Angie Fox: The Last of the Demon Slayers

“Lizzie!” Ant Eater yelled from out in the bar.

“Oh, I’m coming,” I stomped out of the bathroom.

Ant Eater stood inside an old wooden phone booth near the back. A year ago, I would have thought that was strange. Now I was just glad there were no creatures or roadkill souvenirs in there.

“Inside,” she said, shoving me past her. She dialed a combination on the rust-flecked rotary phone and a wooden door on the wall slid open.

What was this? Maxwell Smart?

A spiral staircase led straight down. “Welcome to the Bathtub Club,” she said as she led me inside. Her leather pants and jacket whooshed loudly in the enclosed space. “It’s not as classy as the Cotton Club, but the gin tastes the same.”

The old iron staircase shuddered and the air temperature dropped at least ten degrees as we wound our way down. I touched the damp brick wall and it was freezing cold. “Did people use this place?”

“Are you kidding?” Ant Eater gave a sandpapery laugh. “It was the hangout for Monmouth and at least three more counties. I hear the women were loose. Don’t tell Creely.”

She kicked open an unmarked wooden door and we found ourselves in a 1920s supper club.

The ceiling hung low and I felt the tang of paraffin in the back of my throat. A gorgeous carved bar stood in one corner, a raised bandstand in the other, both of them layered with candles and lounging biker witches. Betty Two Sticks raised her glass to me and winked.

Brass and crystal chandeliers hung with an array of candles. The motley shapes and colors of the tapers clashed terribly with high rent fixtures. Soft light from the flames danced across their faces as their whoops and hollers echoed off the damp brick walls.

“You made it.” Ant Eater thwacked me on the arm, her skull and crossbones do-rag hanging crookedly over her forehead. “Finally. Now let’s get a move on.”

Sure. Why not?

In another life, I would have loved to get a better look at this place. Maybe I’d take Dimitri down here after our date tonight. My insides warmed just thinking about it.

We gathered in a semicircle around a discarded wooden barrel Grandma had commandeered. She’d placed my father’s gift on top – still inside the protective jar. It bucked and hissed against its magical cage.

“Nice hairdo.” Creely the engineering witch sidled up to me.

I didn’t know whether she was serious or not, seeing as Creely had green streaks running through her hair.

It was always the quiet ones.

Frieda took the place next to me.

“Pipe down, people.” Grandma eyed the open back door. “Bob, seal ‘er up.”

I hadn’t even heard him come down behind us.

“Just a sec!” He hollered. “I got a wheel stuck in the dumbwaiter.”

A rattle sounded, then a series of dull thuds.

Bob’s weathered face popped up on the other side of the door. “Easy peasey.” He gave Grandma a thumbs-up before the unmarked wooden door hissed closed like an airlock.

The candles burned brighter in the darkness surrounding us.

“Join hands,” Grandma murmured.

I took Creely’s warm hand and Freida’s chilly one. The crowd of two dozen witches drew closer. They closed their eyes and concentrated. The temperature in the room began to rise.

Swallowing hard, I tried to do some thinking of my own. As much as I had every right to grouse over the events of the night – and believe me, I liked to brood - I needed to let it go for the moment. I closed my eyes and tried to be one with this coven, this place.

For the first time that night, I felt warm.

A grinding noise shook me out of my thoughts. Two of the Red Skulls, along with Bettina the library witch, huffed and struggled as they dragged a battered footlocker to the center of the group.

Bettina wasn’t even a hundred pounds soaking wet. She drew her silver hair out of her eyes and kicked the box twice with a steel-toed biker boot. The box groaned and opened with a creak.

She shot us an apologetic glance, still catching her breath. “I haven’t had a chance to feed my ingredients tonight. They get testy when they haven’t had their supper.”

“Are there live animals in there?” I whispered to Frieda, horrified.

“No, honey,” she said, her breath tickling my neck. “Live spells. They eat just about anything. Cracker crumbs, leftover lasagna, motor oil. They like to graze. Only Bettina keeps ‘em locked up. For obvious reasons.”

My head began to itch, but I knew better than to break the circle.

Grandma lit three red candles around the jar of rope. She blew out her match and deposited it on the table. Eyes on the jar, she held out her hand. “Okay, give me the enchanted eyeballs.”

My stomach squinched. “From what?” I whispered.

I could feel Creely’s impatience. “From your dinner last night. Or did you forget how you went to town on that poached salmon?”

Okay. Never mind.

The biker witches never let anything go to waste. Bettina had soaked the eyeballs in something clear and I suddenly felt bad for ever liking croquettes with lemon glaze.

The flames burned brighter as the silver rope began to growl and hiss. It threw itself against the glass like a wild beast. Boy was I glad I hadn’t tried to touch it. And for about the tenth time, I wondered just how desperate my dad had to be to give me such a gift.

Maybe I should be glad he was never around at Christmastime.

The other ingredients clacked together as Bettina unscrewed the lid. With two bony fingers, she plucked a single eye out of the mixture and examined it. “Oh yes,” she crooned at it like a pet. “Nice and fat. You’ll do a good job for us, won’t you?”

“Now?” Grandma asked.

Bettina nodded as Grandma pulled out an old Swiss army knife. It was as long as her palm, with an unending number of gadgets. She drew out the corkscrew and, as the rope reared and attacked, she drilled a tiny eyeball-sized hole in the top of the jar. “Ready everybody?”

The witches drew together, and I felt the magic build. For a moment, the room was completely quiet except for the hissing of the rope. The air grew heavy as candles leapt and danced.

Grandma bowed her head and the witches followed suit. “We, the witches of the Red Skull bind together now. We call on 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, divine the true nature of this gift before us. Let us seek the greater good for our sister Lizzie and for the magic that empowers us.”

I sucked in a breath. For all my abilities, it always amazed me just what these witches could do.

Grandma drew her hands around the jar once, twice, three times before she dropped the eyeball inside. We watched with rapt anticipation as the eyeball latched on to the enchanted rope and burrowed until we could no longer see it.

The rope thrashed like a stuck pig. It slammed against the side of the jar, squealing before it shuddered and fell limp. Grandma held her hands over the concoction, her eyes closed tight.

“Ostendo,” she uttered, as if forcing the words from somewhere deep inside. “Ostendo!” She repeated, louder this time.

I stared at the jar in front of her, then back to her face. Her skin had gone pale. Red color rose to her cheeks. “Ostendo!”

Her face contorted. “The man you saw is your father, Lizzie. He came to you because he needs your help.”

I’d already known. I’d felt that connection.

The rope began to smoke and hiss in the jar. Grandma struggled to maintain her hold on her vision.

“What your mother didn’t know. Wait. She knew! What your mother didn’t tell me is your father saw… No. Knew… No –” Her eyes flew open. “Holy crap, your dad is a fallen angel.”