California Demon (11 page)

Suddenly, I was wide awake and racing down the hall, then down the stairs. I skidded to a stop in the kitchen, and smiled at my husband. “Hey. I thought you might need some help.”

“I can handle it,” he said. “I’m an extremely competent member of the male species.”

“Right,” I said. “Sure.” I eyed the cabinet, which was still closed. “But can you get the skillet out without completely destroying my organizational system?”

He stared at me. “Organizational system?” he repeated. “
You
have an organizational system?”

“Yes, me, thank you very much.” I tapped my foot and hoped I looked sufficiently indignant. I pointed toward the garage. “Now go get some bacon from the freezer, would you? Nobody wants pancakes without bacon.”

He did, but not until he’d shot me one more incredulous look. As soon as he was out of sight, I crouched down and tugged out the skillet. The book was still there, and I shifted a couple of frying pans to make sure it was well covered.

And, yes, I was probably being paranoid. After all, it’s not like the book actually said anything. But it would raise questions I’d rather not answer. Which meant I either acted like a spazz and retrieved the skillet for Stuart, or I shooed him out of the kitchen and did the cooking myself.

Since Stuart offered to cook with about the same frequency as Haley’s Comet, I wasn’t about to choose door number two.

While Stuart did the testosterone-in-an-apron routine, I got Timmy settled in the living room. We’d recently invested in TiVo—an invention worthy of the Nobel Prize, if you ask me—which meant that
The Wiggles
and
The Backyardigans
were always available.

While Stuart poured batter onto the grill, I sat at the table nursing a cup of coffee and starting to come alive. He shot me a smug grin. “So, am I still in the doghouse?”

“You’re almost out,” I said. “Especially if they taste as good as they smell.”

“I’m making banana pancakes for you,” he said, then started peeling a banana as if to emphasize the point.

“You are looking for redemption, aren’t you?”

“What can I say? I know when to pay penance.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “Okay. Take Timmy with you to the mall and then you’ll definitely be back in my good graces.”

From the look on his face, I could tell he preferred the doghouse.

“Stuart . . .”

“I know, sweetheart, but you know how busy I am right now. I need to go into the office for a few hours this afternoon, and if I take Tim, it’s going to add at least two hours to my day.” He flipped four pancakes with an ease that I never seemed to manage. The big showoff.

“Besides,” he added, “I won’t be spending as much quality time with Allie. And isn’t that the whole point?”

I tell you, the man’s not a lawyer for nothing.

“Will it screw up your morning that much if I leave Timmy at home with you?”

I frowned, because what could I say? Yes, it would, because I need to head over to the cathedral to see about a new demon infestation in San Diablo? Not too likely. So instead, I just said, “Sure. Of course you can leave him with me. No problem.”

“Great.” He checked the clock. “The mall opens at ten. Considering how long it takes her to get dressed, we better make sure she’s awake.”

“I’ll go roust her,” I said. “The promise of bacon should do the trick.” Allie had recently announced her intention to eat only fat-free foods and organic produce. I, however, had yet to see that plan implemented. And I seriously doubted she’d be starting this morning.

I’d just crossed the threshold into the living room when Stuart called me back. “I never did tell you why I was so late yesterday, did I?”

I shook my head, trying not to tense up. I’d forgiven him, yes. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t still angry. “No,” I said, “you never did.”

“Tabitha Danvers came in to see me,” he said in the same voice a little kid might use when he sees the pile of presents under the Christmas tree.

“Danvers,” I said, trying to place the name. “Of the museum Danvers?” The Danvers Museum was to San Diablo what the Getty Museum was to Los Angeles. An amazing collection financed by a family so wealthy they could afford to open a museum here, a convention center there.

“Exactly,” he said. “And, Kate, she’s thinking about contributing to my campaign!”

“That’s wonderful!” I meant it, too. If Tabitha Danvers had taken an interest in Stuart’s campaign, then his scrounging-for-money days could be over.

He kissed my head. “There are just a few little things,” he said, mumbling into my hair.

I tilted my head up and met his eyes. He held up a hand, warding off my protests in advance. “You don’t have to throw a party,” he said. “At least not for Tabitha’s sake.”

I nodded, mildly soothed. Given the choice between throwing a cocktail party and wading barefoot through a room filled with spiders, I think I’d take the spiders. And I
really
don’t like bugs. “But?” I asked, because I could hear the “but” hanging in the air between us.

“But I do need you to come to a party tomorrow. A museum benefit. Tabitha thinks I should mingle, meet other potential donors. That kind of thing.”

“On a Sunday?”

He shrugged. “Apparently, it’s been set up for a while now. They’re taking advantage of the museum being closed for a change of exhibits. At any rate, I just do what they tell me.” He squeezed my hand. “Come on, sweetheart. It should be fun.”

“Sure,” I said. “No problem.”

“You’ll have to mingle, too,” Stuart said, apparently wanting to make sure I understood what I was in for.

“I know, sweetie. I may not be the best at this political wife thing, but I do understand it.”

“You
are
the best,” he said, in a way that made me go a little weak in the knees. Then he kissed me. I moaned and leaned closer, my body reacting in all sorts of decadent ways.

“I’d better go wake up Allie,” I said, finally pulling away. “Unless you want to get a really late start.”

“And you Aren’t sure if he was removing the book or hiding it?” Father Ben asked. We were in his office—Father Ben, Timmy, and me—gathered around the battered oak desk that dominated the small room. The book dominated the desktop, dark red and ominous.

Timmy was on the floor, drawing pictures on old parish bulletins with a black Sharpie. I tried to pay attention, but I kept glancing down at Tim, afraid he’d end up coloring the carpet, and I’d feel obligated to have a genuine antique Oriental rug professionally cleaned.

“Kate?” Father Ben prodded.

“What? Oh.” I rewound the conversation in my head. “I’m pretty sure he was taking it out, but I can’t be positive.” I lunged forward. “Timmy,
no.
On the paper, big guy.” I sat back, and risked looking away from Tim just long enough to meet the padre’s eyes. “Either way, the book was important to him.”

“ ‘The wheels are in motion,’ ” Father said, repeating the demon’s words that I’d relayed to him.

“Any idea what he was talking about?” I asked.

Father Ben nodded slowly, then sank back into his chair, motioning for me to sit as well. I did, but reluctantly. I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be good.

“We can’t be certain, of course. Not without more research. But based upon the messages you left for Father Corletti and me, and your description of the book, we were able to do a bit of preliminary research.”

“And?”

“And we believe the book may be the
Malevolenaumachia Demonica.
”

“Oh,” I said, hoping I sounded duly impressed. “Wow. That’s . . . I mean,
wow.
” In truth, I was impressed. Not by the whatever he’d said, since I had no clue what he was talking about. But by the fact that anyone could take my vague description and then announce that the book was something both evil-sounding and hard to pronounce. That was worthy of some serious props, as my daughter would say.

“Do you know what the
MD
is?” Ben asked.

“A doctor?” I asked, stupidly.

“The
Malevolenaumachia Demonica,
” he said, slowly and patiently.

“Ah, um, well, sure. I mean, mostly.” I cleared my throat. “Actually, no. I don’t have a clue. What is it?”

“You are familiar with a Grimoire?”

“Sure,” I said. “It’s like a manual for black magic.”

“Well, if this book is the
Malevolenaumachia Demonica,
it’s a hundred times worse than any potential Grimoire.”

“Oh. Great.”

He got up and came around his desk, leaning up against it as he faced me. “Have you ever seen
Raiders of the Lost Ark
?”

“Um, sure. It’s one of my favorite movies. We even own the DVD.” I bit back the urge to ask him what that had to do with anything. Unless my
alimentatore
was losing it, he’d get to the point eventually.

“Remember the scene with the French guy? What he says about the Ark?”

“A transmitter for talking to God,” I said. I was getting a sick feeling in my stomach. “Are you saying—”

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I’m saying.”

“The book is for talking to God? Or the book is for—”

“Talking to imprisoned demons.”

“Oh. Well, isn’t that just nifty?” I took a deep breath and considered what he was saying. “How?”

“The demons’ words print upon the page.”

“But then we’re okay,” I said. “The book’s completely blank.”

“Except that once the communication is read, it fades.”

I shook my head, trying to get a handle on what he was saying. “So the demon says something, and it prints out across the page? Like, Hey there, Reader. Go stand in a pentagram?”

“That is the essence of it, yes.”

“And then when someone reads that message, the page goes blank again?”

“Correct.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t liking this. Understatement of the year, I know, but I really wasn’t liking this.

“And can the reader talk to the demons?” I asked. “Like if they write in the book, would the demon read it and then erase the page?”

Father Ben shook his head. “That I don’t know.”

I nodded slowly, taking it all in. “And the demons that are doing the talking. You said they’re imprisoned, right? I thought the demons were in Hell. Or all around us in the ether.” As far as I’ve always understood it, a demon’s power comes from Hell, and he’ll go there to rejuvenate or vacation or whatever demons do in their leisure time.

But hanging out in Hell doesn’t really have much demonic
oomph.
They want to be out here in the real world, fighting to become human. And, barring that, whispering to humans, their oily entreaties urging people to take the baser path even while our guardian angels try to lift us up.

Accounts by many of the saints report being able to see demons in the air all around. That’s one serious black mark against being a saint, at least in my mind.

“Many theologians believe that demons are free to leave Hell and walk the earth,” Father Ben said. “Certainly those of us affiliated with
Forza
know that to be true.”

“Did you know it? Last year, I mean. Before you learned about me. And about
Forza.
”

“I believed it,” he said. “I didn’t know it. I’d never seen evidence of a demon. I still haven’t seen the horrors that you have, Kate, and I certainly haven’t put myself on the front line the way you have. But still, I believed.”

He reached out and squeezed my hand. And even though we’re probably very nearly the same age, I felt warm and comforted. And at the same time, horribly sad. I’d never asked to see the things I’ve seen. My beliefs weren’t grounded in faith. Not really. Instead, they were grounded in reality. And I had to wonder if that made me somehow lesser in the eyes of God. Would I, I wondered, be so devout if I’d never actually seen the devil amongst us?

Father Ben started pacing his office, warming to his subject. “Some believe that certain demons have even entered Heaven and been granted an audience with God.”

“God has more patience than I do,” I said. “I would have kicked their sorry butts right out of the pearly gates.”

Ben smiled. “Yes, well, that is one of His traits. At any rate, Second Peter 2:4 tells of some angels who sinned so grievously that they were cast not just into Hell, but into a prison called Tartarus.”

“I’ve heard of it,” I said. “It’s like the worst of Hell?”

“Exactly. Some believe that those demons mated with human women and created half-breeds. Nephalim, they’re called. And for that horrific sin against nature, they were cast down. The ancient world considered Tartarus the worst pit of gloom and darkness. And those fallen angels are bound there in chains, without recourse or appeal to God.”

“Wow.”

“Exactly.”

“An eternity in chains in Hell,” I said thoughtfully. “Somehow that makes my filthy bathrooms not seem like that much of a burden.”

“Eternity was the plan,” Father Ben said. “But some demons have managed to escape over the millennia. Goramesh,” he added, meeting my eyes. “He is believed to have once been bound in Tartarus.”

“Oh.” I shivered. I’d done battle with the High Demon Goramesh. And I sincerely doubted he had a warm, fuzzy place in his heart for me. Someday, I’d see him again. That much I was sure of. I was also sure that when that day came, my odds of walking away from the battle weren’t good.

I straightened my shoulders and pushed thoughts of the High Demon out of my head. “What does all this have to do with the book?”

“Well, the lore is that although some demons have escaped, two are still imprisoned in Tartarus. The vilest. The most unrepentant.”

I sat there a moment, letting Father Ben’s words sink in. “Worse than a High Demon,” I said.

He nodded solemnly. “Like nothing we’ve ever seen before.”

“But they’re imprisoned, right? I mean, that’s the whole point. Gloomiest corner of Hell. Bound in chains. Right?”