Six Times a Charm

by Deanna Chase

  “Oh, yeah. They’re locked in Mindy’s room trying out all my Clinique samples. If they get bored, we’ll go get ice cream. But I don’t see boredom in their future. I’ve got two years’ worth of samples in that box. I figure that works out to at least four hours of free time. I’m going to make some popcorn, stick in one of my old Cary Grant videos, and wait up for Paul.”

  “Oh, sure, rub it in,” I said.

  She laughed. “You’ve got your own Cary Grant”

  “And he’ll be home soon. I’d better run.”

  She clicked off after making me promise to call if I needed anything. But for once, I actually had it under control. Amazing. I tucked the dust mop in the utility closet, then headed back to take a final look at the living room. Comfortable and presentable. Some might even say it had a casual elegance. The dancing dinosaur on the television screen really didn’t add to the ambience, but I’d close up the entertainment center as soon as Timmy went to bed.

  I was running through my mental checklist as I headed back into the kitchen. A flash of movement outside the kitchen window caught my attention, and I realized I’d forgotten to feed Kabit, our cat.

  I considered waiting until after the party, decided that wasn’t fair, then crossed to the breakfast area where we keep the cat food bowl on a little mat next to the table. I’d just bent to pick up the water dish when the sound of shattering glass filled the room.

  I was upright almost instantly, but that wasn’t good enough. The old man from Wal-Mart bounded through the wrecked window, surprisingly agile for an octogenarian, and launched himself at me. We tumbled to the ground, rolling across the floor and into the actual kitchen, until we finally came to a stop by the stove. He was on top of me, his bony hands pinning down my wrists, and his face over mine. His breath reeked of rancid meat and cooked cauliflower, and I made a vow to never, ever ignore my instincts again.

  “Time to die, Hunter,” he said, his voice low and breathy and not the least bit old-sounding.

  A little riffle of panic shot through my chest. He shouldn’t know I used to be a Hunter. I was retired. New last name. New hometown. This was bad. And his words concerned me a heck of a lot more than the kill-fever I saw in his eyes.

  I didn’t have time to worry about it, though, because the guy was shifting his hands from my wrists to my neck, and I had absolutely no intention of getting caught in a death grip.

  As he shifted his weight, I pulled to the side, managing to free up my leg. I brought it up, catching his groin with my knee. He howled, but didn’t let go. That’s the trouble with demons; kneeing them in the balls just doesn’t have the effect it should. Which meant I was still under him, smelling his foul breath, and frustrated as hell because I didn’t need this shit. I had a dinner to fix.

  From the living room, I heard Timmy yelling, “Momma! Momma! Big noise! Big noise!” and I knew he was abandoning the video to come find out where the big noise came from.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d closed the baby gate, and there was no way my two-year-old was going to see his mom fighting a demon. I might be out of practice, but right then, I was motivated. “I’ll be right there!” I yelled, then pulled on every resource in my body and flipped over, managing to hop on Pops. I scraped at his face, aiming for his eyes, but only scratched his skin.

  He let out a wail that sounded as if it came straight from the depths of hell, and lurched toward me. I sprang back and up, surprised and at the same time thrilled that I was in better shape than I realized. I made a mental note to go to the gym more often even as I kicked out and caught him in the chin. My thigh screamed in pain, and I knew I’d pay for this in the morning.

  Another screech from the demon, this time harmonized by Timmy’s cries and the rattle of the baby gate that was, thank God, locked. Pops rushed me, and I howled as he slammed me back against the granite countertops. One hand was tight around my throat, and I struggled to breathe, lashing out to absolutely no effect.

  The demon laughed, his eyes filled with so much pleasure that it pissed me off even more. “Useless bitch,” he said, his foul breath on my face. “You may as well die, Hunter. You surely will when my master’s army rises to claim victory in his name.”

  That didn’t sound good, but I couldn’t think about it right then. The lack of oxygen was getting to me. I was confused, my head swimming, everything starting to fade to a blackish purple. But then Timmy’s howls dissolved into whimpers. A renewed burst of anger and fear gave me strength. My hand groped along the counter until I found a wineglass. My fingers closed around it, and I slammed it down, managing to break off the base.

  The room was starting to swim, and I needed to breathe desperately. I had one chance, and one chance only. With all the strength I could muster I slammed the stem of the wineglass toward his face, then sagged in relief when I felt it hit home, slipping through the soft tissue of his eyeball with very little resistance.

  I heard a whoosh and saw the familiar shimmer as the demon was sucked out of the old man, and then the body collapsed to my floor. I sagged against my counter, drawing gallons of air into my lungs. As soon as I felt steady again, I focused on the corpse on my newly cleaned floor and sighed. Unlike in the movies, demons don’t dissolve in a puff of smoke or ash, and right as I was staring down at the body, wondering how the heck I was going to get rid of it before the party, I heard the familiar squeak of the patio door, and then Allie’s frantic voice in the living room. “Mom! Mom!”

  Timmy’s yelps joined my daughter’s, and I closed my eyes and prayed for strength.

  “Don’t come in here, sweetie. I broke some glass and it’s all over the floor.” As I talked, I hoisted my dead foe by the underarms and dragged him to the pantry. I slid him inside and slammed the door.

  “What?” Allie said, appearing around the corner with Timmy in her arms.

  I counted to five and decided this wasn’t the time to lecture my daughter about listening or following directions. “I said don’t come in here.” I moved quickly toward her, blocking her path. “There’s glass all over the place.”

  “Jeez, Mom.” Her eyes were wide as she took in the mess that was now my kitchen. “Guess you can’t give me any more grief about my room, huh?”

  I rolled my eyes.

  She glanced at the big picture window behind our breakfast table. The one that no longer had glass. “What happened?”

  “Softball,” I said. “Just crashed right through.”

  “Wow. I guess Brian finally hit a homer, huh?”

  “Looks that way.” Nine-year-old Brian lived next door and played softball in his backyard constantly. I felt a little guilty blaming the mess on him, but I’d deal with that later.

  “I’ll get the broom.”

  She plunked Timmy onto his booster seat, then headed for the pantry. I caught her arm. “I’ll take care of it, sweetie.”

  “But you’ve got the party!”

  “Exactly. And that’s why I need to be able to focus.” That really made no sense, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Listen, just put Timmy to bed for me, then head on back to Mindy’s. Really. I’ll be fine.”

  She looked unsure. “You’re sure?”

  “Absolutely. It’s all under control. Why’d you come back, anyway?”

  “I forgot my new CD.”

  I should have guessed. I picked Timmy back up (who, thankfully, was quiet now and watching the whole scene with interest). “Put the munchkin down and you’ll be doing me a huge favor.”

  She frowned, but didn’t argue as she took Timmy from me.

  “Night, sweetie,” I said, then gave both her and Timmy a kiss.

  She still looked dubious, but she readjusted her grip on Timmy and headed toward the stairs. I let out a little sigh of relief and glanced at the clock. I had exactly forty-three minutes to clean up the mess in my kitchen, dispose of a dead demon, and pull together a dinner party. After that, I could turn my attention to figuring out what a demon was doing in San Diablo. And, more impo
rtant, why he had attacked me.

  But first, the rigatoni.

  Did I have my priorities straight, or what?

  Chapter 2

  The appetizers were in the oven, the table was set, the wine was breathing, and I was dragging a demon carcass across the kitchen floor when I heard the automatic garage door start its slow, painful grinding to the top. Shit.

  I stopped dead, my gaze darting to the clock on the oven. Six twenty-five. He was early. The man who’d been ten minutes late to our wedding (and this after I told him it started thirty minutes earlier than it did) had actually managed to make it home on time.

  I scowled at the corpse in my arms. “This really is a day of wonders, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t answer, which I considered a good thing—you can never be too careful with demons—and I shifted my stance, grunting as I maneuvered him back toward the pantry. Knowing our garage door, I figured I had at least two minutes before Stuart stepped into the kitchen. Stuart keeps meaning to fix the thing, and I keep pestering him to hurry up and do it, but right then I was supremely grateful that my husband could procrastinate with the best of them. My original plan had been to get the body out the back door and into the storage shed where I knew neither Stuart nor Allie would dream of wandering. I’d already left a message for Father Corletti telling him about the demon and the cryptic Satanic army message, and as soon as he called me back, I’d insist he send a collection team stat.

  In the meantime, I resigned myself to throwing a dinner party with a demon in my pantry. I heard the familiar clunk of the garage door coming to a stop, then the purr of the Infiniti’s engine as Stuart pulled in. I listened, frantically shoving cat food bins aside to make room for the body.

  The engine died, and then a car door slammed.

  I shoved the demon where the cat food belonged, then slid the bins back in front of him. No good. I could still see the demon’s white shirt and blue pants peeking up behind the bins.

  The doorknob rattled, followed by the squeak of the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. I grabbed the first thing that looked remotely useful—a box of Hefty trash bags—and ripped it open. I pulled out bag after bag, whipping them open and tossing them over the body and the bins. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

  “Kate?”

  My heart beat somewhere in my throat, and I leaped across the pantry in a move that might have been graceful had it not been so desperate. I stuck my head around the open door, smiled at my husband, and hoped to hell I looked happy to see him.

  “I’m right here, sweetie,” I said. “You’re home early.”

  He aimed a trademark Stuart Connor grin my way. “You mean I’m home on time.”

  I stepped out of the pantry, then shut the door firmly behind me. “With you, that is early.” I planted a loving, wifely kiss on his cheek. Then I took his briefcase, pressed a firm hand against his back, and aimed him out of the kitchen. “You must have had a hard day,” I said. “How about a glass of wine?”

  He stopped moving, turning to look at me as if I might have been possessed by demons. “Kate, the guests will be here in half an hour.”

  “I know. And this is an important night for you. You should be relaxed.” I urged him forward. “Red or white?”

  He didn’t move. “Kate.”

  “What?”

  “Half an hour,” he repeated. “And you’re not dressed, and—” His eyes widened, his mouth shut, and I knew exactly what he was looking at.

  “Brian got a homer,” I said, then shrugged. Mentally I cursed myself. I’d cleaned up the glass, then drawn our sheer curtains for camouflage, but there was nothing I could do about the breeze blowing in, kicking the flimsy material up like so many dancing ghosts.

  He looked at me. “Have you called a glass shop?”

  Okay, now I was annoyed. I cocked an eyebrow, planted a hand on my hip, and glared at him. “No, Stuart, I haven’t. I’ve been a little busy throwing together a last-minute dinner party.”

  He looked from the window to me, and then back to the window. “The kids okay?”

  “No one was nearby when it shattered,” I lied.

  “Where’s Tim?”

  “Already asleep,” I said. “He’s fine. We’re all fine.”

  He studied me for a minute, then pushed a stray curl behind my ear. He stroked my temple, and I winced.

  “You call this fine?”

  I exhaled. I didn’t know if I’d been cut by the glass or scratched by the demon. “It’s just a nick,” I said. “No biggie.”

  “It could have got you in the eye.”

  I shrugged. It could have done a hell of a lot worse than that.

  He squeezed my hand. “I’m sorry about tonight I didn’t realize you’d be cleaning up a disaster area in addition to cooking a meal. Do you need any help?”

  Okay, I’d been mildly irritated with him, but that faded right then. “I’ve got it under control,” I said. “Go do whatever you need to do. You’re the one on the hot seat tonight.”

  He pulled me into his arms. “I really appreciate this. I know it’s last-minute, but I think it’ll pay off big-time.”

  “Campaign contributions?”

  “Possibly. But I’m hoping for endorsements. Two federal and two state judges. That’s a lot of clout.”

  “How can they not be impressed with you?” I asked, tilting my head back to look at him. “You’re amazing.”

  “You’re amazing,” he whispered in that soft voice that he really shouldn’t use unless he was planning to take me to bed. His lips closed over mine, and for a few sweet seconds I forgot about demons and dinner parties and rigatoni and—

  The appetizers!

  I broke the kiss. “The oven!” I said. “I need to take the appetizers out.” I couldn’t serve a federal judge burnt mini-quiches. I’m pretty sure that would be social and political suicide.

  “I’ll do it. And I’d better cover that window. It’s supposed to rain.” He looked me up and down. “I’m already dressed, but you need to change. They’ll be here soon, you know.”

  As if I could forget.

  ***

  I peeled off my PTA T-shirt on the stairs and slid out of my bra as I jogged down the hall to the double doors leading to our bedroom. Inside, I dropped the clothes on the floor, then shimmied out of my ratty sweatpants. I kicked the bundle out of my way, then grabbed the outfit I’d laid across the unmade bed. I’d picked up a cute little flower-print sundress during a T.J. Maxx shopping spree at the beginning of the summer (swimsuits and shorts for Allie, yet another growth spurt for Timmy). With its fitted bodice, tight waist, and flared skirt, it was both festive and flattering. Considering I mostly lived my life in T-shirts, jeans, or sweatpants, this was the first chance I’d had to wear it.

  With one eye trained on the digital clock next to the bed, I shoved my feet into some light blue mules, ran a brush through my hair, and stroked some mascara onto my eyelashes.

  I never got ready this quickly, but today I had incentive, and the whole process took less than three minutes. Didn’t matter. I could tell the second I raced into the kitchen that I’d taken too long. Way too long.

  “What the hell is this?” Stuart said. He was standing just inside the pantry, so I couldn’t see his face, just part of his arm and the back of his head.

  His voice didn’t help me, either. He sounded vaguely mystified, but that could as easily be a reaction to a new brand of cereal as it was to a dead body behind the cat food. If he was questioning my switch from Cheerios to Special K, then That’s an incapacitated demon, dear. I’ll get rid of him by morning would be an entirely inappropriate response.

  I’d sprinted across the room, and now I put a hand (wifely, supportive) on his shoulder and peered around him into the pantry. As far as I could tell, there was no visible demon. Just dozens of trash bags blanketing the small room.

  Big relief.

  “Um, what’s the trouble?”

  “This mess,” he said
.

  “Yes, right. Mess.” I was babbling, and I stood up straighter as if good posture would force more oxygen to my brain. “Allie,” I said, jumping on my first coherent thought. First Brian, now Allie. Had I no shame? “I’ll talk to her about this tomorrow.” I could tell he wanted to belabor the point—my husband is a total neat freak—so I urged him out of the pantry and shut the door. “I thought you were fixing the window.”

  “That’s why I went looking for the trash bags,” he said with a scowl. “Rain.”

  “Right. Of course. I’ll bring you some.” I pointed to the clock. “Thirty minutes, remember? Less now.”

  That got him moving, and in a whirlwind of male efficiency, he had the broken window covered in under fifteen minutes. “It’s not a very attractive job,” he admitted, finding me in the living room where I was arranging the tiny quiches on our tangerine-colored Fiestaware platters. “But it’ll keep the weather out.”

  But not the demons. I fought a little shiver and glanced in that direction, but all I could see was thick black plastic. I made a face and tried not to imagine a horde of demons crouched below the windowsill, just waiting to avenge their compatriot.

  Enough of that. I forced the thought away, then stood up and surveyed the rest of the room. Not bad. “Okay,” I said. “I think we’re ready for battle. If we can keep everyone corralled in the living room, the den, and the dining room, I think we’ll be okay.”

  “Oh,” Stuart said. “Well, sure. We can do that.”

  Warning bells went off in my head, and I thought of the piles of sorted laundry in the upstairs hallway, the disaster area Allie called a room, and the wide assortment of plush animals and Happy Meal toys that littered the playroom floor. Also, I was pretty sure the CDC wanted to quarantine the kids’ bathroom, hoping to find a cure for cancer in the new and exotic species of mildew growing around the tub.

  “You want to show someone the house?” I asked, in the same tone I might use if he’d suggested I perform brain surgery after dessert.

  “Just Judge Larson,” Stuart said, his voice losing a bit of steam as he watched my face. “He’s looking to buy a place, and I think he’d like the neighborhood.” He licked his lips, still watching me. “I’m, uh, sure he won’t mind if the place is in some disarray.”