Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (32 page)

I shook my head wearily. Only fourteen, and already my daughter was tag-teaming boys. Oh, well. At least she wasn’t sneaking off by herself. (For that matter, at least she wasn’t pregnant.
That
was a boy-girl-adolescent reality I really didn’t want to contemplate.)

“Is this the theater concession guy?” If so, I was going to have to say no. He might be a perfectly nice guy, but he had smelly breath, and that made him off limits until I was absolutely sure that it was just halitosis and not rampant demon stench.

“Oh,
Mom
. That’s Billy, and he’s so not the bomb.”

I presumed that meant he wasn’t her type. “So who is the guy?”

“He works at The Gap, and he’s
so
hot. Please, Mom.
Please?
He asked me specifically if I was going to be there. He
likes
me, Mom.”

“Is he a freshman, too?”

Another one of those pauses.

“Allie, believe it or not I have things to do today. Is he in your class?”

“I think he’s a senior,” she said.

“You think?”

“Well, I’ve only met him after school, but he hangs with the seniors, and if he likes me, then
I
can hang with them, too, and oh, Mom, you’re not going to say no, are you?”

She was talking so fast, I had to slow her words down in my head and replay them. I didn’t like the sound of this, but neither did I see an easy out. Parenting is a bit like walking a tightrope. Too little control and you fall right off. Too much, and you overcompensate and can’t move at all.

“Fine,” I finally said. “You can go. But I’m coming, too.”

I expected to hear a
Mo-om
, followed by another protest. Instead, she just sighed, then said, “Okay. Whatever. Thanks.”

I smiled, victorious. “Love you, sweetie. And shouldn’t you be in class?”

“First period’s study hall,” she said.

“Then go study something. And don’t make any more phone calls unless there’s blood or serious bodily injury.”

“Whatever, Mom,” she said, then hung up.

I glanced at the phone, the full import of what I’d just done settling in. I’d just agreed to spend an evening at the mall.

I think demons would be easier.

 

 

Since I didn’t have
much time in the archives (what with the forgotten playdate), I decided to take a different approach. I figured it was a (relatively) safe bet that Goramesh wasn’t looking for papers. And, frankly, I was bored reading them.

Instead, I went through boxes one by one, pulling off each lid, and then moving to the next box if that one held only paper. I probably should have done this from the get-go, but I’d assumed that anything Goramesh might want would have been pulled for the archivist, and my best bet was to scour the paperwork looking for a clue. I hadn’t changed my mind about that, but the thought of reviewing more musty paper really didn’t appeal to me. I justified my diversion by telling myself that I might get lucky.

As it turned out, I did find some cool things, but nothing that jumped out as demon-worthy. I even found the carton with the little gold box that Mike Florence had donated to the Church. When I’d originally read the description on the IRS list, I’d been keen to look at it, but now that I held it, I wasn’t as impressed. When I opened it, I was even less excited. All I found was something that looked like ash. Some weird kind of urn, maybe?

I continued with this extremely scintillating task for another hour. (This weekend I was begging access from Father Ben, and I
was
going to make Larson come down here with me. Fair is fair.) Then, discouraged, I gathered my things. I paused for a minute in front of the archive cases, thinking how much easier it would be if everything in the basement archive was nice and clean and in lighted glass cases. But it wasn’t. Oh, well. At least I had it better than those martyrs, now hanging out in their cloth pouches.

Thinking about the martyrs steeled me.
I
wasn’t about to end up defeated. Goramesh was not going to win. I was going to stop him. Somehow, I was going to bring this to a close.

Reinvigorated, I headed to the rectory and tracked down Father Ben. I was hoping he’d tell me that Clark had been skulking around the archives as well. But no, apparently the only ones interested in the basement lately were me and Stuart.

This didn’t bode well. Not for my plans to defeat Goramesh.

And, more important, it didn’t look good for my marriage.

 

 

As a Demon Hunter,
I’ve been exposed to some pretty exhausting situations. Days without sleep while I staked out a demon nest. Chasing after vamps down winding alleys in Budapest. All the usual stuff. But I’m here to tell you that none of that compares with the exhaustion and chaos of a playdate for four rambunctious two-year-olds.

An hour in, and the kids finally settled down (“settling down” being defined as “corralled in the den with enough toys to fill a Wal-Mart”) and the other moms and I gathered around the kitchen table with coffee and the last few cup-cakes that hadn’t been poked and prodded by sticky toddler fingers.

I’d just taken my first sip of coffee and was reveling in the normalcy of it all when Timmy’s familiar howl echoed from the den. I was on my feet in seconds, my first thought of demons dispelled the moment I entered the room.

There stood my little boy, arms akimbo, head tossed back, mouth wide open. And right beside him, little Danielle Cartright clutched Boo Bear and was grinning like a fiend. (I’m not big on criticizing kids, but Danielle is a pain in the patoot, and I feel sorry for whatever man she grows up and marries. I blame her mom, of course, and I do feel sorry for her dad. At the moment, though, I just felt sorry for Timmy.)

“Danielle,” I said, since her mother was noticeably silent, “why don’t you give Timmy back his bear, please.”

“NO!” Not only did she scream the response, she ran to the far side of the room, climbed into a chair, and sat on the bear. What a little charmer.

Her mother, Marissa, came up behind me. “She’s in a grabby stage,” she said, as if this would entirely solve the problem and dry my kid’s tears.

“Maybe you could ungrab her,” I said, trying very hard not to scream myself. Of course, I did have to scream a little, because Timmy’s howls had increased to an eardrumbursting decibel level, and he’d raced my way. I scooped him up, but even Mommy’s presence couldn’t stop the tears from flowing.

“He really shouldn’t be so attached to a toy,” Marissa said.

I bristled, muscles tensing as I imagined her fresh linen suit with a big old footprint about chest level. A hand closed over my shoulder, and a soft, “Hey, Timmy. Calm down, okay?”

Laura
. She and Eddie had been on the computer in Stuart’s study, and she must have heard the commotion. Me being no dummy, I knew that the “calm down” comment was meant as much for me as it was for Timmy.

“We’re calm,” I said, aiming a
get-the-bear-back-or-die-you-bitch
smile toward Marissa.

“Let me see if I can convince Danielle that she should give the bear back,” Marissa said, apparently sensing danger.

“Great idea,” I said.

I then watched in fascinated horror as she spent
fifteen minutes
trying to negotiate with her two-year-old. The end result? No bear.

Play group was officially over by now, and the other moms (probably smelling blood) said their good-byes and rushed their offspring out. Marissa didn’t seem to clue in on either the inconvenience or my irritation. She was, however, still crouched in front of her kid trying gamely to recover Boo Bear. By this time Timmy had cried himself out, and I settled him on the sofa, promising that Boo Bear was just visiting Danielle and would return to him soon.

I wanted to shove Marissa out of the way and tear the bear from Danielle’s hot little hands, but I knew that wasn’t the Emily Post-approved solution. And so I waited, my fury with Marissa building as she wheedled and needled and generally trained her daughter to grow up to be a selfish little twit (poor kid). Finally, after a period of time resembling the length of your average ice age, Marissa promised the girl ice cream
and
a new toy
and
a pony ride at the zoo. After which, Danielle climbed out of her chair and, just as pretty as you please, marched over to Timmy and shoved Boo Bear in his face.

“Thank you,” Timmy said (and
he
said it without prompting, not that she deserved to be thanked).

I played polite hostess all the way to the door, but the second I closed and locked it, I turned to Laura. “That woman is a—”

“You can’t kill her.”

“If she were a demon, I could.” And boy, did I wish she were.

“She’s not a demon.”

I glanced back to where Timmy was sitting, curled on the couch, thumb in his mouth, a forlorn expression drawn across his face. My heart twisted in my chest. “She is to me,” I said. “She sure as hell is to me.”

 

 

The girls may have gone
upstairs together, but only Allie came down dressed to work out. Mindy was still in her school clothes, and both Laura and I examined her quizzically. “Going for the realistic approach?” I asked. “You’re more likely to get mugged in your street clothes, but I think you’ll learn better in shorts and a T-shirt.”

Mindy became suddenly fascinated with my carpeting. “I’m not sure I want to go.”

“Not go?” Laura said. “What do you mean you’re not going to go?”

Mindy shrugged, her eyes wide, obviously not understanding her mother’s sudden fascination with the wonderful world of kickboxing.

Allie had sidled over toward me, and I raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “She’s scared of looking stupid in front of Cutter,” Allie whispered. “She thinks he’s cute.”

“Mindy Jo Dupont.” Laura prompted. “Kate put a lot of effort into getting you signed up for this class. Now, why don’t you want to go?”

“I just have so much homework.” She shoved her hands in her pockets. “You know.”

“What I know, young lady, is that there are all kinds of creeps and weirdos out there in the world.” Laura spoke with a force I barely recognized, but I knew its source well enough. I’d tainted her safe little world. And that was something I could never change back.

“You’re going to class and you’re going to learn how to defend yourself.” She turned around to look at me, her face glowing from her maternal power trip. “In fact, if there’s room in the class, I think I’ll join you.”

Mindy and Allie didn’t even attempt to hide their amazement. For my part, I wasn’t so much amazed as surprised. I’d been firmly of the belief that neither hell nor high water would get Laura to anything remotely resembling an exercise class.

Apparently I’d been wrong about the hell part of the equation.

“I’m impressed,” I whispered to her later as the girls clambered into the van. “You. Exercising. In public.”

She made a face. “You laugh, but I know the score. It’s always the comic relief who gets nailed. I’ve seen enough movies to know that.” She adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “And this is one sidekick who isn’t going down without a fight.”

 

 

“Good going there, girlie!”
From the sidelines, Eddie cheered Allie on. Beside him, Timmy was turning somersaults on a mat Cutter had spread out for him.

After warming up, Cutter had moved on to the nitty-gritty, showing the class how to break free if someone grabs your wrist. Allie managed the maneuver (pulling your arm up and away so that you take advantage of the attacker’s thumb, the weakest link) and I was applauding wildly as well.

“Now let’s try your mom,” Cutter said.

I shook my head. He was baiting me, but I wasn’t about to fall for it. As much as I wanted to hit someone (thank you, Marissa), as far as Allie was concerned, I was a novice here, too.

Cutter caught me from behind and I pushed off, using a stance and a move that—had I done it right—would have tossed him over my shoulder and landed him on the mat. Not so today.

“Come on, Mom! You nailed him last time.”

“Beginner’s luck,” I said as Cutter wrestled me down to the mat.

“Beginner’s luck, my ass,” Cutter said. “I’m going to figure this out, you know.”

He spoke in a whisper, and I answered the same way. “Not unless I want you to, you won’t.”

From his grimace, I knew he believed me. “Focus on the girls and Laura,” I said. “I can take care of myself.”

To his credit, he did (with Eddie shouting encouragement from the sidelines, including the occasional “Oh, yeah,
that
one’ll make one hell of a Hunter”). Fortunately, Allie was too busy sweating to concentrate on Eddie’s bizarre comments. Either that, or she’d learned to take him in stride.

By the end of the hour I thought the girls had a pretty good start. At the very least they’d each gotten the yell down. (Which, actually, is a key component of any self-defense move. The yell strengthens your abs and puts more force behind the kick. It’s all about the abs, you know.)

After the lesson the girls were bouncy and glowing (girls glow, boys sweat), chattering on about how cool Cutter was, and how cool they were, and how they’d beat the crap out of anyone who messed with them. Another mom might think this was a bad thing. I was all for it.

Because the glow really was sweat, we had to head home before going to the mall so the girls could shower and primp. Usually the dressing to meet a boy process takes upward of two hours, but since we were working under a deadline here (the mall closes at nine on weekdays), the girls allotted themselves an unheard-of thirty minutes.

Laura and Mindy crossed the yard to their house, and while Timmy watched a
Blue’s Clues
video, I waited with Eddie in the kitchen for Allie to come back downstairs. Eddie’s outbursts had slowed down, and he seemed less fuzzy. I’d been wanting to ask him questions—What exactly was going on at Coastal Mists? Did he have any expertise on Goramesh? Did he have any clue as to what Goramesh was looking for?—but this was the first time we’d really had any privacy.