Every Demon Has His Day, page 1
“You are one smoking widow,” Dead Jimmy said. “H-O-T.”
By the time the funeral rolled around, Dead Jimmy was as lively as ever, sitting next to Constance in the front pew of the funeral home, looking straight down her V-neck, black, sleeveless dress. It hit just above the knee, and she was wearing her nicest pair of shoes: black heels. This was her only nice black dress, and not exactly used often, since Jimmy’s idea of a night out was to go to the Dairy Queen drive-through.
“I mean it, you look really hot,” said Dead Jimmy, as he tried to get a look down her dress.
“Shhhhh,” Constance said, and focused on the flower arrangements on either side of the coffin. There were lots of flowers. Constance didn’t realize Jimmy was so well liked in the county. Or maybe it was a sign of relief from people knowing that he wasn’t around to break any more of their things.
CRITICS ADORE THE “SNAPPY” (BOSTON HERALD) NOVELS OF CARA LOCKWOOD!
Stirring up trouble for her rock star ex-husband causes an avalanche of mishaps for outrageous Lily Crandell…in Cara Lockwood’s follow-up to her national bestseller I Do (But I Don’t).
I DID (BUT I WOULDN’T NOW)
“An absolute treat!…Lockwood infuses her novels with a sense of fun and laughter and all-around joy….”
—In the Library Reviews
“A sweet treat…satisfying…just the right amount of humor.”
—Curled Up with a Good Book
“Lighthearted…fun…. Fans will enjoy this zany look at celebrities, chick lit style.”
—Harriet Klausner
“The same quick wit as Lockwood’s I Do (But I Don’t)…[with] a story of heartbreak and renewal at the heart of the novel.”
—Booklist
And be sure to read the USA Today bestseller
I DO (BUT I DON’T)
“Lighthearted and entertaining…. Refreshing…. Intensely romantic yet comic storytelling.”
—Romantic Times
“The perfect bath read.”
—Daily News (New York)
“A warm, amusing, lighthearted romp…. Lockwood displays strong talent.”
—All Readers
“A lot of funny scenes…. A fun light summer read.”
—Book Reporter
“Sure to strike a chord with many readers…. Fun, entertaining, and enjoyable.”
—Curled Up with a Good Book
PINK SLIP PARTY
“Readers will be delighted by the character-driven zaniness…. Snappy repartee and hot sex scenes keep the story moving along nicely.”
—Boston Herald
“An amusing chick lit tale…. [A] comical contemporary caper.”
—All Readers
“This is one hilarious book. I definitely recommend Pink Slip Party if you need a good laugh and you know you do if you’ve received one of those pink slips yourself.”
—Mostly Fiction
“If you’re looking for a perfect beach read, this adorable, romantic novel is it.”
—YM magazine
DIXIELAND SUSHI
“A warm and friendly writing style.”
—Library Journal
“A hilarious relationship novel…. Readers who enjoy chick lit will savor Dixieland Sushi because, like its main character, it offers a different take on the standard fare.”
—Curled Up with a Good Book
ALSO BY CARA LOCKWOOD
I Do (But I Don’t)
Pink Slip Party
Dixieland Sushi
I Did (But I Wouldn’t Now)
Bard Academy
Wuthering High
The Scarlet Letterman
Moby Clique
Downtown Press
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Cara Lockwood
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
DOWNTOWN PRESS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-5935-4
ISBN-10: 1-4391-5935-1
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonSays.com
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I had much help in writing this book. Thanks to my darling daughters, who are angels in their own right—almost all of the time. Thank you to my husband, who did extra babysitting duty and sacrificed valuable fantasy football time. Thanks as always to Mom, who never laughs at an idea, even if it’s really bad, and to Dad, who still thinks I might win a Pulitzer. Thanks to my brother, Matt, for helping me keep my sense of humor. As always gratitude goes to my multitalented agent, Deidre Knight, and my insanely insightful editor, Lauren McKenna. A special thanks to Shannon Whitehead for reading a demon of a first draft of this book. Many thanks to my Web guru, Christina Swartz, and a great big thank-you to my angelic marketing team: Elizabeth Kinsella, Kate Kinsella, Kate Miller, Jane Ricordati, Linda Newman, and Carroll Jordan. And a special thanks to Carol K. Mack and Dinah Mack, authors of A Field Guide to Demons, Fairies, Fallen Angels and Other Subversive Spirits, and to Rosemary Ellen Guiley, who wrote The Encyclopedia of Angels.
For Shannon, who could kick any demon’s butt.
CONTENTS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
SIX MONTHS LATER
ONE
The day Constance Plyd discovered her destiny, she was knee-deep in suds and bubbles, a mess of her soon-to-be-ex-husband Jimmy’s making. Jimmy knew every last player who ever put on a Dallas Cowboy uniform, but seemed incapable of remembering routine household information, like the fact that you don’t put Tide in the dishwasher, even if the Cascade is running low.
Constance couldn’t believe on the day he was supposed to sign the divorce papers he’d made a mess. Jimmy, who’d never done a dish the whole time they were married, suddenly found the urge to run the dishwasher, mere minutes from the end of their marriage. And now her kitchen was covered in suds.
But she shouldn’t be surprised. Jimmy was in an elite club of eejits. Just last year when he tried to change Constance’s motor oil, he ended up draining out all her transmission fluid instead. In fact, there was no problem Jimmy couldn’t make worse. He was the kind of man who broke most everything he touched, including but not limited to lawn mowers, generators, refrigerators, tractors, trailers, trucks, cars, and even, once, a spoon. Their neighbors scattered any time Jimmy came out on the porch, in case he was looking to borrow something, because if he remembered to bring it back at all, it would be in pieces.
The only thing Jimmy had ever managed to do right was inherit a modest income from his childless uncle, who accidentally struck oil when he was digging a well in his backyard in 1962. It wasn’t Rockefeller money, or even Beverly Hillbillies money, but it was just enough to ensure Jimmy never had to work a day in his life.
Constance never thought she’d end up with Jimmy and his ever-dwindling fortune. But falling for him was a temporary lapse in judgment that Constance blamed squarely on Nathan Garrett.
Nathan Garrett, you see, was the youngest of the Garrett brothers, notorious throughout Dogwood County for their good looks and their fast hands. In high school, the brothers—a set of twins and the youngest, Nathan—pretty much were responsible for relieving the greater Dogwood County female population of their virginity between the years 1991 and 2000. After that, the Garretts moved on—the twins to Houston and Nathan to Dallas.
While on Christmas break from college nearly ten years ago, Nathan took Constance Hicks on a date, which, like nearly all of his dates, ended with her half naked in the backseat of his ’88 red Mustang. Constance didn’t mind at the time. It was only when he barreled out of town the very next day without bothering to call that she started to get resentful.
As time went on, that resentment grew and bubbled into something much more like hate, w
It was after the Jiffy Lube incident that Jimmy Plyd happened to ask Constance out on a date, and she said yes out of spite, figuring that going out with the opposite of Nathan Garrett could only do her good. Jimmy had been so nice and kind then, and didn’t manage to destroy anything on their subsequent first date, and Constance started to feel a little better about being left by Nathan. Jimmy, she could tell right away, was not the kind of man who left. He was the kind of man who stayed. He might burn down your garage, but he wouldn’t up and disappear on you after.
He didn’t blink an eye when she vented about Nathan Garrett. He just kept coming by every Friday night with flowers and a half-gallon tub of Rocky Road ice cream, wearing down her defenses until Constance got used to him being around. A year after that, he offered Constance her very own restaurant in the town square as an engagement gift, and while she wasn’t sure she loved him, she definitely loved the restaurant, so she said yes.
She really believed she would grow to love Jimmy in time, but after nine years of flat tires, collapsing shelves, loose door hinges, cracked toilets, a shattered bathroom mirror, and one exploding washing machine, Constance had had enough.
Of course, her friends had been telling her for years she ought to divorce him, especially since most of them didn’t know why she married him in the first place, but Constance didn’t make that decision lightly. She’d carried around divorce papers in her Camry for nearly a year before finally giving them to Jimmy three months ago.
Now, as the suds piled even higher in the kitchen, nearly reaching the kitchen counter, and ruining any chance she had of making her state fair blue-ribbon-winning chicken fried steak for the ladies of the First Protestant Church Bible Study class (who met every Thursday night), Constance felt, not for the first time, that if she ever ran into Nathan Garrett again, she would have some choice words to say to him. Because somehow, despite the fact that Jimmy was her own personal disaster, Constance still liked to blame Nathan. It just felt right.
She’d heard he was back in town, and she’d had a speech planned in her head, should she happen to bump into him. In fact, she had several speeches, all of which she’d honed after years of lying awake at night, wondering what he was up to, and specifically, whose life he might be ruining at that moment.
Constance grabbed a few tea towels from the counter to try to sop up the water, but it was no use. There was simply too much of it. She didn’t have time for this. She was supposed to drop off the chicken fried steaks on her way to the Magnolia Café—her pride and joy—and the only gift Jimmy gave her that he didn’t later break.
Cooking was the one thing Constance could do well. Romance and relationships, not so much, but get her within spitting distance of a saucepan and a stove, and she could whip up food good enough to make your mouth water for days. Jimmy had either ruined her kitchen out of spite or because he was hoping to put off signing those divorce papers—again. He’d been stalling for the better part of three months now, and Constance had had enough. She didn’t really understand the procrastinating. Constance had signed a prenup (on his mother’s insistence). Except for the Magnolia Café, which was deeded in her name, she’d get none of Jimmy’s money. And frankly, she didn’t want it. She just wanted Jimmy out of her life. At this point, she’d be willing to pay him to leave.
Besides, she was twenty-eight, and they didn’t have children. Now was the time to go, when, as her mother said, her tires still had some tread left.
“Jimmy!” Constance shouted toward the back door. He was supposed to be in their attached garage, packing up the last of his “tools”—the ones he hadn’t yet managed to break.
She listened, but heard nothing. Not that she actually wanted Jimmy to come help. His idea of helping would probably be to throw gasoline on the suds and then light them on fire.
As Constance tried to figure out whether she wanted to shout at Jimmy more than she wanted to try to save her new linoleum floor, she heard a loud whoosh of air, which slammed against the back door and rattled the windows. And then she was struck, suddenly, by the strong smell of something foul—a cross between burnt popcorn and Jimmy’s gym socks. Her first thought was that Jimmy had started a fire in the garage—again—but there wasn’t smoke, and this smell was worse than a fire. And there wasn’t any cursing, either, which was a sure sign this wasn’t a Jimmy-related calamity, since they all came with a chorus of cussing. In fact, the only sound coming from the garage was a thump, like a sack of potatoes being dropped to the ground.
And in that second, she knew it was something bad. Something really bad. Something worse than Jimmy.
She didn’t want to open the back door because she somehow knew what she would find before she found it, but she steeled herself and did anyway. She stepped into the garage and the first thing she saw was a man in a black suit, with a double-breasted suit jacket along with a black baseball cap. He was standing over the body of her soon-to-be-ex-husband, who was lying facedown next to his pickup truck, a screwdriver handle sticking out of his back. At first, Constance thought it must be some kind of joke. Then she saw the tiny trickle of blood that was running down from the screwdriver and pooling on the garage floor.
Jimmy was dead.
The man who had clearly just killed him turned and flashed her an unnaturally white smile. He tipped his black baseball cap in her direction, then, gingerly stepping over the blood puddle, handed her a business card with red letters. It read:
YAMAN
Demon at Large
Murder and mayhem since 550 bc
In her hands, the card disintegrated as she read it, burning from the edges until it was nothing but a pile of ash in her palm. When she looked up again, the man in black was gone.
TWO
Business cards? Are you for real?” asked Shadow, facing Yaman, who now stood invisible on the corner of Constance Plyd’s street, his voice floating somewhere above Constance’s azalea bush at the end of the driveway.
“What? I’m trying to increase my market value,” Yaman replied. “It’s all about self-promotion. You have to get out there if you want to get credit. You ever read Jack Welch?”
Yaman waved a copy of Winning in front of Shadow’s face. Shadow grimaced.
“You and your self-help books,” he said, wrinkling his nose as if the book smelled bad. “You Pride demons are all the same,” Shadow said, twisting and turning a little, his giant shadow body changing shape subtly, to make it impossible to tell just what sort of creature he was.
“Well, Glutton, you ought to take more time investing in yourself or you’ll never get promoted. Like, take your name—Shadow. It’s boring.”
“It’s what I am,” Shadow pointed out.
“Right, but it has no pizzazz. Coke is sugar water, but you say Coca-Cola, and suddenly it sounds exotic. You should go with something snappy. Like Zazum, or Kilkore.”
“I like my name just fine, thanks,” Shadow grumbled. He stretched, throwing something that looked a bit like a wing across the ground. “So, are we really sure that she’s the One?” he asked, nodding toward the house, where Constance was frantically calling 911.
