Practical Demonkeeping

He would have a new master; one who could be corrupted by his power. He had seen her that afternoon in the saloon and sensed her hunger for control over others. Together they would rule the world. The key was near; he felt it. If Travis found it, Catch would be sent back to hell. He had to find it first and get it into the hands of the witch. After all, it was better to rule on Earth than to serve in hell.

14

DINNER

Travis parked the Chevy on the street in front of Je

“You stay here, you understand. I’ll be back in a little while to check on you.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Don’t play the radio and don’t beep the horn. Just wait.”

“I promise. I’ll be good.” The demon attempted an i

“Keep an eye on that.” Travis pointed to an aluminum suitcase on the backseat.

“Enjoy your date. The car will be fine.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing,” Catch gri

“Why are you being so nice?”

“It’s good to see you getting out.”

“You’re lying.”

“Travis, I’m crushed.”

“That would be nice,” Travis said. “Now, don’t eat anybody.”

“I just ate last night. I don’t even feel hungry. I’ll just sit here and meditate.”

Travis reached into the inside pocket of his sport coat and pulled out a comic book. “I got this for you.” He held it out to the demon. “You can look at it while you wait.”

The demon fumbled the comic book away from Travis and spread it out on the seat. “Cookie Monster! My favorite! Thanks, Travis.”

“See you later.”

Travis got out of the car and slammed the door. Catch watched him walk across the yard. “I already looked at this one, asshole,” he hissed to himself. “When I get a new master, I will tear your arms off and eat them while you watch.”

Travis looked back over his shoulder. Catch waved him on with his best effort at a smile.

The doorbell rang precisely at seven. Je

She opened the door and smiled. “Hi.”

Travis stood there in jeans and a gray herringbone tweed jacket. He was transfixed.

“Travis?” Je

“You’re beautiful,” he said finally.

They stood in the doorway, Je

“Would you like to come in?”

“No.”

“Okay.” She shut the door in his face. Well, that hadn’t been so bad. Now she could put on some sweatpants, load the refrigerator onto a tray, and settle down for a night in front of the television.

There was a timid knock on the door. Je

“It’s all right,” Travis said. “Shall we go?”

“Sure. I’ll get my purse.” She closed the door in his face.

There was an uncomfortable silence between them while they drove to the restaurant. Typically, this would be the time for trading life stories, but Je

“So,” Je

“Yep,” Travis said. They drove in silence the rest of the way to the restaurant.

It was a warm night and the Toyota had no air conditioning. Je

The restaurant, the Old Italian Pasta Factory, was housed in an old creamery building, a remnant of the time when Pine Cove’s economy was based on livestock rather than tourism. The concrete floors remained intact, as did the corrugated steel roof. The owners had taken care to preserve the rusticity of the structure, while adding the warmth of a fireplace, soft lighting, and the traditional red-and-white tablecloths of an Italian restaurant. The tables were small but comfortably spaced, and each was decorated with fresh flowers and a candle. The Pasta Factory, it was agreed, was the most romantic restaurant in the area.

As soon as the hostess seated them, Je

“Order whatever wine you want,” she said, “I’m not picky.”

“I don’t drink, but if you want some…”

“No, that’s fine. It’ll be a nice change.”

As soon as Je

“Good evening, sir. What can I bring you to drink this evening?” She pulled her order pad out of her pocket in a quick, liquid movement, like a gunslinger drawing a six-shooter. A career waitress, Travis thought.

“I thought I’d wait for the lady to return,” he said.

“Oh, Je

“I don’t drink, so…”

“I should have known.” The waitress slapped her forehead as if she’d just caught herself in the middle of a grave error, like serving the salad with plutonium instead of creamy Italian. “Her husband is a drunk; it’s only natural that she’d go out with a nondrinker on the rebound. Can I bring you a mineral water?”

“That would be fine,” Travis said.

The waitress’s pen scratched, but she did not look at the order pad or lose her “we aim to please” smile. “And would you like some garlic bread while you’re waiting?”

“Sure,” Travis said. He watched the waitress walk away. She took small, quick, mechanical steps, and was gone to the kitchen in an instant. Travis wondered why some people seemed to be able to walk faster than he could run. They’re professionals, he thought.

Je

She saw the herbal tea on the table and said, “How did you know?”

“Psychic, I guess,” he said. “I ordered garlic bread.”

“Yes,” she said, seating herself.

They stared at the garlic bread as if it were a bubbling caldron of hemlock.

“You like garlic bread?” she asked.

“Love it. And you?”

“One of my favorites,” she said.

He picked up the basket and offered it to her. “Have some?”

“Not right now. You go ahead.”

“No thanks, I’m not in the mood.” He put the basket down.

The garlic bread lay there between them, steaming with implications. They, of course, must both eat it or neither could. Garlic bread meant garlic breath. There might be a kiss later, maybe more. There was just too damn much intimacy in garlic bread.

They sat in silence, reading the menu; she looking for the cheapest entree, which she had no intention of eating; and he, looking for the item that would be the least embarrassing to eat in front of someone.

“What are you going to have?” she asked.

“Not spaghetti,” he snapped.