California Demon (28 page)

Not that our attic has the love beads and psychedelic colors. We haven’t gone that far. But it does have a finished floor, insulation, a decent light, and lots of storage boxes filled with all the things I’m not willing to keep in our hot, bug-infested storage shed.

I closed the door behind me and crept up the stairs, stepping carefully since Stuart was directly below me. I navigated around all the boxes—until I reached the far side of the attic and the leather and wood trunk I’d hidden under a stack of musty sheets.

I pulled the linens off and gave the lock an automatic tug, finding it still tight. Good.

I’d hidden the key on a small nail on the backside of one of the rafters, and I dragged an old chair over, teetering on it until my fingers closed around the key. The lock was sticky, but it turned. The hinges creaked as I lifted the lid, and I cringed slightly, wishing I’d thought to bring some WD-40.

Inside, I saw the shallow tray exactly as I’d left it, filled with a mishmash of articles I’d ripped out from various women’s magazines. Anyone who bothered to look closely would likely be suspicious—I’m hardly the soufflé type, and I can barely spell decoupage, much less know what it is—but for the most part, the pages served their camouflage purpose well.

I lifted the tray out to reveal the black velvet cloth covering my tools. I peeled it back and considered the weapons. I don’t like to travel with much—I can hardly wander the San Diablo streets with a crossbow slung across my shoulder— and in the end I picked the lean, mean stiletto knife that Eric had given me for our third anniversary. Completely custom-made, the switchblade knife boasted a double-action release system. I preferred simply pushing the bolster to release the blade, but the knife also presented the option of opening manually.

I set it aside, then pulled out my battered leather jacket. I’d tried my hand at sewing only twice in my life. The second was when I valiantly attempted to make a baptismal dress for Allie (we ended up buying one). The first attempt, though, had actually been successful. I’d stitched a tight strip of elastic into the left sleeve of the jacket.

Now, I put the jacket on, picked up the knife, then slid the handle under the elastic. I shook my arm, making sure the knife was secure. Years ago, I’d been able to reach over and pull out the knife in seconds flat. I wasn’t back up to my old speed, but I’d been practicing, and getting better with each try.

I already had holy water in my purse, but I’d stocked up over the last few months, collecting holy water in gallon jugs. Now, I filled a few vials and tucked them in my jacket pockets.

I sat back on my heels and wondered what else I should take. I didn’t need the crucifix. While corporeal demons hated the things, crucifixes were a weapon only against vampires. Nothing else looked particularly useful for tonight. For a second, I fingered a sheathed Japanese sword, wishing I could take it. Eddie had a similar one, and I smiled at the memory of us comparing weapons, sharing a little bit of Demon Hunter bonding.

I put the sword back and repacked the chest. The larger weapons I’d already decided against, and none of the trophies from my past hunting days would be of any use.

Decided, I carefully shut and locked the trunk. Then I stood up, armed, dangerous, and as ready as I’d ever be.

Since demons rarely leave a calling card with directions to a lair, I really didn’t know where to go patrolling. I ended up at the marina, since Allie had mentioned that Creasley had been “injured” in a boating accident. When nothing demonic jumped out at me there (literally and figuratively), I patrolled the beach for a while, particularly by the bathroom where the janitor had jumped me. Also nothing.

I was getting discouraged and considered calling it a night when I had one more idea.
Coastal Mists.
Creasley hadn’t been a resident, but Sinclair certainly had been. Couple that with the knowledge that Cool had gone through Sinclair’s stuff, this seemed like a good place to start. Besides, I didn’t have a better plan.

Unfortunately, I also didn’t have a
concrete
plan. More of a vague idea. And that involved walking the perimeter of Coastal Mists, peeking into windows, and generally scoping the place out. If that turned up no demons, I’d go in the front door and fake an overwhelming urge to chat with the insomniac residents.

I parked on the street, then walked up the road toward the Coastal Mists driveway. I stayed to the outside, veering around the perimeter and walking along the edge of the cliff until I was behind the nursing home. Then I crouched low and scurried toward the back of the home and the yard into which the residents weren’t allowed to go because there was no barrier blocking access to the cliffs. It did, however, mean there was a hell of a view from the windows on this side of the home, and a ton of windows to take advantage of it.

No lights shone from any of those windows, though, and I didn’t see any movement inside. Frustrated, I weighed my options: go inside the building, walk the grounds, or give up and go home. Since I’d already wasted more than an hour on this excursion—and since Timmy ensured a six-thirty A.M. wake-up call—I decided on home.

I was just starting to turn around when my head was jerked backwards by the force of someone using my ponytail to yank me to me feet.

I screamed in pain, then found myself flying through the air. I crash-landed in a graveled garden area, my face too close for comfort to a cactus, and the sharp blade of a knife pressed against my throat.

Fourteen

“Up, Hunter.” The gravelly voice whispered in my ear, his putrid breath carried on the wind along with the scent of eucalyptus.

The flat edge of the knife pressed against the soft skin under my chin, the cool metal a counterpoint to the anger flaring through me. The knife blade barely grazed my throat as I rose, my attacker still unseen behind me.

Cool stood in front of me, the moon on his white-blond hair contrasting with the dark anger in his eyes. He took a step toward me, and I tensed, my mind whirring with possibilities. Considering the blade against my neck, none of them were particularly promising.

“Where?” he whispered, his face mere inches from mine.

“Right here,” I said, hoping the fissures in my bravado weren’t showing. “Right here, right now. Just call off your attack dogs and let’s finish this thing.”

His eyes narrowed, and then the bastard laughed. He took a step backwards, and he actually laughed, his hands clapping in a mockery of applause.

“Glad I could bring some amusement to your otherwise dreary life.”

“Oh, you do,” he said. “This
will
end. But by my hand, not yours. And definitely not here.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where?”

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me where you’ve put the book?”

“Not a chance,” I said, with more bravado than I felt.

He cocked his head slightly. “Refreshing,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“That old cliché of ‘over my dead body.’ I’m impressed you didn’t use it.”

My pulse pounded in my ears and I resisted the urge to turn my head and search for an escape. The blade was still there, sharp, and the slightest turn would fillet me.

“It would have been appropriate, though,” he said, then took a step closer. “Now.
Where
is the book?”

My hands were clenched in fists, and I forced myself to relax. To think. To plan. “It’s not here,” I said slowly.

He didn’t answer, just nodded to my captor, who shifted the knife until the point pressed against my throat. I felt a sharp prick, then the trickle of blood. “Kill me, and you’ll never know,” I said.

“Tell me.”

I pressed my lips together, weighing just how foolhardy I was willing to be. On the one hand, I didn’t think they’d kill me. Not until they were certain I wouldn’t tell them what they wanted to know. On the other hand, I could easily see torture as being on Cool’s list of acceptable methods of persuasion.

I also didn’t know who was holding the knife, which meant I didn’t know who—or what—I was up against.

“Tell me!”
He howled the words, and as he did, his form shifted with the force of his rage, all the more powerful, I was sure, because he couldn’t simply dispose of me.

The stench of sulphur and decay swirled around us, and Cool seemed to pulse, each beat of his heart destroying the image of what was human and pulling forth the snarling beast that was the demon within. His eyes flashed fire, and when he stared at me, it was like looking into eternal damnation.

I felt cold and my heart skittered in my chest, and I fought the urge to scream. I’d seen this before, more times than I’d like to remember, but you never get used to looking into Hell.

Even my attacker—a demon himself, if the state of his breath was any indication—was taken aback by the spectacle. The knife pressed against my flesh relaxed just slightly.

Since I didn’t know if a better chance was coming, I decided to take the risk. I shot my fist straight up from waist level, connecting solidly with his wrist.
Yes!
His knife arm went wild and I spun, holding on to his arm as I did, and relishing the satisfying
snap
as the bone broke.

I lashed out with a solid kick at the same time, managing to send him sprawling. As he fell backwards, I wrested the knife from him, then pounced, aiming the point for his eye even as I recognized the man who had once been my daughter’s English teacher.

I slammed the blade forward, but as it was mere millimeters from sliding home, something grabbed my legs and pulled me backwards. My aim faltered, and the point of the knife cut a shallow path down Creasley’s cheek.

Whoever had yanked me back let go, presumably to get a better position for attack. I rolled over just as Ernesto Ruiz, the janitor, pounced. From my new vantage point, I could see Cool still behind us, still raging and still in a demonic state. That was one pissed-off puppy, but I didn’t have time to worry about him, because a bigger problem was trying to get a choke hold on my neck.

We rolled, grappling across the ornamental lawn toward the cliffs. My adrenaline peaked, every sense on overdrive as I expected Creasley to jump into the fray. He didn’t, though, and as I pondered that oddity, I managed to get on top of Ruiz even as his hands closed around my throat.

His hands were out, thumbs pressed against my throat as I gagged and choked and tried to suck in air. I’d either been wrong about that no-kill plan or Ruiz was pissed off enough to ignore it.

Either way, I was in trouble.

I still had one trick up my sleeve, though. And even as my brain screamed for oxygen, my right hand reached for the knife. My fingers closed over the hilt, and I pushed the bolster the instant the knife slid free, sliding the blade into place.

Ruiz’s eyes widened in surprise—a pretty helpful instinctive response under the circumstances. With both his hands around my neck, he was screwed, and he knew it. That fact had about a millisecond to register on his brain. Then I slid the blade home. The hands around my throat relaxed as the demon inside Ruiz was sucked out with a shimmer and a hiss.

I rolled off, then sprang back up, my knife at the ready.

There was, however, no one to fight.

I frowned, not quite believing that, as I turned in a slow circle, scoping out every inch of the moonlight-lit yard.

How odd.

Actually, Cool’s absence didn’t surprise me. Kill a corporeal demon, and all that happens is that the demon is sucked out and returned to the ether. Once it finds another body, it can come back again.

But kill a demon in its demonic state and that’s another story. That demon’s history.

The problem is that demons don’t reveal their natural state very often. That Cool did was testament to how angry he was at me—and to the importance of his plan. Whatever the plan might be.

Creasley’s absence was more surprising. As a rule, demons aren’t chicken. He wouldn’t have run simply because I’d won round one. So where was he?

No answer sprang to mind. And since I didn’t have time to worry about it, I pushed the question aside in favor of another one: What the hell was I going to do about this body?

I found the answer about twenty yards away. The cliffs. I rolled Ruiz that way, then paused to look down. Here, there was no beach to speak of, just the surf crashing over battered rock.

I took a deep breath, pressed my foot against Ruiz’s backside, and shoved.

He tumbled down the cliff, finally landing with a
thud
on the rocks. I would have preferred delivering the body to the cathedral, but that was impossible. At least the rocks were out of the way, and the beachcombing crowd was significantly less in December. By the time the body was discovered, the wildlife should have erased any sign of the knife through Ruiz’s eye.

Brutal, I thought, but satisfying.

The house WAS dark when I snuck back inside, and I paused in the kitchen, waiting, afraid the creak of the garage door might have awakened my family.

Silence.

I waited another minute, watching the second hand on our clock make its slow parade around the Roman numerals. Ten . . . eleven . . . and finally clicking back to twelve.

Still silent.

I exhaled in relief, then tiptoed toward the stairs. I made it up without hitting any squeaky floorboards, then padded down the hallway to the double doors to my bedroom. Still closed, which I figured was a good sign since it meant that Stuart probably hadn’t awakened during the night and gone looking for me.

I carefully closed my hand around the doorknob and turned. As soon as the latch cleared the frame, I pushed the door open about eight inches and squeezed inside. Stuart was there in bed, his sleeping form illuminated by the soft streams of moonlight filtering in through our gossamer drapes.