Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  His face contorted and I held my breath, suddenly afraid I’d made a big mistake. I was ninety-nine percent sure that he was under orders not to kill me; it was that leftover one percent that suddenly had me sweating.

  But the knife didn’t move and my neck stayed intact, and I took that as a good sign. This boy was a messenger, his purpose to scare me, to let me know that Goramesh was here, that he intended to get what he came for, and that he wasn’t going to take kindly to me meddling in his affairs.

  Of course, killing and maiming were two different things, and from the way demon-boy was now staring at me, I feared he was thinking much the same thing. Since I’m rather fond of all my various limbs, and would like to keep them intact and unmolested, I started to spit out a purely self-serving apology. That’s when I heard the back door slam open and then Allie’s call of “Mom? Did you get lost or what?”

  I met the demon’s eyes, and he nodded, raising the blade just millimeters off my lips. I cleared my throat, but still ended up sounding squeaky. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just got sidetracked.”

  “With the trash?”

  “Recycling. There was glass mixed with the plastic. I sorted it all out.”

  She didn’t answer, but I heard the door close and—though I couldn’t be certain—I thought I heard an exasperated Mo-ther.

  “She’ll be back,” I said. “She’s probably just getting a flashlight to help me.” A major piece of bullshit if ever there was one, but it seemed to work. Demon-boy climbed off me, the knife held in front of him, ready to impale me if I made a wrong move. Not damn likely. He’d been sitting on my chest for so long, I wasn’t even certain my internal organs were still functioning. This was one demon I wouldn’t be chasing down tonight. He was, however, on my list.

  He turned and ran toward the street, and I soon lost sight of him in the shadows. I sat up feeling like an idiot. There was a reason so many Hunters retired young, and I was feeling that reason in my size-ten butt. Just a few days ago thirty-eight seemed so young. I mean, I don’t even have crow’s-feet. “Old and creaky” may be insulting, but I feared it might also be true.

  I stood and dusted my tush off, then replaced the lid on the trash can. My performance this evening definitely wasn’t going to win any Forza Scura accolades, but at least I wasn’t dead. And I had a plan. Two plans, actually. One: work out like a maniac and restore my stellar reflexes. And two: admit that Larson won the demons-in-San-Diablo argument and start in full time helping him figure out what trinket Goramesh was searching for—laundry, dirty dishes, and toilet bowls be damned.

  As I walked back toward the house, I rubbed a hand across my bruised bottom and replayed the conversation in my head. Bones, he’d said. But whose bones?

  I hoped Larson had a clue, because I had no ideas at all.

  “Bones,” Larson repeated, his voice tinny across the phone line.

  “A relic?” I pondered. “One of the saints in the cathedral?” Sometimes demons will instruct their minions to steal first-class relics (like the bones or hair of saints). These relics are anathema to the demons, and the demons will order their human followers to destroy the relics in hideous demonic rituals.

  “Possibly,” Larson said. “Let me think a moment.”

  I crossed my legs under me and tugged the guest bed pillow into my lap, trying to make myself more comfortable while he did his academic alimentatore thing. Hopefully his thing wouldn’t take too long. It was three in the morning, and I was dead tired.

  Stuart had stayed up until two working, and I’d stayed up with him, ostensibly succumbing to the urge to clean house (like that’s not a flimsy excuse) but really just wanting to outlast him. When he finally did crash, I cited a fresh load of laundry that needed to be folded if we didn’t want to suffer the absolute shame of wrinkled shirts and jeans. Fortunately Stuart was either tired enough or preoccupied enough not to notice my personality change. (For the record, housework does not keep me up at night any more than worrying about the national deficit. I figure they’ll both be there in the morning, so why should I lose sleep?)

  As soon as I was sure he was tapped out, I’d shut our bedroom door, crept into the guest bedroom, and shut that door as well. Then I’d dialed the number Larson had given me earlier. He answered on the first ring, surprising me. At three a.m. I’d expected his machine, not the perfectly poised, completely awake voice that answered.

  After the usual greetings, I’d given him the rundown of the evening, trying to remember verbatim what demon-boy had said.

  Now I could hear Larson breathing into the phone. “Bones,” he repeated. “Are you sure?”

  I’d been sure, but I was rapidly losing confidence. “I think so. He was talking low, but I think I heard him right. I mean, I suppose I could be wrong. . . .”

  He made a dismissive noise. “We’ll assume you heard correctly. So far, that’s the best lead we have.”

  I leaned forward, pressing my elbows into the pillow as I kept the phone cradled against my ear. “What leads do we have? Father Corletti didn’t tell me, and we got interrupted by Stuart and the kids before you had a chance to fill me in.”

  “Two years ago the altar of a small church in Larnaca was defaced with several Satanic symbols, the most prominent being three intersecting sixes.”

  “Oh.” I pressed my lips together, not really wanting to reveal my ignorance. I didn’t have a choice, though, so I took the plunge. “Refresh my recollection. Where’s Larnaca?”

  “Greece, Kate.”

  “Right. I remember now. Defaced, huh?”

  “Spray paint,” he said. “The police assumed it was teenage hooligans.”

  “But the Vatican knew better?”

  “Not at all. The Vatican assumed the same. But then the same symbol began turning up in other locations, and the damage was much, much worse.”

  I shook my head. “What do you mean?”

  “The offices of a cathedral in Mexico were ravaged.”

  “The offices?”

  “Correct,” he said, his voice grave. “The altar was spray-painted, but it was the offices that were truly destroyed. Records taken or destroyed.”

  “What kinds of records?”

  “The pastor and staff were murdered,” Larson said, “so we do not know in great detail. But we can assume the usual.”

  I nodded, understanding. Demons—or their human minions—have been known to infiltrate a parish’s records searching for evidence of the fallen faithful. There’s little a demon likes better than to corrupt a once pious soul. And who better to prey on than a soul who is faltering or doubting his or her faith. Which means every time there’s a scandal in the Church, demons dance in the streets. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

  I pondered the information for a moment. “Just records?” I asked. “No relics?”

  “Not that we’re aware of.”

  “Really?” That was odd. As a general rule, a demon’s more keen on action (destroying relics) than on research (reading Church records). “Weird,” I said.

  “Indeed,” Larson said. “And there’s more. About four months ago a small Benedictine monastery in the Tuscan hills was decimated. Ripped apart stone by stone. Only the monks’ cells, though. The chapel itself was barely damaged.”

  “Good God,” I said. “And the monks?”

  “Dead. All but one murdered.”

  I cocked my head. “And the one?”

  “Suicide,” he said.

  I put my hand to my mouth. “You’re not serious.”

  “I’m afraid I am. He threw himself from a window.”

  I swallowed, trying to focus. Suicide was a mortal sin. What could possibly drive a monk to take his own life? “And we know that Goramesh was behind it?”

  “We knew nothing at the time,” Larson said. “The local polizia were called, but the area is very rural and the investigation was slipshod. The crime was attributed to roving gangs—hoodlums—and the case was closed.”

  “But not
over.”

  “A young woman turned up a week later in a hospital in Florence. The police learned that she’d been staying in the monastery stables as she backpacked through Europe. She saw nothing of the attack, but in the wee hours of the morning, she took a walk to the chapel, planning to attend matins. That is when she was attacked. She managed to get to the hospital, but the police obtained no useful information from her.”

  “But?” I just knew there was a but coming.

  “The Vatican heard about the woman and sent inspectors to visit her in the hospital.”

  I hugged the pillow, pretty sure I knew where this story was going. “She was a Hunter.”

  “Very good,” he said, as if I was a prize pupil. “By the time she entered, all the monks were already dead. She interrupted a demon rampaging through the chapel—”

  “The chapel?” Demons can walk on holy ground, but it hurts like, well, hell. That’s one of the first things they teach you when you sign on with Forza—if a demon enters a church, his true nature will be revealed; the pain is simply unbearable. That’s why holy ground makes for such a great demon test.

  “Apparently she is the reason the chapel remained essentially unharmed. According to the woman, he was in a blind fury, probably borne of the torment of his presence in the church. She believed he was looking for something. Presumably he had not anticipated encountering a human, much less a Hunter.”

  “He attacked her?”

  “He did, and they fought. Because of his weakened state, she was able to easily subdue him. She was a clever thing, though, and prior to releasing him from the body he’d claimed, she forced him to reveal his mission. Or, at least, his master.”

  “Goramesh.”

  “Indeed. The demon’s last words were cryptic, but the Hunter believed the demon described San Diablo as his next target. The Hunter, of course, prevented the demon from doing any more mischief.”

  “More power to her,” I said, sending up a mental cheer for the girl on the front lines. “But did she find out what Goramesh was searching for?”

  “She did not.”

  “Oh.” I ran my teeth over my lower lip. “Well, is there some connection between the locations? Other than the nature of the attacks, I mean.”

  “At the moment I’ve been unable to find a connection, though I intend to do more research this evening. As for your review of the Church archives, perhaps you can see if any of the Church relics hail from any of those locations.”

  “Okay. No problem. I can do that.” I frowned, hoping I could do that. My frown deepened as another thought occurred to me. “What about the girl? The Hunter? It sounds like she was on the case. So why didn’t Forza send her here? I mean, if she already had a bead on the situation, why wait until demons start crashing through my windows? And why keep her out of the loop?”

  “She’s dead. She prevailed against Goramesh’s minion, but she was mortally wounded in the process. She died six hours after telling her story to her alimentatore.”

  He spoke without emotion, but his voice was too tight, too controlled, and the story ripped my guts out. “She was yours,” I whispered.

  “She was, indeed.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  I closed my eyes, my throat full of tears, as I mourned that girl I’d never known. That girl who—once upon a time—could have been me.

  I thought of Timmy and Allie and Stuart, and fear settled over me, cold and clingy. It still could be me.

  At eighteen, death hadn’t scared me. But leaving my kids alone in the world? Not being there when they needed me most?

  I buried my head in my pillow and cried.

  It’s amazing what a few demons will do for one’s level of piety. I confess I’d been less than diligent in making sure we all went to Mass on Sundays, but this morning I rustled everyone up, and we managed to make the eleven o’clock service.

  Allie had surprised me by not protesting too violently when I hauled her and Mindy out of bed at nine. Mindy had taken a pass on joining us, and although Allie’s expression had turned wistful at Mindy’s plans to do nothing but “veg out” on the last day before school, in the end my daughter came willingly (willingly being a relative term where fourteen-year-olds are concerned). Even Stuart hadn’t protested too much, though he had insisted on taking both cars so that he could head to the office immediately following the service. Now that the Mass had ended, I kissed him good-bye, then sent Allie off to get Tim from the nursery while I hung back, wanting to talk to Father Ben.

  I’d called Delores earlier that morning, and she’d been so ecstatic that I was ninety-nine percent certain she would have already snagged Father Ben and relayed the good news.

  I loitered in front of the annex while he did the meet-and-greet routine with all the parishioners. When the crowd cleared away, he saw me and his already bright smile doubled in intensity. Nothing makes Father Ben happier than an enthusiastic volunteer.

  “Kate, I was hoping I’d see you. Delores told me you’re going to start going through the in-kind donations.”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Honestly, I wanted to tell him the truth, but I’d been too well trained to break Forza’s strict rules. “I wanted to pitch in with more than just typing. I mean, I know there’s quite a lot of work to be done.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” he said.

  “Always happy to help.” I sounded way too perky for someone offering to sit in a dark room and wade through dusty boxes probably filled with spiders. I couldn’t seem to rein in my tone, though.

  Fortunately, Father Ben either didn’t notice or didn’t find my enthusiasm odd. Then again, even if he did, why comment? As it was, he was about to pick up a slave laborer. Why insult her by telling her she’s nuts?

  We arranged a time to meet on Monday, and were just wrapping up our conversation when Allie and Timmy scrambled up. (In all fairness, Timmy was doing the scrambling. Allie was tagging behind him, her face a familiar mix of irritation and amusement. I knew that expression; it used to be mine.)

  “Mom! Grab him, already!”

  I reached out and managed to snag my runaway munchkin with a quick shift to the left. “Gotcha!”

  He erupted into peals of giggles and went limp, falling to the ground and squealing “No tickling, Mommy” when he very clearly wanted desperately to be tickled. I complied, managing to avoid flailing feet as I caught him in one big tickle extravaganza. While he squealed, I scooped him up and let him hang upside down as I said good-bye to Father Ben and promised to see him in the morning.

  Only after Allie and I were heading toward the car—me with a limp bundle of boy—did I realize that I could hardly spend the day plowing through church records with a toddler clinging to my thigh. I could barely sit down long enough to check my e-mail without Timmy throwing a fit. Several hours in a basement expecting him to behave just wasn’t feasible.

  I frowned, considering my options. I could count on Laura to watch him once or twice, but unless I was extremely lucky (doubtful considering the direction of my luck lately), I wasn’t going to find the answer by Wednesday.

  Bottom line? I was going to have to find a day care, not to mention pay for it. That was something I couldn’t keep secret from Stuart, and the thought of discussing it with him made my stomach hurt almost as much as the idea of leaving my baby in someone else’s charge during the day.

  Allie must have caught my expression as I was strapping Tim into his car seat. She frowned, then started to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Then, being fourteen, she changed her mind again. “Mom?”

  “Yeah, hon?”

  “Oh, nothing. No big.”

  I could tell from her voice that it wasn’t nothing, but in a particularly bad mommy moment, I pretended to be too caught up with my toddler to notice. I gave Tim’s straps a tug, handed him his sippy cup and Boo Bear, then trotted around the van to the driver’s side. By the time I slid behind the wheel, Allie was already
buckled in. She looked fine, but she was picking at her fingernails, peeling away the purple glitter polish she and Mindy had so carefully applied last night.

  Damn.

  I dreaded answering questions that I didn’t want voiced, but at the same time, I couldn’t really assume this was all about me. For all I knew, Allie had a deep and desperate crush on one of the altar boys.

  I waited until I’d maneuvered the winding road that led from the cathedral back down to the Pacific Coast Highway. Then I headed north toward our neighborhood, the Pacific Ocean on my left and my daughter—moody and quiet—on my right.

  “Anything you want to talk about?”

  Her shoulders lifted. “Uhdunna.”

  I thought about that for a second, then interpreted it as I don’t know. Ah-ha! Progress.

  “Are you worried about school tomorrow?”

  Another shrug, this one accompanied with an “I guess.”

  It was an opening, and I grabbed it. I was pretty sure school wasn’t on her mind at the moment, but since I didn’t have any other leads, I jumped in with both feet. “You’re going to be fine. You have, what, three classes with Mindy? And most of your junior-high friends are going to Coronado. Give it a month, and you’ll forget you were ever worried.”

  Behind us, Timmy was carrying on a serious conversation with Boo Bear. I glanced toward the backseat, and he flashed me a sleepy grin, then pulled the bedraggled bear closer. I didn’t need to look at my watch to tell it was getting close to naptime.

  “I know,” she said, still picking at her fingernails. “It’s not that.”

  “Boys?”

  “Mo-ther!” She arched her back and tossed her head, letting loose a sigh of exasperation. Now, this was the kid I knew. “It’s not like I always think about boys.”

  “That’s good to know,” I said. I kept my eyes fixed on the road, afraid that if I looked at my daughter, I’d crack a smile. “I’m very happy to hear that.”

  From the corner of my eye, I could see her shaking her head, completely exasperated with the pain-in-the-butt who was her mother.