California Demon (20 page)

And I definitely would have missed the way he lashed out with the stick in a deadly maneuver aimed straight for my throat.

Ten

l thrust my right Arm up in a lightning-fast move designed to protect. At the same time, my left arm whipped across my body in a defensive motion. I snatched the handle, my fingers closing tight.

My attacker howled in frustration, his volume only increasing when I yanked the broom out of his grasp. I jammed it down hard on the concrete, using the heel of my foot to snap off the whisk part.

All that took less than a second, and I spun the staff, then jammed it out, catching him in the gut with the end of the stick. His breath escaped with a
whoof,
and he tumbled backwards, clutching at his middle.

I recognized him right away—the green overalls, the fleshy face. And, of course, the “Coronado High School, Ernesto Ruiz” monogram on the pocket was a dead give-away (no pun intended).

I’d been attacked by the high school janitor.

Since I doubted he’d jump me simply because I’d messed up his supply room, I was pretty certain that the janitor was a demon. “Why are you here?” I demanded, my voice low and deadly. “And who is your master?”

He tightened his hands around the staff, trying to release the pressure on his belly. “Fool,” he rasped. “You cannot win. Give us what we seek and we’ll let you live.”

“The book? I burned it.”

“You lie!” he hissed.

“You can look for it in Hell,” I said, lifting the staff just long enough to slam it down once again, this time through his eye.

I didn’t make it, though. I’d underestimated his strength, and as I released my hold, he reached out, managing to grab the long-handled dustpan. He swung it up and out, the metal scoop part slicing across my belly and ripping my shirt. I cried out against the sharp pain, withdrawing reflexively for the briefest of instants.

But that was enough. He was up and on his feet, snarling as he slammed the dustpan down hard on the pavement in a move that mirrored my own. The scoop part came off, leaving him with a stick the approximate length and weight of mine.

He held tight, lunging toward me and waving the stick in choppy but lethal motions. I hadn’t fought with staffs in over twenty years, and as I lunged and parried, I made a mental note to suggest a curriculum change to Cutter. I definitely needed a refresher course.

Not that my lack of training mattered much. Formal skills weren’t really on the agenda at the moment. This was street fighting. Down and dirty and no holds barred. Training would help and hone, but tonight it was my mood that would get me through.

Because, frankly, I was pissed.

Attack me in my house? Leave inexplicable demonic books lying around? Make me late for the only date my daughter will
ever
invite me on?

Oh yeah. I was ready to kick some demon butt, and this demon would do just fine.

We went at it like wild things, lost in a flurry of lunges and thrusts. My moves were primarily defensive, as I tried to stay alive while looking for an opening during which I could slam my staff through his eye.

My purse had tumbled free earlier, and now I saw it on the ground. I started to lunge that way, then remembered. I’d been interrupted switching purses. My holy water, knife, and other handy tidbits were still in my bag at home.
Damn.

He rushed me, the end of his staff aimed for my face. It was a ridiculous move, and easily blocked by an upward thrust of my own staff. As I did that, though, I took a step backwards . . . and found myself sprawled on the ground, my foot in a tangle of metal and chain.

Frisbee golf!
I’d tripped over a half-buried Frisbee golf goal.

As I tugged my foot free, the demon leaped on me, his knees tight around either side of my waist as he held me down with a hand to my throat.

My hands were pinned under me, and I struggled to move, but could manage little more than a squirm. His foul breath washed over me, and I sent up a silent prayer. This couldn’t be the end. Not now. Not when I had two kids to raise. Two kids to protect from the demons out there in the world.

His hand tightened around my throat, and I struggled uselessly, the world starting to turn gray.

“Where?” he whispered again, his voice as rough as gravel. He got right in my face, and I almost gagged from the stench. “Where is it?”

I opened my mouth and pretended to try to speak. His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t loosen his grip. I wiggled my hand some more, twisting my body as I did in a mock struggle that I hoped camouflaged what I was really doing: digging deeper into the sand, trying to free just that one limb.

“Where?”
he demanded again.

I forced out a sound. Just a gurgle really, then coughed. I tried again. Another sound. And this time, thank God, it actually worked. The demon loosened his grip on my neck. Not much, but enough. “The book,” I croaked. “Just go . . . go . . .”

“Yes?”

“Just go to Hell!”

His eyes went wide, as much from my words as from my now-free hand that I’d shot up and out, catching him in the throat just about where he’d caught me. He reacted instinctively, pulling away and that gave me the opening I needed.

I thrust up with my knee and the heel of my hand, managing to knock him off me. Then I rocked back and up in a kip-up maneuver that got me to my feet.

Now I had the advantage, and intended to use it. “Are you trying to free the Tartarus demons? Why do you need the book? For instructions? A ritual?
What?
” I snapped out the questions as I circled him, waiting for the right moment to attack.

“You’ll learn soon enough, Hunter,” he said. He lunged for me, and I moved to defend. But instead of attacking, he reached down, scooped up a handful of sand, and before he was even fully upright again, he tossed it right into my face.

I howled in pain as the sand dug into my eyes. Only a split second passed before I remembered to react, but it was already too late. I braced for his attack, and then . . .
nothing.
I squinted through the pain, my eyes streaming tears. He was gone. Instead of attacking, he’d run, and I could see him sprinting down the beach away from me. And, more important, away from the students.

I considered going after him, but ruled it out. I’d need to find and eradicate him, no question about that. But I’d rather not do it now if I didn’t have to. For one thing, I didn’t have any decent weapons. For another, I’d have to hide the body.

I could drag him into the surf or dig a hole in the sand, but both of those things would take time, and weren’t very effective anyway. And if any of the students walked up while I was in the process of burying their janitor, what would I say? That he wasn’t keeping the cafeteria sanitary? Somehow, I didn’t think that would fly.

No, I knew about the janitor now. Best to let him go and follow up on that kill later.

I thought back to the time I’d seen him at school, standing in the background as the police had hauled Sinclair’s body away. Had he been a demon then? I didn’t think so. For one, it would have made a lot more sense to have a janitor-demon search for (or hide?) the book. Why send Sinclair when he might be detected by yours truly?

Also, he hadn’t seemed particularly demonic when I’d seen him. Of course, appearances can be deceiving, but he’d been mumbling to himself, grumping about the damn kids. Not the usual litany for a demon, but probably a common complaint for a high school janitor.

The demon was still on my mind when I returned to the party. Laura gave me a curious look, her eyes going wide when she saw the rip in my shirt.

“What—?”

But I waved her questions away, zipping my jacket to hide the damage to my shirt.

I’d tell Laura, of course. But later.

I’d had my fill of drama for the night. And although I’d keep an eye out for demons and other nasties, I figured I was entitled to spend the rest of the evening off the clock, pretending I was a normal mom with a normal life in a normal town.

That illusion lasted for exactly two hours and thirty-six minutes. After that, Allie, Laura, Mindy, and I returned home to find my door wide open, and three police cars parked in front, their blue, white, and red lights illuminating the neighborhood like some perverted carnival.

Fear pounded through me as I shoved the car door open and scrambled out before Laura even had time to slow down. I sprinted toward the door, screaming for my little boy, a thousand hellish images dancing in my head.

A uniformed officer stood in the doorway, his hand outstretched as if to stop me. I smacked his arm away and barreled through the door, practically tripping over Sylvia.

“He’s fine,” she said, putting both hands on my shoulders and looking hard into my eyes. “We’re all fine. No one’s hurt. The place was robbed. It’s a total mess, but no one’s hurt.”

“Where is he?” I demanded, not willing to believe anything until I saw my baby.

But Sylvia didn’t even have to answer, because my little pajama-footed boy came racing into the entrance hall, a pair of handcuffs dangling in his hand. “Momma, Momma! I’m a defective!”

I scooped him up and hugged him close, my eyes shut tight against the horror. Allie and the Duponts pounded into the house as well, and I felt Allie’s arms go around us both, her quiet sobs just about enough to break my heart.

“It’s okay,” I said. “He’s fine. It’s okay.” I kept repeating that, figuring that if I kept it up, maybe I’d start to believe it.

After holding my kids for an eternity, I passed Timmy off to Allie. He really did seem fine. She still looked about as shook up as I felt. And no wonder. She and her brother had been in one hell of a scrape (literally) at the tail end of the summer.

Timmy’s nightmares had faded, but I knew the memories still preyed on Allie. I also knew that there wasn’t anything I could do except let her know that I love her. We’ve all got demons to face. And we each have to do it in our own way.

In my case, of course, a lot of those demons are real. And back in September, I’d spent days weighing my decision to go back on active duty. In the end, I’d decided that San Diablo needed a Hunter. Needed someone trained to stand up against evil. Someone to fight on the side of good.

Now, though, I couldn’t help but wonder: Had I done the right thing? And if I’d made a mistake, was it too late to fix it?

I didn’t know, and it wasn’t a question I could answer right then, not with my daughter looking with horror around our ransacked home, and my little boy running around waving the handcuffs and chasing after the young blond officer who’d willingly cast himself in the role of “bad guy.”

“What happened?” Laura asked. She’d moved beside me, and now she took my hand, squeezing my fingers in a silent show of support.

A shadow crossed Sylvia’s face, as she told us about how she’d heard a commotion and stepped outside her house, then saw the lights and police cars at our end of the block. She’d been concerned, but not overly so. But then she tried to call our house and got no answer.

She thought that perhaps something had happened to Eddie—that maybe an ambulance had arrived—and she felt like she had to go see. So she and Timmy had walked down the street and learned that the house had been ransacked. Eddie had gone out for a walk, and in the time it took him to make the four block circle, someone had gone in and trashed the place.

Eddie had called the cops the second he’d arrived back home, but, of course, there was nothing they could do.

“Where’s Eddie?” I asked. “He must feel terrible.”

“He’s in the kitchen,” Sylvia said. “He was, I don’t know, a little freaked out. Kept going on about demons. But he’s okay,” she added, hurriedly. “The cops said that they see weird reactions to robberies all the time. So it’s not like he’s, you know, psychotic or anything.”

“Good to know,” I said. I shot Laura a pleading look.

“I’ll go check on him,” she said, then hurried toward the kitchen before I could even say thanks.

“I need to call Stuart,” I said, to nobody in particular.

“I called him,” Sylvia said. “I left him a voice mail. And the police called, too.” She shook her head. “He’s probably really busy with the campaign, huh?”

I counted to ten. Now really wasn’t the time to tell my neighbor how I was feeling about that damn campaign.

I drew a breath. “So what happened next?”

“They’ve just been looking the place over. The weird thing is that the burglars didn’t take your electronic equipment or anything. I think they wonder if maybe the whole thing was political. Someone who doesn’t want Stuart running for office.”

I considered the idea and told Sylvia that it had some merit. That was a lie, of course. Because I knew what the burglars had been looking for.

But the book wasn’t there. I’d taken it to the cathedral for safekeeping.

That plan, at least, had worked.

The larger plan—the one where I keep my family safe and warm and well away from my demon-hunting life? That plan, I’m afraid, wasn’t working out nearly as well.

“You gonna tell me why you keep me around? Not exactly earning my keep.” Eddie clasped a mug of hot tea with both hands, and he looked at me over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows twitching like bushy gray caterpillars.

I put my hand over his. “Because we love you.”

The cops and Sylvia had finally left, and I’d sent Mindy and Laura home, too. Laura had wanted us to come stay at her house, but that felt too much like giving in. Plus, I didn’t expect any more drama tonight. The search had been thorough, and they hadn’t found the book. The bad guys wouldn’t return. Not tonight, anyway. Especially not with the cops making frequent passes in front of our house.

Eddie closed his eyes and his shoulders started to shake. “I’m getting old. I’m already damn near useless. And then I go and forget to set that damned alarm.”