Demon Ex Machina: Tales of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (11 page)

“Hardware aisle,” I said to Laura. And then to Allie, “Is that really the place for Timmy?”

“Mother.”

“Fifteen minutes,” I said, and hung up. So long as the kid was entertained . . .

“Does she know about She?” Laura asked. I must have looked baffled, because Laura clarified. “Does Allie know about the ‘She’ that your backyard demon went on about?”

“Not yet. I haven’t had the chance to tell her. And I haven’t figured out how to tell her without mentioning her dad’s little problem.”

“How about Stuart? Told him?”

I shot her a frustrated look.

“Just saying,” she said. “You need to tell him.”

“I know. I will. But I want information before I do.” I flashed her a wide grin. “That’s where you come in.”

She looked like she had more to say on the subject, but Larry the Tile Guy showed up. “Excellent work,” he said, peering down at my cuts. “Set it aside and we’re all going to mix some mortar. I’ve got tiles over there for everyone to pick from, so go on and get dibs on a pattern.”

We headed that direction along with all the other tile warriors. “Does Eric know?” Laura asked. “Who She is, I mean.”

“If he does, he’s not telling me.” I spoke flippantly, but I could tell from Laura’s expression that she wasn’t buying it.

“You okay?”

I wasn’t entirely sure that I was, but I managed a smile. “Peachy.”

She looked like she was going to argue, but she didn’t get the chance because all of a sudden a huge clatter rang out through the room, accompanied by the dispersal of hundreds of ball bearings across the floor. And there, in front of it all, was my little boy, racing pell-mell for the automatic doors at the front of the store.

“Timmy!” I shouted, trying to vault over the pile of tile.

Allie’s own shouts echoed my own, but when she stepped on one of the bearings, her feet went flying out from under her and she landed on her rump, a half dozen onlookers standing stock-still to stare at her, no one offering a hand because of the minefield that was the floor. “Timmy!” she cried. “Stop right now or no ice cream!”

The threat didn’t work. Not so much because the kid was being disobedient, but because he was freaked. The noise, the people yelling. My kid was no stranger to a high decibel level, but usually in smaller quarters. And without a cadre of employees and customers converging on him.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

“Timmy! Right here!”

But he couldn’t see me, and those automatic glass doors opened wide, and as Laura and I sprinted forward, all I could think about was my little boy stepping out into that busy parking lot and—

“Come here, kiddo! Let’s go see your mommy.”

I positively froze in relief. The redhead I’d noticed earlier had scooped him up about six inches beyond the door, and was holding him close, pointing in my direction with a hand holding a Starbucks cup. I got there in a second, which was about a second longer than I wanted. She passed my boy to me and I clutched him close, my heart pounding in my ears, the roar of blood starting to die down around me.

“Big noise!” Timmy said. “Big noise!”

“Mom! Oh, God, Mom, I’m so sorry. There was a box and then he pulled it off the shelf, and those things went everywhere and—” Allie rubbed her rear, tears streaming down her cheeks, and as much as the fear that still coiled within me made me want to lash out, I pulled it back. All was well, I told myself. All probably would have been well even if he’d made it to the parking lot. I would have caught him in time. Nothing to freak out about.

And yet there I was, freaked, and desperately grateful to the stranger who’d waylaid my son.

I squeezed Allie’s hand, a silent promise that all was okay. To the woman, I turned my full attention. “They can really get away from you, can’t they?” she said, smiling down at her own toddler, before I had the chance to say anything.

“They can and they do,” I said. “Thank you so much.”

Larry sauntered over and ruffled Timmy’s hair. Delighted at being the center of attention, Timmy beamed. “We all okay over here?”

“We’re good. I’ll be right back. I’m sorry for the disruption, and we’ll pick up those bearings and—”

“Nah, it’s cool. We got it.” And I could see that they did. Already a crew was clearing the aisle of the mess created by one small boy.

“Can I buy you another coffee? Lunch? A small continent?” I asked the redhead.

“Australia would be nice. Thanks.” She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed in thought. “You look awfully familiar. I thought so earlier, but—oh, I know! Cutter’s studio! You’re going to teach that women’s self-defense class!”

“Do you train there?”

She shook her head. “I’m in that 7-Eleven all the time.” She reached down and hauled her boy up to her hip. “I’m pretty sure he eats baby wipes and Kleenex when I’m not looking,” she said, and the little boy lifted his eyes toward the ceiling and shook his head in mock exasperation, an affectation so funny on a toddler it had me smiling.

“I know the feeling.”

“Listen, I’ve been meaning to pop in and ask about your class. I’d love to sign up. Does it start soon?”

“I’ve got a class at four, actually, if you want. Three Saturdays, and then I’ll start a new session.” Technically, the class was sold out, but I figured Cutter would give me a pass if I squeezed one more student in.

“Oh, could I?” She bounced junior on her hip. “I think about him, you know? And I just want to be safe.”

I squeezed my own little boy, clinging to my neck like a monkey. “Yeah,” I said. “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

 

“Best thing to do’s just grab ’em in the nuts,” Rita Walker—Fran’s eighty-six-year-old mother—announced to a smattering of applause. “That’ll show him who’s boss.”

“Actually,” I said, “Rita has a point.” The class was scheduled for two hours each Saturday over the course of three weeks, and though I’d originally planned to open the class with a discussion of theory, basic awareness, and how to not project yourself as a victim, I soon realized that this group was keen to jump straight into the middle of things. Which left me altering my lesson plan on the fly. “And we’ll come back to that in more detail, but for the moment, let’s go with it.” I signaled to Cutter. “Want to give us a hand?”

Rita snorted. “Ain’t his hand you’re gonna be mangling now, is it?”

“Guess I’m glad I wore a cup,” he said.

“But did you wear shoes?” I asked, with an evil grin.

His brows lifted, and he cocked his head, knowing full well what was coming. “Well, hell,” he said.

I laughed. “You’re the one who suggested I play teacher.”

“But I never suggested I play victim.”

“You’re not,” I said. “That would be me.” I turned my attention to the ladies. “Okay, now here I am, foolishly standing outside my car rummaging in my purse for my keys. What’s the first thing I did wrong?”

“You should have put them in your hand before you left the store or your house or whatever.”

“And you should check under the car. Could be some whack-job on his belly with a knife.”

“Both right,” I said, continuing to pantomime a frustrated shopper. “And here comes the bad guy.”

I couldn’t see him behind me, but from the cackles of laughter, I assumed Cutter had pasted on a Snidely Whip-lash expression and was creeping toward me on tiptoes. I continued to frantically rummage in my pretend purse until I felt his arm snap around my neck, pulling me close.

I reached back and clamped down hard at his groin, thankfully not doing any damage—or embarrassing either of us too fully—because of the cup he’d had the foresight to wear. “That’s not it, though, ladies. You’d think it would be, but—” I stepped back and down, smashing the instep of Cutter’s left foot and eliciting a howl from my injured-yet-helpful sensei.

I turned, flashed him a smile, and let the applause slide over me.

“Okay, ladies. Partner up and you try it. Don’t grab tight, and stomp down on the mat, not on your partner’s foot. I don’t want any genuine injuries.”

“Now you’re concerned,” muttered Cutter.

I made a rude noise and rolled my eyes. “Come on, Sean. Be a man.”

“If you’d grabbed me any tighter, I don’t think I would be anymore.”

“I’m not terribly worried.” As examples of the male species went, Cutter was a prime specimen—a blackbelt several times over, former military, and loyal to a fault. He’s also damn good-looking, a little fact that I think played at least some part in my sold-out class tonight. “Buck up and help me make rounds,” I added with a grin.

We spent the next ten minutes circling the practicing women, correcting form and helping them get comfortable grabbing and pounding with all of their strength. Yelling came next, and for that I actually recruited Allie from the children’s room. Since child care is often an issue with women, I’d convinced Cutter to let Allie and Mindy come in and babysit. I needed the help, but I’ll also admit that I was blatantly manufacturing reasons for the girls to get together. And as I poked my head into the kids’ room, I had to say that my evil plan seemed to be working. Mindy and Allie were sitting in a circle with the kids, clapping and singing about the farmer’s dog named Bingo.

Allie popped up when she saw me, letting Mindy take the spotlight. “Whatcha need?”

“Come yell for me,” I said. When Allie had first started her own training, I’d demanded she work on her yell first. Most women think they can yell, but when actually put in the position, they manage little more than an anorexic squeak. With practice, however, you can learn to bellow on command. And not only does a nice, loud yell prepare you for fighting, it has the added benefits of potentially scaring your attacker, letting your attacker know you’re not going to give in easily, and it alerts your Demon Hunter mother who is hopefully nearby and ready to beat the crap out of any demon who even looks at you funny.

We explained all of that (well, the relevant parts, anyway) to the class, and then had Cutter sneak up on Allie. In addition to whipping around and catching him with a solid crescent kick to the shoulder, she burst out with a yell loud enough to wake the dead.

Both moves earned her vigorous applause, even from Mindy, who I saw watching from the doorway.

“So there you go,” I said. “Grab your partner and start blasting eardrums.”

It was during that cacophony that the redhead from Home Depot rushed in, her eyes going wide at the spectacle. Her little boy smacked his hands over his ears and scrunched up his face, and since I feared for an imminent tantrum, I hurried over. “Sorry! You walked in during the craziest part.”

“And the loudest,” she said. “Is there a place for John-John?”

I smiled down at John-John and held out my hand. He made a face, but took it, and I nodded toward the back room where the toddler karate classes were usually held. “We’ve got teenagers amusing the natives,” I said. I nodded toward Allie. “Including mine once she quits doing the Rebel Yell.”

“She’s good at it,” the woman said.

“I’m sorry,” I said, sticking out my free hand. “I’m Kate. And I know John-John now.” I flashed him another smile, but he scowled and looked away. Honestly, I was thinking I’d found little Danielle’s date for the prom. “But I don’t think I ever caught your name.”

“Lisa,” she said, her wide smile more than making up for her boy’s less-than-rosy personality.

I led her and John-John back to the children’s room, with Allie following on our heels. I noticed that Lisa sent the kid away without much fanfare, and decided that was another oddity with the child. Though they were about the same age, Timmy’s partings were much clingier than this little carrottop and, I have to admit, I think I preferred Timmy’s way. As much as there were times that the Velcro-child phenomenon could be an annoyance, at the end of the day there wasn’t much I loved more than my kid holding me tight in a never-ending hug.

Class moved fast after the yelling session, covering basic things like using whatever is near you as a weapon, to me going through a quick “don’t try this at home” sparring session with Cutter simply because Laura egged us on.

“I missed the groin foot-step thing you were talking about,” Lisa said when Cutter headed next door to grab a few more bottled waters, making sure we had enough to go round when class was over. “Could you run through it with me?”

“Sure,” I said, then pointed to the mat. “You’re heading to your car, thinking about your groceries or something equally mundane, not paying attention to your surroundings, when out of the blue—”

I broke off as I wrapped my arm tight around her neck, pressing just hard enough so that she’d know the fear of that pressure on her windpipe, but not so hard as to cut off her ability to breathe.

“Mom!”

“Mrs. Connor!”

Allie’s and Mindy’s cries rippled through the room, but I had no idea why because as I loosened my grip so that I could turn toward the problem, Lisa slammed her fist back into my crotch, grabbed the inseam of the loose-fitting khakis I’d selected for class, and slammed me down onto my back. She was on top of me, her face right in mine, before my brain even had time to process what was going on.

And, with her mouth that close, there was no way to avoid the stench of serious halitosis hidden under the bitter scent of coffee laced with breath mints.

She pressed forward so that her mouth was almost at my ear. “Fight back, and my consort will thrust that pencil through your little boy’s brain.”

“Who the hell are you?” I hissed, keeping my voice low and hopefully out of earshot of the shocked members of my class.

“Odayne is hers,” she said, making me blink. Under the circumstances, I’d made the snap assumption that Lisa was the She-Demon. Apparently, I was wrong. “Hers? Whose?”

But she didn’t answer, instead thrusting a blade up high, and then bringing it flashing down toward my chest.