Demons are Forever: Confessions of a Demon-Hunting Soccer Mom by Julie Kenner Page A

to plant his “things.” As in, he uses his plastic shovel and rake to dig holes, then he fills them with a wide variety of toys. I’m not sure what the point is—maybe he thinks he’ll grow a toy tree—but it keeps him occupied on the weekends.
    Stuart had hidden his hollowed-out stone under the corner of the storage shed nearest the fence, shoved back behind one of the cinderblocks that forms the shed’s foundation. I picked my way over all the debris—Timmy’s toys, bags of potting soil, chipped clay pots, a coiled garden hose, a rusty watering can—then bent for the key. Above me, a nice wind from the ocean rustled the leaves in the tree, and I thought what a nice day it would be for an outdoor play date. Maybe I’d suggest to Fran that we bring the kids out on the patio.
    I was debating whether it was warm enough to fill up Timmy’s sand-and-water play table (and debating how much the other moms would hate me for getting their kids wet and dirty), when I heard gravel crunch behind me.
    “Sorry I’m so slow,” I said. “I forgot the—”
    But the words died in my throat. Because that wasn’t Fran barreling down on me.
    This time, it really was a demon.

Five
    The demon launched himself at me, and from my precarious bent-over position, I barely managed to defend myself. An offensive maneuver was out of the question.
    Pots clattered as I fell backwards against the potting table, one clay pot cracking and slicing hard against my exposed upper arm. I tried to get my footing, but the ground was damp, and my feet slid in the muck.
    The demon took advantage of my poor balance and lunged forward, pressing me backwards so that the edge of the table was digging into my back, just above the waistband of my jeans. A few minutes ago, I’d had an ice pick tucked in my back pocket. But I’d foolishly tossed it into the sink when Fran and Elena had arrived.
    Not one of my brighter moves.
    With one hand, the demon held my neck, and with the other, he wielded a knife, the tip of it pressed right against the corner of my eye. I stayed perfectly still, my heart pounding against my ribs, and my body screaming in pain from the splintery edge cutting into the exposed skin of my back.
    He’d shoved my whole body upward, too, so now my feet barely touched the muck. I wanted to kick, but knew it wasn’t any use. I had no leverage. And he had a large steel point just millimeters from my eye.
    “Where?” the demon growled, his voice low and breathy. His dark hair matched the near-black eyes that were now locked on mine. All in all, he looked to be about thirty years old—or the shell of his body did, anyway. And that shell had been in damn good shape when it had died. Considering the grip he had on me, I think it was safe to say the body’s former owner had worked out quite regularly. “Where is the stone? What have you done with the stone?”
    I stayed silent, both because I was mentally calculating my odds, and also because I had no idea what stone he was talking about.
    “Speak!” he demanded, his sour breath bathing me with the stench of rotting eggs and bile.
    I fought a gag, then managed to cough out a response. “What stone?” I asked, completely perplexed.
    I kept my eyes on him, watching for his reaction even as much as I was trying to trap him with my attention. Because if he was watching me, then maybe he wasn’t watching my hand. The one that was currently stretching slowly—so slowly—toward the little silver potting trowel.
    “Bitch. Do you think you cannot die, Hunter? Do you think we can only find it if you live?”
    “Actually,” I said, my fingers finally closing around the handle of the trowel, “it’s you who isn’t going to live.”
    As I made my declaration, I kicked up, taking advantage of what little leverage I had. I didn’t need much, just enough to distract. At the same time, I thrust the trowel toward his face, aiming for his eye. I was hyperaware of the knife next to my eye, and I