Pax Demonica by Julie Kenner

toward the girl. It was midafternoon, but I felt lost in the dark. I was a grown-up. A mother, a wife. But I felt four years old all over again. “ Tell me ,” I demanded. “Tell me where you got this.”
    I could barely speak through the tears that rose in my throat, and I felt suddenly weak. A cold anger rose all around me, and I wasn’t sure if it was directed at the girl, at the woman in the picture, at Forza , or at the twist of fate that had left me an orphan. All I knew was that the foundation of the earth had been yanked out from under me and I was tumbling fast through space.
    I don’t remember falling to the ground, but the next thing I knew, I was on my knees.
    I’d lost my grip—and thank god Allie was there to take charge.
    I don’t know when she’d managed it, but she’d left my side and crept up close to Eliza. Now she moved with remarkable swiftness and got her knife up against the girl’s throat.
    “ Allie .”
    “No,” she said fiercely. “No, we do this smart.” She licked her lips and lifted her chin, and I saw guts and determination. Right then, she was taking care of me—and we both knew it.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “Okay,” she repeated with a sharp nod. “We’re going back to the B&B. We’re going back and we’re going to figure this out. And you,” she added, taking the knife away but poking Eliza with her finger, “you are coming with us.”
    I may have been unsteady, but I got to my feet. Allie was doing great, but no way was I allowing her to run this show. If Eliza was a risk, I didn’t want Allie at the front line any more than she already was. And if Eliza really was family—well, I wanted to hedge my bets.
    I waved my fingers, indicating she should come over. She did, albeit tentatively, and with Allie practically glued to her side.
    “You may be who you say you are,” I acknowledged. “But I’m not taking any chances. Arms up,” I said, and when she complied, I patted her down. I found a razor in her bra—score a point for Allie—and a switchblade tucked inside her ankle-high boots. Other than that, she was clean.
    I slid the switchblade into my pocket and the razor into my purse. “All right,” I said, heading out of the alley to circle back around to the restaurant—and to Stuart and Timmy. “Let’s go.”
    “Mom,” Allie said, and I could hear the question in her voice plain enough.
    “We have to tell him,” I said by way of answer. “We have to tell him everything.”
    I don’t know if Eliza understood that I was talking about my husband, or if she was even curious. But to her credit, she stayed quiet. When we arrived back at the café, Stuart was bent over and strapping Timmy into the stroller.
    “Jesus, Kate,” he said, his expression a mix of relief and irritation. “I was just about to call the embassy. Either that or. . .” He trailed off with a shrug, his eyes narrowed at Eliza. But it didn’t matter—I knew well enough the word he didn’t speak. Forza .
    “That second option would have been the right place to call,” I said wryly as I looked pointedly at Eliza. “Apparently this is going to be more of a working vacation than I’d planned.”
    “Oh.” His eyes darted from me to Eliza. “Is she a—you know?”
    It was a good question, and I suddenly felt like a bit of an idiot since the possibility that Eliza was a demon hadn’t occurred to me before. Just another clue that the girl’s claim that she was family had messed me up more than I wanted to admit.
    I started to say that I didn’t think so, but couldn’t be sure, when Allie whipped out the spray bottle of holy water I keep in Timmy’s diaper bag and squirted Eliza in the face.
    All around us, the restaurant patrons’ eyes widened, and I was pretty sure I heard someone mutter “Crazy Americans” in muffled Italian.
    But since crazy Americans come to the Spanish Steps all the time, we weren’t worth more than a cursory glance, especially since Eliza’s skin