Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

No such luck.

  “I’m your grandfather, sonny,” Eddie called from the living room. (At least we knew his hearing worked well.) “Mind your manners there, boy.”

  As Stuart’s eyes widened, I closed my own, counted to ten, then opened them again with the secret wish that everything would be calm and wonderful, all my problems would be solved, and my family (real and fake) would be living in peaceful harmony.

  No go.

  “Kate . . .” Stuart’s voice was calm, but no-nonsense. I sighed, resigned to telling him some version of the truth.

  “He was in a nursing home,” I said. (Truth.) “And they were keeping him all drugged up.” (Also truth.) “Plus, I think he has Alzheimer’s.” (Sorta truth. I wasn’t sure what was wrong with Eddie. All I knew from my brief time with him was that truth and fiction were mixed up in his head, and either one might come spewing out without any warning at all.)

  “I sympathize,” Stuart said. “But why is he now in our living room? Both my grandfathers have been dead for years. And the man dropping potato chip crumbs onto our living room carpet is very much not dead. Yet.”

  “Right,” I said. “He’s not. Dead, I mean.”

  (Pregnant pause.)

  “Kate . . .”

  Another sigh from me. I really should have planned this one better. When I’d returned to Coastal Mists, Eddie had been due for another dose of meds. He’d been coherent (more or less) and when I’d explained that I was taking him home with me, I’d expected a bit of a paperwork nightmare. Instead, the whole process had been smooth as silk, as if I were immune to the red tape that normally tied itself around hospitals and the like.

  I helped him pack (though since I had Tim with me, the bulk of my help consisted of rescuing his belongings from the fingers of my toddler). Then we started schlepping toward the front desk.

  Melinda stopped us on the way out. “Mr. Lohmann,” she’d gushed. “You’re leaving us?”

  He squinted at her, then pointed a wizened finger at me. “She’s training the little one to hunt demons,” he’d said. “I’m helping.”

  To which I’d naturally rolled my eyes and—because I’m an idiot—said, “He’s coming to live with us.”

  “Your son must be very excited,” Melinda said to Eddie.

  “My who?”

  Melinda looked at me, clearly confused, which made sense considering I’d earlier given her the long song and dance about how he was related to my husband. In retrospect, I probably should have just let it pass, but since Stuart does have a father, and since he is very much alive and coherent, and since I had no idea if Desmond Connor was a close personal friend of the director of Coastal Mists, I announced that Eddie was my first husband’s grandfather. No relation to Stuart whatsoever. “Of course I have to take him home with me,” I said. “My daughter needs to know her great-grandpa, and I won’t be able to sleep knowing I didn’t do everything in my power to take care of Eric’s grandfather.”

  Melinda oohed and aahed about how sweet I was, and while I hung my head and tried to look modest and unmartyrlike, Eddie crouched down to Timmy’s level. “You can call me Gramps,” he said. At which point Tim reached out and yanked Eddie’s eyebrow.

  “Caterpillar,” he said. “Fuzzy caterpillar.”

  Not being entirely stupid, I figured that was our cue to leave, and we gathered Eddie’s things, signed the necessary papers, and headed out the door.

  To my relief, Nurse Ratched was nowhere to be seen. I had mental images of her chasing after us, not letting us leave, and hordes of demons descending on us, intent on slaughtering us first, then burying us in the basement. I told myself I was being paranoid, but I knew I really wasn’t. I had no doubt that my geriatric demon had been a Coastal Mists resident, and I fully intended to let Larson in on the problem, and he could relay it up the Forza chain of command. It wasn’t my problem, though. My problem was about five-eight, a hundred seventy pounds, with a stubbly gray beard and eyebrows that vaguely resembled caterpillars.

  I got both my problems safely into the car. (For those of you keeping track, Eddie was problem number one. Timmy, as a toddler, automatically qualifies as a problem in any situation that involves moving from point A to point B.)

  I’d come up with the Eddie-as-grandfather story solely to ease our departure from Coastal Mists, and, frankly, it hadn’t occurred to me that Eddie would adopt the story as his own, much less believe it. For that matter, I didn’t know if he really did believe it. All I knew was that as soon as I got him to the house, he made himself at home (witness the potato chips), tucked Timmy on his lap (who immediately continued his rapt inspection of the eyebrow insects), and told Allie that she looked just like her mother, and was I training her well?

  To Allie’s credit, she registered less shock at encountering the old man in the living room than I would have expected, and I deflected his questions by sending her upstairs to do homework before dinner. Eddie and I needed to have a talk, that much was for sure.

  Unfortunately, Stuart got home before we could have the talk. (In case you’re wondering, springing elderly in-laws on unsuspecting spouses—particularly where you’re proposing a live-in arrangement of some unknown duration—is not the key to a laid-back evening.)

  As usual, Stuart entered through the kitchen, his tie askew and his briefcase weighing heavy in his hand. I could see in his face that all he wanted to do was drop his stuff in his study and change into jeans and a T-shirt. Too bad for him, I wasn’t about to let him pass.

  I cornered him near the refrigerator. He shot me a “later, honey” look and pushed past. I counted to five. Sure enough, as soon as he rounded the corner and saw Eddie on the couch with Tim, my husband backtracked. “Okay,” he said. “Who is he?”

  And that, of course, was when I started to regale him with the long-lost-grandfather-in-law story. Never once did I expect Eddie to announce that he was Stuart’s grandfather, or for me to gently correct him with, “No, Gramps, Eric’s your grandson, remember? Stuart’s my second husband.”

  All of which would have been fine (well, relatively speaking) if Allie hadn’t overheard the whole thing. “Daddy’s grandpa?” Her tentative whisper sounded from behind me, and I drew in a breath. As I turned around, she moved toward him, then took his gnarled hand in her own. “You’re my daddy’s grandfather?”

  Tears filled my eyes, and as I looked up at Stuart, I saw my own pain reflected there. His parents had been nothing but sweet to Allie, and I know she loved them dearly, but this was blood. A bond with the past that she’d never known existed (in part, of course, because it didn’t exist).

  I had to tell her the truth, though. Eric and I had both been orphans. We didn’t know who our parents were, much less our grandparents. But as I started to take a step toward her, I hesitated. Allie’s eyes were bright, her cheeks pink, and when Eddie (who must have been quite the charmer in his day) told her she had her father’s eyes, I swear, she melted a little.

  This was a lie, yes. But was it really so bad? Allie craved a heritage, after all, and that wasn’t something I ever thought I could give her. Somehow, though, I’d managed. I’d brought home a family history. So what if it was an illusion?

  Besides, how did I know that Eddie wasn’t really Eric’s grandfather? Stranger things had happened. I know. They happened to me all the time.

  With Allie and Eddie safely (I hoped) ensconced in the living room, Stuart decided it was time to recommence his interrogation of me. “Once again,” he said, “how long is Gramps there going to be our houseguest? And why can’t he stay at a hotel?”

  “Long story,” I said, then added a shhhh. “Do you want Allie to hear?” This is what’s known as a diversionary tactic.

  “Don’t change the subject on me,” he said. (As a lawyer, Stuart’s pretty adept at picking up on the nuances of diversion. Too bad for me.)

  I made a show of sighing. “I tried to call you,” I said. “Just after lunchtime. Your secretary said you’d stepped out.” This was whe
re I expected him to take the opening and explain to me why he’d gone to the cathedral.

  “Did you try my cell phone?”

  “Um, no,” I said. That wasn’t the comment I’d expected, although his answer did remind me that I had a nicely wrapped phone in the trunk with Allie’s name on it. First things first, though, and I came up with a reasonable-sounding fib. “My phone was dead.” I knew Stuart would understand. I didn’t bother to memorize numbers—I just kept them programmed in my phone. If mine had no juice, there was no way I could call Stuart or anyone else. I figure I’m doing good on any given day to keep track of all my kids’ various appointments. Adding the memorization of phone numbers would be cruel and unusual.

  “Late lunch,” he said. “I met with some members of the zoning commission about a project, and some of them seemed amenable to talking politics—”

  “And so you did,” I said. I lifted myself up on my toes and kissed his cheek. “Darling Stuart. Always campaigning.” My voice might be cheery, but my insides were churning. Not only had my husband not volunteered his business at the church, he’d flat out lied to me about where he’d been.

  I didn’t know what that meant.

  But I knew that I sure as hell didn’t like it.

  I spent the next two hours feeding my expanded-by-one family and pondering my own hypocrisy. By the time the meat loaf was gone and the string beans devoured (or, in Timmy’s case, mushed into tiny pieces and methodically dropped on the floor), I’d decided that while I had a Get Out of Jail Free card for my lying, my husband did not.

  This conclusion, of course, only made me more frustrated.

  Stuart wasn’t volunteering any information, and my very subtle hints to extract some (“Why don’t you join us for Mass on Sunday, sweetie? You really should go to the cathedral every week”) had failed miserably. I should have just asked him outright, but something in the pit of my stomach told me I wouldn’t like the answer.

  Eddie ate nothing but mashed potatoes, while Allie snarfed down her food and then spent the rest of the meal staring at her newly acquired relative. At one point Eddie leaned over and pinched her upper arm. As Allie squealed, Eddie grunted with satisfaction. “This one can whack a demon. Mark my words. She’s a spitfire.” He smacked his lips, his eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. “I knew a spitfire once. Reminds me of our Allie. Long brown hair. Lethal hands. And legs that could drive a man to—”

  “Eddie.”

  He snorted, but shut up. Allie, of course, looked both pleased and curious.

  Great.

  “Demons?” Stuart said. “What are you talking about?”

  “Eddie used to be a cop,” I said, lying now coming almost naturally. “He and his friends called the bad guys demons.”

  “Demons are the bad guys,” Eddie said. “And believe you me, I’ve known some bad ones in my time, that’s for sure.”

  I opened my mouth to get a word in, but Eddie rambled on.

  “Vile things. And the stench? Hoo-boy . . .” He made a waving motion as if to dispel the odor.

  Stuart turned to me and mouthed (not very subtly, either) How long?

  I punted, focusing on Eddie. “You’re not on the force anymore, Gramps,” I said. “And Allie certainly isn’t.”

  Eddie peered at me, his eyes narrow, a smear of mashed potatoes beside his mouth. “Who are you? Where am I? WHERE’S MY HOLY WATER?”

  Allie’s eyes widened, and I aimed a gentle smile in her direction. “Gramps is getting old, sweetie. Sometimes he loses touch.”

  “A cop, huh?” Stuart said, clearly trying to lighten the mood.

  Allie looked from Eddie to me and back again, worry etched on her face. Finally she drew in a breath. “I could be a cop,” she said, in a small voice. “That’s cool. And tomorrow Cutter’s going to show me how to toss guys over my shoulder.” She was gathering steam, her initial trepidation fading. “Right, Mom?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. Then, in case that just spurred Eddie on, I added, “Self-defense class,” for clarification.

  Eddie reached over and patted Allie’s hand. “You’ll knock ’em dead, little girl.” And when he flashed a tobacco-stained grin, I couldn’t help but cringe. If I had my way, Allie wouldn’t ever knock anything dead. And nothing dead would ever knock her, either.

  But Eddie’s comment had been good, nonetheless, because I could see the discomfort drain away from Allie. She even scooted her chair a little closer. “Did you ever toss anyone over your shoulder, Gramps?”

  He waved his hand (which, unfortunately, held a forkful of potatoes). “All the time,” he said. “Every single day.”

  I almost called a stop to the conversation, but in the end I decided it was harmless enough. I concentrated on feeding Timmy, half-listening to Eddie and Allie’s fast-track bonding experience. They were in their own little world, Stuart and Timmy and me all but forgotten as Eddie offered Allie all sorts of tips for tossing those pesky bad guys over her shoulder.

  Stuart shot me a you-got-us-into-this look, but I just smiled and pretended like this was the most normal thing in the world. After dinner, while Eddie supervised Allie’s clearing of the table, Stuart took my elbow and steered me into his study.

  “You still haven’t answered me. Why?” he asked. “And how long?”

  I couldn’t tell him the real truth—I think he knows something about Goramesh, and I can’t risk the demons deciding to kill him off—and so I told another one. “Because I had to. They were keeping him all drugged up. I couldn’t let him go on living like that.” As for the other question—how long?—for that, I had no answer.

  Stuart studied my face for a while, then he reached out and pressed a palm to each of my cheeks, gently turning my face up until I was looking into his eyes. “It means that much to you?”

  I nodded, blinking a bit, as tears stung my eyes.

  “Okay, then. We’ll try and find someplace better suited. In the meantime he can stay here.” He turned, glancing toward the general direction of the kitchen. I knew he was thinking of Allie, and my heart melted just a little. I might not know what Stuart had been doing in the cathedral earlier, but I did know that he loved his family.

  “Thanks,” I whispered.

  “You don’t have to thank me,” he said. “We’re a team. I trust your decisions. I just wish I’d known before I came home and found him sprawled on the couch.”

  “Right,” I said. “Sure. Sorry.” (At this point you might think I’d tell him about Timmy. The whole “we’re a team” speech and all. But did I? No, I didn’t. Enrolling his son in day care was going to elicit a much more vigorous response than dragging home old Demon Hunters. And, quite honestly, I just wasn’t up for it. Not right then. But I resolved to tell him tomorrow. Or, at the very least, the day after. And maybe by the time I finally got around to confessing, the Goramesh problem would be solved and KidSpace and I could go our separate ways. I could dream, couldn’t I?)

  We headed back toward the kitchen, with me hurrying more than Stuart. (I didn’t really expect Eddie to say anything too revealing, and even if he did, I knew Allie wouldn’t believe him, but I wanted to be around just in case.) Stuart pulled the door open, then flashed me a grin. “I’m glad you signed Allie up for the self-defense classes,” he said. “I like knowing she’ll be able to protect herself against the demons.”

  I froze, my mouth hanging open.

  But Stuart just winked at me, then shook his head. “Demons,” he muttered, his voice tainted with mirth. “I’ll say this much for the guy—he’s got one hell of an imagination.”

  “So he really said Eddie could stay?” Laura asked. She was leaning up against the bathroom counter while I sat on the closed toilet seat, my fingers deep in the pile of suds on Timmy’s head.

  “Bubbles, Momma. Want more bubbles.”

  “Hold on a sec, sport,” I said to Timmy. To Laura, I said, “That’s what he said. For now at least.”

  “And day care? He was cool with that?”r />
  I concentrated on forming a mohawk out of Timmy’s lathered hair. Laura, no dummy, leaned back and let out a low whistle. “You’re living dangerously.”

  I shot her a quick glance over my shoulder. “On more than one count.”

  “Yeah. No kidding. Seen any demons lately?”

  “I’m a little curious about Nurse Ratched at the home, but if you mean did any sail through my windows today, then no.”

  “What are you going to do? Go back and clean out the demons?”

  I shook my head, my attention focused on Tim, who was singing “rubber ducky, you’re the one” at the top of his lungs. “No,” I said. “I got into this for one reason only. I’ll do what I can to stop Goramesh, and I’ll tell Larson so he can pass it up the food chain, but after that, I’m out of the demon biz.” I got out a washcloth and lathered my boy up. “They’ll find another Hunter,” I said. “They have to. I already have this life, and I’m not giving it up.”

  I heard Laura moving behind me, adjusting things on the bathroom counter. “Did you find anything in the archives today?”

  I gave her the CliffsNotes version, finishing with, “Not much to work with, huh?”

  “Not from the demon end, but it rates high on the gossip meter.”

  By this time I was toweling Timmy off, and I scooped his damp little body up and headed for his room. “Clark Curtis, you mean?” I plunked Timmy on the changing table, then crouched down to fish a diaper out of the bottom drawer.

  “Yup. Wild, huh? There were all these rumors a while back that he was going to quit and run for state senate. But then he never did and he just kept running in the local elections.”

  I shrugged. “That’s wild?” I’d expected something juicy. Gossip, in my opinion, needs a little more oomph.

  “Sure. His father said over and over again how Clark was going to inherit his entire fortune, and then he goes and leaves everything to the Church? That’s the stuff of soap operas.”

  “True,” I said. I’d had a similar thought myself. “But he seems perfectly content now,” I added. After all, he was doing the political thing and seemed to be making a success of it.