Demon 04 - Deja Demon

by Julie Kenner

  “I think we’d all like to see the expression on Stuart’s face if that happened,” Father Ben said, earning a laugh from Laura and a glare from me.

  “Can’t you call a funeral home or something? Arrange to cremate the parts?”

  “And I’m sure that would raise no questions whatsoever, ” he countered. And then, before I had a chance to think up a clever retort, he added, “I think the most practical thing to do is take your tub to David to work his chemical magic.”

  I sighed, because of course I’d already thought of that. “He’s in Los Angeles,” I said, my voice sounding remarkably like Allie’s when she didn’t want to clean her room.

  “He’ll be back this afternoon,” he said, making me wonder even more why David had gone to L.A. “It won’t kill you to hang onto the zombie for a few more hours.”

  I made a face. Considering the zombie was in pieces, he was technically right. Still, this was the undead we were talking about. And I’d learned never to take anything for granted.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into my driveway with a tub of zombie parts still in the back of my car. I’d called David twice from the road, but each time, I’d been dumped straight into voice mail. Rather irritating, actually, because he’d told me to call if I needed him.

  As soon as I stepped through the front door, I was assaulted by my teenage daughter, who pretty much launched herself at me from the across the room.

  “Mom! You have so got to say yes!”

  “Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” Timmy shouted, coming up fast behind his sister. “Wanna go! Wanna go!”

  I had no idea what they were talking about, but since they obviously weren’t terrified, I figured our corner of the world wasn’t coming to an end, no zombies had entered the scene, the downstairs was demon free, and Allie hadn’t stumbled across a spider.

  “What are we talking about?” I asked, looking sideways to Laura, who now had her own fourteen-year-old beggar clinging leechlike to her waist. “Do you know?”

  “No clue,” she said. “But I’m not complaining. I haven’t been hugged this tight since Thanksgiving.”

  “What am I supposed to say yes to?” I asked Allie, scooping up Timmy and trying to hold a wriggling mass of giggling boy.

  “The carnival! Eddie brought home a flyer. It’s at the beach, on the boardwalk. You have to let me go. Please, Mom? You or Aunt Laura can drive us and pick us up later? Pleeeeeeze. Everyone’s going to be there. I just know it.”

  In my arms, Timmy picked up the chant, bouncing and shrieking “We wanna go!” at the top of his lungs, even though he clearly had no idea what a carnival was or why he would want to go.

  “Allie! Allie!” I shouted, trying to be heard above my son. “You’re grounded, remember?”

  “Well, yeah. But it wasn’t like I—”

  “And I would have been happy to point that out to Stuart last night. But you said you were okay with it. And now it’s a little too late for me to come to your rescue.”

  “But it’s a carnival. I didn’t know there was going to be a carnival. Please? You can drop me off during the day, and Stuart doesn’t even have to know.”

  I frowned, because as unfair as her punishment was, I couldn’t get behind the lie-to-my-husband plan. Ironic, I suppose, considering that lately I’d been lying to him on a pretty much daily basis.

  At the same time, my Mom radar had perked up at her plea that everyone would be there. In Allie-speak, that meant boys. And I hadn’t heard her mention boys in months. Not since she’d started holing herself up with my books and weapons.

  If my kiddo was looking to trade a level of studiousness for a bit of boy-craziness, I have to admit I was all for that. From a theoretical, hand-holding-only, absolutely-no-unchaperoned-dates -or-unsupervised-alone-time sort of way.

  “Please, Mom. Pretty please?”

  I looked at Laura, still attached to Mindy. “What do you think?”

  “I’m totally caving,” she admitted. “But my spousal problem is slightly different from yours.”

  “Come on, Aunt Kate,” Mindy said. “It won’t be any fun if Allie’s not there, too.”

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “I haven’t even put my purse down, and I need to try to get David on the phone again.” With any luck, he’d left Los Angeles and was heading back. If I caught him in his car, he could swing by, pick up the tub, and remove Mr. Zombie from my life.

  Allie’s eyes perked up at the mention of her father. “How about if you guys come, too?” she said, her desperation to hang out with her father clearly reflected in the fact that she was offering to publicly attend a carnival with her mother. “It would be totally fun to see Mr. Long again,” she added, cutting a glance toward Mindy. I gave her brownie points for being careful.

  I avoided the issue, easing my way toward the kitchen with Timmy balanced on my hip. Obviously I’d been an idiot to mention David, but at the same time, I didn’t really want to keep them apart. They both needed and wanted time together. The tricky part was making sure that desire didn’t further complicate our lives.

  And that, I realized, was pretty damn selfish of me.

  I grabbed the handset and was about to give his number one more try, when it rang. I looked at Caller ID—David.

  “Speak of the devil,” I said. “Are you back?”

  I expected an answer, but all I got was a laugh.

  “What?” I demanded.

  “Kate,” he said gently. “Aren’t you the one who keeps reminding me we aren’t married anymore?”

  “Right,” I said, feeling my cheeks heat and quashing an unwelcome wave of jealousy as I imagined him walking down the Santa Monica Pier with a bikini-clad blonde. I shoved the image aside and told myself I was being ridiculous. “It’s just that you said to call if I needed you and—”

  “Was there another attack?” he asked, his voice sharp with worry. “Are the kids okay? Are you?”

  “We’re fine,” I assured him, feeling guilty now because his concern was so genuine. “But I have loads of news, not to mention a tub full of zom—” I cut myself off sharply, realizing Mindy was still lurking about. “Um, a tub of stuff I really need you to work your magic on.”

  “Demon carcass.”

  “Along those lines, yeah.”

  “But you’re not going to tell me what.”

  “Can’t,” I said. “It’s crazy busy here what with Allie and Mindy running around and Laura helping me with the committee and—”

  “Mindy,” he said. “I got it.”

  “So you can help me?”

  “For you, Katie? Anything.”

  I laughed. A nice sentiment, but considering we were talking about melting down a body in acid, it was hardly a moment worthy of a greeting card.

  “When can we do it?” I asked.

  “Not today. I’m still in Los Angeles.”

  “Oh?” I hoped I sounded casual. “Father Ben said you’d be back this afternoon.”

  “Yeah,” David said. “That’s what I’d thought. Turned out it’s taking longer.”

  “Oh.” I cleared my throat. “So, what are you doing down there, anyway?”

  “Just some research,” he said vaguely. “But I’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “Morning?” I asked, hopefully. Honestly, the sooner I passed my unwanted passenger off to him, the better I’d feel.

  “Probably about ten.”

  Beside me, Allie bounced up and down, mouthing “carnival” and making hand motions that I assumed were supposed to mimic a Ferris wheel.

  “So I’ll come by your apartment after mass,” I said, turning my body sideways to my daughter. I wasn’t prepared to commit to a carnival with David. About that, I needed a bit more thought.

  “Mom! The carnival! Ask him about the carnival.”

  I gave her a sharp look, but it was too late. I heard David’s low chuckle in my ear. “Is that Allie? Tell her I’m game.”

  “I’m not sure that’s—”

  “It l
ooks like fun. I passed it on my way out of town this morning. I was thinking maybe we could all go together tomorrow. Or if it makes you more comfortable, we could go apart and coincidentally bump into each other there.”

  I glanced over at Allie, who was looking at me with puppy-dog eyes. I had no idea if she could hear David’s half of the conversation, or if she was simply wishing. Either way, the kid was desperate.

  My shoulders sagged with inevitable acquiescence. “What about the tub of stuff?”

  “Bring it along,” he said. “We can shove it in my trunk, and I’ll take it home and take care of it.”

  “You sure you don’t mind?”

  “Kate,” he said, his voice low and soft. “It’s never a burden to help you. I want to see you. I need to see you. And I’m desperate to see my daughter.”

  How could I argue with that?

  “All right,” I said, mentally running down my Stuart-related options. Most likely, he’d be working tomorrow. The primary was drawing closer and closer, and he was going to be losing a few hours tonight, what with our date. “One o’clock,” I finally said. “We’ll come home to change after mass, then head straight for the beach.”

  “Great,” he said. “And Kate?”

  “Yes?” I whispered, my insides fluttering from the tone of his voice.

  “I—never mind. It’s nothing. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I love you, too, I thought. But all I said was good-bye.

  Ten

  “Champagne Or a Shiraz?” Stuart asked, setting aside the wine list.

  “Champagne?” I squinted at him, distracted from my current occupation of watching a suspicious black-haired septuagenarian two tables away. Not only had the waiter’s expression when he bent in to take an order suggested that the elderly woman’s breath was a far cry from minty-fresh, but the lady had—literally—not taken her eyes off me. A little fact that was both suspicious and irritating since although I desperately wanted to know what the demon population was up to, I wanted this night with my husband with an equal degree of desperation.

  “Champagne,” Stuart repeated. “A sparkling wine produced originally in France and often used for celebratory occasions. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”

  “Right. Champagne. Sorry.” Reluctantly, I stopped watching my potential demon and focused instead on my husband across the candlelit table. “Maybe we better go with the Shiraz. I don’t think I dressed for champagne.”

  The corner of his grin quirked up, revealing a familiar dimple even as his slow gaze looked me up and down, the heat in his eyes when they finally settled on mine unmistakable.

  “Champagne it is, then,” he said.

  “Right,” I said, wondering if I was blushing. He was making me feel all tingly; I might as well have the drink to match.

  He signaled to the waiter, who’d been hiding in the shadows near a table occupied by a gorgeous woman in a bloodred dress who looked less than excited with her companion. She wasn’t even trying to make eye contact with him, instead looking everywhere around the restaurant but at her date.

  The waiter glided up to our table in that five-star way that excellent waiters have. After putting in an order for a duck quesadilla appetizer and a particularly fancy bottle of bubbly, Stuart reached across the table for my hand, then kissed my injured finger. “How’s it feeling?”

  “Don’t even worry about it,” I said. “I have a very high pain tolerance.”

  His brows lifted. “I seem to recall a very loud demand for an epidural, followed by a rather colorful death threat.”

  “There’s pain,” I said. “And then there’s pain.”

  “Ahhh,” he said, whereas a woman would have been in total and immediate solidarity with me.

  “Despite the splint, are you having a good time?”

  “You’re kidding, right? I’m having a fabulous time.” When Stuart had suggested dinner and a movie, I’d expected a salad or a burger at our favorite diner near the beach. To end up here at Emeralds, the most hoity-toity restaurant in all of San Diablo, was more than a little surprising.

  “You seem a little distracted,” he said, and I realized I was staring at my demon-lady again.

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, forcing myself to concentrate. As it was, I was being ridiculous. Just because a creepy old lady was staring at me didn’t mean the minions of hell had descended on one of San Diablo’s premier dining establishments. “I thought I saw someone I knew, and I can’t remember her name. It’s driving me crazy.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “Driving?”

  “Have it your way,” I said. “I’m already a crazy person.”

  “But you’re my crazy person.”

  “Yup. You’re stuck with me.”

  “I’m sorry about the reservation mix-up.”

  “Stuart . . .” I trailed off with a shake of my head and a squeeze of his fingers. “We had a drink in the bar. That was hardly a faux pas.”

  He kissed the tips of my fingers, sending electric sparks shooting all the way down to my toes. “I know. But I want tonight to be perfect. We so rarely have date night lately that I can’t bear the thought of something going awry.”

  I laughed. “We have a teenager and a toddler. I think we’re supposed to assume things will go awry for at least fifteen more years.”

  “And after that we’re free? The yoke of parenthood seems looser already.”

  “Not free, just further removed.”

  “So instead of going home for the children’s emergencies we’ll have to drive to a dorm. Or fly.”

  “Bite your tongue,” I said. “Drive. Preferably without actually leaving the county.” Last month, Allie and I had gone to a college fair at the high school. And although Allie had been totally nonchalant about the whole thing, I’d spent the evening on the couch, nursing a glass of wine and trying to concentrate on the latest issue of Real Simple. That, I’d thought, seemed safer than contemplating my baby leaving me in less than four years time.

  “You,” I said, pointing an accusing finger at Stuart. “You are so not supposed to torment me about the kids leaving until Allie turns sixteen.” That was my magic number, primarily because I figured it would take me a full two years to really get used to the idea.

  “Sorry,” he said, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested that he wasn’t sorry at all. “At any rate, I’m glad we’re finally seated. And with champagne,” he added, with a nod to the returning waiter.

  The waiter—who couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one—opened the bottle with a perfected ease, then poured two glasses without dribbling a drop, thoroughly putting me to shame. As soon as he’d faded back into the shadows, Stuart lifted his glass. “To us.”

  “To us,” I agreed, then took a sip, letting the bubbles fizz in my nose. “So is there a reason for all this? Buttering me up about the house?”

  “The thought had crossed my mind,” he said. “But no. No ulterior motives whatsoever.”

  “Really?” I asked, undoubtedly sounding a little more than dubious.

  “Can’t a man take his wife out to a fabulous restaurant? Does there have to be a reason?”

  I cocked my head to one side, looking at him. “There doesn’t have to be . . .”

  “No ulterior motive,” he said. “Nothing more than I love you and I want to spend time with you. We don’t even have to talk about the campaign or the house if you don’t want to.”

  I laughed. “You’re serious.”

  “Absolutely. I know you’ve gotten the short end of the campaign stick.”

  “No, I didn’t. I got the best part.”

  He laughed. “An empty house without your husband channel surfing all weekend?”

  “Nah,” I said, teasing. “That’s merely a perk.” I leaned back in my chair and looked at him, suddenly sappy and sentimental. “The best part is that I’ve got you.”

  He laughed. “Now who’s got an ulterior motive?”

  “Well, it
’s understandable,” I deadpanned. “Did you see that dessert cart?”

  “Good point,” he said, the flecks of gold in his irises shining in the candlelight. I had a sudden flash of an image—those eyes shining from a candidate poster, his classic jawline and once-broken nose giving him a rugged, honest appearance.

  Right then, I knew with absolute certainty that my husband was going to win the election. How could he not? He was brilliant, dedicated, and definitely designed for television.

  “What?” he said, buttering a slice of the crusty French bread.

  “Just thinking how lucky I am.”

  “Are you?” he asked.

  I blinked, thrown a bit by his tone. We’d shifted gears somewhere without my noticing. No longer teasing, Stuart seemed more than interested; he seemed concerned.

  “Of course,” I assured him, dropping my bread to reach for his hand. “What do you think?”

  “Lately—” He broke off with a shrug and a shake of his head. “Never mind.”

  “No, wait. What were you going to say?” I was talking through a lump in my throat, afraid my world was about to cave in around me.

  “We’ve both been busy lately,” he said. “I don’t want us to be so busy apart that we forget to be together.”

  “Never,” I said, feeling guiltier by the second. Yes, he’d been absent a lot, but if he was feeling any distance in our marriage, that wasn’t something I could lay at his feet. The responsibility was all mine, and I knew that I needed to tell him the truth. Waiting wasn’t going to make it easier. If anything, it was going to keep getting harder and harder.

  I stifled a sigh, instead lifting my glass and polishing off the remaining champagne.

  The corner of Stuart’s mouth curved up. “Thirsty?”

  “Enjoying the fizz,” I said. “And a champagne buzz never hurt anyone.”

  Across the room, the black-eyed woman grabbed her purse and stood up, her eyes still glued to me.

  I took a deep breath. “Stuart, there’s something—”

  “You,” the woman hissed, a bony finger pointed right at me. “I thought so.”

  She nodded, beady black eyes taking in me, my husband, and the surroundings. Then she shoved her hand into her purse. “I must go,” she said, then moved on without waiting for my reply.