Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Epilogue
PRAISE FOR
Carpe Demon
“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.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Kenner scores a direct hit with this offbeat, humorous adventure.”
—Romantic Times
“This book was so much fun to read. I highly recommend this exceedingly entertaining read!”
—Midwest Book Review
“A fun netherworld thriller that readers will treasure.”
—The Best Reviews
“A+ . . . I am very ready for the next installment in Kate Connor’s life.”
—The Romance Reader’s Connection
“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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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eISBN : 978-1-101-04191-8
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For Allison and Kim.
Thanks for letting me take Kate and run with her!
Acknowledgments
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!
One
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 skil
ls 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.
I caught another whiff of nastiness right before we hit the restrooms. Out of habit, I looked around. A feeble old man squinted at me from over the Wal-Mart 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 drop-down 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 Wal-Mart—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 überhealthy 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 e up 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.