Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (25 page)

“What?”

I paused, then took a deep breath. “I’m afraid he’ll realize you’re helping me. And that he’ll try to hurt you.”

She nodded slowly. “I can still help,” she said. “From home, even. No one has to know I’m on the case. I can be like that ten-year-old kid who stays at the computer and sends Kim Possible on all her missions.”

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry about the fact that she’d just compared my life to that of a Disney Channel cartoon character. “Uh—”

“I’m serious. I can make phone calls. I can go to the library. Better yet, I can do Internet research. Find out about the cathedrals he wrecked. Maybe get a clue.”

I had to admit, it wasn’t a bad idea. But I still hated dragging her in. “I don’t know,” I hedged. “I’d hate for anything to happen.”

“So would I,” she said. “But from what you’re telling me, if this Goramesh guy has his way, my kid could be a demon-sized Happy Meal. No, thank you. I want to help, Kate. Let me help you stop him. I can do most everything from home, and there’s nothing suspicious about going to the library.”

I’ll admit I wasn’t hard to convince. I told myself it would be good for her, keeping her mind off Paul. In truth, I think I was more selfish than that. I wasn’t inclined to examine my motives, though. Not when her proposal was dead-on perfect. I did need help with the research, after all. “You’re sure you’re up for it?”

She waved a hand. “Hell, yes. I spend hours and hours on eBay. My Internet skills are sharp.”

I narrowed my eyes.

“Kidding,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ve helped Paul do research on locations and stuff. I know my way around Google and Dogpile and Vivisimo and a dozen others. Come on. At the very least I can punch in the towns and stuff where the attacks occurred. Larnaca, you said?”

I nodded. “I don’t know the town in Mexico or Tuscany, but I can find out.”

“So I can help?”

Since she’d lost me after Google, I decided she was qualified. “Okay,” I said. “I think.” I frowned. “Let me think about it overnight. It’s late and my head is mush.” But I knew the answer would be yes. I think she knew so, too.

I walked with her to the door and gave her a hug. “You’re okay?” I was talking about Paul, but the question pretty much covered all bases.

“Yeah. Thanks. It’s rough, but we’ll get through it. I mostly feel bad for Mindy. If he is screwing around . . . Well, I’ll worry about that when it happens. You need to get some sleep.”

She was right. I was scheduled to fight with Cutter the next morning, and I had to get Timmy over to the day care before then. He wasn’t supposed to start until Wednesday, but I was hoping that if I begged, they’d let him start tomorrow. I was optimistic. Groveling, I’ve discovered, can be a very effective tool. And I intended to do as much groveling as was necessary.

I opened the door for her, but she paused at the threshold. “So there are demons out there, huh?”

I stood behind her, looking out over my front yard and the oh-so-familiar street, trying to see the world through her new perspective. “I’ll drive with you,” I said.

“Oh, no. It’s okay. You don’t have to do that. Really.”

There was no way I was letting her go that distance alone. Not tonight, when I knew she’d see a demon around every corner.

“Actually, I really do,” I said. She turned to me, and I shrugged. “As it turns out, I need to borrow some milk.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As bizarre as
Monday had been, it was almost disconcerting to wake up so normally on Tuesday morning. Normal, that is, except for the fact that I’d had only three hours of sleep, and my entire body felt like it had been pounded by a football team—and not in a good way.

The alarm clock chirped promptly at six o’clock. I rolled over, muttering rude things about its parentage, and slapped the snooze button.
There
. Guess I told it.

Beside me, Stuart muttered something that sounded like “jump through the hobbits,” but which I mentally translated as “just a few more minutes.” I muttered an agreement, tugged the covers up under my chin, and spooned against him. Nanoseconds later the alarm chirped again. (The digital readout assured me that seven full minutes had elapsed. I was not convinced.)

I slapped the alarm senseless again, then rolled over to shake Stuart’s shoulder. “Up,” I said. “Go. Earn money.” This is my contribution to making sure the family bank account stays liquid.

He groaned again, then rolled over so that he was facing me. Slowly he opened his eyes. Even more slowly he smiled. “Hey, gorgeous.”

Since I am particularly ungorgeous in the morning, these kinds of endearments simply embarrass me. I rolled away with a mumbled “Stuart . . .”

He slid closer, then wrapped his arm around my hips, pulling himself closer until he was nuzzling my neck. Even half-comatose, I know better than to shun a nuzzle. “You’re perky this morning,” I said.

“Why not?” He tugged me back around so that he was leaning over me, one finger tracing the neckline of the plain white T-shirt I’d slept in. “I survived a car crash, locked in some campaign support, and woke up next to a beautiful woman.”

He nibbled at my neck again and I laughed. “You’re such a politician.”

“Public servant,” he shot back. He grinned, then, his mouth lifting with his own private joke.

“What?” I said, amused.

“Nothing.” His smile broadened. “Let’s just say I had a shot of confidence last night.”

“The party? It did go pretty well, all things considered.”

“The party,” he confirmed, “and . . .”

“What?”

He shifted, raising one shoulder in a slight shrug as he trailed his fingertip up and down my arm. “Nothing important. Let’s just say I found a new perspective on things. I’m thinking positively, and I’m positive that this election is all locked up.” He pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re looking at the next county attorney, sweetheart. I’m sure of it.”

“Well,
I
never doubted you for a minute. I mean, why would the voters want anyone else? You’re the perfect candidate.”

“A man for the people,” he said. His eyes roamed over me, his expression shifted from amused to heated. “A man for one woman . . .”

He kissed me then, slow and long, and I tried to get my head around the fact that my rush-out-the-door-to-work husband wanted morning sex. (He also had morning breath, which is unusual for Stuart, but I chalked it up to too much party food.) Any potential for an amorous morning adventure, however, fizzled when Timmy’s cries of “Momma, Momma, Momma. Where you at, Momma?” blared from the baby monitor perched on the dresser.

“He’ll be fine for a few minutes,” Stuart murmured, the invitation clear in his voice.

“MOMMA!”

“He sounds pretty determined,” I said. And (true confessions moment here) I was secretly glad. Not only was my entire body sore and achy, but my mind was already spinning with all the stuff I had to do, all the little details that had to be handled in order to keep my dual life running (somewhat) smoothly. “I should probably get him.”

Stuart muttered something incoherent, but rolled back so that I could sit up. I swung my legs over the side of the bed as I reached for a pair of sweats, then dragged myself down the hall to my howling offspring.

It took me a good twenty minutes to get the munchkin up and dressed and myself decked out in jeans and a San Diablo Junior High PTA T-shirt. By the time I got back downstairs, Stuart was already dressed, his hair damp from the shower, the scent of aftershave clinging to him in a way I found both familiar and slightly erotic. I pushed away a twang of regret for not taking him up on his suggestion of a morning tryst.

Allie barreled into the room, as much as one can barrel in spiked-heel slides and skin-tight jeans. I glanced pointedly at her shoes, then up at her face. “Oh, Mom,” she said. “Jenny Marston wears heels to school.”

There were a lot of things about Jenny Marston I didn’t want Allie emulating. Now I had shoes to add to the list. I pointed toward the stairs. “Go,” I said. “Change.”

She exhaled so loudly that Timmy looked up, pointed, and starting puffing up his cheeks and blowing air out with a
whoosh, whoosh
.

“Allie,” I said, injecting a warning note into my voice.

“Mind your mother,” Stuart added, from somewhere behind the morning paper.

“Fine. Whatever,” she said, then huffed back upstairs.

I looked at Timmy. “Shoes, at least, are a problem we’ll never have with you,” I said.

“Not until he wants some cool celebrity sneaker, anyway,” Stuart said.

I grimaced, imagining a future where I’d gone undefeated against demons, but had been laid flat by my own children’s insidious shoe demands. Not a pretty picture.

After two more cups of coffee Stuart kissed me and Timmy, called a good-bye up the stairs to Allie, then headed into the garage. A few moments later I heard the garage door begin its slow, creaky climb. I yelled at Allie to hurry or else she’d miss her car pool. She clattered back down the stairs and screeched to a halt in front of the refrigerator, this time in neon-pink high-top sneakers and a matching T-shirt. As my daughter would say, whatever.

“Lunch or money?” she said.

Since I’d gone on a wild-demon chase last night instead of staying home to care for my family like I should have done (guilt, guilt, guilt), I hadn’t fixed her a lunch. I found my purse, rummaged until I came up with a twenty, and handed it to her. Her eyes widened, but she was smart enough not to say anything.

She planted a quick kiss on my cheek, then raced out the front door, just as Emily’s mom tooted her horn. As the door banged shut, I remembered what I’d forgotten, but by the time I reached the end of the sidewalk, the car was already gone. Well, damn.

I’d completely forgotten to tell Allie that we had our first class with Cutter Wednesday afternoon, and to not sign up for any extracurriculars. Now I was going to have to call the school and leave a message for her. The process had been a huge hassle in junior high, and I didn’t anticipate it getting any easier now. Allie’s voice seemed to whisper in my ear—
Mo-om . . . just get me a cell phone! Fine
, I said to the voice.
I’ll get one today
.

I’m not normally in the habit of succumbing to the will of voices in my head, but the cell phone thing had been one of Allie’s most persistent battles, with her adamant that she needed one, and me just as adamant that she didn’t. Now that I knew there were demons roaming the town, though, my perspective had shifted one hundred and eighty degrees. Anything to keep my baby safer, and if that meant slapping a cell phone into her hot little hand so she could dial 911 at the drop of a hat, well, so be it.

“Allie go to work?” Timmy asked as I came back inside and took a seat at the table next to him. He held a spoon in one chubby fist, and was sticking it repeatedly into a cup of peach yogurt.

“Allie went to school,” I said. “Daddy went to work.”

“Mommy go to work?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I took the spoon (amazed that this didn’t prompt a huge tantrum) and aimed a bite of yogurt toward his mouth. “Does Timmy want to go to school like Allie?”

“No,” he said, giving me the puppy-dog eyes and shaking his head hard enough that there was no way the yogurt was going to make it inside. “No school.” A little-boy-lost whine had crept into his voice, and my heart twisted in my chest. Stay firm, I told myself. It’s only temporary. Thousands of kids are in day care every day without detriment to the kid or the parent.

Still
. . .

I kept a perky smile plastered on my face. “No school?” I asked, feigning amazement. “But school is great! You’ll get to play with messy things like paint, and you’ll make all sorts of friends. And songs,” I said, pulling out all the stops. “I bet they sing ‘Happy and You Know It’ at school all the time.”

“No, Momma,” he said. He shook his head once more. “
You
go to school.”

“Wish that I could, kiddo.” I fed him the last spoonful of yogurt, then got a paper towel to wipe the bulk of his breakfast off his chin, the table, and the floor. “Would you give it a shot?” I asked. “For Mommy? School sounds pretty exciting to me. Lots of fun, and you get to play games.”

Since I had the spoon, he stabbed his finger into the yogurt, then proceeded to draw a line of goop on the tabletop.
Come on, Tim
, I mentally urged.
Say yes and make Mommy feel less guilty.

“Buddy?” I asked. “What do you say?”

“Okay, Mommy.” He sounded much perkier than he had only moments before, and I wondered if in his little two-year-old brain, he was already off on some other topic. I wasn’t about to ask, though. His blessing (such that it was) assuaged my guilt, and I headed into the living room to pack up our things.

Tim was his typical cheery self the entire ride to the day care center. I plastered on a happy face, told him this was
his
school, then proceeded to list off all the wonderful and exciting things he’d do that day. He eyed me warily, my only clue that he might be less than keen on this plan the thumb that went automatically into his mouth.

I got out and walked around the car to let him out. He was sitting there, quietly sucking away, when I slid the door open. “You’re going to have so much fun at school,” I said. “Aren’t you, buddy?”

The thumb emerged, followed by a brief nod and an “Okay, Mommy.” I called that a victory, then proceeded to unstrap him from the car seat. I helped him down, then held his hand as we walked inside. So far, all was well.

I found Nadine behind a reception counter. I’d called her from the road and begged to start Timmy today instead of tomorrow. She promised to arrange it all, and sure enough, as soon as I arrived, she passed me a variety of papers to sign and asked for the balance due on the month’s tuition. Timmy behaved throughout this entire process. But the moment I handed over the check, he started to howl. It may have taken him a while to figure out exactly what was going on here, but now that he’d clued in, he was having none of it.