by Julie Kenner
And that’s when I caught it—a foul, garlicky stench hidden under wave after wave of Old Spice. Holy shit.
Forget attraction. Forget sophistication. Forget the fact that I had a party to host.
The judge in my foyer was a demon—and there was no way he was getting out of my house alive.
Three
Instinct and long-ignored training took hold, my muscles springing into action. I twisted at the waist, planning to kick back and ram my heel into the demon’s gut.
I didn’t make it.
At the same moment that my foot left the floor, common sense flooded my brain, and I jerked to a stop. Too late. My sudden shift in direction threw off my equilibrium, and I landed with a plunk on my rump, the ceramic tile cool through the thin material of my dress.
Stuart cried out my name, but it was Judge Larson who bent down and extended a hand. I stared at him, blinking, mentally reminding myself that I had demons on the brain and not everyone who desperately needed a Certs was Satan’s henchman.
“Mrs. Connor? Are you okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” Wary, I took his hand, encouraged when he didn’t immediately yank me to my feet and try to rip off my head. That had to be a good sign, right?
With Judge Larson holding my hand and Stuart gripping my elbow, the men helped me to my feet. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, my cheeks on fire. “I must have slipped on something. I’m terribly embarrassed.”
“Please,” the judge said. “Don’t be.”
By this time, Clark and Elizabeth had come in from the living room to see what all the commotion was about, and two more guests were coming up the walkway. How lovely. The entire gang was there to witness my mortification.
I tugged my hand free from Larson and focused on my husband. “I’m okay. Really.”
The worry I saw on Stuart’s face appeased my fear that my acrobatics had made a farce of the evening. “You’re sure? Is your ankle sprained?”
“It’s fine,” I said again.
It wasn’t fine, of course. It wasn’t fine at all. For all I knew, I was about to serve my famous rigatoni (famous because it’s the only dish I do well) to a demon. And right at the moment, I had no way to confirm Larson’s humanity.
I cast a sidelong glance Larson’s way as Stuart led us all toward the living room. I’d figure it out, though. He couldn’t keep his identity from me forever.
And if Larson turned out to be a demon, then there really would be hell to pay.
“More Brie?” I held the tray in front of Larson, leaning forward like some little flirt showing off cleavage. If he wasn’t a demon, he probably thought I was hitting on him. Stuart, bless his heart, probably assumed I was having a psychotic episode.
But I was determined to get another whiff of the man’s breath. At the moment it was all I had to go on.
“No, thank you,” he said as I inhaled through my nose. No use. He’d already helped himself to quite a bit of the Brie, and now the pungent cheese odor masked whatever other stench might linger on his breath.
Frustrated, I slid the Brie back onto the table and took my seat next to Stuart. He and Judge Robertson, one of the late arrivals, were deep in a scintillating discussion of California’s three-strikes law.
“So, what do you think of three strikes?” I asked Judge Larson. “I’m all for it,” I went on, “except for those truly evil creatures that just deserve to be taken out, no matter what the cost.” I could see that I’d caught Stuart’s attention, and he was looking at me with some surprise. His platform was tough on crime, but not that tough.
“Vigilante justice?” Larson asked.
“In certain circumstances, yes.”
“Katie . . .” Stuart’s voice held a What are you doing? tone.
I smiled at him, but directed my words at Larson. “Just playing Devil’s advocate, honey.”
“Kate can debate with the best of them,” he said to the group. “And she’s got very firm views on crime.”
“Good and evil,” I said. “Black and white.”
“No shades of gray?” Elizabeth asked.
“Some things are uncertain, sure,” I admitted with a glance toward Larson. “I just find those things supremely frustrating.”
They all laughed. “Maybe your wife’s the politician, Stuart,” Judge Westin, a newly elected state court judge, said. “Be careful or she’ll be the new county attorney.”
Stuart rubbed my shoulder, then leaned over and planted a light kiss on my cheek. “She’d keep a tight rein on crime, that’s for sure.” He smiled broadly at the group, and I knew the politician had returned. “Of course, so will I.”
“All I intend to keep a tight rein on is some pasta.” I stood up, gesturing for the guests to stay seated. “I need to go finish dinner. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
In the kitchen I sagged against the counter, my heart beating wildly. I never used to be such a ditz about demon-hunting. Of course, I’d never entertained demons in my house before, either. In the past I’d been given an assignment and I’d carried it out. Simple. I never had to actually locate the demons; my alimentatore handled that part. I just did the dirty work.
And as dangerous and as messy as my old job had been, I think I preferred it to my current situation.
I pulled a wooden spoon from the drawer by the stove and stirred the sauce, feeling a little guilty that I wasn’t playing the perfect wife role to a T. At least the sauce had turned out great. Maybe a really kick-ass meal would make up for the fact that Stuart’s wife was a nutcase. (Just how important was a sane wife to a politician, anyway?)
I ran the evening’s events back through my mind and decided that Stuart’s career was still on track. Our guests probably just thought I had a little color and was tough on crime. I could live with that. More important, Stuart could live with that. Keep acting like a space case, though, and I’d blow his shot before he’d even announced his candidacy.
Think, Katie, think. There had to be a way to figure out for sure if Larson was a demon without ruining my marriage, Stuart’s political aspirations, or the dinner party.
I turned the heat down under the sauce, then dumped the pasta into the boiling water, all the while considering my options. Unfortunately, there are very few foolproof litmus tests for identifying demons. If a demon has possessed a human while the human is still alive, it’s easy. Then you have a Linda Blair situation and there’s this whole raging battle inside the person. Very messy. Very easy to spot. And very not my job (former job, that is).
If you’re possessed, don’t call a Hunter. For that, you need a priest. It’s a painful, ugly, scary proposition involving lots of nasty invectives by the possessing demon, a multitude of body fluids, and utter and complete exhaustion. I know. I watched two as part of my training. (There’s nothing like a possession to get a Hunter in tune with exactly why we want to eradicate the nasty little demon bugs from the face of the earth.) It’s not something I want to see again.
But there wasn’t any battle raging inside Judge Larson. No, if I’d guessed right, Larson wasn’t possessed. Instead, he actually was a demon. Or, rather, a demon had moved in and the real Larson’s soul, like Elvis, had left the building.
It’s a sad fact that there are lots of demons inhabiting our world. Thankfully, most of them can’t do much in the way of annoying or harming humans. They’re just out there, floating around in a disembodied state, spending eternity looking for a human body to fill. A lot of them want to be human so badly that they go the possession route.
But it’s the ones with more patience that I worry about. These demons inhabit a body at the moment of death. As the person’s soul leaves, the demon slips in, just like Pops in my pantry. You’ve heard the stories of folks who couldn’t possibly survive a car wreck . . . but did? Or the person on the operating table who against all odds managed to pull through? Or the heart attack victim who collapsed . . . and then got right back up again with no apparent damage whatsoever?
Well, n
ow you know.
Of course, it’s not as easy as all that. The timing has to be just right. Once the soul is gone, the entry point closes and, poof, no more opportunity. (That’s not entirely accurate. There’s a later point where the body is once again ripe for takeover. I think the decay opens a portal or something. I’m not a theologian. All I know is by that time, there are issues of rigor and worms and all sorts of gross stuff. Demons do resort to that on occasion, and I’ve fought a few zombies in my time. But since Larson clearly wasn’t a zombie, that really wasn’t my concern.)
The other thing about using a human body is that demons can’t inhabit the faithful. Those souls fight. So it’s not like a demon can just hang around a hospital waiting for folks to head out to the Great Beyond. It’s a lot harder than that. Which, when you think about it, is good news for all of us.
So, while there aren’t that many demons walking around in human shells, the ones that are out there are hard to spot. They blend in perfectly. (Well, there is the bad-breath thing, but how many non-Hunters clue in to that?) And disposing of them is a real pain in the butt.
But those demons do have certain idiosyncrasies that are useful to Hunters for identification purposes. I’d already tried the breath test on Larson. And while I thought he’d failed, I couldn’t get a good enough second whiff to confirm. And, frankly, even if his breath was so bad it knocked me over, that really wasn’t reason enough to stab him in the eye. It’s difficult enough covering up a demon killing. The accidental death of a nondemon judge was not something I wanted to explain.
Which meant I needed to find another test.
The best test was holy ground. Your run-of-the-mill demons can’t bear to enter a church. They can physically make it through the doors, but it just about kills them to do it. Major pain and suffering, and it only gets worse the closer they get to the altar. And if the altar happens to have incorporated the bones of a saint (which is pretty common), then we’re talking extreme depths-of-hell-quality torture. Not a pretty picture. But since there was no way I could convince Stuart, Larson, and the gang to take a little field trip to the cathedral, that test was pretty much useless.
Frowning, I turned on the tap. I needed to wash my hands and get dinner on the table. Demon detection could wait until after dessert.
And that’s when it hit me. Holy water. The answer was so obvious, I felt like an idiot for not thinking of it earlier. Just like in The Exorcist, holy water burns the shit out of demons. (And I’ve got to say that there’s very little in this world more satisfying than seeing those welts appear on a demon you’ve been stalking. Vengeful? Absolutely. But so very true.)
The timer dinged, which meant the pasta was ready. I dumped the pot into the colander, mixed the rigatoni with my secret sauce in one of the fancy serving bowls we’d received as a wedding present, then carried the dish to the table. I hesitated there, glancing toward the stairs, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My hunting gear was locked up in a trunk in the attic, but every good Hunter keeps a few essentials nearby, even after fifteen years. And I was pretty sure that if I looked in the bottom drawer of my jewelry chest, I’d find an oversized crucifix and at least one small bottle of holy water.
At least, I hoped I would.
I gnawed on my lower lip. Would they notice if I disappeared upstairs? Surely not. After all, I’d only be gone a second.
I was just about to risk it when Elizabeth stepped into the dining room, looking fabulous in something that I’m sure cost at least a month’s salary. (Her husband is a partner at McKay & Case, a personal injury firm. Let’s just say they don’t need to pinch pennies.)
“Can I help?”
I considered letting her finish putting the food on the table while I ran upstairs, but a burst of sanity vetoed that plan. I didn’t need the holy water this very instant. If Larson was a demon, I’d know soon enough. And in the meantime, he wasn’t going anywhere. (And what would I do if he was a demon, anyway? Killing him during dinner would be a social faux pas from which I’d never recover.)
As I finished preparing the table, Elizabeth called in the men. They came, and I seated myself next to Larson, pretending not to notice the chair Stuart held out for me.
We had the salad first, and I actually managed to participate in the conversation. (“Why, yes, I heard some developer wants to put in a mall on Third Street. I hope it falls through. That’s so near the beach.” “Actually, Allie grew the basil, Elizabeth. I’ll tell her how much you enjoyed it.” “Thank you. We certainly love our neighborhood.” Mundane. Boring. You get the drift.)
People tend to get more involved in eating once they get to the main course, abandoning polite small talk in favor of their stomachs. And that’s when I made my move. I cocked my head to the side and made a show of furrowing my brow. Then I leaned forward, meaningfully meeting Stuart’s eyes. “Did you hear that?”
“What?” Confusion and a hint of concern splashed across his face.
I pushed my chair back, dropping the napkin in my seat. “I’m sure it’s nothing,” I said. I was up and around the table, heading for the doorway. “I thought I heard Timmy.” I smiled at our guests. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.”
Stuart was halfway out of his chair. “Should I—”
“Don’t be silly. He probably had a bad dream. I just want to check.”
That appeased him, and I headed off. As soon as I rounded the corner and was out of sight of the dining room, I took off at a run, bounding up the stairs two at a time.
I didn’t breathe until I hit the bedroom, and once I did, I took the most direct route to my jewelry box, bouncing across the bed in a way that would have earned Timmy a scolding. I yanked the bottom drawer out and dumped it, scattering odd bits of jewelry and memorabilia over the rumpled bed linens.
A charm bracelet, a broken pocket watch, a silver crucifix in a velvet case, a box of Allie’s baby teeth, and—tucked in the back—a single bottle of holy water, the metal cap still screwed on tight.
Dear Lord, thank you.
I didn’t even hear Stuart come up behind me. “Kate?”
I yelped, then shoved the bottle down the bodice of my dress, where I could feel my heart pounding against it.
“Shit, Stuart, you scared me to death.” I slid off the bed and turned around to face him, not quite meeting his eyes.
“I thought you were checking on Tim.”
“I was. I did. He’s asleep.”
Stuart lifted his brows and looked pointedly at the mess on the bed.
“I, um, realized I wasn’t wearing any earrings.”
Nothing.
The silence grew so thick that I was afraid he wasn’t going to answer. Then he moved toward me and stroked my cheek, finally cupping my chin in his hand. With the utmost tenderness, he tilted my head back. “Sweetheart, do you feel okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said. As fine as anyone could be who had to deal with demons and a dinner party and keeping secrets from her husband. “I’m sorry. I’m just distracted.”
It hit me then that we were both upstairs, and the kitchen was unguarded. What if someone spilled something? What if they went looking for paper towels? What if they looked behind the cat food?
I grabbed his hand. “I guess I felt a little overwhelmed,” I said as I tugged him down the hall. “I’m not much of a Jackie O.”
“I don’t want Jackie O.,” he said. “You’ve done a fabulous job. Just be yourself and everyone will love you. I know I do.”
I forced a smile, but I couldn’t force any words. Because for the first time, the honest to God’s truth hit me: My husband, the man who’d fathered my youngest child and who shared my bed every night, didn’t really know squat about my life.
And if I had my way, he wasn’t ever going to.
My opportunity presented itself during dessert. “Would anyone else like some water?” I asked, rising. No one did, so I headed into the kitchen, pulled down our smallest glass (one of Timmy’s with faded purple dinosa
urs) and poured in the holy water. Not even half an inch.
I eyed the tap, wondering if it was sacrilegious to mix holy water with the water provided by the City of San Diablo. Even more important, I wondered if it would render the water ineffective.
Since it wasn’t worth the risk to either my soul or my plan, I returned with my tiny bit of water in my tiny little glass. Stuart looked at me, and I shrugged. “We never seem to have enough clean glasses,” I said.
Judge Larson looked amused. “You’re not very thirsty,” he said. “Or are you sneaking a shot of liqueur while the rest of us gorge ourselves on your delicious apple tart?”
I laughed. “Exceptionally thirsty,” I lied. “I polished off most of the glass just walking back.” As I spoke, I headed for my seat, planning to trip over my own feet and dump the water on Larson as soon as I was in range.
The phone rang, and Stuart pushed his chair back, blocking my path and spoiling my plan. “That might be Judge Serfass,” he said, referring to the one no-show who’d called to say her plane was late. He answered, but his expression quickly turned to confusion. “I can’t hear you,” he said, in that overly loud voice people use on bad connections. “I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
Another few seconds passed as he shook his head, looking confused and frustrated. Then he shrugged and hung up the phone.
“Who was it?”
“No idea. Sounded foreign. Italian, maybe. The connection was terrible, but it had to be a wrong number.”
Father Corletti.
Out of instinct, I turned to look at Larson, and found him looking right back at me.
Oh, hell, it was now or never. I pushed past Stuart’s chair toward my own. As I did, Larson stood. He reached down as if to pull my chair out for me, but before I realized what was happening, he bumped my arm and the glass went flying.
