Six Times a Charm

by Deanna Chase

  He shook his head. By the time he spoke, he seemed remarkably calmer. “No. No, I didn’t know the boy. I am just—” He cut himself off, and I watched as he clenched his fists, all his attention focused once again on the newspaper. “This should not be happening.”

  “I know,” I said, then sighed. I’d already done the anger and fear thing. Now I’d succumbed to a feeling of cold inevitability. I figured Larson would get there, too, soon enough. “San Diablo has always been demon-free. At least, I always thought it was. Maybe I was just blind.”

  Larson waved a hand. “The past doesn’t matter. Did you have any luck in the archives?”

  I shook my head. “There’s a lot of information down there,” I said. “It’s going to take a while to go through it.”

  He nodded, but didn’t look happy. Him and me both. I was the one battling bugs. “We must work swiftly,” he said. “It is imperative we learn what Goramesh seeks.”

  We were talking in low whispers, but apparently not low enough. Someone I didn’t recognize walked into the kitchen, leading with an empty martini glass. “Don’t know this Goramesh fellow. Is he seeking the county attorney seat? Stuart’s gonna shit a brick if there’s some contender out there he doesn’t know about.”

  I stared at him, not sure what I was more astounded by—the fact that he’d overheard us, or the fact that he was running around a party using the kind of language I always swore would earn Allie a monthlong grounding.

  “Something altogether different,” I said in my best hostess voice as I grabbed him by the elbow and steered him back toward the living room.

  “Wait, wait,” he protested, then held up his glass. “Gin?”

  “Sure. No problem.” I retrieved a fresh bottle from the pantry, then made sure my newfound friend made his way back to the party. I was mentally calculating the cost of calling taxis for all the overindulgent guests as I led Larson into the garage. There, at least, I thought we’d have some privacy.

  “I need to be out there,” I said. “Or Forza needs to get on the stick and wrestle up some more Hunters. I can’t do all of this. I can’t scour the cathedral archives and stay up all night racing around to fight demon-dog hordes and get my laundry done and my kids to school and my family fed.” I paused, not because I was finished talking but because I needed to breathe. “This is bad, Larson. This is really, really bad.”

  “Deep breaths, Kate.”

  I held up a hand. “I know. I’m fine. I’m just pissed. That boy couldn’t have been more than eighteen. In a few years Allie could have been dating him. He’s not supposed to be ravaged by demons. He’s supposed to be fighting acne and studying for midterms.” I ran my fingers through my hair, a bad move since I managed to totally dislodge it from the clip, creating what was surely a less than stellar party look.

  I took another deep breath and closed my eyes. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have even blinked at the idea of teenagers getting picked off by rampant demons running amok in the city streets. That had been par for the course. But that was a long time ago, before I’d had a teenager of my own. And now the idea of anyone—anyone—messing with my kids terrified me.

  I’ll do a quick run through town after everyone’s in bed,” I said. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, right? And you can talk to Forza, and maybe Father Corletti can send someone else along. We can beg, right? Even a recent trainee. I don’t care. Just tell him we can use some help here.”

  “Kate.” He had his hand on my shoulder. “Focus on the key. Goramesh. Find what he seeks. That is where your attention needs to lie.”

  I stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?’

  “I’m not.”

  “But”—I waved a hand back toward my kitchen, which presumably he interpreted as the newspaper article—“demon dogs! Demons in my kitchen! Demons at my trash can! This is nasty stuff, Larson. And it’s not going to go away. I can’t be camped out in the church basement, knee-deep in moldy old paper. I need to be out there. Doing something.”

  “Kate, listen to me.” His voice was sharp, commanding. It worked. I listened. “You are a Hunter, yes, and you’re a good one. But do you really want to come fully out of retirement? Now, when you have your children and your husband? Forza called you in to help with one specific threat—Goramesh. Are you really willing to turn your back on your family and return to the life of a Hunter? A life they can never know about?”

  “I…but…no.” I wasn’t willing. Even the thought made me queasy. But years ago I’d accepted the obligation. Could I turn my back on that simply because I’d retired? “I don’t want to,” I said. “But who else—”

  “Katherine, please. You better than anyone should know that demons are always around. The truth is demons roam the world. They always have, and they always will.”

  I gaped at him. “So, what? You’re saying give up? Give in? I don’t think so.”

  “I’m saying do the job you were brought back in to do.”

  “I wasn’t ‘brought back in’ remember? A demon came barreling through my window.”

  “Katherine …”

  “Fine. Make your point.”

  “Stop Goramesh. The rest will follow. You need to focus on that task.”

  “But those kids?” I waved generally in the direction of the community college.

  “Perhaps it was an isolated event to serve Goramesh’s purpose.”

  “And maybe pigs fly.” Yes, I was being surly. I figured I had cause.

  He didn’t miss a beat. “And even if it wasn’t isolated, more will die if you don’t stop Goramesh. Are you prepared to do it all? Can you do it all?”

  My flippant response was that I was already doing it all—a lot more than I’d anticipated and certainly more than I’d wanted. But I didn’t say anything. I just took a few breaths and nodded. He had a point. I didn’t like it but I understood it. We pick our battles. And we pick the battles that will reap the biggest victory. Still, though, those kids were vulnerable.

  I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.

  “Kate,” he said. “Your heart is in the right place. But Forza needs you sharp. I need you sharp.”

  We were saved any more arguing by the sudden thwunk of the garage door opener as it began churning. Stuart!

  I sprinted across the garage (not an easy task in two-inch heels) and waited impatiently while the door slowly rose. As soon as it was three feet off the floor, I ducked under, then ran around the car to the passenger side and tugged the door open. I was just about to chew Stuart out when I saw his face.

  “My God, Stuart. Are you okay?” I leaned over and pressed my hand against his chest; it was covered with caked blood. “What on earth happened? Have you seen a doctor? Why didn’t you call?”

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said.

  The door finished its trek to the top, and Stuart pulled inside, the light from the garage illuminating the inside of the car.

  “It looks terrible,” I said, tossing subtlety to the wind.

  He grimaced, then reached to open the driver’s door. I reached over just as fast and snagged his other arm. “Hold on a second there, buddy. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Cocktail parry,” he said, and although he really didn’t sound groggy at all, in my mind I imagined him slurring his words and stumbling into the kitchen in a bloody, political mess.

  “Let’s just sit here for a minute and make sure you’re okay.” I glanced through the front windshield and noticed that Larson was gone. Presumably he’d stepped back inside. I hoped he didn’t announce Stuart’s arrival. I really didn’t want half the political world to see my husband covered with a quart of blood.

  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 the 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 slid out of the car and popped 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. “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.