Angie Fox - The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers

Pirate ran smack into my knee, bounced off and jumped up again. “I’m Sidecar Bob’s barbeque helper! Want a hotdog? They come in two flavors—raw and cooked.”

I scooped him up before he could hurt himself. He wriggled against me as I planted a kiss on the back of his neck. Pirate was the one thing in my life that always made sense.

“Have you seen Dimitri?” I asked, brushing Cheetos dust off his back. Leave it to the witches to feed him junk food. When Pirate wasn’t half orange, he was mostly white, with a dollop of brown on his back that wound up his neck and over one eye.

“Dimitri? Sure! Dimitri taught me blackjack! It would have been easier if I could count. Want me to show you? I know you always wanted me to be able to do tricks.”

True, although I’d been aiming more along the lines of sit and shake. Maybe a nice roll over that didn’t take place within the picketed confines of my adoptive mother’s award-winning Daisy Bess rose garden.

“So where’s Dimitri?” I asked, scanning the hot parking lot. With the witches so spread out, not to mention the strip mall’s regular customers, it was hard to see who went where.

“Ohhh—you mean now,” Pirate said, jamming his wet nose into the crook of my elbow. “I don’t know where Dimitri is now. I was with him, and then Bob opened up a bag of Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and after that, things get a little hazy.”

“Come on.” I ran a hand through Pirate’s wiry fur as I pushed my way through the crowd. Dimitri had to be here somewhere, although it would have been nice of him to be there for me half as quickly as my dog.

If possible, the biker witches had multiplied since I’d left. They’d taken over an entire section of the parking lot, lounging around their mini-Weber grills, playing cards and—oh my word—they’d duct-taped their traveling dart board to a metal light pole.

Had I really been inside that long?

“Lizzie!” Grandma waved from her perch on the hood of a silver BMW, her motorcycle boots planted on the front bumper.

She directed her attention back to a blindfolded witch in pink leather pants, currently aiming a dart at a parked highway patrol cruiser.

“Go left! You got it,” Grandma hollered. “Fire!”

“Stop!” I called to the blonde witch, known as Crazy Frieda, who was about to take out the fuzz. “Grandma’s going to get you arrested!”

Frieda dug a pink fingernail around her blindfold. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” She blinked her eyes twice, sunlight glittering off her rhinestone-tipped lashes.

“What is this? Las Vegas Bikefest?” I said to Grandma, who looked entirely too amused. I’d bet anything they’d whipped up some kind of cover spell to keep the party going.

She stretched her arms over her head. “What can I say? Life is about catching that magic moment.”

Ah, yes. The Van Halen life philosophy. Come to think of it, I didn’t really want to know if they’d voodooed the lot or not. “Where’s Dimitri?”

“You pass the test?” she countered, sliding off the car and doubling back behind me. “Ah hah!” Grandma plucked the permit from my back pocket and holding it up for everyone to see. “Call Oral Roberts—it’s a miracle! Lizzie passed!”

I felt the pink rise to my cheeks.

The Red Skulls let out a series of whoops and cheers. Frieda enveloped me in a hug that smelled like Bengay and cigarettes.

“Aw, now that’s nice,” Pirate said, wedged in the middle. Frieda’s bracelets dug into my raw left side and I pulled away.

She chomped at her gum, beaming at me. “I’m proud of you, sweetie,” she said. “Now excuse me while I kick your grandmama’s ass.”

“First things first,” I said, raising my voice for the benefit of the parking lot crowd. I was starting to worry. “Has anyone seen Dimitri?”

“Kiss him in Vegas,” Grandma said to a cascade of whistles and at least one catcall from some smart aleck in the back. She winked at her friends and clapped me on my good shoulder. “Just don’t do it in front of me.”

A tickle of fear ran up my neck. “What do you mean Vegas?”

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

“Can your pumpkins,” she said, accepting a charred hotdog from one of the witches. “Dimitri decided to ride ahead.”

Sweet mother. And nobody stopped him? “You let a griffin go into Las Vegas?”

“Sure.” She shrugged, taking a bite. “He’s a big boy. Besides, he was getting on my last nerve.”

Oh great. Grandma, my esteemed instructor, didn’t know what a succubus could do to a griffin. I was screwed two ways to Sunday. “Listen,” I said, trying to keep Pirate from jumping into her arms. “I talked to a Department of Intramagical Welfare guy in there. He said the she-demons will corrupt Dimitri, suck him dry.”

Grandma’s eyes widened to saucers.

Frieda gasped. “Maybe that’s why he couldn’t stand still while you were in there. It was like he had termites in his pants. Couldn’t stop looking down the highway.”

This was bad. “He must have sensed them. There are at least thirteen succubi.”

“At least?” Grandma scoffed. “Dammit, Lizzie. You’d better count them and make sure.”

How did everyone know about that but me?

I dialed Dimitri’s cell number, but it went straight to voice mail.

“Round up the Red Skulls,” I said. “We’re leaving.” Maybe we could overtake Dimitri before he reached the city.

Yeah, and bats ride bicycles.

“Not so fast,” Grandma said. “We need to get your Uncle Phil first. Dimitri can take care of himself.”

I knew Dimitri was good in a fight, but still… “He’s up against multiple demons.”

“Yeah, but he’s not the target. Phil is. Besides, if anybody can avoid a demon, it’s a Red Skull. Ant Eater!” Grandma called over her shoulder, eyeing me the whole time. A monster truck of a witch with curly gray hair and a red leather halter jogged up. Her gold tooth glinted in the sunlight as she smiled and gave Grandma a mock salute.

Thank goodness Grandma was beyond fun and games. “Ant Eater, I need you and the Red Skulls to catch up with Dimitri. Lizzie and I will take care of Phil.”

“Fine,” I said, heading for my bike. She was right. Annoying, but right.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” Pirate said as I buckled him into the glorified baby carrier that served as his bike harness. The black leather contraption looked like it belonged in an old Kiss video, but it worked. Pirate wasn’t the only Harley biker dog out there, but he considered himself one of the most stylish.

“You know I was thinking I might learn how to drive,” Pirate mused as I dialed Dimitri again. It went to voicemail. Of all the dumb things for him to pull, heading into a mess of succubi had to be at the top of the list. I was mad. I was worried. If they so much as breathed on him…

Pirate wriggled in his harness. “Yeeeeeesss!” he hollered as I gunned us out into the open road.

The drab brown of the desert whipped past at speeds that would have made me go pale a month ago.

Doubt crept over me. Who was I kidding? I still didn’t know what I was doing. And after the debacle with Dimitri, I wondered how much Grandma knew.

She acted like I’d asked to be a demon slayer. Like I’d chosen it. Okay, well I did have a chance to get rid of my powers and I didn’t take it. But still, none of this would have happened if the original Demon Slayer of Dalea, my mom, hadn’t foisted her powers off on me. My mom had received detailed instruction from a range of top teachers. I got what we could do on the run—what Grandma remembered.

This whole thing—me being a demon slayer—had been a complete and utter accident. I’d never felt it as keenly as I did today—knowing I was expected to levitate, to know the science of switch stars—heck, to know when I was leading my lover into a trap. Now Dimitri might be in mortal danger. Uncle Phil certainly was, along with the citizens of Las Vegas if we drew a demon attack, and I still didn’t know what I was going to do about it.