Angie Fox - The Last of the Demon Slayers

Maybe I could keep my muddy, smelly outfit on and wind my new red dress into a turban around my head.

Rather than think about my future as a silver-haired beauty, I banged open the door of the bar and headed straight for my grandma. She was running down a checklist of to-do’s with Ant Eater and a few other witches. Perhaps I was related to this woman after all.

Her eyes widened and she almost dropped her clipboard as I held up my prize.

“What the hell is that?”

“You tell me.” Seeing her, showing her, made it all too real. “It’s a gift,” I said sarcastically, “from Daddy.”

Grandma whooshed out a breath. “Xavier is out there?” She banged her hand on the bar. “Hey, Bob, I need a Critter Trap!”

A ponytailed biker in running pants and a Ride to Survive T-shirt dug around in a cabinet below the liquor bottles. He reached up from his wheelchair and sent an empty jelly jar sliding down the bar, Old West style.

“Is Dimitri back yet?” I asked.

“No,” Grandma said, worried.

He’ll be okay. Please let him be okay.

Grandma held the lid open and I dropped the rope inside.

I watched the whole thing with a sort of numb fascination. ”What do you know about him?”

“What I told you,” she said, as if I’d whacked my head on a tree.

That she’d barely known him. My mom had never talked about him. I’d spent years craving any scrap of knowledge, any kind of connection. Did I have the same hair as him? Yes. The same eyes? Hard to tell. Would he be as organized as me? I had to have gotten it from somewhere.

Why had he left me?

I didn’t know any of the important things and I might not find out even if I did help him.

The lariat bucked and hissed as Grandma popped the lid on top.

I watched her. “If it makes any difference, I asked him for a pony.”

Grandma held up the jar and watched the rope attack the glass. “What’s he like?”

“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “He seemed to care about me.”

She patted me on the shoulder. “Buck up. We’ll figure this out.”

That’s what I was afraid of.

Hells bells. It was bad enough my mother abandoned me when I was just a baby. Now my father, who couldn’t even stick around for my birth, just zapped into my life asking for salvation.

“Convocation time, people!” Grandma shouted over my shoulder.

Chairs creaked as the witches clambered off their barstools.

“Wait,” I said, planting a hand on her shoulder as Grandma started to take off.

There was one more thing she needed to know.

“He wants me to go see him,” I said.

She gave a sour look. “I’ll just bet he does.” She shook the jar. “We’re going to find out what that man really wants.”

“You can trace him?”

“Hell, yes.” She grinned.

“He made some kind of bad deal. He didn’t tell me what.” He probably didn’t want to scare me off.

“Dang it, Lizzie,” she said, flat out frustrated. “You ever think of bringing me out there with you?”

“You weren’t invited,” I said. She hadn’t sensed the presence of my father. She wouldn’t have even known he was there if I hadn’t just told her.

Two witches leaned past us as Sidecar Bob started handing over candles from underneath the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Frieda stalk up to me, hands on her hips.

Her blue-shadowed eyes narrowed. “Where in hell’s knob did you go?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Don’t worry, Lizzie.” Grandma clapped me on the shoulder. “We’re going to find out exactly what’s going on.”

I hoped.

Frieda wrinkled her nose. “Well my spell is fried.” She took me by the arm. “Come on.”

Grandma walked past me. “Convocation in five minutes,” she said over her shoulder.

“Where?” I asked. “In the bar?”

“Nah, we got a better place.” Ant Eater showed Grandma a jar full of brackish liquid and the two walked off together.

“Bathroom first,” Frieda said, leading me by the neck to the sink in the ladies room.

“It won’t do any good. I missed the deadline.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” Frieda coaxed, angling my head over the ancient industrial sink.

I’d blown the cure. “I felt it poof.” Frankly, I didn’t want to know what was under the black goop on my head.

Frieda snapped her gum and thought about it. “Let’s just see what that poof meant.” She turned on the faucet and sprayed my head and neck with cold water. “I don’t like to make my spells too precise or you lose the element of surprise.”

I gritted my teeth against the rivulets of water trickling around my neck and down the front of my kick butt demon slayer bodice. “Did I ever tell you I don’t appreciate surprises?” I shouted from inside the sink.

“My stars, where’s the fun in that?”

I watched the black water run down into the sink. The biker witches didn’t take things seriously enough. Yes, they’d saved my butt more than once. Sure, they could be a kick to hang with. But I just wished they could be a little more focused.

As if answering my unspoken request, Ant Eater banged into the girl’s room. “C’mon. Everybody’s in the Bathtub Club waiting for you.”

I lifted my sopping head. “You’ve got two dozen witches stuffed in a bathroom?” I wouldn’t put it past them.

“No, Einstein. It’s the name of Creely’s momma’s speakeasy. This used to be her bar. When Prohibition hit, they had to improvise.” She planted her hands on her silver studded belt. “Grandmamma Creely was a witch too. We’re good at winging it.”

No kidding.

Frieda shoved my head into the sink. “They brewed gin in the bathtub upstairs, hence the name.”

I tilted my head enough to see out. “Don’t tell me you’ve got booze going.” They’d barely cleared the Harley off the pool table.

“Nah,” Ant Eater waved me off, “we just use it for spells. It’s the only badass secret place here, which is what you need for what we’re about to do.” She grinned, her gold tooth glinting. “Now get. Demons don’t worry about hairdos before they attack.”

Ant Eater turned to go.

“My dad’s not fully demonic,” I called after her, knowing how bad it sounded, “and he’s going to attack.”

“If you say so,” she said over her shoulder.

I stopped, water running down my back. “Do you know anything?” I asked Frieda.

She shrugged. “I know he showed up when he needed you.”

“True. But he didn’t realize that I wasn’t living a great life with my mom.” It sounded lame even to me.

Frieda tossed a towel over my head and I rubbed myself dry. “How does it look?” I pulled the towel back and nearly fell over.

The blonde biker witch cringed.

“Purple?” I bleated. “You were supposed to make my hair black and you made it purple?”

I touched my hair gingerly and fought the urge to cry on the spot. It was lavender, like the flower. Only this was not beautiful and it smelled like motor oil. I ran my fingers through my roots. Every stinking hair on my head was the color of an Easter egg.

Enough. I turned away from the mirror to once again face my hairdresser. Frieda’s overdyed blond bouffant suddenly seemed the height of normal.

“I didn’t do anything,” she protested. “You left it on too long.” She leveled a pink-tipped fingernail at me. “I told you to rinse it on time.”

“What about non-precise spells?” I demanded.

“I gave you a cowbell.”

I was not about to go tromping out in the woods with a cowbell. “And now my hair matches my bustier.”

“Hey yeah,” Frieda said, impressed. “You might start yourself a new fashion trend.”