Free Pax Demonica by Julie Kenner Page B

added with a shrug, “not more than normal, anyway.”
    Mrs. Micari stood at the window in our room, peering out. There was no balcony, no fire escape. Just a decorative iron railing below the window on which potted plants could rest. Somehow the acrobatic little imp had managed to balance on the rail, get our window open, and get inside.
    How he managed to scale three stories to get up in the first place I had no idea.
    I opened the window wider and poked my head out, wondering if there was piping on the wall. Nothing. Just two more similar pot rails—one for the bathroom and one for the next guest room.
    “Maybe he’s just really good at climbing,” Allie said. “The wall’s pretty rough. I know some guys at school who could manage it.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “I shoulda run after him. If I’d just looked out the window, maybe I could’ve seen which way he’d gone.”
    “And maybe he would have attacked you and maybe you’d be injured right now. You did fine.”
    “Is true,” Mrs. Micari said gently. “The best fights are those you walk away from. And the even better fights are the ones you do not have at all.”
    “I guess,” Allie said, but she didn’t sound convinced. I hid a grin. Allie, I’m sure, was running an alternate history in her head. One in which she’d arrived in time to not only catch the demon, but to beat a confession out of him. Me, I was fine with the reality in which she was safe and unscathed.
    “Will you stay here with Allie?” I asked Mrs. Micari. “I should go get Stuart and Timmy. They’re waiting at the subway station.”
    “What?” Allie asked. “You’re going to tell Stuart?”
    “Sweetheart, yes. The possibility that Duvall was a demon is one thing. We don’t even know for sure.” I looked at her hard as I said that, trying to silently communicate that Mrs. Micari was not in my Absolute Truth loop. Not yet. “But if someone is breaking into our room, then Stuart needs to know.”
    “Mom. . . ” She sank down onto the edge of the bed, looking more miserable than I’d seen her in ages.
    I glanced helplessly at Mrs. Micari, who brushed my arm in a gesture of support. “You talk. I go now. But I clean up if you wish. Your husband, he does not need to know of this. Not until you are ready to tell him.”
    And there it was, that wave of guilt. She was being wonderful and supportive, and I was clutching secrets to my heart.
    “Thank you,” I said, hoping she could tell from my voice how much I meant it.
    She closed the door gently behind her, and I went to sit beside my daughter. “He needs to know,” I said.
    “But it’s demons. No matter what you said about gypsies, we both know he was a demon, right?”
    “Pretty sure,” I said.
    “Well, what if he leaves again?” she asked, her voice so small I could barely hear it. “Daddy’s already gone away. What if Stuart goes again, too?”
    “Oh, baby.” I put my arms around her and pulled her close. She put her head against my shoulder and clung to me, as small and fragile as a child. And she was still a child. Growing up, yes, and too damn fast. But still a child.
    “Please, Mom. Please don’t tell him. I—I don’t want Stuart and Timmy to go away again.”
    She pulled back and looked at me, her nose red and her eyes bloodshot. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. I brushed it away with the side of my thumb. “Okay,” I said, hoping I wasn’t risking my marriage while protecting my kid. “We’ll have our perfect tourist day, we’ll talk with Father Corletti, and then we’ll decide what to tell Stuart. Fair enough?”
    She snuffled and nodded even as I silently wondered if maybe I could wrangle a way to send Stuart and Timmy safely back to San Diablo. Then again, “safely” and “San Diablo” didn’t necessarily go together anymore.
    I was stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place, and the only way I could get free was by figuring out what the demons