Demon 04 - Deja Demon (20 page)

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Authors: Julie Kenner

BOOK: Demon 04 - Deja Demon
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The corner of his mouth twitched. “Driving?”
“Have it your way,” I said. “I’m already a crazy person.”
“But you’re my crazy person.”
“Yup. You’re stuck with me.”
“I’m sorry about the reservation mix-up.”
“Stuart . . .” I trailed off with a shake of my head and a squeeze of his fingers. “We had a drink in the bar. That was hardly a faux pas.”
He kissed the tips of my fingers, sending electric sparks shooting all the way down to my toes. “I know. But I want tonight to be perfect. We so rarely have date night lately that I can’t bear the thought of something going awry.”
I laughed. “We have a teenager and a toddler. I think we’re supposed to assume things will go awry for at least fifteen more years.”
“And after that we’re free? The yoke of parenthood seems looser already.”
“Not free, just further removed.”
“So instead of going home for the children’s emergencies we’ll have to drive to a dorm. Or fly.”
“Bite your tongue,” I said. “
Drive
. Preferably without actually leaving the county.” Last month, Allie and I had gone to a college fair at the high school. And although Allie had been totally nonchalant about the whole thing, I’d spent the evening on the couch, nursing a glass of wine and trying to concentrate on the latest issue of
Real Simple
. That, I’d thought, seemed safer than contemplating my baby leaving me in less than four years time.
“
You
,” I said, pointing an accusing finger at Stuart. “You are so not supposed to torment me about the kids leaving until Allie turns sixteen.” That was my magic number, primarily because I figured it would take me a full two years to really get used to the idea.
“Sorry,” he said, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested that he wasn’t sorry at all. “At any rate, I’m glad we’re finally seated. And with champagne,” he added, with a nod to the returning waiter.
The waiter—who couldn’t have been much more than twenty-one—opened the bottle with a perfected ease, then poured two glasses without dribbling a drop, thoroughly putting me to shame. As soon as he’d faded back into the shadows, Stuart lifted his glass. “To us.”
“To us,” I agreed, then took a sip, letting the bubbles fizz in my nose. “So is there a reason for all this? Buttering me up about the house?”
“The thought had crossed my mind,” he said. “But no. No ulterior motives whatsoever.”
“Really?” I asked, undoubtedly sounding a little more than dubious.
“Can’t a man take his wife out to a fabulous restaurant? Does there have to be a reason?”
I cocked my head to one side, looking at him. “There doesn’t
have
to be . . .”
“No ulterior motive,” he said. “Nothing more than I love you and I want to spend time with you. We don’t even have to talk about the campaign or the house if you don’t want to.”
I laughed. “You’re serious.”
“Absolutely. I know you’ve gotten the short end of the campaign stick.”
“No, I didn’t. I got the best part.”
He laughed. “An empty house without your husband channel surfing all weekend?”
“Nah,” I said, teasing. “That’s merely a perk.” I leaned back in my chair and looked at him, suddenly sappy and sentimental. “The best part is that I’ve got you.”
He laughed. “Now who’s got an ulterior motive?”
“Well, it’s understandable,” I deadpanned. “Did you see that dessert cart?”
“Good point,” he said, the flecks of gold in his irises shining in the candlelight. I had a sudden flash of an image—those eyes shining from a candidate poster, his classic jawline and once-broken nose giving him a rugged, honest appearance.
Right then, I knew with absolute certainty that my husband was going to win the election. How could he not? He was brilliant, dedicated, and definitely designed for television.
“What?” he said, buttering a slice of the crusty French bread.
“Just thinking how lucky I am.”
“Are you?” he asked.
I blinked, thrown a bit by his tone. We’d shifted gears somewhere without my noticing. No longer teasing, Stuart seemed more than interested; he seemed concerned.
“Of course,” I assured him, dropping my bread to reach for his hand. “What do you think?”
“Lately—” He broke off with a shrug and a shake of his head. “Never mind.”
“No, wait. What were you going to say?” I was talking through a lump in my throat, afraid my world was about to cave in around me.
“We’ve both been busy lately,” he said. “I don’t want us to be so busy apart that we forget to be together.”
“Never,” I said, feeling guiltier by the second. Yes, he’d been absent a lot, but if he was feeling any distance in our marriage, that wasn’t something I could lay at his feet. The responsibility was all mine, and I knew that I needed to tell him the truth. Waiting wasn’t going to make it easier. If anything, it was going to keep getting harder and harder.
I stifled a sigh, instead lifting my glass and polishing off the remaining champagne.
The corner of Stuart’s mouth curved up. “Thirsty?”
“Enjoying the fizz,” I said. “And a champagne buzz never hurt anyone.”
Across the room, the black-eyed woman grabbed her purse and stood up, her eyes still glued to me.
I took a deep breath. “Stuart, there’s something—”
“
You
,” the woman hissed, a bony finger pointed right at me. “I thought so.”
She nodded, beady black eyes taking in me, my husband, and the surroundings. Then she shoved her hand into her purse. “I must go,” she said, then moved on without waiting for my reply.
“Wow,” Stuart said, his expression somewhere between amused and horrified. “She certainly seems to know you.”
“I think I’ll go see if I can remember where we met,” I said, sliding out of my seat and grabbing my own purse.
“Hurry back,” he said. “I plan on getting you drunk and having my way with you, and I can’t do that if you’re holed away in the ladies’ room.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Is that your plan? I’ll definitely hurry, then.” I blew him a kiss and headed for the restroom.
I’d been to Emeralds once before, and I remembered the ladies’ room as a kind of shrine to all things feminine. The restaurant itself was housed in a remodeled Victorian, and the powder room had been constructed by knocking down a wall and combining the existing bathroom with an airy sitting room lined on one side with windows overlooking the restaurant’s private garden and then, beyond that, the beach.
This “lobby” area included plush chairs and every toiletry known to woman. Forget your mascara? Your hair spray? Your deodorant? Not to worry! They had it for you here!
At the moment, the cavernous lounge area was empty. Good for me, because I really didn’t need an audience of primping women while I had my little chat with my best new demon buddy, who I assumed had headed all the way back, presumably lying in wait for yours truly.
The stalls and sinks were farther in, through a set of swinging café doors, and it was to those doors I headed, heels clattering on the hardwood floor. Sure enough, the moment I pushed through the doors, she stepped out from the first stall.
“You are here,” she said, in that low, gravelly voice. “I am so glad we finally meet.”
“
Enough
.” I’d been off my guard in my own yard and nearly got myself and my daughter killed. This time, I was playing offense, and hard. I lunged before she could, grabbing her around the neck from behind and holding with just enough force to make it clear that I would snap her neck if I had to. That wouldn’t do much to a demon except slow her reaction time, but
that
would give me enough of an opening to get something nice and sharp through her eye. Something like, oh, the stiletto I’d pulled from my purse as I’d entered the room and now held tight in my free hand.
“The Sword of Caelum,” I said. “Talk. And talk now.”
Or, at least, I tried to say all that. Unfortunately, I was drowned out by the pitiful wail of her scream and then the deep tremors in her body as she held back terrified sobs.
And that, frankly, was not computing.
“Who are you?” I demanded, completely confused. “How do you know me? Why were you watching me? And what—”
“I—I—I—mogene,” she finally managed. “Imogene Gunderson. ”
I let my arm relax slightly. There was something familiar about that name. I shifted around until I was in front of her, the knife a visible warning of what would happen if she did the wrong thing. Then I reached into my purse for my hair spray bottle of holy water and zapped her in the face.
Not a thing happened.
And that’s when I remembered.
The library.
Oh, shit.
I let go and jumped back, as if the weight of my guilt alone would give her the strength to lash out and send me crashing through the wall. “Mrs. Gunderson,” I said, surprised the old lady hadn’t died of a heart attack right then and there. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were a de— um, a desperate person I’ve been having some trouble with. A stalker. You know. Weird.”
She looked at me, her shaky hands smoothing her clothes as her eyes stayed fixed on my knife. “I think I know weird when I see it.”
I shoved the knife into my purse. “Honestly, I’m just . . . I don’t know . . . there really isn’t anything to . . .” I tossed my hands up, then tossed them up again. “Here,” I said reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”
But she was already halfway to the swinging door, hugging the wall to stay as far away from me as possible. “Eddie said you were odd, but I had no idea. No idea at all,” she repeated, then backed out of the toilet area and into the lounge.
I stayed behind, flabbergasted that I could have made such a mistake, and rather irritated that Eddie was running around town telling perfect strangers that I’m strange.
The good news, of course, was that I didn’t have to kill anything. Always a plus when you’re in a public place with nowhere to hide the body.
I gave Mrs. Gunderson enough time to pull herself together and leave, and then I followed suit, heading into the lounge area. There I caught a glimpse of my reflection and backtracked. This was a hot date, after all. A few girlified touch-ups were required.
I leaned in and inspected the damage. For the most part, my makeup hadn’t sloughed off, which was remarkable considering that the typical time that cosmetics took to vanish from my face was roughly seven-point-five minutes. A few strands of hair had sprung free of the clip I’d used to secure the pile on my head. The curl had held, though—thanks to about a gallon of extra-hold hair spray—so the effect was still cute. Maybe even a little sexy.
I cocked my head, then made a little moue, drifting a bit in the fantasy that I was a sexy young thing instead of a mom of two. Not that I’m complaining. I have, after all, finally gotten back into a size eight. Hunting demons does great things for your muscle tone.
I scoped out the supply of free cosmetics, then reached for a mascara sample. A tiny little bottle with a tiny little brush, it was about the cutest thing ever, and the perfect souvenir for Allie.
For that matter, it was too cute to pass up at the moment, so after I dropped one into my purse for my daughter, I snagged another for myself, then popped it out of its personal plastic wrap. For a restaurant so concerned about making sure the patrons stayed well coiffed, they hadn’t given much thought to the lighting, and I was in an awkward on-my-toes -and-trying-to-get-close-enough-to-the-mirror-to-see position when the woman in red from the next table over sashayed in.
She looked down her nose at me, then went to the next sink over, looking me up and down before focusing on her own reflection in the mirror. Considering the way her expression changed from disgust to pleased, I had to assume she liked what she saw.
In fairness, I can’t say I blamed her. She looked like a celebrity up from Los Angeles to party on our pristine beaches. About the only thing that marred the image at all was her perfume, which had been poured on way too heavily, probably courtesy of a personal shopper who’d told her what to buy, but not how much of it to wear.
Thankfully, she finished up at the sink before I did, then turned to leave. The air cleared, and I realized I could breathe again, the overwhelming scent of lilac and vanilla giving way to something significantly more subtle, if less pleasant.
I realized where that foul odor came from a split second before she moved, and didn’t even have time to curse my stupidity. Because I didn’t have a weapon handy, I whipped around with the mascara wand as my only line of defense between me and the stacked, blond demon, thrusting it toward her big blue eyes.
Realizing she’d lost the element of surprise, she abandoned all efforts at subtlety and leaped at me, dodging my tiny cosmetic weapon.
“You cannot be permitted to wield the sword,” she shouted as I skipped sideways, escaping her grasp by millimeters. “He who shall become The One will see you die.”

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