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"Don't move," I said, as if I could keep him there by force of will alone.
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I scooted backward, retrieved the vial, and moved back to crouch over him again. I still held the toy, but
a bit less enthusiastically. He hadn't moved a muscle during my scramble for the water, and now he
watched me, his face impassive, as I unscrewed the metal cap. "Truth time," I said, tossing the water at
him without preamble.
He didn't even flinch, and I knew right then what the result would be. Nothing. No ripped and burning
flesh. No screams emanating from the depths of Hell. Not even a little pop and fizzle. I felt my body
relax.
No demon could tolerate a direct dousing of holy water in the face.
Larson wasn't a demon. He was just a man, bemused and dripping.
I sighed and passed him a crumpled tissue from the back pocket of my jeans. He started to dab water off
his face. "Okay, then," I said. "I believe you."
"I would hope so." He started to stand. I took the opportunity to crawl around, looking for my various
personal belongings.
"So you were testing me," I said, now stating the obvious. "At the party, I mean."
"I was."
I shoved my checkbook in my purse, then started collecting loose coins. "Did I pass?"
He peered at me. "Let's just say there's work to be done."
"Right. Of course." Damn.
I don't like being wrong, and, frankly, I've gotten used to being right pretty much all of the time. I'm the
mom, and Mom is always right. So it would not be an exaggeration to say that I was taking my error
about Judge Larson's identity a bit less than gracefully.
Fortunately, he seemed to understand, and while I sulked, he drove to the county dump, the demon
carcass in his trunk and me in the passenger seat brooding quietly. Not that I'd been sulking the whole
time. After a few vigorous mea culpa's on my part (I can't believe I drenched my alimentatore with holy
water!), we'd headed to my house. I'd parked the Infinity out front, while Larson pulled his Lexus into the
garage. We tugged the body from the storage shed, schlepped him back though the kitchen, and filled
Larson's oh-so-pristine trunk with one geriatric dead demon.
I learned it costs twenty-five dollars to enter the dump, and no one writes down your name, license plate
number, or anything. One grizzled old man was guarding the entrance, but he was more interested in The
Price Is Right playing in grainy black-and-white than he was in us. Considering the ease with which we
entered dead body in tow I had to imagine that a whole plethora of murderous fiends had come this
way before us. Not a pretty picture.
Larson parked behind a pile of debris, shielding us from the view of anyone who might wander down the
road. The place wasn't exactly hopping, though, so I wasn't that worried about onlookers. Together, we
hauled Pops out of the trunk, then stuffed him into a space we'd carved among the debris. The stink
factor was significant, but with two kids (one still in diapers) my gag reflex is well under control.
We rearranged the trash to cover the body, dusted ourselves off, then headed back out the way we
came. With any luck, no one would ever find the body. Or, if they did, they'd never figure out who left it
there.
"Are you still annoyed with me?" Larson asked after we'd been driving for a while.
"Yes," I said. "But I'll get over it."
"It was necessary," he said.
"I understand," I said, and I did understand. "It just irks me that you felt compelled to test skills I haven't
used in years. I mean, how would you like it if your Property professor dropped by unannounced and
quizzed you on the Rule Against Perpetuities?" For the record, I have no idea what that is, but whenever
Stuart invites his lawyer friends over for drinks, they inevitably bring it up, and complain about what a
bitch it was to understand, and then say how glad they are they don't write wills for a living. Larson's eyes
crinkled in a very Paul Newman-esque sort of way. "Point taken," he said. "I wouldn't like it at all." He
stopped at a traffic light, then held his hand out to me. "Truce?"
I took it. "Truce." The light changed and we were under way again. A few minutes later, he turned onto
Rialto Boulevard, the cypress-lined street that leads into my subdivision. I twisted in my seat to face him.
"So how pathetic was I?"
"Actually, under the circumstances you were surprisingly resourceful. Not that I'd expected any less. I've
read your file and I know Wilson would not have been lax in his training."
If he was trying to snare my attention, he'd succeeded. "You knew Wilson?"
Wilson Endicott had been my first and only alimentatore until the day I'd retired. The eldest son of some
British bigwig, he'd forfeited his inheritance when he left home to join Forza. Where Father Corletti had
been like a father to me, Wilson had been like an older brother. I'd trusted him, looked up to him, and I
missed him terribly.
A shadow crossed Larson's face. "He was as good an alimentatore as he was a friend. His passing is a
great loss."
"He'd probably have been mortified to see the way I reacted to you."
Larson shook his head ever so slightly, then reached out to gently touch my hand. "On the contrary. I
think he'd have been very proud."
I focused on my fingernails. "Thanks."
"I'll be sending a positive report back to Forza, Kate. You did well. Truly."
"Oh." I sat up a little straighter, trying to pull myself together. "Well, that's great. How come you didn't
say so earlier?"
He glanced quickly in my direction and I saw a grin sparkle in his eyes. "If memory serves, you had a
miniature swordsman aimed at my eye."
"Right. Sorry about that."
"No offense taken," he said. He flipped down his visor to reveal a pack of Nicorette gum. He unwrapped
a piece and popped it in his mouth, then aimed a frown in my direction. "Harder to quit than I thought,"
he said.
"So how are you going to find Goramesh?" I asked, getting down to business. "That's the plan, right?
You find him, I exterminate him, and life goes back to normal." I squinted at him then, my comment
spurring another thought. "Are you really a judge? Stuart's going to have a fit if it turns out you can't really
endorse him."
He laughed. "I assure you, my place among the judiciary is quite secure."
"So, what? You moonlight for the Vatican?"
I was being sarcastic, but he nodded. "Something like that."
"No kidding?" Back in my day, Hunters and alimentatores were full-time, full-fledged Forza employees.
Outside employment wasn't even an option.
"I was twelve years out of law school when I contacted Father Corletti about training as an alimentatore
," Larson told me.
"Really?" I couldn't help the incredulous tone in my voice. Forza is supersecret. I'd never heard of
anyone contacting the organization out of the blue.
"Father thought it was unusual, too," he said. "But I'd been doing some reading on my own about demons
and the infiltration of the Black Arts into mainstream society, and I ran across a vague reference to the
group in an ancient text. I was intrigued, and the more I poked around, the more determined I was to find
out if the organization was real or a product of someone's imagination."
"I'm impressed."
"It took five years, but I managed." His mouth turned up into a wry grin. "Interesting years, those. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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