California Demon (10 page)

She tucked the clipboard under her arm and started to step away. Then she stopped. “Don’t think you’re off the hook. As far as I’m concerned, you’ve been completely useless.”

“I already told you I’m sorry,” I said, my patience wearing thin.

“Sorry doesn’t do a damn thing. You owe me, Kate. And one day, I’m going to call in that marker.”

“SO Are you going to give me the full scoop?” Laura leaned against my kitchen counter, a mug of freshly brewed Star-bucks Sumatra in her hand. “I looked at that book, and there’s nothing in it. So what’s going on?”

I held up my hand for quiet, then peeked out of the kitchen and into the living room. Eddie’d fallen asleep in the recliner, and the kids were spread out, the girls upstairs in Allie’s room, and Timmy sitting too close to the television, his eyes glued to images of cheerleader Kim Possible jumping and flipping as she battled the evil Shego and her green-fire shooting hands.

For a half second, I considered telling Timmy to move away from the television. Or, worse, switching it over to something educational. I ignored that foolish urge. I needed to talk to Laura, and I was too tired for a full-fledged battle with an irate toddler. If the Disney Channel could buy me a few moments of peace, then I was happy to bow to the all-powerful Mouse.

“Well?” Laura asked, as soon as I went back to chopping onions.

I gave her a quick rundown, starting with what I’d learned at Coastal Mists and ending with Sinclair’s rude encounter with a vertical beam.

“Ouch,” she said, making a face.

“No sympathy for the demons, please.”

“Sorry. So where’s the book now?”

I eyed a nearby cabinet meaningfully. As soon as we’d returned home, Allie and Mindy had escaped to the upstairs. While Laura got Timmy settled, I’d returned to the garage and retrieved the book from the van, then hidden it where I knew neither Allie nor Stuart would run across it. In the kitchen. Among the pots and pans. I keep spare cash back there, too. So far, no one in my family has noticed.

“Good plan,” Laura said. “Unless Stuart decides to whip up a casserole.”

We both had a good chuckle at that, and then Laura turned serious. “So why do you think Sinclair needed that book?”

“I don’t know.” I added the onions to some ground beef and tomato sauce I already had in a bowl. Meat loaf is one of the few dishes I can make without strictly following a recipe card and still have it come out edible. Not great, mind you. But edible. “Honestly, I’m not even sure he was getting it out.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that I don’t really know what he was doing. Maybe he was putting the book
in,
not taking it out.”

Laura cocked her head, studying me. “Yeah, but you would have noticed if he had the book on the bus, right? I mean, it’s not exactly a paperback.”

“Maybe,” I said slowly, trying to articulate the thoughts even as they filled my head. “But what if someone was working with Sinclair. What if someone passed him the book?” An image of David Long popped into my head. I tried to blink it away, but couldn’t quite manage. I liked the guy— I really did. And I didn’t want to believe that he was involved with demons. Or, worse, that he
was
a demon.

I knew better than to trust him simply because I liked him, though. I’d been burned by that before. I didn’t intend to be burned again.

“Taking it or hiding it, we still don’t know why,” Laura said. “I mean, it’s just a blank book.”

“It’s got to be a lot more than that,” I said. “I doubt Sinclair just wanted to journal about his deepest, darkest feelings.”

“True,” Laura said. “But what?”

“I’m still working on that one.”

“Have you called Father Ben?”

“I left him a message.” Once the book was safely tucked away, I’d gone upstairs to change into sweatpants and a T-shirt. I’d taken the opportunity to call my new
alimentatore
from the privacy of my bedroom.

Technically, Father Ben was a probationary
alimentatore.
He’d learned about
Forza
for the first time a few months ago when Father Corletti had flown over from Rome to take charge of a powerful relic that the High Demon Goramesh had been after. Since I’d been in need of a new
alimentatore,
and since there were no fully trained mentors in
Forza
who could step into the job, Father Corletti had taken Father Ben into his confidence and invited him to train as my
alimentatore.

Even though a fully trained
alimentatore
has years of experience, a wide knowledge base of all things demonic, and training in weapons and martial arts, I’d been perfectly okay with Father Corletti’s suggestion. Father Ben might be inexperienced, but he was smart and eager, and I figured that had to count for something.

I’d left him a cryptic message about the book and the events with Sinclair, then promised to try him in the morning if I didn’t hear from him first.

“What about the Italian guy?” Laura asked. “Did you call him?”

“Father Corletti?” I shook my head. “I tried. Couldn’t reach him, either. He’s doing missionary work in Africa or something. I left a message, but who knows when I’ll hear back.” Father Corletti headed up the
Forza Scura.
More than that, he’d been like a parent to me. I hoped he would call back soon. I wanted the reassurance of hearing his voice.

I finished shaping the meat, shoved the pan into the oven, and rinsed off my hands. “You and Mindy staying for dinner?” These days, Mindy and Laura ate with us about twice a week. We hadn’t formally discussed it, but somehow it just seemed easier. Her house was too empty with Paul in L.A. so much. And mine was too empty with Stuart working late so many nights. Plus, the girls did their homework together. It just made sense.

The question was barely out of my mouth when I heard the familiar creak of our garage door. She caught my eye. “Thanks for the invitation, but I think we’ll go order a pizza and have a girl’s night.”

“Good idea,” I said. My heart was pounding in my chest, and while Laura left to gather up Mindy, I splashed cold water on my face, trying to will myself to be calm. And, more important, trying to rein in my temper.

I stood, rooted to the spot, as time seemed to slow. Since Stuart had yet to fix our ancient garage-door opener, it took almost two full minutes to groan its way to the top, and those minutes seemed to drag on forever.

Finally, I heard the car door slam. The noise kicked me into gear, and I started shredding lettuce into a large, wooden bowl.

The doorknob rattled and then there he was. I heard him rather than saw him. I couldn’t look at him, afraid that if I did, I’d just yell. And did I really want a knock-down, drag-out before dinner? Ugly, brutal battles were better saved for after the kids were in bed.

“You’re pissed,” he said.

“Gee,” I said to the lettuce. “What was your first clue?”

“That lettuce looks like confetti.”

I checked the bowl, grimacing. He was right. I’d ripped the leaves into such tiny pieces they were good for nothing more than feeding Gidget, the hamster at Timmy’s day care.

I shoved the bowl away and turned to face the inevitable. He was still in the doorway, a dozen roses in his hand.

“You are about a million miles past crazy if you think those roses are going make it up to me.”

“Not for you, sweetheart,” he said, coming up and kissing me on the forehead. “They’re for Allie.”

“Oh.” Well, damn. My righteous indignation vanished in a puff. I’d get it back, I was certain, but right then, I felt a quick tug of affection for the man who’d at least come prepared to offer a much-needed apology.

I gestured toward the upstairs. “Go supplicate yourself.”

I held back, following him only after I heard Allie’s squeal of delight. By dinnertime, all was forgiven. On the surface, anyway. From my perspective, this wasn’t over. And if I know my daughter—and I’m pretty sure I do, Troy Myerson notwithstanding—the dozen roses only soothed the hurt; they didn’t heal it.

Stuart wasn’t off the hook. Not yet.

He knew it, too. He didn’t say one more word about being late, but he did play Hi Ho! Cherry-O with Timmy (which consisted of Timmy tossing the tiny cherries around the living room and Stuart crawling on his hands and knees to retrieve them), then gave the munchkin his bath without me having to ask. And then—as if the bath thing wasn’t miracle enough—he put Timmy in his pajamas, fixed a sippy cup of warm milk, and read three of this month’s favorite books—
Good Night, Gorilla
,
Knuffle Bunny
, and the ever-popular
How Do Dinosaurs Say Good Night?

He even brought the kiddo to me for a good-night kiss, then carried Timmy and Boo Bear upstairs to his room. Honestly, with this much help being offered, I almost wished that Stuart screwed up royally on a more regular basis.

As he finished up the domestic chores, I sat on the couch, pretending to flip through the latest issue of
Real Simple,
but really thinking about the mysterious book. I tried to shoot Eddie a meaningful glance—so we could sneak out to the back porch for a surreptitious conversation—but he’d dozed off again, leaving me all alone to fret.

Stuart came back into the living room holding two wine-glasses. “I’m sorry,” he said, handing me a glass and then sliding onto the couch beside me.

“Are you going to tell me where you’ve been, or am I supposed to guess?”

“Three guesses,” he said. “But I bet you only need one.”

“I don’t even need that,” I said, sinking back into the couch pillows. I took a long sip of Chenin Blanc and closed my eyes. “Was it worth it?”

“Missing out on seeing Allie? No. But there was some definite ka-ching involved.”

“Good answer,” I said, my eyes still closed.

“I really am sorry.”

“I know you are,” I said. I opened my eyes. “But sorry’s not going to get today back.”

“I know.” His gaze drifted toward the stairs. “Think she’s up for a few rounds of Monkeyball?” he asked, gesturing toward our GameCube.

I made a face. “It’s late.”

“It’s Friday.”

I pretended to consider. “One game,” I said, because I knew Allie would love it. “And then tomorrow,
you
take her to the mall.”

A horrified expression crossed his face. “Not clothes shopping? She’s already got enough in her closet to clothe a small nation.”

“Not clothes,” I agreed, even though that really would be a suitable punishment. “I need you to pick up some Christmas presents,” I said. “I have a list.” That much was true, even if I did neglect to mention that I wanted him and Allie gone so that I could go visit Father Ben at the cathedral without anyone asking questions about what I was up to.

“Presents. Check.”

“And she wants to buy an iPod.”

“An iPod?” he repeated, his expression mildly disapproving. “She’ll be hooked up to headphones twenty-four hours a day.”

I raised an eyebrow. “If you’ve got a problem with the iPod, you should have raised it at the assembly.”

“Right,” he said. “Mall. iPod. No problem.”

I grinned. “I love you. You’re not off the hook yet, but I love you.”

“I love you, too, babe. Don’t ever forget that.”

He pulled me close, and I heard the rustle of denim against upholstery across the room, accompanied by a low snort.

“Ain’t that just heartwarmin’?” Eddie mumbled from the recliner, his eyes never even opening.

Stuart and I exchanged an amused glance. And then, because I couldn’t help myself, and because I really did love him, I leaned over and kissed my husband. Hard.

He stood up and held out his hand. I hesitated only a second, and then took it, letting him tug me to my feet and lead me up the stairs.

Six

“Momma momma momma? You awake, Momma?”

I rolled over and pulled the pillow over my head.

Another poke on my side. “Mommy? Wake up, Mommy?”

“Mmphlf,” I mumbled, trying to make sense of the world.

“MOMMY!”

I yelped and sat bolt upright, then looked down to see my little boy’s innocent face grinning up at me. We’d moved him from a crib to a toddler bed five weeks ago, and Timmy was delighting in his newfound freedom.

“You awake, Mommy?”

“Am now, kiddo.”

I reached over to poke Stuart—I wasn’t going to be the only one suffering at seven A.M. on a Saturday—only to discover that he wasn’t there. I scowled at his side of the bed, trying to process that information.

“Mommy! Come on, Mommy!”

“Timmy!” Stuart’s voice echoed up the stairs. “Let your mother sleep.”

“It’s okay,” I shouted back. “I’m already up.”

A pause, then, “In that case, where do you keep that electric skillet? The one you use to make pancakes?”

“In the cabinet to the right of the dishwasher, all the way in the back,” I called back. I yawned, vaguely thinking that an intercom system would be a good thing. “Why?”

“Can’t a man make pancakes for his family?” Stuart asked, poking his head in through the door.

“I don’t know? Can he?”

“I guess we’ll find out.” He gestured for Timmy. “Come on, sport. Come give your old man a hand.”

As Timmy scampered merrily after his dad, I ran my fingers through my hair and scrubbed my face with my hands, trying to wake up. Something was off, and it was more than just the oddity of Stuart cooking.

I started to slide out of bed, thinking about the level of destruction that was about to descend on my kitchen. Pancake batter on the ceiling. Spilled milk. Sticky egg residue all over the countertops. And every single pot and pan dragged out of the cabinets as he looked for the skillet and a mixing bowl.

A mess. An explosion. A complete and total—

The book! I’d shoved the book right behind the electric skillet!