Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

Table of Contents

 

 

“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 Demon

“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,
USA Today
bestselling author of
Dead as a Doornail

“Sprightly, fast-paced . . . readers will find spunky Kate hard not to root for in spheres both domestic and demonic.”

“Kenner scores a direct hit with this offbeat, humorous adventure.”

“This book was so much fun to read. I highly recommend this exceedingly entertaining read!”

“A fun netherworld thriller that readers will treasure.”

“A+ . . . I am very ready for the next installment in Kate Connor’s life.”

“You’re gonna love this book! . . . Terrific . . . lots of humor and crazy situations and action.”

—
freshfiction.com

“Fast pacing and in-your-face action. It’s a good read. Give it a try. Kate’s a fun character, and keeps you on the edge of your seat.”

—
SFReader.com

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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

CARPE DEMON

 

A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

 

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2005

Jove mass-market edition / November 2006

Copyright © 2005 by Julie Kenner.

 

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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eISBN : 978-1-101-04191-8

 

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That I do not speak Italian became painfully apparent when I e-mailed my pieced-together-from-Internet-research dialogue to the fabulous Eloisa James with SOS in the subject line, and she very politely told me that I had it all wrong. Even better, she fixed it for me! So a special thanks to Eloisa for saving my linguistically challenged rump. (But if there are mistakes, blame me and not her!)

That I do not know Latin became painfully apparent way back in high school. I didn’t even try the Internet route in that regard, just sent out an SOS to the Novelists, Inc. e-mail loop (a
wonderful
list!) and heard back almost immediately from Eve Gaddy (who couldn’t answer my question but who put me in touch with a man who could). Thanks to John Harris, Ph.D., who pulled it together for me. I don’t think I’ve ever taken quite so much pleasure in watching someone analyze the linguistic nuances of telling the dead to rise!

That I know little about fencing became painfully apparent when the fencing scene was filled with more XXs than text, indicating all those places where I needed terminology. Thanks to Stefan Leponis for helping me fill in the blanks and giving me wonderful insight into the world of fencing. And thanks to Helen for noticing my “I need fencing terminology” whine in my blog and sending her husband, Stefan, to my rescue!

That I know little about karate . . . well, you get the drift. Special thanks to the wonderful and talented Lexie for helping me out with uniforms and other details (and, if memory serves, getting to stay up a bit past bedtime to filter answers back to me through her mom), and to Nancy Northcott for outlining some of the moves she learned in class.

Also thanks to Deacon Ron Walker, St. Mary’s Parish, Austin, Texas, who helped with the Cathedral layout and other Catholic-related stuff that I really should have known. . . .

Again with the caveat: All mistakes are my own. And they were on purpose. Really. Call it literary license.
Really
. . .

And, finally, a special thanks to Don, Kim, Kassie, Allison, Dee, and Kathleen, who all loved Kate from the moment they met her. And that means the world to me!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My name is
Kate Connor and I used to be a Demon Hunter.

I’ve often thought that would be a great pickup line at parties, but with a teenager, a toddler, and a husband, I’m hardly burning up the party circuit. And, of course, the whole demon-hunting thing is one great big gargantuan secret. No one knows. Not my kids, not my husband, and certainly not folks at these imaginary parties where I’m regaling sumptuous hunks with tales from my demon-slaying, vampire-hunting, zombie-killing days.

Back in the day, I was pretty cool. Now I’m a glorified chauffeur for drill-team practice and Gymboree playdates. Less sex appeal, maybe, but I gotta admit I love it. I wouldn’t trade my family for anything. And after fourteen years of doing the mommy thing, my demon-hunting skills aren’t exactly sharp.

All of which explains why I didn’t immediately locate and terminate the demon wandering the pet-food aisle of the San Diablo Wal-Mart. Instead, when I caught a whiff of that telltale stench, I naturally assumed it emanated exclusively from the bottom of a particularly cranky two-year-old. My two-year-old, to be exact.

“Mom! He did it again. What are you feeding him?” That from Alison, my particularly cranky fourteen-year-old. She, at least, didn’t stink.

“Entrails and goat turds,” I said absently. I sniffed the air again. Surely that was only Timmy I was smelling. . . .

“Mo-om.” She managed to make the word two syllables. “You don’t have to be gross.”

“Sorry.” I concentrated on my kids, pushing my suspicions firmly out of my mind. I was being silly. San Diablo had been demon-free for years. That’s why I lived here, after all.

Besides, the comings and goings of demons weren’t my problem anymore. Nowadays my problems leaned more toward the domestic rather than the demonic. Grocery shopping, budgeting, carpooling, mending, cleaning, cooking, parenting, and a thousand other “-ings.” All the basic stuff that completely holds a family together and is taken entirely for granted by every person on the planet who doesn’t happen to be a wife and stay-at-home mom. (And two points to you if you caught that little bit of vitriol. I’ll admit to having a few issues about the whole topic, but, dammit, I work hard. And believe me, I’m no stranger to hard work. It was never easy, say, cleaning out an entire nest of evil, bloodthirsty preternatural creatures with only a few wooden stakes, some holy water, and a can of Diet Coke. But I always managed. And it was a hell of a lot easier than getting a teenager, a husband, and a toddler up and moving in the morning. Now,
that’s
a challenge.)

While Timmy fussed and whined, I swung the shopping cart around, aiming for the back of the store and a diaper-changing station. It would have been a refined, fluid motion if Timmy hadn’t taken the opportunity to reach out with those chubby little hands. His fingers collided with a stack of Fancy Feast cans and everything started wobbling.

I let out one of those startled little “oh!” sounds, totally pointless and entirely ineffectual. There was a time when my reflexes were so sharp, so perfectly attuned, that I probably could have caught every one of those cans before they hit the ground. But that Katie wasn’t with me in Wal-Mart, and I watched, helpless, as the cans clattered to the ground.

Another fine mess . . .

Alison had jumped back as the cans fell, and she looked with dismay at the pile. As for the culprit, he was suddenly in a fabulous mood, clapping wildly and screaming “Big noise! Big noise!” while eyeing the remaining stacks greedily. I inched the cart farther away from the shelves.

“Allie, do you mind? I need to go change him.”

She gave me one of those put-upon looks that are genetically coded to appear as soon as a girl hits her teens.

“Take your pick,” I said, using my most reasonable mother voice. “Clean up the cat food, or clean up your brother.”

“I’ll pick up the cans,” she said, in a tone that perfectly matched her expression.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was fourteen. Raging hormones. Those difficult adolescent years. More difficult, I imagined, for me than for her. “Why don’t I meet you in the music aisle. Pick out a new CD and we’ll add it to the pile.”

Her face lit up. “Really?”

“Sure. Why not?” Yes, yes, don’t even say it. I know “why not.” Setting a bad precedent, not defining limits, blah, blah, blah. Throw all that psycho mumbo jumbo at me when
you’re
wandering Wal-Mart with two kids and a list of errands as long as your arm. If I can buy a day’s worth of cooperation for $14.99, then that’s a deal I’m jumping all over. I’ll worry about the consequences in therapy, thank you very much.