California Demon

by Julie Kenner

  I skidded to a stop. “Sinclair? Where’d he go?”

  Mr. Morrison pointed toward a nearby door. “Right through—”

  “Kate!” Marissa materialized beside me, her hand closing like a vice on my elbow. “Where have you been? It’s like herding cats. Kelly and I need a hand here.”

  “I can’t right now.” I bounced a little, my gaze not on Marissa but on that one metal door. “I need—”

  “To do your job?” She pointed to the group. “If you could just get everyone into two lines, then we can—”

  I shifted from one foot to the other. “Right. Sure. I’ll be right back. First I just need to—”

  “Kate! What is your problem?”

  “Looks like she’s gotta pee,” Mrs. Able said.

  “Yes!” I jumped all over that excuse. I also ripped my arm out of Marissa’s grasp and raced toward the school, her frustrated howl echoing behind me. Eventually, I’d have to deal with her wrath. Frankly, I’d just as soon face a demon.

  I reached the door and jerked it open, then found myself on both familiar and unfamiliar ground. I never went to an actual high school, but in the few months since Allie had enrolled as a freshman, I’d pulled enough PTA duty to more than make up for those lost years of my youth.

  The school had been built more or less in the shape of a Christmas tree, with the triangle-shaped top marking the academic sections, and the brown “trunk” hall playing host to the cafeteria, band hall and the like. The gymnasium made up the tree stand. In other words, a big rectangle at the bottom.

  I was currently in the orange wing, which ran the length of one side of the Christmas tree triangle. I didn’t see any sign of the demon, but I also didn’t see anyone else. That was a good thing. With any luck, the students were already in the gym waiting for the Family Day festivities to start.

  The demon had come in at the end of the hall, which meant that he could have turned slightly to the right, tugged open the double doors, and entered the common area between the orange and blue halls. Or he could have veered right and had a straight path down the orange hallway.

  Since barreling straight and fast seemed more in line with what a riled demon would do (Demonic Psychology 101), I raced that way, too. I reached the end of the hall, ripped open the door to the common area, and burst inside.

  No Sinclair. Damn!

  I hurried on through the room, oversized maps of the United States nothing more than blue-green blurs in my peripheral vision. Moments later, I plowed through the doors— then stopped dead. My daughter was standing right in front of me. Behind her, at the far end of the hall, I saw Sinclair retreating farther into the school.

  “Allie,” I squeaked, stupidly.

  “Mom!” She threw her arms around me, squeezed, then apparently remembered that she was a teenager and stepped away, awkwardly jamming her hands into the pockets of her jeans. “God, Mom! I was ferociously worried. Are you okay?”

  “I—” I clamped my mouth shut, forcing my eyes back to Allie and away from the demon, now disappearing in the distance. “I—Sure. Yes. I’m fine. Why? Don’t I look fine?”

  “Well, duh! We were talking and then you screamed, and—”

  “Oh!” In all the ruckus, I’d completely forgotten. I threw my arms around her and squeezed hard. “I’m so proud of you! My daughter the published writer. It’s fabulous.” I took a step away. “But I really need to go—”

  “Mo-om! You screamed.”

  I stopped, resigned to finishing this conversation. “Right. I tripped.” That sounded good, so I went with it. “I came on the Coastal Mists bus, and I was talking to you and I just tripped. I went sprawling, and the cell phone smashed all to bits.” I actually had no idea where the phone was, but smashed was probably a good bet.

  “Tripped?” she repeated, sounding more than a little dubious.

  “Honest to God,” I said, lying like a fiend.

  “Jeez, Mom! You really scared us!”

  “Oh, sweetie,” I said, giving her a quick hug as guilt washed over me. “I’m fine. I’m so sorry I scared you, but— us?”

  And that’s when I noticed the man. Rumpled and professorial, he was hanging back a few feet, giving Allie and me space for our joyous reunion. Now, seeing that the conversation had begun to include him, he came over, clutching a cane and nursing a slight limp.

  He looked to be about forty, with mahogany-colored hair that was starting to gray around the temples. His silver-gray eyes were mostly hidden behind wire-framed glasses. He was watching me with an odd familiarity, and I frowned, wondering if we’d met. Something about him was familiar to me, too, and I felt myself starting to fidget under his steady gaze.

  “David Long,” he said, holding out his hand for me to shake.

  “I went and found him the second the line went dead!” Allie squealed.

  Mr. Long’s smile was indulgent. “I told her you probably weren’t in mortal danger.”

  “Um, right. Thanks.”

  “Mr. Long teaches chemistry,” Allie said. “I’m taking his freshman intro class next semester.”

  “On purpose?” I was having a hard time wrapping my fuzzy brain around the concept of “Allie” and “science” in any sort of close proximity at all.

  “Um, yeah.”

  “Chemistry?” I repeated. “With the test tubes and the Bunsen burners and the fizzle and the smoke?”

  “Mo-ther,” she said, her tone suggesting she’d stepped in something gross. “It’s not like I’m stupid or anything.”

  “Of course you’re not,” I said automatically. “You can handle any class you want.”

  “Right.” She nodded, perfectly pleased with herself, then looked up at David Long and smiled.

  I fought back the urge to whap myself on the forehead as comprehension dawned. My boy-crazy daughter had a schoolgirl crush. There was no other reasonable explanation.

  I let that settle into my brain, trying to decide if I had a problem with my daughter having a crush on the chemistry instructor. I decided that so long as said crush got her signed up to take science classes, then I didn’t. After all, I could trust Mr. Long to be purely professional. Anything inappropriate, and I’d practice a few of my more lethal moves on him in a dark alley.

  The thought both cheered me and reminded me that I already had a man on my dark-alley dance card.

  “C’mon,” Allie said, tugging on my hand, her earlier worry all but forgotten. “I helped set up during study hall, and if we hurry, we can still get some of the little chocolate cakes before the ceremony starts.”

  I wanted nothing more than to eat cakes with my daughter, but demons take precedence over chocolate (hard to believe, but true). And today, demons even took precedence over my family. A little fact that almost ripped my heart in two, especially with Allie tugging on my hand, so eager for me to be with her despite the onset of puberty and raging hormones.

  But what choice did I have? There was a demon loose in the high school. And to save my kid, I first had to hurt my kid.

  Gently, I tugged my hand free. “You go on ahead. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “But, Mom!”

  “Honestly, Allie, I need to—” What? What could I possibly say that wouldn’t increase the hurt I saw in her eyes?

  And then Mr. Long stepped in, laying a firm hand on Allie’s shoulder as he came to my rescue. “Your mom may have a few things she needs to take care of before she heads to the gym.”

  He turned to face me, his expression bland but his eyes piercing. “You’re on the PTA, right? I bet you got stuck with a dozen last-minute projects.”

  “I did,” I said, baffled but relieved. “I totally did.” That, of course, was a lie. In what I’d considered a truly brilliant maneuver, I’d managed to sidestep all non-cupcake related duties. I’d felt a little guilty for not volunteering, but got over it fast. After all, eradicating the San Diablo demon population had to count for something, right?

  I turned to Allie. “Why don’t
you head on down, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “You’ll be there before it starts?”

  “Of course!” I said. And I intended to do everything in my power to make sure I wasn’t lying.

  “Come on,” Mr. Long said to Allie. “I’ll go with you.” He looked at me. “One of my duties today. Herding the students to the gym.”

  “Herding,” Allie repeated, rolling her eyes. “Like we’re all cows or something.” But she went with him without any more protest, and David Long and I shared a look that said simply, Teenagers.

  As soon as they disappeared around the corner, I raced off in the same direction as Sinclair, turning corners and following the rainbow of colored hallways.

  About two minutes later, I found myself at an intersection and realized I had no clue where the demon might be. I mentally flipped a coin, picked a direction, and hoped I’d find a demon.

  And that’s when I saw the door.

  Cracked open slightly, the plain white door was the kind with a metal vent in the bottom panel. A place to allow nasty fumes from cleaning products to escape. I checked the little plaque by the door and, sure enough, this was the janitor’s closet.

  Logically, I knew that the janitor might have simply failed to pull the door completely closed. But logic wasn’t entirely running the show here, and my instincts told me that it wasn’t the janitor in there—it was Dermott Sinclair.

  I hesitated, my hand pressed lightly against the frame. If I was wrong, I’d be wasting valuable time. The thing is, I didn’t think I was wrong. And I was used to going on my instincts. I’d been doing it for the last fourteen years raising my kids and, so far, those instincts had worked out just fine.

  So I went in. The door didn’t open onto a supply room like I’d expected. Instead, it opened directly onto a set of stairs leading down to a basement. The stairs were lined on either side with shelves, and those shelves held a variety of janitorial products: Windex, bleach, a box of rags.

  The stairs curved sharply, and right before the curve I saw a tool chest. Carefully, so as to not make anything scrape or rattle, I plucked out a screwdriver. Barrettes are fine in a pinch, but I wanted something with heft.

  A few more steps, and now the stairs were below the level of the shelving, open to the basement, the only barrier a series of thin, metal posts supporting a battered railing. Two bare lightbulbs provided dim illumination, revealing a utility sink tucked into one corner, and there, on the far side of the room, Dermott Sinclair.

  I held my breath and kept my body perfectly still. He hadn’t seen me, too busy concentrating on the task at hand. Since his back was to me, I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but I could hear the soft scrape of stone sliding against mortar. The muscles in his back tightened, and his arms moved in a rhythmic, alternating motion as he tugged on a cinder block lodged in the wall.

  Why, I wondered, was he doing that?

  I reached out, intending to grab hold of the handrail as I crept farther down the stairs. The top bar of the railing, however, had come loose from the vertical supports, and my touch knocked it off kilter, freeing the vertical metal posts. Talk about a building code violation. I mean, something like that could easily put out an eye.

  A harsh metal noise accompanied the shifting of the rail, and Sinclair whipped around, his nostrils flaring. The cinder block was tight in his hands, and now he heaved it at me. I dove forward, the block clearing my head as my hands smashed against the cement floor. My purse spilled all over the floor, and the screwdriver went flying. I winced, but rolled over onto my back, my hand brushing something long and smooth. I grabbed it—whatever it was—then thrust my legs up and out in a practiced move that would make Cutter, my sensei, proud.

  My shoes connected firmly with Sinclair’s gut. He let out a howl as he stumbled backwards, then he plopped onto the ground. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing a demon fall on his rump, and I was riding that high for all it was worth.

  I sprang to my feet, my fingers tight around what I now saw was a Christmas ornament. Specifically, a glass icicle, probably shoved into my purse by my little boy. The end had snapped off, leaving a sharp edge of glass. Exactly the kind of thing I didn’t want Timmy to play with—for exactly the reason I was now glad to have it. These things are dangerous.

  Sinclair was up now, too, and from the calculating look in his eye, I could tell he was itching for a fight. So was I. Threaten my kids, come onto my turf, and it’s not just about duty. It becomes—like they say in the movies—personal.

  He was watching me, wary, his hands in a classic fighting stance. His feet were in constant motion, a boxer waiting for the perfect blow. I didn’t intend to let him have it.

  “Why are you here?” I asked, my feet also moving. We probably looked like we were engaged in some strange dance competition. In a way, I guess maybe we were.

  “That is no concern of yours, Hunter.”

  “Actually, figuring out why you’re here is at the top of my job description.”

  His lip curled into a snarl. “Perhaps you should find a new job,” he suggested. “Because you’ve failed here. The plan is already underway.”

  My stomach twisted a bit at that. What plan? But I didn’t have time to wonder because he was lunging at me.

  I lunged right back, leading with the icicle. He whipped his arm up, the glass first meeting resistance and then sinking deep into the yielding flesh. The wound was deep, but not nearly enough to stop a demon. And as I cursed in frustration, he kicked out, connecting solidly with my right knee.

  I wish I could say I was ready for it, but I wasn’t. A kick in the knee is brutal, and I went down, scrambling to keep some balance . . . or at least to keep my hand tight on the icicle.

  I didn’t manage either, and now Sinclair had the weapon—he tugged it out of his flesh and aimed it at me with a toothy grin. There was only a little blood—he was dead flesh, after all—and somehow the lack of blood made the entire situation that much more sinister.

  I didn’t have time to think about that, though, because he was on me, my own arm up to deflect his blows as he tried to slam the icicle through my heart.

  Old men may not be strong, but the same can’t be said about demons and, from my awkward position on my back, Sinclair definitely had the advantage. We were by the staircase, and I grabbed the bottom step with one hand, trying to use the five inches of height to lever myself up while I fended him off with the other hand.

  No use. Sinclair was on top of me; so close that the putrid scent of his demon breath came through even past the spicy cinnamon gum.

  And that’s when I saw it. The screwdriver. It had rolled under the yellow janitor’s bucket, its orange-and-black handle barely peeking out.

  With one hand, I shoved against Sinclair’s chest, keeping him away, trying to prevent him from landing a fatal blow. With the other, I reached out, stretching until my fingers brushed the hard plastic handle. But I still wasn’t close enough to grab it, and Sinclair was fighting hard.

  Damn!

  He rallied, this time coming in toward my face. I made one last thrust for the screwdriver. No use. Sinclair was on me, and at the last second, I whipped my outstretched arm forward, connecting hard with his throat.

  He gagged, and dropped the icicle, but then he used his now-free hand to grab my wrist. I reacted without thinking and kneed him in the groin, screaming out in pain as I did so because my knee still hurt like hell from where he’d smashed it.

  There wasn’t a lot of force behind my blow—and demons are mostly immune to being kicked in the balls—but he stumbled backwards anyway, his grip on my wrists loosening just slightly.

  That was all I needed. I stretched, pushing myself along the floor until my fingers snagged the screwdriver. I tried to get up, but he’d recovered himself by then and lashed out, knocking my legs out from under me and destroying my precarious balance.

  He leaped on me, his hand closing around the hand with the screwdriver. He slammed me bac
kwards, banging my already battered hand, and then pried my fingers open.

  I watched myself, like watching someone in a dream, as he hit a pressure point at the base of my thumb. My fingers slackened, and the screwdriver tumbled from my hand.

  He caught it midair, then raised it, lunging for me even as he cried out, telling me in no uncertain terms that it was time to “Die, Hunter, die.”

  Images of my kids flooded my brain, and I screamed in defiance as I parried to the left. I managed to avoid the brunt of his blow, but the motion shifted both of us off balance. We crashed to the floor, and I rolled to the right, barely escaping his thrust of the screwdriver.

  The icicle was right there, the end now even more jagged and sharp from having smashed on the cement floor. Good.

  I grabbed it up and rocketed to my feet, ignoring the searing pain that shot through my injured knee. Sinclair was up, too, and we lunged at each other, me leading with a piddly little Christmas ornament, and the demon leading with a lethal-looking screwdriver.

  Not the best of odds, but I didn’t care. I didn’t intend to lose. I just wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to manage to win.

  I was breathing hard now, instinct guiding my movements even as my head tried to come up with a good plan. Or, for that matter, any plan. We circled each other until the stairs—and the rickety railing—was right behind him.

  And that’s when I got the idea . . .

  I leaped forward with the icicle, shifting at the last second to avoid his face, and instead slamming the glass deep into his thigh.

  He’d braced for my attack, of course, but he hadn’t expected the blow to his leg, and he reacted instinctively, turning away to protect his wound. I anticipated the move and scrambled the opposite direction, ending up behind him. Then I threw myself on his back, clutched his throat, and held on for dear life as he tumbled forward.

  And then—using every ounce of willpower in my body—I aimed. And I prayed.

  I heard a sharp crack, then felt a jolt as the metal post slammed home, sliding easily through the demon’s bulbous gray eye. His low moan faded quickly, and I saw the familiar shimmer in the air as the demon departed the old man’s body to return to the ether.