Pax Demonica (7 page)

T
immy is the type who wakes
from a nap if you breathe too loudly, but he stayed asleep in my arms all the way to the other bedroom. Just one more benefit of international travel: intense toddler exhaustion.

Stuart lay sprawled across the still-made bed, his arm draped over his eyes and his chest rising and falling with his steady breath. Allie danced impatiently in the doorway as I tiptoed to the bed and gently put Timmy next to his father. I stood there frozen for a moment, not daring to move. One beat. Then two. Then three.

I drew in a relieved breath, then moved slowly and carefully to the window to quietly close the drapes. A ribbon of light moved over the bed, slowly growing thinner until it brushed the top of Stuart’s head, then slipped away into the gray light. Stuart didn’t move. I didn’t breathe. Another beat, then I tiptoed to the tiny desk and scrawled a note on the provided stationery.

Allie can’t sleep. T’s out like a rock. Doing the girlie thing and getting a head start on shopping. Text me. XXOO

I propped it up against the phone and headed toward Allie, giddy with success. My fingers closed around the doorknob, and I tugged gently.

Didn’t matter. The inevitable
squeeeeeeeek
filled the room. I swallowed, eyes fixed on Timmy, who remained blissfully, beautifully still.

Stuart, however, sat up.

He blinked groggily. “Kate?”

“Hey,” I whispered. “Go back to sleep. Timmy’s zonked and you look like you could use another hour or two.”

His head lolled to one side as he glanced at Tim. “If you’re sure you don’t mind.”

“Trust me. This way’s much better for our marriage. Less communal shopping is a good thing.”

“For the good of our marriage, then,” he said as I bit back a smile of pure victory. “Go.”

That victory, however, was sadly short-lived. Because the moment Stuart flopped back on the mattress, Timmy lurched up. He thrust his arms out and a cry of “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy” sprang from his lips.

I rushed to scoop him up, catching a glimpse of Allie’s head making dramatic contact with the doorjamb. I wasn’t unsympathetic, but I also couldn’t abandon my little guy.

“Okay, okay. I’m up, too.” Stuart punctuated his words by getting out of bed and stretching. “For the best anyway, I guess. Don’t all the travel books say you should avoid napping? Better to slug it out and then go to bed at a reasonable hour. Gets you over the jet lag faster.”

“Adults, maybe. But cranky toddlers? Maybe we should try to put him down again? Allie and I can come back in an hour. Even a little nap could make all the difference.”

Stuart eyed me. “You’d rather we stay behind?”

“No, no. Of course not.” I was glad he was up. I was glad Timmy had wakened. This was
Rome
, and I loved this city, and I wanted to share every square inch of it with my family.
I did
.

And yet . . .

And yet I didn’t. Because “every square inch” would mean
Forza.
All of
Forza
. Not just the tour, but the truth—what I needed to know. What I needed to learn.

“Every square inch” meant bringing Stuart into the loop. Maybe I hadn’t realized there was even going to be a loop when we boarded the plane in California, but I knew it now. And I knew I wasn’t ready to tell him. I knew from the way my mouth got dry and my stomach clenched and the words seemed to die on my tongue. I
needed
to share with my husband; any marriage counselor in the world would tell me that sharing is the path to healing.

Needed to. But didn’t want to. Because I didn’t trust him. Not fully. Not yet.

It broke my heart to admit it, but I couldn’t run from the truth any more than I could ignore a rampaging demon.

I’d have to tell him the truth soon—I got that. But soon wasn’t now. And so Allie and I waited with varying levels of impatience as Stuart and Timmy got ready. All things considered, they didn’t take too long, and we were down the stairs in less than fifteen minutes, ready to do some serious sightseeing and shopping. I knew this because Stuart had his earmarked copy of
Frommer’s
Guide to Rome
under his arm. “You may know the city,” he’d said to me on the plane as he highlighted section after section. “But I want to make sure we don’t miss something exceptional.” Apparently Stuart had as much faith in my skill as a tour guide as he had in my cooking.

“Go get the stroller,” Stuart said to Allie when we reached the foyer.

I held a hand up to stop her. “That thing is a leviathan,” I said. “Do we really have to take it?”

“He’ll last three minutes walking, and I won’t last much longer than that carrying him.”

“I have an idea,” I said, then went in search of Mrs. Micari. Three minutes later we were armed with directions to the Roman version of
Babies “R” Us
, just a little over a block away, right across from an ornate and ritzy hotel I’d been inside only once. A Syrian diplomat had died in the penthouse apartment, and a demon had taken advantage of the opportunity. Eric and I had climbed the fire escape to the roof, shimmied down some old piping to the balcony, broken in, and taken care of that little problem.

It had been my most James Bondian mission.

And I have to say that it’s one heck of a nice hotel.

We lucked out and found a cheap umbrella stroller in a sale bucket right in the front of the store. Within half an hour we were back on the street and heading toward the
Via Cola
, one of my absolute favorite places in the
Borgo Pio
. “We don’t have to do the shopping thing now,” Stuart said. “I know you’re anxious to see Father Corletti. Why don’t we go to
Forza
first?”

From behind Stuart, Allie’s eyes went wide. I looked down, focusing on pushing the stroller on the uneven street without injuring my son, myself, or an unsuspecting pedestrian.

“No can do,” I said, once again displaying my amazing skill at the deceitful arts. “I called while you were napping. He’s booked solid until later. And this works out great. Allie wants to shop, and we all need to eat.” And, now that I thought more about it, the longer I put off seeing Father, the more likely I would have heard from Laura about Thomas Duvall. Always nice when your manipulation and deception actually serves a legitimate purpose.

We turned the corner and paused, taking in the site of the white stone marketplace and the quaint shops covered by a smattering of flowering vines.
Home
. It hit me right in the gut, and I reached out automatically for Stuart’s hand. It was right there, and he held me tight, twining his fingers in mine.

“I never even came here that often,” I admitted. “But it’s just—”

“You’ve missed it.”

“Yeah,” I said. I raised myself up on my toes and kissed him. Truth was, I missed more than just Rome. “I love you, you know.”

He met my eyes and held them a beat longer than I expected. “I know,” he said. “I love you, too.”

“Guys,” Allie said. “Seriously? This is a vacation, not a honeymoon. Two kids with you, remember? Can we get on to the good stuff?”

I laughed. “And that would be?”

“Duh. The clothes. I mean, look. There.
Right there
.” She was pointing to a leather goods store two doors down, and I knew immediately what had drawn her attention—a very stealthy looking black jacket hanging limply on a too-skinny mannequin in the store window. “Can we?”

I considered. “Tell you what. Tim and I will head to the market and get some things for lunch,” I said, referring to the Trionfale market. “There are tables over there, see? Meet me there in half an hour and we’ll eat.”

“Better idea,” Stuart said. “I’ll endure the trauma of clothes shopping while you get the food, and then we’ll take a picnic lunch to the Trevi fountain.”

“Oh, can we, Mom?” Allie asked.

I consulted a mental map. The subway station wasn’t far. And we
had
bought a stroller for easy traveling. And Stuart had spent all those hours highlighting his guide book. . .

“Sure,” I said. “Thirty minutes? Right here?” We’d paused by an ornate fountain.

“Roger,” Stuart said and saluted.

I rolled my eyes. “Watch your wallets,” I admonished, looking at both of them in turn. “From pickpockets and,” I added, focusing on Stuart, “from overeager teenagers who will undoubtedly fall in love with the first jacket they see.”

“I hear Rome is overflowing with that type,” he said, then waved me off. Allie was at the shop door before I’d even gotten Timmy’s stroller turned around.

“Okay, kid. It’s you and me.”

“I hungry,” he said, then shoved Boo Bear’s ear into his mouth and bit down. I frowned. Not because the bear was filthy and my child was in danger of contracting impetigo (whatever the heck that was) or some other dread disease. But because I knew better than to let the bear leave a hotel room. But it was too late now. We were just going to have to be extra, extra careful.

One close call with a stuffed friend was one too many, and I doubted that if we lost the bear again that there’d be another nice friendly demon around to help us.

The market really was amazing—filled to the brim with booths and stations selling every manner of cheese, meats, fruits, vegetables, breads, pasta, coffee and on and on and on. I made a mental note to bring Allie and Stuart back, especially in light of Allie’s newly implemented all-natural, all-the-time eating regimen, which I expected to last at least until she found a package of Italian cookies too tantalizing to pass up.

I bought a couple of pounds of sliced salami from the butcher’s stand and some bread from the baker next door. The fruit stand was at the end of the hall and I maneuvered that direction, cursing the stroller, which really wasn’t fair since it was actually Timmy’s age and corresponding little baby legs that were the problem. Despite how many people lived in Rome—and considering how many of them either had children or were once children themselves—it is not a city conducive to maneuvering with kids.

This was not a Fun Fact that I remembered from my days living here.

We made it without banging into any unsuspecting pedestrian’s shins, running over any toes, losing Boo Bear, or encountering a pickpocket. We hadn’t even bought any fruits and vegetables, and already I considered the venture a success.

I grabbed a flat-bottom totebag lined with linen. It had a rather pathetic drawing of St. Peter’s printed on one side and an image of the Italian flag on the other. It cost fifteen American dollars and I’d be surprised if it lasted the week.

I didn’t even hesitate. I plunked my bread and sausages into the tote, hooked it over my shoulder, and started to inspect the fruit, trying to decide what everyone would eat. A white-haired woman in a green apron peered at me through narrowed, pinprick eyes. Considering the stroller, I couldn’t believe she thought I was going to bolt, but I reassured her just in case, enjoying another chance to speak my rusty Italian.

Not even three words were out of my mouth when her dour expression shifted, her eyes widened, and her face took on a warm, friendly vibe. I didn’t bother telling her that today I was a tourist. We’d bonded, she and I, and I listened as she reviewed in painstaking detail the quality and flavor of each of her wares. “Try,” she said in Italian, slicing off part of a fig and holding the juicy morsel out to me. “And for your little one, too.”

Timmy wasn’t strapped into this stroller, and he was on his feet and reaching for the fruit in seconds. The woman beamed, and as I watched her smiling at my son—my precious little almost-three-year-old—I saw just a flash of a girl on the other side of the stand.
Allie
?

For a second fear clutched me, but then the crowd shifted and I saw the girl again. Not Allie. This girl’s hair was blonde and shorter. But the shape of her face was so similar. And those eyes—her eyes were so like Allie’s it was uncanny.

Without thinking, I took a step toward her, which was absurd because not only did I not know that girl, but there was a huge display of melons in front of me. I didn’t touch the fruit—I’m certain I didn’t even come close—but suddenly I was caught in an avalanche of melons. The entire display seemed to be tumbling to the ground, and Timmy was standing there, hands flailing, suddenly squalling, and trying desperately to turn around and run away from the fruitapalooza.

“Tim!” I reached for him, but he went down too fast, slipping on a splattered melon. I bent to help him, but another pair of arms scooped him up first.

Time does a funny thing when you’re terrified, and I was scared to death in that moment. I saw right away that the arms belonged to a woman, but I didn’t know her, and my thoughts ranged from kidnapping to demons to black magic rituals involving innocent children. A mother’s fears surrounding her children were vivid enough—throw my particular profession into the mix and scary didn’t even begin to describe it.

“Give me my son,” I said, slowly and calmly in crisp, clear Italian. I didn’t have a weapon handy—I
knew
I should have unpacked the suitcases before we went out—but I grabbed a carrot off the produce stand. In a pinch, it would do.

The woman looked at me as if I were insane. “He fell,” she said in English. She smiled brightly at me, her brown eyes shining, and then at the once again dour produce seller who was currently shouting and tossing her hands about behind us, complaining loudly to no one in particular about how we had ruined her.
Ruined
her.

I knew I hadn’t started the melee. But I had my fears that Timmy had somehow been involved.

“Did you see what happened?” I asked the woman as she put Timmy down and he toddled to me. I scooped him up and held him in my arms.

She nodded, her dark curls bouncing as she urged me closer, her eyes on the produce lady. I expected her to tell me that Timmy had pulled out a single piece from the bottom. The keystone fruit upon which all the other fruits depended.

What I didn’t expect was the hand on my shoulder as she faced me and leaned in close, or the press of a knife to Timmy’s soft neck as she sandwiched his body between us. The icy chill of fear shot through me, and I tightened my grip on the carrot and forced myself not to move. Not to do anything that might upset her.