Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

by Julie Kenner

  “Really? Seems a shame they’re tucked away like that.” My interest was piqued and I was feeling a trifle smug. I’d get a list of the relics, look for anything that sounded like “bones” or came from any of the ravaged locations. Easy squeezy.

  “It is a shame,” he agreed, without looking at me. The narrow stone stairs we were maneuvering weren’t exactly up to code, and he and I were both picking our way down, careful not to misstep and land in a heap at the bottom. “Of course, some are still in their display cases, and are available for viewing on a limited schedule. We simply moved the cases to the basement to keep them safe during the restoration.” He shook his head. “The collection was on display for years in the cathedral foyer. I’ve only been here a relatively short time, but even to me it seemed like the end of an era when we moved the pieces down here.”

  My earlier smugness started to crack. “How long were the pieces on display?” If the bones Goramesh wanted were known to be in San Diablo, there was hardly any reason to rampage through Italy, Greece, and Mexico searching for them.

  “That depends on the particular relic,” Father said. “Some came with Father Aceveda when he founded the cathedral centuries ago. Others arrived as gifts over the last few centuries. The bishop has done an extraordinary job ensuring that the temporary removal of the relics isn’t felt too deeply. As soon as the restoration is complete, the items will once again be displayed upstairs. In the meantime, a few items are set out each week in the Bishop’s Hall, and the entire collection is available to view on the Internet.”

  I was now pretty sure I’d find nothing of interest to Goramesh among the already cataloged items, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Frankly, I was assuming that the bones were a recent acquisition. That would explain Goramesh’s sudden interest in San Diablo. Something that had recently been donated, but had some connection to Mexico, Greece, or Italy. Or all three.

  He’d reached the bottom stair, and now he stepped onto the dingy wooden floor, stopping to wait as I continued to pick my way down. As soon as I joined Father on the floor, I immediately saw the dimly lit display cases that lined two walls of the cavernous room. I wandered to one and gazed through the glass at a row of six cloth bags, each about the size of a half-pound of coffee and labeled with calligraphy so ornate I couldn’t easily read the text. In the next case I saw two gold crucifixes and a Bible that looked as though it would fall apart if anyone dared to breathe on it. Other miscellaneous relics and artifacts filled the case, and I turned back to Father Ben, fascinated.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.

  I agreed that it was. “Even this basement is impressive.” The space had rough stone walls into which metal holders protruded. Once they’d held torches; now dim electric bulbs dangled from each, filling the room with an incandescent glow that did little to penetrate the shadows.

  He laughed. “It does have a certain atmosphere.” He waved toward another wooden door—this one with a solid-looking padlock. “All the relics are noteworthy, of course, but the truly priceless pieces are locked in the vault.”

  I frowned, thinking that an ancient door and one rusty padlock wouldn’t keep out a determined thief.

  He must have read my expression, because he laughed. “We tried to maintain the character of the basement. There’s a stainless steel, alarm-rigged vault behind that door. I assure you, the treasures are quite safe.”

  “Good to know,” I said. And potentially bad for me. I said a fervent prayer that the bones weren’t locked back there. I could pick a lock (or I could at one time), but breaking into professional vaults? That was out of my bailiwick.

  Another question occurred to me, and I looked back up at Father. “Why keep the collection here and not in the Vatican?”

  Father Ben grinned, and all his youth seemed to reflect in that smile. “Would you like to hear what I was told when I came to St. Mary’s? Or would you like to hear my theory?”

  “Yours, of course,” I said, liking Father Ben more and more.

  “PR,” he said, then watched, as if waiting for me to jump all over that brilliant revelation. I just shrugged, probably disappointing him mightily.

  He sighed. “Sadly, it’s all about the money. Even for a church. And that requires donations, pledges—”

  “Which flow more freely when the church has some cache,” I finished, getting the picture.

  “Exactly. And while almost all parishes possess some relics, the collection at St. Mary’s is truly extraordinary.”

  “Has it worked? The PR, I mean.”

  “Apparently so,” he said. “That’s essentially why you’re here.”

  Light dawned. “The uncataloged material.”

  “Boxes of relics, family heirlooms, old baptismal records. Correspondence between the priests who founded the California missions. Correspondence between lovers married in the church. A mishmash. All of it interesting. Only some of it worth retaining. Very little of it organized.”

  Already, I was feeling overwhelmed. “How much exactly?”

  “About three hundred bankers’ boxes of documents, and another two hundred or so crates filled with a variety of items.”

  I swallowed.

  I think a flicker of amusement flashed across his face, but I could be wrong about that. The light down there was terrible. “How much time do you have?” he asked.

  “Today?” I glanced at my watch. “Until two. Then I have to rescue my babysitter from my child.” I had more than that on my plate, but I doubted Father Ben would be interested in my rundown of errands.

  “That gives you an hour and a half to get your feet wet and get your bearings,” he said. I noticed he didn’t need to check his watch to figure that out. “Actually, that’s probably about right for your first go-round.” He glanced at me, and this time I’m certain I saw a smile. “It’s really not as bad as it sounds. There may be three hundred boxes of records, but they represent the gifts of only about thirty-five benefactors. And of those, only about ten donated major gifts.”

  “Okay . . .” I trailed off, not sure what his point was. Ten was a much smaller number, yes, but those three hundred boxes were still stacked in the basement, just waiting for me to scour them, hoping some vague reference would pop out and bring the Goramesh mystery into focus.

  He took pity on me and explained. “The major donors wanted their tax write-off, so each donation was accompanied by a brief description of the items.” He held up a hand as if to ward off my (totally nonexistent) protests. “These were pious men, don’t get me wrong. The donations were made because they wanted to benefit the Church. But even while one is looking toward Heaven, one’s feet are still of this earth.”

  “Render to Caesar,” I said.

  “Exactly.”

  Made perfect sense to me. At the moment, I was feeling pretty charitable toward the IRS myself. I’d change my tune come April 15, but in the meantime, I was perfectly happy to settle down in front of each benefactor’s tax records and see if I could discern any sort of relic that seemed remotely connected to my purpose. Who knows, maybe the first item on my list would be a big box of bones.

  Father Ben explained that the boxes were already somewhat organized. Anything of obvious value—including first-class relics like bones—had been set aside and locked in the vault for the archivist to review. The remaining boxes—filled with miscellaneous papers that, presumably, would include a reference to any relics that had been pulled and locked away—were stacked in this basement area, pending review, sorting, and transfer of the delicate items to a more paper-friendly environment. I felt a twinge of guilt. This really was an important project, and I fully intended to abandon it as soon as I learned what I came for.

  The boxes lined the far wall of the cavernous basement. The other walls were lined with either the display cabinets or what appeared to be relatively modern card catalogs alternating with deep wooden shelves on which rested oversize leather-bound books, each about four inches thick, and which may have dat
ed back to the Middle Ages—though I’m not a historian, so I could be way off base with that. The room sported a rough-hewn wooden floor topped with five long wooden tables. I imagined monks sitting there, clad in brown robes and sipping soup from carved wooden bowls. Today, I’d sit, clad in denim, riffling through boxes of papers, and hoping for a reference to bones that was somehow tied to Greece, Mexico, or Italy.

  The boxes were numbered and lettered, each letter representing a benefactor, and each number representing a box in that donor’s collection. The paperwork for each donation should (and Father Ben stressed the should) be in the first box of each letter set.

  He hauled Box A1 to the middle table for me, made sure I was settled, then headed back up the stairs. Without Father, the room seemed even more dark and shadowy. Were this not part of the church and were I not a Demon Hunter, I’d probably have been spooked. As it was, I made a concerted effort to ignore the heebie-jeebies as I pulled the lid off the box, then groaned in frustration when I realized the entire box was packed tight with manila folders, each of which was, in turn, packed full of paper.

  I tugged the first folder out, laid it on the table, opened it, then yelped as a dozen multilegged critters scattered. I was on my feet in an instant, patting myself down vigorously. Yuck, yuck, yuck! Demons, dirty diapers, even last-minute dinner parties I could handle. But bugs? I don’t think so.

  I tapped the folder a few times with the edge of the notepad Father Ben had lent me. When nothing else living emerged, I decided it was safe to resume working. I sat back down and skimmed the first page. The Last Will and Testament of Cecil Curtis. I carefully flipped the pages, kicking up dust as I did so, but couldn’t find any itemized list of the bequest to the Church.

  My eyes itched, and I let out with a violent succession of sneezes. Gee, this was fun.

  I shoved the folder back into the box, sneezed again, then pulled out the next dusty collection of papers. I held the sheath at arm’s length and shook it. No bugs. I decided it was clear and plunked it on the table. I checked my watch. Exactly seven minutes had elapsed since Father Ben had left me.

  With a sigh of resignation, I opened the folder. It was filled with onionskin paper covered in fragile-looking type, as if each page were the third sheet of a carbon produced on an ancient manual typewriter. Each and every page was full of single-spaced print, and—since Larson would never let me live it down if I missed a clue—I squinted to read every word. After about ten sheets my eyes burned and my head ached, and for the first time in my life, I actually wished I wore reading glasses.

  This wasn’t fun. Important, yes, but not fun.

  There was a reason I was a Hunter and not an alimentatore . I don’t have the patience for this shit. I’m not a detective, I don’t want to be a detective, and I was unreasonably pissed off at Larson for sitting in a dust-free courtroom while I was locked in the church dungeon with a bunch of bug-infested papers.

  I didn’t want to research; I just wanted to hit something.

  Unfortunately, there’s never a demon around when you really need one.

  Ten

  After saying all the necessary good-byes to Father Ben, I headed from the cathedral straight to the gas station, my fingers crossed the entire time as I hoped the Odyssey would maneuver okay burning nothing but fumes.

  I’d just started pumping gas when my cell phone rang. “Hello?”

  “Mom! We’re done, we’re done! Can you come get us?”

  “You’re done?” I stared at my watch. Not even two forty-five. “Why are you done?”

  “Mo-om. Half day, remember?”

  I didn’t remember, but wasn’t about to confess to Allie that her mother was a space case. Instead, I made a noncommittal grunting noise. Allie didn’t seem to notice.

  “And we had our cheerleading meeting and I have about a billion forms you and Stuart have to sign and we already have homework. I mean, it’s only day one. And it wasn’t even a full day, so what’s up with that?”

  “The fiends,” I said.

  “Yeah. Exactly. So, like, can you come get us?”

  “Sure. I’ll be there in ten minutes. You’ll have to finish some errands with me.”

  I could practically hear her making a face. “We’ll wait in the car,” she said.

  I smiled. “Whatever.”

  I found the girls loitering on the steps leading up to the main entrance of the school. They were sitting with three other girls, and a group of four boys was camped out on the far side of the steps. From my vantage point, I could see the girls whispering and casting surreptitious glances toward the boys, who didn’t appear to notice.

  “So who are the guys?” I asked as Mindy and Allie piled into the van.

  “Huh?” Allie asked.

  “Your companions on the stairs,” I said, pointing back in that direction.

  “Oh, them,” Allie said, sounding just a little too bored. “Seniors.”

  “And football players,” Mindy added.

  “Don’t even know you’re alive, huh?” I said.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the girls exchange a glance. “No,” Allie finally said. “They don’t talk to freshman girls.”

  In my head I raised a silent cheer. My little girl hardly needed to be fraternizing with the football players. Out loud I put on a supportive mom face. “You won’t be freshmen forever.”

  The girls just grunted. I tried to stifle my smile as I maneuvered the van back toward our neighborhood.

  “So where are we going?”

  “Kickboxing class and then the grocery store.”

  “Oh, cool,” Mindy said.

  “Do we get to take a class today?” Allie asked.

  “Not today. I’m just going to find a class and sign us up.”

  Without the possibility of imminent fighting, the girls lost interest, ignoring me in favor of the copy of Entertainment Weekly that Allie pulled out of her backpack.

  There’s probably a more scientific method for choosing a martial arts class, but I relied on the old P & P method—proximity and presentation. Basically, what I wanted was something close to the house that didn’t look (or smell) like a total dive.

  When Eric and I had first moved to San Diablo, it had a true small-town feel. Local businesses lined Main Street, which hosted (and still hosts) a local market day fair the first Friday of every month. Surrounding this downtown area are neighborhoods overflowing with tall trees and wide, shady streets. Over the years the time-worn houses have been renovated into sparkling jewels. Small, but sparkling.

  Eric and I had lived in such a gem when we’d moved to San Diablo. The lack of space in the house for Allie’s toys (not to mention the dearth of kids in the neighborhood for Allie to play with) had made us start to eye the outlying subdivisions greedily. About the time Eric was killed, we’d been seriously thinking about moving. With Stuart, my stint in suburbia officially began.

  While downtown San Diablo retains its quaint old-world charm, the rest of the city has become truly California-ized, with strip mall after strip mall and a Starbucks on every corner. (A slight exaggeration. And since I’m a frequent and willing patron, I can hardly complain.)

  As far as I can tell, the Universal Code for the Creation of Strip Malls requires each to have a dry cleaner, an insurance agent, a pizza-delivery joint, and a martial arts studio. By my count, there are six malls dotting the landscape between the high school and the entrance to my subdivision.

  From my quick glance as I drove by, each studio appeared to be a clone of the one before it. Nothing unappealing, but nothing that screamed exceptional quality, either. In the end the only criteria I cared about was proximity, and I pulled up in front of the Victor Leung Martial Arts Academy, which shared a wall with my neighborhood 7-Eleven. (They know me well in there; it’s where I go when I run out of milk for Tim or realize that whatever I’m trying to make for dinner requires butter or cream or some other item that is sadly absent from my larder.)

  “Wh
at do you think?” I asked the girls.

  Allie shrugged. Mindy mumbled something I couldn’t understand. And with that rousing endorsement, we piled out of the car and headed toward the door.

  From the outside the place seemed clean enough, and through the glass (which listed in vibrant red paint everything from karate to kickboxing), I could see a group of kids mingling, their faces bright as they gathered personal belongings from the piles of shoes and backpacks against the far wall. I considered the presence of children a good sign—I may not have done my homework, but presumably some other mother had. Today, I would happily coast on her anonymous coattails.

  I pushed the door open, setting a little bell to jingle, and the three of us entered. The kids and a few adults all looked in my direction, but no one moved to greet me. Mindy and Allie took off toward the back of the studio, where someone had hung a collection of black-and-white pictures taken during various tournaments. I couldn’t hear everything they said, but I definitely picked up an “Oh, look at him” and a “Do you think we’ll learn how to do that?”

  I grinned. They could pretend nonchalance, but I knew the truth. The girls were looking forward to this. And, in truth, so was I.

  At the moment, though, it wasn’t excitement I was feeling, it was annoyance. Proximity notwithstanding, if someone didn’t offer to help me soon, we were going to get out of there and find some other class. I was just on the verge of gathering the girls when a set of swinging doors at the back of the studio slammed inward and a thirty-something man stepped through wearing a uniform cinched with a black belt. His hair, almost as dark as the belt, was pulled back from his head in a ponytail. He sported a day-old beard along with an aura of controlled danger. Honestly, he reminded me of Steven Seagal in Under Siege, one of Stuart’s favorite movies. The urge to ask him if he knew how to cook was almost overwhelming.

  “Victor Leung?” I asked as he approached me, his hand held out in greeting.

  “Sean Tyler,” he said. “Cutter to my friends,” he added with a smile as he looked me up and down. His fingers were warm against mine, and I realized too late I was blushing. Shit. What was the matter with me?