Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom

Chapter Two

The appetizers were in the oven, the table was set, the wine was breathing, and I was dragging a demon carcass across the kitchen floor when I heard the automatic garage door start its slow, painful grinding to the top. Shit.

I stopped dead, my gaze darting to the clock on the oven. Six twenty-five. He was early. The man who’d been ten minutes late to our wedding (and this after I told him it started thirty minutes earlier than it did) had actually managed to make it home on time.

I scowled at the corpse in my arms. “This really is a day of wonders, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, which I considered a good thing—you can never be too careful with demons—and I shifted my stance, grunting as I maneuvered him back toward the pantry. Knowing our garage door, I figured I had at least two minutes before Stuart stepped into the kitchen. Stuart keeps meaning to fix the thing, and I keep pestering him to hurry up and do it, but right then I was supremely grateful that my husband could procrastinate with the best of them. My original plan had been to get the body out the back door and into the storage shed where I knew neither Stuart nor Allie would dream of wandering. I’d already left a message for Father Corletti telling him about the demon and the cryptic Satanic army message, and as soon as he called me back, I’d insist he send a collection team stat.

In the meantime, I resigned myself to throwing a dinner party with a demon in my pantry. I heard the familiar clunk of the garage door coming to a stop, then the purr of the Infiniti’s engine as Stuart pulled in. I listened, frantically shoving cat food bins aside to make room for the body.

The engine died, and then a car door slammed.

I shoved the demon where the cat food belonged, then slid the bins back in front of him. No good. I could still see the demon’s white shirt and blue pants peeking up behind the bins.

The doorknob rattled, followed by the squeak of the door leading from the kitchen to the garage. I grabbed the first thing that looked remotely useful—a box of Hefty trash bags—and ripped it open. I pulled out bag after bag, whipping them open and tossing them over the body and the bins. Not perfect, but it would have to do.

“Kate?”

My heart beat somewhere in my throat, and I leaped across the pantry in a move that might have been graceful had it not been so desperate. I stuck my head around the open door, smiled at my husband, and hoped to hell I looked happy to see him.

“I’m right here, sweetie,” I said. “You’re home early.”

He aimed a trademark Stuart Connor grin my way. “You mean I’m home on time.”

I stepped out of the pantry, then shut the door firmly behind me. “With you, that is early.” I planted a loving, wifely kiss on his cheek. Then I took his briefcase, pressed a firm hand against his back, and aimed him out of the kitchen. “You must have had a hard day,” I said. “How about a glass of wine?”

He stopped moving, turning to look at me as if I might have been possessed by demons. “Kate, the guests will be here in half an hour.”

“I know. And this is an important night for you. You should be relaxed.” I urged him forward. “Red or white?”

He didn’t move. “Kate.”

“What?”

“Half an hour,” he repeated. “And you’re not dressed, and—” His eyes widened, his mouth shut, and I knew exactly what he was looking at.

“Brian got a homer,” I said, then shrugged. Mentally I cursed myself. I’d cleaned up the glass, then drawn our sheer curtains for camouflage, but there was nothing I could do about the breeze blowing in, kicking the flimsy material up like so many dancing ghosts.