California Demon: The Secret Life of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  You just can’t be too sure about demons.

  The room itself was odd, housing only a glass display case, the contents of which I couldn’t see from the doorway. Black velvet draped the walls and ceilings, and the only illumination was provided by a black light.

  I stepped up to the case, and saw that it was dominated by a large stone tablet covered in geometric shapes that seemed to glow under the purple light. Triangles on triangles. Squares on squares. Squares bisected into triangles.

  I took a pamphlet from beside the main display case, and quickly scanned it. All the artifacts, it said, were Macedonian relics, discovered last year as part of an archeological dig funded by the British Museum. According to the text, the relics dated back thousand of years before the birth of Christ.

  I don’t know a lot about history, but I thought that sounded pretty fascinating. More so since experts were unsure as to the function of the tablets or the meaning of the symbols.

  I sat down on a bench and slid off my new shoes, wiggling my toes in ecstasy. I was out of practice in heels, and my feet ached.

  I was massaging the ball of my foot when I realized someone was in the doorway. I looked up, embarrassed, to see the tall, sun-baked blond hunk—Cool.

  I had one of those V-8 moments when I finally realized why he looked so familiar—I’d seen him here at the museum. Not the kind of place I would have expected to find a celebrity surfer, but people surprise you all the time.

  I slipped my shoe back on and got up to go over and make polite conversation, but by the time I got to the doorway, he was gone.

  I shrugged and moved on to the next room, where at least the light was normal and the objects recognizable. Bowls and spoons. For those, I didn’t even need a pamphlet.

  Since I hadn’t checked on the kids, I pulled out my cell phone and called Laura. They were fine, she reported, and Timmy was already asleep. Did I want to just retrieve both kids in the morning? I thought about it, and decided I did. Once Timmy’s awake, he’s impossible to get back to sleep. Better to not disturb him once he was down for the night.

  I continued through the exhibit, half paying attention, but mostly letting my mind wander. To demons, to Stuart, to Eric, to my kids. Stuart found me there, coming in and sliding his arms around my waist. “Hey,” he said. “You ready to go?”

  I checked my watch. Still early. “Are you ready to go?”

  He kissed the top of my head. “I’ve mingled. I’ve schmoozed. I’ve played the politician. And now,” he added, turning me in his arms and pulling me close, “I think it’s time for me to play the husband.”

  “In that case,” I said, baffled but pleased. “I think I can probably tear myself away.”

  The next morning I retrieved Timmy from Laura’s at the crack of dawn, hurried him off to day care, then hurried back, eager to dive into the mystery of the book and the demons. I’d called Gretchen yesterday, explaining I anticipated a late night, and begging her to cover my car pool. So it was more than a little ironic that I was now camped out at Laura’s coffee table half an hour before I’d normally be dressed.

  “Eager much?” she asked, yawning and pulling her robe tighter around her.

  “Just ready to kick a little butt.” It’s amazing what a romantic night in a child-free house can do for your world view.

  “You and your daughter. What’s with the attitude this morning?”

  I frowned, thoughts of demon butts shoved aside by concern for my kid. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t know,” she said as I followed her into the kitchen. “That’s the point. Last night she hardly said two words to me. And when I mentioned it to Mindy this morning, she said that Allie didn’t say anything to her, either.”

  “Well, damn,” I said. “She was quiet yesterday after the mall, but I thought it was the hunger.” Now I didn’t know what to think. Not talking to me or Laura fell within the normal parameters for the fourteen-to-sixteen age group (at least, according to every parenting book I’ve ever read). But not talking to Mindy? That was a mystery.

  “Maybe they like the same guy?” I suggested.

  “Maybe,” Laura said dubiously. “But I thought you should know.”

  “Thanks.” Not that I had any flash of insight as to what I should do with this newfound knowledge. That’s the problem with parenting. Every time you get one problem—like potty training—taken care of, a new one pops up.

  And even though the infant issues like croup and baby-proofing and the first day of kindergarten had scared me to death, it was the older-kid issues that were really frightening. Boys and drugs and fast cars and sex. And because my life wasn’t already complicated enough, I had demons to throw into the mix.

  Honestly, some days it doesn’t pay to get out of bed early.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing,” Laura said. “Anyway, it’s not why I called.”

  I drained my coffee, then stared at her. “Called me? When did you call me?”

  “Last night. You didn’t get my message?”

  Heat settled in my cheeks, and I cleared my throat. “Ah, um, no. We didn’t exactly check the machine last night. After the fund-raiser, I mean.”

  “Oh, really?” Her eyebrow cocked with interest.

  I leaned forward, then lowered my voice, as if the neighbors might otherwise hear my confession. “I followed your lead,” I said. “Victoria’s Secret.”

  “And I gather it worked?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, unable to stop the ridiculous grin. “It worked like a charm. Although considering Stuart’s mood, I think Sears lingerie would have been just as effective.”

  I cleared my throat, my grin fading as I remembered why she’d mentioned the sexy undies plan in the first place. “Have you talked to Paul?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, almost too casually. “He actually called yesterday morning. And without me even bringing it up, he told me how he had to drive all the way back up here to wine and dine some key client who couldn’t make it down to the conference.”

  “So he was home last night?”

  “Um, that would be a negative. He also said that he’d planned to come home, but that he’d gotten an emergency call and so he’d had to turn right around and go to L.A.” She shrugged. “Sounds plausible, don’t you think?”

  I decided to sidestep that question. “Do you believe him?”

  She closed her eyes and took a long sip of coffee. “Let’s just say I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt. For now.”

  I reached across the table and clasped her hand. “I hope it works out okay.”

  “It will.” She gave me a watery smile. “However it ends up working out, I’m going to be just fine.”

  She got up quickly and moved to the sink, then stared out the window. After a second, she ran some water, shut it off, then turned back around to face me. “Anyway, none of that has anything to do with why I called you.”

  “Right,” I said. “I’m sorry I didn’t check the messages.”

  “Doesn’t matter. But you need to see this.” Her voice had turned serious.

  “All right,” I said, a little alarmed. “Tell me.”

  She got up and moved toward her phone, then started digging through a pile of papers. “I found it on the Internet last night, and printed it for you. I didn’t want to risk not being able to find the site again.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Hang on. I’ll get it.” She tossed a few manila folders aside, papers scattering along the countertop. “Wait. Here it is.”

  She plucked one free, then slapped it onto the table in front of me. “I’m sorry, Kate,” she said, before I even finished reading it.

  I skimmed the article, feeling sicker as I absorbed each word. The article was dated several months ago. And it described a nasty car accident. The kind where the police expect no survivors.

  But in this case, the driver had survived. A teacher at Coronado High School who’d suffered a busted kneecap and a broken tibia. A
nd, miraculously, no other injuries at all.

  The teacher’s name, was David Long.

  Twelve

  I lunged for Laura’s phone and started dialing, waiting impatiently through the rings until, finally, Allie’s voice came over the handset, telling me she couldn’t get to the phone right now, but to leave a message.

  I redialed. Once again, I got dumped into voice mail.

  I slammed Laura’s phone down. “Damn it, I’m just going to head to the school.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “You’re not dressed.”

  “Two minutes,” she said, tearing toward her bedroom.

  True to her word, about three minutes later we were in her car, heading for the school.

  “It’s going to be fine,” Laura said. “Neither of the girls have any classes with him, right? And Allie’s been around him for days and days and nothing’s happened. There’s no reason anything bad would happen today. Right?” she asked, stopping at an intersection and turning to look at me. “Right?”

  “Mysterious keys. Geriatric demons. Demonic janitors. And one completely tossed house. All over the course of a weekend. I don’t know. Somehow I don’t think we can blame Mercury for being in retrograde.”

  “Yeah, well, when you put it that way.” She gunned the car across the street.

  I was clutching the armrest for dear life when my cell phone rang. I snatched it up, answering without checking the caller ID.

  “Mom?” she asked, not even waiting for me to say hello. “What’s wrong? Is it Timmy?”

  “No, no,” I said in a rush, my eyes catching Laura’s and nodding at her a silent Allie? “We’re all fine. How are you?”

  A long silence, then, “Um, I know you’ve been acting kinda freaky and all, but I’m supposed to be in English class right now, and I had to beg for a bathroom pass because my stupid phone rang twice, and it kept making my purse vibrate. So, like, aren’t you only supposed to call me if it’s an emergency?”

  “It is,” I assured her. “It was urgent that I get in touch with you.”

  “Right. So . . . ?”

  “So?”

  “Mom! Why’d you need to get in touch with me?”

  To make sure you hadn’t been attacked by a demon. But I could hardly say that. “I, um, just needed to check some stuff. You have a second?”

  “Mom! I’m standing in the hall missing English. What’s going on?”

  “Any classes with David Long today?”

  A long pause, then, “I don’t have any classes with Mr. Long. Why?”

  “What about surf club? Is it meeting after school?”

  “Mo-ther!”

  “Just answer the question, Allie.”

  “No. Surf club is not meeting today. Satisfied?” I could picture her standing in the hall, the phone tucked against her ear, her foot tapping.

  “So you won’t be seeing Mr. Long today?”

  “No. God, Mom. I’ve told you like twelve times. I don’t even think he’s in school today. Bethany heard he had a substitute. Why? Do you need me to find him or something for you?”

  “No. No, no. I just . . . heard some things about unorthodox teaching methods. I want to look into it.”

  Silence.

  “Allie?”

  “You’re losing it, Mom.”

  “Maybe,” I agreed, signaling for Laura to turn the car around and head back home. “You’re home late tonight, right? Cheerleader practice?”

  Another pause, then, “Yeah, but I’m skipping it.”

  That got my attention. “Skipping? Why? Is something wrong?” She hadn’t missed a practice since she made the squad. And for the last month—at least until she’d discovered the amazing Troy Myerson—she’d been living and breathing cheerleading.

  “I gotta go.” And then she clicked off. No “I love you.” No “good-bye.” Just click.

  I thought about what Laura had said, and a finger of worry snaked up my spine. Something was up with my daughter. And I didn’t have a clue what it was.

  Since Monday IS my normal Coastal Mists volunteer day, and since I wanted to sneak a peek at Sinclair’s things anyway, I went straight to the nursing home from Laura’s.

  I found Jenny in Delia’s room, taking a beating from the older woman at checkers.

  “Isn’t it awful?” Jenny said. “Poor Mr. Sinclair. I mean, to wake up from a coma, then to turn right around and have a heart attack.”

  Delia shook her head. “Wasn’t right in the head, that one. I talked to him once after he woke up, and all I can say is he just wasn’t right in the head.”

  “How so?” I asked, wondering if Sinclair had blurted the demons’ plan out to Delia. “Did he say anything in particular?”

  Delia looked up at me, blinked. “Who, dear?”

  “Never mind.”

  I made small talk for a few more minutes, before easing the conversation back around to Sinclair. “I thought I’d sort through his things,” I told Jenny. “You know, get everything in order for his family. Is everything still in his room?”

  “I think so,” she said, as if my request wasn’t in any way bizarre. She frowned at the checkerboard, lost in concentration. I took a step backwards toward the door. She looked up. “Except, I think it’s already been sorted through.”

  “Oh.” I stopped. I was afraid of that. “So it’s in a box in the administrative offices?” I could break in there and take a peek. But I didn’t really want to.

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I just meant that his nephew already went through it all. He’s so dreamy!”

  “His nephew?” I asked, wishing it was easier to carry on a linear conversation with Jenny.

  “Oh, yeah. And he actually talked to me.”

  “Jenny, what are you talking about?”

  She blew out a frustrated breath. “He’s a celebrity, Mrs. Connor! I didn’t even know Mr. Sinclair had any relatives, but then his nephew shows up and he’s, like, a total hunk!”

  “Got his picture in the newspaper and everything,” Delia confirmed. “One hot number, that guy.”

  “Hot number?” I asked, but Delia was already rummaging on the table for yesterday’s paper. She flipped through, found the Life & Arts section, and handed it to me. And right there, on the first page, was a picture of Cool at Saturday’s cookout, front and center with the surfers lined up behind him.

  Sinclair was Cool’s uncle? Maybe. But if not, then what reason did Cool have to snoop through a dead demon’s belongings?

  Needless to say, my interest was piqued.

  I figured I’d gotten as much information as possible from Jenny and Delia, so I left them to their game and went down to Sinclair’s old room. As I’d expected, it had been picked clean. I searched diligently, though, just in case. The only contraband I found was a Snickers tucked between the mattress and the box spring. Fattening, maybe, but hardly demonic.

  I shut Sinclair’s door, perched on the edge of his now-stripped bed, and called Laura’s cell phone. No answer. I tapped my fingers on my knee, waiting for her voice mail to pick up, and then when it did, I had to fight back the urge to blurt everything out. I was pretty sure Laura was the only one who ever checked her cell phone messages. But I wasn’t positive.

  So in what was probably more cloak-and-dagger than necessary, I left her a cryptic message about how I’d learned some interesting stuff about the local celebrity we’d been talking about, and maybe she could see what she could find out about him online.

  Seemed pretty clear to me. Hopefully, it would to Laura, too.

  I’d just clicked off when my phone rang again. I checked the display, saw that it was Cutter, and smiled as I answered. “Hey there. What’s up?”

  “My banking advice work out?”

  “Sure did. You’re brilliant.”

  “Win me any brownie points?”

  “Five, actually. Ten more and I’ll have to officially label you a good guy.”

  “How many points until you tell me all yo
ur secrets?”

  “Careful there, Cutter,” I said, my voice stern despite my smile. “Keep pushing and you’ll start earning demerits, too.”

  “Damn. And I was so close.”

  I laughed. “What’s up?”

  “You’re coming in today, right?”

  “Sure.” I worked out with Cutter most every Monday. We’d developed a nice little routine, and I was honing my atrophied skills. “Why?”

  “That new student I mentioned, the one who needs a sparring partner? I told him to come by around four. That okay with you?”

  “Too late now if it’s not,” I said. Cutter had invited the guy to arrive right when my private session was scheduled to begin.

  “He’s good, Kate. And he’ll make you better.”

  “He’s that good?”

  “No. Not yet. But he’s surprising. And he’s not me. You’re getting lazy.”

  “The hell I am.”

  He laughed. “Yeah? Prove it to me this afternoon.”

  “You’re an ass, Cutter.”

  “I know. But I’m an ass who puts up with you.”

  So true. I told him I’d be there, then clicked off, looking forward to sparring with this mystery man. A little fresh meat would do me good.

  When I’d first started working out again, I’d been surprised how quickly I’d slid back into familiar routines. But there’s a satisfaction that comes with knowing you can kick the shit out of someone and, truth be told, I’d missed that.

  I’d found replacements, sure. I mean, there’s also an intense satisfaction in helping your kid learn to count, in making sure your family has clean clothes (most of the time) and decent meals (if not gourmet). And although I disdain all things housekeeping, there’s even a perverse satisfaction that comes from getting the layer of soap scum off the inside of the glass shower doors. (Lemon oil. Works like a charm. Trust me on that one.)

  But none of that matches the thrum of satisfaction that races through you when you execute a perfectly timed kick and nail your opponent cold.

  I spent the next few hours doing my typical volunteer routine at Coastal Mists. I asked the residents about Sinclair, but no one had much to say other than the usual ghoulish commentary on how horrible his death was, and how unfortunate to have a heart attack and end up with a spike through your eye.