Angie Fox: The Last of the Demon Slayers

She had to be kidding. “Beauty product?” These witches did mud masks the old fashioned way – by riding through puddles. Well, all except for Frieda.

“Here ya go,” she said, handing me a rhinestone-studded compact.

I took it and gasped. My hair was gray. Steel gray. Which would have been fine except it had been black about a minute ago.

“What did you do?” I demanded.

I’d had three gray hairs in my entire life. Three. And I plucked them as soon as I saw them. So this? Well, this was unacceptable.

“It looks nice,” Grandma said, not really paying attention to me as she ran her boot along the bottom rung of a bar stool.

“It doesn’t look nice,” I said, panic rising. “That’s what people say when they don’t know how to fix things.” I turned to Frieda. “But you can reverse this because you are a Red Skull biker witch and you know your magic.”

“Well…” Frieda chomped at her gum, buying time. “It’s less magic and more…hair enhancer. It used to be platinum blonde. I guess it got old.” She tested a lock of my hair between her fingers. “Problem is, it’s the permanent kind. We brewed it so you don’t ever have to worry about dyeing your hair again. No other color will take.”

Oh no. Wrong answer. “Well then you’d better figure out how to fix it. Now.” I had a big date tonight. Finally. Dimitri and I had been trying to get something going for quite some time now and no biker witch spell was going to blow it for me.

“Okay, okay,” she winced, “don’t get all Red Skull on me.” Frieda brightened. “Hey, you’re acting like one of us and now you look like one of us -”

“Frieda!” We didn’t have time.

She sighed, as if I was the difficult one. “Okay, darling, here’s the poop: you’re going to be gray from here on out unless we can get your head under the sink and brew up a counter spell in the next two minutes. Does the water run in this place?”

Soon after, I had my head under a rusty faucet in the ladies room while Frieda rubbed oily gunk into my hair. I’d stripped off my coat and stood freezing in a purple leather bustier, which was my demon slayer trademark of sorts. Although right now I doubted I’d impress too many bad guys with my shivers.

“There’s something glowing in the corner,” I said, straining to see.

“Head straight,” Frieda said, adjusting my neck. “It’s only a Lose Your Keys spell and we’re already staying put.” Her fingers dug into my scalp as she rubbed. “You just be glad your dog was able to get us some dragon feathers, or you’d be a silver-haired beauty for the next seventy years.”

“I didn’t even know dragons had feathers,” I mumbled to the rusted sink.

“That’s ‘cause you never petted one behind the ears!” I nearly jumped sideways when my dog ran a cold nose under my pant leg and above my sock. “I have a whole collection. Gray ones and blue ones and white ones…I even have a pink one, but it’s kind of smushed.”

“Pirate!” My Jack Russell Terrier had started talking to me the day I came into my demon slayer powers. Real words. Call it a side effect. Pirate liked to say he’d always talked and it was me who never listened.

He gave a wet doggie snort against my shin. “Why are you getting a bath in the sink? Did you roll in something good? Was it stinky? ‘Cause I found a dead chipmunk outside and I don’t mind sharing.”

“Go get a hair net,” Frieda told my dog. “And ask Bob to pour a shot of Jack.”

E-yak. The black muck and dragon feathers were bad enough. “You’re going to pour whiskey on my head?”

“Nah. I’m just thirsty.”

Ten minutes later, I stood with what looked to be motor oil glooped through my hair, with half my split ends stuffed through a two-sizes-too-small hair net. Then Frieda handed me a cowbell.

Oh yes, I was hot date material. I glanced at the door. He should be back soon.

“Is the bell really necessary?” I sighed at the parade of biker witches clomping past me. Most of them were holing up at the bar – Frieda included. The others were gathering the last of the renegade spells and other flying surprises, a little too late in my opinion.

Frieda tossed back a swig of beer and grinned. “That may look like an ordinary old cowbell. But I enchanted it like a genuine egg timer. The dragon feather cocktail must stay on your head for exactly thirteen minutes thirty-seven seconds or I’m not responsible for what happens next.”

She paused expectantly. “Okay. You got me, Lizzie. Want to know what happens next?”

“Not exactly.”

Besides, I’d already set my Swiss wrist watch. It had been a gift from my anal, adoptive parents to my equally anal self. It was silver, tinted pink, which is how I used to like things. My watch told precise time, was waterproof up to 12,800 feet and I didn’t go anywhere without it.

“At 5:20 or thereabouts,” Frieda began.

“5:20 and twelve seconds,” I corrected.

She waved me off. “You will dunk your head in the sink and I will douse it with water. Capiche?”

At least she couldn’t drink much more in the next six minutes.

“Okay. Well try not to get it on the leather.” I looked down to my mussed black leather pants. I had some clean ones in my saddlebag, but I’d rather save them for tomorrow. Besides, I’d be changing soon into this slinky red sweater dress I’d found at the Ann Taylor Loft Outlet while the biker witches rode the SeaStreak Ferry, looking for mermaid scales. Evidently, we’d arrived during molting season. Lucky us.

Some days, I couldn’t believe the things I had to put up with. But then there were the times that made everything worth it. Take tonight, for instance.

Any moment now, my sexy-as-sin boyfriend would be walking in the door. Dimitri and I had been to hell and back – twice – but we’d never been on a real date. Tonight would be the first time.

If we made it that far.

Last time we thought we could relax, we were attacked by an army of imps. Then we spent four months in Greece. You’d think we could have squeezed in a date somewhere. But we spent most of our time re-building Dimitri’s estate. Then every time we tried to leave, one of the biker witches blew something up. Or my dog got loose with his dragon. Or Zebediah Rachmort, my mentor, decided he needed me right then because conditions were perfect for me to levitate or slow down time or visualize.

That last one really got me. It didn’t make any sense to sit around and ponder my abilities. And before you say anything, pondering is different than planning. When I outline a strategy, I have a clear goal in mind. I’m not just sitting around wondering about things.

Now that Rachmort had gone back to Boca Raton and we’d landed here, I could move from visualizing my hot-as-sin griffin without his jeans – or anything else - and start realizing it.

In fact, Dimitri and I promised ourselves once we got back to the States, we would ditch the witches and the dog for at least one night a week. We’d talk, we’d cuddle – we’d date.

Although frankly, right now I’d be relieved to see Dimitri whole and unharmed.

He had a habit of picking dangerous assignments and then trying to do them by himself. Yes, he was a big, bad griffin and did just fine on his own. Still, I didn’t want to think of him getting into trouble out there.

I rubbed at the tension in my shoulders, my wrist brushing the cold sludge in my hair. Focus on what you can control . I simply needed to wait for the bell to jingle, rinse out the spell and get back to normal.

If only things were that easy.

Three loud knocks sounded at the door.

It wasn’t Dimitri. He wouldn’t have knocked for one thing. And I’d have sensed him for another.