by Julie Kenner
“Wow,” Stuart said, his expression somewhere between amused and horrified. “She certainly seems to know you.”
“I think I’ll go see if I can remember where we met,” I said, sliding out of my seat and grabbing my own purse.
“Hurry back,” he said. “I plan on getting you drunk and having my way with you, and I can’t do that if you’re holed away in the ladies’ room.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that your plan? I’ll definitely hurry, then.” I blew him a kiss and headed for the restroom.
I’d been to Emeralds once before, and I remembered the ladies’ room as a kind of shrine to all things feminine. The restaurant itself was housed in a remodeled Victorian, and the powder room had been constructed by knocking down a wall and combining the existing bathroom with an airy sitting room lined on one side with windows overlooking the restaurant’s private garden and then, beyond that, the beach.
This “lobby” area included plush chairs and every toiletry known to woman. Forget your mascara? Your hair spray? Your deodorant? Not to worry! They had it for you here!
At the moment, the cavernous lounge area was empty. Good for me, because I really didn’t need an audience of primping women while I had my little chat with my best new demon buddy, who I assumed had headed all the way back, presumably lying in wait for yours truly.
The stalls and sinks were farther in, through a set of swinging café doors, and it was to those doors I headed, heels clattering on the hardwood floor. Sure enough, the moment I pushed through the doors, she stepped out from the first stall.
“You are here,” she said, in that low, gravelly voice. “I am so glad we finally meet.”
“Enough.” I’d been off my guard in my own yard and nearly got myself and my daughter killed. This time, I was playing offense, and hard. I lunged before she could, grabbing her around the neck from behind and holding with just enough force to make it clear that I would snap her neck if I had to. That wouldn’t do much to a demon except slow her reaction time, but that would give me enough of an opening to get something nice and sharp through her eye. Something like, oh, the stiletto I’d pulled from my purse as I’d entered the room and now held tight in my free hand.
“The Sword of Caelum,” I said. “Talk. And talk now.”
Or, at least, I tried to say all that. Unfortunately, I was drowned out by the pitiful wail of her scream and then the deep tremors in her body as she held back terrified sobs.
And that, frankly, was not computing.
“Who are you?” I demanded, completely confused. “How do you know me? Why were you watching me? And what—”
“I—I—I—mogene,” she finally managed. “Imogene Gunderson. ”
I let my arm relax slightly. There was something familiar about that name. I shifted around until I was in front of her, the knife a visible warning of what would happen if she did the wrong thing. Then I reached into my purse for my hair spray bottle of holy water and zapped her in the face.
Not a thing happened.
And that’s when I remembered. The library.
Oh, shit.
I let go and jumped back, as if the weight of my guilt alone would give her the strength to lash out and send me crashing through the wall. “Mrs. Gunderson,” I said, surprised the old lady hadn’t died of a heart attack right then and there. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a de— um, a desperate person I’ve been having some trouble with. A stalker. You know. Weird.”
She looked at me, her shaky hands smoothing her clothes as her eyes stayed fixed on my knife. “I think I know weird when I see it.”
I shoved the knife into my purse. “Honestly, I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . there really isn’t anything to . . .” I tossed my hands up, then tossed them up again. “Here,” I said reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”
But she was already halfway to the swinging door, hugging the wall to stay as far away from me as possible. “Eddie said you were odd, but I had no idea. No idea at all,” she repeated, then backed out of the toilet area and into the lounge.
I stayed behind, flabbergasted that I could have made such a mistake, and rather irritated that Eddie was running around town telling perfect strangers that I’m strange.
The good news, of course, was that I didn’t have to kill anything. Always a plus when you’re in a public place with nowhere to hide the body.
I gave Mrs. Gunderson enough time to pull herself together and leave, and then I followed suit, heading into the lounge area. There I caught a glimpse of my reflection and backtracked. This was a hot date, after all. A few girlified touch-ups were required.
I leaned in and inspected the damage. For the most part, my makeup hadn’t sloughed off, which was remarkable considering that the typical time that cosmetics took to vanish from my face was roughly seven-point-five minutes. A few strands of hair had sprung free of the clip I’d used to secure the pile on my head. The curl had held, though—thanks to about a gallon of extra-hold hair spray—so the effect was still cute. Maybe even a little sexy.
I cocked my head, then made a little moue, drifting a bit in the fantasy that I was a sexy young thing instead of a mom of two. Not that I’m complaining. I have, after all, finally gotten back into a size eight. Hunting demons does great things for your muscle tone.
I scoped out the supply of free cosmetics, then reached for a mascara sample. A tiny little bottle with a tiny little brush, it was about the cutest thing ever, and the perfect souvenir for Allie.
For that matter, it was too cute to pass up at the moment, so after I dropped one into my purse for my daughter, I snagged another for myself, then popped it out of its personal plastic wrap. For a restaurant so concerned about making sure the patrons stayed well coiffed, they hadn’t given much thought to the lighting, and I was in an awkward on-my-toes -and-trying-to-get-close-enough-to-the-mirror-to-see position when the woman in red from the next table over sashayed in.
She looked down her nose at me, then went to the next sink over, looking me up and down before focusing on her own reflection in the mirror. Considering the way her expression changed from disgust to pleased, I had to assume she liked what she saw.
In fairness, I can’t say I blamed her. She looked like a celebrity up from Los Angeles to party on our pristine beaches. About the only thing that marred the image at all was her perfume, which had been poured on way too heavily, probably courtesy of a personal shopper who’d told her what to buy, but not how much of it to wear.
Thankfully, she finished up at the sink before I did, then turned to leave. The air cleared, and I realized I could breathe again, the overwhelming scent of lilac and vanilla giving way to something significantly more subtle, if less pleasant.
I realized where that foul odor came from a split second before she moved, and didn’t even have time to curse my stupidity. Because I didn’t have a weapon handy, I whipped around with the mascara wand as my only line of defense between me and the stacked, blond demon, thrusting it toward her big blue eyes.
Realizing she’d lost the element of surprise, she abandoned all efforts at subtlety and leaped at me, dodging my tiny cosmetic weapon.
“You cannot be permitted to wield the sword,” she shouted as I skipped sideways, escaping her grasp by millimeters. “He who shall become The One will see you die.”
“Yeah?” I cleverly retorted, yanking the hem of her skirt to knock her off balance even as I kicked out and got her in the gut. “Abaddon?” I demanded, pressing her back against the wall between the sink and toilet areas. I held the wand at her eye, certain she knew that this time I wouldn’t miss. “I stopped him from becoming super-dude once before. I think I can handle it again.”
“Carmela,” she hissed, which really wasn’t the response I’d been expecting. “Come, Carmela,” she repeated even as the window behind us shattered in an explosion of glass. I ducked, yanking down the demon even as I turned my face from the flying shards, silently cursing what I saw out of the corner of
my eye—a zombie, standing rough and ready amid the broken glass.
“For crying out loud!” I shouted without thinking. “Enough with the freaking zombies!” Which probably wasn’t the most professional of responses, but it summarized my feelings quite accurately.
At the same time, the demon shifted, trying to get out from under my hold. I wasn’t having any of that, though, and about the same time the zombie made the final leap across the room to grab at the back of my shirt and pull me off her master, I thrust the mascara wand deep into the demon’s eye.
The maneuver had the side benefit of stopping the nowmasterless zombie in her tracks, who stood there, her viselike hand still clutching my shoulder, completely befuddled. She’d clearly been told to assist the master, and now that the master was gone, she was confused about what exactly she was supposed to do.
To be honest, she wasn’t the only one.
I was held fast by a rather oozy-looking, scraggle-haired zombie who would undoubtedly fight me if I tried to get free, then shift into self-preservation mode when I defended myself. And we were both trapped beside the dead body of a beautiful Emeralds customer. Not to mention, my husband was probably beginning to wonder how long a simple trip to the ladies’ room could take.
I had no good options, and so I twisted around and down, surprising the zombie, whose fingers were suddenly grasping only air. As for me, I’d danced a good two feet away, glass crunching under my shoes. And, miracle of miracles, the zombie wasn’t coming after me.
Okay, this was good. Maybe I could make this work after all.
First thing, I headed toward the main door, prepared to flip the lock. Only there wasn’t a lock. Great.
In lieu of a lock, I shoved one of the plush chairs in front of the door. So far I’d been extremely lucky that no one had tried to join our little ladies’ lounge party. That luck couldn’t hold out indefinitely, though, and I wanted to be prepared for the inevitable party crasher. I wasn’t sure what I would say if someone tried to get in, but I told myself I thought well on my feet and something brilliant would come.
Next, I grabbed a bottle of hand lotion from the toiletry basket. I took a couple of paper towels and used those as a barrier between my hands and the lady in red’s ankles. Then I pulled her into the handicapped stall and rubbed her all over with a paper towel soaked in hand lotion that, I hoped, would sufficiently mess up any fingerprints I’d left on the body.
I locked the door from the inside, crawled under, and headed back to my zombie. With any luck, I could get Father Ben to come retrieve the body, maybe pretending she was a drunken parishioner desperately in need of confession. It was the best I could come up with, and I was once again struck by the fact that my job was so much easier when I had a disposal team at my beck and call.
The zombie was another problem all together, and unless I was prepared to enter into an all-out fight, there wasn’t a damn thing I could do but shove the chair aside, exit the ladies’ room, and leave her standing there alone. The trouble with that, of course, was that sooner or later, someone would eventually come into the powder room, take one look at Carmela, realize she wasn’t a woman but a monster, and try to do something about that, and Emeralds would have a full-blown horror movie on its hands.
Granted, most people aren’t inclined to leap to the monster conclusion, but even if they assumed she was merely ill and tried to help her, the moment they tried to move her or—God forbid—do any sort of medical test, the zombie would interpret the actions as hostile and transform from a clueless, confused blob to a preternaturally strong killing machine whose only purpose was to ensure its survival. A great plot for an action movie, maybe; not so terrific for the people of San Diablo.
And all the responsibility would be on my shoulders.
Which, of course, meant that I had to make the first move. I had to get the zombie back out through the hole in the window, find something with which to hack her up (or use the knife in my purse, however impractical), hide the pieces, and get back before my husband started to really worry.
No problem, right?
I mentally inventoried the contents of my purse, cursing myself for not carrying a scythe. Or, for that matter, a really sharp razor.
Still, you work with what you got. Isn’t that the sign of a true professional? I took my knife in one hand and my house keys in the other. Then I leaped across the room, surprising the zombie even as I prayed my aim was good.
It was; that’s the benefit of a stationary target. I thrust my keys into her right eye and the knife into the left, a maneuver which had two outcomes: One, my foe was now blind. Two, my foe was now really, really ticked off.
And because Carmela wasn’t the least bit worried about attracting unwanted attention, she flailed around the room, crashing into lamps and overturning chairs and generally making a huge nuisance as she tried to find me. The point of that, of course, would be so that she could rip my horrible little head off.
Hopefully, that plan wouldn’t be coming to fruition.
At the same time, I couldn’t simply keep my distance and let her destroy the room. I needed to catch her, drag her out the hole in the window and off to someplace remotely private, and then start whacking off limbs.
The scenario put a serious damper on my evening out with Stuart, but, again, that’s what happens when you have a demanding job.
“Okay, Carmela,” I said. “It’s time for you and me to rumble.”
At the sound of my voice, she turned and attacked, racing blindly to where I stood. I grabbed an outstretched arm and the waistband of her pants and flung her toward the window. Because she was light, she practically soared through the air, then smashed down on the sill, a few jagged pieces of glass slicing through soft flesh and trapping her there as she kicked and struggled. Thank goodness she couldn’t scream.
“Off we go,” I said, hurrying to grab her by the ankles. My plan was to flip her over and out, then climb out behind her. I was not expecting someone to help me by grabbing her hands and tugging from the other side. I let out a short yelp, realized David must have returned to town early, and exhaled loudly.
When I peered out, though, I saw the man from my street. The one who’d shoved the carnival flyer at me.
“You?”
“Me. I am Dukkar,” he added, with a friendly little nod. Then he gave the zombie a firm tug, and it dropped to the ground. As it began to push its way up, Dukkar picked up a machete and whacked off the right arm. He stepped hard on the chest and repeated the process with the left.
Right then and there, I decided Dukkar was my new best friend. He, at least, was smart enough to travel with a serious cutting blade.
“You go,” he said, looking up at my undoubtedly flabbergasted face. “You go back to your husband.”
No, no, no. Not without some answers. Like who he was, how he knew about zombies, and what the hell he was doing outside the ladies’ room of Emeralds.
“You go now,” he said, ignoring all of the questions I fired off to him. “I clean up mess. The zombie. The demon.”
“You know about the demon, too?”
“I know you must be careful. Only you can wield the sword. You must be protected.”
“Whoa,” I said, my voice sharp and my interest very much piqued. “Answers. Now. Like how you know about the sword. And more important, how you know about me.”
His eyes widened and I had the distinct impression that he believed he’d said too much.
Too bad.
“I’m not going anywhere until I get some answers,” I countered as he hacked off a leg.
Naturally, that’s when the door to the ladies’ room slammed open. Or, rather, tried to slam open. The force of the door moved the chair about four inches, then stopped. I held my breath, then felt every drop of blood drain from my body as I heard the voice calling, “Kate? Kate, what the hell are you doing?”
I turned and saw myself reflected in the mirror, along with Stuart’s face peeking in through the cra
ck. And if I could see him, he could surely see me.
Damn.
I climbed back inside. “Long story,” I said.
“Open the door.”
“Um.” I glanced toward the window and realized he couldn’t have seen any of the zombie or the carnival man. “Right. Sure.”
I shoved the chair aside, then hustled out, tugging the door firmly shut behind me.
“Dear God, Kate. What the hell were you doing in there? That old lady came barreling out with a completely freaked expression on her face, and I kept expecting you to follow, but—”
“Counseling,” I said, which was the first and only thing that popped into my mind. I took his hand and started leading him back toward our table, wanting to get as far away from the ladies’ room and that particular explosion as possible.
“Excuse me?”
“There was this girl in there. Troubled teen. Pregnant. That’s why she shoved the chair in front of the door. Afraid her parents would walk in,” I said, spinning lies with the same ease with which I could spin a dagger. “But I think she freaked Mrs. Gunderson out a little.”
“The old lady?”
“Right. She left. I stayed behind to help.”
We’d reached our table now, and I realized with a start how long I’d been gone. The duck appetizer was ice cold, with Stuart having not taken a single bite, waiting instead for me to join him. “Oh, Stuart. I’m so sorry. And now we’ll miss the movie.”
“You don’t have to be sorry,” he said. “And the movie is totally in your hands. We can stay and have dinner, or we can leave and go to the theater.”
“Leave,” I said, clinging to the offer like a life raft. Because at the moment, I wanted more than anything to get out of that restaurant. I checked my watch. “You pay the bill and I’ll go get the car from the valet.”
He blinked, a bit startled by my snap decision, then nodded. I hurried outside, afraid that any minute the maitre d’ would hurry after me, overflowing with questions about the broken glass, the body in the handicapped stall, and what sort of nonsense crazy Mrs. Gunderson was spouting.