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

it’s Daddy’s day out.”
    My stern face dissolved, and suddenly I was all smiles. I raised up on my tiptoes and kissed him. “You’re the best.”
    Stuart did not look ecstatic, but he wasn’t apoplectic. Score one for Kate. We wandered back into the kitchen to find that Allie had already put all the dishes in the dishwasher and was now going over Timmy’s face (and hair and hands and clothes) with a washcloth, trying to eradicate all signs of powdered sugar and syrup. Even on a bad day, Allie’s pretty good about helping with Timmy. Add in the promise of a new wardrobe, and the kid becomes positively saintlike.
    Another ten minutes and they were settled in the van, Stuart armed with credit cards, Allie with her list, and Timmy with Boo Bear. As they pulled out onto the street, I headed back to the front porch. I leaned against one of the wooden posts and waved, hoping they couldn’t see the way my body sagged with relief. I love my family, really I do. But as I watched the van pull out of the driveway, I had to admit that a little alone time was awfully nice.
    Even if I was alone with a dead demon.

Five
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    Fifteen minutes later a fresh pot of coffee was brewing on the kitchen counter, the pungent aroma of Starbucks Sumatra reminding me of the caffeinated reward that awaited me once my task was complete. At the moment I was hunched over, my fingers tight around the old man’s arms as I dragged him from the kitchen toward the French doors at the back of the house.
    My meeting with my alimentatore was at noon, and I couldn’t wait. Ever since Stuart and the kids had left, I’d been fighting the creepy sensation that I was being watched. I’d checked the window first and found no demons (or mortal-variety Peeping Toms) lurking about. The plastic had come loose in a couple of places, but I attributed that more to the cheap off-brand duct tape I’d bought than to the forces of evil.
    I’d shoved my uneasiness aside and got on with the job at hand. The truth is, I would have preferred to simply keep the demon in the pantry, then bring my mentor back with me to provide sound and useful advice about how to get rid of the remains. But since I couldn’t be certain that Timmy’s good mood or Stuart’s shopping stamina would last that long, I had to get the demon out of the house and tucked away in our storage shed. In my old life, once I’d done away with a demon, one simple phone call to Forza would dispatch a collection team to take care of the demon carcass, leaving me blissfully unaware of that portion of the job. How lucky I was to now get this peek at demon-disposal methods. (That, in case you missed it, is called sarcasm.)
    Though small and wizened, the old man still managed to be quite a burden. He was, after all, dead weight, and I was huffing by the time I reached the French doors. The curtains were drawn, and I pushed one panel aside, peering out into our backyard as if I were a fugitive. I’m not sure what I expected to see. An army of demons? The cops? My husband pointing a finger and accusing me of keeping secrets?
    I saw none of the above and breathed a sigh of relief. My paranoia quotient had increased, however, to the point that the sound of the dishwasher changing cycles made me jump.
    I left the body in front of the doors, then trotted up the stairs, taking them two at a time as I mentally sorted through the contents of my linen closet. I needed something big enough to wrap the man in, but it also had to be something I didn’t mind tossing out. I didn’t care how good the local dry cleaner was; there was no way I’d ever sleep on a demon shroud, freshly pressed or not.
    I grabbed a fitted sheet (100 thread count, so no great loss) and raced back downstairs. Perfect. The elasticized corners even helped keep the floral print shroud attached to the body as I rolled it over and over until it was well cocooned. I doubted my efforts would fool anyone who might be peering