That was nice. “I will. That’ll mean a lot to Beck.”

  A lengthy pause. “What was his mother like?” the master asked.

  “Cold and hard, like she’d been hurt so many times she hated everyone, no matter how good they were to her. I understand Beck better now. Which is why you wanted me to come down here with him, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m that transparent?” the man said.

  “Not usually.” Nevertheless, Stewart rarely did anything that didn’t have at least four layers of strategy behind it.

  “Things are gettin’ unruly up here. I’m in the mall right now, and there’s magic flyin’ all over the place. It’s good yer down there, lass.”

  “It depends on your point of view, sir.”

  ELEVEN

  Stewart stood at the far end of the shopping mall, near two magic users he now considered friends. They’d been called here to put a stop to a magical duel. This was their second such call today.

  “Any idea how this started?”

  “Trash-talking, probably,” Mortimer Alexander said, his navy summoner’s robe hanging loosely from his shoulders. It looked like a tent on him since he was as wide as he was tall. “Ever since Lord Ozymandias bespelled those demons, there’s been hell to pay.”

  He ducked a particularly poorly aimed spell and it struck the front of a New Age shop. Every single crystal inside lit up like a Christmas display.

  “Witches can’t aim worth a darn,” he said to their other companion.

  Ayden Marshall cranked an eyebrow at the summoner, her auburn hair and tattoo commanding attention no matter what clothes she wore. “You necros aren’t any better with that aim thing,” she said, gesturing toward a gaping hole in the mall’s ceiling.

  “True, but—”

  They both jumped as a blast of magic impacted a few feet away, generating a swarm of tiny armor-plated butterflies armed with swords. A counter spell enveloped them and the winged warriors turned into brightly colored confetti.

  “Time to shut this nonsense down,” Stewart said.

  He stepped forward and planted his feet to prevent himself from being toppled by the magical waves rippling through the structure. “I am Grand Master Stewart of the Atlanta Demon Trappers Guild. Cease and desist this instant!” he roared.

  The duelists—a younger witch and an older summoner—ignored him. A wave of magic clawed its way up the walls, causing them to turn transparent, revealing the pipes and wiring underneath.

  Mort joined the master. “Hey!” he shouted. “Knock it off!”

  The guy in the pale green robe opened his mouth to argue, but then clamped it shut, no doubt noting that Mort’s robe was darker than his. The darker the robe, the more power. This guy was outclassed, and he knew it.

  “Ah, only if the witch stops,” the necromancer called out, clearly nervous now.

  “Your turn,” Mort murmured.

  Ayden took her place next to the other two. “It is time to end this,” she said.

  “He started it!” the other witch called back, slowly working a spell between her hands.

  “Lobbing spells around makes us look ignorant and we don’t need the bad press.”

  “But—”

  “There are people who believe we work for Hell and would love to kill us because of that. We’re trying to get them to think otherwise,” Ayden replied, her voice tighter now. She gestured at the destruction, including the line of fizzling magic playing along the rafters. “This is not helping. You understand me?”

  “But he’s summoning demons,” the witch protested, pointing at her foe.

  Mortimer’s face grew a frown. “Is that true?”

  “No!” the man shouted. “It’s not me. I saw what Lord Ozymandias did to Summoner Gregson. I don’t want to die that way.”

  “Then who is summoning demons?”

  The man paled. “Ah . . . ”

  Mort took three steps forward, blue magic swirling around his hands now. “Who is it?” he demanded.

  “Ah, oh God. It’s . . . Cantrell. He called one up last night and it got loose on him. He can’t call it back.”

  “Well, that’s just cheery news,” Stewart rumbled. “As if we don’t have enough of the damned things ta deal with already.”

  The guy mumbled an apology, sweat running down his face now.

  “Go home, people. Stop bein’ stupid. Do not start a war ya canna win,” Stewart commanded.

  The combatants frowned at each other, then they headed in different directions, trailing magic in their wakes.

  “What will happen with the guy who called up the demon?” Ayden asked.

  “Lord Ozymandias will deal with the problem,” Mort replied.

  “How?”

  “Let’s just say that when he’s done there won’t be enough ashes left to bury.”

  “My Goddess,” the witch replied.

  “Tell your lordship I’m pleased ta hear he’s bein’ so keen on policin’ his own,” Stewart said. “The last thing we need is for any of the summoners ta side with Hell, either by choice or by coercion. It’s one thing ta meet Hellspawn in battle. It’s another to face a bunch of yer lot slingin’ magic around.”

  “He understands the danger. That’s why he’s being so . . . forceful.” Mort sighed. “You know, my mother wanted me to be a dentist.” He allowed the magic to drain away from his fingers and then began to roll up the sleeves of his robe. “Instead, I just had to be a summoner. Look what it got me.”

  “A steady job,” Stewart replied, more relaxed now that the duel had ended. “Someone has ta clean up the magical Hazmat and yer both good at it.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Mort looked over at Ayden. “You ready?”

  She nodded and began extracting various witchy supplies from the tapestry bag on her shoulder, including candles, crystals, and magical chalk.

  “I’ll leave ya ta it then,” Stewart said.

  As he walked away, he heard them discussing the best place to set the circle from which they’d disperse the residual magic. There was some professional disagreement, but it was good natured, not confrontational. It appeared that the battle at Oakland Cemetery had forged a bond between them, one of mutual respect.

  Pity the rest of yer kind didn’t get the memo.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  A few minutes after McGovern arrived at the hospital with the hearse, Sadie’s body was rolled out on a gurney in a body bag. Beck followed behind, then stood near the hearse, head bowed and hands at his side, until his mother was loaded inside.

  Riley’s heart ached to see him like this. Once the undertaker had finished, Beck headed in her direction. His mask held until he reached the truck.

  “Can you drive?” he asked, a glimmer of tears in his eyes.

  “Sure.” It took some time to get the seat adjusted right. Throughout the process he stared out the side window, his jaw clenched.

  At Beck’s mumbled request they made only one stop, at the convenience store. When he climbed out of the truck, eyes followed him inside. One guy flipped him off, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  He just lost his mother, you ass. Riley forced herself not to return the gesture.

  After some time inside, Beck returned with a bag of ice, a six-pack of beer, and some barbecue potato chips. A guy’s idea of a balanced meal. A second bag came her way and inside was a turkey sandwich, some dried fruit, and a can of soda. Her dinner, it appeared. Even in grief, he was still thinking of her welfare.

  Once they were back in his room his trapping bag went next to the bed, his wallet tossed inside it. The ice went in the bathroom sink, followed by four of the beer bottles. He tucked the fifth under his arm, twisted the top off the sixth bottle, and headed back outside.

  Riley trailed after him, concerned. Beck dropped the tailgate and hopped up onto it.

  “You want to be alone?” she asked. When he shook his head, she climbed up next to him.

  He took a swig of beer. “I always hoped she’d get over herself long enough to act like I was her son, but she never could.”

  “Was she always this way?”

  “Pretty much. Right after I was born my gran took me to North Georgia. She was worried Sadie wouldn’t take care of me proper. I stayed up there until I was three, and then they brought me back down.”

  “Why didn’t they keep you?”

  “Sadie was on the wagon. They thought she could handle things.” He took a long swig of beer. “She promised them she could, but she started drinkin’ a short time after I came home. I was too much for her to handle.”

  He’s blaming himself again. “If she couldn’t handle a kid, she should have gotten help or taken you back to your grandparents.”

  “Not her way.” He tracked a UPS truck along the highway until it was out of sight. “She’d go out at night, leavin’ me on my own. She told my gran everythin’ was fine, and they believed her.”

  “How old were you?” Riley asked, surprised he was being this open about his childhood.

  “Four.”

  Riley gaped. “God, Beck. It’s a wonder you’re still alive. You could have set the house on fire or something.”

  “Mostly I watched television,” he said.

  “How did you eat? I mean, did she leave you food?”

  “Not really. I remember being really hungry one night so I climbed up on the counter and got a can out of the cupboard, but I couldn’t get it open.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I took it to the neighbor next door. Mrs. Welsh was always really nice to me. I made her promise she wouldn’t tell Sadie I’d taken one of the cans or I might get a whippin’. She said it’d be our secret.” He smiled at the memory. “She gave me the can back and then fed me from her own cupboard. That way I wouldn’t get in trouble.” He sighed. “She died a couple years back. I do hope she’s in Heaven because she deserves everythin’ good in the next life. She was a saint.”

  Unlike your mother.

  He cleared his throat. “I knew when Sadie came home it was time to hide. Mostly she was too drunk to know I was there, but every now and then she was mad drunk, and if I did anythin’ I’d get a lickin’. Sometimes she’d bring some loser home with her.” He shook his head. “Didn’t understand it all until later, but I knew it wasn’t right.”

  His fingers tightened around the beer bottle. “I kept hopin’ that one of those guys was my daddy, but I don’t think any of them were.”

  “I don’t know how you made it. I would have taken off.” Then she realized why he hadn’t. What if his father had returned while he was gone?

  “Sorry, ya don’t need to hear all this crap. Doesn’t matter now.”

  It does or you wouldn’t be talking about it. “Did you tell anyone else about this?”

  “Donovan knew most of it. He wanted to put me in foster care, but I told him I’d run away. I found out later that he was the one who paid for my school supplies. It sure wasn’t Sadie.”

  Just like a father would do. Her mind flashed back to the first time she’d seen Donovan—the close-cropped blond hair and muscular build. A lot like an older Beck. She wanted to ask the question, but now didn’t seem like the right time. Besides, wouldn’t they have settled all that a long time ago if Donovan and Sadie had ever hooked up?

  “Don’t be a martyr, Beck. Your mother wasn’t worth it.”

  He looked over at her and she wondered if she’d gone too far. Instead, he blinked back tears. “Yer so damned good to me.”

  “Easy to do when you’re not pushing me away.”

  “I never did it because I hated ya or anythin’.”

  “I know.”

  He drained the first beer. “I’d like to sit out here and think for a while, on my own, if ya don’t mind.”

  Taking that as her cue to leave, Riley hopped off the end of the tailgate. She placed her hand on his knee. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m gettin’ better,” he said, his voice quieter now. “Ya . . . you helped me a lot.”

  “Well, it’s cold so don’t stay out here too long. And if you get drunk, you are sleeping in the truck, mister,” she said, giving him a mock glare.

  He cracked a grin and then snapped a smart salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

  She returned the salute, picked up the empty beer bottle, and headed to her room, relieved. As long as she kept him talking, he’d be okay.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  Riley took a shower and dressed for bed. A peek out the drapes proved Beck was sitting where she’d left him, nursing a beer and his deepest thoughts. Ravenous, she demolished the sandwich and the fruit. Neither were half bad. Another check on Beck. He hadn’t moved.

  This might take some time.

  She sent a text to Peter letting him know the situation and that it’d be a day or two before she returned to Atlanta. When no reply was forthcoming, she began to doze. The sounds of “Georgia on My Mind” filtered in from the parking lot signaling that someone had called Beck. There was muted conversation. Probably somebody in Atlanta. Yawning, she was nearly asleep when the truck roared to life. By the time she reached the door, Beck was headed up the highway toward town.

  Maybe he needed some space. Or the sheriff was back in his office and Beck went to talk to him about the missing boys. Still, as she crawled back in bed to await his return, a nagging sense of unease tugged at her. Maybe I should have gone with him.

  † ~ ‡ ~ †

  By the time he was halfway to the funeral home Beck realized he’d left without his trapping bag and wallet. He debated about turning around and fetching them, but Riley was probably asleep and that would just wake her. That was the reason he’d not bothered to let her know where he was headed in the first place.

  When Beck had pressed McGovern about what was so important at nearly nine at night, the undertaker claimed he had yet another piece of paper for him to sign, and that it just had to be done tonight. Then he’d asked Beck to park in the rear of the funeral home, which had seemed odd until the guy said something about a freshly mopped showroom floor.

  Shaking off his gloom he walked to the back door, hoping to deal with whatever problem McGovern had dreamed up so he could get back to the motel. If he was gone too long Riley might wake up and worry about him. He knocked but there was no answer, so he tried the knob and the door swung open.

  “Hello?” he called out. “Hey, McGovern! Ya in here?”

  There was no reply as Beck walked through the garage area, and then into a long corridor toward the interior of the building. His irritation rose with each step. He’d had a helluva day and he only wanted to get back to the motel and climb in bed. Not that sleep would make it any better.

  “McGovern?” he called. When there was still no answer, Beck swung around and headed back the way he came. He was halfway through the garage when the undertaker appeared between him and the outer door.

  “Where have you been?” he demanded.

  “Waiting for you,” McGovern replied. “The girl out in the truck?”

  That was a weird question. “No, she’s at the motel. Let’s get done whatever you need, okay? I’m not in the mood to jack around.”

  “I agree.”

  As he grew closer he saw something in the man’s hand, and it took him a moment to realize exactly what it was. He ground to a halt mid-step, his full attention on the Taser.

  “Hey, look, man, what’s this all about?”

  McGovern moved closer. “It’s all about payback, Denny.”

  “Payback for—”

  Twin projectiles hit Beck in the chest, delivering a sharp electric shock that took him down. As he lay on the floor trying to control his twitching and suddenly uncooperative muscles, McGovern walked up to him.

  “You should have left it alone, boy.”

  A short time later, the second jolt from the Taser turned Beck’s vision to black.

  TWELVE

  A thundering headache brought Beck back to consciousness. It was like a hangover, at least until he tasted the blood in his mouth, and felt the trembling ache in his muscles. He slowly became aware that his hands and feet were tied, and a piece of thick tape covered his mouth. With a groan he tried to roll over but was unable to complete the maneuver, encased in something.

  What the hell is this?

  He thrashed and it got him nowhere as the sharp stench of plastic nearly made him gag. One of the last things he’d seen right before he’d gone unconscious was a stack of body bags in the funeral home’s garage. It was a good guess he was inside one of them now. From the sounds around him, he was in the back of a vehicle, maybe even his own truck. He could hear the radio playing in the cab. There was something else rattling with each bump in the pavement, but he couldn’t recognize that noise.

  A cold chill sped up his spine. Was he being taken somewhere for a little country justice? All it’d take was a bunch of drunken locals eager for that payback McGovern had spoken of. A quick toss of a rope over a thick tree limb and Denny Beck would be no more. When the sheriff tried to figure out who’d killed him, there’d be no witnesses willing to say what they’d done to Sadie’s murdering son.

  Beck kept wiggling around until he could get one of his fingers close to his mouth. He tensed and ripped off the tape, then swore at the pain as his lips burned in protest. Next, he had to get the ropes off. If he was lucky he’d be free when it came time for them to hang him. How he’d fight off a lynch mob he had no idea, but he wasn’t going down easy.

  He was still working on the ropes around his feet when the truck slowed and made a turn. From the change in tire sounds they were no longer on the highway, but traveling on one of the side roads, which meant they could be anywhere. Sweating at the strain, he nearly cheered when the bonds around his ankles came free. Fearing he was running out of time, he dug frantically at the ones on his wrists, using his teeth as leverage. His jaw muscles clenched in protest, but he kept gnawing at the ropes.