Julie Kenner - Carpe Demon

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CARPE DEMON

Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom

By

Julie Kenner

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

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Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England This book is an

original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's

imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover design by Richard Hasselberger.

Cover illustration by Mark Gerber. Text design by Stacy Irwin.

BERKLEY is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

The "B" design is a trademark belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

PRINTING HISTORY

Berkley trade paperback edition / July 2005

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kenner, Julie.

Carpe demon : adventures of a demon-hunting soccer mom / by Julie Kenner.—1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 0-425-20252-6

1. Suburban life—Fiction. 2. Demonology—Fiction. 3. Mothers—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3611.E665C37 2005

813'.6—dc22

204058320

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

For Allison and Kim.

Thanks for letting me take Kate and run with her!

From the back cover...

"Ninety-nine percent of the wives and moms in the country will identify with this heroine. I mean,

like who hasn't had to battle demons between carpools and playdates?"

—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author of Falling Awake

Lots of women put their careers aside once the kids come along. Kate Connor, for instance, hasn't

hunted a demon in ages…

That must be why she missed the one wandering through the pet food aisle of the San Diablo Wal-Mart.

Unfortunately, he managed to catch her attention an hour later—when he crashed into the Connor house,

intent on killing her.

Now Kate has to clean up the mess in her kitchen, dispose of a dead demon, and pull together a dinner

party that will get her husband elected to County Attorney—all without arousing her family's suspicion.

Worse yet, it seems the dead demon didn't come alone…

It's time for Kate Connor to go back to work.

NOVEL

www.penguin.com

ISBN 0-425-20252-6

Acknowledgments

That I do not speak Italian became painfully apparent when I e-mailed my

pieced-together-from-Internet-research dialogue to the fabulous Eloisa James with SOS in the subject

line, and she very politely told me that I had it all wrong. Even better, she fixed it for me! So a special

thanks to Eloisa for saving my linguistically challenged rump. (But if there are mistakes, blame me and not

her!)

That I do not know Latin became painfully apparent way back in high school. I didn't even try the

Internet route in that regard, just sent out an SOS to the Novelists, Inc. e-mail loop (a wonderful list!)

and heard back almost immediately from Eve Gaddy (who couldn't answer my question but who put me

in touch with a man who could). Thanks to John Harris, Ph.D., who pulled it together for me. I don't

think I've ever taken quite so much pleasure in watching someone analyze the linguistic nuances of telling

the dead to rise!

That I know little about fencing became painfully apparent when the fencing scene was filled with more

XX's than text, indicating all those places where I needed terminology. Thanks to Stefan Leponis for

helping me fill in the blanks and giving me wonderful insight into the world of fencing. And thanks to

He-len for noticing my "I need fencing terminology" whine in my blog and sending her husband, Stefan, to

my rescue!

That I know little about karate… well, you get the drift. Special thanks to the wonderful and talented

Lexie for helping me out with uniforms and other details (and, if memory serves, getting to stay up a bit

past bedtime to filter answers back to me through her mom), and to Nancy Northcott for outlining some

of the moves she learned in class.

Also thanks to Deacon Ron Walker, St. Mary's Parish, Austin, Texas, who helped with the Cathedral

layout and other Catholic-related stuff that I really should have known…

Again with the caveat: All mistakes are my own. And they were on purpose. Really. Call it literary

license. Really …

And, finally, a special thanks to Don, Kim, Kassie, Allison, Dee, and Kathleen, who all loved Kate from

the moment they met her. And that means the world to me!

Chapter One

My name is Kate Connor and I used to be a Demon Hunter.

I've often thought that would be a great pickup line at parties, but with a teenager, a toddler, and a

husband, I'm hardly burning up the party circuit. And, of course, the whole demon-hunting thing is one

great big gargantuan secret. No one knows. Not my kids, not my husband, and certainly not folks at

these imaginary parties where I'm regaling sumptuous hunks with tales from my demon-slaying,

vampire-hunting, zombie-killing days.

Back in the day, I was pretty cool. Now I'm a glorified chauffeur for drill-team practice and Gymboree

play dates. Less sex appeal, maybe, but I gotta admit I love it. I wouldn't trade my family for anything.

And after fourteen years of doing the mommy thing, my demon-hunting skills aren't exactly sharp.

All of which explains why I didn't immediately locate and terminate the demon wandering the pet-food

aisle of the San Diablo Wal-Mart. Instead, when I caught a whiff of that telltale stench, I naturally

assumed it emanated exclusively from the bottom of a particularly cranky two-year-old. My

two-year-old, to be exact.

"Mom! He did it again. What are you feeding him?" That from Alison, my particularly cranky

fourteen-year-old. She, at least, didn't stink.

"Entrails and goat turds," I said absently. I sniffed the air again. Surely that was only Timmy I was

smelling…

"Mo-om." She managed to make the word two syllables. "You don't have to be gross."

"Sorry." I concentrated on my kids, pushing my suspicions firmly out of my mind. I was being silly. San

Diablo had been demon-free for years. That's why I lived here, after all.

Besides, the comings and goings of demons weren't my problem anymore. Nowadays my problems

leaned more toward the domestic rather than the demonic. Grocery shopping, budgeting, carpooling,

mending, cleaning, cooking, parenting, and a thousand other "-ings." All the basic stuff that completely

holds a family together and is taken entirely for granted by every person on the planet who doesn't

happen to be a wife and stay-at-home mom. (And two points to you if you caught that little bit of vitriol.

I'll admit to having a few issues about the whole topic, but, dammit, I work hard. And believe me, I'm no

stranger to hard work. It was never easy, say, cleaning out an entire nest of evil, bloodthirsty

preternatural creatures with only a few wooden stakes, some holy water, and a can of Diet Coke. But I

always managed. And it was a hell of a lot easier than getting a teenager, a husband, and a toddler up

and moving in the morning. Now, that's a challenge.)

While Timmy fussed and whined, I swung the shopping cart around, aiming for the back of the store and

a diaper-changing station. It would have been a refined, fluid motion if Timmy hadn't taken the

opportunity to reach out with those chubby little hands. His fingers collided with a stack of Fancy Feast

cans and everything started wobbling. I let out one of those startled little "oh!" sounds, totally pointless

and entirely ineffectual. There was a time when my reflexes were so sharp, so perfectly attuned, that I

probably could have caught every one of those cans before they hit the ground. But that Katie wasn't

with me in Wal-Mart, and I watched, helpless, as the cans clattered to the ground.

Another fine mess…

Alison had jumped back as the cans fell, and she looked with dismay at the pile. As for the culprit, he

was suddenly in a fabulous mood, clapping wildly and screaming "Big noise! Big noise!" while eyeing the

remaining stacks greedily. I inched the cart farther away from the shelves.

"Allie, do you mind? I need to go change him."

She gave me one of those put-upon looks that are genetically coded to appear as soon as a girl hits her

teens.

"Take your pick," I said, using my most reasonable mother voice. "Clean up the cat food, or clean up

your brother."

"I'll pick up the cans," she said, in a tone that perfectly matched her expression.

I took a deep breath and reminded myself that she was fourteen. Raging hormones. Those difficult

adolescent years. More difficult, I imagined, for me than for her. "Why don't I meet you in the music aisle.

Pick out a new CD and we'll add it to the pile."

Her face lit up. "Really?"

"Sure. Why not?" Yes, yes, don't even say it. I know "why not." Setting a bad precedent, not defining

limits, blah, blah, blah. Throw all that psycho mumbo jumbo at me when you're wandering Wal-Mart

with two kids and a list of errands as long as your arm. If I can buy a day's worth of cooperation for

$14.99, then that's a deal I'm jumping all over. I'll worry about the consequences in therapy, thank you

very much.

I caught another whiff of nastiness right before we hit the restrooms. Out of habit, I looked around. A

feeble old man squinted at me from over the Wal-Mart Sunday insert, but other than him, there was

nobody around but me and Timmy.

"P.U.," Timmy said, then flashed a toothy grin.

I smiled as I parked the shopping cart outside of the ladies' room. "P.U." was his newest favorite word,

followed in close second by "Oh, man!" The "Oh, man!" I can blame on Nickelodeon and Dora the

Explorer. For the other, I lay exclusive blame on my husband, who has never been keen on changing

dirty diapers and has managed, I'm convinced, over the short term of Timmy's life, to give the kid a

complete and utter complex about bowel movements.

"You're P.U.," I said, hoisting him onto the little drop-down changing table. "But not for long. We'll clean

you up, powder that bottom, and slap on a new diaper. You're gonna come out smelling like a rose, kid."

"Like a rose!" he mimicked, reaching for my earrings while I held him down and stripped him.

After a million wipes and one fresh diaper, Timmy was back in the shopping cart. We fetched Allie away

from a display of newly released CDs, and she came more or less willingly, a Natalie Imbruglia CD

clutched in her hand.

Ten minutes and eighty-seven dollars later I was strapping Timmy into his car seat while Allie loaded our

bags into the minivan. As I was maneuvering through the parking lot, I caught one more glimpse of the

old man I'd seen earlier. He was standing at the front of the store, between the Coke machines and the

plastic kiddie pools, just staring out toward me. I pulled over. My plan was to pop out, say a word or

two to him, take a good long whiff of his breath, and then be on my way.

I had my door half open when music started blasting from all six of the Odyssey's speakers at something

close to one hundred decibels. I jumped, whipping around to face Allie, who was already fumbling for

the volume control and muttering, "Sorry, sorry."

I pushed the power button, which ended the Natalie Imbruglia surround-sound serenade, but did nothing

about Timmy, who was now bawling his eyes out, probably from the pain associated with burst

eardrums. I shot Allie a stern look, unfastened my seat belt, and climbed into the backseat, all the while

trying to make happy sounds that would calm my kid.

"I'm sorry, Mom," Allie said. To her credit she sounded sincere. "I didn't know the volume was up that

high." She maneuvered into the backseat on the other side of Timmy and started playing peekaboo with

Boo Bear, a bedraggled blue bear that's been Timmy's constant companion since he was five months old.

At first Timmy ignored her, but after a while he joined in, and I felt a little surge of pride for my daughter.

"Good for you," I said.

She shrugged and kissed her brother's forehead.

I remembered the old man and reached for the door, but as I looked out at the sidewalk, I saw that he

was gone.

"What's wrong?" Allie asked.

I hadn't realized I was frowning, so I forced a smile and concentrated on erasing the worry lines from my

forehead. "Nothing," I said. And then, since that was the truth, I repeated myself, "Nothing at all."

For the next three hours we bounced from store to store as I went down my list for the day: bulk goods

at Wal-Mart—check; shoes for Timmy at Payless—check; Happy Meal for Timmy to ward off

crankiness—check; new shoes for Allie from DSW—check; new ties for Stuart from T.J. Maxx—

check. By the time we hit the grocery store, the Happy Meal had worn off, both Timmy and Allie were

cranky, and I wasn't far behind. Mostly, though, I was distracted.

That old man was still on my mind, and I was irritated with myself for not letting the whole thing drop. But

something about him bugged me. As I pushed the shopping cart down the dairy aisle, I told myself I was

being paranoid. For one thing, demons tend not to infect the old or feeble. (Makes sense when you think

about it; if you're going to suddenly become corporeal, you might as well shoot for young, strong, and

virile.) For another, I'm pretty sure there'd been no demon stench, just a particularly pungent toddler

diaper. Of course, that didn't necessarily rule out demon proximity. All the demons I'd ever run across

tended to pop breath mints like candy, and one even owned the majority share of stock in a mouth wash

manufacturer. Even so, common sense told me there was no demon.

Mostly, though, I needed to drop the subject simply because it wasn't my problem anymore. I may have

been a Level Four Demon Hunter once upon a time, but that time was fifteen years ago. I was retired

now. Out of the loop. Even more, I was out of practice.

I turned down the cookie-and-chips aisle, careful not to let Timmy see as I tossed two boxes of Teddy

Grahams into the cart. In the next aisle, Allie lingered in front of the breakfast cereal, and I could

practically see her mind debating between the uberhealthy Kashi and her favorite Lucky Charms. I tried

to focus on my grocery list (were we really out of All-Bran?), but my brain kept coming back to the old

man.

Surely I was just being paranoid. I mean, why would a demon willingly come to San Diablo, anyway?

The California coastal town was built on a hillside, its crisscross of streets leading up to St. Mary's, the

cathedral that perched at the top of the cliffs, a focal point for the entire town. In addition to being

stunningly beautiful, the cathedral was famous for its holy relics, and it drew both tourists and pilgrims.

The devout came to San Diablo for the same reason the demons stayed away—the cathedral was holy

ground. Evil simply wasn't welcome there.

That was also the primary reason Eric and I had retired in San Diablo. Ocean views, the fabulous

California weather, and absolutely no demons or other nasties to ruin our good time. San Diablo was a

great place to have kids, friends, and the normal life he and I had both craved. Even now, I thank God

that we had ten good years together.

"Mom?" Allie squeezed my free hand, and I realized I'd wandered to the next aisle, and was now holding

a freezer door open, staring blankly at a collection of frozen pizzas. "You okay?" From the way her nose

crinkled, I knew she suspected I was thinking about her dad.

"Fine," I lied, blinking furiously. "I was trying to decide between pepperoni or sausage for dinner tonight,

and then I got sidetracked thinking about making my own pizza dough."

"The last time you tried that, you got dough stuck on the light fixture and Stuart had to climb up and dig it

out."

"Thanks for reminding me." But it had worked; we'd both moved past our melancholy. Eric had died just

after Allie's ninth birthday, and although she and Stuart got along famously, I knew she missed her dad as

much as I did. We talked about it on occasion, sometimes remembering the funny times, and sometimes,

like when we visited the cemetery, the memories were filled with tears. But now wasn't the time for

either, and we both knew it.

I squeezed her hand back. My girl was growing up. Already she was looking out for me, and it was

sweet and heartbreaking all at the same time. "What do you think?" I asked. "Pepperoni?"

"Stuart likes sausage better," she said.

"We'll get both," I said, knowing Allie's distaste for sausage pizza. "Want to rent a movie on the way

home? We'll have to look fast so the food doesn't spoil, but surely there's something we've been wanting

to see."

Her eyes lit up. "We could do a Harry Potter marathon."

I stifled a grimace. "Why not? It's been at least a month since our last HP marathon."

She rolled her eyes, then retrieved Timmy's sippy cup and adjusted Boo Bear. I knew I was stuck.

My cell phone rang. I checked the caller ID, then leaned against the grocery cart as I answered. "Hey,

hon."

"I'm having the day from hell," Stuart said, which was a poor choice of words considering that got me

thinking about demons all over again. "And I'm afraid I'm going to ruin your day, too."

"I can hardly wait."

"Any chance you were planning something fabulous for dinner? Enough to serve eight, with cocktails

before and some fancy dessert after?"

"Frozen pizza and Harry Potter," I said, certain I knew where this was going to end up.

"Ah," Stuart said. In the background I could hear the eraser end of his pencil tapping against his desktop.

Beside me, Allie pretended to bang her head against the glass freezer door. "Well, that would serve

eight," he said. "But it may not have quite the cachet I was hoping for."

"It's important?"

"Clark thinks it is." Clark Curtis was San Diablo's lame duck county attorney, and he favored my

husband to step into his shoes. Right now, Stuart had a low political profile, working for peanuts as an

assistant county attorney in the real estate division. Stuart was months away from formally announcing,

but if he wanted to have any hope of winning the election, he needed to start playing the political game,

shaking hands, currying favors, and begging campaign contributions. Although a little nervous, he was

excited about the campaign, and flattered by Clark's support. As for me, the thought of being a

politician's wife was more than a little unnerving.

"A house full of attorneys," I said, trying to think what the heck I could feed them. Or, better yet, if there

was any way to get out of this.

Allie sank down to the floor, her back against the freezer, her forehead on her knees.

"And judges."

"Oh, great." This was the part about domesticity that I didn't enjoy. Entertaining just isn't my thing. I hated

it, actually. Always had, always would. But my husband, the aspiring politician, loved me anyway.

Imagine that.

"I tell you what. I'll have Joan call some caterers. You don't have to do anything except be home by six

to meet them. Folks are coming at seven, and I'll be sure to be there by six-thirty to give you a hand."

Now, see? That's why I love him. But I couldn't accept. Guilt welled in my stomach just from the mere

suggestion. This was the man I loved, after all. And I couldn't be bothered to pull together a small dinner

party? What kind of a heartless wench was I?

"How about rigatoni?" I asked, wondering which was worse, heartless wench or guilty sucker. "And a

spinach salad? And I can pick up some appetizers and the stuff for my apple tart." That pretty much

exhausted my guest-worthy repertoire, and Stuart knew it.

"Sounds perfect," he said. "But are you sure? It's already four."

"I'm sure," I said, not sure at all, but it was his career, not mine, that was riding on my culinary talents.

"You're the best," he said. "Let me talk to Allie."

I passed the phone to my daughter, who was doing a good impression of someone so chronically

depressed she was in need of hospitalization. She lifted a weary hand, took the phone, and pressed it to

her ear. "Yeah?"

While they talked, I focused my attention on Timmy, who was being remarkably good. "Nose!" he said

when I pointed to my nose. "Ear!" I pointed to my other ear. "More ear!" The kid was literal, that was for

sure. I leaned in close and gave him big wet sloppy kisses on his neck while he giggled and kicked.

With my head cocked to the side like that, I caught a glimpse of Allie, who no longer looked morose. If

anything, she looked supremely pleased with herself. I wondered what she and Stuart were scheming,

and suspected it was going to involve me carpooling a load of teenage girls to the mall.

"What?" I asked as Allie hung up.

"Stuart said it was okay with him if I spent the night at Mindy's. Can I? Please?"

I ran my fingers through my hair and tried not to fantasize about killing my husband. The reasonable side

of me screamed that he was only trying to help. The annoyed side of me retorted that he'd just sent my

help packing, and I now had to clean the house, cook dinner, and keep Timmy entertained all on my

own.

"Pleeeeeeze?"

"Fine. Sure. Great idea." I started pushing the cart toward the dairy aisle while Timmy babbled something

entirely unintelligible. "You can get your stuff and head to Mindy's as soon as we get home."

She did a little hop-skip number, then threw her arms around my neck. "Thanks, Mom! You're the best."

"Mmmm. Remember this the next time you're grounded."

She pointed at her chest, her face ultra-innocent. "Me? In trouble? I think you have me confused with

some other daughter."

I tried to scowl, but didn't quite manage it, and she knew she'd won me over. Well, what the heck. I was

a woman of the new Millennium. I'd staked vampires, defeated demons, and incapacitated incubi. How

hard could a last-minute dinner party be?

Mindy Dupont lives at our exact address, only one street over. Once the girls became inseparable, Laura

Dupont and I followed suit, and now she's more like a sister than a neighbor. I knew she wouldn't care if

Allie stayed over, so I didn't bother calling ahead. I just bought a chocolate cake for bribery/thank-you

purposes, then added it to Allie's pile as she set off across our connecting backyards to Laura's patio.

(They're not technically connected. A paved city easement runs between us, and it's fenced off on both

sides. Last year Stuart convinced the city that they should install gates on either side, so as to facilitate

any city workers who might need to get back there. I've never once seen a utility man wandering behind

my house, but those gates have sure made life easier for me, Laura, and the girls. Have I mentioned I

adore my husband?)

A little less than ten minutes later I had Timmy settled in front of a Wiggles video, and I was pushing a

dust mop over our hardwood floors, trying to get all the nooks and crannies a judge might notice, and

ignoring all the other spots. I was pretty certain there was a dust bunny convention under the sofa, but

until the conventioneers started wandering out into the rest of the house, I wasn't going to worry about it.

The phone rang, and I lunged for it.

"Allie says you're doing the dinner party thing. Need help?"

As much as I loved her, Laura was an even more harried hostess than I was. "I've got it all under control.

My clothes are laid out, the sauce is simmering, the appetizers are on cookie sheets ready to go in the

oven, and I even managed to find eight wineglasses." I took a deep breath. "And they match."

"Well, aren't you just a little Martha Stewart? In the pre-scandal, domestic-goddess days, of course. And

the munchkin?"

"In his jammies in front of the television."

"All finished with bathtime?"

"No bath. Extra videos."

She released a long-suffering sigh. "Finally, a flaw. Now I don't have to hate you after all."

I laughed. "Hate me all you want for managing to pull this together. It's a feat worthy of your hatred." I

didn't point out that I hadn't actually pulled it off yet. I wasn't counting this evening as a success until the

Julie Kenner - Carpe Demon

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