by Julie Kenner
“And so you were fencing with Judge Larson?” He wasn’t being sarcastic, just confused. I couldn’t really blame him for that.
“Ah, no. Self-defense classes. I’m going to sign Allie and me up.”
“Oh, awesome!” Allie’s voice echoed from the stair-well, and a moment later my own little Britney Spears appeared, decked out in a too-tight T-shirt that plunged so low I could see the lace of her bra and stopped so high I could see her belly button, form-fitting black Lycra pants that clung to her hips (and the rest of her), and white Keds with lace-topped socks. Fortunately, I didn’t see any evidence of tattoos or body piercing.
I scowled at Stuart as she made her way over, Mindy and Laura bringing up the rear. “This is your idea of a school wardrobe?”
He held up his hands and took a step backward away from me. Smart man. “I just drove and paid.”
“We’re really gonna take a self-defense class?” Allie asked, clamoring to a stop beside me. “No kidding?”
“No kidding,” I said, already wondering when I’d find time to sit Allie down for the this-is-not-appropriate-attire conversation.
“I’m so psyched,” she said. “And you’re really going to do self-defense stuff, too, Mom? Like kicks and everything?”
I tackled the righteous indignation part of the equation first. “Yes, I’m really going to do it. What, you don’t think I have it in me?”
“Well, you know. You and Stuart are old.” She shrugged. “No offense and all.”
“None taken.” I glanced at Stuart, pleased to see that the perplexed expression had now been replaced by amusement.
“Apparently your mother isn’t completely crippled by the ravages of age yet,” Stuart said. “She and Judge Larson put on a little fencing exhibition earlier for Mrs. Dupont.”
“Very funny,” I said, even as Allie said, “No shit?” then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oops. Sorry!”
“Allie!” I said, more happy for the diversion than I was upset about her language.
“You were really fencing?” All remorse about her language had died, drowned by waves of curiosity.
“Yes.” I could hardly deny it, much as I might want to.
“That’s so cool.”
I beamed. My fourteen-year-old thought I was cool. Old and creaky, but cool.
“Why?” she asked.
The glow from offspring adoration faded, replaced by the frustration of being interrogated. I sighed. “I already explained to Stuart. Woman. Alone with children. It just seemed—”
“No, no. I heard all that. I mean, why fencing. And why with him?” She avoided looking at him, and from her tone, you’d think it was Larson who was the spawn of Satan.
“Allie.” There it was again—my Shocked Mother Voice. The second time in so many minutes. I turned toward Larson. “She’s fourteen,” I said, by way of explanation, even as I wondered if she’d overheard Laura’s suggestion of an affair.
“Mo-ther.”
“Alison Elizabeth Crowe,” I said. “Did you lose your manners at the mall?”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“Don’t tell me.”
She drew in a long, labored breath, then tilted her head up to Larson. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything personal, really. I just . . . I mean . . . well, why’s my mom fencing with anybody?”
“A very good question,” Stuart said, and Allie moved two paces closer to him, apparently sensing an ally. Laura and Mindy, I noticed, had faded backward into the living room and were now staring at the television, as if they were as enraptured by Elmo and the gang as my son. Cowards.
“I really don’t understand why everyone’s so worked up about a little fencing,” I said.
“Kate simply mentioned her plan to take a self-defense class,” Larson said, his voice coming off smooth and reasonable compared to my high-pitched protestations. “I told her I used to fence, she asked if a fencing class would be worthwhile for her purposes, we started chatting, and before we knew it, we were sparring with the cleaning products.”
Stuart frowned. “Cleaning products?”
“Swiffer handles.” Laura volunteered the info from across the room. Apparently she wasn’t as absorbed in Sesame Street as I’d thought.
“Why—”
I held up a hand, cutting Allie off. “It doesn’t matter. The point is, Judge Larson was kind enough to show me a few fencing moves. It seems like a fun sport, but not nearly practical enough.” That was true, actually. While this conversation had started as a giant bullshit session, it also underscored one undeniable truth—this world is filled with dangerous people, of both the human and demonic variety. My little girl was growing up (too fast, if that outfit was any indication) and if she was going to be out there in the world, I wanted her as safe as possible. Why not teach her to kick a little butt? I figured that was the least a concerned mother could do.
I aimed a measured look at Stuart and Allie. “We’ll start classes next week,” I said. “Kickboxing or aikido or something. I’ll look into what’s available.” What I really wanted was a sensei who could teach her all the basics—and who could work with me on an advanced level when Allie was in school. Not likely, but I could hope.
“You really mean it?” Allie asked. “I’m gonna go out for cheerleader, so we have to make sure the class times are okay, but oh, wow, this is so cool!”
“Glad you think so.” Who knew the promise of working up a sweat would be so appealing?
“That’s a lot of activities,” Stuart said, looking not at Allie but at me. I tempered the urge to tell him that I was a hell of a lot more concerned about my daughter staying alive than I was about her grades. He had a point, though, and part of my pissy knee-jerk reaction was that I hated when I made a Responsible Parent misstep. (And, yes, I know that’s one of the reasons that having two parents is a good thing. But—dirty little secret time—no matter how much I love Stuart, Allie belongs to Eric and me. She just does. So I always get a little tense when Stuart picks up the parental slack where Allie is concerned. Stupid and unfair, I know, but there you have it. And if Allie ends up revealing all on Jerry Springer some day, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.)
“Mom?” I was getting the puppy-dog look now.
“Stuart’s right,” I said. “If your grades fall, something will have to give, and since I think this is important, that something will be cheerleading or drill team or drama or whatever activity you’re fascinated with that week. Understood?”
Her head bobbed. “Oh, yeah, sure.”
I tried to look stern. “So long as we’re clear, we can start the classes. But this is high school, kiddo. It’s a whole new ball game.”
“I know.” She crossed her heart. “Really. I’ll totally be Study Girl. You’ll see.” She cocked her head toward the living room. “Can Mindy take classes with us?”
Mindy had been tickling Tim, but now she leaned forward, my apparently boneless child limp across her lap as he squealed for “More tickle! More tickle!”
“Can I, Mom?” she asked, turning her own set of puppy-dog eyes on Laura. “Pleeeeze.”
“You could come along, too,” I said to Laura, already into the idea of Laura and Mindy joining the party. So long as I’d decided to get my daughter into fighting shape, I might as well help our friends gain that competitive edge, too.
“Not bloody likely,” Laura said. “But if you’re willing to schlep two kids, I’m willing to fork over her tuition.”
“Whoo-hoo!” Mindy gave Tim another big tickle, then escaped out from under him to half-run, half-bounce toward Allie.
“You sure?” I said to Laura.
“I can barely get through the basic twenty-minute Pilates workout. I think kickboxing is a little beyond me.”
I’d encountered Laura’s philosophy of exercise before—basically, Laura considered pushing the grocery cart from the checkout stand to the car to be a killer aerobic workout—so I knew better than to press. “Okay, girls,” I sai
d. “Looks like you’re going to be mixing it up pretty soon.”
As Allie and Mindy leaped around the room, kicking and chopping at each other like rejects from the next Charlie’s Angels movie, I shot a quick frown at Larson. A tiny smile tugged at his mouth. I grimaced. How nice that he was amused.
We’d started something this afternoon, he and I. Something I was going to have to finish. I was looking forward to spending more time with Allie (doing something where I was cool); I just wished the impetus for this new endeavor hadn’t been my fear that one of Goramesh’s minions would decide to pay her a little visit after school one day. I forced myself to ignore that possibility for the moment and focus only on the upside of the situation. Bonding with my kid and getting some exercise to boot. There’s nothing like a little demon activity to get a girl back in shape, I always say. And after a few heavy-duty training sessions, I should be able to squeeze back into my size-eight jeans. That’s a perk, right?
I mean, really. Who needs Pilates when you’ve got a town full of demons?
After much rapturous bounding around the living room, the girls finally settled down and the afternoon took a right turn toward normalcy. Stuart and Larson adjourned to the kitchen, and I suppressed my urge to follow and eavesdrop. If things went down the way we expected, I was going to be trusting Larson with my life; the least I could do was trust him to keep his mouth shut around my husband.
Besides, Laura’s whole purpose in suggesting this little get-together was to check on my mental health in the wake of my Eric-dreams and my lunch with Eric’s “friend.” I could hardly abandon her for the political babble going on in my kitchen.
“Is that him?” she asked, while the girls were upstairs putting on outfit number one for the First Ever Crowe-Dupont Gala Fashion Show.
“Him who?”
“Eric’s friend. Is Judge Larson the one you had lunch with?”
“Oh.” I quickly debated what the best lie was, realizing as I did so that in the space of twenty-four hours, my ability to bullshit had improved dramatically. “Yeah, that’s him.”
“You didn’t tell me he knew Stuart.”
“I’m still processing the coincidence. He was just your average lawyer when Eric knew him. Now he’s a federal judge.”
“Great for Stuart,” she said, giving me a sideways look.
“Oh, absolutely,” I agreed. “These days, Stuart’s all about the endorsements.”
“Not so great for you, though, huh?”
I knew what she meant, of course. “I’ll deal. It’s not like I don’t think about Eric every day anyway. I mean, I see his face every time I look at Allie.” That much was true; the resemblance was remarkable. What I couldn’t tell Laura was that seeing Larson (well, Larson plus the whole demon-Goramesh-end-of-life-as-we-know-it thing) had prompted more than just memories of my first husband; it also brought into sharp relief the void in my relationship with Stuart. Eric and I had been partners in every sense of the word. He knew me from the inside out, and I him. With Stuart, there were shadows between us—my past life (suddenly my present life), and the day-to-day details of his law practice. I didn’t really understand what he did when he went to the office, and although I tried—really I did—when he told me stories about his work life, my eyes tended to glaze over.
I wouldn’t have known how to tell Laura any of that even if I’d wanted to. Fortunately, I was saved from commenting by the thunderous footsteps of the girls down the stairs.
Laura and I exchanged amused glances as they skidded to a halt just beyond our view. I’d put Tim down for his late and desperately needed nap about ten minutes earlier, and now I crossed my fingers, hoping their noise wouldn’t wake him.
The fashion extravaganza lasted forty-five minutes, the girls strutting their stuff while Laura and I cheered them on (quietly, though, so as to not wake the munchkin). In the end, I had to admit that (notwithstanding the earlier outfit) Allie had picked out clothes that met with the Mom Seal of Approval.
“You two will be the best-dressed freshmen at Coronado High,” I said as they took their final bows.
They looked at each other, neither one looking particularly happy.
“What?” Laura and I asked in unison.
“Freshmen,” Allie said.
“We’re stuck back on the bottom again.”
“We were the top in junior high. We were eighth graders. Now we’re pond scum.”
And to think there were times when I actually regretted missing out on a public school education. Amazing. This was one of those mothering moments where you have to stifle the urge to say, “Don’t sweat it. In twenty years none of this will matter.” Right then, in my daughter’s fourteen-year-old mind, it did matter. It mattered in a big way.
“You’ll do great,” I said. “And in just three short years, you’ll be the seniors again.”
“Three years,” Allie repeated morosely. She turned to Mindy. “We’ve so got to make cheerleader.”
Mindy nodded, her expression equally serious. “Definitely.”
I made a point of not looking at Laura, afraid if I did I’d laugh. My instinct was to leap to my feet and give my girl a hug. (When did she turn fourteen anyway? I swear just last Wednesday she was learning to walk.) I suppressed the urge, knowing that I’d be rewarded with a stiff back and an Oh, Mo-ther.
“Okay, girls,” I said. “Why don’t you take the clothes back to Allie’s room? Did you totally pig out at the mall, or are you ready to order dinner?”
“I’m starving,” Allie said. “Can we get one with extra cheese and breadsticks?”
“Sure. Why not?” I turned to Laura. “Should we order enough for Paul?”
I thought I saw a shadow in her eyes, but it vanished before I could be sure.
“Daddy’s working late,” Mindy said.
“Then it’ll be a girls’ night,” I said. “Unless Stuart surprises me. He’s spent the last couple of nights eating at his computer and catching up on work. As soon as he and Larson finish schmoozing, he’ll probably go back there again.” I had a feeling this was a portent of things to come if Stuart actually won the election. Stuart locked away in his study, emerging only for coffee and Timmy’s bedtime. I wasn’t crazy about the picture, but I also couldn’t bring myself to drop an ultimatum. This was the man’s dream, after all.
As it turns out, I was right. As soon as Larson headed out (catching my eye only once before taking his leave), Stuart kissed Allie good night, then disappeared to the back of the house. The group dynamic shifted when Tim woke up, but we figured a prepubescent male didn’t alter the hormonal makeup of our little gal fest. Besides, Tim made for great entertainment, doing the hokeypokey ad nauseam with the girls until both Mindy and Allie begged him to stop and we finally had to distract him with a handful of Teddy Grahams.
Once he was more or less tuckered out, the girls debated the possible selections from our DVD collection (taking into account all the various parameters I’d outlined, the most important being that the first movie be toddler-friendly). While they debated like Ebert and Roeper, I gathered the pizza boxes and headed for the back door.
“Need a hand?” Laura asked.
“Not here. But if you start a pot of coffee, I’ll love you forever.” I’d had two glasses of wine with my pizza, and already my head was swimming.
“Does Stuart know you’re such a cheap date?”
“Why do you think he married me?”
As she headed off to the kitchen, I crossed the back patio, then followed the path to the side of the house where we keep the trash cans. San Diablo is a holdout to the ugly, plastic, wheeled contraptions so many towns have switched to. We have old-fashioned metal trash cans, the kind that are so bright and shiny in the hardware store that you really can’t imagine filling it with your potato peels and sacks of poopy diapers. Call me nuts, but I think the trash cans add to the town’s charm.
I’d just lifted the lid when I smelled it, that putrid odor that wasn’t coming from
the trash. I whipped around to face this new demon foe (a teenager, no less!), but he was expecting my move, managing to block my blow and land his own against my upper thigh. I went down with a yelp, the trash can lid clattering against the cement, and my not-yet-a-size-eight butt cushioning my fall.
Immediately I pressed my hands back against the sidewalk to lever myself back up, but he was on top of me, one knee against my chest and a hunting knife against my throat.
The icy steel of the blade matched the ice that filled my veins. Yesterday that ice had been tainted by fear. Not anymore. Kate Connor, Level Four Demon Hunter, was back in business, and she was pissed off. That ice was adrenaline and determination and years of training sweeping (hopefully) through my body. I was going to kick the shit out of this scum-puppy. No doubt about it. He was going down.
All I had to do was figure out how.
Eight
“It’s over, Hunter,” he said, his mouth curling into a sneer. “My master is moving in, and this town isn’t big enough for the two of you.”
Were the situation not so dire, I would have laughed at the cliché. With his red hair and freckled face, demon-boy reminded me of a young Ron Howard, and I was having a hard time reconciling my memories of Richie Cunningham with this killing machine who now threatened my life.
I took a breath, then took a chance. “What do you want?”
“I want what my master wants.” He grinned, all boy-next-door with a blade. He leaned in closer, and I almost gagged after inhaling a whiff of his breath. “He’ll find it, you know. If it’s in San Diablo, he’ll find it. And the bones will be his.”
“Bones?”
He made a shushing noise, then moved the knife from my neck to my lips, laying it flat across my mouth. I fought an involuntary shiver and lost. He saw the movement and his eyes lit with victory. “That’s right, Hunter. Be afraid. Because when my master’s army rises, you will be among the first to fall. And by the time he’s done, you’ll wish you’d died a whole lot sooner.”
“I’m beginning to wish you’d get it over with now,” I hissed, my lips moving against the cold blade.