Four

Everything we can.

My words echoed in my head for the rest of the afternoon, a dark cloud that seemed to weigh me down as I moved through the rest of the day, putting away laundry, sweeping the back porch, making dinner. Now I moved through the breakfast room to the archway that divided the room from the living area. Allie was in there with Timmy and Eddie, and the three of them were playing Hi Ho Cherry-O. Allie had Timmy on her lap, and Eddie was muttering something about the bird taking his darn cherries. The scene was domestic and sweet, and I never wanted it to change. Never wanted it painted red with fear or gray with distrust.

More, I didn't want Allie to long for the day she turned eighteen so that she could break ties with me and walk away. For two years after Eric's death, we'd been each other's strength, and even now that we had Stuart and Timmy, there was still an inescapable bond between us. Mother and daughter, yes, but something more, too.

The revelation about Eric had left seeds of distrust in my soul, and even though I didn't want to, now I was questioning our entire relationship. To know that Allie might soon feel the same about me—to know that the thread of trust might start to unravel—both terrified me and broke my heart.

I had to tell her the truth. I had to tell her that I was still hunting demons. And I had to tell her soon.

The weight of that obligation stayed with me, counterbalanced a bit by the relief that I'd made a decision. Having decided but not yet acted, though, made me a jittery wreck. And I spent the rest of the afternoon doing domestic chores simply because I knew that no one else in the household would likely volunteer to help me. I needed alone time, and scrubbing toilets was the best way I knew to get it.

By five, rhe bathrooms were no longer functional science projects, I'd gotten a decent cardiovascular workout by lugging two boxes of neglected toys to the backyard storage shed, and I'd vacuumed the entire upstairs, evicting at least a dozen families of dust bunnies in the process.

By the time I returned to the living room, my family had moved on to other activities. Timmy was outside, playing in his sandbox. Allie was reading on the porch, and Eddie was parked in his recliner, glasses perched on his nose as he muttered vague obscenities at today's crossword.

I busied myself cutting up broccoli to go with the simple chicken casserole I'd cobbled together an hour before. I'd learned long ago to stick with the basics for our meals. Meat loaf, pancakes, pasta, Hamburger Helper. Those I could handle. Braised salmon in a mango-chutney sauce? Not so much.

I was just putting the broccoli in the steamer when the phone rang, and I grabbed it up, tucking it between my ear and my shoulder as I filled the steamer with water.

"Kate," David said. "Can you talk?"

I heard the urgency in his voice and abandoned my broccoli. "What's wrong? Our you okay?"

"I'm fine now," he said. "But this morning . . ."

"What? What happened?"

"Attacked. In my own goddamned apartment."

"By a demon?" Which was an idiotic thing to ask, but the first thing that came to my mind.

"Considering I'm only a rogue," he said, "it hardly seems like I should have to put up with that crap."

There was humor in his voice and I clung to it because it meant that he really was okay.

"Is he—"

"Dead," David said, which was the shorthand way of saying that the body was out of commission and the demon was back in the ether, technically still in existence, but no longer a nuisance.

"Do you need me to come help you?"

This time, he laughed for real. "He's already dead, Kate."

I scowled at the phone. "I was offering to help get rid of the body," I said. "But I think I'll retract the offer now."

"It's been taken care of," he said. "I decided to use the opportunity to try out a new disposal method. The cathedral doesn't have endless vault space, you know."

"I had hoped that San Diablo didn't have endless demons," I said dryly, trying not to think about the body-disposal methods that a chemistry teacher could concoct.

"I think that hope's been shot to hell," he said.

True enough. "Any idea why he attacked you? Did he want something?"

"From what I could tell," David said, "he wanted me. And alive, too. He caught me off guard, Kate, but he never went for the kill shot. If he'd wanted to kill me, he could have."

I hugged myself, suddenly chilled. "David, you need—"

"To be more careful. Yeah. I got that. I want you to be careful, too."

I was immediately on alert. "Did he say something?"

"No, but the more I think about it, the more I worry. You're the Hunter here, and if it's a Hunter they want ..." His voice washed over me, low and gruff and very sincere. "Promise me, Katie. Promise me you won't let down your guard."

I shivered, more than a little undone by his tone. "I promise," I whispered. "And David?"

"What?"

"I'm glad you're okay." The words seemed flat somehow, but I meant them sincerely. I'd lost Eric twice—in San Francisco, and again last night. I didn't think I could stand to lose David, too. He might not be the man I'd once loved, but I had to admit that I cared for him, possibly more than I should. Perhaps my feelings for him were colored by all the weeks that I thought he was Eric, but that didn't change the fact that the man had become important to me. And, yes, little by little he was sliding into the role of hunting pattner, too.

As I hung up, I felt a little numb. I could hear our garage door begin its laborious climb to the top, and I splashed some water on my face, trying to wash the worry and fear for David off my face.

Minutes later, Stuart trundled in, a bag of marshmallows in one hand and a plastic grocery bag with graham crackers and Hershey bars in the other.

"Sweet tooth?"

He just grinned. "And I've got firewood in the trunk."

"It's seventy-six degrees out," I said, mimicking what he always says to me during the winter months when I beg for a fire despite our California climate.

He nodded, all serious. "Good point. I'll go crank up the air conditioner." He started out of the room but I tugged him back, then planted a kiss on his lips.

"Thanks," I said. "You know how to cheer a girl up." More than that, Stuart was my rock—a demon-free zone in a life that had once again become filled with uncertainty. I hugged him tight, soaking up that deep sense of normalcy. I'd craved a normal, safe life with Eric, and I'd believed that I'd gotten it. Only recently had I learned it was only an illusion.

I sighed, pressing my face against Stuart's shoulder. In truth, my safe little life with Stuart was an illusion, too. Only this time, I was the one who'd brought the danger to our doorstep.

He gave me a final squeeze, then pulled back far enough to get a good look at my face. His eyes moved as he looked me over. "Want to share what's been on your mind?"

I gave my head a little shake. "Just melancholy. It's nothing. Probably PMS."

He put the groceries on the counter and took my hands. "Is it Eric?"

I balked, because that was really not a question I was expecting. "I—no," I stammered. "I mean, why would you think it's Eric?" Had I been putting out an "Eric" vibe? Had Allie said something?

"It's that time of year," he said. "You always get a little moody."

"Do I? Yeah, I guess I do." Eric had been killed in early January, right after the holidays. This year, I'd been so caught up with all of my other Eric issues—not to mention the issue of almost losing my daughter to a hell-bound demon—that I'd glossed right over my annual depression.

I leaned forward and gave Stuart a kiss. "Thanks for being so understanding."

He stroked my cheek. "That's part of the job description, remember?"

I raised an eyebrow. "So this is the 'for worse' part?"

His eyes danced with mischief. "No, sweetheart, that's your cooking."

I swatted him with the marshmallow bag, trying hard not to laugh. "Go, husband," I said. "Go forth and make fire."

"Ugh," he said, with appropriate caveman inflections.

I rolled my eyes as he left, but at the same time, I realized I was grinning. Stuart might not know my past, but he did know me. More important, he knew how to make me smile.

I watched, satisfied, as Timmy raced around like a wild thing while Stuart tried to light the fire. I had a good life, after all, with a family who loved me.

And I couldn't help but wonder if, by pursuing a mystery from the past, I'd be risking everything I had in front of me.

* * *

Mornings around our house are never calm, and the first day back to school and work after a vacation are always the worst. And if I happen to have carpool duty, you can pretty much triple the insanity quotient.

I awakened to a rousing chorus of "Elmo's World," performed a capella by my budding Pavarotti. The duh-duh-duh-duhs blasted through the baby monitor, and despite pulling the covers up over my ears, I knew that morning had inevitably arrived.

Stuart elbowed me. "Jstgoengitdeboy," he muttered.

"You go get him," I retorted. "My alarm hasn't gone off yet." Stuart's had, though, and he'd already hit the snooze button twice. I figured I had bed equity, and I was hanging on for all it was worth.

He groaned, then propped himself up on his elbow and blinked a few times. My husband has never been one to come awake easily. "What time is it?"

"Seven minutes since the last time you hit the snooze button," I said as his alarm started blaring again.

"Shit," he said, suddenly wide awake. "I'm running late. Can you get Timmy? The kid sounds wide awake."

And so the day began.

I decided to save the battle with my clueless husband for later. Instead, I rolled out of bed, grabbed my robe, then padded down the hall to Timmy's room. He'd started climbing out of his crib not too long ago, and we'd moved him to a toddler bed. I found him on top of it now, apparently convinced it was a trampoline.

"I flying, Mommy!" he squealed. "I'm Super Timmy!"

I caught him midleap. "Hey there, Super Dude. Even su-perheroes need breakfast. Are you hungry?"

"Toast with butter cheese," he demanded as I pulled off his pajama bottoms and helped him into a dry Pull-Ups.

"Fine and dandy," I said. For reasons I don't actually remember, Timmy started calling margarine "butter cheese" about the time he learned to talk. Since it's so damn cute, we haven't bothered to correct him. So long as he gets it right before college, I figure we're okay.

I got him dressed, then led him to Allie's room. I tapped once, heard nothing, then tapped again. Vague sounds of life drifted to me through the closed door. I considered that a good sign and pounded once again.

"What?"

"Time to get up. First day back to school. Pencils. Teachers. Books."

No response.

"Cheerleading. Boys."

That did it. "I'm up, already."

"Twenty minutes, Allie," I said. "I want you downstairs in twenty."

"I said okay!"

My motherly harassment duty accomplished, I led Timmy to the top of the stairs, opened the baby gate, and let him scamper down.

I found Eddie asleep in the recliner, in exactly the same position I'd left him last night. I tucked a blanket around his shoulders and decided not to bother him. I'd been considering asking him to watch Tim for a few hours—the day care follows the elementary school schedule, and it's closed until tomorrow—but seeing him made me change my mind. It's easy to forget he's past eighty when he bursts onto the scene fighting demons with the same gusto with which he pursues his librarian lady friend.

By the time Timmy's toast was ready, Stuart was in the kitchen, pouring himself coffee. By the time Allie finally barreled into the kitchen, Stuart was gone, a travel mug in his hand and my kiss on his cheek.

Over the next ten minutes, I got Timmy cleaned up, let Mindy in the back door, helped Allie find her student ID, argued with her about makeup (mascara yes, eyeshadow no), raced upstairs to throw on sweats and a T-shirt, and finally managed to usher the family out the door and into the van.

"Two minutes to spare," I said, backing onto our street. "And to think I could have squeezed in a shower."

The other girls in the carpool, Susan and Emily, were ready to go when I honked, which was a minor miracle, and as the girls got settled, the noise level increased.

Mindy is the editor of the school paper, and Susan is on her staff. They immediately dived into a discussion of a human interest story for the upcoming issue. "The history of San Diablo," Mindy said. "That's cool, don't you think?"

"I guess," said Allie. "But it's not like this town's all that interesting."

"Are you kidding?" Mindy retorted. "It's totally cool, isn't it, Mrs. Connor?"

"Hold on there, kid," I said with a laugh. "How did I get designated community liaison?"

I didn't even need the rearview mirror to know that Mindy was rolling her eyes. "Trust me," she said. "This is a totally happening part of California. We've got the whole Hollywood heyday thing, from back when the stars used to come up from L.A. to hang on our beaches. And all those fabulous houses they built over Emerald Point, I mean, how cool is that?"

I agreed that it was very cool.

"And we've got even older history, too," Mindy continued. "There are at least three Chumash cave paintings nearby. And the stone table, right? I mean that's like our own Stone-henge. Some experts even think it was used for human sacrifices thousands of years ago."

I was doubtful as to whether a flat piece of stone topping two perpendicular pieces of stone qualified as Stonehenge, but I knew where she was going.

"You're right," I said. "San Diablo is a fascinating topic for a human interest story."

"And the modern stuff is cool, too," she assured me, although by that time we'd reached the school, and even had a few minutes to spare. I gave myself a silent cheer. I'd conquered the wild world of carpools. Hopefully I'd have the same success with the Andramelech and Eric mysteries.

As the girls got out—Mindy promising to fill us in on more local history during my next turn to drive the carpool— I half considered parking the car and going into the school. I wanted to know if David had figured anything else out. Or, for that matter, if he'd been attacked by any more demons. But this wasn't the time or the place, and I knew that if he learned something, he'd call me. And if another demon had come to finish what the one in his apartment had started . . . well, I'm sure AHie would tell me if David wasn't at school.

This new surge of demon activity, however, had reinforced exactly how much I couldn't afford to let my training slide. I hadn't been to Cutter's studio for over two weeks, but somehow I'd manage to squeeze a trip into today's busy schedule.

"Okay, buddy," I said to Timmy as I pulled back out onto the street. "You ready for the day?"

"Rock and roll, Mommy!" he yelled, shoving a little fist high into the air.

And that, I thought, pretty much summed it up.

* * *

I keep a giant family-event calendar in the kitchen, but other than that, I'm not disciplined enough to keep an organizer. Instead, I keep a list scribbled on one of those little spiral-bound pads you find in the checkout line at Wal-Mart. Many of the essentials of my life, in fact, were acquired while waiting in the checkout line.

Today's list was pretty basic. A quick run to the grocery store for milk, an ever-dwindling staple in our house. Home for a shower. Review what I knew about Eric's death and try to decide where to start tackling the mystery at this late date. Run the vacuum once through the house in anticipation of the play date scheduled at our house for one-thirty. Shop the post-holiday sales with Timmy for new shoes since'

the kid was growing at an astounding rate. Wait patiently— ha!—for Ben to call me with more info about Andramelech and the mysterious hunter. Visit Cutter for a quick workout. Cook dinner. Eat dinner.

Normal life stuff (well, except for the murder and demon parts), and we whipped through them pretty quickly. I still had a good hour before we had guests and—remarkably enough—the living room and play room were both clean enough for company. Truly, miracles do happen, and I ended up on the floor with Timmy, playing with Duplo blocks while we waited for play date time to arrive.

That quiet interval lasted all of fifteen minutes before Timmy started begging for a snack. I obliged, putting a few grapes and apple slices in a bowl and then sending him back to the living room and Eddie. While he munched, I parked myself by the sink and started to cut up some more fruit and arrange it decoratively on a plate. Laura had promised to bring by some of her famous chocolate chip cookies later, but I wanted at least the illusion of good nutrition gracing my play date table.

I was leaning against the sink, sneaking a few grapes, when I heard the scraping outside, a faint noise, like the rustling of branches against the house. Immediately, I was on alert. The noise was coming from the breakfast area, and I was quite aware that the picture window that dominates that wall is not a sufficient barrier to prevent a determined demon.

I'd stocked up on ice picks during a recent sale, and now I grabbed one out of the childproofed utility drawer. I eased toward the window, keeping my back to the wall so that I was mostly out of view of anyone who might be looking in.

Scrape, scrape.

I froze, the sound coming again, this time less muffled. I peeked out the window, my entire body primed to expect an explosion of glass as a demon came crashing through.

Nothing.

Shit.

I stood there, debating what to do, David's warning fresh on my mind. In the end, there really was no debate, though. If there was a demon out there, I needed to nip that little problem in the bud right now. Because if I didn't—and if Mr. Hellbound himself decided to barge in during Timmy's play date—well, that would put quite a damper on the kid-does' fun.

The window in the breakfast room looks out over the side of the house rather than the backyard, at an angle that also offers a view of our neighbor's backyard and fence. Since there's no access to that side of the house from the backyard, I slipped into the living room and headed for the front door.

"Keep Timmy in here with you," I said. "Right beside you." I added the last with extra force and a significant look. To his credit, Eddie understood right away.

"You rolling the trash can up from the curb, girlie?"

"Something like that," I said.

"Need any help?"

I lifted a brow. "You can stay with him," I said, pointing to Timmy. "After all, taking care of the trash isn't your job anymore, is it?"

He leaned back in the recliner. "Right you are," he said, grabbing the remote and clicking on the television. "Go get 'em, Tiger."

I rolled my eyes and continued to the front door. I slipped out quietly, then made my way around the side of the house to the window and the shrubs growing just below the glass. From the corner of the house by the garage door, I could tell that he was still there. The shrubs were moving, and not with the wind. Which meant we either had a demon problem or a nest of feisty raccoons.

I was betting on demon.

Slowly, slowly, I moved down the length of the house until I was just inches from the shrubs. I couldn't see who was back there—the foliage was too thick—but the leaves had quit moving. The demon knew I was out there, and he'd gone still as death.

The world seemed just as stagnant, and I barely breathed as I waited for some sign—some hint of where to attack. Dive in now, and I couldn't be certain. And if I was off by even a centimeter, I'd lose the advantage of height and leverage.

No, the best plan was to wait him out. A movement, a sound, and I could target my attack.

And I was going to attack. No way was a demon stalking my house going to come out of this fray alive.

There!

Just the slightest of movements, but it was enough. I launched myself in, reaching through the brush to pull the demon out. The limbs and leaves scraped against my bare arms, but the fingers of my left hand closed around flesh. The branches slapped back against the demon as I tugged, and his wail rang in my ears.

I had the ice pick ready in my right hand, and as soon as the demon emerged, I slammed it forward.

"Aaaaaiaiiiggghhhh!"

I froze, the pick only inches from his face, and my fingers released the grip on his arm even as I jumped back. "Brian? Brian Dufresne? What the devil are you doing hiding in my shrubs?"

In front of me, nine-year-old Brian stared google-eyed at the ice pick that had just about done him in. "I—I—"

I cursed, then slipped the thing into my back pocket, "For heavens sake, Brian! I thought you were a— I could have killed you!"

"You thought I was a what?" he whispered, still looking at the hand that earlier held the pick.

"A coyote," I said, which was the best I could come up with. "A coyote's been terrorizing Kabit. I thought you . . ." I stopped, put my hands on my hips, and tried to remember who was supposed to be in charge here. "This isn't about what I thought, young man. It's about what you were doing." I pointed to the shrubs and raised my eyebrows in question. "Why didn't you come out? You were deliberately hiding from me."

His face turned bright red. "You're not going to tell my mom, are you?"

"Brian ..."

He sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. "I hit my baseball over our fence. And I'm not supposed to go into the neighbors' yards, so I didn't want to say anything. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean—"

"I know you didn't." I sighed, feeling extremely relieved I hadn't impaled the kid, and more than a little foolish. I gestured back at the shrubs. "Is the ball in there?"

One quick nod.

"Well, go get it."

He started to, then stopped, looking up at me with pup-pydog eyes.

"I won't tell your mom," I said. "But Brian, she's right." I looked him straight in the eye. "You need to stay in your own yard, okay? Venture out, and you might get hurt."

After all, there were scary things out there. Bad drivers, muggers, thieves, demons. And, yes, there were also crazy women with ice picks.

And those, I thought, should be avoided at all costs.

My heartbeat hadn't yet returned to normal when Fran arrived with her three-year-old daughter Elena, who is a little angel. Fran and I have gotten in the habit of getting to each other's play dates ten or so minutes early, just so we can chat before the other moms show up and shift the conversation around to nail salons and new high-end boutiques.

While Timmy and Elena played in the inflatable ball corral that had been a present from Santa, Fran and I loitered in the kitchen. Kabit snaked through my legs, and I bent down to scratch him on the head.

"So how is Allie doing?" Fran asked, her expression appropriately sympathetic. "That nightmare at the museum. So horrible."

"She's doing pretty good," I said. "She's a resilient girl. I'm worried, of course, but honestly, she seems to be okay." Certainly more so than I'd expected, I thought wryly.

"I'm glad. I can't believe we had that kind of gang and drug activity going on right here in San Diablo," she went on, warming to the subject. "I mean, who would have thought?"

"I know exactly what you mean," I said. And then, because I couldn't think of a graceful way to shift conversational gears, I simply picked an entirely different topic. "Remember the last time we were here? How much Elena loved that pink rocking pony?"

"I looked everywhere for one for Christmas," Fran admitted. "Where on earth did you find it?"

"It used to be Allie's," I said. "But Timmy's growing so fast he's already too big for it. Besides, he told me that pink was for girls."

Fran laughed. "Well, he has a point."

"I told him it was a girl pony, but that boys could ride her. I'm not sure if he bought it or not, but it doesn't matter, because he's over ponies. He's moved on to jets and rockets. So we bought him a new one for Christmas. A plane, that rocks and has wings that go up and down."

"Aww," she said. "It sounds precious."

I assured her that it was. "But I was wondering if Elena wants the old one? She's got time to get some good use out of it, and it's just going to go to waste in our storage shed."

"Seriously?" Her eyes were bright, and I knew why. Fran's a single mom who works from home doing medical transcription. She's never come right out and said it, but I'm sure money is tight. And while I doubted she'd take direct charity, a hand-me-down toy seemed more than reasonable.

"Absolutely. I'll just end up dragging it to Goodwill in a year or two."

"Oh, well, if that's the case. Sure."

"Great." And, since I didn't want the conversation turning back to the museum and the inevitable question of why I happened to be there, I took a step toward the living room. "I'll go get it now before the others get here." Because once they did, there was no way Fran would mention the museum. Not in front of Marissa—whose oldest daughter had also been caught in the demonic crossfire. Thankfully JoAnn didn't remember a thing. A small blessing when compared to the rest of the overall horror, but a blessing nonetheless.

I trotted off before Fran could argue, leaving her to arrange our afternoon snack.

Our yard is half gravel and half grass, which gives us both a nice play area and a nice lawn. The storage shed is in the back of the gravel area, and as soon as I was out on the back porch—having been entirely ignored by both Elena and Timmy as I walked by—I realized I'd forgotten the key. Fortunately, Stuart is both lazy and a creative thinker. After coming out to get lawn equipment and forgetting the key on three separate occasions over the Christmas holidays, he finally got the bright idea to hide a spare in one of those fake rocks.

I circled the shed, ending up on the back side where we keep the ramshackle gardener's bench. There's a collection of clay and plastic pots off to one side, a five-month-old pile of topsoil covered with a tarp, and a little flower bed graveyard tucked up in the corner formed by the shed and the privacy fence. In the spring, I have the best intentions of trying to breathe some life into that garden.

Really.

In the meantime, Timmy's been using the area to plant his "things." As in, he uses his plastic shovel and rake to dig holes, then he fills them with a wide variety of toys. I'm not sure what the point is—maybe he thinks he'll grow a toy tree—but it keeps him occupied on the weekends.

Stuart had hidden his hollowed-out stone under the corner of the storage shed nearest the fence, shoved back behind one of the cinderblocks that forms the shed's foundation. I picked my way over all the debris—Timmy's toys, bags of potting soil, chipped clay pots, a coiled garden hose, a rusty watering can—then bent for the key. Above me, a nice wind from the ocean rustled the leaves in the tree, and I thought what a nice day it would be for an outdoor play date. Maybe I'd suggest to Fran that we bring the kids out on the patio.

I was debating whether it was warm enough to fill up Timmy's sand-and-water play table (and debating how much the other moms would hate me for getting their kids wet and dirty), when I heard gravel crunch behind me.

"Sorry I'm so slow," I said. "I forgot the—"

But the words died in my throat. Because that wasn't Fran barreling down on me.

This time, it really was a demon.