by Angie Fox
"Come on." I ran a hand through Pirate's wiry fur as I pushed my way through the crowd. Dimitri had to be here somewhere, although it would have been nice of him to be there for me half as quickly as my dog.
If possible, the biker witches had multiplied since I'd left. They'd taken over an entire section of the parking lot, lounging around their mini-Weber grills, playing cards and—oh my word—they'd duct-taped their traveling dart board to a metal light pole.
Had I really been inside that long?
"Lizzie!" Grandma waved from her perch on the hood of a silver BMW, her motorcycle boots planted on the front bumper.
She directed her attention back to a blindfolded witch in pink leather pants, currently aiming a dart at a parked highway patrol cruiser.
"Go left! You got it," Grandma hollered. "Fire!"
"Stop!" I called to the blonde witch, known as Crazy Frieda, who was about to take out the fuzz. "Grandma's going to get you arrested!"
Frieda dug a pink fingernail around her blindfold. "Wouldn't be the first time." She blinked her eyes twice, sunlight glittering off her rhinestone-tipped lashes.
"What is this? Las Vegas Bikefest?" I said to Grandma, who looked entirely too amused. I'd bet anything they'd whipped up some kind of cover spell to keep the party going.
She stretched her arms over her head. "What can I say? Life is about catching that magic moment."
Ah, yes. The Van Halen life philosophy. Come to think of it, I didn't really want to know if they'd voodooed the lot or not. "Where's Dimitri?"
"You pass the test?" she countered, sliding off the car and doubling back behind me. "Ah hah!" Grandma plucked the permit from my back pocket and holding it up for everyone to see. "Call Oral Roberts—it's a miracle! Lizzie passed!"
I felt the pink rise to my cheeks.
The Red Skulls let out a series of whoops and cheers. Frieda enveloped me in a hug that smelled like Bengay and cigarettes.
"Aw, now that's nice," Pirate said, wedged in the middle. Frieda's bracelets dug into my raw left side and I pulled away.
She chomped at her gum, beaming at me. "I'm proud of you, sweetie," she said. "Now excuse me while I kick your grandmama's ass."
"First things first," I said, raising my voice for the benefit of the parking lot crowd. I was starting to worry. "Has anyone seen Dimitri?"
"Kiss him in Vegas," Grandma said to a cascade of whistles and at least one catcall from some smart aleck in the back. She winked at her friends and clapped me on my good shoulder. "Just don't do it in front of me."
A tickle of fear ran up my neck. "What do you mean Vegas?"
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
"Can your pumpkins," she said, accepting a charred hotdog from one of the witches. "Dimitri decided to ride ahead."
Sweet mother. And nobody stopped him? "You let a griffin go into Las Vegas?"
"Sure." She shrugged, taking a bite. "He's a big boy. Besides, he was getting on my last nerve."
Oh great. Grandma, my esteemed instructor, didn't know what a succubus could do to a griffin. I was screwed two ways to Sunday. "Listen," I said, trying to keep Pirate from jumping into her arms. "I talked to a Department of Intramagical Welfare guy in there. He said the she-demons will corrupt Dimitri, suck him dry."
Grandma's eyes widened to saucers.
Frieda gasped. "Maybe that's why he couldn't stand still while you were in there. It was like he had termites in his pants. Couldn't stop looking down the highway."
This was bad. "He must have sensed them. There are at least thirteen succubi."
"At least?" Grandma scoffed. "Dammit, Lizzie. You'd better count them and make sure."
How did everyone know about that but me?
I dialed Dimitri's cell number, but it went straight to voice mail.
"Round up the Red Skulls," I said. "We're leaving." Maybe we could overtake Dimitri before he reached the city.
Yeah, and bats ride bicycles.
"Not so fast," Grandma said. "We need to get your Uncle Phil first. Dimitri can take care of himself."
I knew Dimitri was good in a fight, but still… "He's up against multiple demons."
"Yeah, but he's not the target. Phil is. Besides, if anybody can avoid a demon, it's a Red Skull. Ant Eater!" Grandma called over her shoulder, eyeing me the whole time. A monster truck of a witch with curly gray hair and a red leather halter jogged up. Her gold tooth glinted in the sunlight as she smiled and gave Grandma a mock salute.
Thank goodness Grandma was beyond fun and games. "Ant Eater, I need you and the Red Skulls to catch up with Dimitri. Lizzie and I will take care of Phil."
"Fine," I said, heading for my bike. She was right. Annoying, but right.
"That's what I'm talking about," Pirate said as I buckled him into the glorified baby carrier that served as his bike harness. The black leather contraption looked like it belonged in an old Kiss video, but it worked. Pirate wasn't the only Harley biker dog out there, but he considered himself one of the most stylish.
"You know I was thinking I might learn how to drive," Pirate mused as I dialed Dimitri again. It went to voicemail. Of all the dumb things for him to pull, heading into a mess of succubi had to be at the top of the list. I was mad. I was worried. If they so much as breathed on him…
Pirate wriggled in his harness. "Yeeeeeesss!" he hollered as I gunned us out into the open road.
The drab brown of the desert whipped past at speeds that would have made me go pale a month ago.
Doubt crept over me. Who was I kidding? I still didn't know what I was doing. And after the debacle with Dimitri, I wondered how much Grandma knew.
She acted like I'd asked to be a demon slayer. Like I'd chosen it. Okay, well I did have a chance to get rid of my powers and I didn't take it. But still, none of this would have happened if the original Demon Slayer of Dalea, my mom, hadn't foisted her powers off on me. My mom had received detailed instruction from a range of top teachers. I got what we could do on the run—what Grandma remembered.
This whole thing—me being a demon slayer—had been a complete and utter accident. I'd never felt it as keenly as I did today—knowing I was expected to levitate, to know the science of switch stars—heck, to know when I was leading my lover into a trap. Now Dimitri might be in mortal danger. Uncle Phil certainly was, along with the citizens of Las Vegas if we drew a demon attack, and I still didn't know what I was going to do about it.
I glanced at Grandma on the bike behind me and motioned to her that I was taking it up a notch. She'd be thrilled. It took anything over ninety miles per hour to really blow her hair back. I, on the other hand, usually liked to work under the assumption that speed limits were there for a reason. Besides, Pirate tended to throw me off balance when we went full throttle. Pirate had a need for speed. He liked to pretend he was running.
Pirate's tail thumped against my stomach as I hit the gas. "That's what I'm talking about!" he cried. "Let's pop a wheelie!"
"Let's not." I ducked my head around a flailing paw and kicked it up to ninety-five.
Ever since we'd gotten back from hell, I'd been on edge. I didn't know if it was the sheer terror of facing a fifth-level demon or the fact that I'd quietly given up part of my essence to save Dimitri's life. Probably both.
When I cradled Dimitri's bloodied head in my lap, when I made the choice to bring him back, Grandma told me there'd be consequences. Unfortunately, she didn't know what they'd be. At the time, I didn't care. Of course I'd do it all again. Still, I felt like I was walking around waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Maybe I should've told him I saved his life. Then again, that could open up another whole can of worms.
As we stormed toward Vegas, I began to feel the succubi. It started out as a heaviness, like a cascade of worries raining down. I gunned my engine harder.
Oh yes.
I wanted to feel them, needed to see them. The closer I came to Las Vegas and its demons, the more I knew I had to be there. I could almost touch them with my mind. And there
weren't the original six devils anymore. Not even the thirteen that DIP Officer Reynolds predicted. Oh no. There were at least two dozen of them.
Excerpt from The Dangerous Book foe Demon Slayers:
Beware of live spells. They may look cute, but most have minds of their own. Case in point: a two-inch-tall flutter of black and gold named Beanie. His job is to fetch Starbucks coffee for the bikers too embarrassed to be seen in a place without neon beer signs on the walls. They like him. I don't—not after he filled my favorite black leather boots with pumpkin spice latte.
Chapter Five
Uncle Phil lived in a working-class neighborhood about ten minutes south of Las Vegas. Iron gates wrapped around gravel front yards. Mismatched 1970s ranch houses sweltered behind the occasional brittlebush or chokecherry tree.
His modest gray home hunkered under a television antenna that took up half the roof. Statuettes of the Seven Dwarves marched through a rock garden that was more sand than anything else. A woman two doors down ushered her children into the house as we shut down our Harleys.
Please don't let her know something we don't.
If we could get Phil out of here—fast—well, I hoped we could avoid trouble.
Pirate inspected the lawn chair on the porch while I rang the doorbell once, twice. I felt Dimitri's teardrop emerald warm against my neck. He'd given it to me because it held protective magic. Too bad Dimitri was the one in need of protection now.
The bronze chain began to hum as it slid down my neck. In a million years, I'd never get used to Dimitri's go-anywhere, do-anything jewelry. In the past, it had turned into a breast plate—right before a witch aimed a loaded rifle at my chest. It had morphed into a bronze collar around my neck, right before a werewolf used it for a handle. And I'd never forget the bronze cap that had kept my head safe from a skull-shattering blow.
I held my breath as the metal slid down my side to form—a bronze butt plate? I felt the heavy metal encasing my hindquarters. Maybe Dimitri's magic was suffering along with him.
Don't think about it.
I leaned on the doorbell. "Please be home." We didn't have time to hunt down Uncle Phil.
"Damned lying she-devil," Grandma muttered behind me. "I'll bet she's got her hooks in him right now." She motioned me away from my assault on the doorbell. "Hold your horses, Lizzie. Deep breath." She held her arms out to the side, her silver bracelets clattering. "Now, open yourself up to the universe. Let yourself go. Can you feel her?"
I glanced over Grandma's shoulder at the curtains fluttering in the window of the house next door. She didn't know the half of it. I could sense each demon that had invaded the Las Vegas metro area. All twenty-five of them.
No way I could kill twenty-five.
I blinked hard, tried to focus. "I can feel them. But I don't know which one is her." How could I possibly get a lock on a demon I'd never met? "Please say you can teach me."
Grandma shook her head, her hair tangling around her shoulders. "That's a sense you have to develop on your own. It'll come. In time."
Yeah, well we didn't have time. Phil didn't have time. And Dimitri? I didn't even want to think about it.
At least there were none in the house. I tried to rub the tension from my forehead. I could feel their rage and the absolute darkness they held. Something horrible was going down in Vegas, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. It was steaming toward us like a freight train and the only thing I could do was get Uncle Phil out of the way—if we could find him.
Focus. I braced my hand on the door and willed myself to think rationally. If we could get inside, we had a shot at figuring out where Phil went with his demonic floozy. Maybe, just maybe he left his door open. People did all the time down South. I twisted the handle. Unfortunately, we were a long way from Georgia.
"Okay, Grandma?" She had plenty of spells. Maybe one of them could open a lock. "For the love of switch stars, tell me you have something—anything—that can get us in there."
"Sure." Grandma charged out to the rock garden, seized one of the Seven Dwarves and heaved it through the front window. The glass shattered, leaving a Dopey-sized hole.
"What are you doing?" I clutched my head to keep it from spinning. We needed to be smooth, not suicidal. She was going to get us arrested. Property damage, breaking and entering—I'd never even had a speeding ticket.
And who breaks through the front window in broad daylight?
The curtains swayed next door. We had to get out of here. We couldn't do Phil any good from jail.
"Pirate?" Where was my friggin' dog? He'd been sniffing Uncle Phil's daisies not two minutes ago.
"Get your panties out of a wad," Grandma said, digging around in the front pocket of her jeans.
"Oh because you've got this whole thing planned out. Well tell me who's going to save Phil, and get Dimitri out of here if we get sent to the pokey!"
"Who calls it a pokey?"
"Grandma!"
A skinny man in a bathrobe burst out of the house next door. His sparse, graying hair sprouted from his comb-over like unruly weeds. His mustache twitched with excitement and—oh lordy—he brandished a rifle. "I'm calling the cops!" he squeaked.
"Oh yeah?" Grandma scoffed. "Then what the hell are you doing out here?" Silver rings flashing in the bright desert sun, she yanked a chain out from under her Hairdoo by Harley T-shirt.
She'd brought her pets.
Several Ziploc bags dangled on safety pins from the chain. Inside, living spells hovered, practically falling over themselves as they vied for her attention. They refashioned themselves at will—flattening, lengthening, twirling as the mood saw fit. One spun itself in shimmering corkscrews before mashing flat against Grandma's palm, rubbing at her like a cat.
Grandma tore open a bag and let the spells fly. Globs of goo ricocheted off each other like the Crazy Balls I used to play with as a kid.
They were Mind Wipers. Heaven help us.
"Sic 'em, Gene! Ace, Paul, Peter!" Leave it to Grandma to name her spells after the original members of Kiss.
"Duck!" I hollered as a pointy black one zipped straight for Grandma's head.
She sidestepped and caught it as it veered past her left ear. "Aw, come on, Gene. I thought I had you trained." She tossed the spell toward the neighbor with the rifle. "Go get 'em, tiger."
The man bolted back inside, his robe gaping to reveal a pasty white chest as he slammed the door. Curtains fluttered up and down the street.
"Geez, Lizzie, don't just stand around with your mouth hanging open," Grandma said, hauling me toward Phil's broken window. "Get in there before the cops come!"
Right. Go ahead, break in. Don't worry about the man with the gun. Or the police who are without a doubt barreling right for us, handcuffs ready. I needed to make sure I was actually inside the crime scene when they arrived. In the meantime, we pin our hopes on Gene, the Mind Wiper, who couldn't seem to tell the difference between Grandma and a rifle-waving crazy with a comb-over.
Cold air streamed out into the dry, desert heat. I reached through the jagged hole and unlocked the window, careful of the glass littering the marble sill. I yanked a couple of cushions off the brown plaid couch in front of the window and, shaking them off as best as I could, laid them over the worst of the glass. My butt would be fine, but I didn't want to catch glass anywhere else.
"Move it, princess!" Grandma hollered as Phil's neighbor got off a shot.
Oh sure. Like I flung myself through broken windows all the time. And why had I thought it was a good idea to wear stiff black leather pants? For Dimitri. And while I was busy looking sexy for him, he'd left me with Grandma and the Mind Wipers.
I planted my rear on the cushion and straddled the window sill, one leg in, one leg out. Broken glass crunched underneath the pillow and where my right foot dug into Phil's couch. I ducked inside, eyes adjusting to the cool, shaded interior of the house when I saw it. My legs went limp.
"Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule," I said, staring at the
coffee table in front of me.
A mess of picture frames crowded the long wood table. Which wouldn't have been strange, except for a certain person in almost every picture—me.
I was so shocked I almost slid right down onto the glass-covered couch. There was no way Phil could have been there to take pictures of my college graduation, my stint as a molar in Tommy and the Toothbrush, the time I'd trashed my dollhouse in the name of science.
Impossible.
Illogical.
The glass crunched under my bronze butt plate as I leaned over as far as I could. There I was at the sixth-grade science fair, powering up my dollhouse with a potato, and was that my old retainer, on his bookshelf, encased in glass? Of all the things I could have expected, this wasn't it.
I braced my hands on the pillow and concentrated on taking long, even breaths. There had to be a logical explanation for this.
Yeah, right.
I'd never even seen Uncle Phil, technically my great-uncle. He was part of the package that came with meeting my real family. And that had only started happening a few weeks ago.
Legs shaking, I scrambled off the couch to inspect a picture of Pirate right after I'd picked him up at the Paws for Love pet adoption event. Phil had been there.
Grandma hadn't known how to find me until I'd grown into my powers. You'd think Phil would have helped out, or heck, introduced himself. In an eerie way, I didn't know whether to be wigged out at the idea of him following me all of these years or to be glad someone, anyone—besides my parents' housekeeper—had actually made it to some of the most important events in my life. My adoptive parents, it seemed, always had a party or a charity function or a tennis match. Unless it was a "see and be seen" kind of event. Then they'd spend the whole time talking to other people.
From the look of it, Phil had been there for everything. And he'd certainly brought plenty of film. But why hadn't he said anything?
More albums crowded two tall bookcases that flanked the entrance to the kitchen. I walked over to take a closer look and—holy moly. He had copies of my diaries. Every journal I'd kept since I'd learned how to write. I pulled one off the shelf.
