by Julie Kenner
Also, he hadn’t seemed particularly demonic when I’d seen him. Of course, appearances can be deceiving, but he’d been mumbling to himself, grumping about the damn kids. Not the usual litany for a demon, but probably a common complaint for a high school janitor.
The demon was still on my mind when I returned to the party. Laura gave me a curious look, her eyes going wide when she saw the rip in my shirt.
“What—?”
But I waved her questions away, zipping my jacket to hide the damage to my shirt.
I’d tell Laura, of course. But later.
I’d had my fill of drama for the night. And although I’d keep an eye out for demons and other nasties, I figured I was entitled to spend the rest of the evening off the clock, pretending I was a normal mom with a normal life in a normal town.
That illusion lasted for exactly two hours and thirty-six minutes. After that, Allie, Laura, Mindy, and I returned home to find my door wide open, and three police cars parked in front, their blue, white, and red lights illuminating the neighborhood like some perverted carnival.
Timmy!
Fear pounded through me as I shoved the car door open and scrambled out before Laura even had time to slow down. I sprinted toward the door, screaming for my little boy, a thousand hellish images dancing in my head.
A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched as if to stop me. I smacked his arm away and barreled through the door, practically tripping over Sylvia.
“He’s fine,” she said, putting both hands on my shoulders and looking hard into my eyes. “We’re all fine. No one’s hurt. The place was robbed. It’s a total mess, but no one’s hurt.”
“Where is he?” I demanded, not willing to believe anything until I saw my baby.
But Sylvia didn’t even have to answer, because my little pajama-footed boy came racing into the entrance hall, a pair of handcuffs dangling in his hand. “Momma, Momma! I’m a defective!”
I scooped him up and hugged him close, my eyes shut tight against the horror. Allie and the Duponts pounded into the house as well, and I felt Allie’s arms go around us both, her quiet sobs just about enough to break my heart.
“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s fine. It’s okay.” I kept repeating that, figuring that if I kept it up, maybe I’d start to believe it.
After holding my kids for an eternity, I passed Timmy off to Allie. He really did seem fine. She still looked about as shook up as I felt. And no wonder. She and her brother had been in one hell of a scrape (literally) at the tail end of the summer.
Timmy’s nightmares had faded, but I knew the memories still preyed on Allie. I also knew that there wasn’t anything I could do except let her know that I love her. We’ve all got demons to face. And we each have to do it in our own way.
In my case, of course, a lot of those demons are real. And back in September, I’d spent days weighing my decision to go back on active duty. In the end, I’d decided that San Diablo needed a Hunter. Needed someone trained to stand up against evil. Someone to fight on the side of good.
Now, though, I couldn’t help but wonder: Had I done the right thing? And if I’d made a mistake, was it too late to fix it?
I didn’t know, and it wasn’t a question I could answer right then, not with my daughter looking with horror around our ransacked home, and my little boy running around waving the handcuffs and chasing after the young blond officer who’d willingly cast himself in the role of “bad guy.”
“What happened?” Laura asked. She’d moved beside me, and now she took my hand, squeezing my fingers in a silent show of support.
A shadow crossed Sylvia’s face, as she told us about how she’d heard a commotion and stepped outside her house, then saw the lights and police cars at our end of the block. She’d been concerned, but not overly so. But then she tried to call our house and got no answer.
She thought that perhaps something had happened to Eddie—that maybe an ambulance had arrived—and she felt like she had to go see. So she and Timmy had walked down the street and learned that the house had been ransacked. Eddie had gone out for a walk, and in the time it took him to make the four block circle, someone had gone in and trashed the place.
Eddie had called the cops the second he’d arrived back home, but, of course, there was nothing they could do.
“Where’s Eddie?” I asked. “He must feel terrible.”
“He’s in the kitchen,” Sylvia said. “He was, I don’t know, a little freaked out. Kept going on about demons. But he’s okay,” she added, hurriedly. “The cops said that they see weird reactions to robberies all the time. So it’s not like he’s, you know, psychotic or anything.”
“Good to know,” I said. I shot Laura a pleading look.
“I’ll go check on him,” she said, then hurried toward the kitchen before I could even say thanks.
“I need to call Stuart,” I said, to nobody in particular.
“I called him,” Sylvia said. “I left him a voice mail. And the police called, too.” She shook her head. “He’s probably really busy with the campaign, huh?”
I counted to ten. Now really wasn’t the time to tell my neighbor how I was feeling about that damn campaign.
I drew a breath. “So what happened next?”
“They’ve just been looking the place over. The weird thing is that the burglars didn’t take your electronic equipment or anything. I think they wonder if maybe the whole thing was political. Someone who doesn’t want Stuart running for office.”
I considered the idea and told Sylvia that it had some merit. That was a lie, of course. Because I knew what the burglars had been looking for.
But the book wasn’t there. I’d taken it to the cathedral for safekeeping.
That plan, at least, had worked.
The larger plan—the one where I keep my family safe and warm and well away from my demon-hunting life? That plan, I’m afraid, wasn’t working out nearly as well.
“You gonna tell me why you keep me around? Not exactly earning my keep.” Eddie clasped a mug of hot tea with both hands, and he looked at me over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows twitching like bushy gray caterpillars.
I put my hand over his. “Because we love you.”
The cops and Sylvia had finally left, and I’d sent Mindy and Laura home, too. Laura had wanted us to come stay at her house, but that felt too much like giving in. Plus, I didn’t expect any more drama tonight. The search had been thorough, and they hadn’t found the book. The bad guys wouldn’t return. Not tonight, anyway. Especially not with the cops making frequent passes in front of our house.
Eddie closed his eyes and his shoulders started to shake. “I’m getting old. I’m already damn near useless. And then I go and forget to set that damned alarm.”
“A mistake, Eddie. It could have happened to anyone.”
“It shouldn’t have happened to me.” He drew his hand back, taking the teacup with him, and took a long swallow. “Dammit,” he said again, “it shouldn’t have happened to me.”
And then he hauled back and let go, sending the teacup flying until it shattered on the far wall of the kitchen. Tea splattered against the white paint, then dripped in lazy streams down the wall as Kabit yowled and raced like a shot for the living room.
“Well,” I said after a moment. “At least you didn’t do that after I’d cleaned up.”
The slightest hint of a grin touched his mouth. “The way you keep house, you really think anyone’s going to know the difference?”
“Watch it, old man,” I said, but I think he could tell I was glad to have the old Eddie back.
Footsteps clattered on the floor, and Allie skidded around the corner, Timmy tight in her arms. “What was that?” she asked, breathlessly.
“Big noise!” Timmy shrieked. “Big, big noise!”
“Eddie dropped his mug,” I said.
Allie looked at me, looked at Eddie, then looked at the wall. “Right,” she said. “Can I break something, too?”
“What the hell.” I slid my own mug—now empty— toward her. “Have at it.”
She did, sending it flying with a speed that probably would have gotten her picked for the girl’s softball team. The mug shattered, and she high-fived Eddie. She met my eyes, hers shining. “I think I feel better.”
“Good,” I said.
“Me, too, Momma! Me, too!”
Eddie chuckled, and I did some quick mental gymnastics, wondering if I let Timmy smash one mug, if all of our dishes were going to end up in shatters.
In the end, I decided I didn’t much care. “You, too, sport,” I said. I got up and found two ugly-as-sin mugs in the cabinet. “I’ll even join you.”
I handed him a mug, then counted to three, and we both let it rip. Mine smashed to bits on the tile just shy of the wall, the sharp smash-crack! of the shattering ceramic surprisingly cathartic.
Timmy’s mug traveled about six inches, then landed at his feet, the handle breaking off and a fissure snaking down from rim to base. Not nearly as satisfying as my million-piece smash, but even so, he was now jumping up and down yelling, “Again! Again!”
“I think once is enough,” I said. And then, before he could think about that and decide to wail, I added, “Why don’t you and Allie pick up the fuzzies in the living room.”
“Right,” Allie said, not even blinking that I’d just enlisted her to clean up upholstery innards. “We’ll do that, and then I’ll give him his bath.” She cocked her head. “Where’s he sleeping tonight?”
“We’re all sleeping in my room,” I said. “We’ll pile some blankets on the mattress. Won’t even notice the rips.”
“All of us?” Allie repeated, one eyebrow cocked.
“Not me,” Eddie said. He hooked a thumb my direction. “That one snores.”
“Thank you very much,” I said, as Allie laughed. “And you have my permission to sleep wherever you want.”
“My room’ll do me just fine, thank you.”
“Get Eddie some blankets to put over the rips in the mattress,” I said to Allie. “Then work on the living room.”
“I’ll get my own damn blankets,” he said. “That much I think I can handle.”
“Eddie . . .” I reached for his hand, but he was already up and waving me off.
“I’m fine. And I’m going to bed.”
I watched him go, my heart aching a little, but I had no idea how to make him feel better.
Allie pulled out a chair and sat at the table, Timmy balanced on her lap. “So your bed’s gonna be kinda crowded, huh?”
“Cozy,” I said.
“Stuart’s the one who snores,” she said.
“That’s true,” I agreed.
“And we haven’t seen much of him tonight.”
“No,” I agreed. “We haven’t.” I glanced again at the phone that still hadn’t rung, despite me having left two messages for Stuart already. I’d say I was irritated, but that would qualify as the world’s biggest understatement.
“So, um, is he sharing the bed, too?”
I met my daughter’s eyes. My very perceptive, growing-up-too-quickly daughter. “No,” I said. “He’s not.”
With perfect timing, the sharp creak of the garage door echoed through the kitchen.
“Speak of the devil,” Allie said.
“Not the devil,” I corrected. “But he will have hell to pay.”
I stood up. “Why don’t you forget about the fuzzies and take Timmy upstairs now? Get into bed. Watch a Timmy-approved movie if you want. I’ll be up in a little bit.”
“Okay,” she said, gathering up her brother. “Stuart’s in for it, isn’t he?”
“Oh yeah,” I said. “It’s going to be ugly.”
When Stuart finally walked into the kitchen, I was standing there waiting for him, my arms crossed over my chest, and my fury rising like mercury. He looked at me, then held out a single red carnation.
“All the florists were closed,” he said. “They had a bucket at Seven-Eleven.”
“You brought me a flower,” I said, my voice sharp enough to slice bread.
“If I got you chocolate, you’d just complain about your waist.”
The man does know me.
“And isn’t it the thought that counts?”
I leaned against the counter and shook my head. “Not today.”
His brow furrowed as he looked from me to the rest of the room. The kitchen was still a mess, but not that much worse than my usual postdinner-disaster area. When he reached the table, though, he had a clear view of the smashed cups and most of the living room. That was a mess that couldn’t be hidden. Nor could it be blamed on my housekeeping skills, however inadequate they might be.
“Holy crap,” he said. “What happened?”
“If you’d check your cell phone once every few hours,” I said icily, “maybe you’d have a clue.”
“The batteries died,” he said. “And I can’t find the damn car charger. The last time I took Timmy to the—”
I held up a hand. “Oh, no. You are not blaming your lack of communication on your son. So don’t even go there.”
“Kate . . .”
“We were robbed, Stuart! And you’re telling me some bullshit story about your phone charger!”
All the color had drained from his face. “Where are the kids?”
I clenched my fists, wanting to hold on to my anger. And, yes, wanting to punish him. Petty, small, and mean, but, dammit, that’s the way I felt. And as soon as I realized it, the bubble burst. My breath hitched and—despite all my training, all my anger, and all that stupid self-control I’d drawn so deeply on over the last few months—I started to cry.
“Jesus, Kate,” Stuart said, grabbing my shoulders. “The kids? Where are the kids?”
“They’re fine,” I managed between snuffles. I buried my face in his chest and let him hold me tight, raw emotion flooding my body as the adrenaline drained out of me. “They’re upstairs. They’re fine.”
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I was trying to get a handle on that subdivision mess I’ve been dealing with at the office. I knew you were at the beach with Allie, so I wasn’t worried about getting home early, and it didn’t even occur to me to call from the office. And then when I was in the car, I realized I couldn’t call at all.” He stroked my hair. “If only I’d known.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay.” It wasn’t, though, not really. Both of our jobs were seeping over into our home life, into our marriage. And, honestly, I wasn’t sure our marriage could take it.
“Kate?” He tilted my chin up and brushed a kiss across my lips. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” I said, automatically. Then, “No, wait. That’s not true. I feel like you’ve got a mistress or something. Only I’m the one who has to sneak in time with you.”
He stroked my hair. “It’s hard now,” he said. “I know that, and I love you for putting up with it.”
“I know,” I murmured. “And I love you, too.” I took a deep breath, and then another. Then I pulled myself up on my tiptoes and brushed a kiss across his cheek as the cat emerged from hiding to rub figure eights around my legs. “But tonight, my darling, you get to sleep on the couch.”
I traipsed upstairs to join the kids, wondering vaguely if I was being hypocritical. I mean, at least I knew what Stuart was up to on those long nights away from home. Stuart, however, had no idea what I was up to.
And the truth was, I never intended to tell him.
Eleven
l Am not unfamiliar with the concept of guilt. Last summer, for example, I erroneously thought that Stuart had thrown in with a particularly nasty demon bent on taking over San Diablo and, eventually, the world. An honest mistake that any wife could have made, but I still feel guilty about it. And Stuart had been reaping the benefits for months—not that he ever knew the reason for my sudden shift into über-wife mode.
The point of which is to say that I recognize guilt-motivated behavior when I
see it. I’d seen it just yesterday, as a matter of fact, and now it was déjà vu all over again, this time with chocolate chip pancakes, orange juice, and coffee delivered on a tray to the master bedroom’s sitting area.
“Rise and shine, family,” Stuart said, opening the curtains.
“Wow,” I said, blinking against the sun. “Pancakes, huh?”
“Practice makes perfect. Besides, the skillet was still on the counter.” He tugged on the blanket. Allie groaned and yanked it back over her head. “Come on, you guys. We have just enough time before mass to eat and get dressed.”
I propped myself up on an elbow, watching him. I go to mass at least weekly, and I take the kids every Sunday. But Stuart’s another matter. He goes, but reluctantly. And I think the number of times that Stuart’s actually initiated a church outing adds up to exactly zero.
Oh yeah. I was definitely witnessing guilt on overdrive.
I, however, am not picky, and so I rolled out of bed, rousted the kids and started getting ready.
My pleasure at Stuart’s sudden shift to both the spiritual and the familiar took a southerly turn as we were finishing breakfast.
“I thought we could swing by a couple of furniture stores on the way home,” I said. “The mattresses are trash. And now’s as good a time as any to get a new sofa.” We’d been holding off until Timmy passed the age of leaky diapers and spilled sippy cups. But our sofa had a decidedly sour smell that even the Pottery Barn slipcover I’d splurged on couldn’t hide.
Stuart, however, didn’t look nearly as enthusiastic.
“What?” I demanded, as I wiped maple syrup off Timmy’s hands (and his face, and his legs, and the tops of his ears).
“Nothing,” Stuart said. But he was now clearing the dishes and I smelled additional guilt.
“Uh-huh,” I said.
“I just thought we could take two cars.”
“Two,” I repeated. “And we’d want to do that why?”