by Julie Kenner
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
“Ninety-nine percent of the wives and moms in the country will identify with this heroine. I mean, like who hasn’t had to battle demons between car pools and play dates?”*
RAVES FOR Carpe Demon
“I LOVED CARPE DEMON! . . . It was great fun, wonderfully clever.” —*Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author of White Lies
“I welcome the novels that decide to be utterly over-the-top and imagine paranormal and superhero lives for their chick-lit heroines. Take Carpe Demon . . . ” —Detroit Free Press
“This book, as crammed with events as any suburban mom’s calendar, shows you what would happen if Buffy got married and kept her past a secret. It’s a hoot.”
—Charlaine Harris, New York Times bestselling author of Definitely Dead
“Sprightly, fast-paced . . . readers will find spunky Kate hard not to root for in spheres both domestic and demonic.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Smart, fast-paced, unique . . . a blend of sophistication and wit that has you laughing out loud.”
—Christine Feehan, New York Times bestselling author of Dark Celebration
“Tongue-in-cheek . . . fast pacing and in-your-face action. Give it a try. Kate’s a fun character and keeps you on the edge of your seat.” —SFReader
“Ms. Kenner has a style and delivery all her own . . . fun and innovative . . . [Carpe Demon] shouldn’t be missed.”
—Fallen Angel Reviews
“You’re gonna love this book! A terrific summer read with lots of humor and crazy situations and action.”
—Fresh Fiction
“This book was so much fun to read. I highly recommend this exceedingly entertaining read!” —Midwest Book Review
“A fun netherworld thriller that readers will treasure.”
—The Best Reviews
“A+ . . . I am very ready for the next installment in Kate Connor’s life.” —The Romance Reader’s Connection
“Kenner scores a direct hit with this offbeat and humorous adventure, which has an engaging cast of characters. Car pools and holy water make an unforgettable mix.”
—Romantic Times
Titles by Julie Kenner
CARPE DEMON
CALIFORNIA DEMON
DEMONS ARE FOREVER
FIRST LOVE
Anthologies
HELL WITH THE LADIES
(with Kathleen O’Reilly and Dee Davis)
HELL ON HEELS
(with Kathleen O’Reilly and Dee Davis)
BERKLEY JAM titles
THE GOOD GHOULS’ GUIDE TO GETTING EVEN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
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CALIFORNIA DEMON
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Berkley trade paperback edition / June 2006
Jove mass-market edition / July 2007
Copyright © 2006 by Julie Kenner.
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One
My name IS Kate Connor, and I’m a Demon Hunter.
It feels a little odd saying that. For the last fifteen-plus years, I’ve been a retired Demon Hunter, my hunting responsibilities traded for the equally dangerous, if not as dramatically compelling, duties of a stay-at-home mom to my teenager and toddler. And no, I’m not exaggerating the danger factor of mommy-dom. Infiltrating a nest of vampires at dusk might be a tad on the treacherous side, but it’s nothing compared to telling a fourteen-year-old that she’s not allowed to wear eyeshadow. Trust me. I know of what I speak.
I’d been drawn back into active duty after a demon attacked me in my kitchen, setting off a whole chain of events which (as you can probably guess) pitted the forces of good against the forces of evil in one final, cataclysmic battle. Sounds like a movie ad doesn’t it? But it’s true. And after the battle was over, I had to admit that I missed being involved in something big. Something important.
Not that cheerleader tryouts and potty training aren’t important. But, well, you know what I mean.
At any rate, I agreed to pick up where I left off, and suddenly I found myself with not one, but two full-time jobs: Level Four Demon Hunter and Stay-at-Home Mom.
And I’m here to tell you that those two jobs don’t exactly go together like oh, say, peanut butter and jelly. Why? Because the demon-hunting thing is a great big secret. I work for a supersecret arm of the Vatican known as Forza Scura, and one of the first rules is utt
er secrecy. Nobody knows. (Well, nobody except my best friend Laura, but every rule deserves an exception, don’t you think?)
Unlike most working moms, I’m cut zero slack by society. If Carla Corporate serves frozen dinners three nights in a row, no one bats an eye. After all, Mommy’s got a big presentation coming up.
But me? I’m expected to at least make an effort at cooking. (And I do try, really I do, but I think I lack the haute-cuisine gene. Or even the short-order gene, for that matter.) I don’t even get to enjoy any of the perks that might otherwise go along with my demon-hunting career. Like, “Sorry, Officer, I didn’t realize I was speeding. But sometimes we Demon Hunters are in a hurry. Safety of mankind. Fate of the world. Good prevailing over the forces of darkness. You understand.”
Nope. Doesn’t work that way. And in order to make my two lives jibe, I end up telling a lot of little white lies. And sometimes, they backfire on me.
Which goes a long way toward explaining why I was spending a Friday morning in December precariously balanced on an ancient wooden ladder in the media room at Coastal Mists Nursing Home, a few feet of silver garland draped over my shoulders, a staple gun holstered in my back pocket, and my two-year-old playing snooker with the Christmas tree ornaments on the rug below me.
A few months ago, this place was crawling with demons. (Okay, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration, but there were at least a half dozen walking around in their geriatric disguises, acting like they owned the place.) Since such a situation was beyond unacceptable, I’d gone in to clean the place up. Not unlike Marshal Dillon, really. Except I didn’t have a cool white hat or little silver star.
What I did have was a lovely arsenal of lies (along with the more practical tools like holy water, wooden stakes, and a kick-ass stiletto knife). And I have to say that I did a hell of a job. After only a few short months, Coastal Mists was demon-free. For that matter, many of the administrators and doctors had vanished into the night. Not demons, but human facilitators who’d been seduced by the promise of power, wealth, whatever. A too-common tale, and one that had transformed a run-of-the-mill nursing home into a demon factory.
I, however, had shut that down.
Now the place that had once been a depressing breeding ground for the undead was a pretty cheerful establishment, complete with HBO, Cinemax, and a state-of-the-art plasma television with a sound system that made my husband drool.
But did I get to cross Coastal Mists off my to-do list? Free up a little time for grocery shopping, carpooling, and other miscellaneous family chores? No, I did not. Because in order to infiltrate Coastal Mists in the first place, I’d had to concoct a cover story. And mine was volunteering.
The demons might have been eradicated, but the responsibilities weren’t. So in addition to cooking meals for my family, I was now delivering meals to the bedridden. In addition to reading Dr. Seuss to my toddler, I was now reading Zane Grey to men who probably remembered the Wild West. In addition to potty training my kid, I was now—well, you get the idea.
Also—and this was a big “also”—as much of a time drain as my Coastal Mists activities were, the truth was that I needed to keep a presence there. The nursing home had a high mortality rate (that’s just the nature of nursing homes), which made it the perfect breeding spot for any demonic leader looking to get a toehold in San Diablo.
It had happened once. I didn’t intend to let it happen again.
On that particular day, my best friend Laura and I were helping decorate the place for Christmas. We’d brought Timmy with us for three reasons, the first being totally selfish: mommy guilt. Although I’d enrolled Timmy in day care—and although he actually seemed to enjoy it—my guilt level was high enough that I only took him in when absolutely necessary. Like when the Legions of Hell descend on the neighborhood. Or when I need to buy new clothes. Trust me. I’d rather slay fifteen demons with a toddler at my side than take the munchkin shopping for the perfect outfit to wear to one of my husband’s politically motivated, deathly dull cocktail parties.
My second reason originated from a more altruistic place: The folks at the nursing home absolutely adored the little bugger. Makes sense. They didn’t get that many visitors, and even fewer from the preschool crowd. Besides, as toddlers go, mine was practically perfect. Not that I’m biased or anything.
Finally, I’d brought Timmy along because today was Family Day at my daughter Allie’s school. As soon as Laura and I were finished with the decorating, we were going to pack up Timmy, swing by the bakery to pick up the PTA- MANDATED two dozen cupcakes, and head over to Coronado High School where we would do our best not to embarrass our freshman daughters by mentioning boys, grades, teachers, boys, television, politics, boys, movies, food, or any other potentially disastrous subject.
Laura concentrated on trimming the tree while I stapled garland to the archway, trying my best to drape it artistically but failing miserably. Martha Stewart, I’m not. Below me, my little boy entertained the elderly by abusing the Christmas ornaments, rummaging in my purse, singing “Jingle Bells,” and demonstrating his well-developed skill at blowing raspberries.
I carefully lined up a twist of garland, pulled the trigger on the staple gun, gave the garland a satisfied tug, then checked my watch. Not quite eleven.
“Why don’t you go on, honey? I can take care of hanging the rest of that.”
The suggestion came from Delia Murdock, who’d just celebrated her ninety-first birthday. She was standing at the base of my ladder, one hand on the frame, ostensibly holding it steady. As a general rule, the woman spent her life listing slightly to the left, and there was no way I was letting her climb a ladder.
“We’re not in any hurry,” I lied. “Are we, Laura?”
Laura stared at me as if I was insane because, of course, I was. We were due in the school’s gymnasium—cupcakes in hand—in exactly one hour and fifteen minutes.
“Five minutes,” I said as I descended the ladder, then dragged it to the next archway. “The girls will understand if we’re a teensy bit late.” Another lie. Allie had reminded me of this command performance at least three times a day for the last two weeks. She’d left reminder notes on my bathroom mirror, on the coffeepot, and on my steering wheel.
Apparently Family Day is a big enough deal at the high school to overcome the typical teenage mortification that comes from having a parent nearby. And I knew that if I arrived late, there would be hell to pay. I deal with hell every day. And believe me, the fire-and-brimstone variety is a lot more palatable than what my fourteen-year-old is capable of dishing out.
Laura looked dubious, but didn’t argue, so while Bing Crosby crooned on about White Christmases, I ker-chunked the stapler in time with the music, speeding up considerably when Bing faded away and “Jingle Bell Rock” blasted out from the media-room speakers. Behind me, I could hear Timmy counting (“one, two, free, four, six . . .”) as Mr. Montgomery burst out with “atta boy,” and “smart as a whip, that kid.” My heart did a little twisting number. I have great kids, and today my mommy pride was working overtime.
The tightness in my heart increased, as it so often did when I thought of the kids, especially Allie. Tim has his daddy, but Allie and I lost Eric, my first husband, to a brutal mugging five years ago. And although I’m happily remarried and wouldn’t trade Stuart for the world, not a day goes by that I don’t feel the loss, like someone had taken a cookie cutter and stolen an Eric-shaped piece of my soul.
The shrill ring of my cell phone jarred me out of my melancholy. I steadied myself on the ladder with one hand, then pulled my phone out of my pocket with the other. Stuart. I frowned, fearing I knew what he was calling about.
“Don’t tell me you’re not coming.”
“Are you kidding? Of course I’m coming. Allie’s been bugging us about this for weeks.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling a bit guilty for doubting him. I had cause though. My husband was about to formally announce his candidacy for county attorney, and his days (and ni
ghts) had been filled with all manner of schmoozing, politicking, and fund-raising. The kids and I had gotten the short end of the scheduling stick on more than one occasion.
Being a wonderfully supportive wife, I tried not to let it bother me. Some of the time, I even succeeded.
“So,” I said, trying again. “What’s up?”
“Just reporting in,” he said. “And I wanted to see if you needed me to get anything for you. The cupcakes? Eddie? Ibuprofen for a migraine?”
Is he an incredible man or what? I mean, how many husbands actually commit their wife’s PTA obligations to memory? Or volunteer to pick up their daughter’s pseudo-great-grandfather despite the fact that—truth be told—the two men really don’t get along that well? I figure not many, and I’m lucky that one of the few belongs to me.
“Eddie’s taking a cab,” I said, figuring both Eddie and Stuart would thank me for that one. Eddie’s a retired Demon Hunter who’d recently taken up permanent residence in my life and temporary residence in my guest room. Due to a misunderstanding that I never bothered to clear up, my family believes that Eddie is Eric’s grandfather. Just one of those little Forza-related obfuscations that makes my life so interesting.
The cupcake question required a bit more consideration, but in the end I declined that offer as well. I love my husband, but I don’t trust his taste in pastries. I may not be able to cook worth a damn, but I can shop with the best of them. As for the painkillers, I’ve learned to carry my own supply.
