Demon 04 - Deja Demon (10 page)

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Authors: Julie Kenner

BOOK: Demon 04 - Deja Demon
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“Thirty minutes,” he said. “Max. And I’ll let you pick the movie.”
I cocked my head, thinking about everything I needed to do right then, the primary task being to find a missing demon.
At the same time, if Eddie had been responsible enough to hide the guy, then surely he’d be responsible enough to keep him safely tucked away until I returned. And if Eddie hadn’t hid the body, then sitting at home for thirty minutes wasn’t going to make the thing any easier to find.
That
, however, wasn’t something I wanted to think about.
I drew in a deep breath and nodded. “All right,” I said. “Thirty minutes.” Because, really, how much trouble could a missing demon cause in a measly half hour?

 

Five
"The Greatwater mansion?”
I asked, peering out the car’s window at the once-stately mansion that had fallen into serious disrepair. “Wow. I figured you guys would start with something smaller.”
“So did I,” Stuart admitted, his voice laced with excitement. “But the price is right, and the potential profit is astronomical. ”
Built in the twenties, the place had been home to one of Hollywood’s legendary silent-film producers. Or, rather, it had been one of his homes. Then as now, money flowed in Hollywood.
Over time, though, the house had changed hands and fallen into disrepair. The only house on that side of the street, the building sat back from the road behind what must have once been an impressive stone fence. Now the stone had crumbled, leaving a view of the equally ramshackle home and neglected yard.
I blinked, and had a vision of our savings spiraling down a whirlpool. In theory, I fully supported Stuart’s decision to dabble in real estate. In practice, I was a fiscal wimp. “I guess there are tons of people in California who’d want a place like this,” I said. “It’s like a little slice of Hollywood.”
“That’s what Bernie and I are hoping. Want to see the inside?”
“Sure,” I said. How could I say no when he looked so enthusiastic?
The house was even more magnificent up close, with intricate stonework and an attention to detail that you really don’t see in modern houses. “Fabulous, isn’t it?” Stuart asked as we approached the majestic front door. “Can’t you see Timmy’s trains all over the front porch?”
I laughed. “Don’t even think about it. If you buy this house, you’re buying to sell.” Still, I had to silently acknowledge the appeal. The house had an old-world quality that reminded me of my youth, and I really could imagine Timmy’s toys littering the front porch, and Allie’s friends gathering in the front yard amid the hibiscus and birds of paradise. Even more, I could imagine Allie and me training in a closed-off wing, and I have to admit I secretly coveted the idea of having that much extra space. Room in the attic to seriously practice throwing a knife? What suburban mom doesn’t want that for her daughter?
“How long has it been empty?” I asked as Stuart dialed a combination into a lockbox attached to the porch.
“Six months. But Emily Greatwater’s been ill for years, which explains the condition it’s fallen into.”
He popped the key out of the lockbox and approached the front door, turning the knob first and finding it open. He pushed the door open, the creaking hinges singing out like something from an old Vincent Price movie.
He looked at me. “So much for the lockbox.”
“No kidding.” I followed him inside and found myself in a grand entrance hall, illuminated by a wash of light falling in from the floor-to-ceiling windows. But even the California sun couldn’t erase the eerie quality of the room. Shadows fell across the marble floor, and cobwebs hung wide and across corners. The banister of the massive staircase, however, was dust free, as if a ghostly specter dragged a dainty hand-duster along when making its midnight rounds. The place was still furnished, and though most of the pieces were covered with white dropcloths, a few stately pieces had been uncovered, the intricate woodwork a perfect complement to the grand nature of the room.
A pile of rags lay abandoned in one corner, and that combined with the unlocked door made me wonder if this stately old place wasn’t currently home for well-housed squatters.
“A lot of work,” I said, heading down that slippery slope that would lead to breaking into our retirement account. “But this place really could be spectacular.”
“Keep going,” he said, indicating with his hand that I should head farther into the room. “From what Bernie tells me, it gets better.”
I shot him a questioning look over my shoulder, but did as he asked and soon found myself at a fabulous set of french doors overlooking an ornate stone patio and, beyond that, what had to be an amazing view. I unlocked one of the doors and stepped onto the cracked stonework of a massive balcony extending out by at least twenty feet.
“Wow,” I breathed. “It’s like another room out here.” With Stuart following, I led the way to the railing, and found myself gazing out at the reason people move to California. Lush green tapering off to tawny sand and beyond that—stretching for miles—the deep blue of the Pacific Ocean.
The house was nestled at the top of one of San Diablo’s many hills. Not mountains, really, so much as attempts at mountains. As if the topography had tried to extend all the way to this part of the coast and simply couldn’t bring itself to do it.
From this vantage point, we had a stellar view of another hill, this topped by the stunning beauty of St. Mary’s Cathedral, a focal point for the entire town. That view was juxtaposed against the view of the San Diablo cemetery over which the house seemed to protrude. I looked down, saw the familiar Monroe family mausoleum, and found my breath catching in my throat. Eric was buried right next to Alexander Monroe, famous as the town’s founder. Actually, the whole family was famous, from the patriarch Alexander to the freakish great-great-great et cetera grandson, Theophilus Monroe, who in the nineteen twenties had dabbled with psychics and ouija boards and ultimately left for Hollywood, where he set up a dubious career advising starlets out of their net worth. Apparently Theophilus was a bit of a bad apple who went out of his way to demonstrate that he didn’t hold to his ancestor’s pious ideals.
And it was only a few months ago that the Monroe mausoleum had played a role in raising David from the dead.
“Spectacular,” I said, turning away and hoping Stuart wouldn’t notice my reaction.
“I know, isn’t it? I’m surprised there aren’t rumors the place is haunted. Look there,” he added, urging me to turn and look at a spiral staircase leading off the balcony and descending down to the cemetery. “For those romantic late-night strolls.”
I conjured a smile. “Maybe we should come here tonight instead of the movie.”
“Not on your life,” Stuart countered. “I have very specific plans for tonight, and they require a darkened movie theater. ”
“Oh really? In that case, you better finish showing me around. I need to make a significant dent in my to-do list if you don’t want me being a distracted date.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said as we headed back through the french doors. “So what do you think? Am I crazy?”
I looked around the huge room that must have once been spectacular. The potential was still there, but it was hiding under a million layers of grime and a thousand hours of repair. “I don’t know how you think you can do it all,” I said honestly. “Work. The campaign. The kids. If you think you can add flipping a house to the mix, I’m not going to argue. But I worry you might be overextending yourself a little bit.” Not that I wanted to tell Stuart at the moment, but I knew a little bit about piling one’s personal plate too full.
“It’s a concern,” he said. “But I’ve been thinking what to do on that end as well.” He reached over and squeezed my hand, his expression far away and a little devious. “I think I’ve got it all figured out.”
“Yeah? So tell me.”
He flashed an enigmatic grin. “Maybe tonight. Deep thinking requires popcorn.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Methinks the man is keeping something from me.”
“Never,” he said, so sincerely that a knot of guilt twisted in my stomach. The same answer asked of me wouldn’t generate nearly as earnest a response.
“Well, if your secret plan is to have me do all the work on your investment houses while you’re out fighting for truth and justice, I think there’s a fatal flaw in your plan.”
“You wouldn’t set aside your entire day to lay tile or texture drywall?”
“For you?” I teased, “of course. But you might not like the results. Remember the wallpaper in Allie’s room?” I’d had the bright idea that I could handle wallpaper by myself. Let’s just say I was wrong.
“Good point,” he said.
I wanted to question him more about his secrets, but my cell phone rang and I automatically shoved my hand into my purse, my heart jumping in my chest as it did every time the phone rang and both kids weren’t within shouting distance.
Italy.
I considered not answering, realized that would seem odd, and flipped the phone open.
“Hey!” I said brightly. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been working on the Easter fair stuff all week, but I’ve still got a few details I need worked out.” Am I as mooth liar or what? Honestly, it’s remarkable how proficient I’ve become at the fine art of deceit.
At the other end of the phone, I heard a confused, “Katherine? ” And then, in a flurry of rushed Italian, “Are you all right?”
“Of course this is an okay time,” I said. “Hang on one second.”
I flashed my husband my best overworked-mommy smile. “I’m sorry, but this committee-head thing is more complicated than it sounds. I know you want to look around, so you go wander. I’ll just be a minute.”
Fortunately, I was right. Stuart did want to check the place out, and he gave in to my suggestion without even the slightest protest. He headed to the kitchen, and I headed as far away from him as I could, moving up the marble staircase and then down a grand hallway until I found a wood-paneled room filled with furniture that would have made an
Antiques Roadshow
host swoon.
“Father,” I whispered. “I’m sorry. I was with Stuart, and—”
“You must not worry, child,” he said, switching to English for my benefit. “I understand.”
“So what can you tell me? Who’s after me?” I moved across the room and shut the door. If I knew Stuart, he was on his hands and knees investigating the plumbing. But even so, I didn’t want to risk him searching me out and getting an earful. “And what’s the Sword of Caelum?”
“I am afraid my conclusions are not good, Katherine. You have many enemies, including one from whom you pulled the key to invincibility at the last possible moment. It is he—the Destroyer—who is seeking his vengeance.”
I shivered, fighting a whimper as memories flooded through me. My dorm-mate, Cami. The catacombs. And that mysterious ice-cold fire.
I’d been fifteen, newly partnered with Eric, and we had set out with five other teams into a crypt that snaked deep beneath the ancient city of Rome.
We’d come with a single purpose—to stop one of hell’s vilest demons, Abaddon. He wasn’t known as the Destroyer for nothing, and on that day, he’d been gearing up for a ritual that would allow him to walk the earth indefinitely in his true demonic state, corporeal and damned near indestructible. That kind of situation is what we in the demon-hunting biz like to call a Very Bad Thing.
As a general rule, demons don’t often appear in their true form. Hollywood’s representation of demons as snarling, scaly, fanged-and-yellow-eyed killing machines might be dead on the money, but it’s not a form that a demon can sustain for any length of time outside hell.
As Level Two Demon Hunters with
Forza Scura
, a secret arm of the Vatican, we had the job of making sure this particular demon never got the chance to alter that status quo.
We won that day. But at a heavy price.
“Katherine?” Father said gently, his voice low and full of understanding. “You are still there?”
I blinked, forcing away the image of the demon slicing through Cami’s neck, the way her head lolled forward in defeat. “Yes,” I whispered. “I’m here.”
“I am sorry to be the one to bring such memories to the forefront. But—”
“I need to know,” I said, dully. “I have to know what I’m up against.”
“There is power in your memories,” he said. “Even the painful ones. I would not have you—” He cut off abruptly, and I heard the rattle of the phone as he shifted the handset in his hand, then muffled voices in the distance. “Katherine,” he said, his voice sharp and curt as he came back on the line. “Forgive me. I will be but a moment.”
“Yes, of course. All right.” I drew in a breath, not certain I wanted to be quite so alone with my memories, but not willing to ask him to stay with me on the phone. I was no longer six, after all, and Father no longer tucked me in and promised I would be safe in my bed.
The truth was, I knew that I was never really safe. I think I’d known as much all my life, but that one basic truth had really hit home during that one mission. We’d lost ten Hunters on that vile day, and it was only by a miracle that Eric and I hadn’t joined the body count. These weren’t memories I wanted to revisit, and yet I couldn’t prevent them. Everything came rushing back as I fell pell-mell into the past. The terror. The absolute certainty of knowing that we were going to die. That there was no way out.

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