California Demon (3 page)

“No, we don’t! It
was
Mr. Sinclair. He even told me to leave him alone!” Jenny’s chin quivered and her skin had turned all blotchy, but so far the tears weren’t rolling.

Nurse Ratched sighed and put her arm around the girl. “Jenny,
think.
The man had a heart attack. He’s been in a coma for three months. He’s been conscious for less than two days. So how could he possibly have the strength to have gotten up and walked onto that bus?”

That one seemed to stump Jenny, and I had to bite back the urge to raise my hand and shove it high into the sky. That’s me, the prize pupil. But what could I say? I knew the answer, or, at least, I knew
an
answer. And it wasn’t pretty.

Dermott Sinclair was a demon—and he’d just climbed aboard a bus aimed straight toward my daughter’s high school.

Two

About two seconds later, my staunch position had withered. True, Dermott Sinclair was
probably
a demon, but he could also be one of the very fortunate few who really did come out of a coma without any side effects, then decided to head out on a field trip. Granted, the odds favored demon, but it’s incredibly bad form to go around killing old men.

And I had another reason to hesitate: If Dermott Sinclair really was a demon, he was taking a hell of a chance making himself known while I was on the premises. Was he trying to bait me? Or was there a plot brewing in the demon world? Something big enough that justified the risk of discovery by the town’s only active Hunter?

Obviously, I had some investigating to do.

Except, of course, Sinclair was on the bus and I wasn’t. Plus, I had a toddler to deal with. Not to mention the promise I’d made to Allie to absolutely not be late for Family Day. (Technically, chasing Dermott Sinclair wouldn’t make me late, since the bus was heading for the high school. But I had a sneaking suspicion that any brownie points I’d earn by being punctual would be offset by the demerits I’d incur if I wrestled an old man to the gymnasium floor in front of the faculty, the students, and the PTA.)

Which left me with only one workable plan of attack: foist my youngest child onto my best friend, and waylay the demon before the bus reached the high school.

That, I could do.

I snatched my purse from where I’d left it on the floor, then raced to the restroom near the front entrance. I could see the parking lot from there, and the bus was still sitting on the asphalt, blocking my car, actually. I didn’t see any exhaust, and a few of the residents milled around while Nurse Ratched and Jenny consulted a clipboard.

I said a quick thank-you to Saint Peoni, the patron saint of fools and Demon Hunters. I still had time.

The ladies’ room is just off the main lobby behind the reception desk, and I burst through the door, calling out for Timmy and Laura as I did so.

“Mommy, Mommy! I going potty!” My little boy’s voice boomed out from one of the many handicapped stalls. (In my opinion, and in Laura’s, schlepping a toddler around in public is handicap enough to justify use of the reserved toilet stalls. At least until the powers that be fire the genius who designed the regular stalls to be too small to hold a mom, a kid, a diaper bag, a purse, and a stuffed animal.)

“Great, sweetie,” I said automatically. Then, “Laura, emergency. Can you take care of the munchkin?”

“Demons?” she asked.

I winced, but a quick check under the doors of the other stalls revealed no other occupants.

“Roger that.”

“Go, then,” she said, almost offhandedly. A few months ago, the idea of a demon wandering loose in the world would have completely freaked her out. Now, it was just one of those things. I felt a twinge of guilt for tainting my friend’s view of the world, but moved quickly past it. If I didn’t get on that bus and head off Mr. Sinclair, Laura’s world might be tainted in more than theory.

I tossed my keys onto the bathroom counter. In a perfect world, I’d find Sinclair and steer him back inside, but since the bus was about to leave—and since I didn’t know what Sinclair looked like—I figured the odds were good I’d be on that bus. Besides, I’d learned long ago that this wasn’t a perfect world. “For the Odyssey,” I said, referring to my minivan. “But, um, don’t rush getting to Family Day, okay?”

At that, the rattle of the toilet paper dispenser stopped, and Laura’s head appeared over the stall door. “You want to explain that?”

“Not really.”

She took a deep breath, and I could see the worry in her eyes. “Keep my baby safe.”

I nodded, then glanced at the stall door and the little boy chattering softly to himself behind it. “Ditto,” I said.

Naturally, Timmy chose that moment to comprehend that Laura’s status had changed from temporary companion to full-fledged babysitter, and he announced his displeasure by screaming for me at the top of his lungs. My heart did another flip-flop, but I steeled myself and backed out of the room. He was safe with Laura, and he’d forgive me later. Now, though, my heart hurt. I told myself that saving the world from the forces of darkness benefits everyone, my children included. But damned if those maternal instincts don’t always listen to logic.

Timmy’s squeals of displeasure were still ringing in my ears as I jogged across the parking lot to the bus. Everyone was onboard now, and the engine was running. Nurse Ratched had left, and only Jenny remained, clipboard in hand, a frown on her perky little face.

“Jenny!” I called. “Hold the bus!”

She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise and confusion. “Hey, Mrs. Connor! What’s up?”

“I told Nurse Ra—Nurse Baker that I’d go along as a chaperone,” I lied. “Since I’m heading that way myself.”

“Oh.” Her forehead creased. “She didn’t say anything to me . . .”

“That’s because I just bumped into her.” I pointed to my van. “Timmy’s sick, so Laura’s taking him home, but that leaves me without a way to get to Allie’s school. And when I told Nurse Baker, she very kindly suggested that I go on the bus. As a chaperone, of course.” I smiled and waited. I was a little afraid that the “kindly” embellishment was going to reveal my story as pure fabrication.

“But we’ve already got a chaperone,” she said. “Marissa Cartright. She’s already on the bus.”

“Oh.” I considered heading back inside right then. Marissa Cartright is, to put not too fine a point on it, a pain in the ass. One of those mothers who lets her demon-child (and I mean that metaphorically, not literally) run wild to torment other children. Like, for example, my kid. Unfortunately, our youngest kids are in the same play group, and Timmy likes the other children. And I like the other moms. So I suck it up and put up with Marissa and little demon-Danielle every other week. That wouldn’t be so bad except that Marissa’s also a Coastal Mists volunteer
and
on the same PTA committees
and
the president of my Neighborhood Association
and
her daughter (a junior) is on Allie’s cheerleading squad.

Honestly, sometimes I’d really rather just deal with the forces of evil.

“Mrs. Connor?”

I waved a hand, shooing away my thoughts. Marissa or not, I needed on that bus. “Nurse Baker thought Marissa might need help.”

“Really? Even with Nurse Kelly along, too?”

I just held out my arms and shrugged. “That’s what she said.”

“Oh. Well, okay,” she said, not really caring.

She signaled for the driver to open the door, and as the hydraulic mechanism hissed and moaned, I took the clipboard from her and scanned the names. If Dermott Sinclair wasn’t on there, my entire fabrication was for naught. But there he was, a red check mark confirming his presence.

“Dermott Sinclair,” I said, as if I had some vague memory of the name. “Hasn’t he been in a coma?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jenny said, then leaned closer, a conspiratorial gleam in her usually clueless eyes. “I told Nurse Baker that he’d joined the group, and she didn’t believe me. But then she saw him, and she said he couldn’t go, and he got all surly with her, but you know Nurse Baker, and she wasn’t about to give in.”

She sucked in air. I did, too. “Anyway, she said that he wasn’t up for traveling, but he said he’d been cleared by his doctor, and she said he hadn’t, and he said he had, and—”

“Jenny.”

“Right. Anyway, that’s why we’re running late. She held up the bus while she went and got his chart. And sure enough, his doctor signed off. He’s allowed to go on field trips and participate in all activities. No restrictions, it says. Isn’t that wild? I mean, from a coma to walking around just like he’d never even been sick. It’s almost like a miracle.”

“Almost,” I said, making a mental note to investigate his doctor.

“Lady, are you getting on the bus or not?” That from the bus driver.

I gave him a quick nod, thanked Jenny, and hopped into the coach’s stairwell. The hydraulics hissed again and the door slid shut.

Since my seat was right behind the driver (Carl, I learned), I could see the fourteen or so passengers reflected in the oversize rearview mirror mounted over Carl’s seat. But I didn’t see any obvious demons. For that matter, I didn’t see any subtle ones. No leers. No slanty-eyed glances. No evil cackles.

In fact, the passengers all looked pretty harmless. The men had tended to sit on the left of the bus, and the women on the right. Most were with a companion, looking at a catalog or doing needlepoint or arguing over some indiscretion. A few were sitting by themselves, focusing on cross-word puzzles or dozing.

None looked intent upon foisting a reign of evil onto the world.

And that, in a nutshell, is the problem when demons walk the earth. They blend in too damn well.

Most of the time, demons are simply out there in the ether, existing, but not interacting with us. Not that I’m all that keen on the idea of wading through a sea of demons every time I walk to my car, but it’s better than meeting one in a dark alley. So long as a demon is incorporeal, he can’t do much except watch us and long to be us. Demons have a real thing about wanting to be human.

Some demons want it so badly, in fact, that they go the possession route, stepping in to seize the body while the person’s still alive, and trapping the victim’s soul in some deep, dark crevice. Possession, however, isn’t too subtle. For the most part, the Hollywood makeup department got it right with Linda Blair. In other words, those demons aren’t going to be infiltrating the local PTA. At least, not without being noticed.

Fortunately (for all of us), possession is pretty rare. Unfortunately, the more common demon manifestation is less obvious. You know all those medical miracles that you hear about? Someone dying on the operating table and then— amazingly!—they’re brought back to life? Someone walking away from a twelve-car pileup despite a massive blow to the head? Someone trapped underwater for close to ten minutes, but managing to survive?

I’ll bet you think those folks are the lucky ones. Well, think again. Ninety-nine percent of the time we’re not talking miraculous survival, we’re talking determined demon.

Of course, not every body is a compatible host for a demon. Only the most powerful demons can infiltrate the body of the faithful, for example. Those souls
fight,
keeping the demons away until the gap closes.

And for the most part, demons avoid the elderly, preferring to infect the young, strong, and healthy (well, except for being dead). But I’d recently learned the hard way that in a pinch, demons will go for whatever’s available.

Bottom line: Most demons look pretty much like everybody else.

Fortunately, though, corporeal demons do have a few idiosyncrasies that are useful for identification purposes. Holy ground, for example, stops a demon cold. Your average, everyday demon simply can’t walk on sanctified ground. Or, it can, but it hurts like hell (literally). But since the odds of convincing Carl to make a quick detour so that I could parade the passengers through the cathedral were slim to none, I wisely crossed that option off my list.

The breath test is a personal favorite of mine. Demon breath absolutely reeks. Sulfur mixed with decaying flesh and who knows what else tossed into the mix. Don’t ask me why; I just know it’s a universal demon characteristic.

The problem with using the breath test to locate demons is severalfold. For one, demons are wise to the whole stinky- breath thing. Altoids, Certs, Listerine—these trappings of modern-day hygiene have made it that much harder for Demon Hunters the world over. (Not that I’m complaining about hygiene, mind you. I’m just stating a fact.)

And even if a little stinkiness does make it past the breath mint, there’s still the question of how to get in a demon’s face without arousing his suspicions. Plus, there’s always the possibility of running across a living, breathing human with breath that absolutely reeks. A social faux pas, maybe, but hardly the basis for justifiable homicide.

No, the breath test just isn’t reliable enough. For locating a
possible
demon, yes. For definitively identifying a demon? No.

That leaves holy water. Which suits me just fine.

As definitive tests go, holy water is about as foolproof as they come. Convenient, too, since I’m rarely without a vial or two anymore.

Now all I needed to do was subtly figure out which passenger was Dermott Sinclair.

We’d reached the Coast Highway, and that meant we were about ten minutes from the high school. So I squeezed past Marissa into the aisle.

“People, people!” I called, then paused as all eyes looked up at me. “I just need to run you through a quick roll call before we get to the school.” Marissa tapped one of her long, manicured fingers on my arm. I ignored her. “So if you’d just raise your hand when I call your name—”

“Kate.”

“—and that way I can check you off the list.”

“Yes?”

“Kelly and I did that before we left Coastal Mists.”