Demon Ex Machina: Tales of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom (9 page)

“I ain’t going into the job half-assed.”

“All right then, they’re yours. Most everything’s in the attic and labeled. Whatever you want, you take.”

“Okay then.” His brow furrowed, and he scuffed his slippers on the pavement. “And just so we’re clear—I’m doing it for you and the girl. Not for him.”

I nodded. “I know, Eddie. And that’s exactly why I want you.”

 

 

A renegade pirate rushed
past me, his hook catching my skirt and jerking me a few steps forward, his bellowing
“Aaaarggghhhh”
deafening.

I yanked my skirt free, pressed my back against the wall, and sucked in my gut as five fairy princesses stampeded after him, wands waving, their own squeals and giggles almost masking the still-echoing howl of their marauding quarry.

Across the room, the birthday princess pressed her fists against her hips and gave her mother the evil eye. “But I wanna be a pirate! Don’t wanna be a stinky princess! I wanna have a hook!”

“Sweetie,” Marissa said, kneeling down so that she was eye level with her traitorous daughter. “You’re a little girl.”

“I’m big!” Danielle insisted. “And I wanna be a pirate.” She stamped her foot for emphasis, and I pressed my hands behind my back to prevent me from applauding. For the first time ever, I was not only getting a glimpse of the real Danielle, but I was about to bear witness to my nemesis’s meltdown. Toddler birthday parties didn’t get much sweeter than that.

“A fiver gets you in the pool,” Fran said, sidling up next to me. “Most everyone’s betting on Marissa, but I think Danielle’s gonna come out the winner.”

“Spot me five,” I said. “I’m good for it.”

“I see my rugrat,” she said, nodding toward the far side of Marissa’s garage-turned-party-room where little Elena was steering a Playmobil pirate ship over a blue chalk ocean, a pirate patch over one eye, and not one frilly, princessy thing to be seen.

“Fran, I’m shocked. Go slap a tiara on that kid right this minute.”

Fran snorted, which was why we were friends. “I’ll get right on that,” she assured me. “Where’s yours?”

I pointed to the opposite corner where Timmy and a boy I recognized from church were going at it with plastic cutlasses.

“Just like his mommy,” Fran said.

“What?” I asked, a little too sharply.

“Fighting,” she said innocently, as I tried to figure out what she knew and how she could possibly know it. “Self-defense and all that stuff.”

“Oh.” I exhaled in relief. “You’re still coming, right?” Though my demon-hunting expertise was still a secret with the public at large, the fact that I had some fighting skill had leaked out. Cutter’s studio is next door to the 7-Eleven near the entrance to our subdivision. Not only does every one of the neighborhood moms visit that store regularly for last-minute grocery items, but most of the kids in the neighborhood take classes from Cutter. And although most of my sessions with the sensei are private, there was no way to keep my workouts secret. And, honestly, no reason to try.

What had started with a few women asking me if Cutter ever did self-defense workshops, eventually evolved into Cutter suggesting that I put together a program and run it out of his dojo. At first I’d hesitated, but Allie and Laura had convinced me that I had a community obligation. “You’re a demon magnet, Mom,” Allie had gently pointed out. “You think there would be so many demons traipsing through this neighborhood if we didn’t live here? At the very least, teach them how to kick the buggers in the balls and run away. I mean, that’s something.”

I’d gaped at my daughter, decided not to comment on her crudity, and agreed she was right.

And thus began my career as a women’s self-defense instructor.

Or, more accurately, that career would begin this evening. So far, I’d worked with Cutter, going over a plan for what to teach and studying up on basic theories of self-defense for women that didn’t involve years of training in martial arts or street fighting. I had fifteen women signed up for tonight’s session, Marissa and Fran included.

“Can I bring my mom?” Fran asked. “I told her what I was doing, and she wants in.”

“Your mom wants self-defense training?” I’d met Rita once, and was pretty sure that she was capable of eviscerating a bad guy with nothing but sarcasm and a biting wit. That, and the Taser she carried in her purse, which she’d happily thrust at anyone who encroached on her personal space.

“She’s always keen to kick someone in the nuts,” Fran said. “But mostly I think she wants to see Eddie.” A definite twinkle flickered in her eye. “I think she’s a little hot for him.”

“Good lord,” I said. “They’d make a pair.” And then, because I figured a woman like Rita would keep Eddie on his toes, I told Fran of his newly acquired single status.

“Will he be at your class?”

“Doubtful. He’s working now. In Old Town.”

Her brows lifted. “I’ll pass the info on to my mom,” she said, laughing. “I feel so covert.”

“So no class for her? Since Eddie won’t be there?”

Fran shrugged. “With my mom, you just never know.”

A flash of pink across the room caught my eye, and I looked over in time to see Danielle’s wand go flying up toward the ceiling. It narrowly missed the fluorescent lights, then came crashing back down as Danielle jumped and jumped, her giggles mixed with deep-throated “Aarghs” as Marissa handed the pink-gowned princess a black eye-patch, a hook, and a skull and crossbones bandana.

“On my hair, Mommy!” Danielle shouted. Looking pained, Marissa knelt down and hid Danielle’s perfectly perfect curls under a cap of black bandana.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Fran said, as Danielle took off running, joining forces with four boys who were chasing the princesses in circles around the room.

“Kids!” Marissa called, climbing up on a step stool. “Settle! Settle! It’s time to decorate our treasure chests!”

The kids weren’t remotely interested. At forty minutes into the party, they’d already participated in a half dozen organized activities, and I imagine their little brains were fried. I know mine was.

Marissa clapped for attention. The princesses continued to squeal and scream. The pirates continued to chase them. Timmy and his sparring partner joined the game, and even Elena got into the spirit, though she kept switching teams so that no one knew if she was chasing or being chased.

Throughout it all, Marissa stood on the stool, her hands cupped at her mouth, and cried out for attention.

After three tries, she gave up and, shoulders sagging, she came over to stand with Fran and me. “She isn’t usually like this,” she said, her eyes on Danielle who, frankly, looked like she was having the time of her life. Not so Marissa. She had the mortified expression of a gourmet cook who was just outed as having a pantry stocked full of Hamburger Helper.

“They’re having fun,” Fran said.

Marissa’s brows knit together. “It’s all these other children. Danielle is such an empathetic child. She’s tuning in to their volatile emotions and experiencing their need for shenanigans.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “Timmy often over-empathizes with his contemporaries following a period of close-knit socialization. It can make parenting so trying.”

Marissa’s eyes narrowed as she stared me down, obviously not sure if I was being sarcastic or serious.

Fran, much quicker on the uptake, shoved two fingers in her mouth and let out a wolf-whistle, gaining the kids’ attention and saving me from the wrath of Marissa that would surely have descended once she worked her way down to the sarcastic side of the equation.

Marissa shot Fran a look of utter mortification. But Fran smiled sweetly and waved an arm to encompass the garage and all the kids in it. “I think you have their full attention now.”

Marissa managed a tiny
har-umph
, and I managed not to burst out laughing. Then she clapped her hands and gestured the children closer. “Pirates need treasure,” she said. “So everyone come up here and let’s sing the treasure song and get your treasure chest treat!”

I had no idea what she was talking about until she reached down and pulled a clear gift bag out of a cardboard box at her feet. She played Vanna White next, showing off all the fabulous prizes in the bag including Glue Dots, plastic doubloons, gemstones, gold ribbon and plain, cardboard treasure chests ripe for the decorating. Then she did something that made all the other moms in the room cringe: She started to sing.

“
Fifteen gems on a treasure chest! Yo ho ho and we’re gonna have fun.
Come on! Everybody sing!” She repeated the song again, shooting a killer glance at Timmy when he bellowed the real “Dead Man’s Chest” lyrics, punching extra loud on the bottle of rum.

“I could actually use the rum right about now,” Fran said dryly.

I was about to agree when Timmy came running up to me, one hand holding his gift bag, the other holding his crotch. “Gotta go, Mommy! Gotta go!”

“I’d better hurry.” I plucked Timmy up from around the waist and hauled him into the house, the design of which was essentially a mirror image of mine. Like ours, a small bathroom was situated just off the living room in the hall leading to the study. I hurried Timmy in that direction, trying not to be jealous at the spotless nature of Marissa’s house. I told myself she’d simply cleaned up for the party, but of course I knew better. Unlike me, Marissa didn’t engage in the hobby of dust-bunny breeding.

“No, no, no! Me go alone!” Timmy said, when I stepped into the bathroom with him.

“Sweetie . . .”

“I’m big,” he said, standing ramrod straight.

“Fine,” I said, figuring it wasn’t worth the battle. “Don’t use nine pounds of toilet paper, and don’t close the door all the way.”

He flashed me a winning grin and toddled toward the toilet.

I sighed and fought off a moment of melancholy. They really do grow up fast.

Since Timmy can take longer on the toilet that any child in history, I wandered back toward the living room and idly perused Marissa’s DVD collection, surprised by the variety I saw there. I’d pegged her as someone who watched only PBS and the BBC as a matter of principle, but the shelves were crammed with action films and raucous comedies side by side with
A Room with a View
and multiple seasons of
As Time Goes By
.

Had to be her husband, because I wasn’t about to adjust my impression of Marissa. I’d spent too many years convinced the woman had a stick up her butt.

“You doing okay?” I called out to Timmy, receiving a curt “Yeah, Mommy,” in response. “About ready?” I asked hopefully.

A pause, then, “No, Mommy.”

With a sigh, I reached into my purse and pulled out my cell phone, checking to make sure I hadn’t missed any messages. That task complete, I moved my attention from the DVDs to the pictures hanging in the hall. I was standing there, gazing at a family photo I remembered from Marissa’s most recent Christmas card and trying to decide when I could schedule time for a family portrait at the mall, when I caught a flash of movement in the hall leading to the bedrooms.

“JoAnn?” I called, though I didn’t actually expect her to answer. Marissa had mentioned that her oldest daughter had escaped the party by scheduling a date with the varsity quarterback to go for ice cream in Old Town. I supposed it could be Marissa’s husband, but I knew that he was out of town on a business meeting, and in one of the rare moments when Marissa’s facade had cracked, she’d confessed to me that she was furious with him for not figuring out a way to come home on their baby’s birthday.

For a moment I wondered if he’d decided to surprise Marissa—not to mention Danielle—but that possibility shattered when the hulking figure in torn black pants and a billowy white shirt stepped out of the shadows and into my view. He had a thick scar across one cheek, and I saw the glint of steel in the knife he held pressed to his side.

His eyes went wide, and his lips smacked as he shifted something in his mouth. “You.” He grunted, giving me a glimpse of the red-and-white breath mint. Potent and minty fresh, I knew, to hide the demonic stench of his breath. “Been lookin’ for you. Looking for the kiddies,” he added, then laughed, as if that was the funniest thing anyone had ever said.

I wasn’t amused.

Unfortunately, I also wasn’t at all sure what to do next. I could hardly pull out my stiletto and stab him through the eye right there in Marissa’s hallway. Unlike in the movies, real-life demons don’t vanish with a puff when you kill them. Instead, they exit the body with a
whoosh
, and leave a corpse behind.

I had a feeling Marissa wouldn’t be keen on finding a dead body on her cut Berber carpeting.

“Mommy?” Timmy stuck his head out of the door, then turned and goggled at the demon. “Who’re you?”

“Arrgh!” the demon said.

And when he lumbered toward my boy, I snatched my knife out of my purse and decided that Marissa would just have to deal.

I rushed forward, giving
Timmy a quick shove into the bathroom and slamming the door with a shouted order to “Stay.” Without breaking my stride I plowed into the demon, pressing the tip of my stiletto against the soft skin just under his eye, and slamming his back up against the wall.

“Why are you here?” I repeated as Timmy burst out of the door, shrieking for me. “Stay back!”

The demon grunted, and I saw fear in those eyes. An oddity among the demon population, but right then I was too on edge to think about it. Too furious that the demon had infiltrated not only my everyday world, but someone else’s home.

“Did she send you?” I demanded. “Who the hell is she?”

“I—I just c-come where they s-send me,” he stuttered, and that time, my addled brain did process the fear. It also noted the strong scent of rum, not completely hidden by the mint he’d been chewing on.