"Katie . . ." Stuart's voice held a What are you doing? What are you doing? tone. tone.

I smiled at him, but directed my words at Larson. "Just playing Devil's advocate, honey."

"Kate can debate with the best of them," he said to the group. "And she's got very firm views on crime."

"Good and evil," I said. "Black and white."

"No shades of gray?" Elizabeth asked.

"Some things are uncertain, sure," I admitted with a glance toward Larson. "I just find those things supremely frustrating."

They all laughed. "Maybe your wife's the politician, Stuart," Judge Westin, a newly elected state court judge, said. "Be careful or she'll she'll be the new county attorney." be the new county attorney."

Stuart rubbed my shoulder, then leaned over and planted a light kiss on my cheek. "She'd keep a tight rein on crime, that's for sure." He smiled broadly at the group, and I knew the politician had returned. "Of course, so will I."

"All I intend to keep a tight rein on is some pasta." I stood up, gesturing for the guests to stay seated. "I need to go finish dinner. If you'll excuse me . . ."

In the kitchen I sagged against the counter, my heart beating wildly. I never used to be such a ditz about demon-hunting. Of course, I'd never entertained demons in my house before, either. In the past I'd been given an assignment and I'd carried it out. Simple. I never had to actually locate the demons; my alimentatore alimentatore handled that part. I just did the dirty work. handled that part. I just did the dirty work.

And as dangerous and as messy as my old job had been, I think I preferred it to my current situation.

I pulled a wooden spoon from the drawer by the stove and stirred the sauce, feeling a little guilty that I wasn't playing the perfect wife role to a T. At least the sauce had turned out great. Maybe a really kick-ass meal would make up for the fact that Stuart's wife was a nutcase. (Just how important was was a sane wife to a politician, anyway?) a sane wife to a politician, anyway?) I ran the evening's events back through my mind and decided that Stuart's career was still on track. Our guests probably just thought I had a little color and was tough on crime. I could live with that. More important, Stuart Stuart could live with that. Keep acting like a space case, though, and I'd blow his shot before he'd even announced his candidacy. could live with that. Keep acting like a space case, though, and I'd blow his shot before he'd even announced his candidacy.

Think, Katie, think. There had to be a way to figure out for sure if Larson was a demon without ruining my marriage, Stuart's political aspirations, or the dinner party.

I turned the heat down under the sauce, then dumped the pasta into the boiling water, all the while considering my options. Unfortunately, there are very few foolproof litmus tests for identifying demons. If a demon has possessed possessed a human while the human is still alive, it's easy. Then you have a Linda Blair situation and there's this whole raging battle inside the person. Very messy. Very easy to spot. And very a human while the human is still alive, it's easy. Then you have a Linda Blair situation and there's this whole raging battle inside the person. Very messy. Very easy to spot. And very not not my job (former job, that is). my job (former job, that is).

If you're possessed, don't call a Hunter. For that, you need a priest. It's a painful, ugly, scary proposition involving lots of nasty invectives by the possessing demon, a multitude of body fluids, and utter and complete exhaustion. I know. I watched two as part of my training. (There's nothing like a possession to get a Hunter in tune with exactly exactly why we want to eradicate the nasty little demon bugs from the face of the earth.) It's not something I want to see again. why we want to eradicate the nasty little demon bugs from the face of the earth.) It's not something I want to see again.

But there wasn't any battle raging inside Judge Larson. No, if I'd guessed right, Larson wasn't possessed. Instead, he actually was was a demon. Or, rather, a demon had moved in and the real Larson's soul, like Elvis, had left the building. a demon. Or, rather, a demon had moved in and the real Larson's soul, like Elvis, had left the building.

It's a sad fact that there are lots of demons inhabiting our world. Thankfully, most of them can't do much in the way of annoying or harming humans. They're just out there, floating around in a disembodied state, spending eternity looking for a human body to fill. A lot of them want to be human so badly that they go the possession route.

But it's the ones with more patience that I worry about. These demons inhabit a body at the moment of death. As the person's soul leaves, the demon slips in, just like Pops in my pantry. You've heard the stories of folks who couldn't possibly survive a car wreck . . . but did? Or the person on the operating table who against all odds managed to pull through? Or the heart attack victim who collapsed . . . and then got right back up again with no apparent damage whatsoever?

Well, now you know.

Of course, it's not as easy as all that. The timing has to be just right just right. Once the soul is gone, the entry point closes and, poof, no more opportunity. (That's not entirely entirely accurate. There's a later point where the body is once again ripe for takeover. I think the decay opens a portal or something. I'm not a theologian. All I know is by that time, there are issues of rigor and worms and all sorts of gross stuff. Demons do resort to that on occasion, and I've fought a few zombies in my time. But since Larson clearly wasn't a zombie, that really wasn't my concern.) accurate. There's a later point where the body is once again ripe for takeover. I think the decay opens a portal or something. I'm not a theologian. All I know is by that time, there are issues of rigor and worms and all sorts of gross stuff. Demons do resort to that on occasion, and I've fought a few zombies in my time. But since Larson clearly wasn't a zombie, that really wasn't my concern.) The other thing about using a human body is that demons can't inhabit the faithful. Those souls fight fight. So it's not like a demon can just hang around a hospital waiting for folks to head out to the Great Beyond. It's a lot harder than that. Which, when you think about it, is good news for all of us.

So, while there aren't that many demons walking around in human shells, the ones that are are out there are hard to spot. They blend in perfectly. (Well, there is the bad-breath thing, but how many non-Hunters clue in to that?) And disposing of them is a real pain in the butt. out there are hard to spot. They blend in perfectly. (Well, there is the bad-breath thing, but how many non-Hunters clue in to that?) And disposing of them is a real pain in the butt.

But those demons do do have certain idiosyncrasies that are useful to Hunters for identification purposes. I'd already tried the breath test on Larson. And while I thought he'd failed, I couldn't get a good enough second whiff to confirm. And, frankly, even if his breath was so bad it knocked me over, that really wasn't reason enough to stab him in the eye. It's difficult enough covering up a demon killing. The accidental death of a nondemon judge was not something I wanted to explain. have certain idiosyncrasies that are useful to Hunters for identification purposes. I'd already tried the breath test on Larson. And while I thought he'd failed, I couldn't get a good enough second whiff to confirm. And, frankly, even if his breath was so bad it knocked me over, that really wasn't reason enough to stab him in the eye. It's difficult enough covering up a demon killing. The accidental death of a nondemon judge was not something I wanted to explain.

Which meant I needed to find another test.

The best test was holy ground. Your run-of-the-mill demons can't bear to enter a church. They can physically make it through the doors, but it just about kills them to do it. Major pain and suffering, and it only gets worse the closer they get to the altar. And if the altar happens to have incorporated the bones of a saint (which is pretty common), then we're talking extreme depths-of-hell-quality torture. Not a pretty picture. But since there was no way I could convince Stuart, Larson, and the gang to take a little field trip to the cathedral, that test was pretty much useless.

Frowning, I turned on the tap. I needed to wash my hands and get dinner on the table. Demon detection could wait until after dessert.

And that's when it hit me. Holy water Holy water. The answer was so obvious, I felt like an idiot for not thinking of it earlier. Just like in The Exorcist The Exorcist, holy water burns the shit out of demons. (And I've got to say that there's very little in this world more satisfying than seeing those welts appear on a demon you've been stalking. Vengeful? Absolutely. But so very true.) The timer dinged, which meant the pasta was ready. I dumped the pot into the colander, mixed the rigatoni with my secret sauce in one of the fancy serving bowls we'd received as a wedding present, then carried the dish to the table. I hesitated there, glancing toward the stairs, shifting my weight from foot to foot. My hunting gear was locked up in a trunk in the attic, but every good Hunter keeps a few essentials nearby, even after fifteen years. And I was pretty sure that if I looked in the bottom drawer of my jewelry chest, I'd find an oversized crucifix and at least one small bottle of holy water.

At least, I hoped I would.

I gnawed on my lower lip. Would they notice if I disappeared upstairs? Surely not. After all, I'd only be gone a second.

I was just about to risk it when Elizabeth stepped into the dining room, looking fabulous in something that I'm sure cost at least a month's salary. (Her husband is a partner at McKay & Case, a personal injury firm. Let's just say they don't need to pinch pennies.) "Can I help?"

I considered letting her finish putting the food on the table while I ran upstairs, but a burst of sanity vetoed that plan. I didn't need the holy water this very instant. If Larson was a demon, I'd know soon enough. And in the meantime, he wasn't going anywhere. (And what would I do if he was was a demon, anyway? Killing him during dinner would be a social a demon, anyway? Killing him during dinner would be a social faux pas faux pas from which I'd never recover.) from which I'd never recover.) As I finished preparing the table, Elizabeth called in the men. They came, and I seated myself next to Larson, pretending not to notice the chair Stuart held out for me.

We had the salad first, and I actually managed to participate in the conversation. ("Why, yes, I heard some developer wants to put in a mall on Third Street. I hope it falls through. That's so so near the beach." "Actually, Allie grew the basil, Elizabeth. I'll tell her how much you enjoyed it." "Thank you. We certainly love our neighborhood." Mundane. Boring. You get the drift.) near the beach." "Actually, Allie grew the basil, Elizabeth. I'll tell her how much you enjoyed it." "Thank you. We certainly love our neighborhood." Mundane. Boring. You get the drift.) People tend to get more involved in eating once they get to the main course, abandoning polite small talk in favor of their stomachs. And that's when I made my move. I cocked my head to the side and made a show of furrowing my brow. Then I leaned forward, meaningfully meeting Stuart's eyes. "Did you hear that?"

"What?" Confusion and a hint of concern splashed across his face.

I pushed my chair back, dropping the napkin in my seat. "I'm sure it's nothing," I said. I was up and around the table, heading for the doorway. "I thought I heard Timmy." I smiled at our guests. "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

Stuart was halfway out of his chair. "Should I-"

"Don't be silly. He probably had a bad dream. I just want to check."

That appeased him, and I headed off. As soon as I rounded the corner and was out of sight of the dining room, I took off at a run, bounding up the stairs two at a time.

I didn't breathe until I hit the bedroom, and once I did, I took the most direct route to my jewelry box, bouncing across the bed in a way that would have earned Timmy a scolding. I yanked the bottom drawer out and dumped it, scattering odd bits of jewelry and memorabilia over the rumpled bed linens.

A charm bracelet, a broken pocket watch, a silver crucifix in a velvet case, a box of Allie's baby teeth, and-tucked in the back-a single bottle of holy water, the metal cap still screwed on tight.

Dear Lord, thank you.

I didn't even hear Stuart come up behind me. "Kate?"

I yelped, then shoved the bottle down the bodice of my dress, where I could feel my heart pounding against it.

"Shit, Stuart, you scared me to death." I slid off the bed and turned around to face him, not quite meeting his eyes.

"I thought you were checking on Tim."

"I was. I did. He's asleep."

Stuart lifted his brows and looked pointedly at the mess on the bed.

"I, um, realized I wasn't wearing any earrings."

Nothing.

The silence grew so thick that I was afraid he wasn't going to answer. Then he moved toward me and stroked my cheek, finally cupping my chin in his hand. With the utmost tenderness, he tilted my head back. "Sweetheart, do you feel okay?"

"I'm fine," I said. As fine as anyone could be who had to deal with demons and a dinner party and keeping secrets from her husband. "I'm sorry. I'm just distracted."

It hit me then that we were both upstairs, and the kitchen was unguarded. What if someone spilled something? What if they went looking for paper towels? What if they looked behind the cat food? What if they looked behind the cat food?

I grabbed his hand. "I guess I felt a little overwhelmed," I said as I tugged him down the hall. "I'm not much of a Jackie O."

"I don't want Jackie O.," he said. "You've done a fabulous job. Just be yourself and everyone will love you. I know I do."

I forced a smile, but I couldn't force any words. Because for the first time, the honest to God's truth hit me: My husband, the man who'd fathered my youngest child and who shared my bed every night, didn't really know squat about my life.

And if I had my way, he wasn't ever going to.

My opportunity presented itself during dessert. "Would anyone else like some water?" I asked, rising. No one did, so I headed into the kitchen, pulled down our smallest glass (one of Timmy's with faded purple dinosaurs) and poured in the holy water. Not even half an inch. during dessert. "Would anyone else like some water?" I asked, rising. No one did, so I headed into the kitchen, pulled down our smallest glass (one of Timmy's with faded purple dinosaurs) and poured in the holy water. Not even half an inch.

I eyed the tap, wondering if it was sacrilegious to mix holy water with the water provided by the City of San Diablo. Even more important, I wondered if it would render the water ineffective.

Since it wasn't worth the risk to either my soul or my plan, I returned with my tiny bit of water in my tiny little glass. Stuart looked at me, and I shrugged. "We never seem to have enough clean glasses," I said.

Judge Larson looked amused. "You're not very thirsty," he said. "Or are you sneaking a shot of liqueur while the rest of us gorge ourselves on your delicious apple tart?"

I laughed. "Exceptionally thirsty," I lied. "I polished off most of the glass just walking back." As I spoke, I headed for my seat, planning to trip over my own feet and dump the water on Larson as soon as I was in range.

The phone rang, and Stuart pushed his chair back, blocking my path and spoiling my plan. "That might be Judge Serfass," he said, referring to the one no-show who'd called to say her plane was late. He answered, but his expression quickly turned to confusion. "I can't hear you," he said, in that overly loud voice people use on bad connections. "I can't understand a word you're saying."

Another few seconds passed as he shook his head, looking confused and frustrated. Then he shrugged and hung up the phone.

"Who was it?"

"No idea. Sounded foreign. Italian, maybe. The connection was terrible, but it had to be a wrong number."

Father Corletti.

Out of instinct, I turned to look at Larson, and found him looking right back at me. and found him looking right back at me.

Oh, hell, it was now or never. I pushed past Stuart's chair toward my own. As I did, Larson stood. He reached down as if to pull my chair out for me, but before I realized what was happening, he bumped my arm and the glass went flying.

Water splashed harmlessly on the tile. But not a single drop touched the man.

"Oh, look at that. I'm so sorry," he said. "How incredibly clumsy of me."

"You did that on purpose," I hissed as I bent to pick up the glass.

"What?" That from Stuart. Oops. Oops. The comment I'd meant only for Larson had apparently been louder than I'd thought. The comment I'd meant only for Larson had apparently been louder than I'd thought.

"I said he really knows how to startle a person." I stood up and met Larson's eyes, my smile cold. "No harm, no foul. Water's certainly replaceable. Tap water, mineral water, bottled water. All kinds of water."

He didn't answer me. He didn't have to. We both knew the score for that round. Demons-one. Me-nada.

Another hour of chitchat and political hocus-pocus and then the guests were finally ready to hit the road. Parties often come to an end in a bustle of bodies gathering purses and car keys, and this one was no exception. We all migrated to the foyer, then stepped out onto the front porch where hands started shaking and good-byes started flying. and political hocus-pocus and then the guests were finally ready to hit the road. Parties often come to an end in a bustle of bodies gathering purses and car keys, and this one was no exception. We all migrated to the foyer, then stepped out onto the front porch where hands started shaking and good-byes started flying.

In the flurry, Larson took my hand, his skin rough against my own. "It's been a lovely, enlightening evening, Mrs. Connor. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon."

His eyes reflected a deep intensity. Not necessarily evil . . . but the man definitely looked as if he knew my secrets.

I shivered, fighting revulsion and a hint of fear. "Yes," I managed. "I'm sure we'll cross paths again soon."

"And I'm so sorry I didn't have the chance to meet your daughter. I imagine she's just like her mother."

My chest constricted and I realized I couldn't breathe. It was almost eleven o'clock. The mall had been closed for an hour. And I hadn't heard a word from Laura or Allie.

Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit.

"I hear Timmy crying," I muttered, ostensibly to Stuart, but I didn't bother to see if he heard me. I raced back into the house, tossing "thank you all for coming" over my shoulder as I disappeared inside.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up." I had the phone in my hand and was pacing the kitchen. Laura's voice, that damn message, the beep, and then, "Allie? Laura? Where are you guys? Hello?"

No one was answering, and I was on the verge of slamming down the receiver and racing to Laura's back door when the machine beeped and I heard Mindy's voice, laced with giggles. "Mrs. Connor?"

"Mindy." I exhaled, and my legs gave out. I sank to the ground and hugged my knees to my chest, my back pressed against the dishwasher. "Where's Allie?"

"She's on the treadmill. We both had double scoops, so that means we have to burn like three hundred calories or something to make up for it."

I closed my eyes and decided I'd save the eating-disorder lecture for another time. "Can you put her on?"

Mindy didn't bother to answer, but I heard the clatter of the cordless phone changing hands. "Mom! Mrs. Dupont took us to an Adam Sandler movie! Isn't that cool? He is soooo soooo funny." funny."

"I didn't realize you guys were going to be gone that long," I said. "I thought you were just getting ice cream."

I could practically hear her shrug. "We kinda begged. But, Mom, it was such a slammin' movie."

I assumed that meant she liked it. "Any reason why you didn't call to let me know where you'd be?"

"Huh? I was with Mrs. Dupont, remember?"

Okay, I wasn't being fair. "Sorry. I just got a little worried when I couldn't find you."

"Then let me have a cell phone."

My daughter, the pragmatist.

"So," I said brightly, "why don't you and Mindy come over here tonight. I'm wired from coffee. If you're still up for that Harry Potter marathon, I'm game."

"Um . . ."

Not the enthusiastic response I'd wanted. "Come on, Al. It'll be fun. You two can stay up as late as you want."

"Yeah?" A pause. "Why?" Suspicion laced her voice. Smart kid.

"Because you're my kid and I love you and I want to spend time with you." And protect you. And protect you.