California Demon by Julie Kenner Read Free Book Online

fine.
    So I went in. The door didn’t open onto a supply room like I’d expected. Instead, it opened directly onto a set of stairs leading down to a basement. The stairs were lined on either side with shelves, and those shelves held a variety of janitorial products: Windex, bleach, a box of rags.
    The stairs curved sharply, and right before the curve I saw a tool chest. Carefully, so as to not make anything scrape or rattle, I plucked out a screwdriver. Barrettes are fine in a pinch, but I wanted something with heft.
    A few more steps, and now the stairs were below the level of the shelving, open to the basement, the only barrier a series of thin, metal posts supporting a battered railing. Two bare lightbulbs provided dim illumination, revealing a utility sink tucked into one corner, and there, on the far side of the room, Dermott Sinclair.
    I held my breath and kept my body perfectly still. He hadn’t seen me, too busy concentrating on the task at hand. Since his back was to me, I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but I could hear the soft scrape of stone sliding against mortar. The muscles in his back tightened, and his arms moved in a rhythmic, alternating motion as he tugged on a cinder block lodged in the wall.
    Why, I wondered, was he doing that?
    I reached out, intending to grab hold of the handrail as I crept farther down the stairs. The top bar of the railing, however, had come loose from the vertical supports, and my touch knocked it off kilter, freeing the vertical metal posts. Talk about a building code violation. I mean, something like that could easily put out an eye.
    A harsh metal noise accompanied the shifting of the rail, and Sinclair whipped around, his nostrils flaring. The cinder block was tight in his hands, and now he heaved it at me. I dove forward, the block clearing my head as my hands smashed against the cement floor. My purse spilled all over the floor, and the screwdriver went flying. I winced, but rolled over onto my back, my hand brushing something long and smooth. I grabbed it—whatever it was—then thrust my legs up and out in a practiced move that would make Cutter, my sensei, proud.
    My shoes connected firmly with Sinclair’s gut. He let out a howl as he stumbled backwards, then he plopped onto the ground. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing a demon fall on his rump, and I was riding that high for all it was worth.
    I sprang to my feet, my fingers tight around what I now saw was a Christmas ornament. Specifically, a glass icicle, probably shoved into my purse by my little boy. The end had snapped off, leaving a sharp edge of glass. Exactly the kind of thing I didn’t want Timmy to play with—for exactly the reason I was now glad to have it. These things are dangerous.
    Sinclair was up now, too, and from the calculating look in his eye, I could tell he was itching for a fight. So was I. Threaten my kids, come onto my turf, and it’s not just about duty. It becomes—like they say in the movies—personal.
    He was watching me, wary, his hands in a classic fighting stance. His feet were in constant motion, a boxer waiting for the perfect blow. I didn’t intend to let him have it.
    “Why are you here?” I asked, my feet also moving. We probably looked like we were engaged in some strange dance competition. In a way, I guess maybe we were.
    “That is no concern of yours, Hunter.”
    “Actually, figuring out why you’re here is at the top of my job description.”
    His lip curled into a snarl. “Perhaps you should find a new job,” he suggested. “Because you’ve failed here. The plan is already underway.”
    My stomach twisted a bit at that. What plan? But I didn’t have time to wonder because he was lunging at me.
    I lunged right back, leading with the icicle. He whipped his arm up, the glass first meeting resistance and then sinking deep into the yielding flesh. The wound was deep, but not nearly enough to stop a demon. And as I cursed in frustration, he kicked