Pax Demonica (9 page)

Her hand flew to her chest. “Katherine, no!”

But I wasn’t interested in hearing it. I pushed past her into the hall and sprinted to the bathroom. As she’d said, the floor was damp, the entire room smelling of disinfectant. Proof she was innocent? Or proof she knew how to manage a cover-up?

Allie’s footsteps pounded down the hall, and she came to a breathless stop behind me. “Mom, it wasn’t—I mean, there was someone in the room when I got there.”

I went cold. “What?”

“The window,” she said. “It was open and he ran out. A kid. Grungy. I didn’t get a good look, but I bet he was—”

“A gypsy. Right.” What she really meant was ‘a demon,’ but since I hadn’t told Mrs. Micari that I’d actually made the acquaintance of any local demons, I wasn’t going to say so out loud. Allie’s eyes darted to our innkeeper and back to me.

“Looking for stuff to sell, probably,” Allie said. “And I guess I came in before he loaded the good stuff up.”

“Looks that way.” I turned to our hostess. “
Signora
, I’m sorry. I—”

She waved her hands, shooing away my words. “No, no. You are right. Is my home, is my responsibility. I do not understand, though, how this child got in.” She frowned, then turned back toward our room.

I followed, then hesitated, taking Allie’s hand and tugging her to a stop. “Your room?”

“It’s fine,” she said. “I opened the door, remembered you were right, and turned around to go to your room. But I saw it. Nothing messed up at all. Well,” she added with a shrug, “not more than normal, anyway.”

Mrs. Micari stood at the window in our room, peering out. There was no balcony, no fire escape. Just a decorative iron railing below the window on which potted plants could rest. Somehow the acrobatic little imp had managed to balance on the rail, get our window open, and get inside.

How he managed to scale three stories to get up in the first place I had no idea.

I opened the window wider and poked my head out, wondering if there was piping on the wall. Nothing. Just two more similar pot rails—one for the bathroom and one for the next guest room.

“Maybe he’s just really good at climbing,” Allie said. “The wall’s pretty rough. I know some guys at school who could manage it.” She gnawed on her lower lip. “I shoulda run after him. If I’d just looked out the window, maybe I could’ve seen which way he’d gone.”

“And maybe he would have attacked you and maybe you’d be injured right now. You did fine.”

“Is true,” Mrs. Micari said gently. “The best fights are those you walk away from. And the even better fights are the ones you do not have at all.”

“I guess,” Allie said, but she didn’t sound convinced. I hid a grin. Allie, I’m sure, was running an alternate history in her head. One in which she’d arrived in time to not only catch the demon, but to beat a confession out of him. Me, I was fine with the reality in which she was safe and unscathed.

“Will you stay here with Allie?” I asked Mrs. Micari. “I should go get Stuart and Timmy. They’re waiting at the subway station.”

“What?” Allie asked. “You’re going to
tell
Stuart?”

“Sweetheart, yes. The possibility that Duvall was a demon is one thing. We don’t even know for sure.” I looked at her hard as I said that, trying to silently communicate that Mrs. Micari was not in my Absolute Truth loop. Not yet. “But if someone is breaking into our room, then Stuart needs to know.”

“Mom. . . ” She sank down onto the edge of the bed, looking more miserable than I’d seen her in ages.

I glanced helplessly at Mrs. Micari, who brushed my arm in a gesture of support. “You talk. I go now. But I clean up if you wish. Your husband, he does not need to know of this. Not until you are ready to tell him.”

And there it was, that wave of guilt. She was being wonderful and supportive, and I was clutching secrets to my heart.

“Thank you,” I said, hoping she could tell from my voice how much I meant it.

She closed the door gently behind her, and I went to sit beside my daughter. “He needs to know,” I said.

“But it’s demons. No matter what you said about gypsies, we both know he was a demon, right?”

“Pretty sure,” I said.

“Well, what if he leaves again?” she asked, her voice so small I could barely hear it. “Daddy’s already gone away. What if Stuart goes again, too?”

“Oh, baby.” I put my arms around her and pulled her close. She put her head against my shoulder and clung to me, as small and fragile as a child. And she was still a child. Growing up, yes, and too damn fast. But still a child.

“Please, Mom. Please don’t tell him. I—I don’t want Stuart and Timmy to go away again.”

She pulled back and looked at me, her nose red and her eyes bloodshot. She blinked, and a single tear trickled down her cheek. I brushed it away with the side of my thumb. “Okay,” I said, hoping I wasn’t risking my marriage while protecting my kid. “We’ll have our perfect tourist day, we’ll talk with Father Corletti, and then we’ll decide what to tell Stuart. Fair enough?”

She snuffled and nodded even as I silently wondered if maybe I could wrangle a way to send Stuart and Timmy safely back to San Diablo. Then again, “safely” and “San Diablo” didn’t necessarily go together anymore.

I was stuck between the proverbial rock and the hard place, and the only way I could get free was by figuring out what the demons wanted. What
it
was.

I had a mission. I just didn’t have a plan.

Chapter 8

C
onsidering how eventful
the day had been so far, it was both a surprise and a relief when we were able to travel across Rome by subway without incident. Or, I should say, without demonic incident. The subway was crowded and Stuart edged too close to a non-demonic (presumably) street urchin who had his sticky little fingers on Stuart’s money pouch before I noticed and slapped his hands away.

The kid glared at me, shoved his way toward the front of the car, and proceeded to try the same scam on a ruddy-faced man in a New York Yankees baseball cap.

“Holy crap,” Stuart said after we’d shouted a warning at our fellow tourist. “Persistent, aren’t they?”

“And damn good at what they do.” Fighting was one thing—beat someone up, take their wallet. Tried and true and very risky. But sidling up to someone and sneaking off with their belongings without your victim even being the wiser? There was a certain elegance to it. Not that I wanted to shake the kid’s hand and congratulate him on perfecting his trade, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t admire the skill.

“Between this and that gypsy in the alley, we’re really soaking in the local color,” Stuart said cheerfully.

“Color?” Allie repeated.

“Think of it this way—you’ll be telling the gypsy-on-the-subway story for years. You can’t buy those kind of memories in the local street market.”

As Allie rolled her eyes, I looked at my husband with affection, then pulled him in close for a hug. “Thanks,” I said. “And you’re right. Even so,” I added, aiming a stern eye at both him and Allie. “Be careful. The last thing we need is to spend the day at the Embassy because someone’s passport got nipped.”

We spent the rest of the ride guarding our belongings and watching each other’s backs. I’d gotten used to constant vigil, but I could tell that such an extreme level of self-awareness exhausted Stuart, and by the time the train pulled into our final destination near the Spanish Steps, he’d lost a bit of that traveler’s shine.

The doors swished open and Allie practically dove out, with me calling for her to wait right there on the platform as I helped Stuart maneuver Timmy’s stroller.

“God, Mom, I’m not six. You don’t have to remind me of every little thing.”

“I know,” I said. “But I’ve grown pretty fond of you over the last fifteen years. I really don’t want to lose you in a crowd.”

She rolled her eyes yet again then rattled off a sentence in choppy Italian.

“What did she say?” Stuart asked.

“I’m lost and staying at the
Bonne Nuit
bed and breakfast on the
Borgio Pio
. Please, can you help me get back there?” Allie recited.

“You taught her that?” Stuart asked me, making me feel all the more guilty for not thinking about teaching any of them even the most basic Italian.

“Hello? Technology,” she said, holding up her shiny new iPhone. “I totally downloaded an app. I can say all sorts of stuff now.”

What can I say? The kid had impressed me.

We’d gotten off the train at the Spagna stop on Metro Line A, and after wrestling with Timmy’s stroller, we’d ascended to street level between the
Villa Borghese
and the
Villa Medici
, one of my favorite museums.

Stuart immediately unfolded a tourist map he’d grabbed from a display back at the B&B. “Okay.” He turned in a circle to get his bearings. “Trevi Fountain, that way,” he said with a kind of fierce determination in his voice.

“We’re doing the Spanish Steps, right?” Allie asked. “I mean, hello? Pictures. And lunch, right?”

“Right,” I said. “And we don’t even need to rush to get to the fountain. There’s a wonderful park nearby. And it’s not like there aren’t fountains here at the
Piazza di Spagna
and the
Piazza Trinita dei Monti
,” I added, referring to the piazza closest to us, as well as the one we would reach once we’d climbed the steps.

Allie rolled her eyes. “A park?”

“The
Villa Borghese
Gardens,” I said. “It’s huge. With all sorts of stuff like children’s rides and a lake and boat rentals. Actually, we could skip the café I was thinking of and find lunch in the park.” I didn’t mention that Eric and I used to rent the row boats during our rare free time, and that the park played front and center in my favorite memories of my early days in Rome.

“A park,” Allie repeated, then swept her arm out to encompass the crowded, bustling, ancient city center. “Hello? History. Rome. Architecture.
Shopping
. I mean, come on. Seriously?”

“We’ve been on a plane all day,” I said. “We’re exhausted. And Timmy may look calm right now, but I can promise you that crankiness is imminent. He needs to burn off some steam.”

“Yeah, but—I say again—
a park
?”

I looked to Stuart for help and didn’t find it there. Instead he shrugged sheepishly and waved the map. “Not really on my list,” he said. “But the Trevi Fountain? Kate, we’re talking
La Dolce Vita, Roman Holiday
.”

“There was that scene in
The Lizzie McGuire Movie
,” Allie added helpfully.

“And
Gidget Goes to Rome
,” Stuart added, this time waving not the map but one of the pocket-size tourist books he’d bought back in San Diablo.

I’d been in enough battles to know when I was defeated. “Fine,” I said. “We’ll get some pictures of everyone on the Spanish Steps, then we’ll head that direction.”

“Can we eat first?” Allie said. “Because I’m really hungry, and I need to use the bathroom.”

“That’s the plan,” I said. It’s not like I could argue, especially since my demon-in-the-market encounter had left us without a picnic lunch. I glanced around, trying to get my bearings. “I was thinking of this wonderful little café right in the
Piazza de Spagna
,” I said, pointing vaguely in the right direction. I aimed a wry grin toward Stuart. “And it has a fountain.”

“I’ll throw a few coins in, but you’re not deterring me.” He held up the book. “I am Tourist. Hear me roar.”

Allie groaned—the kind of sound that suggests her parents are just too embarrassing for words and started walking toward the
Via di San Sebastianello
in the direction I’d pointed.

I took the stroller from Stuart, grateful that Timmy had nodded off with Boo Bear still clutched tight in his hands. As with most of the roads in Rome’s ancient center, this one wasn’t smooth, and the lightweight umbrella stroller bounced and skipped. With each jolt I held my breath, fearing rampant crankiness if Tim awoke early from his nap.

The poor little guy must have been completely conked out, though, because he’d been thoroughly shaken by the time we’d followed the road around to the actual piazza, and hadn’t even stirred.

“Wow,” Allie said. We were facing south, the length of the piazza spread out in front of us, and two small grassy islands dominated the view. Allie dropped to one knee, the camera aimed at the cluster of palm trees. “It’s like we’re back home in California,” she said. “Except, you know, for the really old buildings and all the people speaking Italian.”

“Except,” I said with a smile.

Beside me, Stuart took my hand. “It’s lovely here.”

“This used to be one of my favorite places. When we weren’t totally jammed up we’d come here and walk the perimeter and look at all the shops then go sit on the Steps and soak up the sun.”

“Just looking at the buildings is enough for me,” he said, turning to take in the ancient buildings that rose around us in a variety of colors, from muted ochre to vibrant rose.

I followed his gaze, trying to look at this place through his eyes. I’d grown up here and back then it had simply been home. Now, though, the beauty truly stood out. The majesty of the buildings. The subtle distinctions of texture and style. The age and honor of this thriving city that for so long had been the focal point of not just the Church but the whole world.