Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  I scowled at the corpse in my arms. “This really is a day of wonders, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, which I considered a good thing—you can never be too careful with demons—and I shifted my stance, grunting as I maneuvered him back toward the pantry. Knowing our garage door, I figured I had at least two minutes before Stuart stepped into the kitchen. Stuart keeps meaning to fix the thing, and I keep pestering him to hurry up and do it, but right then I was supremely grateful that my husband could procrastinate with the best of them.

  My original plan had been to get the body out the back door and into the storage shed where I knew neither Stuart nor Allie would dream of wandering. I’d already left a message for Father Corletti telling him about the demon and the cryptic Satanic army message, and as soon as he called me back, I’d insist he send a collection team stat.

  In the meantime, I resigned myself to throwing a dinner party with a demon in my pantry. I heard the familiar clunk of the garage door coming to a stop, then the purr of the Infiniti’s engine as Stuart pulled in. I listened, frantically shoving cat-food bins aside to make room for the body.

  The engine died, and then a car door slammed.

  I shoved the demon where the cat food belonged, then slid the bins back in front of him. No good. I could still see the demon’s white shirt and blue pants peeking up behind the bins.

  The doorknob rattled, followed by the squeak of the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. I grabbed the first thing that looked remotely useful—a box of Hefty trash bags—and ripped it open. I pulled out bag after bag, whipping them open and tossing them over the body and the bins. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

  “Katie?”

  My heart beat somewhere in my throat, and I leaped across the pantry in a move that might have been graceful had it not been so desperate. I stuck my head around the open door, smiled at my husband, and hoped to hell I looked happy to see him.

  “I’m right here, sweetie,” I said. “You’re home early.”

  He aimed a trademark Stuart Connor grin my way. “You mean I’m home on time.”

  I stepped out of the pantry, then shut the door firmly behind me. “With you, that is early.” I planted a loving, wifely kiss on his cheek. Then I took his briefcase, pressed a firm hand against his back, and aimed him out of the kitchen. “You must have had a hard day,” I said. “How about a glass of wine?”

  He stopped moving, turning to look at me as if I might have been possessed by demons. “Kate, the guests will be here in half an hour.”

  “I know. And this is an important night for you. You should be relaxed.” I urged him forward. “Red or white?”

  He didn’t move. “Katie.”

  “What?”

  “Half an hour,” he repeated. “And you’re not dressed, and—” His eyes widened, his mouth shut, and I knew exactly what he was looking at.

  “Brian got a homer,” I said, then shrugged. Mentally I cursed myself. I’d cleaned up the glass, then drawn our sheer curtains for camouflage, but there was nothing I could do about the breeze blowing in, kicking the flimsy material up like so many dancing ghosts.

  He looked at me. “Have you called a glass shop?”

  Okay, now I was annoyed. I cocked an eyebrow, planted a hand on my hip, and glared at him. “No, Stuart, I haven’t. I’ve been a little busy throwing together a last-minute dinner party.”

  He looked from the window to me, and then back to the window. “The kids okay?”

  “No one was nearby when it shattered,” I lied.

  “Where’s Tim?”

  “Already asleep,” I said. “He’s fine. We’re all fine.”

  He studied me for a minute, then pushed a stray curl behind my ear. He stroked my temple, and I winced.

  “You call this fine?”

  I exhaled. I didn’t know if I’d been cut by the glass or scratched by the demon. “It’s just a nick,” I said. “No biggie.”

  “It could have got you in the eye.”

  I shrugged. It could have done a hell of a lot worse than that.

  He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry about tonight. I didn’t realize you’d be cleaning up a disaster area in addition to cooking a meal. Do you need any help?”

  Okay, I’d been mildly irritated with him, but that faded right then. “I’ve got it under control,” I said. “Go do whatever you need to do. You’re the one on the hot seat tonight.”

  He pulled me into his arms. “I really appreciate this. I know it’s last-minute, but I think it’ll pay off big-time.”

  “Campaign contributions?”

  “Possibly. But I’m hoping for endorsements. Two federal and two state judges. That’s a lot of clout.”

  “How can they not be impressed with you?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at him. “You’re amazing.”

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered in that soft voice that he really shouldn’t use unless he was planning to take me to bed. His lips closed over mine, and for a few sweet seconds I forgot about demons and dinner parties and rigatoni and—

  The appetizers!

  I broke the kiss. “The oven!” I said. “I need to take the appetizers out.” I couldn’t serve a federal judge burnt mini-quiches. I’m pretty sure that would be social and political suicide.

  “I’ll do it. And I’d better cover that window. It’s supposed to rain.” He looked me up and down. “I’m already dressed, but you need to change. They’ll be here soon, you know.”

  As if I could forget.

  I peeled off my PTA T-shirt on the stairs and slid out of my bra as I jogged down the hall to the double doors leading to our bedroom. Inside, I dropped the clothes on the floor, then shimmied out of my ratty sweatpants. I kicked the bundle out of my way, then grabbed the outfit I’d laid across the unmade bed. I’d picked up a cute little flower-print sundress during a T.J. Maxx shopping spree at the beginning of the summer (swimsuits and shorts for Allie, yet another growth spurt for Timmy). With its fitted bodice, tight waist, and flared skirt, it was both festive and flattering. Considering I mostly lived my life in T-shirts, jeans, or sweatpants, this was the first chance I’d had to wear it.

  With one eye trained on the digital clock next to the bed, I shoved my feet into some light blue mules, ran a brush through my hair, and stroked some mascara onto my eyelashes.

  I never got ready this quickly, but today I had incentive, and the whole process took less than three minutes. Didn’t matter. I could tell the second I raced into the kitchen that I’d taken too long. Way too long.

  “What the hell is this?” Stuart said. He was standing just inside the pantry, so I couldn’t see his face, just part of his arm and the back of his head.

  His voice didn’t help me, either. He sounded vaguely mystified, but that could as easily be a reaction to a new brand of cereal as it was to a dead body behind the cat food. If he was questioning my switch from Cheerios to Special K, then That’s an incapacitated demon, dear. I’ll get rid of him by morning would be an entirely inappropriate response.

  I’d sprinted across the room, and now I put a hand (wifely, supportive) on his shoulder and peered around him into the pantry. As far as I could tell, there was no visible demon. Just dozens of trash bags blanketing the small room.

  Big relief.

  “Um, what’s the trouble?”

  “This mess,” he said.

  “Yes, right. Mess.” I was babbling, and I stood up straighter as if good posture would force more oxygen to my brain. “Allie,” I said, jumping on my first coherent thought. First Brian, now Allie. Had I no shame? “I’ll talk to her about this tomorrow.”

  I could tell he wanted to belabor the point—my husband is a total neat freak—so I urged him out of the pantry and shut the door. “I thought you were fixing the window.”

  “That’s why I went looking for the trash bags,” he said with a scowl. “Rain.”

  “Right. Of course. I’ll bring you some.” I pointed to the clock. “Thirty mi
nutes, remember? Less now.”

  That got him moving, and in a whirlwind of male efficiency, he had the broken window covered in under fifteen minutes. “It’s not a very attractive job,” he admitted, finding me in the living room where I was arranging the tiny quiches on our tangerine-colored Fiestaware platters. “But it’ll keep the weather out.”

  But not the demons. I fought a little shiver and glanced in that direction, but all I could see was thick black plastic. I made a face and tried not to imagine a horde of demons crouched below the windowsill, just waiting to avenge their compatriot.

  Enough of that. I forced the thought away, then stood up and surveyed the rest of the room. Not bad. “Okay,” I said. “I think we’re ready for battle. If we can keep everyone corralled in the living room, the den, and the dining room, I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Oh,” Stuart said. “Well, sure. We can do that.”

  Warning bells went off in my head, and I thought of the piles of sorted laundry in the upstairs hallway, the disaster area Allie called a room, and the wide assortment of plush animals and Happy Meal toys that littered the playroom floor. Also, I was pretty sure the CDC wanted to quarantine the kids’ bathroom, hoping to find a cure for cancer in the new and exotic species of mildew growing around the tub.

  “You want to show someone the house?” I asked, in the same tone I might use if he’d suggested I perform brain surgery after dessert.

  “Just Judge Larson,” Stuart said, his voice losing a bit of steam as he watched my face. “He’s looking to buy a place, and I think he’d like the neighborhood.” He licked his lips, still watching me. “I’m, uh, sure he won’t mind if the place is in some disarray.”

  I raised an eyebrow and stayed silent.

  “Or we can do it some other time.”

  “Yes,” I said with a winning smile. “Some other time sounds fine.”

  “Great. No problem.”

  That’s another thing I love about Stuart. He’s trainable. “So who’s Judge Larson?” I asked. “Do I know him?”

  “Newly appointed,” Stuart said. “Federal district court. He just moved up from Los Angeles.”

  “Oh.” Keeping track of all the judges and attorneys that cross Stuart’s path is next to impossible. “You can show him the kitchen and the study if it’s important to you. But don’t take him upstairs.” I bent down and moved the fruit plate slightly to the left, so it lined up nicely with the row of forks I’d set out.

  We didn’t decide whether a downstairs tour was on the agenda or not, because that’s when the doorbell rang. “Go,” I ordered. “I still need to put out the wineglasses.” I started running down a list in my head. Appetizers—check; wine—check; napkins—

  Oh, shit. Napkins.

  I knew I had cocktail napkins somewhere in this house, but I had absolutely no idea where. And what about tiny plates for the appetizers? How could I have forgotten the tiny plates?

  My pulse increased, gearing up to a rhythm that more or less mimicked my earlier heart rate when I’d fought the demon. This was why I hated entertaining. I always forgot something. Nothing ever went smoothly. Stuart was going to lose the election, and his entire political demise could be traced to right here. This moment. The night his wife completely screwed up a dinner party.

  And forget using demons as an excuse. No, I would have forgotten the napkins and plates even without Pops. That’s just the way I—

  “Hey.” Stuart was suddenly beside me, his lips brushing my hair, his soft voice pulling me out of my funk. “Have I told you yet how amazing you are, pulling all this together on such short notice?”

  I looked up at him, warmed by the love I saw in his face. “Yeah,” I said. “You already told me.”

  “Well, I meant it.”

  I blinked furiously. My husband might be the sweetest man on the planet, but I was not going to run my mascara. “I don’t know where the cocktail napkins are,” I admitted, sounding a little sniffly.

  “I think we’ll survive the tragedy,” he said. The doorbell rang again. “Pull yourself together, then meet me at the door.”

  I nodded, calmed somewhat by the knowledge that my husband loved me even though I was a total domestic failure.

  “And, Kate,” he called as he moved toward the foyer, “check the buffet, second drawer from the left, behind the silver salad tongs.”

  Clark arrived first, of course. And while he and Stuart did the political he-man thing—dishing about the upcoming campaign, bitching about various idiocies being implemented by the newly installed city council—I took the opportunity to round out my role as a domestic goddess.

  I hauled out the cocktail napkins (right where Stuart said they’d be), brought in seven wineglasses (I’d used the eighth to kill the demon), and checked on the dessert.

  Throughout all of this, I kept looking toward the flimsily repaired window, half-expecting to see a demon army come crashing through. But all seemed quiet. Too quiet, maybe?

  I frowned. On a normal day I’d say I was being melodramatic. But I no longer knew what normal was. For fourteen years, normal had been diapers and bake sales and Bactine and PTA meetings. Demons—especially the kind that are ballsy enough to just out-and-out attack—were not normal. Not by a long shot.

  And yet years ago, that had been my life.

  It wasn’t a life I wanted back. Wasn’t a life I had any intention of letting my husband or kids see.

  But here that life was. Or, rather, there it was—in my pantry, dead behind the cat food.

  It wasn’t the dead demon that bothered me so much (okay, that’s not entirely true), but it was its words that had really thrown me—You may as well die, Hunter. You surely will when my master’s army rises to claim victory in his name.

  I rubbed my bare arms, fighting goose bumps. Something was happening here, something I didn’t want to be a part of. But want to or not, I had a feeling I was already in it up to my eyeballs.

  “Katie?” Stuart’s voice drifted in from the living room. “Do you need help, sweetheart?” Elizabeth Needham, another assistant county attorney in Stuart’s division, had arrived a few minutes ago, and now she and Clark and Stuart were doing the war-stories thing. Stuart’s offer was genuine, I’m sure. But I could tell from his tone that he was also voicing a request that I get my butt in there and join them.

  “I’ve got it, hon,” I said. “I’ll be right there. I just want to call Allie and say good night.”

  Stuart didn’t answer, so I couldn’t tell if he thought that was odd or not. It was. Allie stayed with Mindy and Mindy stayed with us on such a regular basis that Laura and I were basically surrogate parents for the other’s kid. I knew Laura would call if anything was out of the ordinary.

  Reason, however, was not part of the equation. I wanted to talk to my daughter, and I wanted to do it right then.

  I dialed and waited. One ring. Two rings. Three, and then the familiar click of Laura’s answering machine. I waited through the message, tapping my fingers on the counter as Laura spelled out her family’s vital statistics—name, phone number, can’t get to the phone right now, yada yada—and then finally I heard the high-pitched little beep. “Laura? You there? Give Cary Grant a rest and pick up. I want to tell Allie something.”

  I waited, still tapping on the countertop. “Laura?” I stopped tapping, noticing that I’d now chipped the manicure that had managed to survive a demon attack.

  Still no answer, and I could feel that cold rush of panic growing in my chest. Surely demons hadn’t gone after my daughter. . . .

  “Come on, girl,” I said to the machine, fighting to keep the panic out of my voice. “I need—”

  I shut my mouth and my eyes, exhaling deeply as I realized what a fool I was being. Not demons. Ice cream. Makeup might keep Mindy occupied for hours, but my daughter was a different breed. Forty-five minutes, tops.

  “Never mind,” I told the still-open line. “Just have Allie call me when you guys get back.”

  I c
hecked the clock. Seven-ten. If they went to the mall, they wouldn’t be back until at least eight. I could keep my paranoia in check for fifty minutes.

  Stuart stepped into the kitchen just as I was hanging up the phone. “Anything wrong?”

  He said it in a tone that suggested he almost hoped there’d been some horrific tragedy—because that would explain why his hostess wife was camped out in the kitchen ignoring her guests.

  “I’m sorry.” I slammed the phone down. “Just mommy paranoia.”

  “But everything’s all right?”

  “Fine,” I said brightly. He was angling for an explanation and I didn’t have one to give. The oven timer dinged and I lunged for a hot pad. Saved by baked Brie.

  I’d just slid the Brie onto a plate and passed it off to Stuart when the doorbell rang again.

  “Well,” I said. “We’d better go see to our guests.”

  I led the way out of the kitchen, my baffled husband following. In the living room, Stuart slid the plate onto the coffee table next to the fruit as I breezed past on my way to the front door, an efficient hostess smile plastered to my face.

  I opened the door to reveal one of the most distinguished men I’d ever seen. Despite his years—I guessed he was at least sixty—he had the bearing of a self-confident forty-year-old. His salt-and-pepper hair gave him an air of distinction, and I was absolutely certain that this was a man who never second-guessed his decisions.

  “Judge Larson,” Stuart said from behind me. “So glad you could come.”

  I held the door open wider and ushered him in. “Welcome to our home. I’m Kate, Stuart’s wife.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he said. His voice had a gravelly Sean Connery-esque tone. I may be only thirty-eight, but I’ll confess to a tiny bit of debonair-lust. I could only hope that Stuart would be that sexy and sophisticated when he hit sixty.

  “You have a beautiful home,” he added. We were still in the entrance hall, and as he spoke, he was passing me, close enough that I could smell the cologne he’d apparently bathed in. I wrinkled my nose. Sexy, maybe. But I think age must have degenerated his olfactory nerves.