by Julie Kenner
Blood!
I tried again to get some answers. “Once more. What happened?” I did a quick up-and-down scan, wincing as I did so. “Your head, sweetie. You’re going to need stitches.”
He reached up and dabbed an abrasion on his forehead. “It’s not deep. Head wounds just bleed a lot.”
“So I see.” I squeezed his hand. “Tell me. For that matter, convince me you’re okay, or we’re going to screw the party, back the car up, and get you to the hospital.”
“Paramedics already checked me out. I’m fine. Really, it looks worse than it is. A cut on my forehead and a bloody nose.”
I wasn’t convinced, but I knew Stuart well enough to know I wasn’t getting him to the hospital. “Fine. How’d you get the cut and the bloody nose?”
“Sideswiped turning onto California,” he said. “The driver’s side is mangled. I don’t know if they can repair it.”
“What?” I looked around, realizing suddenly that front and side airbags were hanging limp, decorating the car like some sort of perverse drapery. Apparently, I’d been too pissed—and then too worried—to notice. “My God, Stuart. How fast was he going? Did you get his license plate? Insurance? And are you sure you’re okay?”
Stuart took my hand, then lifted it to his lips and kissed my palms. Normally, I love it when he does that. Talk about an erogenous zone. Tonight, I wasn’t loving it. I felt too numb.
“Stuart . . .”
“Hush, sweetheart. It’s all right. I’m fine. I promise. I got a nasty bump on my head, a busted nose, and a sore wrist, but overall, I got off lucky. I was a little woozy for a while, but I’m fine now.”
I reached out, brushing his cheek. “You’re sure? Why didn’t you call?”
He leaned over, then picked half of a Motorola flip phone off the passenger floorboard. “Busted.”
“So I see.”
He rubbed his temple. “I didn’t think to have the paramedic call.” His smile was tentative. “Forgive me?”
I wanted to chew him out for scaring the hell out of me, but since he’d apologized first, I’d come off looking like a bitch. Instead, I dodged the question. “You’re sure you’re okay? That had to have been some accident.”
“Paramedic gave me a clean bill of health. No concussion. No nothing. I told you—I got lucky. I’m good to go.”
I frowned, not quite ready to come down from my current level of frantic wifedom. “Your clothes aren’t,” I said.
He actually laughed at that. “No, probably not. I’ve got a clean shirt in my briefcase. Grab me one?”
I considered debating, wanting to keep him there, safe with me in the garage. But I could tell he was itching to go play politician. Mentally I sighed. At least there was no question but that my husband was enjoying the political limelight.
I climbed into the backseat and fetched his briefcase, then popped out of the car and climbed into the van, returning with my emergency stash of baby wipes. Stuart stepped out of the car, then peeled his shirt off. I swabbed his face, cringing as I cleaned the gash on his forehead although my ministrations didn’t seem to bother him at all. He shrugged into the clean shirt and started to button it. “Am I presentable?”
I thought about arguing some more, trying to talk him out of the party. But I didn’t. Instead, I smiled and helped him adjust his tie. “Yeah,” I said. “You’ll do.”
With that endorsement, he headed inside. I waited a moment and then followed, wallowing in the harsh, sad truth—even if I destroyed all the demons in the world, I still couldn’t keep my family safe.
In the end Stuart’s cocktail party went over like a dream, fractured skull notwithstanding. (And, yeah, I know it was just an abrasion. So I exaggerate.) In deference to my tendency to overworry, Stuart refrained from drinking, and once all the guests left, he actually sat back and let me shine a flashlight at his pupils. Both shrank and dilated just like they’re supposed to do, and I felt infinitesimally better.
Stuart, in contrast, strutted around like the king of the castle, injuries all but forgotten; at least three people, including one very prominent restaurateur, had committed to backing his campaign. Stuart chalked this up to his considerable political presence and savvy. I laid full credit with the cheese puffs.
Allie came back at ten, pushing a sleeping Timmy in his stroller. While I put him to bed (he woke up once, demanded Boo Bear, then fell back to sleep), Allie and Stuart gathered all the leftover food, saving what we could in those disposable containers that cost a small fortune but are worth every penny.
That, at least, was the plan. When I came back down, the containers were empty and the two of them were seated at the table, a smorgasbord of leftover finger food fanned out in front of them. “You’re supposed to be cleaning up,” I said.
“If we eat it, then there’s nothing to clean,” Allie said.
I considered that, decided she had a point, then snarfed down another cheese puff myself. We did the family thing for about half an hour—Allie giving us the details of her day at school (where fourteen-year-olds are concerned, “details” is a rather amorphous concept), Stuart describing his car accident to Allie’s oohs and aahs, and me sitting back and wondering if there were demonic dogs out wandering the town—and what I could do about it if there were.
“Mom?”
My head snapped up. “Hmmm?”
Allie laughed. “You falling asleep?”
“It is getting late,” I said. “And I had a long day.” I fixed her with a motherly gaze. “So did you. Don’t you think it’s time for bed?”
“No,” she said, but then she yawned, totally destroying the effect. “Okay, maybe.”
She kissed us both good night, then headed upstairs, my “and don’t call Mindy” echoing behind her. I turned to Stuart next. “You should get in bed, too. If anyone’s had a busy day, it’s you, and I’m guessing you’re not going to call in sick tomorrow, no matter how much I beg.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Major land-use project in the works. If I called in, I’d just be dropping a mess in Clark’s lap, and I don’t think that’s the way to keep his love and admiration.”
“You were in a car accident.”
“After which I mingled at a cocktail party for two hours.”
“At least go to bed, then. No news. No Letterman. Just sleep.”
For a second, I thought he’d argue, but then he nodded and kissed me good night. “Actually, that’s not a bad idea.”
“Finally,” I said, “the voice of reason.”
I accompanied him upstairs, where my husband graciously succumbed to my worrisome ways as I checked his pupils once more, felt his forehead for fever, dabbed some Neosporin on the cut on his forehead (then topped it with a Big Bird Band-Aid), brought him a glass of water, and finally tucked him into bed. His mouth was twitching as I leaned in to kiss him good night. “Don’t say a word,” I said. “Just humor me.”
He made a zipping lips motion, then pulled me in for a kiss and a whispered thanks. “Don’t you stay up too late, either,” he said.
“Oh, I won’t,” I said breezily. “I just want to clean up a bit.”
I consoled myself with the fact that I’d told no lies. I did want to clean up—my living room and the entire demon population. Since I could hardly handle the latter that night, I decided to focus on the living room, and I puttered around the house until I was pretty sure both Allie and Stuart were asleep. Then I headed for the guest room and picked up the telephone.
I held it a minute before dialing, wondering what exactly I intended to do. Larson was right, of course. I couldn’t just emerge from retirement to go searching out demons in dark corners. I had a family to consider. A family that needed me alive and well.
If there was a specific threat—like, oh, a demon bursting through my window—then I’d happily put it out of my misery. But I could hardly go looking for trouble.
Despite all of that, I still found myself dialing the number for the police station.
“San Diablo Police Department. How may I direct your call?”
I cleared my throat, feeling a little silly. “Hi. I’m trying to find out if anyone has reported any dogs on the loose tonight.” I told myself I just needed reassurance. No dogs could mean that Todd Greer was a one-time thing. Not great (especially for Todd), but at least I’d have the comfort of knowing there probably weren’t demon hoards roaming the streets.
“One moment, please. I’ll transfer you.”
I had a vision of being transferred to the demon-dog division, then realized I’d had pathetic little sleep. An officer clicked on the line with a curt, “Metro division. Sergeant Daley.” I explained why I was calling, then waited for him to reassure me. He didn’t. “Normally, I’d tell you to call animal control in the morning, but it just so happens I got a report in about ten minutes ago.”
“You did?” Anger that the demon still prowled surged through me, but it was tinged with a wash of excitement. This is what you do, a little voice said, and I didn’t bother to correct the voice—this is what I did. I drew in a breath, then posed the next question. “Can you tell me where?”
“Lady, what’s your interest in this?”
I pulled another lie out of my pocket and told him that my sister owned an aggressive dog that had gotten loose, and I was trying to track it down again.
He harrumphed in my ear. “If this is your dog, it’s going to be put down. We think it attacked a college student a few days ago.”
“Believe me,” I said, “putting it down’s exactly what we have in mind.”
I think he decided I was basically harmless, because he gave me the location and told me that one of the professors had fought off an angry dog by throwing rocks. I wondered if that professor realized just how lucky he was.
I thanked the officer, hung up, then pulled the pillow into my lap in a gesture that was becoming familiar. Ten minutes ago a dog that fit the description of Todd Greer’s demonic canine had attacked near the college. The attack had been thwarted. To me, that meant it would try again.
What should I do?
The odds were good there was nothing I could do. The dog had probably already found another victim. Right now it was undoubtedly curled up asleep, flush from the hunt, while a new human-looking demon wandered the campus.
But what if it wasn’t?
What if it was still prowling?
And what if I could stop it?
Shit.
I hugged the pillow tighter, letting my gaze drift to the door. I thought about what lay beyond it—my husband, my daughter, my baby boy. A fist seemed to clutch my heart and squeeze. I knew what I should do. I should go to the college. Look for the dog. See if I could save an innocent victim. I was a Hunter, after all. I had responsibilities.
I was a wife and mom, too. And those responsibilities counted for a lot. Not getting myself dead was pretty high on my priority list.
But that dog was out there. And nobody but me knew what they were dealing with.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten, the certainty of what I was going to do settling over me. The bottom line was that I could never live with myself if some kid died that I could have saved.
Slowly I crept into Tim’s room. He was sleeping soundly, and I pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. He shifted under his blanket, and I held my breath, wondering if he’d wake up. He didn’t, and so I said a silent promise to return soon, then tiptoed out of the room.
Allie and Stuart were much lighter sleepers, so I didn’t risk a kiss. Instead, I let my fingers trail over each of their closed doors as I passed. Once downstairs, I hit the button for the garage door opener. The thing makes such a racket that I stood stock-still in the kitchen the entire time it was climbing, waiting to see if anyone would wake up.
No one did, so I wrote a note for Stuart saying I’d gone to buy milk (first I dumped the last of our milk down the drain), then I headed into the garage. I climbed into the van and cranked the engine. I debated for a bit, but finally pulled out my cell phone and dialed Larson’s number. I knew he disapproved, but he was my alimentatore, and he should at least be aware of what I was doing.
I let the engine idle as the phone rang—once, twice, three times. And no machine. I frowned. That was annoying. I tried again, this time calling his cell phone. Again, no Larson, but at least I got his voice mail. “Hey,” I said. “It’s me. Kate. I, uh, just wanted to let you know that I’m going to do a drive around the college. I got a lead that the demon dog might be there. So, well, there you go. That’s why I called. Bye.”
I hung up, feeling a bit like a teenager staying out after curfew. I fidgeted in my seat, turning the cell phone in my hand as if it were one of those worry stones. Like every good Catholic, I have a close personal relationship with guilt. And I hated the idea of going without Larson’s okay. But I hated more the idea of not going tonight. If some other kid got nailed . . . well, that would be guilt.
Since Larson wasn’t available, I did the next best thing. I called the Vatican. (I will admit, that’s one of the cool things about being a Hunter. With how many jobs is dialing the Vatican for assistance an option?) I hadn’t thought to calculate the time, but the operator put me through right away, and I almost sagged with relief when I heard Father Corletti’s voice.
“Katherine, mia cara. Com’é bello sentire la tua voce!”
“It’s good to hear your voice, too, Father.”
“What brings you to call? Has something happened?”
“No . . . yes . . . I mean, no, we don’t know any more about Goramesh, but yes, something’s happened.” I gave him the quick-and-dirty rundown. “I know I’m breaking protocol by calling you now that I have an alimentatore, but Larson’s unavailable and I need to move now if I’m going to check it out,” I continued. “I want to, but I’m afraid Larson will think it’s a bad idea. Or, at least, a futile one.”
“I see . . .” He trailed off, but I stayed silent. I knew Father well enough to know he was considering all options. “You cannot ignore your instincts, child. Your alimentatore is your mentor, your adviser, but he is not your superior. In the end, you must follow your own path.”
I exhaled then, not realizing I’d been holding my breath. Vindication is a wonderful thing. “Thanks. Wilson used to tell me the same thing.”
I heard the deep rumble of his laugh. “As would your current alimentatore.”
“Larson said they knew each other.”
“So they did. Their professional relationship was strong, but their friendship was stronger.”
“Thanks for telling me.” Somehow, knowing that Larson was close to Wilson made me feel even closer to Larson. Silly, but there’s no accounting for emotions.
“And since I do have you on the line, tell me, has Edward proved to be of any use to you?”
Edward? “Who the he—heck is Edward?”
“A retired Hunter,” Father said, surprise in his voice. “A brilliant mind, and he has as much skill as a fighter. He has, of course, been unavailable for much time now. I had hope, though, that he would have thoughts on the Goramesh problem.”
“A Hunter? I thought you said there weren’t any.”
“Larson only recently became aware that Edward had moved to your area. He sent word to me immediately, of course. I assumed you were also acquainted with the man. I take it that is not so?”
“No,” I said, a knot forming in my gut. “Edward and I haven’t been formally introduced.” But at the moment I really—really—wanted to meet the man.
Twelve
Considering how agitated I was, it’s a wonder I didn’t have a car accident racing from the house to the college. Another Hunter? Why wouldn’t Larson have told me?
I couldn’t think of any answers, so the same questions just kept bouncing through my head, distracting me, and, frankly, upping my blood pressure. I dialed Larson’s cell phone number and his home number—both twice—but got no answer in either case. This time, not even voice mail. I w
as feeling very persona non grata and my attention span was shot. I knew I needed to focus, but I was having a hard time shifting from irritation to concentration. I had to, though. If that damn (and damned) dog slipped by me unnoticed, I might as well have just stayed home.
Come on, Kate. Quit obsessing.
Good advice. After all, there were any number of reasons Larson might not have hooked me up with this Edward person. Maybe Edward had moved on to L.A. or San Francisco or some place equally geographically undesirable. Or maybe Edward, unlike me, wasn’t about to be sucked out of retirement, and he’d told Larson to take a flying leap.
For all I knew, the elusive Edward could be dead.
I was cruising up and down the darkened streets that surrounded the small community college campus. Built in a warehouse district, the college had a particularly abandoned feel at night. I slowed down, moving my gaze purposefully from one side of the street to the other as I forced myself to think only about the surroundings and not about the Edward mystery.
I rolled down my window, listening for screams, howls, footfalls, anything. But I heard nothing. Come the weekend, I knew, I’d hear a deep bass thrum, highlighted by a cacophony of voices as students traipsed to the various empty warehouses in search of the next rave party. San Diablo may be sleepy, but it isn’t dead (the recent influx of demonic fiends notwithstanding).
Tonight, though, I didn’t even hear the scuttle of rats in the alleys. Most likely, the demon dog had moved on. A lot of time had passed since the police received the report. For all I knew, the dog could be all the way on the north side of town by now.
I was part relieved and part irritated. I’d come all this way, and I hated the thought that some kid up north might end up being a victim. But I couldn’t be two places at once and, frankly, I probably shouldn’t be here at all. I ought to be home, with my husband and kids.
And I was just about to turn the van around and go back there when I heard it—a soft scrape of metal against metal. And then, farther away, a jumble of voices. Students, maybe? Working late in the labs and walking home together?
