Pax Demonica (3 page)

“No,” Stuart said. “I mean Rome. How does it feel to be back?”

“Oh.” I hesitated, searching Stuart’s face for hidden meaning. He was talking about Rome, but was he really wondering about
Forza
? About my past with Eric, who’d also been a Hunter?

Eric is Allie’s father and my first husband. He’d been my best friend, my partner throughout my early years as a Demon Hunter, and when we’d retired and moved to California, I’d looked forward to a long, happy, and normal suburban life. It hadn’t worked out that way, and ten years into our marriage, Eric had been killed in a violent mugging—or so I’d thought.

I’d picked up the pieces of my life, met Stuart, fallen in love, and gotten married all over again. When Stuart and I had first started dating, he’d believed I was a widow with a nine-year-old daughter. True enough, but I’d neglected to tell him about my past. To be fair to me, I was retired at the time, and a history of killing demons isn’t the kind of thing that comes up on your typical date. But I kept my mouth closed even after he put a ring on my finger. And even after we’d had a child.

Then a demon had crashed through our kitchen window and tried to kill me, and suddenly I was back in business. I still didn’t tell Stuart, though. Not even after Allie learned my secret. Not even after Eric reappeared in my life, albeit in the body of another man, a scenario that, unfortunately, none of those marital help books even bother to address.

So much for typical suburbia, right?

In retrospect, I’d been a fool. I can now say with absolute authority that when your dead ex-husband mystically returns to life, it’s always a good idea to let the current husband know. It’s a trust thing, and I blew it. Stuart ended up learning about Eric’s return at the same time he learned about my Demon Hunting past. And, no, it wasn’t easy. Not on him, not on me, and not on our marriage.

And then, to make matters even more complicated, it turned out that the first husband I still loved—and who still loved me—had kept a few secrets of his own. Like, for example, the fact that a demon had taken up residence inside him.

Eric fought—hell, yeah, he’d fought. I’ll even go so far as to say that he won. But there wasn’t exactly a ticker tape parade in the streets of San Diablo after the battle. Horrified by what he’d done when the demon had taken control of his body, Eric had left San Diablo for Los Angeles, saying that he needed space to think.

And as for Stuart—well, it’s one thing watching your wife fighting evil out there in the world. It’s something else entirely when that evil is part of your extended family.

I’d like to say that I didn’t blame Stuart for taking Timmy away—for fearing that the only way to keep my baby safe was to get him the hell away from me.

I’d like to say it, but I’d be lying.

Instead, I’d been heartbroken, furious, confused, guilty. You name it, I felt it. Allie and I had been alone, and I’d been lost in a red haze of emotion. Anger at Stuart for leaving and for taking Timmy. Guilt for wanting Timmy at my side, even though I knew that the very nature of what I was—what I did—meant that he would always be in danger. Anger at Eric for walking away. And, yes, guilt because I still wanted him there, despite the fact that I had another family. Another life.

I’d craved home and family, and it had been
Forza
I’d turned to. I needed the familiar comfort of the dorms—of the life that had once been the only thing I knew. And since Father Corletti had already suggested that Allie come over to train and study, the decision was an easy one.

Allie and I had been lost in a flurry of last minute preparations when Stuart and Timmy had arrived on the doorstep. He wanted to fight for me, Stuart had said. He wanted to fight for our marriage.

I believed him. So help me, I did.
I do.
And when I’d folded myself into his arms, it had felt as though I’d been blessed.

But my deep down, horrible secret? I didn’t fully trust him—I couldn’t, not after he’d left me. Not even though he came back. And no matter how close he held me—no matter how many times he apologized—that truth still hung there between us. Because despite “for better or for worse,” he’d walked away from me, from Allie, from our family.

I’d made the decision to come back to Rome because I needed space to deal with that. To get my head around it.

And even though I meant every word when I said that I wanted this to be a kick-ass family vacation, I couldn’t escape that tiny part of me that resented Stuart for coming along.

In other words, I was a mess. And the lack of sleep really wasn’t helping.

“Kate?” Stuart was frowning at me now. “I didn’t realize it was such a hard question.”

“What? Oh! Sorry.” I sat up straighter and managed a smile. “Sorry,” I repeated. “Mind wandering. I’m tired. But yeah, it’s good to be back.” I glanced out the window again and saw that traffic had cleared and we’d made some serious progress. I hadn’t recognized much of the area around the airport, but now that we were circling the southern edge of Vatican City and approaching the Tiber River, I was noticing familiar landmarks. Places I’d walked with friends. Alleys I’d crept through on the hunt.

I caught a glimpse of the
Ponte Sant’Angelo
as we turned on to the
Piazza Pia
, and remembered the time that Eric and I had taken out a vampire that had interrupted one of our very first romantic strolls. I shot a quick glance at Stuart’s face and decided not to mention that.

“That’s the
Castel Sant’Angelo
,” I said, pointing to the magnificent structure that had been commissioned by the Emperor Hadrian as a mausoleum for himself and his family. “I used to spend a lot of hours wandering those halls. It’s a museum now,” I added in response to Stuart’s querying glance.

“We should go tomorrow,” Stuart said. “Or even this afternoon. A quick nap and I’ll be up for playing tourist.”

“Sure,” I said, even though what I meant was, “No.” I wanted to go to
Forza
. I wanted—no,
needed
—to see Father Corletti. I wanted to give him a hug and hear his familiar voice. And I wanted him to brush his hand over my daughter’s cheek and say, “Ah,
mia cara,
how much you have changed since last I saw you.”

And wasn’t that the truth?

Father Corletti had come to San Diablo after my first post-retirement adventure. He’d come to take personal charge of the Lazarus Bones, the ground-up remains of the bones of raised-from-the-dead Lazarus himself. Turns out that kind of thing is pretty important to demons, and a very nasty one had swept down on San Diablo hoping to do a little mischief. I’d managed to put a stop to it, and Father had come personally to retrieve the sack of mystical dust and to welcome me back to active duty. What can I say? I’d gotten a taste for the excitement again. More than that, though, I understood exactly what I was fighting for.
My family.

I glanced at Stuart and felt my heart twist a little. Truth was, I was
still
fighting for them. And so long as Stuart was trying, I would, too.

I drew in a breath and smiled. “Sure,” I repeated as I reached forward to take his hand. “We’ll do the museum whenever you want.”

Beside me, Allie shifted. “
Now
are we there? Or at least close?” The van was maneuvering the narrow Roman streets, the driver frequently laying on his horn and swearing quite creatively in heavily accented Italian.

“Not far,” I said. “If I’m remembering right, it’s just a few more blocks.”

“I think we could get there faster walking,” Allie said, and I had to concede she had a point. Our plane had landed just after seven in the morning local time, and we’d come into the city during the morning rush hour. All things considered, it was amazing we’d arrived as quickly as we did.

“If you’d packed lighter, walking might have been an option,” I teased. Though I’d begged, Allie had insisted on taking more or less everything she owned. I’d explained about the extra cost for overweight baggage. She’d countered that she was willing to pay it herself.

What can I say? I caved. So long as she lugged them and paid for them, she could bring all the bags she wanted.

“We can pile them all on Timmy’s stroller,” she said, then groaned loud and long. “I just want to
be
there.”

“Me, too, kiddo,” I said, thinking that her suggestion wasn’t half-bad. The stroller was one of those massive contraptions that did pretty much everything for the active parent other than diaper the kid. It bent, folded, collapsed and maneuvered rocky trails. It boasted every possible amenity with the exception of a built-in DVD player, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that showed up on the next model.

Despite all that, I didn’t think that it could handle four suitcases, two carry-ons, a backpack and a purse. But I will admit I was tempted.

“
Borgo Pio
?” Our driver asked, then rattled off the street number.

“Yes!” Allie and I said at the same time.

Situated in a bustling shopping area, our bed and breakfast, the
Bonne Nuit
, was just a stone’s throw from Vatican City. Not the
Forza
dorms, but close enough to visit.

“Mom, look!” Allie was pressed against the window pointing at something down the street. I shifted so that I had a view, and saw the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica looming over us.

“St. Peter’s,” I said.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. I meant
that
. Look! That shop doesn’t have anything but umbrellas!”

“Europe is a wild and wacky place,” I said as my daughter rolled her eyes at me.

When the driver finally maneuvered the van in front of our B&B, I shifted from mom-mode to playing the role of a general directing the unloading of the van, a process I was well into when the heavy wooden door to the B&B opened and a beaming woman with a round face and an even rounder body emerged, her arms spread wide. “Kate Connor! And is Alison?” She glanced at Stuart, who held a drowsy Timmy in his arms. “And Stuart, no? And the bambino? He is Timothy?”

“Timmy,” I said, stepping toward the woman. “You must be
Signora Micari
?”

“
Si! Si!
Come in, come in. My son, Paulo, he bring your things. Come,” she beckoned when my family hesitated. “I show you room, yes?”

“Go on in,” I said to Stuart and Allie. “I’ll pay the driver.” I wanted to wait for Paulo, too. As a Demon Hunter raised in the Church, my faith in God was strong. My faith in the gypsies and con artists who wandered the Roman streets? Not so much.

As it turned out, I was right to be leery. Because as I was counting out bills into our driver’s eager palm, a skinny street urchin grabbed Allie’s backpack off the pile and sprinted for a nearby alley. I smacked the last bill into the driver’s hand and took off in pursuit. I didn’t think I’d catch the kid. He was young and wiry, and considering the unkempt state of his hair and the grime-covered clothes, I assumed he was one of the many kids trained from birth to steal from the tourists. In other words, a pro who’d probably already dropped down into the sewers and was halfway to Milan by now.

I burst into the alley a few seconds after the kid did, certain I’d find nothing, and already rehearsing how I’d tell Allie that a good chunk of her belongings had decided to take off on a vacation of their own. Color me surprised when I found the kid waiting for me.

And even more surprised when his little fist shot out hard and fast, connecting with my jaw and sending me stumbling back against the hard stone wall of the alley.

Chapter 3

M
y head throbbed
, and I could feel a lump rising from where it had connected hard with the wall of the ancient stone building. The kid—no, the
demon
—had his hands clenched tight around my neck. He was small, and he had to tilt his head back to look up at me. But his diminutive size didn’t lessen his strength, and I was struggling to breathe as my vision narrowed, the periphery turning black as I gasped and choked in a futile attempt to suck in some much-needed oxygen.

“Where is it?” he asked, my mind barely registering that he spoke in perfect English. He lifted himself on his toes to get even more in my face. “
Where
?” he repeated.

I opened my mouth, struggling to make a sound.

He growled, then released his grip just enough so that I could answer.

I didn’t bother. Instead, I thrust my knee up and pivoted my foot out, connecting hard with his shin. As I’d hoped, he was already off balance from raising himself onto his toes to get in my face. The good news was that he stumbled backward. The bad news was that his hands were still around my throat and he took me with him.

We tumbled to the ground, him on his back and me straddling him. I slammed the edge of one hand hard against his throat, and as he gasped, I drove my other fist straight into his wrist. He released my neck, and I sucked in bucketsful of glorious air—along with the rotten egg and vinegar stench of his nasty demon breath.

“Where is what?” I demanded, shifting my position so that my knee was hard in his groin and my finger was poised right over his eye, the kind of threat he couldn’t ignore. That’s the trouble with international travel—I didn’t have anything sharp on me. I didn’t even have a barrette, having pulled back my hair twenty-plus hours ago with an elastic band.