Six Times a Charm

by Deanna Chase

  “Father thought it was unusual, too,” he said. “But I’d been doing some reading on my own about demons and the infiltration of the Black Arts into mainstream society, and I ran across a vague reference to the group in an ancient text. I was intrigued, and the more I poked around, the more determined I was to find out if the organization was real or a product of someone’s imagination.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “It took five years, but I managed.” His mouth turned up into a wry grin. “Interesting years, those. Amazing the characters you run across if you’re searching for an elite group of Demon Hunters.”

  “So Father brought you on board and the rest is history?”

  “Something like that. I worked out of Rome until the new policy went into effect about ten years ago. Once we were permitted to hold a second job in addition to our Forza duties, I returned to Los Angeles and took up my law practice.”

  Eric and I had made the same transition, retiring first to Los Angeles after our wedding, then moving up the coast to San Diablo when we found out I was pregnant. “And then you became a judge?”

  “Exactly. Three years later I was appointed to a superior court seat.” We were on my street now, and he pulled into my driveway, put the car in park, then turned to me. “As you can imagine, my new position was quite useful to Forza. The criminal justice system provides a fascinating snapshot of demon activity.”

  “I’ll bet,” I said. His tone had been matter-of-fact—like a meteorologist discussing the weather, or a doctor relaying lab results. Just the general trappings of his workaday world, but I felt a knot in my stomach. It wasn’t workaday to me. It hadn’t been for a long, long time.

  And yet here I was. The man next to me was in the business of tracking demon activity and studying methods of defeating them. I was back in the business of killing them.

  I felt suddenly cold and overcome with the urge to hear my kids’ voices. Goose bumps rose on my arms as I rummaged in my purse for my phone. As Larson watched, I punched in Stuart’s cell number. One ring, two, and then his voice: “Please tell me you’re coming to rescue me.”

  I was instantly on alert. “Why? What’s wrong?”

  Larson turned to me, alarm coloring his features as well, and my hand closed around the door handle, releasing the latch.

  Stuart laughed. “Nothing’s wrong. Sorry to scare you. Were you afraid I’d lost the kids somewhere between the parking lot and the food court?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “Can I talk to them?”

  “Sure, if you want to get Tim all worked up. He’s on the carousel right now with Allie. He’s doing great, but if he hears Mommy’s voice …”

  “Right. Never mind.” I hardly needed for Timmy to throw a fit and for Stuart to schlep everybody home. “So what’s your ETA back home?”

  “Not sure. Right now Timmy’s happy, so I’m willing to stick it out for as long as Allie wants.”

  I felt my brow lift in surprise. “You are?”

  “Sure. Why not? I already told Allie we’d do a late lunch at Bennigan’s.”

  “Really?” Stuart’s not a chain-restaurant kind of guy, but Allie loves the place, and it’s easy to find food for Tim there. “You’re going to score some major points.”

  “I know,” he said, and I could practically hear him grinning. “And it’s better than dealing with that damn window. How’s that going, by the way?”

  “Fine,” I lied. I’d completely forgotten about the window.

  We wrapped up the conversation, and then I tucked the phone back in my purse, oddly unsatisfied.

  “Everything okay?” Larson asked.

  “Sure,” I said. But it wasn’t. I don’t know what I’d expected—Stuart to have somehow magically discerned my distress and assured me that all would be well? A promise from my kids to never talk to strangers or demons? Whatever I’d needed, I hadn’t gotten it.

  I got out of the car and headed for the house, Larson following in my wake. “You never answered my question about how you’re going to find Goramesh,” I said as we went inside.

  “You never gave me the chance,” he said.

  He had a point. “I want him dead. I want this over with. I want my kids safe.”

  “It will be over soon,” he said. “That’s why I’m here. To assist you and bring this situation to a speedy conclusion.”

  “Good.” I thought about what he said. Situation wasn’t the word I would have chosen, but I couldn’t quibble with speedy conclusion. The quicker life got back to normal, the better. “Yeah, that’s great.” I added.

  We were in the kitchen now, and the digital clock on the stove flashed the time—just past two. I’d forgotten to ask if Tim had napped in the stroller, but I had to assume the answer was no. Timmy’s not at his most charming on anything less than a two-hour nap, and at the first sign of serious toddler crankiness, I knew Stuart would drag the whole crew home. “We’d better get on with it.” I said. “If you’re here when Stuart gets back, I don’t know what we’ll say.”

  I opened the refrigerator, grabbed two bottles of water, handed him one, then headed toward the living room. I was just opening the door to the back porch when I realized Larson wasn’t following. “You coming?”

  “Coming where?”

  “Aren’t we training?” I made a swishing motion, like Bruce Lee. “Hand-to-hand? Weapons training? Maybe throw in a little sword practice?” I unsheathed an imaginary sword, only to realize he wasn’t amused by my pantomimes. I sighed. “I’m almost fifteen years out of practice, Larson. I need to train. Either I practice, or I’m dead.”

  “You were quite adequate in the churchyard,” he said.

  “Adequate isn’t going to cut it.”

  He cleared his throat, but didn’t say anything.

  I leaned against the doorjamb. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Forza is concerned less about Goramesh and more about finding what he seeks.”

  “Stop Goramesh, and it won’t really matter what he’s looking for, will it?”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Fighting, remember?” I waved impatiently in the general direction of the backyard. “The kind of maneuvers Forza spent years teaching me to do—that’s what Father expects, right? For me to take care of this problem? To stop Goramesh?” I wasn’t angry so much as scared. Scared that this life I’d built and loved would come crashing down around my ears, and I’d be thrust back into a world of dark and shadows. “I just want to nail him, Larson. I want it over.”

  “And, again, I have to ask. How?”

  “Apparently not with your help.” My temper flared. “Why are you here if you’re not going to help me? I need to train. I’m in lousy shape, and I—”

  Oh. I closed my mouth.

  Something clicked in my head, and suddenly I understood. “Goramesh isn’t corporeal, is he?”

  “Not to Forza’s knowledge, no.”

  “That puts a little kink into my plan, then,” I admitted. If the demon hadn’t taken a human body, I could hardly kill him.

  Larson made a little hmmm noise, and I grimaced.

  “So what do you suggest?” I demanded, sounding churlish.

  “In this endeavor, we will prevail through brains, not brawn. We need to determine what Goramesh seeks, and get to it first.”

  “Great. As soon as you figure out what and where it is, I’ll be more than happy to snatch it.” As I thought about it, the fact that Goramesh was floating around as an unembodied demon was actually good news for me. Without a body, there wasn’t anything for me to hunt. And research was an alimentatore’s job. “Point me toward a demon, and I’ll kill it.” I said. “But except for the one we just buried, I haven’t seen any around.” I grinned, suddenly happier than I’d been all day. “As they say, my work here is done.”

  Larson didn’t appear to share my joy. “And Goramesh?” he asked. “We need to ascertain what he wants.”

  A finger of gui
lt poked at me, but I held firm. “No, you need to figure that out.”

  “Kate—”

  “What?” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Come on, Larson. Every demon wants something. But unless he’s got someone in San Diablo doing his dirty work—mortal or demon—then I’d have to say that we’re not exactly at Code Red, you know?”

  “That’s hardly responsible.”

  “Responsible?” It had been a hellacious twenty-four hours, and the last thing I needed was a lecture on responsibility. “I’m drowning in responsible.” I started ticking off on my fingers. “Car pool, playdates, PTA. Not to mention making sure my family has food to eat and clothes to wear and—if they’re lucky—no science experiments breeding in the bathtub. Those” I said, “are my responsibilities.”

  He opened his mouth, but I wasn’t finished.

  “And your responsibility is to handle the research side of the relationship.” I said. “Or did Forza change that policy, too?”

  “All right.” He nodded slowly. “You make a good point. But my ability to work will be hampered by my job. The records I’d like to review are in the cathedral archives, and I’ll be in court most days working.”

  That finger of guilt poked harder. I sighed, on the verge of caving. “Research isn’t exactly my thing. I didn’t even finish high school.” More accurately, I didn’t even go to high school. The Church provided tutors, of course, but it was a nomadic, hit-or-miss kind of education. I spent my youth never expecting to make it to the next sunrise. “This is a little out of my league.”

  “I’m hardly asking you to translate ancient texts, Kate. You will only have to review what’s already in the archives. And I’ve already done some of the legwork. I have a few leads. With your help, I can track them down.”

  That should be easy enough. I could tell Delores that I’d like to add another layer of responsibility to my volunteer work. So long as I didn’t cut back on the secretarial duties, she’d probably welcome my additional help. The Church had hired actual archivists to work on the rare and valuable stuff. But there were tons of donations still to sort through. From there, I figured I could wrangle a peek at whatever records Larson might be interested in. “All right,” I finally said.

  “Excellent.”

  I held up a finger, wanting to hold him off until I was sure we were on the same page. “I’ll help with the research, but until we see some solid evidence that Goramesh has demons on the case, I’m not rearranging my whole life. For all we know, we just buried his only corporeal minion. Fair enough?”

  His brow furrowed, but he nodded. “Of course. You make an excellent point. Until circumstances indicate that alacrity is called for, there’s no need to rush through the research.”

  I gave him credit for being perfectly agreeable. I, however, felt like a prickly bitch. “Good. Great.”

  Except it wasn’t good or great. I couldn’t be absolutely certain that I’d killed San Diablo’s only walking, talking demon. And no stinky-breathed fiend was going to put my kids in danger. Not if I had any say in the matter. “Wait here,” I said. I trotted to my pantry, grabbed a Swiffer dust mop and a Swiffer wet mop, and brought them back to the living room with me. I handed the wet mop to Larson.

  From his expression, I could tell he thought I was in the throes of some sort of mental breakdown.

  “I’ve got two kids and a husband who have no clue what’s going on. If there are any more demons in San Diablo, I intend to be ready for them.”

  ***

  I’d never fenced with Swiffer handles before, and I’m certain that Larson hadn’t, either. But he didn’t protest (well, not too much) as I led him to the backyard. For the record, I actually do own real equipment. Unfortunately, I’d buried it all years ago in the very back of the storage shed, and I had no intention of tackling that project again. The Swiffer handles would work well enough, at least for the quickie session I had in mind.

  I marched into the graveled area of the yard, came en garde, and waited for Larson to catch up. “Don’t hold back,” I said as he took his own position. “And while we spar, you can fill me in on everything you already know about Goramesh.”

  As it turned out he was pretty damn good, giving me quite a run for my money, and working me hard enough that neither one of us was doing much talking. We’d been at it for about ten minutes—my footwork cutting geometric paths in the gravel and the Swiffer handles doggedly hanging in there during our lunges and ripostes—when I heard the van pull up, followed by the telltale churning of the garage door opening.

  I looked at my watch, quite unable to comprehend that they were home already. I caught Larson’s eye, unreasonably peeved to see that he didn’t look the least bit flustered.

  “What should we tell them?” I asked.

  “Not the truth,” he said.

  “Gee, you think?”

  “There’s no need for sarcasm, Kate.”

  “On the contrary, I think the situation practically demands it.”

  “We’ll simply say I came over looking for Stuart to discuss his campaign. Don’t worry. It won’t be as bad as you think.”

  Chapter 7

  To his credit (and to my relief), it turned out that Judge Larson could bullshit with the best of them. We were back in the house and he was seated at the kitchen table when Allie barreled through the door, almost plowing me over in the process.

  “Mom! Mom! Check it out!” She waved a shopping bag at me as I dumped out the old morning coffee and started a new pot, hoping I looked like I’d been doing nothing more than puttering around the house all day. “I got five Tommy Hilfiger shirts at Nordstrom. They had a whole table marked seventy-five percent off and Stuart said I could have one of each, and I got a couple for Mindy, too, and—” She clamped her mouth shut, finally noticing the man sitting at the table. “Oh. Hi.”

  I could tell she was trying hard to be polite by not demanding to know who he was. I stepped in to fill the gap, but Larson got there first.

  “You must be Allie,” he said, standing. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’m Mark Larson.”

  “Oh.” Allie looked at me, and I smiled in an encouraging mom manner. She hesitated, then held out her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  “Kate?” Stuart’s voice drifted in from the garage as I heard the van door slide shut. “Whose car is that? Have you got compan—Judge?” Stuart stood in the doorway, Timmy clinging to him like a baby monkey. Stuart recovered quickly enough, then stepped all the way into the room. “Judge Larson. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to see you.” He kissed me, but the gesture seemed distracted. I couldn’t blame him. As for me, I was holding my breath. How did spouses who cheat handle it? One tiny little indiscretion and I was already sweating bullets. (Okay, maybe the indiscretion wasn’t so tiny, but still …)

  I held my arms out for Timmy, and Stuart passed the munchkin to me, then went over to shake hands with the judge. “When did you get here? Have you been waiting long? I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I didn’t realize you’d be coming over.” His sentences crashed over one another, and under other circumstances I might be amused. Today, I wasn’t.

  Before Larson could answer, Stuart frowned, then looked toward me. I busied myself with kissing Tim (who was quietly begging for Teddy Grahams, but any minute would surely erupt into full-fledged howls). “Actually,” Stuart said, turning back to the judge, “I suppose I should ask why you’re here.”

  Larson laughed, the sound hearty and cordial. “I apologize for barging in like this. I was in the neighborhood looking at a few houses, and I noticed your car in the driveway.” He gestured at me. “Kate explained that you’d switched cars, but she was nice enough to offer me a cup of coffee while I waited for you.”

  Stuart-my-husband may have been surprised to find Larson in the kitchen, but Stuart-the-polititian stepped seamlessly into the fray. “This is good karma on a number of levels,” Stuart-the-politician said, pulling out the chair across from Larson and sitting down. “I didn’t think
we had nearly enough time to chat last night, and I’d been planning on giving you a call Monday morning. I was thinking we might talk more over lunch or drinks.”

  “I’d like that,” Larson said. “Clark speaks so highly of you.”

  They segued into a political banter that I was beginning to find familiar, and I put Timmy down, grateful to relieve myself of his thirty-two pounds of girth. He immediately started tugging on the kitchen cabinets, testing the childproof latches in a familiar daily ritual. When he came to the one cabinet I keep unsecured, he pulled out two saucepans and a wooden spoon and gleefully settled in for the afternoon concert.

  “Hon?” Stuart’s voice rose over the din.

  “Sorry.” I leaned over Tim. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you out of here.”

  “No. Mine. Mine.” He grabbed hold of the pots and didn’t let go. The amount of strength contained in the hand of a two-year-old never ceases to amaze me. I aimed a he’s-your-son-too look at Stuart as I resorted to that age-old mothering trick—bribery. “We can watch Elmo.”

  That got him. The little bugger abandoned his makeshift studio and trotted happily toward the living room.

  I looked around for Allie, hoping to enlist her as a babysitter, but she’d managed to slip away. Probably already on the phone to Mindy. No problem. Elmo could handle babysitting duty.

  I shoved Tim’s favorite tape into the VCR and waited until he was entranced. As soon as he’d calmed down enough, I’d take him upstairs and try to urge him into a late-afternoon nap. Until then I left Elmo in charge and headed back to the kitchen and the men. Not the most conscientious parenting option, I know, but I was desperate. And if I’m being honest, I park the kid in front of the television for lesser reasons all the time. As far as I can tell, he isn’t warped yet.

  Actually, I couldn’t get back to the kitchen fast enough. I’d left Larson and Stuart alone, and that didn’t sit well. Stupid, I know. It’s not like Larson was going to accidentally mention there were demons in town any more than he was going to casually announce that back in my prime I could easily kill a dozen of them before breakfast.