California Demon: The Secret Life of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom Read online

  And then—using every ounce of willpower in my body—I aimed. And I prayed.

  I heard a sharp crack, then felt a jolt as the metal post slammed home, sliding easily through the demon’s bulbous gray eye. His low moan faded quickly, and I saw the familiar shimmer in the air as the demon departed the old man’s body to return to the ether.

  I sagged to the floor, my body limp with relief.

  That emotion was short-lived, however. I’d gotten rid of one problem (the demon), but now I had a whole new one (his plan). He’d been down in the basement for a reason. I needed to figure out what it was.

  The stone he’d tossed at me had been large, and it had left an equally large hole in the wall. A dark hole, actually, and I moved toward it with trepidation. I bent down and squinted into it, but I couldn’t see a thing.

  Since I’m not crazy about spiders and other basement-dwelling critters, I wasn’t too keen on sticking my hand in the gap and feeling around, but I did it anyway. (This job is not for the squeamish.) Fortunately, I encountered nothing slithery nor slimy. In fact, I encountered nothing at all.

  Well, damn. I’d been so sure that Sinclair knew what he was doing. Had someone beaten him to the punch? Or had Sinclair himself already squirreled the thing away? Maybe hidden it on his person?

  I made a face as I considered that possibility, my fingers still probing the dark. I’d changed a lot of nasty Pull-Ups in my day, but the idea of patting down a dead demon still had me cringing.

  I’d about convinced myself that I really did have to frisk Sinclair when my fingers found a crevice in the stone. A place in the very back where the mortar no longer felt rough. Instead, it felt smooth and cool, with only the slightest hint of texture.

  I felt around some more, my heart beating faster. I ran my finger down the length of the crevice until I encountered mortar again. That’s when it hit me. A book. I was feeling the spine of a book lodged between two stones.

  I settled my shoulder against the cool stone wall, hooked my fingertips around the edge of the volume, and pulled. It shifted, but only slightly, and I felt a momentary burst of irritation. If the book had been placed years ago and literally mortared in with the stone, then I’d need something a lot stronger than my fingernails, even with the Sally Hansen acrylic topcoat.

  I took a breath and tugged again, hoping it had merely been placed in the wall for safekeeping, and not made a permanent part of the architecture.

  This time, I got lucky. True, I ruined the polish on three nails and broke the nail on my forefinger off at the quick, but the book was in my hand, and I was victorious. Unmanicured, but victorious.

  I pulled it out into the light and studied it, searching the outside for clues as to its purpose. None were apparent. The book was large—about the same size as Timmy’s lap books but thicker than his battered copy of How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night? About an inch thick, actually. And unlike Timmy’s reptile-covered storybooks, this one was bound in dark red leather, cracked and scarred with age. The spine may once have reflected a title, but now all that remained of the gilt lettering was tiny flecks of gold.

  At one point, the book must have been extraordinary. But now the thing was battered and shabby, the embossing worn down so that there were no identifying marks at all, no title, no telltale demonic symbols. Just a hint of a raised design that may or may not have been a triangle.

  Well, hell.

  As a rule, I don’t go around opening books that the demon population is scrambling for. You just never know what you might find.

  But in this case, I wanted to know. No, it was more than that. I needed to know. Sinclair had said that I was too late. That the wheels were already in motion. He’d raced to the school—a place I’d always believed was safe. Willful blindness on my part, maybe, but it made the mornings easier when I sent my daughter out into what I knew, better than any mom, was a dangerous world.

  The demons had a plan, and this book was part of it. I needed to know how. I needed to make sure nothing was going to happen now. That hordes of demons weren’t about to descend on the school.

  In other words, I needed to know that my kid was safe.

  And so, with a holy water-drenched baby wipe held tight as a defense against any evil that might spew forth, I plunked the book on a worktable and then slowly lifted the cover.

  The spine creaked in protest, but no evil emerged, and the flames of Hell didn’t leap forth to engulf me. Thus encouraged, I opened the cover a bit more, then bent low and peered into the dark space between cover and flyleaf. I saw nothing, and so I continued until the cover was flipped entirely open.

  Nothing.

  And I mean that literally.

  Not demons. Not incantations. Not even a copyright page with the Library of Congress information.

  Just blank paper, brittle and slightly stained.

  Frowning, I carefully flipped through the rest of the volume. Nothing.

  Every page was completely blank. The book told me nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  I turned to look at the grotesque form of Sinclair, the vertical beam protruding from the back of his skull.

  “What’s going on, Sinclair?” I asked.

  The demon, however, stayed stubbornly silent.

  Four

  Disposing Of A dead demon is a lot harder than it sounds, and if Marissa found me keeping company with a dead body, you can be damn sure Coastal Mists wouldn’t be inviting me to the annual Volunteer Appreciation Dinner.

  In the past, I simply would have called the kill in, and Forza would send a dispatch team to do the dirty work. But in the last decade or so, Forza has suffered staffing problems, and that simply wasn’t an option. (I’d been a little surprised when I’d learned of the dwindling ranks within Forza, actually. But after I thought about it, I began to understand. It’s a hard life. And what sounds like fun on a Nintendo GameCube loses a lot of its appeal in the harsh light of reality.)

  I could try to hide the body myself—getting my new alimentatore to give me a hand with the heavy lifting—but that plan involved schlepping the body out of the high school, and that was too risky for my taste. I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life, but a future in prison was not one of them.

  No, my best bet was to simply clean up any evidence of the fight, wipe off my fingerprints, and leave. The body was just a body now, so whoever discovered it would most likely believe that Sinclair had fallen victim to an unfortunate accident. I just needed to head up to the gym, find my kids, do my Mommy-At-Family-Day routine, and try my damnedest not to look distracted.

  When it was time to head back to Coastal Mists, I’d feign concern and start a search. I could come back then and discover the tragedy. I probably still wouldn’t win volunteer of the year (I mean, I had been in charge of the man), but I doubted anyone would suspect I’d killed him. I was on the PTA, after all.

  On that note, I got busy cleaning up, wiping off fingerprints and picking up the junk that had scattered from my purse. I took the screwdriver, too, for good measure.

  My forensic concerns allayed as much as possible, I gathered my things. The book was too tall to fit neatly in my purse, so I took off my cardigan and tossed it between the shoulder straps so it lay over the top of my bag, hiding the section of leather than peeked out from the Dooney & Bourke knockoff.

  Then I hurried up the stairs, pausing at the door to wipe the dust off my clothes as I considered the situation. Since the assembly was already underway, I assumed the halls would be clear. With any luck, I could find the gym, find Allie, then slide into my seat with the efficient expression of a PTA committee member who’s just finished doing her civic—academic?—duty.

  Because I was having one of those days, the luck I’d wished for didn’t materialize. David Long, however, did. I ran smack into him not two seconds after I’d turned from the purple hall to the brown.

  “Oh!” I said, and he looked just as startled—and guilty— as I felt. Although, to be honest, I’m probably projecting the g
uilt part. Or maybe not. This was the students’ big day, after all. Awards. Pomp. Circumstance. Shouldn’t he be in the gym by now? I knew I should.

  “Got a hall pass, Mister?” I asked, flashing what I hoped was a disarming—and charming—grin. I learned years ago that an offensive approach is almost always better than struggling to play defense.

  He patted himself down, then shrugged. “Guess I left it in homeroom.”

  I made a tsk-tsk sound. “I see detention in your future.”

  “I teach chemistry,” he said, deadpan. “I spend my days staring at dozens of blank faces who think a valence bond is an old Sean Connery movie. Isn’t that punishment enough?”

  I pretended to consider. “I see your point. I’ll let you off the hook. This time,” I added, in my most stern voice.

  He nodded, just as seriously. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “What were you doing out here, anyway?” I asked.

  “Still rounding up students,” he said. “A lot of the kids will skip assembly. Hide out in the common areas. It’s my job to wrangle them back.” He leaned casually against the wall, his cane propped beside him, then hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his slacks in a move so suddenly familiar it made my heart stutter in my chest.

  Eric.

  Mentally, I shook myself, willing myself not to slide into my memories. Lots of men are easy to talk to and have familiar mannerisms. Yes, David Long reminded me of Eric. But no, I couldn’t afford to be rattled. Not today. Not with a stolen book in my purse, a dead demon in the basement, and a hellacious plot brewing.

  I took a breath and forced myself to concentrate.

  “Actually,” he said, “I could ask you the same thing.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What you’re doing here,” he clarified, at the same time standing up straight and breaking the spell. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym?”

  “Right,” I said. “Um . . . I got turned around. All these damned colored hallways.”

  “It’s a challenge all right.” He moved closer, and I saw his gaze dip down. My hand went automatically to my purse, pulling it closer to my side. My cardigan had shifted, and one corner of the book was peeking out. Not a lot, but enough to make clear to anyone who might be looking that I was schlepping a musty (and potentially demonic) book around. Damn.

  When I looked back up, I found David Long searching my face.

  “So,” I said brightly. “I should probably get going.” I took a tentative step, hoping he’d take the hint.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  I cocked my head. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re limping.”

  Damn. “New shoes.”

  He glanced down at the extremely comfortable, extremely broken-in loafers I’d matched with my linen slacks and sweater set. Not couture shoes by any means, but they were more practical than pumps for clamoring up ladders at nursing homes. And for fighting the odd demon.

  “Uh-huh,” he said.

  “So,” I repeated. “Which way do we go?”

  For the briefest of instants, I thought he was going to say something else. Maybe criticize my choice of footwear. But he just lifted a finger and pointed. “Straight down. The gym’s the dead end.”

  I winced, not too crazy about the way he said that. But I took a step in that direction, then paused as I realized he was going the other way. Back the way I’d come. “Uh, Mr. Long?”

  “David.”

  “Right. David. Aren’t you coming, too?”

  He shook his head just slightly. “I remembered something I need to check on.” He gave me a friendly wave, then started walking. “I’ll see you after the assembly.”

  Oh. Well. Damn.

  I watched him go, unable to shake the feeling that he was heading straight for the janitor’s basement. For a moment, I considered following him, but what would I say if he saw me again? That I’d developed a mad crush and couldn’t bear parting ways? That I wanted to discuss Allie’s future curriculum with him? That I desperately wanted to know what a valence bond was?

  Somehow I didn’t think any of those approaches would fly.

  I reminded myself that I didn’t know for certain that he was heading to the basement. It was, after all, in a completely different colored hall. And even if he was, so what? I certainly wasn’t going to admit to any knowledge of the body beside the stairs.

  Still, something about David Long made me itchy, and I wanted to keep him in my sights. I took a step in that direction, figuring I’d make up an excuse if he saw me, then was caught up short by the warm grate of a familiar voice: “Good God, Kate. Our girl’s going crazy wondering if you’re gonna make it on time.”

  I turned to see Eddie shuffling toward me, decked out in plaid golfing pants and an orange T-shirt that instructed passersby to Kiss a Prince—The World Needs More Frogs. I couldn’t help but smile, especially at the “our girl” reference. As far as Allie’s concerned, Eddie’s her paternal great-grandfather, but the truth is a lot more complex. As far as I know, Eddie’s no relation to Allie at all. Of course, both Eric and I were orphans, so in my more melancholy moments, I like to pretend that fate really did bring back my family.

  Still, blood or not, Eddie really has become family. He’s one of the few people who knows my secret, and he only knows it because he brought down more than a few demons in his day, too.

  Eddie’s wily, bad-tempered, can cuss a blue streak, and I love him like a father. And I’m pretty sure he loves me like a daughter. I know he considers Allie his own. Timmy, he isn’t certain about yet. But once my boy moves from Pull-Ups to underwear, I have a feeling their relationship will shift, too.

  In the meantime, I don’t mind that Eddie’s affection runs more toward my daughter. Tim has Stuart’s parents to dote on him. To be fair, they dote on Allie, too, but she was old enough when I married Stuart to understand that Grandma and Grandpa Connor weren’t really hers.

  Eddie though . . . well, he belongs to our girl, and she cherishes that. As for me, I protect it.

  Which explained why Eddie was still living in our guest bedroom even though he and Stuart hadn’t exactly become bosom buddies, and even though he’d been promising for months to find a nearby apartment. It was a concession on Stuart’s part that I appreciated and about which I felt no guilt. I’d made a lot of adjustments to accommodate his run for office. I figured the least he could do was open up the house to a long-lost relative, albeit a fabricated one.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, giving me a tap on the shoulder. “Time to get a move on.”

  “I haven’t missed—?”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. But you need to light a fire. As soon as that principal quits blathering on about all this hoo-ha, they’re going to announce the awards. You won’t hear the end of it if you miss it.”

  “Not going to happen,” I said, any lingering thoughts of following David Long vanishing in a puff of maternal pride.

  Still, I took a quick peek backwards as we hustled down the hall in the direction of the gym. All quiet. Not a hint of the man.

  I told myself that it was pointless to worry. After all, if hell broke loose, I’d surely notice.

  Principal George was still speaking when we arrived, which had the unexpected benefit of giving me an excuse to completely ignore Marissa, who was gesturing like crazy for me to join her and her Coastal Mist charges. I pretended confusion, pointed to Allie, and then started to climb my way over students and parents. Laura was already there, and Timmy clamored from her lap to mine.

  As Principal George continued on through the hoo-ha, I kept checking the door, expecting David to enter. When he didn’t, I started conjuring up scenarios where he’d found the body, called the police, and dozens of siren-spewing cop cars were now descending on the school, ready to cart me away in cuffs and an orange prison jumper.

  Laura passed me my keys. “You’re limping.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Everything okay?�
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  “For now,” I said. “I’ll fill you in later.”

  She nodded, and I shoved thoughts of prison and demon carcasses out of my head, then took another look around the gym, this time searching for Stuart. Nothing. I mouthed his name to Laura, but she just shrugged.

  Laura’s husband, I noticed, was also absent. That, however, was to be expected. Paul is the CEO of a thriving fast-food enterprise, and spends a lot of time lately working out of his Los Angeles office. Considering Laura had recently begun to suspect that Paul’s having an affair, I think she questions how much work goes on in Los Angeles. But she hasn’t confronted the lying, cheating bastard yet.

  Stuart, at least, was not a cheating bastard. Which meant he had no excuse for not attending Family Day. Which meant that I was pissed off. Particularly since he’d gone to such great lengths to assure me that he’d be there.

  I didn’t have long to revel in my righteous indignation, however, because Mrs. George had moved on to the various awards and other achievements that the school had racked up so far during the school year. “And the semester’s not even finished!” she enthused as we all dutifully applauded.

  There were a few athletic awards, some academic accomplishments, and then she introduced Stella Atkins, the Life & Arts editor of the San Diablo Herald. And then Stella introduced my daughter.

  I squeezed Allie’s hand, then choked back tears as she picked her way down the bleachers to Stella’s side. She clutched the plaque, and I saw her eyes scan the crowd, focusing particularly on both sets of doors. I knew what she was thinking—her essay had been on Christmas and family. The loss of one dad and the joy of finding another. Not a replacement, but an addition. And a grandfather, too, to smooth out the rough edges.

  I was there. Eddie was there. But Stuart was nowhere to be found.

  I tapped Laura, then mouthed the word phone. She passed me her cell phone and I dialed Stuart’s number, praying he was just outside the gymnasium doors.

  Voice mail.

  I snapped the phone shut, anger and disappointment settling over me like a thick blanket.