“Excuse me?”I held the phone out as I spoke, glaring at it as if the handset had just personally delivered the bad news. “I can’t handle this. I have kids. I have a car pool. I have responsibilities.”
“You have always had responsibilities,” Father said.
“Oh, no, no, no.” I kept my voice low—a concession to my sleeping family—so I wasn’t sure that I was adequately displaying the depths of my displeasure. Ranting and screaming would have been so much more effective. “I’m retired, remember? Forza isn’t my life anymore. I’m demon-free, and I like it.”
“Apparently, child, you are not.”
I thought of the demon in my pantry and had to admit Father had a point. I kept quiet, though, waiting for him to say something else. When he didn’t, I kept quiet some more, in the foolish hope that I could outwait him.
Nothing.
“Dammit,” I said, when I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why is this my problem?”
“The demon came to you. That makes it your problem, no?”
“No,” I said, but without conviction. I was caving. I knew it, and he knew it.
He said nothing.
I sighed, anger finally succumbing to a much stronger surge of exhaustion. It had been a hell of a day. And from the sound of things, it was shaping up to be one hell of a weekend, too.
“Okay, fine.” I finally spoke, in part to quiet the overloaded silence emanating from Rome. “But at least tell me why I’m on the hot seat.” I asked the question even though I didn’t really need an answer. Whatever the reason, I already knew the only part that mattered—no one was coming to help me, and I had been, quite without fanfare, unretired. The why of it was completely academic.
Still, I was curious, and I listened with a perverse fascination as he explained in depressing detail the recent dwindling of Forza Scura’s resources and the unsettling implications that followed.
“Young people today,” he said. “They are more interested in television and—what do you call it?—Nintendo. The life of a Hunter has no appeal, and the Forza’s numbers are dwindling.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Have you watched television? Played those games?”
From what I could tell, it was a rare kid that wasn’t willing to plunk his or herself down in front of the television and do the dirty work.
“Many young people have the desire,” Father admitted after I spewed out my theory. “It is the rare student, however, that has the stamina.”
That made a little more sense. My own daughter’s attention span tended to increase or diminish in direct proportion to the number of boys in the vicinity. “All right,” I said, conceding the point. “I’ll buy that recruiting has fallen off. But I can’t believe there aren’t any Hunters. I mean, there’s still a need, right?”
That was my not-too-artful way of asking if demon activity had fallen off in the last few years. I couldn’t imagine that it had, though. I might be retired, but I still watch the evening news. And believe me, there are demons among us.
“Numquam opus maius,” Father said. My Latin sucks, but I got the gist. The need was greater than ever. “And, yes, there are other Hunters, though not many. As you are aware, the mortality rate is high. We have fewer Hunters now than we did when you were active.”
“Oh.” Although the information was hardly news, it was still sobering. “And the Hunters you do have,” I pressed, “I suppose they’re otherwise occupied?”
“Si.”
“Shit.” And then, “Sorry, Father.”
His low chuckle seemed to wash over me, and I wrapped myself in a sudden, unexpected memory. Me, laid up with the flu, propped up in my dorm-room bed with a box of tissue and a jar of Vicks VapoRub. And Father Corletti, sitting beside me, the flimsy cot buckling even under his negligible weight, as he told story after story of life within the Forza Scura. Serious business, he’d said. God’s work. But still, he was able to find a bit of humor. And by the time my cold had disappeared, I was more eager than ever to get back to my training.
Father Corletti had been the closest thing I’d had to a parent, and until Eric, the Forza was the only family I’d known. So if Father needed me to drop everything and go kill demons, I would. I might not like it, but I’d do it.
“You will not be completely alone,” Father said, and I fought a smile. He’d always had an uncanny ability to read my mind.
“Okay,” I said. “Who?”
“An alimentatore,” he said.
“You’ve got a spare alimentatore, but not a Hunter? Sounds like the Vatican human resources department isn’t exactly doing a stellar job of keeping the proper balance among employees.”
“Katherine ...”
“Sorry.”
“He will meet you at the cathedral tomorrow at noon.”
“Fine,” I said, knowing not to push. “Fine.” Then I thought about it a bit more. ‘Tomorrow? It’s the middle of the night here. You mean later today?” I knew he did. “How are you getting him here so fast?”
“He is already there.”
“Already—”
“You will learn what we know tomorrow. In the meantime, rest ... and conserve your resources. I fear that you shall need them.”
Once again I held the handset out and stared at it, only this time I wasn’t glaring. This time I was completely befuddled. “You knew about this? You already know what’s going on here? Dammit, Father. Don’t you dare make me wait until tomorrow!”
“Child, now is not the time.” He paused, and I held my breath, thinking foolishly that he might change his mind. “You have of course kept up with your training?”
He’d turned the statement into a question. And though his tone was casual, I could tell the query was completely serious.
“Sure,” I lied. “Of course I have.” Like hell, I have. The only physical training I got these days was chasing a two-year-old, and my most recent mental exercise consisted of debating Allie about just how slutty the gotta-have-it outfit of the moment really was.
Not exactly at the top of my game, I had to say.
“Good.”
That one word scared me more than anything else he could have said. “Father, I know you won’t tell me everything, so I’m not even going to try. But—”
“Goramesh,” he said, the demon’s name turning my blood to ice. “We believe he may have come to San Diablo.”
I stared at the phone once again, and this time realized my hand was shaking. Goramesh. The Decimator. One of the High Demons.
The old-man-demon’s voice echoed in my head—when my master’s army rises up ...
Forget scared; now I was terrified.
I crossed myself in the dark, then said good-bye to Father Corletti. I didn’t go back to Stuart, though. Instead I sat there on the guest bed, my knees under my chin and my arms wrapped around my legs. And then, as the first hint of sunlight fired the sky outside the window, I closed my eyes, bared my soul, and prayed.
“There you are.Jeez, Mom, Mindy just left, and Stuart and I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
Allie’s voice pulled me from a not-too-sound sleep that had been filled with dreams of demons, death, and Eric. He’d been my partner, my strength. But he couldn’t help me with this newest battle, and so I woke with tears in my eyes and the bitter fear that came with being completely alone.
“Mom?”
Worry filled her voice, and my emotions shifted, guilt now taking the strongest foothold. I held out a hand, and she came to me, her expression wary as she eased onto the bed. I pulled her to me and closed my eyes, breathing in the scent of Ivory soap and Aveda shampoo. I wasn’t alone, and damn me for wallowing in self-pity. I had Allie and Timmy and Stuart, and I loved them each desperately.
“Were you thinking about Daddy?”
Her words cut through me like a knife, and I heard myself gasp.
“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay to miss him.” She was repeating my own words back to me. My baby girl. Eric’s baby girl. She’d grown so much since he’d died. He’d missed so much. I reached and stroked her cheek, determined not to cry.
“You okay?” she asked, tiny lines of worry creasing her forehead.
I took her hand and squeezed. “I’m fine,” I said. “But when exactly did you grow up?”
The worry lines faded, replaced with a smile that was almost shy.
“Does that mean we can add an extra hour to my curfew?” She spoke lightly, with a little impish grin I recognized as my own. I reflected it right back at her, my mood already remarkably lighter. “I’ll take it under advisement,” I said.
“In mom-speak, that means no.”
“Not only did you grow up, you grew wise.”
“If I’m so smart, how come my curfew’s so early?”
I swung my feet over the side of the bed. “That’s one of the great mysteries of the universe,” I said. “I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Mo-om.” She rolled her eyes, and just like that, life went back to normal. Or at least as normal as possible under the circumstances. After all, I had a demon to hunt and a body to dispose of. I’d already accidentally overslept. Now I really had to get with the program.
The scene that greeted me in the kitchen was almost as scary as my encounter last night with Larson—Stuart standing in front of a griddle, spatula in hand, French toast sizzling in front of him. And the pantry door behind him standing wide open. Yikes!
I leaped across the room, managing to avoid a plastic Tonka truck and half a dozen LEGOs. My hand closed around the knob to the pantry, and I slammed the door shut, then leaned against it, breathing hard.
“Wait!” Stuart called, leading with the spatula as he took a step toward me.
My heart stopped beating.
“I need another loaf of bread from in there.”
Thump-thump, thump-thump. Okay. I was going to survive after all. “There’s a loaf in the bread box,” I said.
“Not anymore.”
I grimaced. How could he go through an entire loaf of bread and still not have enough French toast to feed two adults, a teenager, and a toddler? Even I could manage that.
“I’ll grab it for you,” I said brightly. “After all, I’m right here.”
He raised his eyebrows. “So I see. That’s why I asked you.”
“Right.” I smiled, hoping to forestall any chance of my husband thinking I was nuts.
“Momma Momma Momma.” Timmy’s little voice managed to fill the entire downstairs. “Where you at, Momma?” The patter of footie-pajama feet, and then my little man appeared in the kitchen, a sippy cup in one hand and Boo Bear in the other. “Go potty, Momma. Go potty.”
Shit. Not the most apropos of curses, I supposed, because Timmy had no interest in the whole potty-training experience. He just liked to sit on his little-bitty toilet fully clothed while he tossed things into the tub. Unfortunately, this activity required the presence of a mommy for full enjoyment potential.
“Go ahead,” Stuart said. “I’ll get the bread.”
“Allie, can you take him to the bathroom?”
“Oh, Mom, do I have to?” Allie had plunked herself down at the kitchen table and was now engrossed in the pages of some magazine.
“Yes,” I said, even as Timmy started up again, belting out a rousing chorus of “Mommamommamomma,” without any musical accompaniment whatsoever.
“Timmy, honey, go with Allie.”
“No.”
“Allie ...”
“He doesn’t want to go with me.”
“Kate, just take the boy. I can handle getting a loaf of bread.”
Not in this lifetime. I pointed a “don’t move” finger at Stuart, shot a “forget that extra hour at curfew” glance toward Allie, then slipped inside the pantry. I grabbed a loaf of bread and reemerged. I was in there just long enough to see that my demon was still covered and, thankfully, still dead. Always a plus.
I shoved the bread at Stuart, who looked a little bewildered. “Here. Cook.” Then I grabbed Timmy’s hand. “Come on, kiddo. Where are we going?’
“Bafroom! Potty!”
“Lead the way,” I said, letting him tug me along, clearly delighted to have Mommy’s undivided attention.
As soon as we reached the bathroom he shared with Allie, I collapsed onto the closed toilet seat while Timmy proceeded to position Boo Bear strategically on the little plastic potty we’d bought optimistically on his eighteen-month birthday. Now, seven months later, the kid had yet to christen the thing.
In the kitchen I could hear the sizzle of battered bread in my electric griddle then the scrape of a spatula against the Teflon surface. I exhaled, congratulating myself on keeping my husband in the dark.
At the same time, though, I wondered if it would really be that terrible if Stuart knew my secret. I intended to tell Allie the truth eventually, just not soon. After all, she had a right to know about her father, and she couldn’t really understand her dad without knowing about Forza Scura. Stuart, though …
He was my husband. I loved him. And I didn’t want to have secrets from him. But at the same time, I didn’t want him to know this. I eased my conscience by falling back on the rules—my identity as a Hunter was secret, the oath of silence absolute. But that was only a crutch. I didn’t want Stuart to see me as a Demon Hunter. As soon as he learned the truth, he would never see just Kate anymore. And I didn’t think I could stand that. I had a sneaking suspicion a marriage counselor would find a huge red flag in my logic, but that was a risk I’d have to take.
As Timmy gleefully tossed every clean washcloth we own into the still shower-damp tub, I rested my elbows on my thighs and put my head in my hands.
Father Corletti was right; I should have kept up my physical training. I was pooped. Physically and mentally. Not a good sign. Especially since I still had to find the energy—not to mention the time—to dispose of one dead demon and stop an evil demon from taking over San Diablo, not to mention the world.
I checked my wristwatch—just past nine. I had a feeling it was going to be a very long day.
To Stuart’s credit, he managed to pull off some pretty amazing French toast. Just enough cinnamon in the batter, a light dusting of powdered sugar (a culinary accoutrement I’m frankly amazed we had in the house, much less that he found it without discovering Mr. Demon). We four sat at the Fifties-style Formica table and wolfed down mass quantities of the breakfast confection, washing it down with tall glasses of ice-cold apple juice, a constant staple in our house due to its toddler-taming propensities.
Allie checked her watch. “If we leave right after breakfast, we’ll get there when the mall opens.”
I gaped as she flipped open the spiral notebook that had been sitting closed and innocent by her plate all through breakfast. I’d completely forgotten that she’d been planning a school wardrobe shopping extravaganza for today.
“I made a list,” she explained, tapping her pen against the page. “We can hit the Gap first, just to check any sales. Then the Limited and Banana Republic. I’ll snag whatever deals I can, then fill in the gaps with stuff from Old Navy. Then we can move on to the department stores to check for any awesome markdowns. I figure we’ll start with Nordstrom and work our way down to Robinsons-May.”
“Don’t forget about the carousel,” I added, thinking quickly. “Timmy loves it.”
Allie was looking at me as if I’d grown two heads. “We’re taking him? I thought he was staying home with Stuart?”
“Kate,” Stuart said, “you know I’ve got things to do around the house.” He’d been hidden behind the metro section of the San Diablo Herald, but now he snapped the paper down, his frown almost as deep as Allie’s. “That window, for instance. I won’t get any of it done with Timmy underfoot.”
Timmy perked up, apparently realizing he’d actually let most of a conversation pass without a significant contribution. Deciding to remedy that, he began to sing “If You’re Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands” at the top of his lungs.
“I’ll handle the window,” I said to Stuart, dutifully clapping my hands on cue. We did need to get it fixed, of course, but I have to confess that after passing the night without incident, my paranoia quotient had dropped dramatically. “I was thinking that you could take Allie and Timmy to the mall.”
He stared at me as if I’d gone mad, and Allie’s expression mirrored his. For two people without a single genetic bond between them, at the moment they were doing a good impression of twins.
Allie spoke up first “Mom, no way. Shopping with Stuart? He’s a guy.”
“Yes, he is,” I said. “And he has wonderful taste, don’t you, darling?”
“No,” he said. “I mean, yes. My taste is fine.” His eyes narrowed to tiny slits. “Are you mad at me? Did I do something to tick you off?”
I stifled the urge to bang my head against something hard and instead pushed back from the table.
“Momma Momma Momma. Where you going, Momma?”
“Just right over there, sweetie,” I said, pointing to the wall that separates our breakfast area from the living room. “Finish your toast.”
I tugged Stuart with me into the living room. I won’t say he came willingly, but he did come, and the second we were out of sight from the kids, he let me have it. “Are you insane?” he stage-whispered. “The mall. You want me to go to the mall. What did I do? Seriously, I’ll make it up to you. A trip to Paris. A day at the spa. You name it. Just not the mall.”
I confess to being somewhat moved by his plea. If Stuart didn’t make it in politics, I saw a bright future for him in acting. The man had melodrama down to a science. “Be serious,” I said. “I thought about this a lot, and I think it’s a wonderful idea.” All of which was true, just not for reasons that I could share. I grasped for a Stuart-worthy reason. “You and the kids need some bonding time. Especially Allie.”
“What’s wrong with Allie? We get along great” His brow wrinkled. “Don’t we?”
“Sure,” I said. “Now you do. But she’s fourteen. Do you remember fourteen?”
“Not very well.”
“Well, I’m a girl, and I do. Fourteen’s a hard age.” Not that my fourteen had been anything like Allie’s. I’d impaled my first demon at fourteen. That isn’t something a girl is likely to forget. “She needs father-daughter time.”
“But shopping?” He looked vaguely terrified by the prospect. “I couldn’t just take her out to dinner?”
I gave him a sideways glance. “Stuart ...”
“Fine. Fine. The mall it is. But you can’t expect me to take Timmy, too.”
Timmy was trickier, I have to admit. While I’d managed to concoct a psychologically sound argument for Stuart accompanying Allie to the mall, there really was no reason for a two-year-old to tag along for the ride.
I resorted to righteous indignation, the ultimate fallback for every stay-at-home mom. “Stuart Connor,” I said, propping one fist on my hip and fixing my very best glare on him. “Are you telling me that you’re incapable of spending time with the same two children I spend every single day with? That you can’t find the time or energy to take your own son out for the morning? That you—”
“Okay, okay. I get the drift I guess it’s Daddy’s day out.”
My stern face dissolved, and suddenly I was all smiles. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed him. “You’re the best.”
Stuart did not look ecstatic, but he wasn’t apoplectic. Score one for Kate. We wandered back into the kitchen to find that Allie had already put all the dishes in the dishwasher and was now going over Timmy’s face (and hair and hands and clothes) with a washcloth, trying to eradicate all signs of powdered sugar and syrup. Even on a bad day, Allie’s pretty good about helping with Timmy. Add in the promise of a new wardrobe, and the kid becomes positively saintlike.
Another ten minutes and they were settled in the van, Stuart armed with credit cards, Allie with her list and Timmy with Boo Bear. As they pulled out onto the street I headed back to the front porch. I leaned against one of the wooden posts and waved, hoping they couldn’t see the way my body sagged with relief. I love my family, really I do. But as I watched the van pull out of the driveway, I had to admit that a little alone time was awfully nice. Even if I was alone with a dead demon.