California Demon by Julie Kenner Page A

Bourke knockoff.
    Then I hurried up the stairs, pausing at the door to wipe the dust off my clothes as I considered the situation. Since the assembly was already underway, I assumed the halls would be clear. With any luck, I could find the gym, find Allie, then slide into my seat with the efficient expression of a PTA committee member who’s just finished doing her civic—academic?—duty.
    Because I was having one of those days, the luck I’d wished for didn’t materialize. David Long, however, did. I ran smack into him not two seconds after I’d turned from the purple hall to the brown.
    “Oh!” I said, and he looked just as startled—and guilty— as I felt. Although, to be honest, I’m probably projecting the guilt part. Or maybe not. This was the students’ big day, after all. Awards. Pomp. Circumstance. Shouldn’t he be in the gym by now? I knew I should.
    “Got a hall pass, Mister?” I asked, flashing what I hoped was a disarming—and charming—grin. I learned years ago that an offensive approach is almost always better than struggling to play defense.
    He patted himself down, then shrugged. “Guess I left it in homeroom.”
    I made a tsk-tsk sound. “I see detention in your future.”
    “I teach chemistry,” he said, deadpan. “I spend my days staring at dozens of blank faces who think a valence bond is an old Sean Connery movie. Isn’t that punishment enough?”
    I pretended to consider. “I see your point. I’ll let you off the hook. This time,” I added, in my most stern voice.
    He nodded, just as seriously. “Yes, ma’am.”
    “What were you doing out here, anyway?” I asked.
    “Still rounding up students,” he said. “A lot of the kids will skip assembly. Hide out in the common areas. It’s my job to wrangle them back.” He leaned casually against the wall, his cane propped beside him, then hooked his thumbs in the front pockets of his slacks in a move so suddenly familiar it made my heart stutter in my chest.
    Eric.
    Mentally, I shook myself, willing myself not to slide into my memories. Lots of men are easy to talk to and have familiar mannerisms. Yes, David Long reminded me of Eric. But no, I couldn’t afford to be rattled. Not today. Not with a stolen book in my purse, a dead demon in the basement, and a hellacious plot brewing.
    I took a breath and forced myself to concentrate.
    “Actually,” he said, “I could ask you the same thing.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “What you’re doing here,” he clarified, at the same time standing up straight and breaking the spell. “Aren’t you supposed to be in the gym?”
    “Right,” I said. “Um . . . I got turned around. All these damned colored hallways.”
    “It’s a challenge all right.” He moved closer, and I saw his gaze dip down. My hand went automatically to my purse, pulling it closer to my side. My cardigan had shifted, and one corner of the book was peeking out. Not a lot, but enough to make clear to anyone who might be looking that I was schlepping a musty (and potentially demonic) book around. Damn.
    When I looked back up, I found David Long searching my face.
    “So,” I said brightly. “I should probably get going.” I took a tentative step, hoping he’d take the hint.
    “Are you sure you’re okay?”
    I cocked my head. “Excuse me?”
    “You’re limping.”
    Damn. “New shoes.”
    He glanced down at the extremely comfortable, extremely broken-in loafers I’d matched with my linen slacks and sweater set. Not couture shoes by any means, but they were more practical than pumps for clamoring up ladders at nursing homes. And for fighting the odd demon.
    “Uh-huh,” he said.
    “So,” I repeated. “Which way do we go?”
    For the briefest of instants, I thought he was going to say something else. Maybe criticize my choice of footwear. But he just lifted a finger and pointed. “Straight down. The gym’s the dead end.”
    I winced, not too crazy about the way he said that. But I took a step in that