by J. Kenner
Old Tom cocked his head so that his bad eye, the one covered with the gray-green film, appeared to focus on her. Maggie stood fast. They said he could see things with that eye, he just couldn’t see the world. Well, let him look. She had nothing to hide. Nothing to fear, and everything to gain.
As far as she knew, no one had ever asked to do—had never even considered trying—what she wanted. Certainly no one had the nerve to come to Old Tom for help. But she wasn’t going to flinch. She wanted this. So much she could feel it in her stomach. So desperately she couldn’t sleep for thinking about it.
If it couldn’t be done, so be it. But if it could . . . well, Old Tom would know how. Or he could find a way.
“You would do this for love?”
She raised her chin. “Yes.”
“You understand the consequences? What you would be giving up?”
Consequences? She was asking to be human. Wasn’t that consequence enough? Could there be more? “I haven’t . . . I don’t . . .”
“You are . . . special, Maggie. Different. So this yearning you feel does not surprise me. But the consequences . . .” He trailed off, looking toward the sky. When he turned back, his expression was firm. “Your life. It is quite fine now, no?”
Everything except for not having Nicholas. “Yes.”
“You are very young—”
“I’m almost—”
“—and this is only your first life. Humans get only one, you know.”
“With him, one would be a blessing. Without him, eight more would be torture.”
Was that compassion in Old Tom’s dead eye? She wanted to look more closely, to explore the enigma, but just then he lifted his head to snarl at a mockingbird cackling at them from the branches above. When he turned back, the eye was flat. Emotionless.
“This love of yours that is so deep that you would give up all you know—will he return it?” His nose twitched. Could he smell her hesitation?
She turned away. “He calls me precious. He calls me sweetheart. I make him happy.”
“You haven’t spoken with him of this? He hasn’t told you how he feels?” Old Tom blinked and the pupil in his good eye narrowed to a slit.
Maggie shrank back. “He doesn’t understand me. I’ve tried, but he doesn’t hear.” How could she make Old Tom understand? She knew how Nicholas felt. He loved her. And if he didn’t now, he would. Eventually, he would. He had to.
“Child, you ask the impossible of me.”
She struggled to breathe as her world collapsed around her. The stories were lies. He didn’t have the power. She was trapped. Trapped in her world, and Nicholas in his. She sank down to the ground, her head resting on the cool dirt, her eyes closed.
Soon Nicholas would belong to that female. And there would be nothing Maggie could do except watch and seethe. She could scratch and spit and howl and claw the furniture, but none of that would matter.
That female would get Maggie’s Nicholas.
How could she have such horrible luck? “But the stories . . . ”
“If there was a bond . . . if he had the hearing, could understand you . . . . But no. Without that assurance . . . no, no, I must not. You are special, Maggie. And I cannot risk being wrong.”
Must not? Or could not? She opened her eyes.
“Oh, please, please. If you love me at all, you must help me.”
It was unfair of her, she knew. The members of Old Tom’s clan were close, and she knew he loved them all. Still, there was a special place in his heart for her. She’d never asked for favors before, and she knew that her failure to take advantage made him love her all the more. But now, now she would do anything.
“Why now?”
She looked away, ashamed that her thoughts were so vulnerable. “There is no special reason.”
“Maggie . . . ” The compassion was back in his eye, but there was a sternness also. “I have seen the female. The one in the tall shoes. She touches him as a lover.”
“They are to be married.”
“Married? The bonding ritual of humans. You would interfere with this? Why?”
“He doesn’t love her. He couldn’t love her.”
“And you? You would be a better mate? One he does not even know exists?”
Pride straightened Maggie’s spine. She lifted her chin and looked down her nose, composed and serene.
Old Tom grunted. “Hmph. What is it you dislike about this female? Why could he not love her?”
“She smells . . . unreal.” Maggie tried to search Old Tom’s face without looking like she was watching him. They all trusted their noses, but Old Tom more than anyone. Maybe it was because he only had that one eye, the one that she was now desperately searching for a clue.
“If I do this thing, it will be by my rules. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“You must choose now. Once it is done, only then will you know the rules. But before you choose, ask yourself how well you know his heart. How well do you know your own? Are you sure that he will love you and turn away from his female?” He squinted at her. “How do you choose?”
“I choose Nicholas.”
“Then it is done.”
As he spoke, she felt a tingling in her limbs, like the crackling of the air during a lightning storm, only this was inside her, ripping her apart.
Dizzy. She felt dizzy. Focus. Old Tom was speaking. Must focus.
“ . . . The skills you will need . . . but not completely human . . . your soul, yes . . . but not your shape . . . only at night . . . only until All Hallow’s Eve . . . by day . . . yourself . . . secret . . . can’t reveal to Nicholas . . . forfeit . . . all . . . ”
It was no use. She was fading. She was so tired, so dizzy. The sun was setting. Her legs wouldn’t support her. Old Tom crouched above her, a silhouette against the full moon.
His words. She needed to understand his words.
“Maggie, child,” his tone cut through the fog in her head. “He must declare his love for you of his own free will before your time is up. He must tell you. Or you will remain a cat forever, and I will be unable to help you.”
Click here for your copy of The Seductive Charm of a Sexy Shifter a prequel novel in the Extraordinarily Yours series!
Or keep reading for a peek at Carpe Demon, book one in the Demon Hunting Soccer Mom series!
Looking for contemporary romance? Keep going for a Chapter One excerpt from Down On Me, the first book in J. Kenner’s Man of the Month series.
Extraordinarily Yours
Sexy paranormal rom-coms!
So (Very!) Much More than the Girl Next Door
The Charmed Affair of an Invisible Bodyguard
The “Super” Secret Life of an Accidental Daddy
Never Trust a Rogue on a Magical Mission
Mayhem, Matchmakers, and a Bit of Bewitching (novella)
How a Sexy Hero and a Marvelous Makeover (Sorta!) Saved the World (novella)
The Seductive Charm of a Sexy Shifter (prequel)
Carpe Demon (Excerpt)
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 Walmart. 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 Kate wasn’t with me in Walmart, 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 Walmart 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.
I caught another whiff of nastiness right before we bit the restrooms. Out of habit, I looked around. A feeble old man squinted at me from over the Walmart Sunday insert, but other than him, there was nobody around but me and Timmy.
“P.U.,” Timmy said, then flashed a toothy grin.
I smiled as I parked the shopping cart outside of the ladies’ room. “P.U.” was his newest favorite word, followed in close second by “Oh, man!” The “Oh, man!” I can blame on Nickelodeon and Dora the Explorer. For the other, I lay exclusive blame on my husband, who has never been keen on changing dirty diapers and has managed, I’m convinced, over the short term of Timmy’s life, to give the kid a complete and utter complex about bowel movements.
“You’re P.U.,” I said, hoisting him onto the little dropdown changing table. “But not for long. We’ll clean you up, powder that bottom, and slap on a new diaper. You’re gonna come out smelling like a rose, kid.”
“Like a rose!” he mimicked, reaching for my earrings while I held him down and stripped him.
After a million wipes and one fresh diaper, Timmy was back in the shopping cart. We fetched Allie away from a display of newly released CDs, and she came more or less willingly, a Natalie Imbruglia CD clutched in her hand.
Ten minutes and eighty-seven dollars later I was strapping Timmy into his car seat while Allie loaded our bags into the minivan. As I was maneuvering through the parking lot, I caught one more glimpse of the old man I’d seen earlier. He was standing at the front of the store, between the Coke machines and the plastic kiddie pools, just staring out toward me. I pulled over. My plan was to pop out, say a word or two to him, take a good long whiff of his breath, and then be on my way.
I had my door half open when music started blasting from all six of the Odyssey’s speakers at something close to one hundred decibels. I jumped, whipping around to face Allie, who was already fumbling for the volume control and muttering, “Sorry, sorry.”
I pushed the power button, which ended the Natalie Imbruglia surround-sound serenade, but did nothing about Timmy, who was now bawling his eyes out, probably from the pain associated with burst eardrums. I shot Allie a stern look, unfastened my seat belt, and climbed into the backseat, all the while trying to make happy sounds that would calm my kid.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” Allie said. To her credit she sounded sincere. “I didn’t know the volume was up that high.” She maneuvered into the backseat on the other side of Timmy and started playing peekaboo with Boo Bear, a bedraggled blue bear that’s been Timmy’s constant companion since he was five months old. At first Timmy ignored her, but after a while he joined in, and I felt a little surge of pride for my daughter.
“Good for you,” I said.
She shrugged and kissed her brother’s forehead.
I remembered the old man and reached for the door, but as I looked out at the sidewalk, I saw that he was gone.
“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.
I hadn’t realized I was frowning, so I forced a smile and concentrated on erasing the worry lines from my forehead. “Nothing,” I said. And then, since that was the truth, I repeated myself, “Nothing at all.”
For the next three hours we bounced from store to store as I went down my list for the day: bulk goods at Walmart—check; shoes for Timmy at Payless—check; Happy Meal for Timmy to ward off crankiness—check; new shoes for Allie from DSW—check; new ties for Stuart from T.J. Maxx—check. By the time we hit the grocery store, the Happy Meal had worn off, both Timmy and Allie were cranky, and I wasn’t far behind. Mostly, though, I was distracted.
That old man was still on my mind, and I was irritated with myself for not letting the whole thing drop. But something about him bugged me. As I pushed the shopping cart down the dairy aisle, I told myself I was being paranoid. For one thing, demons tend not to infect the old or feeble. (Makes sense when you think about it; if you’re going to suddenly become corporeal, you might as well shoot for young, strong, and virile.) For another, I’m pretty sure there’d been no demon stench, just a particularly pungent toddler diaper. Of course, that didn’t necessarily rule out demon proximity. All the demons I’d ever run across tended to pop breath mints like candy, and one even owned the majority share of stock in a mouthwash manufacturer. Even so, common sense told me there was no demon.
Mostly, though, I needed to drop the subject
simply because it wasn’t my problem anymore. I may have been a Level Four Demon Hunter once upon a time, but that time was fifteen years ago. I was retired now. Out of the loop. Even more, I was out of practice.
I turned down the cookie-and-chips aisle, careful not to let Timmy see as I tossed two boxes of Teddy Grahams into the cart. In the next aisle, Allie lingered in front of the breakfast cereal, and I could practically see her mind debating between the uber-healthy Kashi and her favorite Lucky Charms. I tried to focus on my grocery list (were we really out of All-Bran?), but my brain kept coming back to the old man.
Surely I was just being paranoid. I mean, why would a demon willingly come to San Diablo, anyway? The California coastal town was built on a hillside, its crisscross of streets leading up to St. Mary’s, the cathedral that perched at the top of the cliffs, a focal point for the entire town. In addition to being stunningly beautiful, the cathedral was famous for its holy relics, and it drew both tourists and pilgrims. The devout came to San Diablo for the same reason the demons stayed away—the cathedral was holy ground. Evil simply wasn’t welcome there.
That was also the primary reason Eric and I had retired in San Diablo. Ocean views, the fabulous California weather, and absolutely no demons or other nasties to ruin our good time. San Diablo was a great place to have kids, friends, and the normal life he and I had both craved. Even now, I thank God that we had ten good years together.
“Mom?” Allie squeezed my free hand, and I realized I’d wandered to the next aisle, and was now holding a freezer door open, staring blankly at a collection of frozen pizzas. “You okay?” From the way her nose crinkled, I knew she suspected I was thinking about her dad.
“Fine,” I lied, blinking furiously. “I was trying to decide between pepperoni or sausage for dinner tonight, and then I got sidetracked thinking about making my own pizza dough.”
“The last time you tried that, you got dough stuck on the light fixture and Stuart had to climb up and dig it out.”