California Demon: The Secret Life of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom Page 3

  Most of the time, demons are simply out there in the ether, existing, but not interacting with us. Not that I’m all that keen on the idea of wading through a sea of demons every time I walk to my car, but it’s better than meeting one in a dark alley. So long as a demon is incorporeal, he can’t do much except watch us and long to be us. Demons have a real thing about wanting to be human.

  Some demons want it so badly, in fact, that they go the possession route, stepping in to seize the body while the person’s still alive, and trapping the victim’s soul in some deep, dark crevice. Possession, however, isn’t too subtle. For the most part, the Hollywood makeup department got it right with Linda Blair. In other words, those demons aren’t going to be infiltrating the local PTA. At least, not without being noticed.

  Fortunately (for all of us), possession is pretty rare. Unfortunately, the more common demon manifestation is less obvious. You know all those medical miracles that you hear about? Someone dying on the operating table and then— amazingly!—they’re brought back to life? Someone walking away from a twelve-car pileup despite a massive blow to the head? Someone trapped underwater for close to ten minutes, but managing to survive?

  I’ll bet you think those folks are the lucky ones. Well, think again. Ninety-nine percent of the time we’re not talking miraculous survival, we’re talking determined demon.

  Of course, not every body is a compatible host for a demon. Only the most powerful demons can infiltrate the body of the faithful, for example. Those souls fight, keeping the demons away until the gap closes.

  And for the most part, demons avoid the elderly, preferring to infect the young, strong, and healthy (well, except for being dead). But I’d recently learned the hard way that in a pinch, demons will go for whatever’s available.

  Bottom line: Most demons look pretty much like everybody else.

  Fortunately, though, corporeal demons do have a few idiosyncrasies that are useful for identification purposes. Holy ground, for example, stops a demon cold. Your average, everyday demon simply can’t walk on sanctified ground. Or, it can, but it hurts like hell (literally). But since the odds of convincing Carl to make a quick detour so that I could parade the passengers through the cathedral were slim to none, I wisely crossed that option off my list.

  The breath test is a personal favorite of mine. Demon breath absolutely reeks. Sulfur mixed with decaying flesh and who knows what else tossed into the mix. Don’t ask me why; I just know it’s a universal demon characteristic.

  The problem with using the breath test to locate demons is severalfold. For one, demons are wise to the whole stinky- breath thing. Altoids, Certs, Listerine—these trappings of modern-day hygiene have made it that much harder for Demon Hunters the world over. (Not that I’m complaining about hygiene, mind you. I’m just stating a fact.)

  And even if a little stinkiness does make it past the breath mint, there’s still the question of how to get in a demon’s face without arousing his suspicions. Plus, there’s always the possibility of running across a living, breathing human with breath that absolutely reeks. A social faux pas, maybe, but hardly the basis for justifiable homicide.

  No, the breath test just isn’t reliable enough. For locating a possible demon, yes. For definitively identifying a demon? No.

  That leaves holy water. Which suits me just fine.

  As definitive tests go, holy water is about as foolproof as they come. Convenient, too, since I’m rarely without a vial or two anymore.

  Now all I needed to do was subtly figure out which passenger was Dermott Sinclair.

  We’d reached the Coast Highway, and that meant we were about ten minutes from the high school. So I squeezed past Marissa into the aisle.

  “People, people!” I called, then paused as all eyes looked up at me. “I just need to run you through a quick roll call before we get to the school.” Marissa tapped one of her long, manicured fingers on my arm. I ignored her. “So if you’d just raise your hand when I call your name—”

  “Kate.”

  “—and that way I can check you off the list.”

  “Kate!”

  “Yes?”

  “Kelly and I did that before we left Coastal Mists.”

  “Of course you did, Marissa,” I said, in the same tone I use when I’m trying to calm Timmy. I saw her grit her teeth and knew she recognized the voice.

  “Then there’s really no need to repeat the process, is there?” She looked to Nurse Kelly for confirmation. Kelly, one of the most nonconfrontational women I’ve ever met, looked at her lap.

  “I’m here as a chaperone,” I said, grabbing the opportunity. “And that means I need to be familiar with all our charges. In case we need to locate someone at the school or if some sort of emergency comes up.”

  Marissa looked like she was going to respond to that, but I turned to smile at the passengers. “I know a lot of you already, of course, but not everyone. So if you’ll just bear with me.” I ran my finger down the clipboard to the first name on the list and started in with “Tamara Able.” Ms. Able, a blue-haired and pink-cheeked bird of a woman raised her hand with a perky, “Right here, dear.” I made a little check mark, just for show.

  Between napping passengers and defective hearing aids, it took five full minutes to get to the “S” names. “Arthur Simms?” A man snorted, then his hand shot into the air. “Right here, girlie. Or are you blind?”

  “Right,” I said. “Got you.” I cleared my throat. “Dermott Sinclair?” No response. My heart slowed in my chest. Had I been wrong? Had he left the nursing home by some other means? Or worse, was he still there, with Laura and my little boy?

  I cleared my throat and tried again, willing myself not to be alarmed. Not yet. “Dermott Sinclair?”

  Still no response, and that little bubble of panic was just about to lodge in my throat when I saw a pudgy, bald man—earlier, he’d answered to Edmund Morrison—shift in his seat. Beside him, a rail-thin wraith of a man sat staring out the window. Morrison’s elbow connected with his companion’s rib cage, and the wraith turned sharply, his eyes flashing hot with irritation.

  I didn’t even need to hear the rest. The wraith was Dermott Sinclair. And he was a demon. I’d bet good money on that. Even more, I’d bet my life. In fact, I was just about to do that.

  Discretion might be the better part of valor, but it’s also a pain in the rear. There I was in a motor coach full of elderly residents, a PTA vixen, the driver, and one potential demon. I needed to keep everyone safe, maintain my secret identity, and confirm Sinclair’s demonic status. You’ll forgive me if I was feeling a little stressed.

  I was also feeling a little impotent. I’d wanted to get the task out of the way before reaching the school, but short of knocking Carl upside the head and hijacking the bus, I wasn’t sure how to accomplish that. I had the holy water, sure. But if I used it, Sinclair would lash out—either in rage or in pain. Carl might lose control of the bus and send it tumbling over a cliff toward the rocky Pacific shore. I’d end up dead. Worse, I’d be late for Family Day.

  Frankly, neither possibility worked for me.

  Which meant I needed to wait until the bus stopped. And, ideally, I needed to get Sinclair alone. The question, of course, was how.

  Three minutes later, we were pulling into the big parking lot by the football field, and I still didn’t have a foolproof plan, but I did have Hershey’s Kisses and a Ziploc bag full of baby wipes. Not typical tools of the demon-hunting trade, but I’m the woman who once helped her daughter make a diorama of the Vatican out of eggshells and soda crackers. I’d make do.

  As Carl maneuvered the bus toward the back of the school, I rummaged in my purse, found the bag, and opened it. Then I opened the vial of holy water and dumped it in with the wipes. I could practically see the ad campaign: Blessed be your baby’s bottom . . . Now with Aloe!

  I shook myself and pressed on.

  With the bag still hidden in my purse, I stood up, making a show of keeping my balance
as I moved down the aisle toward Sinclair. “Okay, people,” I said as I moved. “After the bus stops, we’re going to get off, form two lines in the parking lot, and then go into the school together.”

  I leaned my hip against the seat in front of Sinclair and casually pulled out a Hershey’s Kiss. “Would you like one?”

  Sinclair grunted something that I took as a no. His seat-mate, Morrison, looked tempted, then mumbled something about his blood sugar.

  As I unwrapped the Kiss, Carl turned the coach into the lot, shifting the behemoth to the right. I accidentally-on-purpose fell over, then used Sinclair to catch my balance. And—oh, dear!—somehow managed to smear chocolate all over his sleeve and arm in the process.

  Immediately, I started spouting apologies. Sinclair stayed stiff and silent. Possibly a tired old man. Possibly a pissed-off demon. I kept an eye on his face as I dabbed his sleeve with a Kleenex, searching his eyes for clues as to what he was thinking. More particularly, searching for some clue that he knew who I was. I hoped he didn’t; I couldn’t use the holy water until the others were off the bus (what with the whole howling in agony thing). And if he knew my secret, he’d hardly agree to lag behind so that I could help him clean up the chocolate mess.

  The thing is, my identity as San Diablo’s resident Demon Hunter was no longer a secret, at least not among the demon population. After what happened this past summer, they knew me. Or, at least, some did. There are a lot of demonic beings floating around out there, and I had to assume their grapevine was at least as developed as my neighborhood gossip network.

  But was Sinclair in that loop? I had no idea. His blank eyes revealed nothing, and neither did his breath, which was tinged with the sharp scent of cinnamon, courtesy of the packet of Trident I saw on Morrison’s tray table. Which meant I had to proceed cautiously . . . and pray for luck.

  Morrison shoved his tray back to the full upright and locked position, then squeezed into the aisle. Other folks started shuffling to stand up and gather purses and canes and the like.

  Sinclair started to stand, but I kept him down with a firm hand on his arm. “Just hang on a bit. I should be able to get this cleaned up in a flash.” I wasn’t sure I liked the look he gave me in response, but he stayed. One point for Kate.

  “Marissa,” I called, as the passengers filed toward the front. “I’m trying to clean up Mr. Sinclair’s shirt. Why don’t you and Kelly take the others in and we’ll be right behind you?”

  “Honestly, Kate. If you weren’t going to shoulder your burden, then why did you agree to help chaperone?”

  Fortunately, she didn’t seem to really want an answer. Instead she kicked into gear and started ordering the passengers to “Hurry, hurry, in one line, please!”

  I rummaged in my purse for a wipe, then kept my hand clenched tight around it. “Carl,” I said, tossing the name over my shoulder. “Maybe you could give them a hand out there.”

  To my complete amazement, he agreed and started gathering his things. Then again, maybe I shouldn’t be amazed. Marissa had spent a good portion of the drive describing the homemade cream puffs she’d dropped off at the school that morning. And, unless it was the sun reflecting off the ocean, I’m certain I’d seen Carl drooling.

  “Okay, Mr. Sinclair,” I said, keeping my voice especially cheery since Carl was still gathering his things at the front of the bus. “Let’s see if we can’t clean you up, then catch up to the others.”

  My cell phone blared, and I jumped. I think Sinclair did, too. I considered ignoring it, but since Carl was still on the bus, I decided to answer. Besides, unless my kids are safely in my line of sight, it’s damn near impossible for me to ignore a ringing phone.

  The caller ID read Allie, and my mommy paranoia spiked. I flipped open the phone, fear for my kid almost blinding me to the potential demon at my side. “Are you okay? What’s wrong? Where are you?” Our rule on Allie’s cell phone use is stringent. Emergencies only. No exceptions.

  “I won!” Allie’s excited voice filtered through the tiny speaker. “They’re going to announce it during the program. And I get a plaque and a check and everything.”

  I started breathing again, trying hard to downshift from terror to something a little more constructive. “You’re okay?” I asked. “You’re not bleeding? No broken bones? No emergency surgeries or strange men trying to lure you into cars?”

  “Mo-om! I’m fine. Aren’t you listening? I won.”

  “The essay contest?” From the front of the bus, Carl was eyeing me curiously. I waved, signaling that all was well in my world, which I hoped wasn’t a lie.

  “Yes!” She’d spent a week of late nights at the kitchen table with my laptop, typing and editing a five-page essay on family and Christmas for a contest sponsored by the local paper. I’d proofed the final pages for her, and even managed to cry only a little bit.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” I said, downshifting even more from concerned irritation to maternal pride. “That’s wonderful!”

  “They want me to read it during the program. You’re on your way, right? You won’t be late?”

  “Of course not. I’m practically there. Five minutes. Maybe ten.”

  Beside me, Sinclair started to push up again. I aimed a bright smile at him, and pulled out the baby wipe. Then, as Allie continued to rave, I used a tiny corner to attack the chocolate on his sleeve. I wasn’t touching skin, and I hoped that if he was a demon, he’d be lured into a false sense of security. Mostly, though, I was stalling. If he was a demon, I anticipated some pretty loud histrionics once the holy water contacted his flesh. Best for all concerned if the cell-phone connection was broken when Sinclair released that first yowl.

  All in all a calm, rational, analytical approach.

  Unfortunately, it didn’t work.

  “—and they’re actually gonna publish it,” Allie was saying.

  I tried to squeeze in a “good-bye” and a “tell me all about it in a few minutes,” but I never got the chance. Sinclair leaped out of the plush seat, slamming into me with all the vim and vigor of a person possessed. I saw it coming, but not in time. I shifted to the right, but he caught me in the chest and sent me tumbling back over the armrest of the seat across the aisle. I cried out and the phone flew from my hand. I heard my daughter’s terrified, “Mom!” then silence as the phone went dead.

  Sinclair tried to sprint past, but I wasn’t about to let that happen. I kicked out, managing to trip the undead bastard and land him with a splat on the rubber runner.

  I was right behind him, leaping from my precarious position on the armrest to an equally precarious position on his back. Demon or not, this son of a bitch had just scared my kid, and for that, he really had to pay.

  I still had the baby wipe in one hand, and now I slapped it down on his bald spot. I heard (and smelled) a satisfying sizzle, and Sinclair lurched in pain, his depths-of-Hell yowl filling the bus and threatening to burst my eardrums.

  A riled demon is a strong demon, and he was on his feet in no time, with me still clinging to him like a leech. My arms were clasped tight around his neck, the still-wet baby wipe now pressed against the soft skin of his neck. The stench of burning demon flesh almost made me gag, but I kept my legs squeezed viselike around his waist.

  I’d spent the last three months working my tail off to sharpen my atrophied skills in karate, tae kwon do, and a half dozen other martial arts styles. But I wasn’t using any of those skills at the moment. Instead, I more closely resembled my son trying to avoid bedtime.

  Since he’d been sitting at the back of the bus, we were probably only three yards away from the rear seat and the door to the coach’s restroom. With me still stuck fast, he bounded in that direction, then whipped sideways, slamming my spine up against the angled protrusion where the wall of the bathroom extended slightly.

  “Die, Hunter,” he hissed as fiery pain shot through my entire body. He slammed again, then again, and again, adding a comment to me with each and every impact.

&nbs
p; “You cannot win.” Crash!

  “Our forces grow.” Smash!

  “The wheels are already in motion.” Crunch!

  Not exactly the clearest of messages, but I wasn’t too worried about interpretation. For that matter, the way my head was spinning, I wasn’t too worried about anything. Except putting the damn demon out of my misery. And getting to Allie’s ceremony on time.

  Keeping my left arm tight around his neck, I reached back with my right hand and fumbled for the barrette that held my hair up and away from my face. As gross as it sounds, optical penetration is the best method of killing a corporeal demon. And the little metal strip on those cheap drugstore barrettes does the trick every time.

  As soon as I let go with one hand, though, Sinclair dove forward with me still attached to his back like Velcro. He landed on his (and my) shoulders, then executed a sloppy but effective somersault that was so unexpected and painful that it completely shook me off him. My butt hit the floor, and I let out a little oomph as the wind was knocked out of me.

  I tensed, ready to lash out, but instead of taking the offensive and rushing me, Sinclair barreled down the aisle toward the front of the bus. Barely seconds passed before I sprang back up, but that was all he needed.

  Sinclair yanked the lever and the door hissed open. Then he turned, grinned in my direction, and started running toward the school.

  Three

  l WAS Only seconds behind him, but demons move fast, and by the time I hit the asphalt, he was gone, lost in a sea of parents and grandparents, all rushing through the parking lot toward the gymnasium entrance. I rushed right along with them, searching every face as I ran, but not seeing Sinclair anywhere.

  Damn!

  I raced toward the school, part of me hoping Sinclair really had gone inside and part of me hoping he’d veered off toward some other destination. I wanted to nail the bastard, yes, but I also wanted him away from my daughter.

  I burst through a cluster of elderly people, slowing only slightly when I realized that the cluster was made up of my elderly people. I didn’t plan on stopping, but then I heard the tidbits of gossip—“What kind of vitamins did the doc put him on?”—and realized they’d seen Sinclair, and had probably noticed which direction he’d run.