by Julie Kenner
“Not only did you grow up, you grew wise.”
“If I’m so smart, how come my curfew’s so early?”
I swung my feet over the side of the bed. “That’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,” I said. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Mo-om.” She rolled her eyes, and just like that, life went back to normal. Or at least as normal as possible under the circumstances. After all, I had a demon to hunt and a body to dispose of. I’d already accidentally overslept. Now I really had to get with the program.
The scene that greeted me in the kitchen was almost as scary as my encounter last night with Larson—Stuart standing in front of a griddle, spatula in hand, French toast sizzling in front of him. And the pantry door behind him standing wide open. Yikes!
I leaped across the room, managing to avoid a plastic Tonka truck and half a dozen LEGOs. My hand closed around the knob to the pantry, and I slammed the door shut, then leaned against it, breathing hard.
“Wait!” Stuart called, leading with the spatula as he took a step toward me.
My heart stopped beating.
“I need another loaf of bread from in there.”
Thump-thump, thump-thump. Okay. I was going to survive after all. “There’s a loaf in the bread box,” I said.
“Not anymore.”
I grimaced. How could he go through an entire loaf of bread and still not have enough French toast to feed two adults, a teenager, and a toddler? Even I could manage that.
“I’ll grab it for you,” I said brightly. “After all, I’m right here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So I see. That’s why I asked you.”
“Right.” I smiled, hoping to forestall any chance of my husband thinking I was nuts.
“Momma Momma Momma.” Timmy’s little voice managed to fill the entire downstairs. “Where you at, Momma?” The patter of footie-pajama feet, and then my little man appeared in the kitchen, a sippy cup in one hand and Boo Bear in the other. “Go potty, Momma. Go potty.”
Shit. Not the most apropos of curses, I supposed, because Timmy had no interest in the whole potty-training experience. He just liked to sit on his little-bitty toilet fully clothed while he tossed things into the tub. Unfortunately, this activity required the presence of a mommy for full enjoyment potential.
“Go ahead,” Stuart said. “I’ll get the bread.”
“Allie, can you take him to the bathroom?”
“Oh, Mom, do I have to?” Allie had plunked herself down at the kitchen table and was now engrossed in the pages of some magazine.
“Yes,” I said, even as Timmy started up again, belting out a rousing chorus of “Mommamommamomma” without any musical accompaniment whatsoever.
“Timmy, honey, go with Allie.”
“No.”
“Allie . . .”
“He doesn’t want to go with me.”
“Kate, just take the boy. I can handle getting a loaf of bread.”
Not in this lifetime. I pointed a “don’t move” finger at Stuart, shot a “forget that extra hour at curfew” glance toward Allie, then slipped inside the pantry. I grabbed a loaf of bread and reemerged. I was in there just long enough to see that my demon was still covered and, thankfully, still dead. Always a plus.
I shoved the bread at Stuart, who looked a little bewildered. “Here. Cook.” Then I grabbed Timmy’s hand. “Come on, kiddo. Where are we going?”
“Bafroom! Potty!”
“Lead the way,” I said, letting him tug me along, clearly delighted to have Mommy’s undivided attention.
As soon as we reached the bathroom he shared with Allie, I collapsed onto the closed toilet seat while Timmy proceeded to position Boo Bear strategically on the little plastic potty we’d bought optimistically on his eighteen-month birthday. Now, seven months later, the kid had yet to christen the thing.
In the kitchen I could hear the sizzle of battered bread in my electric griddle then the scrape of a spatula against the Teflon surface. I exhaled, congratulating myself on keeping my husband in the dark.
At the same time, though, I wondered if it would really be that terrible if Stuart knew my secret. I intended to tell Allie the truth eventually, just not soon. After all, she had a right to know about her father, and she couldn’t really understand her dad without knowing about Forza Scura. Stuart, though . . .
He was my husband. I loved him. And I didn’t want to have secrets from him. But at the same time, I didn’t want him to know this. I eased my conscience by falling back on the rules—my identity as a Hunter was secret, the oath of silence absolute. But that was only a crutch. I didn’t want Stuart to see me as a Demon Hunter. As soon as he learned the truth, he would never see just Kate anymore. And I didn’t think I could stand that. I had a sneaking suspicion a marriage counselor would find a huge red flag in my logic, but that was a risk I’d have to take.
As Timmy gleefully tossed every clean washcloth we own into the still shower-damp tub, I rested my elbows on my thighs and put my head in my hands.
Father Corletti was right. I should have kept up my physical training. I was pooped. Physically and mentally. Not a good sign. Especially since I still had to find the energy—not to mention the time—to dispose of one dead demon and stop an evil demon from taking over San Diablo, not to mention the world.
I checked my wristwatch—just past nine. I had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.
To Stuart’s credit, he managed to pull off some pretty amazing French toast. Just enough cinnamon in the batter, a light dusting of powdered sugar (a culinary accoutrement I’m frankly amazed we had in the house, much less that he found it without discovering Mr. Demon). We four sat at the Fifties-style Formica table and wolfed down mass quantities of the breakfast confection, washing it down with tall glasses of ice-cold apple juice, a constant staple in our house due to its toddler-taming propensities.
Allie checked her watch. “If we leave right after breakfast, we’ll get there when the mall opens.”
I gaped as she flipped open the spiral notebook that had been sitting closed and innocent by her plate all through breakfast. I’d completely forgotten that she’d been planning a school wardrobe shopping extravaganza for today.
“I made a list,” she explained, tapping her pen against the page. “We can hit the Gap first, just to check any sales. Then the Limited and Banana Republic. I’ll snag whatever deals I can, then fill in the gaps with stuff from Old Navy. Then we can move on to the department stores to check for any awesome markdowns. I figure we’ll start with Nordstrom and work our way down to Robinsons-May.”
“Don’t forget about the carousel,” I added, thinking quickly. “Timmy loves it.”
Allie was looking at me as if I’d grown two heads. “We’re taking him? I thought he was staying home with Stuart?”
“Kate,” Stuart said, “you know I’ve got things to do around the house.” He’d been hidden behind the metro section of the San Diablo Herald, but now he snapped the paper down, his frown almost as deep as Allie’s. “That window, for instance. I won’t get any of it done with Timmy underfoot.”
Timmy perked up, apparently realizing he’d actually let most of a conversation pass without a significant contribution. Deciding to remedy that, he began to sing “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands” at the top of his lungs.
“I’ll handle the window,” I said to Stuart, dutifully clapping my hands on cue. We did need to get it fixed, of course, but I have to confess that after passing the night without incident, my paranoia quotient had dropped dramatically. “I was thinking that you could take Allie and Timmy to the mall.”
He stared at me as if I’d gone mad, and Allie’s expression mirrored his. For two people without a single genetic bond between them, at the moment they were doing a good impression of twins.
Allie spoke up first. “Mom, no way. Shopping with Stuart? He’s a guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I said. “And he has wonderful taste, d
on’t you, darling?”
“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. My taste is fine.” His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something to tick you off?”
I stifled the urge to bang my head against something hard and instead pushed back from the table.
“Momma Momma Momma. Where you going, Momma?”
“Just right over there, sweetie,” I said, pointing to the wall that separates our breakfast area from the living room. “Finish your toast.”
I tugged Stuart with me into the living room. I won’t say he came willingly, but he did come, and the second we were out of sight from the kids, he let me have it. “Are you insane?” he stage-whispered. “The mall? You want me to go to the mall? What did I do? Seriously, I’ll make it up to you. A trip to Paris. A day at the spa. You name it. Just not the mall.”
I confess to being somewhat moved by his plea. If Stuart didn’t make it in politics, I saw a bright future for him in acting. The man had melodrama down to a science. “Be serious,” I said. “I thought about this a lot, and I think it’s a wonderful idea.” All of which was true, just not for reasons that I could share. I grasped for a Stuart-worthy reason. “You and the kids need some bonding time. Especially Allie.”
“What’s wrong with Allie? We get along great.” His brow wrinkled. “Don’t we?”
“Sure,” I said. “Now you do. But she’s fourteen. Do you remember fourteen?”
“Not very well.”
“Well, I’m a girl, and I do. Fourteen’s a hard age.” Not that my fourteen had been anything like Allie’s. I’d impaled my first demon at fourteen. That isn’t something a girl is likely to forget. “She needs father-daughter time.”
“But shopping?” He looked vaguely terrified by the prospect. “I couldn’t just take her out to dinner?”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Stuart . . .”
“Fine. Fine. The mall it is. But you can’t expect me to take Timmy, too.”
Timmy was trickier, I have to admit. While I’d managed to concoct a psychologically sound argument for Stuart accompanying Allie to the mall, there really was no reason for a two-year-old to tag along for the ride.
I resorted to righteous indignation, the ultimate fallback for every stay-at-home mom. “Stuart Connor,” I said, propping one fist on my hip and fixing my very best glare on him. “Are you telling me that you’re incapable of spending time with the same two children I spend every single day with? That you can’t find the time or energy to take your own son out for the morning? That you—”
“Okay, okay. I get the drift. I guess it’s Daddy’s day out.”
My stern face dissolved, and suddenly I was all smiles. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed him. “You’re the best.”
Stuart did not look ecstatic, but he wasn’t apoplectic. Score one for Kate. We wandered back into the kitchen to find that Allie had already put all the dishes in the dishwasher and was now going over Timmy’s face (and hair and hands and clothes) with a washcloth, trying to eradicate all signs of powdered sugar and syrup. Even on a bad day, Allie’s pretty good about helping with Timmy. Add in the promise of a new wardrobe, and the kid becomes positively saintlike.
Another ten minutes and they were settled in the van, Stuart armed with credit cards, Allie with her list, and Timmy with Boo Bear. As they pulled out onto the street, I headed back to the front porch. I leaned against one of the wooden posts and waved, hoping they couldn’t see the way my body sagged with relief. I love my family, really I do. But as I watched the van pull out of the driveway, I had to admit that a little alone time was awfully nice.
Even if I was alone with a dead demon.
Five
Fifteen minutes later a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the kitchen counter, the pungent aroma of Starbucks Sumatra reminding me of the caffeinated reward that awaited me once my task was complete. At the moment I was hunched over, my fingers tight around the old man’s arms as I dragged him from the kitchen toward the French doors at the back of the house.
My meeting with my alimentatore was at noon, and I couldn’t wait. Ever since Stuart and the kids had left, I’d been fighting the creepy sensation that I was being watched. I’d checked the window first and found no demons (or mortal-variety Peeping Toms) lurking about. The plastic had come loose in a couple of places, but I attributed that more to the cheap off-brand duct tape I’d bought than to the forces of evil.
I’d shoved my uneasiness aside and got on with the job at hand. The truth is, I would have preferred to simply keep the demon in the pantry, then bring my mentor back with me to provide sound and useful advice about how to get rid of the remains. But since I couldn’t be certain that Timmy’s good mood or Stuart’s shopping stamina would last that long, I had to get the demon out of the house and tucked away in our storage shed. In my old life, once I’d done away with a demon, one simple phone call to Forza would dispatch a collection team to take care of the demon carcass, leaving me blissfully unaware of that portion of the job. How lucky I was to now get this peek at demon-disposal methods. (That, in case you missed it, is called sarcasm.)
Though small and wizened, the old man still managed to be quite a burden. He was, after all, dead weight, and I was huffing by the time I reached the French doors. The curtains were drawn, and I pushed one panel aside, peering out into our backyard as if I were a fugitive. I’m not sure what I expected to see. An army of demons? The cops? My husband pointing a finger and accusing me of keeping secrets?
I saw none of the above and breathed a sigh of relief. My paranoia quotient had increased, however, to the point that the sound of the dishwasher changing cycles made me jump.
I left the body in front of the doors, then trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time as I mentally sorted through the contents of my linen closet. I needed something big enough to wrap the man in, but it also had to be something I didn’t mind tossing out. I didn’t care how good the local dry cleaner was; there was no way I’d ever sleep on a demon shroud, freshly pressed or not.
I grabbed a fitted sheet (100 thread count, so no great loss) and raced back downstairs. Perfect. The elasticized corners even helped keep the floral print shroud attached to the body as I rolled it over and over until it was well cocooned. I doubted my efforts would fool anyone who might be peering over my fence (a body wrapped in a sheet pretty much resembles only a body wrapped in a sheet), but the process made me feel better. And despite my rampant paranoia, I didn’t really believe anyone would peek into my backyard in the time it would take me to get the body stowed in the shed.
As it turned out, it took longer than I’d expected.
Getting the body from the house to the shed was remarkably easy (I remembered Timmy’s Radio Flyer wagon and put it to good use), but getting it into the shed was not. The little building was literally crammed to the gills, and I couldn’t have stuffed a toaster in there, much less a body.
It was still early, so I wasn’t in full-tilt panic mode. Yet.
I had a hefty adrenaline buzz going as I pulled out boxes and furniture and assorted bits of life junk, then stacked it all outside the shed for the single purpose of reorganizing it in a manner more conducive to the hiding of corpses. As soon as I’d made a big enough dent, I climbed inside, then bent down and grabbed the mummy. I slid him inside, discovering that he fit nicely under Allie’s old twin bed. Then I hopped down and started to replace everything I’d just removed. Nietzsche would have made some pithy comment about exercises in futility, but not me. I just wanted the job done. And it was precisely because I was so in the zone that I didn’t hear anyone coming up from behind me until it was too late.
A hand closed over my shoulder, and I yelled. Without thinking, I fell into a crouch and pivoted, ignoring my aching muscles as I whipped my leg straight out to catch my assailant just below the knee before pulling myself back up to attack position. It was a beautiful, brilliant move, and one that I managed without even pulling my hamstring. (Who knew I still had i
t in me?) The move would, in fact, have been perfect . . . had I managed to fell a demon. Instead, I found myself looming over Laura, hands fisted at my sides, blood pounding through my veins, and my chest about to explode with the suppressed urge to hit someone.
Fortunately, I did manage to suppress the urge. Pummeling my best friend would require a lie far beyond my powers of fabrication, particularly in my current state of mind. I bent over and drew in deep breaths, my hands propped just above my knees. Laura was on the ground in front of me, the heels of her hands pressed into the pea gravel that makes up the western half of our yard, surrounding the shed and Timmy’s playscape. From the diameter of her eyes, I could tell I’d surprised her as much as she’d surprised me. For a moment, neither of us could speak. I recovered first.
“Jesus, Laura. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She blinked, winced. “I’ll remember,” she said, then reached down to rub her calf. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Neighborhood watch,” I said. “The cop showed us all some techniques last month.” A ridiculous answer, but she didn’t seem to notice; she was too intent on flexing her leg and wiggling her ankle.
“So what were you doing, anyway? Hiding the family gold?”
I ignored the question, instead leaning over to put my hand on her calf. “How bad is it?”
She grimaced. “I’ll live,” she said. I helped her up and she gingerly put her weight on the leg. “But what were you doing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so intense.”
“Oh. Right.” I scrambled for a reply, finally settling on the only thing I could think of that would keep her from asking too many follow-up questions. “I had another dream about Eric last night. And since Stuart and the kids are at the mall . . .” I trailed off, assuming (rightly) that she’d pick up the thread.
“Going through old things?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I just miss him.”
Her forehead creased, and I saw real concern in her eyes. The truth was I did dream of Eric, more frequently than I liked to admit. And Laura had been my confidante on more than one occasion. Today, though, I couldn’t share my real burden, as much as I might like to. “Want to talk about it?”
