Angie Fox: My Big Fat Demon Slayer Wedding

Grandma seemed to be thinking the same thing. “I got to tell you, I haven’t been anywhere this nice since your uncle’s funeral in Vegas.”

I didn’t remind her that she’d been to Dimitri’s villa in Santorini. The biker witches had definitely left their mark.

“This may look imposing, but I really am keeping the wedding simple,” I said, rounding the corner.

Out back was a huge garden, with stone-lined paths and all kinds of plants and flowers done up in triangular patterns. Silver pots filled with purple prairie flowers and tied with a white ribbon lined the walk up to a large, stone porch.

Yes, Hillary was in charge. Obviously. But I wasn’t having any bridesmaids, I ordered my dress from the Ann Taylor online store and we were keeping this as straightforward as possible. And I loved my dress, by the way. It was simple, classic, like I’d always wanted.

Grandma stopped as she eyed the obnoxiously large white tulip and magnolia wreath on the back door. “Does your mom know you’re a demon slayer yet?”

“I want to tell her in person,” I said, as if I hadn’t been avoiding the entire conversation.

She snarfed. “Did you tell her we’re witches?”

This whole thing was making me uncomfortable. “I wasn’t exactly sure how to phrase that.”

She gave me a sidelong glance. “You did mention that the groom is a mythical shape-shifting griffin.”

“No,” I snapped. I’d tell Hillary in my own good time. Preferably before Dimitri or any of his relatives landed in the back yard. “First, we’re going to get through the tea party this afternoon.”

There had to be a downstairs bathroom where I could ditch the leather outfit, the shiny black boots, my Harley branded headband, my spell jar. I didn’t want to forget my studded leather bracelets, either.

Then I’d stash my switch stars in a straw purse. I’d trade the rest of it for a flowered sundress, wedge sandals and a large hat because, well, my hair was a permanent lavender color thanks to a spell gone wrong.

I took the porch steps two at a time. At least my hair had grown out a bit in the last few months. It was maybe an inch off my shoulders. I dug my fingers through it, trying to put it up in a French twist under the hat. No such luck.

“This garden is great,” Grandma said, heading the opposite direction. “She’s got mint and chamomile, white sage and sweet grass. And look! Diviner’s sage! Right there!” Grandma pointed as if it was the find of the century, as if my mother had somehow planted it all. “You’ve got to see this.”

“Don’t pick any plants,” I told her. The garden was pretty. Gorgeous, in fact. “I might get married right there.”

“On the back porch?” Grandma asked, rooting through the plants. “If that’s the case, I’d have dragged you in front of a minister in Las Vegas. At least there you could have gotten married by Elvis.”

“No,” I said, as she picked some white sage. “I’m going to have a classic wedding.”

With biker witches.

I tried not to cringe. Or care that she was stuffing lavender springs into her belt.

Focus on things you can control. Like getting changed before my mom saw me.

Out of habit, my right hand wandered down to my switch stars as I opened the iron and stained glass back door.

So far, so good.

I eased my way inside and found myself in a Spanish kitchen as big as my old house.

The original floor and fixtures looked to be at least one hundred years old, with intricate mosaic designs and large racks of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. The appliances were new, gleaming stainless steel. The countertops and cabinets were dark and imposing, as was a large, wooden table that could seat at least twenty.

A narrow hall led toward the front of the house. There had to be a bathroom somewhere nearby.

“Lizzie?” I heard my mom’s voice from only a few rooms away.

Cripes.

Yes, I was a big, bad demon slayer, but for a moment, I really considered ducking behind the massive kitchen island.

The sharp clack of Hillary’s kitten heels on the tile sounded like nails in my coffin.

“I heard you pull up,” she called. “Next time, try the front door. I know it looks heavy, but it opens fine.”

I froze. My mind swirled with panic as my mother rounded the corner. And stopped.

She brought a French manicured hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

Hillary Brown wore an immaculately tailored, white button down dress, along with a pink pearl necklace and matching earrings. Her straight, pale, blond hair curled perfectly at her ears and shoulders. Her skin was unnaturally smooth for her age, as if someone had taken a sand blaster too it. Or more accurately, a scalpel. I’d never seen Hillary when she hadn’t been polished to within an inch of her life.

And I looked like a biker witch.

She stared at me for one long moment.

My heart thumped against my chest. I clutched the jar with Grandma’s Mind Wiper spell and briefly considered using it.

Instead, I pasted on my best good-daughter smile. “Hi, mom!” I said, trying for cheerful and sounding more like a drunken cheerleader.

She tried to respond but her face had frozen into a pasted-on smile-of-horror. “What on Earth… happened to you?”

My face heated and I began to sweat. Buckets. I pulled up my bustier, even though it was in no danger of falling down. “Funny thing. I was just getting ready to change.”

Good God. The last time I’d seen my mom, I was wearing khaki pants and a yellow sweater, along with sensible Oxford shoes. I drove a Saturn. I went to bed at ten o’clock. I worked as a preschool teacher, and I didn’t even kill spiders, much less soul-sucking demons.

Had I wiped off my Sinfully Red lipstick? I didn’t think so.

She closed the distance between us, as if I was a wild animal and she was afraid to move too fast. “It’s good to see you,” she said, drawing me into an awkward hug. She smelled like clean cotton and orange blossoms, like always.

Hillary gave a hard exhale and pulled me tighter. It felt nice. She didn’t like to touch people. She didn’t always express her emotions and, “oof,” all of the air left my lungs as she tightened her grip even more.

I managed to pull back. “Thanks for coming.” She hated when I called her Hillary.

“It’s your wedding,” she said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She held me at arm’s length. Her brows pinched. “Besides, you need me. I swore I’d never be that mom, but in heaven’s name, Lizzie, what are you doing to yourself?”

“This?” I said, as if I’d noticed it for the first time. “This is nothing. I have a nice sundress in my bag.” As if that would make her go easy on me now.

She looked at me like I’d stripped down naked right there in the kitchen. “Your hair is purple.”

Ah. “That was actually a mistake.” I’d gotten hit with a biker witch spell that made my hair go prematurely gray. We’d tried to fix it with a counter-spell, but I’d left that on too long because my long-lost biological father had shown up in a tower of flame.

But I didn’t think my adoptive mom wanted to hear that.

From the way she kept opening and closing her mouth, she’d had about as much as she could handle already. She paused, straightened her already squared shoulders. “Is this type of style…” she waved a hand over me, “appealing to you? You look like a hooligan.”

I let out a sigh. “Try biker.”

She glanced past me, toward the back door, as if she knew Grandma was out there rooting around in the garden. “I’m glad you found your biological Grandmother, but you don’t have to dress like her. You have so many nice clothes, Lizzie.”