by fox, angie
Grandma had an Elphaba impression going on. Frieda had drawn a kitty-cat nose and whiskers on her face. All-powerful witches didn’t usually do that.
“Of course they know about us,” Grandma said, reaching to the snack table behind her and handing me a drink. “It’s right there on the sign.”
Technically, yes. “But it could be seen as a joke.”
Grandma sobered. “I don’t joke about magic.”
Okay. How to explain… “Most people don’t believe,” I told her.
Grandma shrugged. “The ones we want do.” She took a long drink from her cup, and then wiped her mouth with her hand. “Make no mistake. This is a recruitment event.”
“You want people to join the Red Skulls?” I asked, trying to get it through my head. It couldn’t be as simple as that.
“It’s a respectable choice,” she said, somewhat defensively.
Hmm… So that’s why she’d traded in her usual leather chaps for the Wicked Witch of the West ensemble. “I figured you were here to help some nice people have a good time.”
“We are,” she said, looking out over the crowd, “but you know we’ve lost some members over the years.”
Yes, to demon attacks and battles with banshees, as well as a particularly unfortunate trebuchet accident.
Grandma slapped me on the back. “We could stand to muster some new blood. Speaking of which…” She flagged down a kind-faced old woman with gray dreadlocks and a large pink feather in her hair. “This is Rosette. She was a great witch back in the day.”
“Pish,” the woman said, waving Grandma off. “I only dabbled. A little of this, little of that.” She fingered the sleeve of her flowing pink sparkly gown. “I picked up a few tricks over the years, but nothing like these ladies.”
“Perfect recruit,” Grandma concluded.
Rosette pursed her lips. “I have my hands full here. Anyhow”—she took one of my hands in both of hers—“you must be Lizzie the demon slayer. Your grandma is so proud.”
“I love your accent,” I told her. It was a melodious Cajun Creole.
“Isn’t that sweet?” she said. “Your grandmama didn’t tell me you were coming.” She held up a finger. “If you want to do anything special for the party, you just let me know.”
I didn’t have any magic, and I wasn’t about to start tossing weapons. “Um, no thanks,” I told her. “Did you organize this?”
She nodded. “I told your grandma we have some good natural talent at Ocean View. And it’s always good for folks to try a new hobby.”
Sure, like witchcraft.
Grandma grinned. She quickly started coughing, though.
I patted her on the back. “Hey, ouch.” That didn’t sound good. I took her drink from her while she caught her breath. The cup smelled like honeysuckle, and it was nearly empty. “What are you drinking? I’ll get you some more.”
“No need.” She reached down the front of her dress and into her bra.
“Grandma,” I protested, as she withdrew a small silver flask.
“I’ve got more right here,” she said proudly unscrewing the flask. “Here. Hold this steady.” She placed the cup in my hand while she poured a yellow liquid into it. Bits of herbs swirled, and a faint smattering of bubbles clung to the bottom.
“What’s this?” I asked, sniffing.
Grandma gently but firmly removed it from my grasp. “It’s for my back. And my legs. And my joints.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not feeling so hot today.”
She took a sip, before trying to force another, larger gulp.
“Are you sick?” I asked. I’d never seen Grandma have a health issue that didn’t have to do with getting shot with magic or possessed by a demon.
She leaned heavily on her broomstick as she brought a hand to her head. “I think it’s getting worse,” she said to her friend, not to me. “I might need to lie down.”
“Of course,” Rosette said, flashing me a worried glance. “You can rest in my room.”
That or we could simply try this on another day. “Maybe I should take you home,” I said, as we escorted her out of the party.
“Nah,” Grandma said, fighting my grip, waving to her friends and pretending nothing was wrong. “I’m one of the hosts.”
This didn’t feel right.
When we made it out of the rec room, I opened up my demon slayer senses. Bits of biker witch magic clung to the beige hallway. That was to be expected. I ignored them. Instead, I focused my energy on anything new or unusual.
My gifts didn’t only help me hunt down and destroy hell spawn, they gave me the ability to me to sense danger in many forms. I was insanely attracted to anything that could chop my head off, eat me, or leave me crying for my mother.
It had been a bit of a curse when I first started. Now I used it to my advantage.
Rosette led us down a side corridor, done in mauve wallpaper. Grandma clung to the balance rail along the wall. I wished she’d have held on to me, but I wasn’t going to push it. We passed doorways with gold nameplates and various fall wreaths, poster board pumpkin cutouts, family pictures, and other personal decorations.
I willed my mind to calm, my breathing to grow even. I opened my mind and searched with my powers like fingers reaching through cold, dark water.
A sharp, tingling magic churned in the air. I pressed harder, trying to get a lock on the source. One thing I knew for sure: it didn’t come from the Red Skulls.
It was too…cutting.
I hated to criticize Rosette’s home, but, “Grandma, do you feel that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, stumbling against Rosette.
For a second, I thought they were both going down. I moved in behind them, but her friend caught her.
“It’s the next door,” she said to both of us. “And yes, there are stirrings in the air,” she said, glancing at me. “The land here is not good. Come inside and I will explain.”
We escorted Grandma into a tidy, colorful room with a homemade quilt on the bed and pots of herbs lining the windowsill. It smelled of orange peels and lavender incense. A small altar occupied a sturdy wooden table next to her nightstand. Candles, playing cards, beads, shells, and airline bottles of rum crowded a small hand-sewn depiction of a skeleton in a top hat smoking a cigar. The pull string for a nurse’s call dangled near the bed.
Grandma collapsed into the mattress and closed her eyes.
I didn’t like the flush of her skin, or the way her limbs tangled on the bed, unmoving. “Are you okay?” I asked. We might need a nurse.
“I’m fine,” she said, eyes closed. “Rosette, you tell her.”
Wooden beads clattered around the old woman’s neck as she motioned me to a small purple velvet chair. I pulled it up close to Grandma while Rosette settled herself into an orange-and-pink-painted rocking chair near her altar.
She folded her hands on her lap as she began. “I came here because these people needed me. I also needed a place to live,” she added, practically.
“Rosette may not be the queen of spells”—Grandma chuckled, her breath rattling in her chest—“but she’s been doing magical outreach for as long as I’ve known her.” She cleared her throat. “It’s important to keep good magic flowing on bad land,” she added, still not opening her eyes. “Rosie does that. She acts as a conduit for good, healthy energy. Otherwise, people get sick easier, they get hurt. They just don’t feel as good.”
“Like you feel right now?” I asked. “If this place is affecting you, there’s no shame in leaving.” Rosette would understand. “Thanks for the hospitality,” I said, standing. “I’m sure the rest of the party will be great, but we should go.”
“Sit your ass down,” Grandma groaned. “I don’t want to bug out. It’d make me feel worse, not better.” She cracked her eyes open. “Have you ever considered the fact that I’m just old?”
“No,” I answered immediately. Honestly. She’d never shown her age, not really.
Until today.
&n
bsp; Rosette ran her hands along the arms of her rocking chair. “Your granddaughter is right. You do not look so good.” She reached underneath her altar and slid out a wooden box painted with red X’s. “If you please, I have a healing draft that might help.”
“No, thanks,” Grandma said, waving her off. “I just took an elixir and I don’t want any magical interactions.”
“Ah.” Rosette nodded, holding the box.
I could feel the power swirling inside the box. Rosette may not consider herself a talented spell caster, but Grandma was right—her friend possessed a gift.
Since that was the case, she had to be feeling what I did.
Maybe I was too used to trouble finding us, but, “This entire situation feels wrong.”
Rosette watched me, her expression grave. “I will prepare extra protective herbs for her.” She clutched the arms of her rocking chair as she stood.
“You do that,” I said, ignoring Grandma’s huff of indignation.
She cracked open her eyes, struggled up on an elbow. “I like how you’re suspicious. Hell, I trained you that way. But let me tell you something about the human body. Things start slowing down at seventy-seven, even with a daily dose of herbal magic.” She began to cough, and then fought it off with a hard swallow. “What we’re doing here is important. We’re pumping up the vitality of this place. Yeah, I joked about a recruiting event. It would be nice to find a few new members. But we’re mainly here to load everything from the people to the walls with positive energy. It’ll make it easier for Rosette to do her job the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.”
“On Samhain, the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest,” Rosette said, opening a drawer on her nightstand. She removed three small jars: mugwort, basil, and dragon’s blood. All three acted as protective herbs, and had most likely been enchanted beyond their natural organic abilities. “Tonight, we can conjure the good forces I need for the rest of the year,” she said, carefully pouring out the herbs into an earthenware bowl. “I’m not getting any younger, either.”
“So you’re trying to save the entire community,” I said, watching her unwrap a small animal’s skull.
It would be a tall order, even if the woman didn’t look as if she were about a hundred years old.
“I do just fine.” She straightened as she glanced over at Grandma. “Oh”—her expression softened—“she has fallen asleep.” She lowered her voice. “I’ll finish my conjuring when she is awake. For now, let’s leave her to rest.”
I hesitated.
I didn’t want to leave her, period.
“This room is mine. It is protected,” she assured me. Rosette drew the homemade quilt over Grandma, taking extra time to tuck it in around her. “We have been friends for many years. I wouldn’t leave her unless she was safe.”
I focused my energy and searched the room for myself.
Dark magic mingled with the light.
It would kill me if anything happened to Grandma, whether by otherworldly means or by something as simple as getting old.
I pulled Rosette’s rocking chair closer to the bed. “I’m going to sit with her if that’s all right.”
“Of course, my dear,” she said, lowering the shade. “She’s lucky to have you.”
The older woman paused. “I do not wish to imply your grandmother has any issues, but this weakness surprises me. It’s not like her to have it or to hide it. You may want to ask some of her coven if this is a new issue or if she has been suffering for some time.”
Good idea. I appreciated her honesty. Besides, learning more about the problem would help me isolate it, and figure out how we could tackle it.
“Will you stay with her?” I asked Rosette. “It won’t take me more than a few minutes.”
She nodded. “If she wakes, I’ll let her know where you’ve gone.”
“Thanks,” I said, slipping out the door.
Unfortunately, that’s all it took for things to go to hell.
Chapter Three
I returned to the rec room to find the party in full swing. Bob spun tunes on the karaoke machine. Mr. and Mrs. Levinson had stopped making out in the corner long enough to stand next to a television on a wheeled cart, singing “Cotton Eye Joe” on full volume. A conga line snaked past them.
The women had kicked off their shoes and were dancing barefoot. The men were wiping sweat off their foreheads. The hot bartender didn’t have a shirt on.
Hey, wait…
I grabbed Frieda off the conga line. “Where did that guy come from? You shouldn’t be serving alcohol to retirement home residents.”
The rhinestones on her red cat collar twinkled. “What? Because they’re not twenty-one?” She chomped on her gum, the heat from the dance floor wilting her blond bouffant hairdo at the edges. “These people aren’t senile. They just need a little extra help sometimes. And Kellen the bartender sure gets your blood pumping,” she added, as if daring me to protest.
“I’m a married woman,” I said, although if anybody had abs to rival Dimitri’s, it was that guy.
Frieda pursed her lips in appreciation. “He’s Stella Howser’s grandson.” She broke into a grin. “Turns out he likes Bob’s dandelion wine.”
My mouth fell open. “You drugged him?”
“It only gave him a buzz, lowered his inhibitions, same as a regular drink. He’s a big boy.” She gave a low chuckle. “Besides, there aren’t any side effects. We even spelled it so it won’t interfere with anyone’s meds. It’s safer than conventional wine. We’ll keep him here until it wears off and he’ll go home feeling like the bee’s knees.”
I’d have to trust her that meant something good.
“Fine,” I gritted out. It wasn’t our biggest problem anyway. “Listen to me,” I said, making sure I had her attention. “Grandma isn’t feeling so hot. She’s taking a break right now in Rosette’s room.”
“I was wondering.” She frowned. “I saw you leave.”
“Has she been feeling out of sorts?” Granted, I hadn’t seen her in about a week. “She looked fine last weekend.”
Frieda played with the gold tag of her cat collar. “We all have our days,” she said apologetically, as if they weren’t allowed to get sick, as if I expected them to be superhuman.
Maybe I did.
Guilt wound through me. “All the same, I’d feel better if you talked to her. See if you can get her to be one hundred percent honest about her symptoms.”
I may have expected Grandma to push herself a little too hard before, but I’d make up for that now. If she were still asleep, I’d let her sleep. If she needed anything, I’d make sure she had it.
“I’m on it,” Frieda said, slipping out of the party with me. She didn’t bother with her shoes, which was just as well. I didn’t know how she walked in those platform sandals anyway.
“This way,” I said, hurrying down the corridor, anxious to have it settled. I couldn’t shake this feeling of dread.
Yes, I was the cautious one, the planner. But when push came to shove, it also helped me root out trouble.
I stopped midway down the hall. “It’s this one.” A black wreath hung on the door, festooned with white ribbons, smiling skulls, and mini wooden coffin lids.
In other circumstances, I would have thought it adorable. Now? It made me even more nervous.
We knocked softly and entered.
Black candles flickered between pots of herbs on the windowsill. The curtain had been drawn up. An orange sunset blazed across the sky, and I gave an involuntary shudder at the darkness seeping into the room.
A twisted red candle flickered on the nightstand, next to the empty bed.
My breath caught in my throat. “Grandma?” I called, hoping she was simply in the bathroom, although the hollowness in my gut told a different story. “Rosette?”
My voice echoed off the walls.
“You feel that prickle?” Frieda asked, her voice low, her tone urgent. “The energy that feels s
harp as a woolly cactus? That’s black magic.”
It skittered up my arms, like invisible spiders.
Oh my God. Keep moving. Keep searching. I checked the bathroom, the closet. Heck, I looked under the bed. “They’re gone.”
Frieda stood rooted to a spot near the ad hoc altar. “Holy hell, Lizzie. There’s something in the bed.”
I turned. The discarded, rumpled quilt covered most of the bed. A pillow lay askew. Then I saw it. A quivering lump, no bigger than my hand, near the center of the mattress.
Jesus, Mary, Joseph, and the mule. “What the hell is that?”
I drew a switch star, knowing my demon slayer weapons would be useless against a non-demon.
The switch star warmed in my hand. It resembled a Chinese throwing star, only the blades on the ends spun and glowed pink when my fingers clutched the handles. I hoped it would be enough. It was the only thing I could do.
“Back away. I’ve got this,” I said.
The room grew much, much darker than the approaching dusk outside the window. The air heated, practically sizzled. My hair stood on end.
It felt like we were being sucked into a black hole.
“Do it,” Frieda hissed.
Right.
Shit.
Every second we hesitated, the black magic grew stronger. It was impossible to know what to do, what kind of evil we faced, until I reached out with sweat-slicked fingers, grasped the edge of the quilt, and yanked it as hard as I could off the bed.
A voodoo doll quivered on the sheets, as if it were alive.
It wore a black dress. Long gray hair streamed out from under a witch’s hat, and there, on the arm, was a hand-drawn tattoo of a phoenix.
Thick needles pierced it at the neck, the chest, and straight through the left eyeball.
It gave one final shudder as the head began bleeding a thick black sludge.
Chapter Four
“We’ve got to find her,” I told Frieda.
“Where?” she pleaded.
That was the question. We had no idea where to look.
