by Julie Kenner
That got me thinking all over again about everything that had happened, and how much I didn’t know. By the time I arrived at Cutter’s place, I was ready to let off some steam.
“I hope this guy is good,” I said, “because I’m in the mood to kick a little butt.”
“I’m good,” came a familiar voice. I looked up, startled, and sure enough, David Long stepped out from behind the curtain that separated the workout floor from the changing rooms. “Or at least I used to be.” He held up his cane. “But I may not be a match for you.”
My breath caught in my throat, and I realized I was standing there like a statue, just staring at him.
“Kate?” Cutter frowned at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. Except that I wanted to rip David’s demonic little throat out right then and there. What kind of a game was he playing? Getting close to my daughter— getting close to me—and then setting himself up to spar?
Damn demons are getting ballsier every day.
“It doesn’t look like nothing from here,” David said. He took a step toward me. I took a step back. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I feel just fine. How about you? Leg doing okay after the accident?”
“What accident?” Cutter asked, looking between us.
“Mr. Long was in a car accident. Busted his knee. Broke his tibia.”
“That was a while ago,” David said. “I’m doing just fine now. A slight limp, and I keep the cane handy in case the leg gets tired.”
“I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “David and I are old friends. Aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” he said, his eyes never leaving mine. “We are.”
I shivered, goose bumps rising on my arms as I fought the urge to run. I don’t know where and I don’t know why, but something about his words. Something about his voice . . .
I shook myself, forcing the moment to pass. “I don’t think this is such a good idea,” I said to Cutter. “I don’t like to fight men with canes.”
David spun the cane like a staff, then slammed it down on the mat not two centimeters from my foot. “Why not? Figure you’ll be at a disadvantage?”
“Give it a rest, you two,” Cutter said. His voice was firm, but he shot me one more questioning look. I kept my face stoic and looked pointedly away. “Kate, David is going to spar with the cane.”
“I figure so long as I’m stuck with the thing, I may as well make the most of it and turn it into a weapon.”
“Your call, Kate. But I think it’ll do you good.”
“Fine,” I said. I’d wanted to practice with staffs anyway, right?
I moved to the middle of the mat. “Bring it on.”
David looked me up and down. “You’re not going to change?”
“I’ll ditch my purse,” I said. “But I can fight in jeans. And I don’t think anyone who attacks me on a dark street is going to let me run home and change into my Gi.”
A shadow crossed his face, and he nodded. “True enough.” I gave him a quick nod, then went to drop my purse off. I watched their reflection in the wall of mirrors, and when David turned away to talk with Cutter, I slipped my bottle of holy water out and tucked it into my pocket. Then I pulled my hair back and clipped it up with my favorite barrette. The kind with the long, sharp metal back piece.
As soon as I knew for certain that David was a demon, I was taking him out while his flesh still burned and sizzled. Cutter would see, of course, but there wasn’t much I could do about that. David had gotten too close to my little girl for me to let him off the hook. He wasn’t walking out of this building alive. And if that meant that today was the day that I finally revealed all to my sensei, then so be it.
And, honestly, part of me was looking forward to making that revelation.
I stood up, rolling my shoulders and neck, then crossed the mat to where David stood, his cane tucked under his arm.
“I promise to be gentle,” he said, with the tiniest of grins.
“I don’t,” I countered.
And then, before Cutter even signaled for us to start, David lashed out, leading with the cane, and knocked my knees right out from under me. So much for gentle.
Cutter yelled a protest, but I rolled to my side and snapped to my feet, keeping my eyes on David while I gestured to Cutter that it was okay. We sparred lightly for a while, simple jabs and thrusts designed to test each other’s reflexes.
Despite myself, I felt a growing respect for the man, even if he was a demon. He knew what he was doing. His moves were practiced and clean, and his reflexes were every bit as good as I wanted mine to be. The limp didn’t slow him down at all, and the cane that might otherwise be a liability had been turned to an asset.
If the man hadn’t been a demon, I really might like him.
No, the trouble was I did like him. And I hated what I’d learned.
He sensed that my mind was wandering and kicked into high gear, using the cane to jab and thrust in a pattern that had my feet dancing defensively even as I looked for a way to take the offense.
I found it in the pattern of his thrusts and instead of leaping to the left to avoid a jab, I slid right and caught the cane against my arm, then drew my other hand over to close around the shaft. I whipped it up and out, effectively disarming him. And surprising him, too. That much I could tell from the expression on his face.
“Not bad,” he said. “But now that the fun part’s over, let’s see about getting down to business.”
I tensed, my body at the ready, and he held his hand out in a come-on gesture made famous by Laurence Fishburne in the Matrix movies. Then he tapped his nose and pointed a finger at me. I tensed. I’d seen only one person ever make that motion. Just one in all the years I’d been fighting.
Eric.
My breath hitched in my throat, I wavered, and David Long laid me flat. He’d been waiting for the weakness, had known it would come. And for that, right then, I hated him.
He was on me, holding me down, his hands on my wrists and his knee pressed against my waist. “Do you concede?”
The room turned red with my fury, and my fist tightened around the cane I still held in my hand. Concede? Concede? To some goddamn demon who’d stolen my husband’s move? Used it against me to throw me off? Played me for a fool?
No, I didn’t think I was conceding, and in an entirely illegal move, I slammed my head up, cracking my forehead against his. Pain shot through me, the red haze over the world shifting to a blurry gray that I had to fight against.
I was motivated, though, and as David reeled back in surprise, I fought through the pain and brought my knee up against my chest, then shot my heel out and into his pelvis.
Behind us, I could hear Cutter shouting my name. I was even vaguely aware that he was running toward me. I didn’t care. As Cutter’s fingers grazed my shoulders, I leaped forward, knocking David backwards until I was straddling him, the cane tight against his throat, restricting his airway. He struggled, his skin taking on a bluish pallor, as Cutter yelled and pulled, trying to get me to let go.
I did, but only with one hand. And with my free hand I reached into my back pocket for the bottle of holy water. I stuck it in my mouth and screwed the lid off with my teeth.
David watched me, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
“Goddamn it, Kate!” Cutter howled. He’d given up on trying to move me, and now he dove to the mat and wrestled the cane out of my hand.
I didn’t even try to fight him, because I had the bottle open now. And I dumped the contents on David’s face, then held his arms down, anticipating the fresh wave of strength that would come with the pain.
Nothing happened.
I waited, tense, my hands tight around his triceps.
Still nothing. Or, rather, nothing except David sputtering and coughing.
I couldn’t quite believe it. And yet, oddly, it wasn’t embarrassment but relief that washed through me. David Long wasn’t a demon. I c
ould like him without feeling like an idiot. More important, I didn’t have to kill him.
Cutter crouched beside us, the cane tight in his hands. “Dammit, Kate,” he whispered. “You have got to learn to chill out.”
He stood up, then held out a hand for me. I took it sheepishly, managing to fire off “sorry,” toward David, who rolled over onto his side and continued coughing as soon as I was off of him.
I waited for him to catch his breath, then offered my own hand. He looked at me dubiously, then took it, and I tugged him to his feet.
“Um, sorry about that.”
“I don’t suppose you’re going to explain?”
“That’s just Kate’s way of getting to know you,” Cutter said wryly. “Good luck getting her to say anything more.”
I just smiled and tried to look mysterious. “Forgive me?”
“If I say yes, are you going to douse me again?”
“I think you’ve been doused enough.” At least, I hoped he had. I had to reluctantly admit that I’d been duped by the holy water test before. Still, I wanted to believe the results. David Long just didn’t seem demonic. Strange, maybe. And even a bit mysterious. But demonic? I didn’t think so.
Especially considering how baffled he looked, I figured I could cut David some slack. I’d trust him. For now. But I’d also keep an eye on him.
l Spent the drive from Cutter’s place to Timmy’s day care thinking about demons and David and how I still had more questions than answers. David might not be a demon, but something was definitely up with that man. And I still had no clue who the Tartarus demons were talking to. Or, more important, why.
All in all, I didn’t like the score, and I had a feeling time was running out.
I forgot all about that, though, when I saw Timmy. He looked up, beamed, then raced into my arms. I swung him around, generating peals of laughter from my little man.
“What did you do in school today?” I asked him as I strapped him into his car seat.
Silence.
I gave him Boo Bear and tried again. “Nothing, Momma,” he said, then shoved his thumb into his mouth.
I shut his door and moved around to the driver’s side. Once we were back on the road, I tried again. “Come on, sport. I know you must have done something. Tell me about your day.”
In fact, I knew they’d played with shaving cream, because that’s what the little note in his cubby had announced. Timmy, however, guarded that fact like it was a state secret.
“Can’t tell you, Momma. I’m sucking my thumb.”
“Right,” I said. “That makes sense. Maybe you could take your thumb out long enough to clue in your mom?”
More silence, except for the mild slurping sounds associated with rampant suckage.
“Timmy? Come on. I really want to know.”
I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could see him. The thumb came out of his mouth, and his eyes got wide.
“Momma,” he said, his exasperated voice a little too familiar. “I told you. Is a secret!”
“Right. A secret.” What the hell? I smiled to myself and decided not to press. After all, I knew all about secrets.
I was still grinning when I opened the door that leads from our garage into the kitchen. Timmy barreled inside, yelling about Blue’s Clues at the top of his lungs. I followed him in, my smile fading as I saw my daughter sitting at the kitchen table, her eyes puffy, her cheeks flushed, and tearstains marring the thin layer of powder she’d dusted onto her cheeks.
“Allie? Sweetheart, what is it?”
I dropped my purse and went to her side, trying to put my arms around her. She twisted away, avoiding my touch. Since I can take a hint, I pulled out one of the other chairs and sat facing her, my heart pounding in my chest as I waited for my daughter to tell me what was wrong.
“Allie? Is this about a boy?” I didn’t believe that it was, not really. But I hoped. Oh, how I hoped that it wasn’t my secret that had brought tears to her eyes.
“A boy,” she said, then shook her head. “No, I guess it’s not really about a boy.” She looked up at me, and from my new, closer vantage point, I could see just how bloodshot her eyes were.
“Sweetheart . . .”
She cut me off, waving a piece of paper. “It’s from Daddy.”
I froze, the blood in my veins turning to ice. “From Stuart?” I asked, pushing my words out as if through molasses.
But I knew the answer. Even before she spoke. The letter was from Eric. And somehow, someway, our daughter had found it.
Thirteen
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?” Allie said.
I shook my head slowly, too shell-shocked to say anything at all.
“Mom? I’ve got a right to know. If there’s something weird going on about my dad, you have to tell me.”
“That’s a letter from Eric?” I asked, my eyes never leaving the paper.
She pressed her lips tight together, her eyes blinking fast. “Yeah.”
I held out my hand, and she passed me the note. This is what I read:
My darling Katie,
If you’re reading this, I presume you’ve also found the safe-deposit box. (If you haven’t—if you simply stumbled across this letter—I need you to go to County Mutual. Tell them you’ve lost your key and give them your name. They should take care of you.) My other letter explains the why of it. Or, at least, it gives you a hint as to the why of it. And I don’t want to say any more here. I need you to find the retired teacher, our friend from our days in Los Angeles. Do you remember him? Find him, Kate. He will know where to send you next.
I love you and Allie more than anything. Keep that truth safe in your heart.
Eternally yours,
Eric
I finished reading the note and set it on the table, ignoring the tears that ran down my cheeks. “Where did you find this?”
Allie shook her head. “Nuh-uh. No way, nohow. Not until you tell me what’s going on.”
“Alison Elizabeth Crowe, don’t you dare play games with me. I’m really not in the mood.”
“Yeah? Well, I’m not in the mood, either,” she shouted. She stood, snatched up the letter, then waved it in front of my face. “This is my father writing this! I have a right to know what’s going on!”
I knew I should step in, remind her that I was the mother and she had no right talking to me like that. But part of me said that she did have a right. That this was about Eric. And that she deserved to know the truth. If not all, then some.
From the living room, Timmy started wailing.
“Coming!” Allie tossed the letter at me, then stalked out of the room. I just sat there, numb, taking deep breaths as I tried to regain my equilibrium.
Finally, I pushed back from the table, then went into the living room where Allie was rocking Timmy on her lap. She looked up at me, then immediately back down at the floor. “I scared him,” she said. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”
“He’ll be okay.” I sat down on the couch and put my arm around them both. I don’t know what I’d planned to say, but when I opened my mouth, it all seemed so simple. “I don’t know why yet,” I said. “But I think your father was murdered.”
She stiffened in my arms, but stayed silent.
“I found a note the other day. That key? It led to a safe-deposit box. I didn’t remember Eric and I getting it, but we must have, because my name was on the box, too. And all that was inside was a letter to me.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“And say what? The note was cryptic. A lot of nonsense, really.” I didn’t say that the police would probably be useless. Eric had been a Demon Hunter. Once upon a time, I’d believed his death was unrelated to his work. I didn’t believe that anymore.
“The note didn’t tell the whole story,” I added. “And I didn’t know where to go next.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I know.”
I looked at her, comprehension dawning. “You’ve seen the firs
t letter.” It wasn’t a question. I was absolutely positive I knew what the answer would be.
She nodded guiltily. Timmy took that opportunity to squirm free. Allie scooted to the far side of the couch, then hugged a pillow close to her chest, looking at me over her intertwined arms. “When I got into your purse at McDonald’s,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snoop, honest I didn’t. But I could see some of it, and I recognized Daddy’s handwriting, and I—”
She squeezed her mouth shut, blinking furiously.
“It’s okay, sweetie. I understand.” I don’t believe in all that subconscious psychobabble BS, but I had left the note in my purse. And I had let my daughter rummage her little heart out. If anyone was taking the blame here, it was me. Not Allie.
“But how’d you find that note?” I asked, pointing toward the kitchen, where I’d left the new note on the table.
“Daddy told you where it was,” she said, in the same tone she might use to tell someone they were an idiot.
“Apparently Daddy told you where it was. I had no clue.”
“ ‘The best of us’,” she said. “That’s what Daddy used to call me, remember?”
I did remember, and as soon as she said it, the answer was obvious. “Your baby box.” I’m not much of a scrapbooker, but I do keep trinkets in an old hatbox. Baptismal souvenirs (the church program, the baptismal candle), birth stuff like the now-dried pink mum the hospital had hung on the door of my private room. Her first pacifier. The hospital baby blanket I’d smuggled out in her carrier. Stuff.
And not stuff I ever go back to look at, either. It’s just there, in the closet, ready to be pulled out and examined when the time was right. Like when Allie has a baby of her own.
“It was wrapped around the candle,” she said. “And the candle and the note were both in the candle box.”
“I’m impressed,” I said.
“So when are we going to Los Angeles?”
“Excuse me?”
“The teacher guy,” she said, tapping the letter. “You’re going to go talk to him, right?”