Angie Fox -The Accidental Demon Slayer

by The Accidental Demon Slayer (lit)

  Add that to my list of questions for Grandma. I washed my hair twice with a half-full dish-soap bottle labeled Wild Ass Gertie's Homemade Sage Shampoo. What would Dimitri do if I refused to meet him tonight? Or—my cheeks flushed—what would he do if I did let him climb through my bedroom window?

  Yow.

  When my sore body had enough, I reached for the ancient towel Frieda had left on the peg next to the door. After being so utterly stinking, dirty, clean felt amazing.

  "Hey, babe!"

  I about leapt out of my skin as Frieda poked her head past the flowered sheet. "Gertie says you lost your luggage. We're about the same size, so I put a few of my things on your bed. Third door on the right."

  A draft snuck past Frieda and chilled my damp skin. Oh wow, I hadn't even thought of my backpack since we threw it in one of the saddlebags on the side of the Harley. I clutched the towel around me. I'd lost every­thing. My wallet, my credit cards. Every stitch of clothing that wasn't in my demon-infested house. "I need to make a phone call. If anyone finds my Visa, they can go on the shopping trip of the century." I hardly used the thing.

  "Don't worry. Gertie cancelled everything." Frieda took in the expression on my face and shrugged. "We researched your background as soon as we found you. Social security number, credit history, education, crim­inal background check, any phobias or complications that could endanger the mission. Standard practice."

  How could these people do in-depth background research when they couldn't even buy a shower door?

  Everyone had their priorities, I supposed. Doubt crept into the pit of my stomach. Good thing I trusted Grandma or else I would have been very, very afraid.

  Frieda patted her bouffant. The steam from my shower wasn't doing anything for her hairdo. "I don't know what Gertie was nattering on about. You talk less than a witness taking the fifth." She tucked a few stray hairs behind her ears. "But never you mind. Just get dressed. I'm going to go check on the ceremonial whosits and whatnots. We don't want Niblet to get away."

  Niblet? My fingernails dug into the damp towel.

  Focus on what you can control.

  I checked to make sure there was no one in the hall­way before I tiptoe-ran to my room. At least this one had a door. The space was the size of some people's walk-in closets, and mostly bare. Nevertheless, I man­aged to trip over a cardboard box poking into the entry-way. I slid it to the side with my foot. A beat-up child's dresser painted white with gold trim stood by the win­dow.

  My new clothes were spread neatly on a mattress on the floor: a pair of tiger-striped black leather pants and an orange tank top with a diamond cutout between the boobs. Lovely. To make matters worse, there was no bra in sight. Instead, Frieda had draped a pair of black underwear across the tank top. The tiny wisp of fabric looked like it was designed to fit a munchkin. I clutched my towel and leaned closer. There was some kind of writing on the panties. I gingerly picked up the under­wear by the black ribbons on the sides. Eek. My first thong. The front was embroidered with a dainty an­nouncement in pink, scrolling letters: My vibrator has two wheels.

  No way.

  No how.

  No.

  Grandma burst through the door and frowned at my towel-clad body. "Aww! Frieda told me she let you shower. Dang it, Lizzie. We gotta get you to the hole. Now."

  "Oh, I don't think so," I said, holding the panties as far away as I could. "Where are my old clothes?"

  She threw up her arms like I was the crazy one. "Out in the trash heap, buried under deer guts and various other entrails."

  "I don't care. Go get them."

  "Fat chance," she said, meeting my glare head on. "Cripes, Lizzie, stop being dramatic. I know you had a tough day. Hell, I smashed my hog. But these people stayed up to wait for us and now they're staying up later to give you the mystical protection you need to survive the night. So move your keister."

  Survive the night? Now who was being dramatic?

  When I didn't budge, she sauntered over to inspect the clothes. "This ain't bad. Be glad she stayed away from the zebra pants. I've seen those in action."

  I tossed Grandma the offensive panties that—let's face it—should have come with a warning label. I didn't want to know where any of these clothes had been, especially the underwear. This was not me. Of course, neither was going commando, so Grandma had better come up with a solution, or at least some under­wear that wasn't sold with a brown paper wrapper. "There's not even a bra in here. I wear bras. Most nor­mal women wear bras. And I'm not going to wear some­one else's underwear."

  "So then why are you bitching about a bra?"

  "Grandma!"

  She hooked the edges of the black underwear under her thumbs and whistled when she held it up to the light. "Isn't she a beaut? Frieda bought this special in Lubbock. Been saving it for a special occasion." She pointed the thong at me like a finger. "She must have taken a shine to you or she'd never have gifted you with these jockeys. Don't you insult her by refusing."

  Oh lord. "But this isn't me!"

  "Newsflash, Lizzie. This isn't about you." She dug through the box next to the door. "Here." She tossed me a plain white sports bra. "Buck up. At least you got to shower."

  That wasn't the point. "Grandma, listen to me. Be­fore we do anything else, we need to talk."

  "You want answers? You'll get them." Hands on her hips, she regarded me like an impatient mother. "This is an important ceremony for everybody. Be down­stairs in two minutes or I'm sending the Ant Eater af­ter your ass."

  I struggled into the black leather pants while the thong gave me the wedgie of the century. "Oh yeah, Lizzie," I muttered to myself. "Leave your home, your job, your family—dysfunctional as it may be. So you can hop on a Harley and follow Grandma Thong to the freak show of the century." The too-tight sports bra mashed my boobs and showed through the diamond cutout in the orange tank top. Thank goodness. It was certainly better than showing more skin.

  Because there was some luck left in the world, the witches had spared my oxfords, stained and smelly as they were. I ignored the wet squish as I slipped my feet into what was supposed to be a pretty comfortable pair of shoes.

  I hurried downstairs to the bar and found Grandma next to a hole in the floor where the Pop-A-Shot Basket­ball game had been. I wished these witches didn't have to be so freakin' literal. The entrance to their ceremo­nial room was basically a brick-lined hole with a rust-flecked ladder leading down. Voices echoed from deep in the cavern below. I leaned closer, but had a hard time making out any actual words. Musty air tickled my nose. I paused, mustering my courage, when a seventy-something man in a tricked-out wheelchair came bar­reling toward me. Pirate rode in his lap, his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth.

  Sidecar Bob had lost both legs in a biking accident, or so Grandma said. His silver goatee was immacula­tely trimmed. His hair was not. It stuck out in tufts from his ponytail and basically rebelled against the black hairnet he wore. Bob skidded to a stop and howled like a banshee when I had to jump backward to save my toes.

  "You see that? That's what I'm talking about!" Pi­rate practically tap danced in Bob's lap. I was glad to see Pirate had left his bandages in place. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten about them completely.

  "I feel the need . . ." Bob announced.

  "The need for speed!" Pirate and Bob shouted to­gether.

  I swear Pirate could make friends with a doorknob. In this case, he had great taste. I liked Bob immediately. "You tell me if this mutt gets to be too much for you," I said. "Feel free to send him back."

  "Hell no!" Pirate buried himself under Bob's arm. "We were in the kitchen cooking. And eating. That is some fine squirrel. That barbeque sauce isn't bad, ei­ther."

  I resisted the urge to lecture Pirate about his eating habits. The little guy had been through a lot. He de­served a break. "So, Bob, are you heading down to the ceremony?"

  He threw his head back and guffawed. "My old lady would have my head." His belly poked out of
the navy gym shorts that seemed horribly at odds with his black leather vest. "Nah. I'm stoking the fires, keeping the Beast Feast warm for when you're done." He scratched his nose. "But I did want to give you something." He glanced at Grandma. "None of the gals will admit it, but you do need it."

  "Well, thanks," I said, trying to sound casual, feel­ing anything but. I yanked at the skin-tight orange top creeping up my stomach.

  Bob fished a rubber band from the fanny pack strap­ped to the side of his chair. "Here ya go. Put your hair back. It gets messy down there."

  "Sure," I forced a smile.

  "We'll keep the squirrel fires burning!" Pirate said as I clung to the cool, metal rungs of the ladder and made myself descend. A crowd had already gathered below, their whoops and hollers echoing off the sub­terranean walls.

  "Welcome to the Rat's Den!" Ant Eater clapped me on the back, her gold tooth shining in the light of doz­ens upon dozens of candles. The ceiling hung so low I could have reached up and touched it. The smell of paraffin and candles burning assaulted my nose. Un­der it, I could smell old brick walls and mildew.

  The place needed a serious cleaning. Boxes, discarded barware and old CB equipment cluttered the tiny room. On every surface candles of all shapes and colors crowded against each other. Not smart. I winced as Frieda brushed past a box stacked with candles and nearly sent it crashing into one of the old beer posters lining the walls.

  "Eeeee!" Frieda shimmied up to me. "Oh Lizzie, you are hotter than a two-dollar pistol. You meet Ant Eater?" Frieda indicated her gold-toothed buddy. "Whew, does she have some good stories. This woman—" She paused while Ant Eater guffawed. "This woman will try anything once." She cocked her head and leaned in closer. "And I do mean anything."

  "Okay people, pipe down!" Grandma hollered from behind me. She lifted her head toward the open hole. "Bob, you can close 'er up." The trap door above hissed like an airlock. The candles blazed as the light from the bar receded and we were left in semidarkness. "Join hands," Grandma instructed.

  I took Grandma's strong hand and Frieda's chilly one, as the crowd of about twenty witches drew back. A fire crackled in the center of the room. Flames curled around a smoke-stained burner on a portable camping stove. A worn, silver pot boiled on top of it. My mouth went dry. If Bob was upstairs stirring the port-braised beaver, I couldn't imagine what they dumped in that pot.

  The witches stood transfixed and closed their eyes. I felt the magic build. The only sound in the room came from bubbles frothing in the pot. The air grew warmer, thicker by the second as the candles cast tall shadows on the walls behind us.

  Grandma bowed her head and the others followed. "We, the witches of the Red Skull, are bound to the magic that has sustained our line for more than twelve hundred years. In it, we find warmth, light and eternal goodness. Without it, we perish. This night, we wel­come into our fold a sister who was lost to us. As we pledge ourselves to her, she pledges herself to us."

  My hands grew damp. Oh boy. I wasn't too sure about that last line. What did pledging myself to them mean? Sure, I wanted answers, but I wasn't ready to join the Red Skulls.

  Grandma stepped into the circle, holding a monstrous ziplock bag filled with rust-colored pulp. Ant Eater scrambled for my free hand. The witches observed Grandma with bated breath as she popped open the seal and dipped her fingers into the mush. She stood and faced me, her heavy breath tickling my bangs.

  "From death comes new life." She rubbed the goo onto my forehead. It felt sticky, wet and it smelled like roadkill. She dipped her fingers again and came at me a second time with the wet, lumpy gloop. "May you see with new eyes." She rubbed it into my manicured brows.

  "May you listen to your heart." She rubbed it onto my ears. A rivulet of juice trickled into my ear canal.

  "May you speak against the evil that surrounds us."

  Oh no. I pressed my lips together, and she slopped the pulp from one side of my mouth to the other. The sweet, meaty fumes scoured my nose, and I almost gagged.

  "May we forever travel together as guardians of the light.”

  She visited each witch, thumbing a portion of the gloop onto their foreheads. I wondered if I was allowed to wipe mine off. The small room, jam-packed with bodies, started to feel stuffy. My tiger-striped leather pants grew sweaty and itchy. A drip of liquid trailed past my left brow and down toward my eye.

  Grandma stood in the middle of the circle. "May we see our future as one coven, united in our quest." The witches scurried to the boxes behind them. One by one, they held up dead animal pelts. Foxes, coyotes, deer. Oh my.

  The animals had been skinned so that their legs and tails dangled. The witches positioned the animal heads over their own, peering out of the hollowed eye sockets.

  Frieda jabbed me in the arm with her fingernail. "Here," she handed me a damp, burlap cloth. "Wipe that raccoon liver off your face. We don't want it staining your deer hide."

  "Urgle." I rubbed the rag against my mouth and face until my skin felt raw. I wasn't cut out for this. "What is it with the dead animals?" I cringed as Frieda low­ered a deer head over mine.

  "It's the circle of life, sweetie." Frieda tugged at the deer's empty eye sockets until I could see, well, barely. The thing had about as much visibility as a Halloween mask and it smelled like old leather and mothballs.

  "Don't fret," she whispered, wrapping the deceased deer's front legs around my shoulders while the hooves bumped against my chest. "It's only for show. Ceremo­nial and all."

  Now she tells me.

  "Your grandma likes to do things up nice." She stepped back. 'There."

  "Frieda," Grandma warned.

  Frieda slipped back into place next to me. Grandma snuffed the fire under the large pot. A tall, red-haired witch with ruby rings on her pinkie fingers rushed for­ward with a large platter. It held a crystal goblet with handles on the sides. Grandma ladled a portion of boiling liquid into the cup. It steamed with the heat. The amber liquid continued to boil for a few minutes, sending up chunks of what looked to be meat. Road-kill and crystal. How very . . . them.

  I couldn't drink that.

  I locked my knees with dread and wondered how I could possibly get out of it.

  Grandma held out the cup to the group. "As we drink, we are one." She inhaled the vapors above the goblet and took the first sip.

  Frieda went next. She accepted the cup from Grandma and brought it to her lips. Ugh. The chunks looked even bigger up close, with bits of membrane and who knows what floating around.

  I wanted to hug Frieda when she passed the cup to the witch on the other side of her. I scratched at my steamy leather pants. She calmly watched the other witches drink from the goblet.

  This ceremonial stuff might be no sweat to her. For all I knew, she did this every Saturday night. I didn't. I'd had enough excitement for one day—battling a de­mon, meeting my mysterious protector and joining a coven of witches. Now was not the time to quaff down a goblet of roadkill surprise. I appreciated what these people were doing for me. And of course I would never do anything to offend them or dishonor their traditions. At the same time, I had my limits.

  When the cup came to me, I forced myself to take it. Heat radiated from the swirling brew. I wished it would stop moving. I held my breath and brought it to my lips. The pungent odor of mint rose with the steam.

  I can't. I just can't.

  I tipped the cup, moved my throat and pretended to sip. I felt the group exhale. They'd doubted me too, it seemed. I wiped the excess from my lips and handed the goblet to Grandma, who solemnly drank the rema­inder.

  I wanted to sigh with relief. Maybe now I could be bestowed with my protection and get to bed.

  The lights flicked on above us and I suddenly had to squint.

  "E-yow," Frieda threw a hand over her eyes. "I hate when they do that."

  A tangle of voices rose from the crowd. The show had ended, it seemed, and I wasn't protected.

  "Wait a second," I said, grabbing Frieda's wrists by
the bracelets. "It can't be over." It couldn't be. "What about my protection? Am I covered?" Grandma hadn't said anything about it during the ceremony, and I cer­tainly hadn't felt anything magical happen after they sealed the door. "Don't tell me I had to wear raccoon liver for nothing."

  Frieda giggled. "Relax, honey. You are protected. And just in time. Look, there goes your grandma to meditate." We watched Grandma break the seal and climb out into the bar above the ceremonial room. "The demon that's been chasing us, Vald, we think he knows about you." Frieda shivered. "He's coming." Worry flashed across her face before she forced it aside. "But don't worry. We have you. That potion, it sealed you to us. You don't have to be alone anymore. You have all our magic working for you."

  My stomach did a backflip. "Potion? You mean the one with the chunks?" I didn't drink it. Why didn't I drink it? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

  "What can I say? We like our squirrel. But that wasn't the magic ingredient. We use bakki root. Smells like Wrigley's gum."

  Of all the ways for me to screw this up, this was, well, this was not good. "I've never heard of bakki root." Maybe we could get some more.

  It's magical. Takes forever to grow. Ant Eater is our resident gardener. "Mmmm ... it tastes like heaven, doesn't it? Gives me a bit of a buzz, too."

  I didn't want to ask, but I had to know. "How hard would it be to make some more?"

  Frieda giggled. "Sorry. I am buzzed. Believe you me, I'd die for more, but we used up the whole kit and caboodle on you, dearie."

  Oh no.

  She smiled. "Don't look so upset. You're worth it! Where are we going to find another long-lost demon slayer sister?"

  I didn't know if they'd want me when they discovered what I'd done.

  Chapter Six

  "Beast Feast!" Sidecar Bob hollered down into the ceremonial room. The witches snuffed the candles and stampeded to the exit in record speed.

  "Wait. Hold it!" I fought against the current of the crowd, struggling to reach the remains of the protec­tive stew, growing cold on the portable camp stove.