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

and tried to look suitably flummoxed. “I was hoping to get started on the pages tonight.” I turned a bit, looking around as if I expected someone to materialize in a pew. “You haven’t seen anyone else around, have you?”
    “Sorry.”
    “I’ll go check the Bishop’s Hall. If someone is looking for me, would you let them know I’m there?”
    “Of course.”
    I made polite good-bye noises and headed out the door. I popped into the Bishop’s Hall, looked around, and found no one except the janitor, who was mopping the floor. I backed out quickly, careful not to muck up his work.
    The adrenaline rush that had accompanied the thought of meeting my new mentor was being fast replaced by annoyance. I had at least three loads of laundry piled up at home. Not to mention a body that was going to get pretty ripe if it stayed in my shed much longer. I decided to head back to the cathedral in case we’d been passing each other in a not-so-funny comedy-of-errors kind of way. I’d just stepped onto the walkway when I heard footsteps behind me. I turned, but didn’t see anyone. I called out, but no one answered.
    I reached the church doors at the same time Father Ben did. His face lit up instantly, and this time I could tell that I was exactly who he wanted to see.
    “Oh, Kate, I was just going to look for you. I bumped into a gentleman looking for you in the parking lot.”
    “You did?” My gaze automatically shifted toward the lot. I saw five cars, but no people. “Who?”
    “I’m afraid I don’t know his name,” Father said. “He said he’d just looked for you in the hall, but that the floors were wet.”
    “They are. I was just there.”
    “He asked me to direct you to the courtyard if I saw you.”
    “Great. Thanks.”
    We parted ways, him entering the church, and me heading around the building toward the courtyard, a small sitting area bordered by the cathedral, the rectory offices, and the Bishop’s Hall. Primarily used by church staff as a place to sit and eat lunch, the courtyard boasts nothing much more than a few concrete benches and some potted plants. A decorative iron fence marks the entrance. The gate was open, and I walked through. I saw no one. The concrete benches had been bleached to near white from day after day of California sunlight, and I thought absurdly of bones in a field picked clean by vultures and left to bake. I shivered, as if someone had walked over my grave, and I turned my gaze to the statue of the Virgin Mary, looking for comfort. “Give me strength,” I whispered, closing my eyes only briefly as I crossed myself.
    This cloak-and-dagger routine was irritating. I had a cell phone, a fax, a Palm Pilot, and high-speed Internet access. Was it really necessary to skulk around the cathedral grounds when one simple e-mail message could have set out an exact time and meeting place? Another glance at my watch revealed that it was now ten past noon. Father Ben had just seen the man, so where the Devil was he?
    “Hello?” I called, feeling stupid since there was obviously no one there. Then I muttered the kind of curse you really shouldn’t say in a churchyard, and headed back in the direction I’d come. My blood was boiling as I turned, my entire body tight with pent-up frustration. I wanted to hit something, to lash out and let my frustration find some tangible release. The reaction surprised me. For a decade and a half, I’d worked so hard to stifle those urges, and to live by a different set of rules. I’d succeeded, too; suburban life making it easy to bury my past. I repeatedly tell Timmy not to hit, bite, kick, or scream; hitting isn’t nice, hitting doesn’t solve anything.
    Except sometimes hitting does solve things.
    Sometimes, hitting saves your life.
    I may have buried my years of training, but I never truly lost them. And now I felt my old instincts clamoring to the surface, my blood burning and my strength returning. And, even more, I felt the desire. To fight. To