have this woman at sword point?” He was using the don’t screw with 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, sirs,” the hunters hiked off at a brisk pace.

  “Again, thank you,” Ayden said.

  Salvatore gestured toward to 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 stay out of the middle of things,” she said. “It’s not working that way.”

  “Apparently not.” He moved his attention to Ayden as she sank onto 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.

  Should I tell the hunters about Sartael? No. 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 and put Stewart in danger.

  Unaware of Riley’s internal debate, the captain sighed. “We need to talk this out, compare notes. Will you come to the Westin as soon as you can?” the captain requested.

  “Not the hotel. Somewhere neutral,” Ayden 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 okay with the grand master, 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 his forehead with the cleaner of his coat sleeves. It still left a smear of black on his skin.

  “One of our newer recruits,” the captain replied. Salvatore’s gaze drifted back toward the center of the market where vendors were trying to salvage 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 the 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?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  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.

  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 and ground 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. About the same time, Stewart decided that dessert was the solution to all their problems. Harper begged off and headed for bed, which left Riley alone with her host and a hefty piece of peach pie, with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side.

  Stewart pushed away his plate 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 have 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 had another friend who went dark. His face still haunts me.”

  Riley pushed her plate away, her appetite gone.

  Stewart sighed, then his look 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 center 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?”

  “Just at three hundred years. It’s been passed down through the family.”

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

  “People don’t change that much, lass. We just think we do. Since yer a Blackthorne, ya can represent the English side.”

  She lined up her pieces and prepared to be slaughtered.

  “Have ya ever seen yer namesake? The tree, I mean?” Stewart questioned as he moved a pawn forward. Riley shook her head. “Wicked thorns on the thing, but it has delicate little flowers and the sweetest berries, but only after a hard frost, of course.”

  She wondered where he was going with his arboreal lecture.

  “Ah, that means what?”

  He smiled patiently. “Trials and setbacks. Strife often leads ta a sweeter life. That’s the lesson of the blackthorn.”

  “I’m due for some of the sweet, I think.”

  “Aye. We all are, lass.”

  He fell silent after that as they played. It was hard to concentrate, but she tried, not wanting to look like a complete dork in front of the master. Riley suspected he had another reason for spending time with an amateur chess player when the world was melting down around them. Stewart would get to the point when he was ready.

  The old master won handily. Left on the board were only a few pieces, the majority of which were his. He picked up one of her pawns, twisting it between his thumb and middle finger as he examined it. “I’m guessin’ this is how ya see yerself right now.”

  Riley nodded.

  “Ya’ve been doin’ research in the library. Ya left the books out.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I won’t do it again.”

  “It’s nay a problem, lass,” he said, and set the chess piece down. “After all that readin’ about Fallen angels, tell me what ya think is goin’ on.”

  Riley marshaled her thoughts, since the old master was too savvy to allow her to throw just anything at him. “Ozymandias has found a way to mess with the demons. Someone, who isn’t a necro, is helping him.” It seemed the right time to reveal her secret. “I’m thinking that’s Sartael. He’s the Fallen angel who lied to Ori, told him that Lucifer wanted my soul.” She took a deep breath. “He turned Simon against me, and he set the Five on my dad.”

  One of Stewart’s silver eyebrows arched. “How do ya know this Fallen’s name?”

  She told Stewart about Ori and his status as a statue, courtesy of Lucifer. Then she related her conversation with the two Divines in the cemetery.

  The master leaned back in the chair, pensive. “Why did ya think it was wise ta go the cemetery?”

  “No choice. He kept shouting at me, and it was driving me crazy. I thought my head would explode.”

  “Ya do know that move put both of our lives in peril?” he asked, sterner now.

  “I know, but Martha wanted me to talk to him. She gave me Sartael’s name, so I could use it against Ori.”

  “Really?” He scratched his chin in thought.

  “Do you have to tell the hunters about this?”

  Stewart groaned. “By God, I should. I won’t because we need ta work as a team, and we can’t do that if we’re in the Vatican’s custody awaitin’ trial.”

  “Thanks,” she murmured. “What do you think is going on?”

  The master sat forward in his chair. “At best, Lucifer keeps a tentative hold on Hell’s denizens. Many of those have been eager for a final battle. Sartael is one of the chief among them. If he’s been whisperin’ in a certain necromancer’s ear, the result would be undead demons in our midst.”

  “Why hasn’t Lucifer taken out the dude?”

  “The Prince is a strategist. If there’s going to be a war in Hell, he needs ta know exactly whom he can trust. Sometimes the best way ta flush out yer enemies is by playin’ them against each other.”

  “Like Ori and Sartael,” she murmured.

  Stewart’s tired face crinkled in thought. “Yer a Blackthorne. Heaven doesn’t choose its champion without a lot of thought. Neither does Hell, for that matter.”

  “But what do I do?” Riley asked, frustrated. “No one will tell me, at least not Martha. She clams up when I ask. Lucifer won’t say a word. Neither will Ori.”

  “I suspect ya will be forced ta make a decision. If ya decide correctly, then ya’ll plead humanity’s case in front of the angels.”

  “You mean when I’m dead?” she asked, not liking where this was headed.

  “No, the angels will be massed for war,” he responded. “Ya’ll be standin’ between the two armies.”

  Omigod. “What can I say to keep them from toasting us all?”

  “I have no idea. All I can suggest is that ya speak from yer heart.”

  In the distance, a clock began to toll midnight. “Get some rest. Come back down at nine for breakfast. Harper and I are havin’ a meetin’ of interested parties. Ya need ta be there for the last part of it.”

  “Is it a council of war?”

  “Aye, lass. It’s time ta put an end to this misery, one way or another.”

  * * *

  Later, as she drifted to sleep, Riley thought of Beck and the lost kiss. What would it have been like? Amazing? Just okay? Disappointing? No, never disappointing. Beck wasn’t that kind of guy.

  Probably awesome. The demons had screwed up her life again.

  It’s time to return the favor.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  As instructed, Riley tromped down the stairs at nine in the morning. The kitchen table was full of coffee cups and people. Father Rosetti and Captain Salvatore were there for the hunters, Ayden and Mort for the magical folks, then the two masters and Beck. Riley pulled out a chair and eyed the plate mounded with coffee cake and donuts.

  “Why can’t the summoners force this Ozymandias to release the demons?” Elias demanded. “Then we could kill them.”

  “It is not that simple. Lord Ozymandias wields great power, and if we challenge him it’ll start a war within the society,” Mort replied. “Instead, I will try to break the enchantment that binds the demons, but I’ll need a focus for that spell.”

  “Ya heard Salvatore; they destroyed all the bodies,” Beck replied, more curtly than usual. He looked totally wiped, like he hadn’t slept in days. “There has to be another way.”

  “There is—I try to break the spell and fail and a bunch of people end up dead. Get me one of those demons, and I’ll have a lot better chance.”

  “What about that demon tooth I brought you?” Riley asked.

  Mort shook his head. “It was too magically charged to be of use. I destroyed it.”

  Oh … She had another option, one the Vatican already knew about.

  “How about a demon claw?” she said, pulling the talon out from under her sweater. “It belongs to one of the weird ones. I saw the thing at the market last night.”

  “How can you be sure?” Mort asked. “Don’t they all look the same?”

  “It’s the one with the big white splotch on the back of its neck. It tried to eat me in Demon Central, so I remember it really well.”

  “We didn’t burn that one’s corpse, so it’s still alive,” Salvatore said.

  “Then you can use it for whatever it is Mort wants to do,” Riley said.

  “I’m throwing a red flag on that play,” Ayden replied. “The claw was once physically part of you, soaked in your blood. That changes things.”

  “Why would it matter?”

  Ayden and Mort exchanged looks. It was the necromancer who explained.

  “You have a direct connection with that demon now.” He let out a heavy breath. “That means you’re going to have to cast the spell.”

  “What? I don’t do magic.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll help you with the Latin,” Mort replied.

  “It doesn’t matter if it’s in Latin or whatever. I don’t cast spells. I’m a trapper. That’s enough hassle.” Especially when Rome’s grand inquisitor was taking notes on her every move.

  “I’m sorry, Riley, but you’re the strongest candidate,” Mort replied.

  “You should not pressure the child into evil,” Father Rosetti retorted.

  “I’m not. I’m being honest,” Mort shot came back. “If we want to destroy these demons, our best chance is to have Riley perform the spell. She has a direct connection with one of them.”

  “You will be taking your soul one step closer to Hell,” Rosetti said, speaking to her now. “Rome will make note of that.”

  How did I get into this mess? “If it destroys the demons, I’ll do it,” she said.

  “Your soul…” Rosetti began.

  “Is mine. Why do people keeping telling me what to do with the thing? If I decide to barter it away to save people’s lives, it will be my choice,” Riley said, flushing with anger.

  “Then you will bear consequences,” the priest warned. “The terms of our agreement with Master Stewart precluded you from participating in any activity that places your soul in jeopardy.”

  “I got that,” she said. “I don’t see any other option. Do you, Father Rosetti?”

  Riley expected a lecture, maybe even handcuffs. Instead, the priest shook his head in dismay.

  “I fear you are correct,” he replied. “As is often the case, the road to Hell is paved with good intentions.”

  Stewart snorted. “So is the one ta Heaven, I’ve heard.”

  It took another half hour of haggling over the details, but when all the talking was done, they’d agreed it should go down at dawn the next day. The location shouldn’t have been a surprise—Oakland Cemetery. There’d be a strategy meeting later in the day, but Riley wasn’t going to be there because she’d be learning rudimentary Latin pronunciation.

  “Come over to the house at three-thirty,” Mort said, as she walked him to the front door. “We’ll work for a few hours, you can rest, then we’ll do more.”

  “How hard is it? I mean, is the spell really difficult?”

  “It’s not the hardest, but it’s certainly not the easiest.”

  Which in Mort-speak meant it was a big deal, but he was trying not to scare her.

  She changed subjects. “How’s my dad?”

  “Not much better,” the summoner admitted. “He keeps raving about the demons. His mind is lost, Riley. I’m not sure if it’s ever coming back.”

  “Ozy will pay for that, right? He has to,” she insisted.

  “I wouldn’t count on it.” The summoner let himself out.

  Confused as to what the future might bring, how bad it might become, Riley took the stairs up to her room, trailing her hand along the smooth wooden banister. There was no sunlight in her life now. Instead, it grew darker by degrees, like approaching nightfall. Maybe that was the way it was supposed to be for the one who would stand between the eternal armies of Heaven and Hell.