by Deanna Chase
The man skidded to a stop and howled like a banshee when I had to jump backward to save my toes. He thrust a hand out at me. “Sidecar Bob,” he said, “great to meet you.” His silver goatee was immaculately trimmed. His hair was not. It stuck out in tufts from his ponytail and basically rebelled against the black hair net he wore.
“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 bars 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 from 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 a 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 to 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 semi-darkness. “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 help, but I wasn’t ready to join the Red Skulls.
Grandma stepped into the circle, holding a monstrous Ziploc 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 road kill. 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 down 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. 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, sharing our earth magic.” 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 moth balls.
“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. Mystery meat 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 who-knew-what floating around. I wasn’t a militant vegetarian, but th
is had me re-thinking my policy.
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 road kill 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 back flip. “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? It’s not pretty, but it works. Of course the real magic comes from the 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 6
“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.
“Bottoms up!” Ant Eater quaffed the last few drops from the silver pot. She wiped her chin as I screamed, “No!”
“Gotta be quicker than that, sport.” She wiped down the pot with a blue bandanna.
She had no idea what she’d done. There went my protection, my insurance policy against the demon Vald, who—according to Crazy Frieda—was at this very moment on his way to see us. I had to fix this. “Is there any more? What about that bakki root? Did you save any of that?” Please!
“Relax. I’m just clearing out the leftovers.”
Holy hexes.
I had to find Grandma. She’d know what to do, after she kicked me into next Thursday. Why didn’t I just drink the potion?
The thwump, thwump of heavy metal music blared in the bar above me, accompanied by the whoops and cheers of the coven. I scrambled out of the hole and nearly fell into a cheap, metal-backed chair with a vinyl padded seat. Every table in the bar had been lined up to form a massive banquet table.
It would have smelled heavenly—roasted potatoes, onions and garlic—if I hadn’t known the other ingredients. The tiny blue-haired witch next to me flopped into the nearest empty place. “Liquid appetizers!” she hollered, as she reached for a pitcher of beer. Two of her friends wedged in next to her, mugs in hand.
A buffet line ten witches deep formed in front of the steaming dishes set out on the bar. Sidecar Bob pulled up to the table with two heaping plates of road kill surprise. Pirate bounced on his lap, nearly out of his skin with anticipation. “Lizzie! It’s people food! And I have a plate. Lookie there. Food! On a plate. For me! Me! I’ve made it, I tell you. I’ve finally got a seat at the table!”
Sweet squirrels. My stomach rolled over. “That’s road kill, Pirate.”
“Oh no,” Bob piped in, “we wouldn’t waste road kill on a banquet. Road kill’s special magic. It goes straight into a spell jar. This here on the table is hunted meat.”
Okay, that was a relief. But still, Pirate should have been eating his Healthy Lite dog chow. Of course that disappeared off the bike along with my clothes. I watched him eat an entire slice of meat in two bites. Pirate loved to eat. And despite his enormous energy and complete willingness to chase anything that moved, he tended to have weight issues. Pirate peeked up from his plate, took one look at me and started to eat even faster.
Lucky for him, his weight was the least of my concerns now. “Bob, Grandma got out of the pit before I could talk to her. Frieda said she was heading off to meditate. Do you have any idea where she might be?” I ignored his disapproving look. “This is serious,” I said over the thwump, thwump, thwump of the loudspeaker above us. “I have to talk to her before she gets too involved with whatever she does in there.”
Bob sopped up some gravy on a piece of bread and fed it to Pirate. “Listen to this guitar solo,” He closed his eyes and felt the music. “You hear that? That’s Marty Friedman, the old Megadeath axeman. Oh yeah.” He played air guitar against his chest. “Yeet, yeet, yeet!”
“Bob!” I’d tell him where to shove his yeet. “This is a matter of life or death.”
I really hoped I was exaggerating.
“Where’s Grandma?” I asked again.
He hung his head. “Aw, Lizzie. Don’t ask me that. The Cave of Visions is sacred ground.”
“I wouldn’t be asking you if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.” We didn’t have time to haggle. “I mean it, Bob. You’ve gotta trust me on this one.”
Bob rubbed Pirate’s back absently as Pirate climbed halfway onto the table and began to lick his plate clean. “Okay.” He scratched at his arms. “But if she chews out my ass, I’m sending her after you next.”
“My butt is yours.”
Pirate leaned too far over his plate and nearly knocked over Bob’s beer. Bob snatched up his wobbling brew and took a long swallow, watching me.
Pirate sniffed at his empty plate. “I’m sorry. My manners are rusty. I haven’t been using my table manners when I’ve been forced to eat out of a dog bowl.” He sniffed at Bob’s full plate. “You don’t mind, do you?” Pirate started in on Bob’s dinner.
Bob slipped Pirate, and his plate, onto the floor. “Come on,” he wheeled backwards, away from the table. “It’s out back. Looks like a cheap storage shed. What the hell am I s
aying? It is a cheap storage shed. We needed to get her some place quiet, and this bar didn’t cut it.”
“Thanks.” I patted his shoulder as we weaved our way through the crowd toward the back door.
“Lizzie.” He captured my arm. “Don’t go barreling out there. Your grandma’s under guard. Approach slowly. Tell them who you are. Be prepared to prove it. Demons can take on many forms.”
“Right,” I said. I could handle this. I hoped.
The back door clacked on its hinges as I stepped out behind the bar and onto a small patio, crowded with rusting bar chairs. Sheesh. And I thought they’d dumped all their junk down into the hole. Crushed beer cans littered the narrow parking lot that led into the alley beside the bar. Tufts of grass and weeds poked up between and around the faded yellow lines. A rusting Camaro sat stranded on concrete blocks.
At the edge of the parking lot, just beyond the dumpster, stood a plastic storage shed framed by scraggly trees.
Bob nodded to the tall, red haired witch standing guard. I recognized her from the protection ceremony downstairs. “Go on out. If she can, I’ll bet Gertie will be more than glad to hear what you have to say. If not, well, there’ll be time later.”
Yeah, well maybe. Maybe not.
The chilly night air tore at my hair and whipped the dried leaves and grass into circles. I crunched over a mashed Budweiser can as I made my way to the storage shed. I could see a faint light between the plastic swinging doors and I chose to focus on that, rather than at the hawk-nosed witch standing guard. She hadn’t looked too friendly down in the hole and she looked even less glad to see me now.
“Hi. I need to talk to my grandmother.” When she didn’t move, I added, “It’s a matter of life and death.” How terrible to realize I wasn’t exaggerating at all.
