by Julie Kenner
“Lady?”
“Hold on a second,” I said. I headed into the living room and passed Timmy off to Laura, who’d been going through the motions of picking up what appeared to be every single toy Timmy owns.
“The girls?”
“Your place,” I said.
“I figured as much. You want me to keep Allie until after your party?”
Considering I’d already told Allie as much, Laura’s offer couldn’t have been more perfect. “You’re a saint, you know that, right?”
She found Boo Bear under an askew sofa cushion and passed it to Timmy, who clutched it greedily. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” she said.
“I’ll remember that. And I think we’re up to four desserts, now. With the next favor, I’ll buy you a gym membership.”
She grimaced. “And here I thought you appreciated my help.”
I thanked her again, and as she headed out the back door to go supervise the girls, I put Timmy down. He headed straight for the laundry basket where Laura had been collecting his toys and proceeded to rescatter them across the living room. Next on list: straighten house.
I moved back into the kitchen, and ten minutes later knew more than I ever wanted to know about dry rot. After a lot of technical mumbo jumbo, we hit the bottom line—he could do a temporary fix, but we needed to get someone in to replace the frame, at which time the new glass could be reinserted and better sealed. He’d be happy to handle the full job, of course, and assured me that his prices were competitive.
I debated the probability of Stuart siphoning enough time to handle this himself against the likelihood that he’d pawn the job off to me, expecting me only to run the estimates by him after all the bids were in. Since Option Number Two was the more likely—and since I couldn’t see fitting home-repair estimates into my already full schedule—I told the repairman he had the job. What Stuart didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. (And to ensure that Stuart didn’t know, I made a mental note to pay the bills for the next two months, even though it was technically Stuart’s turn to handle the checkbook.)
He promised to have the temporary glass inserted within the hour, and I raced back out into the living room to try to straighten the house up. Fortunately, Timmy helped, and that made the whole process go a lot faster. (For those of you who might have missed it, that’s commonly referred to as sarcasm.)
Once the toys were cleared away, I settled Tim on the couch with Boo Bear, his harmonica, a coloring book, and some (washable) crayons, then headed up the stairs to change. Since Stuart had given me no advance warning, choosing an outfit was easy. I wore the only thing in my closet that hadn’t succumbed to wrinkles—a navy blue pantsuit that I’d bought on a whim at a 75-percent-off sale, still sporting the tags from Kohl’s.
I did a quick makeup job, fastened my hair on top of my head with a clip, doused it with hairspray, doused the rest of me with apple-scented body mist (to hide the hairspray smell), then headed back downstairs just in time to sign the invoice and write an extremely rubber check to the Atlas Glass Company. (Note to self: Transfer money from savings.)
After that I got down to the really important work—moving all my various purchases to my own dishes, and reheating the quiches and cheese puffs until a) they were warm, and b) the kitchen smelled like I’d actually cooked the things. Just for effect, I tossed a few pans, mixing bowls, and other utensils into the dishwasher and turned it on. Early arrivals would assume I was just wrapping up a day of cooking.
Devious, yes. But it calmed my fear that the entire political community would assume that Stuart was married to an incompetent. (“She stays home all day with her little boy, but her house is always a mess, and she can’t cook to save her life. I mean, really. What does he see in her?”) Paranoid, maybe. But I was willing to put on the act just in case.
At ten after six I walked back into the house after dropping Timmy at Laura’s for the duration of the party (she really is a saint). I expected to find Stuart puttering around, sampling all the food he wasn’t supposed to be touching.
No Stuart. I frowned, more than a little irritated. This was his party, after all. The least he could do was show up when he promised.
I puttered for a few more minutes, straightening the trays of food, twisting the open bottles of wine on the buffet so that the labels were perfectly aligned. I even fanned out the cocktail napkins (there were still some left in the buffet, just where Stuart had said they were last Friday). The timer binged, and I retrieved the batch of cheese puffs, then arranged them artfully on a bright yellow Fiestaware plate.
Still no Stuart.
I fluffed the pillows on the couch and was just about to retrieve a piece of lint from the carpet (how shocking! how gauche!) when I heard the front door rattle. Finally!
I headed for the foyer and pulled open the door.
No one. Just a flyer for pizza delivery. Okay, fine. I tamped down my anger, reminding myself that red, blotchy skin would clash with my carefully applied makeup. There were still fifteen minutes before the party was supposed to start; surely Stuart would be here shortly.
In an effort to appear calm and collected, I grabbed the Herald from the basket we keep in the foyer, then unfolded it as I walked back toward the kitchen. I poured myself a glass of wine (the better for remaining calm) and spread out the paper, flipping idly through the sections.
When I hit the “Local Interest” section, my hand froze, my gaze glued to the page. There, front and center, was a full-color picture of my Richie Cunningham demon, smiling at the camera and looking oh-so-innocent. Underneath the picture was a short article:English major Todd Stanton Greer narrowly survived an attack by a vicious dog Saturday evening. “It was awful,” said classmate Sarah Black, who witnessed the attack. “It just came out of nowhere.” Local animal-control authorities had no explanation for the origin of the dog. Citizens with information are requested to contact authorities at 555-3698. Greer was admitted to Diablo County Medical Center in critical condition, but was discharged the following evening. “There was no point in holding him,” stated Dr. Louis Sachs. “His recovery was remarkable.”
There was a bit more to the article, but I couldn’t read it. My hands were shaking too badly.
Roving dog my ass. The local SPCA might think so, but I knew better. The dog was a demon manifestation, vile and cold-blooded. And the only reason it had to roam the streets of San Diablo would be to attack and kill—and gain human form for the demon who controlled it.
Todd Greer hadn’t miraculously survived. He’d died Saturday night. And Sunday evening, a demon had walked out of that hospital, headed to my neighborhood, and attacked me by the trash. So much for my nice, safe neighborhood.
San Diablo wasn’t demon-free anymore. Worse, everything I’d seen pointed to an aggressive and virulent demon invasion. Forza needed to be out there, fighting the good fight. But at the moment I was the only Hunter on deck.
And I was knee-deep in cheese puffs and Brie.
Eleven
With the exception of Stuart’s continued absence, the party was a roaring success. It had expanded beyond the original guest list, and now the living room and den overflowed with politicos, all standing around talking about funding and candidates, with the occasional praise of my cheese puffs thrown in for good measure.
I smiled and nodded and tried not to look at the clock every three minutes. Not easy. I saw Clark cross to the bar, and I tagged along behind him, waiting patiently while he finished up a conversation with a stern-looking woman in a black-on-black suit. “Eminent domain is not a power to be tossed around willy-nilly,” she said. “Be careful, Mr. Curtis, or we will see you in court.”
Had she not sounded so serious, I would have smiled at the phrase willy-nilly coming from the lips of such a buttoned-up woman. As it was, though, I wasn’t laughing. “What was that about?” I asked as soon as she’d gone.
“The county’s looking to acquire some land for expansion of the college. Unfortunately, the lan
d we want is already occupied by some nice little clapboard houses.” He lit a cigarette and looked so miserable I didn’t even remind him that we don’t allow smoking in the house. “Sometimes I hate my job,” he said.
“Sometimes I hate your job, too,” I said. “Is that the reason Stuart’s late? Do you have him working away on some land deal?”
“Stuart’s my candidate, Kate. Do you really think I’d keep him away from his own party?”
I didn’t, but I’d secretly hoped. Otherwise, I didn’t know what to think.
I mingled a bit more, keeping my political-wife smile firmly plastered on my face, but only half-listening to the conversations going on around me. When I heard the front door open and close, I hurried in that direction, expecting to see Stuart, but instead finding Judge Larson.
“Thank God you’re here,” I said, leading him into the relative privacy of the kitchen. “I’m going crazy.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Everything,” I said.
“That bad?”
“Stuart’s not here. He’s half an hour late for his own party. And there are demon hordes roaming the streets near the community college.”
“Oh, dear,” Larson said. He poured himself a drink. “Let’s examine those one at a time. Have you called him?”
“Twice. I just get his voice mail.”
“There was an accident on the 101. He’s probably stuck in traffic.”
“For his sake, I hope so.” Throwing these parties was painful enough. Throwing them without Stuart was positively torture.
“About the demon hordes?” Larson prompted.
“Right,” I said, pitching my voice lower. “Look at this.” I pulled out the newspaper article, then let Larson read in peace as I puttered around, piling more cheese puffs and baby quiches onto a cookie sheet, then shoving them into the oven.
After that I made a quick hostess run through the living room and den with a newly opened bottle of red wine. Everyone seemed to be having a good time, I didn’t catch anyone looking at their watch with a frown, and everyone was polite enough not to mention Stuart’s absence. When I got back to Larson, he was leaning over the table, each hand on either side of the paper, literally shaking with rage.
“Larson?” My voice was barely a whisper, but he heard me. He turned his head up to face me, and the anger I saw there made me take a step back. “Judge? What is it? Did you know him?”
He shook his head. By the time he spoke, he seemed remarkably calmer. “No. No, I didn’t know the boy. I am just—” He cut himself off, and I watched as he clenched his fists, all his attention focused once again on the newspaper. “This should not be happening.”
“I know,” I said, then sighed. I’d already done the anger and fear thing. Now I’d succumbed to a feeling of cold inevitability. I figured Larson would get there, too, soon enough. “San Diablo has always been demon-free. At least, I always thought it was. Maybe I was just blind.”
Larson waved a hand. “The past doesn’t matter. Did you have any luck in the archives?”
I shook my head. “There’s a lot of information down there,” I said. “It’s going to take a while to go through it.”
He nodded, but didn’t look happy. Him and me both. I was the one battling bugs. “We must work swiftly,” he said. “It is imperative we learn what Goramesh seeks.”
We were talking in low whispers, but apparently not low enough. Someone I didn’t recognize walked into the kitchen, leading with an empty martini glass. “Don’t know this Goramesh fellow. Is he seeking the county attorney seat? Stuart’s gonna shit a brick if there’s some contender out there he doesn’t know about.”
I stared at him, not sure what I was more astounded by—the fact that he’d overheard us, or the fact that he was running around a party using the kind of language I always swore would earn Allie a monthlong grounding.
“Something altogether different,” I said in my best hostess voice as I grabbed him by the elbow and steered him back toward the living room.
“Wait, wait,” he protested, then held up his glass. “Gin?”
“Sure. No problem.” I retrieved a fresh bottle from the pantry, then made sure my newfound friend made his way back to the party. I was mentally calculating the cost of calling taxis for all the overindulgent guests as I led Larson into the garage. There, at least, I thought we’d have some privacy.
“I need to be out there,” I said. “Or Forza needs to get on the stick and wrestle up some more Hunters. I can’t do all of this. I can’t scour the cathedral archives and stay up all night racing around to fight demon-dog hordes and get my laundry done and my kids to school and my family fed.” I paused, not because I was finished talking but because I needed to breathe. “This is bad, Larson. This is really, really bad.”
“Deep breaths, Kate.”
I held up a hand. “I know. I’m fine. I’m just pissed. That boy couldn’t have been more than eighteen. In a few years Allie could have been dating him. He’s not supposed to be ravaged by demons! He’s supposed to be fighting acne and studying for midterms.” I ran my fingers through my hair, a bad move since I managed to totally dislodge it from the clip, creating what was surely a less than stellar party look.
I took another deep breath and closed my eyes. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have even blinked at the idea of teenagers getting picked off by rampant demons running amok in the city streets. That had been par for the course. But that was a long time ago, before I’d had a teenager of my own. And now the idea of anyone—anyone—messing with my kids terrified me.
“I’ll do a quick run through town after everyone’s in bed,” I said. “It’s not ideal, but it’s better than nothing, right? And you can talk to Forza, and maybe Father Corletti can send someone else along. We can beg, right? Even a recent trainee. I don’t care. Just tell him we can use some help here.”
“Kate.” He had his hand on my shoulder. “Focus on the key. Goramesh. Find what he seeks. That is where your attention needs to lie.”
I stared at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I’m not.”
“But”—I waved a hand back toward my kitchen, which presumably he interpreted as the newspaper article—“demon dogs! Demons in my kitchen! Demons at my trash can! This is nasty stuff, Larson. And it’s not going to go away. I can’t be camped out in the church basement, knee-deep in moldy old paper. I need to be out there. Doing something.”
“Kate, listen to me.” His voice was sharp, commanding. It worked. I listened. “You are a Hunter, yes, and you’re a good one. But do you really want to come fully out of retirement? Now, when you have your children and your husband? Forza called you in to help with one specific threat—Goramesh. Are you really willing to turn your back on your family and return to the life of a Hunter? A life they can never know about?”
“I . . . but . . . No.” I wasn’t willing. Even the thought made me queasy. But years ago I’d accepted the obligation. Could I turn my back on that simply because I’d retired? “I don’t want to,” I said. “But who else—”
“Katherine, please. You better than anyone should know that demons are always around. The truth is demons roam the world. They always have, and they always will.”
I gaped at him. “So, what? You’re saying give up? Give in? I don’t think so.”
“I’m saying do the job you were brought back in to do.”
“I wasn’t ‘brought back in,’ remember? A demon came barreling through my window.”
“Katherine . . .”
“Fine. Make your point.”
“Stop Goramesh. The rest will follow. You need to focus on that task.”
“But those kids?” I waved generally in the direction of the community college.
“Perhaps it was an isolated event to serve Goramesh’s purpose.”
“And maybe pigs fly.” Yes, I was being surly. I figured I had cause.
He didn’t miss a beat. “And even if it wasn’t isolated, more will d
ie if you don’t stop Goramesh. Are you prepared to do it all? Can you do it all?”
My flippant response was that I was already doing it all—a lot more than I’d anticipated and certainly more than I’d wanted. But I didn’t say anything. I just took a few breaths and nodded. He had a point. I didn’t like it, but I understood it. We pick our battles. And we pick the battles that will reap the biggest victory. Still, though, those kids were vulnerable. . . .
I opened my mouth, but he cut me off with a wave of his hand.
“Kate,” he said. “Your heart is in the right place. But Forza needs you sharp. I need you sharp.”
We were saved any more arguing by the sudden thwunk of the garage door opener as it began churning. Stuart!
I sprinted across the garage (not an easy task in two-inch heels) and waited impatiently while the door (slowly) rose. As soon as it was three feet off the floor, I ducked under, then ran around the car to the passenger side and tugged the door open. I was just about to chew Stuart out when I saw his face.
“My God, Stuart. Are you okay?” I leaned over and pressed my hand against his chest; it was covered with caked blood. “What on earth happened? Have you seen a doctor? Why didn’t you call?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said.
The door finished its trek to the top, and Stuart pulled inside, the light from the garage illuminating the inside of the car.
“It looks terrible,” I said, tossing subtlety to the wind.
He grimaced, then reached to open the driver’s door. I reached over just as fast and snagged his other arm. “Hold on a second there, buddy. Where do you think you’re going?”
“Cocktail party,” he said, and although he really didn’t sound groggy at all, in my mind I imagined him slurring his words and stumbling into the kitchen in a bloody, political mess.
“Let’s just sit here for a minute and make sure you’re okay.” I glanced through the front windshield and noticed that Larson was gone. Presumably he’d stepped back inside. I hoped he didn’t announce Stuart’s arrival. I really didn’t want half the political world to see my husband covered with a quart of blood.