Fifteen minutes later a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the kitchen counter, the pungent aroma of Starbucks Sumatra reminding me of the caffeinated reward that awaited me once my task was complete. At the moment I was hunched over, my fingers tight around the old man’s arms as I dragged him from the kitchen toward the French doors at the back of the house.
My meeting with my alimentatore was at noon, and I couldn’t wait. Ever since Stuart and the kids had left, I’d been fighting the creepy sensation that I was being watched. I’d checked the window first and found no demons (or mortal-variety Peeping Toms) lurking about. The plastic had come loose in a couple of places, but I attributed that more to the cheap off-brand duct tape I’d bought than to the forces of evil.
I’d shoved my uneasiness aside and got on with the job at hand. The truth is, I would have preferred to simply keep the demon in the pantry, then bring my mentor back with me to provide sound and useful advice about how to get rid of the remains. But since I couldn’t be certain that Timmy’s good mood or Stuart’s shopping stamina would last that long, I had to get the demon out of the house and tucked away in our storage shed. In my old life, once I’d done away with a demon, one simple phone call to Forza would dispatch a collection team to take care of the demon carcass, leaving me blissfully unaware of that portion of the job. How lucky I was to now get this peek at demon-disposal methods. (That, in case you missed it, is called sarcasm.)
Though small and wizened, the old man still managed to be quite a burden. He was, after all, dead weight, and I was huffing by the time I reached the French doors. The curtains were drawn, and I pushed one panel aside, peering out into our backyard as if I were a fugitive. I’m not sure what I expected to see. An army of demons? The cops? My husband pointing a finger and accusing me of keeping secrets?
I saw none of the above and breathed a sigh of relief. My paranoia quotient had increased, however, to the point that the sound of the dishwasher changing cycles made me jump.
I left the body in front of the doors, then trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time as I mentally sorted through the contents of my linen closet. I needed something big enough to wrap the man in, but it also had to be something I didn’t mind tossing out. I didn’t care how good the local dry cleaner was; there was no way I’d ever sleep on a demon shroud, freshly pressed or not.
I grabbed a fitted sheet (100 thread count, so no great loss) and raced back downstairs. Perfect. The elasticized corners even helped keep the floral print shroud attached to the body as I rolled it over and over until it was well cocooned. I doubted my efforts would fool anyone who might be peering over my fence (a body wrapped in a sheet pretty much resembles only a body wrapped in a sheet), but the process made me feel better. And despite my rampant paranoia, I didn’t really believe anyone would peek into my backyard in the time it would take me to get the body stowed in the shed.
As it turned out, it took longer than I’d expected.
Getting the body from the house to the shed was remarkably easy (I remembered Timmy’s Radio Flyer wagon and put it to good use), but getting it into the shed was not. The little building was literally crammed to the gills, and I couldn’t have stuffed a toaster in there, much less a body.
It was still early, so I wasn’t in full-tilt panic mode. Yet.
I had a hefty adrenaline buzz going as I pulled out boxes and furniture and assorted bits of life junk, then stacked it all outside the shed for the single purpose of reorganizing it in a manner more conducive to the hiding of corpses. As soon as I’d made a big enough dent, I climbed inside, then bent down and grabbed the mummy. I slid him inside, discovering that he fit nicely under Allie’s old twin bed. Then I hopped down and started to replace everything I’d just removed. Nietzsche would have made some pithy comment about exercises in futility, but not me. I just wanted the job done. And it was precisely because I was so in the zone that I didn’t hear anyone coming up from behind me until it was too late.
A hand closed over my shoulder, and I yelled. Without thinking, I fell into a crouch and pivoted, ignoring my aching muscles as I whipped my leg straight out to catch my assailant just below the knee before pulling myself back up to attack position. It was a beautiful, brilliant move, and one that I managed without even pulling my hamstring. (Who knew I still had it in me?) The move would, in fact, have been perfect ... had I managed to fell a demon. Instead, I found myself looming over Laura, hands fisted at my sides, blood pounding through my veins, and my chest about to explode with the suppressed urge to hit someone.
Fortunately, I did manage to suppress the urge.
Pummeling my best friend would require a lie far beyond my powers of fabrication, particularly in my current state of mind. I bent over and drew in deep breaths, my hands propped just above my knees. Laura was on the ground in front of me, the heels of her hands pressed into the pea gravel that makes up the western half of our yard, surrounding the shed and Timmy’s playscape. From the diameter of her eyes, I could tell I’d surprised her as much as she’d surprised me. For a moment, neither of us could speak. I recovered first.
“Jesus, Laura. Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She blinked, winced. “I’ll remember,” she said, then reached down to rub her calf. “Where’d you learn to do that?’
“Neighborhood watch,” I said. “The cop showed us all some techniques last month.” A ridiculous answer, but she didn’t seem to notice; she was too intent on flexing her leg and wiggling her ankle.
“So what were you doing, anyway? Hiding the family gold?”
I ignored the question, instead leaning over to put my hand on her calf. “How bad is it?”
She grimaced. “I’ll live,” she said. I helped her up and she gingerly put her weight on the leg. “But what were you doing? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so intense.”
“Oh. Right.” I scrambled for a reply, finally settling on the only thing I could think of that would keep her from asking too many follow-up questions. “I had another dream about Eric last night. And since Stuart and the kids are at the mall ...” I trailed off, assuming (rightly) that she’d pick up the thread.
“Going through old things?”
I shrugged. “Sometimes I just miss him.”
Her forehead creased, and I saw real concern in her eyes. The truth was I did dream of Eric, more frequently than I liked to admit. And Laura had been my confidante on more than one occasion. Today, though, I couldn’t share my real burden, as much as I might like to. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” I looked at the ground, afraid of what she might see in my eyes. “I’ll be okay. I need to pull myself together anyway. I have an appointment at noon.”
She glanced at her watch, then at the boxes that still littered my yard, then at me, still in sweats and a T-shirt with no makeup and unwashed hair. “I’ll help you put the shed back together.”
I wanted to turn down the offer, but it was already getting late. Besides, I knew it was Laura’s way of helping me out about Eric even though I didn’t want to talk. And since the odds of her thinking that the bundle under the old twin bed was anything other than a rolled-up rug (or, for that matter, thinking about it at all) were slim, I graciously accepted.
“What have you got going on at noon?” she asked as she passed me a box.
“Nothing important,” I said, trying for casual and pretty sure I came off like a bank robber swearing he had no idea where the money was hidden. “An old friend’s in town. I’m going to meet him. Catch up. Trade family pictures. That kind of thing.”
“Oh, that sounds like fun. How do you know the guy?”
“Eric and I knew him,” I said, jumping on the first answer that popped into my head.
She sighed. “Oh, sweetie. You’re getting inundated on all fronts, aren’t you?”
“Pretty much.” I couldn’t quite meet her eyes as I took another box from her.
“Can I help?”
“Wish you could,” I said. “It’s just my past. Sometimes your old life sneaks up on you, and even though you weren’t expecting it, you still have to deal with it.”
She nodded and we finished the job in silence. I shut and locked the shed doors, then dusted myself off before looking pointedly at my watch. “Thanks for helping,” I said. “But I should probably hop in the shower.”
“Sure. I ought to get going, anyway. I promised Mindy I’d take her to the mall for new clothes today. I’ve spent the summer avoiding the thought.”
I laughed. “I enlisted Stuart.”
“You married a keeper,” she said with a small frown. She patted her pockets and pulled out her key ring. She fidgeted, twirling the keys on her finger. “You know, I’m going to be a wreck after an entire day at the mall. Want to have a glass of wine later and wind down?”
I recognized the proposal for what it was—an offer to be an ear after my emotionally charged afternoon with my dear old friend.
She might be wrong about the cause, but she wasn’t wrong about the end result—by the time today was over, I was certain I’d be in desperate need of a drink. Or two.
“Sounds like a plan. Besides, I’m sure the girls will want to compare wardrobes and coordinate for the first day of school.”
“True enough. We’ll need a bit of a buzz to survive the teenage walk of fashion.” Her gaze drifted to the right, and I could picture her mentally inventorying her wine cabinet. “I’ve got a nice Moscato. I’ll chill it and bring it over, along with my daughter and half of Nordstrom.” (As the CEO of a very successful chain of fast-food restaurants, Paul makes significantly more money than Stuart. His daughter would not be shopping the sales.)
Her gaze drifted toward my back door. “Do you have time for me to snag a cup of coffee? I’m out of everything except decaf, and I’ve been dragging all morning.”
“You came to the right place.” Remembering the freshly brewed coffee perked me up.
We went inside and I grabbed one of Stuart’s commuter mugs for Laura. She took it, then headed to my refrigerator for cream. As soon as she opened the door, I heard it—a light scratching at the plastic that was covering the broken window. My heart started beating double-time as adrenaline surged through me, readying my body for action. What was it? A demon intending to complete the job Pops left unfinished? Or maybe a hellhound, sniffing around outside before it lunged and ripped my throat out?
“Mind if I use your Hazelnut Coffeemate?” Laura asked, her head in the fridge.
I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching the plastic. Not now ... not yet. I didn’t want Laura around when the thing attacked. I didn’t want her involved. I didn’t want—
YEEER-OOOO!
“Oh, shit!” Laura screamed.
Something small and lithe leaped through the window, half-sheathed in a loose section of plastic garbage bag, screeching in an unearthly way that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. I lunged forward to catch the beast and my fingers grabbed something soft, and—
“Yer-owwwwwl.”
I stopped short, my mind finally catching up with what my hands already knew. No demon. No hellhound. Nothing bad at all—just Kabit, our overweight, overly grumpy, supremely opinionated tomcat.
Kabit glared at me for a long moment, his fur sticking straight up, his tail three times its normal size. Then he marched to his food bowl and started eating, the picture of quiet dignity. I wanted to laugh, but couldn’t quite manage.
“Sorry,” Laura said, bending down to pick up the Coffeemate container she’d dropped. “He scared me to death.”
I looked down at the mess, and suddenly the laughter bubbled up. “Yeah,” I said, breathing through my chuckles, “I guess so.”
Laura’s sheepish expression faded as she joined in my laughter. Together, we sank down to the floor, our backs against the cabinets as we shook with mirth. The situation wasn’t really funny, though, and I knew that my laughter stemmed more from raw nerves than from humor. Today, Laura had only been startled by my cat. Considering the turn my life had suddenly taken, I couldn’t help but wonder if, before this whole mess was over, Laura would see something truly scary.
If she did, would I be there to protect her?
Saint Mary's Cathedral was built centuries ago as part of the California mission trail. The original cathedral building still stands, though Mass is only held there on High Holy Days, a concession to the ongoing renovations to the beautiful building. In the meantime, the Bishop’s Hall serves as a temporary place of worship.
From a purely personal perspective, I’ll be happy when the renovations are complete. The inside of the cathedral is awe-inspiring, whereas the inside of the newer Bishop’s Hall lacks some of that holy oomph. And, yes, I go to Mass regularly (well, more or less). I’ve witnessed exorcisms, staked vampires, and put down demons with nothing more than a plastic swizzle stick from Trader Vic’s—so, yeah, I’m a believer. I even got roped into doing some committee work a few months ago. Of course, the project—which was supposed to have been finished during the summer—is still dragging on. What’s that saying about no good deed going unpunished?
The cathedral is perched on San Diablo’s highest point, the church grounds looking out over the Pacific and the Channel Islands. Like any church, the worship hall is holy ground. But St. Mary’s Cathedral has an added little zing. Everything beyond the communion rail—the sanctuary, the altar, even the basement below and the ceiling above—was built with a mortar that was heavily infused with the bones of saints. It’s pretty common to work a saint’s bone into an altar (well, it’s not as common now as it used to be), but that much saintliness was unique even centuries ago.
Eric and I had believed that such a powerful sanctuary explained San Diablo’s low demon quotient. Sure, demons could still wander free in the town—or on the nonconsecrated church grounds, for that matter—but we’d opined that the cathedral gave off a strong antidemon vibe. Apparently that bit of conjecture was hogwash.
Anyway, I had no idea of the identity of my new alimentatore; according to tradition, a Hunter knows nothing about his or her mentor until the two actually meet. I find that particular tradition to be not only archaic, but also downright idiotic. Unfortunately, I’m not on the Rules Committee for Forza Scura, and no one asked my opinion.
Even though I couldn’t know whom I was supposed to meet, I dearly wished that I had asked Father Corletti for more details on the exact location. For all I knew, my mentor might be sitting in Father Ben’s rectory office twiddling his thumbs and wondering where I was.
The thought sparked another—my mentor might actually be Father Ben.
I rather liked that idea. Although Father Ben is only a few years out of seminary, he seems on the ball and his homilies are never yawners. Still, the likelihood that I was supposed to meet up with Father Ben was slim. Father Corletti might have been vague, but he’d definitely said that Forza had “sent” an alimentatore. Since Father Ben had taken the position of rector years ago, unless Forza had been aware of Goramesh’s interest in the cathedral for far longer than Father Corletti let on, Ben wasn’t my man.
I decided that the actual cathedral building was my best bet and maneuvered the Infiniti into one of the nearby parking spaces. I confess to taking a devious pleasure in saddling Stuart with the more kid-friendly van, and part of me wanted to just sit in the lot, engine running, as I basked in that clean car smell that involved no hint of sour milk or spilled grape juice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wallow. I shifted into park, killed the engine, and abandoned the air-conditioned comfort for the equally agreeable Southern California weather.
I followed the stone path to the cathedral, letting my hand reach out to graze the birds-of-paradise that lined the walkway like sentries. The double doors—heavy wood with tarnished brass hardware—were closed but unlocked, and I tugged one door open and plowed on in, crossing first through the small foyer, then slowing as I moved over the threshold into the worship area. The stone receptacles that usually held the holy water at the entrance had been packed away as part of the renovation, replaced with simple wooden stands topped with gold-plated bowls. The floor was still damp, probably from the earlier rain, and I walked carefully so I wouldn’t slip. I dabbed my finger in the basin of holy water, made the sign of the cross, then genuflected toward the tabernacle.
The pews were empty, and I considered heading over to the hall to see if my rendezvous was there. But I’d actually arrived a few minutes early, so it seemed silly not to wait.
I’d brought an empty glass vial, and I filled it with holy water, replenishing my stock. That errand completed, I just stood there, idly flipping through a missal, and checking my watch about every twenty-four seconds. At eleven-fifty-seven I heard the creak of a door, followed by footsteps. Because the room’s acoustics were designed more for singing hymns than pinpointing sound, I had no idea which direction to look. I turned a full circle and was walking toward the communion rail when the mystery was solved—Father Ben passed through a velvet curtain to appear on the sanctuary in front of me.
He carried a clipboard and a pen and didn’t seem to realize I was there.
I cleared my throat, and he looked up, startled. His face cleared almost immediately, though, and he smiled broadly. “Kate Connor. What brings you here today?”
Okay. So he definitely wasn’t my alimentatore. I let loose my preplanned excuse. “I’m picking up some more inventories to type. But the message on my cell phone was garbled, so I’m not sure who called.”
Since our project involved reviewing and indexing the extensive donations received by the cathedral’s sizable archives, I assumed there was a list somewhere waiting to be typed. Thus, I was not actually lying to a priest.
Father Ben rubbed his chin. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Delores would know, but she’s not here today,” he added, referring to the committee chair.
“Oh. That’s too bad.” I frowned and tried to look suitably flummoxed. “I was hoping to get started on the pages tonight.” I turned a bit, looking around as if I expected someone to materialize in a pew. “You haven’t seen anyone else around, have you?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll go check the Bishop’s Hall. If someone is looking for me, would you let them know I’m there?”
“Of course.”
I made polite good-bye noises and headed out the door. I popped into the Bishop’s Hall, looked around, and found no one except the janitor, who was mopping the floor. I backed out quickly, careful not to muck up his work.
The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the thought of meeting my new mentor was being fast replaced by annoyance. I had at least three loads of laundry piled up at home. Not to mention a body that was going to get pretty ripe if it stayed in my shed much longer. I decided to head back to the cathedral in case we’d been passing each other in a not-so-funny comedy-of-errors kind of way. I’d just stepped onto the walkway when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, but didn’t see anyone. I called out but no one answered.
I reached the church doors at the same time Father Ben did. His face lit up instantly, and this time I could tell that I was exactly who he wanted to see.
“Oh, Kate, I was just going to look for you. I bumped into a gentleman looking for you in the parking lot”
“You did?” My gaze automatically shifted toward the lot. I saw five cars, but no people. “Who?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know his name,” Father said. “He said he’d just looked for you in the hall, but that the floors were wet.”
“They are. I was just there.”
“He asked me to direct you to the courtyard if I saw you.”
“Great. Thanks.”
We parted ways, him entering the church, and me heading around the building toward the courtyard, a small sitting area bordered by the cathedral, the rectory offices, and the Bishop’s Hall. Primarily used by church staff as a place to sit and eat lunch, the courtyard boasts nothing much more than a few concrete benches and some potted plants. A decorative iron fence marks the entrance. The gate was open, and I walked through. I saw no one. The concrete benches had been bleached to near white from day after day of California sunlight and I thought absurdly of bones in a field picked clean by vultures and left to bake. I shivered, as if someone had walked over my grave, and I turned my gaze to the statue of the Virgin Mary, looking for comfort. “Give me strength,” I whispered, closing my eyes only briefly as I crossed myself.
This cloak-and-dagger routine was irritating. I had a cell phone, a fax, a Palm Pilot and high-speed Internet access. Was it really necessary to skulk around the cathedral grounds when one simple e-mail message could have set out an exact time and meeting place? Another glance at my watch revealed that it was now ten past noon. Father Ben had just seen the man, so where the Devil was he?
“Hello?” I called, feeling stupid since there was obviously no one there. Then I muttered the kind of curse you really shouldn’t say in a churchyard, and headed back in the direction I’d come. My blood was boiling as I turned, my entire body tight with pent-up frustration. I wanted to hit something, to lash out and let my frustration find some tangible release. The reaction surprised me. For a decade and a half, I’d worked so hard to stifle those urges, and to live by a different set of rules. I’d succeeded, too. Suburban life made it easy to bury my past. I repeatedly tell Timmy not to hit, bite, kick, or scream; hitting isn’t nice, hitting doesn’t solve anything.
Except sometimes hitting does solve things.
Sometimes, hitting saves your life.
I may have buried my years of training, but I never truly lost them. And now I felt my old instincts clamoring to the surface, my blood burning and my strength returning. And, even more, I felt the desire. To fight. To win. To live.
A twig snapped behind me, the sharp crack reverberating through the courtyard. I spun around, fists raised, muscles tight. I truly expected nothing more than my tardy alimentatore, but I’d crossed some line; I couldn’t simply turn and say “Hi, there.”
And thank God for that.
He was right there. Larson. Looming not two feet behind me.
“Son of a bitch,” I howled as I launched myself at him. I wasn’t consciously thinking, but satisfaction still tickled in my head. I’d been right all along! He was a demon, he’d found out about this meeting, and somehow he’d delayed (or killed) my alimentatore.
On top of all that, I simply didn’t like the man. His comments about Allie had pissed me off, and it was with an absurd breed of joy that I tackled him.
His eyes went wide as he saw me coming, and he held out his hands at the last minute as if to stave off my assault, but the reaction came too late. I hit him with the full force of my body, and down we went. Not the most artful of moves, I’ll admit, but my primary concern had been to get him before he got me.
He recovered quickly from his initial surprise and twisted violently to the left, managing to toss me off in the process. He was much stronger than I’d expect for a sixty-something man of the judiciary, and that only confirmed my belief that he wasn’t a man at all.
His parry had sent me crashing to the cold stone ground, the motion sending my purse flying. My stuff spewed out like the payload from a suburban bomb. I clambered to my knees, clawing at the debris, my hand closing around the first solid thing I found—a Happy Meal action figure, complete with a molded plastic sword. Not great I admit, but I could make do.
I climbed to my feet, and saw that Larson was doing the same, pushing himself up to a standing position. He wasn’t there yet, though, and I took advantage, landing a solid kick somewhere in the general vicinity of his kidneys.
The bastard didn’t stand a chance. He went down, and I lunged, landing on top of him and wrestling him into a chokehold. I’d won, and we both knew it. There was fear and defeat in his eyes, and the thrill of victory pounded in my ears. I moved in for the kill, bringing the Happy Meal action figure closer to his left eye.
“For the love of God, Kate, stop! I’m your alimentatore!”