California Demon (12 page)

“Right. Except . . .”

“Except some
have
escaped,” I finished. “And you think these two want out, too.”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Mmmm.” He had a point. “And the book? The transmitter?”

“The title,” he said. “
Malevolenaumachia Demonica.
Do you know what that means?”

“I’m a little rusty on the Latin, Padre.”

“Demon’s Malicious Struggle.”
He lifted a shoulder, his head tilting slightly to the side. “Well, that’s a loose translation.”

“Loose or not, it doesn’t sound good.”

“The point is, that lore suggests that the book is a transmitter. Not for talking to God, but for talking to the demons imprisoned in Tartarus.”

“Dear God,” I said, then crossed myself. “So how does it work?”

“That, I don’t know.”

I stood up and starting pacing the small office. “None of this makes sense. If it’s a transmitter, what are they saying? And who are they saying it to? Sinclair? Other demons?”

He shook his head. “That, I can’t tell you.”

“And why? What are they trying to do? What’s the plan?”

“All good questions,” Father Ben said. “And I don’t have a single good answer. All we know is that there
is
a plan. And I think it’s a good guess that Tartarus demons want to escape from Hell. And perhaps they were using the book to give someone directions on how to make that happen.”

“Dear Lord.”

“That is, of course, all speculation,” Father Ben said. “We can’t even be certain the book is the
Malevolenaumachia Demonica.
”

“Great. I feel so much better.”

“We also know that you’ve disrupted that plan. Or at least stalled it.”

“Because we’ve got the book now.”

“And it’s secure.”

“Where is it?” I asked.

“The altar,” he said.

“Not the vault?”

“We have archivists cataloging the relics in the vault. They are in and out every day, and if they were to find the book . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “No, I don’t believe there’s a safer place in the world than the altar for something like this book. Except, perhaps, deep within the Vatican.”

I nodded. Infused as it was with the bones of saints, the altar of St. Mary’s Cathedral was impenetrable by a demon. The book, at least, was safe.

That didn’t solve all our problems. But it was a start.

Timmy And l left the cathedral well before noon. We hit the T-Mobile store first, and I got a replacement for my missing phone, including the same phone number and a built-in camera. I snapped a few pictures of Timmy just to get the hang of it, e-mailed them to Stuart, then immediately wondered how I’d lived without the thing.

I needed to hit the grocery store, but first I wanted to fill Eddie in. I swung by the house and gave him the rundown. He didn’t know anything more about the book than I did, but he agreed that the whole Tartarus demons run amok thing sounded pretty bad.

“You’re going to help, right?”

He snorted. “Eh, why not? Chasing demons always brightens my mood. And killin’ demons puts me in an even better one.”

I ended up dropping him at the library, before heading on to the neighborhood Ralphs. He promised to call my shiny new phone when he was ready for a ride home, “Assuming I don’t catch a ride with that hot librarian.”

I wished him luck and set out to do some shopping.

For the first two years of Timmy’s life, I’d been content to shop with my toddler in tow. Once I discovered the joys of day care, however, my tolerance for the extended process of shopping with a child decreased dramatically.

About the time Timmy grabbed his third can of some meat product off the shelf, held it up, and said, “This too Mommy? We need this?” I decided I’d had enough. If the folks on
Survivor
could live on bugs and berries, then surely we could survive on milk, pasta, and whatever happened to be hidden in the back of the freezer.

When we got home the garage was empty, which didn’t really surprise me. Getting Allie out of the mall in under eight hours is an amazing accomplishment. Stuart had been borderline delusional to suggest anything less than five. Not that I’d been inclined to correct his disinformation at the time. . . .

I parked Timmy in front of the television, popped in the
Frosty the Snowman
video, then started to unload the groceries. The house seemed eerily quiet, and I fought a sense of unease, telling myself that just because I’d spent a good portion of yesterday fighting a demon didn’t mean that they’d infested my house.

My earnest speech, however, did nothing for my mood, and I moved slowly from the living room into the breakfast area. The pitcher of orange juice I hadn’t cleared was still there, but had it been moved just a little to the left? I frowned, not sure, as my gaze swept the room. Nothing else seemed out of place, and I told myself I was being ridiculous.

Naturally, I didn’t really believe myself.

“Allie?” I called, loud enough to be heard in every corner of our house.

Silence.

Okay, that was good. The house was empty. Nothing was really out of place. And I just needed to get a grip.

I stood there for a minute, contemplating the get-a-grip plan. I decided that while that might be the rational thing to do, where my kid’s safety was an issue, I was more than happy to be paranoid and reactive. And that meant getting Timmy over to Laura’s while I searched the house. Just to be sure.

“Timmy?” I called, implementing step one of the paranoid-and-reactive plan. “Come here, kiddo.”

He looked up, his features contorted with irritation. “Frosty, Mommy.”

“I know, sweetie. But I need you to come here.”

Nothing.

“Timmy,” I said. “Come here this instant.”

Again, nothing.

“Young man, don’t make me count to three.”

“I’m watching Frosty, Momma!” His little hands were fists at his sides, and I could see a full-blown tantrum coming on. Give in or hold fast? The age-old question of parenting.

I gave in, resorting to the only surefire method of ensuring toddler cooperation: bribery. “How about ice cream?”

He cocked his head to the side, looking just a little bit more toward me than the television. “Ice cream?”

“Absolutely. Come with me over to Aunt Laura’s, and you can have ice cream.
And
you can watch Frosty over there.”

He looked at me, his face scrunched up in concentration. “Chocolate ice cream?”

“Sure,” I said, hoping Laura’s freezer was well stocked. For that matter, I hoped Laura was home.

“’Kay, Mommy.” He tugged me toward the back door. “We go Aunt Laura’s!”

And so we did. I popped out the video and turned off the television, then let Timmy drag me out the door. I double-checked the alarm system, then shut the door tight and locked it.

Timmy raced across the grass, with me following at a much more reasonable pace so that I could pull out my cell phone and give Laura fair warning. She answered on the first ring, and assured me that she was more than happy to watch the kiddo. It would, she said, save her from a fun-filled morning rearranging her Tupperware.

“Always happy to be of service,” I said, as soon as we arrived at her back door.

“I hope you mean that,” she said. “I swear I’m going crazy obsessing about my jerk of a husband. If I don’t have something to keep me occupied, I’m going to start stalking the man.”

“I can help you there, too,” I said, as we got Timmy settled. “I’ll bring you up to speed when I come back. But basically, I was hoping you could help me search the Internet.” I’m not a complete idiot when it comes to computers, but I did think that Google was a children’s video program until about six months ago. Laura’s computer skills, however, had been honed and sharpened by years of online shopping. Give her a mouse and a cable modem, and she can find (and buy) pretty much anything. Isn’t technology amazing?

She narrowed her eyes at me. “So why the last-minute babysitting? Everything okay over there?”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Uh-huh. Can I help?”

I pointed to Tim. “Trust me,” I said. “You already are.”

Once Timmy was happily settled in front of the television with a bowl of ice cream in his chubby little hands, I sprinted back across our connecting yards to my house. Once again, I told myself I was being ridiculous. And once again, I convinced myself that I wasn’t. Demon hunting’s all about instincts. And, for whatever reason, I had a bad feeling.

Back in the house, I paused just inside the back door. “Allie? Stuart? Anybody home?”

No answer.

I checked the kitchen and the garage, just to make sure. No sign of Stuart.

Jimmy Neutron’s theme song drifted into the kitchen, and I sang along with it, only a little mortified to realize I knew all the words. I froze suddenly.
I’d turned off the television!

With my heart pounding in my chest, I made a beeline for the utility drawer. I pushed down on the little latch, then pulled the drawer open slowly, trying to avoid the telltale squeak.

Once it was open enough, I took out an ice pick and tested its weight in my hand. I’d invested in about six of the things last month, never expecting Stuart to notice. Of course that meant he did. I said they’d been on sale and that had satisfied him. After all, what woman can pass up a bargain?

Because of the configuration of our house, you can only see part of the living room from the kitchen area, and I entered carefully, watching my blind side until I’d swept the entire area with my gaze.

Nothing.

Or rather, nothing except the television that I was positive I’d clicked off. But maybe I hadn’t hit the button hard enough, or aimed the remote the wrong way. After all, why would a demon want to watch
The Adventures of Jimmy Neutron
?

I wished I could believe I’d simply left the television on, but I couldn’t quite manage it. Especially not once I noticed other things out of place. Knickknacks shifted on the hall table. The entertainment center door open just slightly.

Someone looking for something? The book, maybe?

I bit my lower lip and continued moving silently through the house. I’d known that returning to
Forza
would be dangerous. But for that danger to invade my home . . .

I shivered, guilt overwhelming me. If anything happened to the kids. To Stuart.

I wasn’t even sure there
was
a danger here. And as for Sinclair and his mysterious book, I didn’t know what that was about, but I was determined to end it. And soon. No matter what, my first priority was keeping my family safe. And if that meant killing a few demons along the way, then so much the better.

A metallic screech rang out, echoing through the silent house like a shot and making me jump.
Upstairs.
Someone— or something—was upstairs.

I kept a firm grip on the ice pick as I eased up the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky third step. With any luck, my uninvited guest didn’t realize I’d come home. Surprise, I hoped, would work in my favor.

I checked the master bedroom first, but found nothing there except a few dust bunnies huddling in terror under the bed. I assured them they weren’t my priority for the day and moved on to Timmy’s room.

The place was a disaster. Clothes and toys strewn everywhere. Broken crayons. Ripped bits of paper. Bedding on the floor.

In other words, it looked exactly like it always did.

I frowned, made a mental note to play off of Stuart’s guilt and assign him room-cleaning duty. I paused midway to the door, a low, rhythmic
thump, thud
attracting my attention.

I turned in a slow circle, trying to find the source of the sound, but it was gone. And then, just when I was about to give up, I heard it again. A low reverb noise, and it was coming from the interior wall—the one Timmy shared with Allie.

In an instant I was back in the hall, my shoulders pressed flat against the wall outside of Allie’s room. The door was cracked slightly open, and I could see that the light was off. From my limited perspective, I could also make out a variety of T-shirts littering the floor. Again, that wasn’t exactly earth-shattering news.

That steady thumping, though . . .

I could hear it more clearly now, and I had no idea what it was. Someone opening and closing drawers, maybe?

Didn’t much matter, because whoever they were, I was going to nail them. I drew in a breath, counted to three, and then burst through the door, the ice pick high and ready.

Allie’s shrill scream just about shattered my eardrums.

Immediately, I dropped my arm, my heart pounding wildly.

“Shit, Mom!” she shrieked, and for once I didn’t correct her language.

“Sorry! Sorry!” I eased the ice pick into my back pocket, but I knew it was too late.

She’d been laying on her back, her feet flat against the wall, tapping in time to some music I couldn’t hear. Now she whipped her legs around until she was sitting upright, glaring hard at me with her hand at her throat.

“Sorry! I heard a noise upstairs and I didn’t realize anyone was home.”

“Jesus, Mom.” She jerked the earpieces out and then exhaled loudly and dramatically. “You scared me to death. Haven’t you been listening to all those lectures you and Stuart gave me? If you think someone’s in the house you leave. You call nine-one-one. You don’t creep upstairs with a freaking ice pick and terrorize your daughter! I mean, come on!”

“Right. You’re right.” What else could I say?

I took a couple of deep breaths, waiting until my heart slowed. “So, where’s Stuart.”

“Office,” she said. “He left about three seconds after we got back.” She gestured at the tiny gizmo she’d been tethered to only seconds before. “He didn’t even want to see how it works!”