by Deanna Chase
“You didn’t tell me he knew Stuart.”
“I’m still processing the coincidence. He was just your average lawyer when Eric knew him. Now he’s a federal judge.”
“Great for Stuart,” she said, giving me a sideways look.
“Oh, absolutely,” I agreed. “These days, Stuart’s all about the endorsements.”
“Not so great for you, though, huh?”
I knew what she meant, of course. “I’ll deal. It’s not like I don’t think about Eric every day anyway. I mean, I see his face every time I look at Allie.” That much was true; the resemblance was remarkable. What I couldn’t tell Laura was that seeing Larson (well, Larson plus the whole demon-Goramesh-end-of-life-as-we-know-it thing) had prompted more than just memories of my first husband; it also brought into sharp relief the void in my relationship with Stuart. Eric and I had been partners in every sense of the word. He knew me from the inside out, and I him. With Stuart there were shadows between us—my past life (suddenly my present life), and the day-to-day details of his law practice. I didn’t really understand what he did when he went to the office, and although I tried—really I did— when he told me stories about his work life, my eyes tended to glaze over.
I wouldn’t have known how to tell Laura any of that even if I’d wanted to. Fortunately, I was saved from commenting by the thunderous footsteps of the girls down the stairs.
Laura and I exchanged amused glances as they skidded to a halt just beyond our view. I’d put Tim down for his late and desperately needed nap about ten minutes earlier, and now I crossed my fingers, hoping their noise wouldn’t wake him.
The fashion extravaganza lasted forty-five minutes, the girls strutting their stuff while Laura and I cheered them on (quietly, though, so as to not wake the munchkin). In the end, I had to admit that (notwithstanding the earlier outfit) Allie had picked out clothes that met with the Mom Seal of Approval.
“You two will be the best-dressed freshmen at Coronado High,” I said as they took their final bows.
They looked at each other, neither one looking particularly happy.
“What?” Laura and I asked in unison.
“Freshmen,” Allie said.
“We’re stuck back on the bottom again.”
“We were the top in junior high. We were eighth graders. Now we’re pond scum.”
And to think there were times when I actually regretted missing out on a public school education. Amazing. This was one of those mothering moments where you have to stifle the urge to say, “Don’t sweat it. In twenty years none of this will matter.” Right then, in my daughter’s fourteen-year-old mind, it did matter. It mattered in a big way.
“You’ll do great,” I said. “And in just three short years, you’ll be the seniors again.”
“Three years,” Allie repeated morosely. She turned to Mindy. “We’ve so got to make cheerleader.”
Mindy nodded, her expression equally serious. “Definitely.”
I made a point of not looking at Laura, afraid if I did I’d laugh. My instinct was to leap to my feet and give my girl a hug. (When did she turn fourteen anyway? I swear just last Wednesday she was learning to walk.) I suppressed the urge, knowing that I’d be rewarded with a stiff back and an Oh, Mother.
“Okay, girls” I said. “Why don’t you take the clothes back to Allie’s room? Did you totally pig out at the mall, or are you ready to order dinner?”
“I’m starving,” Allie said. “Can we get one with extra cheese and breadsticks?”
“Sure. Why not?” I turned to Laura. “Should we order enough for Paul?”
I thought I saw a shadow in her eyes, but it vanished before I could be sure.
“Daddy’s working late,” Mindy said.
“Then it’ll be a girls’ night,” I said. “Unless Stuart surprises me. He’s spent the last couple of nights eating at his computer and catching up on work. As soon as he and Larson finish schmoozing, he’ll probably go back there again.” I had a feeling this was a portent of things to come if Stuart actually won the election. Stuart locked away in his study, emerging only for coffee and Timmy’s bedtime. I wasn’t crazy about the picture, but I also couldn’t bring myself to drop an ultimatum. This was the man’s dream, after all.
As it turns out, I was right. As soon as Larson headed out (catching my eye only once before taking his leave), Stuart kissed Allie good night, then disappeared to the back of the house. The group dynamic shifted when Tim woke up, but we figured a prepubescent male didn’t alter the hormonal makeup of our little gal fest. Besides, Tim made for great entertainment, doing the hokeypokey ad nauseam with the girls until both Mindy and Allie begged him to stop and we finally had to distract him with a handful of Teddy Grahams.
Once he was more or less tuckered out, the girls debated the possible selections from our DVD collection (taking into account all the various parameters I’d outlined, the most important being that the first movie be toddler-friendly). While they debated like Ebert and Roeper, I gathered the pizza boxes and headed for the back door.
“Need a hand?” Laura asked.
“Not here. But if you start a pot of coffee, I’ll love you forever.” I’d had two glasses of wine with my pizza, and already my head was swimming.
“Does Stuart know you’re such a cheap date?”
“Why do you think he married me?”
As she headed off to the kitchen, I crossed the back patio, then followed the path to the side of the house where we keep the trash cans. San Diablo is a holdout to the ugly, plastic, wheeled contraptions so many towns have switched to. We have old-fashioned metal trash cans, the kind that are so bright and shiny in the hardware store that you really can’t imagine filling it with your potato peels and sacks of poopy diapers. Call me nuts, but I think the trash cans add to the town’s charm.
I’d just lifted the lid when I smelled it, that putrid odor that wasn’t coming from the trash. I whipped around to face this new demon foe (a teenager, no less!), but he was expecting my move, managing to block my blow and land his own against my upper thigh. I went down with a yelp, the trash can lid clattering against the cement, and my not-yet-a-size-eight butt cushioning my fall.
Immediately I pressed my hands back against the sidewalk to lever myself back up, but he was on top of me, one knee against my chest and a hunting knife against my throat.
The icy steel of the blade matched the ice that filled my veins. Yesterday that ice had been tainted by fear. Not anymore. Kate Connor, Level Four Demon Hunter, was back in business, and she was pissed off. That ice was adrenaline and determination and years of training sweeping (hopefully) through my body. I was going to kick the shit out of this scum-puppy. No doubt about it. He was going down. All I had to do was figure out how.
Chapter 8
“It’s over, Hunter,” he said, his mouth curling into a sneer. “My master is moving in, and this town isn’t big enough for the two of you.”
Were the situation not so dire, I would have laughed at the cliché. With his red hair and freckled face, demon-boy reminded me of a young Ron Howard, and I was having a hard time reconciling my memories of Richie Cunningham with this killing machine who now threatened my life.
I took a breath, then took a chance. “What do you want?”
“I want what my master wants.” He grinned, all boy-next-door with a blade. He leaned in closer, and I almost gagged after inhaling a whiff of his breath. “He’ll find it, you know. If it’s in San Diablo, he’ll find it. And the bones will be his.”
“Bones?”
He made a shushing noise, then moved the knife from my neck to my lips, laying it flat across my mouth. I fought an involuntary shiver and lost. He saw the movement and his eyes lit with victory. “That’s right, Hunter. Be afraid. Because when my master’s army rises, you will be among the first to fall. And by the time he’s done, you’ll wish you’d died a whole lot sooner.”
“I’m beginning to wish you’d get it over with now,” I hissed, my l
ips moving against the cold blade.
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. He was powerful, but because of his weakened state, she was finally able to 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.”
