Carpe Demon: Adventures of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom by Julie Kenner Page A

also downright idiotic. Unfortunately, I’m not on the Rules Committee for Forza Scura , and no one asked my opinion.
    Even though I couldn’t know whom I was supposed to meet, I dearly wished that I had asked Father Corletti for more details on the exact location. For all I knew, my mentor might be sitting in Father Ben’s rectory office twiddling his thumbs and wondering where I was.
    The thought sparked another—my mentor might actually be Father Ben.
    I rather liked that idea. Although Father Ben is only a few years out of seminary, he seems on the ball and his homilies are never yawners. Still, the likelihood that I was intended to meet up with Father Ben was slim. Father Corletti might have been vague, but he’d definitely said that Forza had “sent” an alimentatore . Since Father Ben had taken the position of rector years ago, unless Forza had been aware of Goramesh’s interest in the cathedral far longer than Father Corletti let on, Ben wasn’t my man.
    I decided that the actual cathedral building was my best bet, and maneuvered the Infiniti into one of the nearby parking spaces. I confess to taking a devious pleasure in saddling Stuart with the more kid-friendly van, and part of me wanted to just sit in the lot, engine running, as I basked in that clean car smell that involved no hint of sour milk or spilled grape juice. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to wallow. I shifted into park, killed the engine, and abandoned the air-conditioned comfort for the equally agreeable Southern California weather.
    I followed the stone path to the cathedral, letting my hand reach out to graze the birds-of-paradise that lined the walkway like sentries. The double doors—heavy wood with tarnished brass hardware—were closed but unlocked, and I tugged the door open and plowed on in, crossing first through the small foyer, then slowing as I moved over the threshold into the worship area. The stone receptacles that usually held the holy water at the entrance had been packed away as part of the renovation, replaced with simple wooden stands topped with gold-plated bowls. The floor was still damp, probably from the earlier rain, and I walked carefully so I wouldn’t slip. I dabbed my finger in the basin of holy water, made the sign of the cross, then genuflected toward the tabernacle.
    The pews were empty, and I considered heading over to the hall to see if my rendezvous was there. But I’d actually arrived a few minutes early, so it seemed silly not to wait.
    I’d brought an empty glass vial, and I filled it with holy water, replenishing my stock. That errand completed, I just stood there, idly flipping through a missal, and checking my watch about every twenty-four seconds. At eleven-fifty-seven I heard the creak of a door, followed by footsteps. Because the room’s acoustics were designed more for singing hymns than pinpointing sound, I had no idea which direction to look. I turned a full circle and was walking toward the communion rail when the mystery was solved—Father Ben passed through a velvet curtain to appear on the sanctuary in front of me.
    He carried a clipboard and a pen and didn’t seem to realize I was there.
    I cleared my throat, and he looked up, startled. His face cleared almost immediately, though, and he smiled broadly. “Kate Connor. What brings you here today?”
    Okay. So he definitely wasn’t my alimentatore . I let loose my preplanned excuse. “I’m picking up some more inventories to type. But the message on my cell phone was garbled, so I’m not sure who called.”
    Since our project involved reviewing and indexing the extensive donations received by the cathedral’s sizable archives, I assumed there was a list somewhere waiting to be typed. Thus, I was not actually lying to a priest.
    Father Ben rubbed his chin. “Well, I’m afraid I can’t help you. Delores would know, but she’s not here today,” he added, referring to the committee chair.
    “Oh. That’s too bad.” I frowned