California Demon by Julie Kenner Read Free Book Online Page A

out, connecting solidly with my right knee.
    I wish I could say I was ready for it, but I wasn’t. A kick in the knee is brutal, and I went down, scrambling to keep some balance . . . or at least to keep my hand tight on the icicle.
    I didn’t manage either, and now Sinclair had the weapon—he tugged it out of his flesh and aimed it at me with a toothy grin. There was only a little blood—he was dead flesh, after all—and somehow the lack of blood made the entire situation that much more sinister.
    I didn’t have time to think about that, though, because he was on me, my own arm up to deflect his blows as he tried to slam the icicle through my heart.
    Old men may not be strong, but the same can’t be said about demons and, from my awkward position on my back, Sinclair definitely had the advantage. We were by the staircase, and I grabbed the bottom step with one hand, trying to use the five inches of height to lever myself up while I fended him off with the other hand.
    No use. Sinclair was on top of me; so close that the putrid scent of his demon breath came through even past the spicy cinnamon gum.
    And that’s when I saw it. The screwdriver. It had rolled under the yellow janitor’s bucket, its orange-and-black handle barely peeking out.
    With one hand, I shoved against Sinclair’s chest, keeping him away, trying to prevent him from landing a fatal blow. With the other, I reached out, stretching until my fingers brushed the hard plastic handle. But I still wasn’t close enough to grab it, and Sinclair was fighting hard.
    Damn!
    He rallied, this time coming in toward my face. I made one last thrust for the screwdriver. No use. Sinclair was on me, and at the last second, I whipped my outstretched arm forward, connecting hard with his throat.
    He gagged, and dropped the icicle, but then he used his now-free hand to grab my wrist. I reacted without thinking and kneed him in the groin, screaming out in pain as I did so because my knee still hurt like hell from where he’d smashed it.
    There wasn’t a lot of force behind my blow—and demons are mostly immune to being kicked in the balls—but he stumbled backwards anyway, his grip on my wrists loosening just slightly.
    That was all I needed. I stretched, pushing myself along the floor until my fingers snagged the screwdriver. I tried to get up, but he’d recovered himself by then and lashed out, knocking my legs out from under me and destroying my precarious balance.
    He leaped on me, his hand closing around the hand with the screwdriver. He slammed me backwards, banging my already battered hand, and then pried my fingers open.
    I watched myself, like watching someone in a dream, as he hit a pressure point at the base of my thumb. My fingers slackened, and the screwdriver tumbled from my hand.
    He caught it midair, then raised it, lunging for me even as he cried out, telling me in no uncertain terms that it was time to “Die, Hunter, die.”
    Images of my kids flooded my brain, and I screamed in defiance as I parried to the left. I managed to avoid the brunt of his blow, but the motion shifted both of us off balance. We crashed to the floor, and I rolled to the right, barely escaping his thrust of the screwdriver.
    The icicle was right there, the end now even more jagged and sharp from having smashed on the cement floor. Good.
    I grabbed it up and rocketed to my feet, ignoring the searing pain that shot through my injured knee. Sinclair was up, too, and we lunged at each other, me leading with a piddly little Christmas ornament, and the demon leading with a lethal-looking screwdriver.
    Not the best of odds, but I didn’t care. I didn’t intend to lose. I just wasn’t exactly sure how I was going to manage to win.
    I was breathing hard now, instinct guiding my movements even as my head tried to come up with a good plan. Or, for that matter, any plan. We circled each other until the stairs—and the rickety railing—was right behind him.
    And that’s when I got