Angie Fox - The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers

Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule . I hadn’t wanted to do this in front of people, unconscious or not.

“Pardon,” I mumbled as I braced one hand on a rust-flecked cigarette machine and eased a black boot up and over the very hairy man who seemed to be using the selection knobs for a pillow. His mouth slacked open and a snore rumbled in his throat. Of course he wouldn’t have noticed if I’d tap-danced across his whatnots, but I was raised as a good Southern girl and, well, old habits die hard.

I blew out a breath and smoothed my purple suede skirt. Things would work out. They had to. I didn’t even want to think of what could happen otherwise.

Instinct had pulled me out of bed at dawn. I’d dressed quickly and strapped on my weapons. My new demon slayer mojo gave me an insane attraction to trouble. Right now, it was leading me to the long, dark hallway that ended at the kitchen of the Hairy Hog. I cleared my throat against the stale cigarette smoke crowding the narrow space, as if the worst wasn’t right around the corner.

My heels struck the floor like gunshots, but there was nothing I could do. Chances were, whatever was in the kitchen knew I was coming.

Focus . I touched one hand to the rough wood planks that lined the hallway. The other, I rested on the round, flat switch stars at my belt. They were the demon slayer weapon of choice, and let’s just say I didn’t go anywhere these days without them.

My heart pounded. I focused my breathing, prepared for the attack. I could see the danger like a dot of light in my mind.

A grinding, screaming machine kicked on. Demonic robots ? I ran the last three yards, kicked my way past a plastic trash can and threw the kitchen door open.

“Eeeeeya!” I hollered, ready to strike.

Grandma lurched away from the sink, clutching a handful of her Hairdo by Harley T-shirt. “Criminy!” she hollered in a rusty Southern twang born from years of Metallica concerts and Jack Daniel’s straight from the bottle. “You want me to reach seventy-nine?”

“Stay where you are.” Grandma wasn’t the type to let herself get ambushed. But there was something very, very wrong in here.

I scanned the small industrial kitchen. An exhaust fan rattled over the stove. Dented pots hung from nails tacked into the wall and an ancient refrigerator huddled in the corner. Crumbs littered the counter, along with empty pretzel bags and a half-collapsed beer-can pyramid. The place reeked of overcooked grease and sour mayonnaise. At least I didn’t detect the sulfuric stench of demons. “Cut the disposal,” I said.

“Oh for the love of Pete.” Grandma shoved her long gray hair out of her eyes and flipped a switch. The metal monstrosity grumbled to a stop.

“Keep back,” I ordered. A large pot rumbled on the stove. Perhaps full of imps or other minions of the devil? I stalked the stainless steel vessel of evil.

Grandma threw a skinny yet surprisingly strong arm in front of me. “Don’t open that. Those poached eggs have at least another minute left.”

“Well geez, Grandma.” How could she be worrying about eggs at a time like this? I surveyed the kitchen again. I had to be missing something. The chill along my spine, the fear at the back of my throat, my basic demon slayer instincts had never lied to me before.

“Did you know your left eye is starting to twitch?”

Grandma asked. “You need to chill out. You’re tighter than a bull’s ass at fly time.”

Sure. Relax. If I’d done that last week, Grandma would still be in the second layer of hell. I was the slayer of the group—the only one who could kill demons. I was also insanely attracted to anything that could chop off my head, steal my soul or wipe out North America. And right now, no one seemed to care but me.

I blew out a breath.

Problem was, I was still fine-tuning my supernatural compass. That meant my apocalyptic-danger radar also tended to zone in on poisonous snakes, rabid bats and telemarketers.

And now a dirty kitchen, a pot of poached eggs and—Grandma.

A wave of suspicion swept over me. “What are you up to in here?” Knowing Grandma, it didn’t stop at breakfast. She believed in a loosey-goosey fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants magic. For the longest time, she hadn’t had much of a choice. Her coven had spent the last thirty years on the run from a fifth-level demon. They’d gone from borderline hippie to, well, biker.

I’d recently killed the demon who’d chased them all over kingdom come. Still, I supposed old habits died hard. If Grandma thought that meant I’d let her get away with this, she’d been breathing diesel fumes for too long.

Grandma blustered like I was the one driving her crazy.

I ignored her and slid past a can of cooking grease. “What were you grinding in the sink?”

“None of your beeswax,” she said, cutting me off with a flick of the disposal on-button. The machine screeched to life.

I kicked my way past a trash can. Grandma blocked me with her butt. Too bad for her stubbornness ran in the family. I thrust a leg past her. She maneuvered her body between me and whatever she had going in the sink.

Her hair tangled over her shoulders and hid her face. “Lizzie, I hate to say it, but scram,” she bellowed above the grinding as she shoved an ominous wad of something down the disposal.

“Grandma,” I warned.

“I’m fixing your problem.” She grabbed another wad of yellow from her back pocket and jammed it down the drain. “Thirty seconds and the clanging in your head will be gone.”

Why did I get the feeling that was more bad than good? I flicked off the machine. “They have four trash cans in here,” I said. All overflowing with beer bottles from the night before. “Why is it so important to mash a wad of—oh help me Rhonda.”

The gold seal of the Department of Intramagical Matters (DIM) clung to the top of the soggy, chewed-up mess of paper. I’d only been a demon slayer for two weeks, but I knew you didn’t want to tangle with those guys.

I inhaled sharply. “Are those tickets?”

Grandma puffed her hair out of her face and the phoenix tattoo on her arm sagged like the jowls of a bulldog. “Told ya you shouldn’t have looked,” she said. “Now why don’t you mosey along and let me get rid of these for you?”

I about choked. “Those are mine?” I scrambled past her to dig the mangled mess out of the sink. I nicked my fingers on the blades of the disposal, knocked my wrist against the drain. My stomach knotted. “Impossible!” These couldn’t be mine. I’d never even had a speeding ticket before. I’d never had a library late fee. I always showed up at least thirty minutes early for my teaching job at Happy Hands Preschool. I did everything right.

Until I became a demon slayer.

Hands shaking, I pried apart the sopping wet charges: Unlicensed Exorcism , two counts of Unsanctioned Demonic Warfare , at least eleven counts of Unauthorized and Overt Magical Destruction .

God bless America.

“Now don’t you wish I’d shredded ‘em?” Grandma said, flicking part of a ticket from the sleeve of her T-shirt. She coiled a thumb through the silver-studded belt at her waist. “You wouldn’t have passed the licensing exam anyway.”

“Licensing exam?” I was supposed to have a license? Two weeks ago, I hadn’t even known my family was magical, much less come face to face with demons, werewolves and that particularly nasty creature who lived in the back of my demon slayer utility belt. “How am I supposed to pass a licensing exam? You haven’t taught me anything.”

Most slayers trained their whole lives. I got zip.

“Hey.” Grandma brought a finger up. Her silver raccoon ring glinted with the rising dawn. “I’m a big believer in on-the-job training.”