Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (5 page)

“Judge Larson,” Stuart said from behind me. “So glad you could come.”

I held the door open wider and ushered him in. “Welcome to our home. I’m Kate, Stuart’s wife.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my dear,” he said. His voice had a gravelly Sean Connery-esque tone. I may be only thirty-eight, but I’ll confess to a tiny bit of debonair-lust. I could only hope that Stuart would be that sexy and sophisticated when he hit sixty.

“You have a beautiful home,” he added. We were still in the entrance hall, and as he spoke, he was passing me, close enough that I could smell the cologne he’d apparently bathed in. I wrinkled my nose. Sexy, maybe. But I think age must have degenerated his olfactory nerves.

And that’s when I caught it—a foul, garlicky stench hidden under wave after wave of Old Spice.
Holy shit
.

Forget attraction. Forget sophistication. Forget the fact that I had a party to host.

The judge in my foyer was a demon—and there was no way he was getting out of my house alive.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Instinct and long-ignored training
took hold, my muscles springing into action. I twisted at the waist, planning to kick back and ram my heel into the demon’s gut.

I didn’t make it.

At the same moment that my foot left the floor, common sense flooded my brain, and I jerked to a stop.
Too late
. My sudden shift in direction threw off my equilibrium, and I landed with a
plunk
on my rump, the ceramic tile cool through the thin material of my dress.

Stuart cried out my name, but it was Judge Larson who bent down and extended a hand. I stared at him, blinking, mentally reminding myself that I had demons on the brain and not everyone who desperately needed a Certs was Satan’s henchman.

“Mrs. Connor? Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’m fine.” Wary, I took his hand, encouraged when he didn’t immediately yank me to my feet and try to rip off my head. That had to be a good sign, right?

With Judge Larson holding my hand and Stuart gripping my elbow, the men helped me to my feet. “I’m so sorry,” I mumbled, my cheeks on fire. “I must have slipped on something. I’m terribly embarrassed.”

“Please,” the judge said. “Don’t be.”

By this time, Clark and Elizabeth had come in from the living room to see what all the commotion was about, and two more guests were coming up the walkway. How lovely. The entire gang was there to witness my mortification.

I tugged my hand free from Larson and focused on my husband. “I’m okay. Really.”

The worry I saw on Stuart’s face appeased my fear that my acrobatics had made a farce of the evening. “You’re sure? Is your ankle sprained?”

“It’s
fine
,” I said again.

It wasn’t fine, of course. It wasn’t fine at all. For all I knew, I was about to serve my famous rigatoni (famous because it’s the only dish I do well) to a demon. And right at the moment, I had no way to confirm Larson’s humanity.

I cast a sidelong glance Larson’s way as Stuart led us all toward the living room. I’d figure it out, though. He couldn’t keep his identity from me forever.

And if Larson turned out to be a demon, then there really would be hell to pay.

 

 

“More Brie?”
I held the tray in front of Larson, leaning forward like some little flirt showing off cleavage. If he wasn’t a demon, he probably thought I was hitting on him. Stuart, bless his heart, probably assumed I was having a psychotic episode.

But I was determined to get another whiff of the man’s breath. At the moment it was all I had to go on.

“No, thank you,” he said as I inhaled through my nose. No use. He’d already helped himself to quite a bit of the Brie, and now the pungent cheese odor masked whatever other stench might linger on his breath.

Frustrated, I slid the Brie back onto the table and took my seat next to Stuart. He and Judge Robertson, one of the late arrivals, were deep in a scintillating discussion of California’s three-strikes law.

“So, what do you think of three strikes?” I asked Judge Larson. “I’m all for it,” I went on, “except for those truly evil creatures that just deserve to be taken out, no matter what the cost.” I could see that I’d caught Stuart’s attention, and he was looking at me with some surprise. His platform was tough on crime, but not
that
tough.

“Vigilante justice?” Larson asked.

“In certain circumstances, yes.”

“Katie . . .” Stuart’s voice held a
What are you doing?
tone.

I smiled at him, but directed my words at Larson. “Just playing Devil’s advocate, honey.”

“Kate can debate with the best of them,” he said to the group. “And she’s got very firm views on crime.”

“Good and evil,” I said. “Black and white.”

“No shades of gray?” Elizabeth asked.

“Some things are uncertain, sure,” I admitted with a glance toward Larson. “I just find those things supremely frustrating.”

They all laughed. “Maybe your wife’s the politician, Stuart,” Judge Westin, a newly elected state court judge, said. “Be careful or
she’ll
be the new county attorney.”

Stuart rubbed my shoulder, then leaned over and planted a light kiss on my cheek. “She’d keep a tight rein on crime, that’s for sure.” He smiled broadly at the group, and I knew the politician had returned. “Of course, so will I.”

“All I intend to keep a tight rein on is some pasta.” I stood up, gesturing for the guests to stay seated. “I need to go finish dinner. If you’ll excuse me . . .”

In the kitchen I sagged against the counter, my heart beating wildly. I never used to be such a ditz about demon-hunting. Of course, I’d never entertained demons in my house before, either. In the past I’d been given an assignment and I’d carried it out. Simple. I never had to actually locate the demons; my
alimentatore
handled that part. I just did the dirty work.

And as dangerous and as messy as my old job had been, I think I preferred it to my current situation.

I pulled a wooden spoon from the drawer by the stove and stirred the sauce, feeling a little guilty that I wasn’t playing the perfect wife role to a T. At least the sauce had turned out great. Maybe a really kick-ass meal would make up for the fact that Stuart’s wife was a nutcase. (Just how important
was
a sane wife to a politician, anyway?)

I ran the evening’s events back through my mind and decided that Stuart’s career was still on track. Our guests probably just thought I had a little color and was tough on crime. I could live with that. More important,
Stuart
could live with that. Keep acting like a space case, though, and I’d blow his shot before he’d even announced his candidacy.

Think, Katie, think
. There had to be a way to figure out for sure if Larson was a demon without ruining my marriage, Stuart’s political aspirations, or the dinner party.

I turned the heat down under the sauce, then dumped the pasta into the boiling water, all the while considering my options. Unfortunately, there are very few foolproof litmus tests for identifying demons. If a demon has
possessed
a human while the human is still alive, it’s easy. Then you have a Linda Blair situation and there’s this whole raging battle inside the person. Very messy. Very easy to spot. And very
not
my job (former job, that is).

If you’re possessed, don’t call a Hunter. For that, you need a priest. It’s a painful, ugly, scary proposition involving lots of nasty invectives by the possessing demon, a multitude of body fluids, and utter and complete exhaustion. I know. I watched two as part of my training. (There’s nothing like a possession to get a Hunter in tune with
exactly
why we want to eradicate the nasty little demon bugs from the face of the earth.) It’s not something I want to see again.

But there wasn’t any battle raging inside Judge Larson. No, if I’d guessed right, Larson wasn’t possessed. Instead, he actually
was
a demon. Or, rather, a demon had moved in and the real Larson’s soul, like Elvis, had left the building.

It’s a sad fact that there are lots of demons inhabiting our world. Thankfully, most of them can’t do much in the way of annoying or harming humans. They’re just out there, floating around in a disembodied state, spending eternity looking for a human body to fill. A lot of them want to be human so badly that they go the possession route.

But it’s the ones with more patience that I worry about. These demons inhabit a body at the moment of death. As the person’s soul leaves, the demon slips in, just like Pops in my pantry. You’ve heard the stories of folks who couldn’t possibly survive a car wreck . . . but did? Or the person on the operating table who against all odds managed to pull through? Or the heart attack victim who collapsed . . . and then got right back up again with no apparent damage whatsoever?

Well, now you know.

Of course, it’s not as easy as all that. The timing has to be
just right
. Once the soul is gone, the entry point closes and, poof, no more opportunity. (That’s not
entirely
accurate. There’s a later point where the body is once again ripe for takeover. I think the decay opens a portal or something. I’m not a theologian. All I know is by that time, there are issues of rigor and worms and all sorts of gross stuff. Demons do resort to that on occasion, and I’ve fought a few zombies in my time. But since Larson clearly wasn’t a zombie, that really wasn’t my concern.)

The other thing about using a human body is that demons can’t inhabit the faithful. Those souls
fight
. So it’s not like a demon can just hang around a hospital waiting for folks to head out to the Great Beyond. It’s a lot harder than that. Which, when you think about it, is good news for all of us.

So, while there aren’t that many demons walking around in human shells, the ones that
are
out there are hard to spot. They blend in perfectly. (Well, there is the bad-breath thing, but how many non-Hunters clue in to that?) And disposing of them is a real pain in the butt.

But those demons
do
have certain idiosyncrasies that are useful to Hunters for identification purposes. I’d already tried the breath test on Larson. And while I thought he’d failed, I couldn’t get a good enough second whiff to confirm. And, frankly, even if his breath was so bad it knocked me over, that really wasn’t reason enough to stab him in the eye. It’s difficult enough covering up a demon killing. The accidental death of a nondemon judge was not something I wanted to explain.

Which meant I needed to find another test.

The best test was holy ground. Your run-of-the-mill demons can’t bear to enter a church. They can physically make it through the doors, but it just about kills them to do it. Major pain and suffering, and it only gets worse the closer they get to the altar. And if the altar happens to have incorporated the bones of a saint (which is pretty common), then we’re talking extreme depths-of-hell-quality torture. Not a pretty picture. But since there was no way I could convince Stuart, Larson, and the gang to take a little field trip to the cathedral, that test was pretty much useless.

Frowning, I turned on the tap. I needed to wash my hands and get dinner on the table. Demon detection could wait until after dessert.

And that’s when it hit me.
Holy water
. The answer was so obvious, I felt like an idiot for not thinking of it earlier. Just like in
The Exorcist
, holy water burns the shit out of demons. (And I’ve got to say that there’s very little in this world more satisfying than seeing those welts appear on a demon you’ve been stalking. Vengeful? Absolutely. But so very true.)

The timer dinged, which meant the pasta was ready. I dumped the pot into the colander, mixed the rigatoni with my secret sauce in one of the fancy serving bowls we’d received as a wedding present, then carried the dish to the table. I hesitated there, glancing toward the stairs, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My hunting gear was locked up in a trunk in the attic, but every good Hunter keeps a few essentials nearby, even after fifteen years. And I was pretty sure that if I looked in the bottom drawer of my jewelry chest, I’d find an oversized crucifix and at least one small bottle of holy water.

At least, I hoped I would.

I gnawed on my lower lip. Would they notice if I disappeared upstairs? Surely not. After all, I’d only be gone a second.

I was just about to risk it when Elizabeth stepped into the dining room, looking fabulous in something that I’m sure cost at least a month’s salary. (Her husband is a partner at McKay & Case, a personal injury firm. Let’s just say they don’t need to pinch pennies.)

“Can I help?”

I considered letting her finish putting the food on the table while I ran upstairs, but a burst of sanity vetoed that plan. I didn’t need the holy water this very instant. If Larson was a demon, I’d know soon enough. And in the meantime, he wasn’t going anywhere. (And what would I do if he
was
a demon, anyway? Killing him during dinner would be a social
faux pas
from which I’d never recover.)

As I finished preparing the table, Elizabeth called in the men. They came, and I seated myself next to Larson, pretending not to notice the chair Stuart held out for me.

We had the salad first, and I actually managed to participate in the conversation. (“Why, yes, I heard some developer wants to put in a mall on Third Street. I hope it falls through. That’s
so
near the beach.” “Actually, Allie grew the basil, Elizabeth. I’ll tell her how much you enjoyed it.” “Thank you. We certainly love our neighborhood.” Mundane. Boring. You get the drift.)

People tend to get more involved in eating once they get to the main course, abandoning polite small talk in favor of their stomachs. And that’s when I made my move. I cocked my head to the side and made a show of furrowing my brow. Then I leaned forward, meaningfully meeting Stuart’s eyes. “Did you hear that?”