Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon Hunting Soccer Mom

Chapter Eight

“It’s over, Hunter,” he said, his mouth curling into a sneer. “My master is moving in, and this town isn’t big enough for the two of you.”

Were the situation not so dire, I would have laughed at the cliché. With his red hair and freckled face, demon-boy reminded me of a young Ron Howard, and I was having a hard time reconciling my memories of Richie Cunningham with this killing machine who now threatened my life.

I took a breath, then took a chance. “What do you want?”

“I want what my master wants.” He grinned, all boy-next-door with a blade. He leaned in closer, and I almost gagged after inhaling a whiff of his breath. “He’ll find it, you know. If it’s in San Diablo, he’ll find it. And the bones will be his.”

“Bones?”

He made a shushing noise, then moved the knife from my neck to my lips, laying it flat across my mouth. I fought an involuntary shiver and lost. He saw the movement and his eyes lit with victory. “That’s right, Hunter. Be afraid. Because when my master’s army rises, you will be among the first to fall. And by the time he’s done, you’ll wish you’d died a whole lot sooner.”

“I’m beginning to wish you’d get it over with now,” I hissed, my lips moving against the cold blade.

His face contorted and I held my breath, suddenly afraid I’d made a big mistake. I was ninety-nine percent sure that he was under orders not to kill me; it was that leftover one percent that suddenly had me sweating.

But the knife didn’t move and my neck stayed intact, and I took that as a good sign. This boy was a messenger, his purpose to scare me, to let me know that Goramesh was here, that he intended to get what he came for, and that he wasn’t going to take kindly to me meddling in his affairs.

Of course, killing and maiming were two different things, and from the way demon-boy was now staring at me, I feared he was thinking much the same thing. Since I’m rather fond of all my various limbs, and would like to keep them intact and unmolested, I started to spit out a purely self-serving apology. That’s when I heard the back door slam open and then Allie’s call of “Mom? Did you get lost or what?”

I met the demon’s eyes, and he nodded, raising the blade just millimeters off my lips. I cleared my throat, but still ended up sounding squeaky. “I’m fine,” I said. “I just got sidetracked.”

“With the trash?”

“Recycling. There was glass mixed with the plastic. I sorted it all out.”

She didn’t answer, but I heard the door close and—though I couldn’t be certain—I thought I heard an exasperated Mo-ther.

“She’ll be back,” I said. “She’s probably just getting a flashlight to help me.” A major piece of bullshit if ever there was one, but it seemed to work. Demon-boy climbed off me, the knife held in front of him, ready to impale me if I made a wrong move. Not damn likely. He’d been sitting on my chest for so long, I wasn’t even certain my internal organs were still functioning. This was one demon I wouldn’t be chasing down tonight. He was, however, on my list.

He turned and ran toward the street, and I soon lost sight of him in the shadows. I sat up feeling like an idiot. There was a reason so many Hunters retired young, and I was feeling that reason in my size-ten butt Just a few days ago thirty-eight seemed so young. I mean, I don’t even have crow’s-feet. “Old and creaky” may be insulting, but I feared it might also be true.

I stood and dusted my tush off, then replaced the lid on the trash can. My performance this evening definitely wasn’t going to win any Forza Scura accolades, but at least I wasn’t dead. And I had a plan. Two plans, actually. One: work out like a maniac and restore my stellar reflexes. And two: admit that Larson won the demons-in-San-Diablo argument and start in full time helping him figure out what trinket Goramesh was searching for—laundry, dirty dishes, and toilet bowls be damned.