Demons are Forever: Confessions of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (3 page)

Apparently, though, I worried for nothing. Because I got none of that. Not then, not during the remainder of our walk back to the museum parking lot, and not during the entire four weeks of Christmas vacation. Instead, I just got ... well, Allie. A slightly more introspective version of Allie, maybe, but nothing to suggest there’d been any life-changing mother-daughter talks in the last few weeks.

“She has a lot
to absorb,” Laura said on a balmy Thursday in January, just a few days before school was scheduled to start up again. “Give her time. Before you know it, she’ll be begging to wield a stiletto and learn how to identify a demon on sight.”

At her use of the word demon, I turned toward the doorway, the reaction automatic since I knew perfectly well that the house was empty. In a rare moment of domesticity, Stuart had taken Allie and Timmy to the mall for an afternoon of exchanging presents and scouring sales, and Eddie was at the library, more interested in the librarian than the books.

“Thanks,” I said as Kabit, our cat, twined between my legs in the vain hope of snagging some cream. “That makes me feel so much better.”

Laura peered at me over the rim of one of my festive holiday mugs, currently brimming with cocoa and whipped cream. “She’s a teenager, Kate. Just because she’s scared for you doesn’t mean that she’s scared for her. After all, you’re old and creaky. She’s young and invincible.” She skimmed her finger through her whipped cream and held her finger down to Kabit, who immediately abandoned me and trotted to her. “And she did tell you that the demon-hunting thing was cool, right?”

I nodded. That she had.

“She’s processing,” Laura said. “Along with boys and cheerleading and school, she’s processing the fact that she was kidnapped by a demon and her mother used to be a Demon Hunter.” She nailed me with a significant look; I’d confessed to Laura my flat-out lie about no longer hunting demons, and my best friend was not exactly supportive of my decision. “Once she’s worked it all out in her head, she’s going to want to know more. And if you don’t tell her that you’re still hunting, you’re just going to dig yourself in deeper and deeper.”

I scowled at my Santa Claus mug. In truth, Laura had a point. A sharp, painful point that I couldn’t ignore, even though I wanted to. I’d seen fear in Allie’s eyes and so I’d lied about my hunting. I’d been trying to make things better, and by doing that, I’d probably made them ten times worse. “It will be okay,” I said firmly, more to convince myself than Laura.

The corner of her mouth twitched.

“What?” I demanded, feeling surly.

She smiled into her cocoa. “Just picturing the battle between you and Allie when the truth comes out.”

“And that’s funny?”

A tiny shrug. “The odds. Because between you and a demon, my money’s on you any day of the week. But between you and Allie? Kate, you don’t stand a chance.”

l’ve lived in San Diablo
for over fifteen years now. Eric and I moved here from Los Angeles while I was pregnant with Allie. And although I know the town pretty well, it’s only been since last summer that I’ve really gotten a feel for it. For all of it—the good sections and the bad.

For the most part, San Diablo is a nice little town. That’s why Eric and I came, after all. We were looking for a demon-free zone in which to live out our retirement and raise our baby. At the time, we thought San Diablo was just the ticket. After all, the historic cathedral that forms the focal point of the town is so infused with the blood and bones of saints that we were certain demons would want no part of the place.

Clearly, we were wrong.

I met my first San Diablo demon right before the school year started. Since then, I’d been spending much of my free time poking around dark alleys, strolling down the boardwalk long after most responsible humans have headed off to bed, and roaming the halls of the hospital and nursing home.

Over the holidays, I’d cut back to about one patrol per week. To be honest, after battling the demon Asmodeus and his minions for the life of my daughter, I was experiencing a little touch of demon-hunter burnout. Moreover, I didn’t want Allie to wake up and not find me there. The cops had warned about post-traumatic stress resulting from the kidnapping. I figured they didn’t know the half of it. She might seem fine on the outside, but I was worried about her inside, too.

On the Saturday before school started up again, though, Allie was spending the night at Mindy’s, and I was feeling the need to get back in the groove.

I tend to approach patrolling from two directions. On the one hand, I’ll occasionally do sweeps through the town, simply keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. As you might expect, that method rarely produces results. I’ve gotten lucky once in a while, but for the most part the only purpose these broad-based patrols serve is to remind the demons that there’s a hunter in town. A subtle suggestion that they should hop on Charon’s ferry and sail back into Hades.

I tend to have more luck with my second method. Every morning, I scour that day’s Herald for articles about recent near-misses—car wrecks that people miraculously survive, near-drownings, heart attack victims brought back to life after an astoundingly long bout of CPR.

Most people celebrate those kinds of miracles. Me, I’m suspicious. Because newly dead bodies are a demon waiting to happen. The human soul moves out, the demon moves in. Trust me. It happens more than you’d think.

I was pretty sure, in fact, that it had happened just the day before. That morning, I’d noticed a short article near the back of the Metro section. A local businessman named Jacob Tomlinson had recently downed a bottleful of sleeping pills, then decided to swim toward Hawaii. A fisherman had pulled his body out and managed to resuscitate the despondent Mr. Tomlinson. The newspaper called the rescue “miraculous.” I had a different perspective.

Since it takes a demon a few days to get up to full strength once it’s moved into a fresh body, I always follow up on these articles. That’s why I decided to go to the beach Saturday night. Demons—like criminals—tend to return to the scene.

San Diablo’s northernmost coastline is rocky and unfriendly, and both Saint Mary’s Cathedral and the Coastal Mists Nursing Home are perched high on cliffs overlooking the rough terrain. The jagged rocks and hostile topography, however, gradually fade to the traditional sandy beach as the coastline extends south, finally opening up to wide, inviting beaches that overflow with tourists and locals during the summer months.

That part of the coastline is dotted with parks, public beaches, and private marinas. Since the fisherman had launched his boat from the city beach near the Old Town section of San Diablo, that’s where I planned to head once everyone in the house fell asleep.

I assumed I’d be out the door by one.

Naturally, I assumed wrong.

“Less than one week,” Stuart said, easing up behind me and hooking his arms around my waist. I was occupied with scrubbing a saucepan, trying to coerce a greasy, gooey mess off the bottom, since I knew our dishwasher was incapable of battling that level of sludge. Considering the press of my husband against me, though, I was fast becoming less concerned about the cleanliness of our dishes.

“Just a few more days,” he said, “and then I formally announce. Hard to believe this time next year I could be the San Diablo County Attorney. Or not.”

I heard the tinge of insecurity in his voice and shifted my position, grabbing a dishtowel for my wet hands so I didn’t soak the man. “Don’t even think that way,” I said, lifting my damp arms to circle his neck. “You’ve got more support than anyone.”

“Maybe,” he said, but I saw the truth of my statement in his eyes.

I batted him with the rag. “Don’t give me that. You’re going to win this race, and you know it. As far as everyone on the PTA is concerned, it’s a done deal. Lose now, and you’ll be screwing me out of prime committee picks. And I really don’t want to be in charge of the clean-up crew for the Spring Fling.”

That worked, and he laughed. “Fair enough. For you, I’ll win the race.” He leaned in and kissed the tip of my nose. “And I’ll do it even though you’d probably rather I lost.”

I immediately blurted out a denial. But at the same time, I stiffened a little. Because even though I knew how much winning the county attorney seat would mean to Stuart, at the same time I was selfish enough to want my husband back. Lately, his nights and weekends had been spent campaigning rather than cuddling. And I rather missed the latter.

If I had him back, though, he might be more clued in to the goings-on around the house. Little things like, oh, that his wife hunts demons in her spare time.

All in all, it would probably be for the best if Stuart won the race. If nothing else, his late nights at the office made it easier to keep my secrets.

I turned back to the dishes, just in case he could read my expression. I pretty quickly realized, though, that deep, introspective conversations weren’t on the agenda tonight. “Timmy’s sound asleep,” he said, his lips brushing the back of my ear, the sweet sensation sending a little trill down my spine. “And Allie’s over at Mindy’s.”

“That’s very interesting information,” I said, unable to keep the smile out of my voice.

“We have an unopened bottle of Merlot.”

“Also good to know.”

“And if you scoot over, I’ll help you with the dishes.”

“Now that’s the way to a woman’s heart,” I said, shifting to the left to make room for him.

True to his word, he pitched in and the kitchen was quickly transformed from disaster area to presentable. It wasn’t Better
Homes
and
Gardens,
but it probably never would be.

“It’s getting late,” I said, hoping he’d take the hint. It was already after ten; if I wanted to go patrolling tonight, I needed him sound asleep soon.

Stuart, however, wasn’t cooperating. “It’s Saturday,” he said. “And it’s a brief calm before the storm. We should kick back and enjoy it. The wine. Maybe some cheese. A movie.” He pulled me close and traced his forefinger over my bottom lip. “Who knows where it could lead?” he added softly, his tone alone telegraphing at least one rather delightful destination.

I leaned in close, then tilted my head back and batted my eyes at him. “Why, Mr. Connor,” I said, in my most breathy voice. “Are you seducing me?”

“I think that might be on the agenda.” He kissed me then, and when he pulled back, his smile held the promise of more. “You get the wine,” he said. “I’ll find a movie.”

We ended up snuggled together on the couch watching Sean Connery and Jill St. John do the James Bond thing. Stuart is an Ian Fleming fan, and I’ll watch anything with Sean Connery, so while this wasn’t exactly seduction material, it wasn’t torture either. Even so, the action sequences definitely shifted me from seduction mode into hunter mode. And by the time the credits rolled, I was wired again and ready to go.

So was my husband, actually, but not in the way I had in mind. Still, I have to admit that he won me over pretty quickly. How could he not? This was the man I loved, after all. And this was what I’d been missing.

He pulled me close, his lips brushing mine, and his fingers touching me in a way that was both delicate and possessive. I moaned a little, thinking how lucky I was to have found love twice in my life.

I know it’s natural for a widow to think of her first husband. So even though memories of Eric started to sneak in around the edges of my lust, I didn’t feel guilty. Stuart knew that I’d loved Eric and that he’d always have a place in my heart.

What Stuart didn’t know was that Eric might still be alive. Might, in fact, be living in San Diablo.

I pushed the thought away, not ready to deal with that possibility, and tugged Stuart closer. And as I lost myself in my husband’s kisses, I tried hard not to think about how complicated my life could become.

A full moon
hung in the sky as I made my way down the wooden boardwalk. I had a flashlight tucked in my back pocket but I didn’t need it. The night was clear, and the light from the moon was plenty to show me the way.

I’d been patrolling now for about fifteen minutes. I’d parked along Main Street in front of one of San Diablo’s numerous artsy stores. I’d walked the short distance to the Pacific Coast Highway, passing pizza places and local coffee shops closed up tight for the night. There’s a traffic light at PCH and Main Street, but this late, it was flashing yellow. I’d crossed the highway without seeing any sign that anyone else was awake on this chilly January night, human or demon.

I fervently hoped I hadn’t made a mistake in coming. The trip would be worth it if I actually nailed a demon. If not, I was risking family peace should Stuart wake up.

The air hung cold and thick, but I fought the urge to hug myself for warmth. I needed my hands free, ready to defend myself should Tomlinson jump me.

As for that, I kept my senses on alert, my eyes trained to spot anything out of the ordinary, and my ears cued to hear more than just the pounding of the surf.

Even if you don’t run across a demon, patrolling is hard work. You have to be at the ready, adrenaline pounding just below the surface. If not—if you relax even a little—that’s the moment they’ll get you. And that’s how Hunters end up dead.

Since dead really wasn’t a convenient state of being for me, I was on hyper alert. Even so, I almost didn’t hear the faint pad-thump, pad-thump of footsteps behind me. The sound was so negligible, I could almost believe I’d imagined it. Or that I’d heard nothing more than a cat crossing the boardwalk in search of a washed-up fish for dinner.

My heart rate increased, multiplying with the tempo of the footsteps. I tried to gauge the distance behind me but couldn’t. Whoever was back there, was a master of stealth.

I didn’t slow my pace, didn’t give any sign that I knew I was being followed. But as I walked, I flicked my left wrist, causing the stiletto concealed inside my jacket sleeve to slide down to a ready position.