Angie Fox - ADS 01 - The Accidental Demon Slayer

I hurried downstairs to the bar and found Grandma next to a hole in the floor where the Pop-A-Shot Basketball game had been. I wished these witches didn’t have to be so freakin’ literal. The entrance to their ceremonial room was basically a brick-lined hole with a rust-flecked ladder leading down. Voices echoed from deep in the cavern below. I leaned closer, but had a hard time making out any actual words. Musty air tickled my nose. I paused, mustering my courage, when a seventy-something man in a tricked-out wheelchair came barreling toward me. Pirate rode in his lap, his tongue flapping out the side of his mouth.

Sidecar Bob had lost both legs in a biking accident, or so Grandma said. His silver goatee was immaculately trimmed. His hair was not. It stuck out in tufts from his ponytail and basically rebelled against the black hairnet he wore. Bob skidded to a stop and howled like a banshee when I had to jump backward to save my toes.

“You see that? That’s what I’m talking about!” Pirate practically tap danced in Bob’s lap. I was glad to see Pirate had left his bandages in place. In fact, he seemed to have forgotten about them completely.

“I feel the need…” Bob announced.

“The need for speed!” Pirate and Bob shouted together.

I swear Pirate could make friends with a doorknob. In this case, he had great taste. I liked Bob immediately. “You tell me if this mutt gets to be too much for you,” I said. “Feel free to send him back.”

“Hell no!” Pirate buried himself under Bob’s arm. “We were in the kitchen cooking. And eating. That is some fine squirrel. That barbeque sauce isn’t bad, either.”

I resisted the urge to lecture Pirate about his eating habits. The little guy had been through a lot. He deserved a break. “So, Bob, are you heading down to the ceremony?”

He threw his head back and guffawed. “My old lady would have my head.” His belly poked out of the navy gym shorts that seemed horribly at odds with his black leather vest. “Nah. I’m stoking the fires, keeping the Beast Feast warm for when you’re done.” He scratched his nose. “But I did want to give you something.” He glanced at Grandma. “None of the gals will admit it, but you do need it.”

“Well, thanks,” I said, trying to sound casual, feeling anything but. I yanked at the skin-tight orange top creeping up my stomach.

Bob fished a rubber band from the fanny pack strapped to the side of his chair. “Here ya go. Put your hair back. It gets messy down there.”

“Sure,” I forced a smile.

“We’ll keep the squirrel fires burning!” Pirate said as I clung to the cool, metal rungs of the ladder and made myself descend. A crowd had already gathered below, their whoops and hollers echoing off the subterranean walls.

“Welcome to the Rat’s Den!” Ant Eater clapped me on the back, her gold tooth shining in the light of dozens upon dozens of candles. The ceiling hung so low I could have reached up and touched it. The smell of paraffin and candles burning assaulted my nose. Under it, I could smell old brick walls and mildew.

The place needed a serious cleaning. Boxes, discarded barware and old CB equipment cluttered the tiny room. On every surface candles of all shapes and colors crowded against each other. Not smart. I winced as Frieda brushed past a box stacked with candles and nearly sent it crashing into one of the old beer posters lining the walls.

“Eeeee!” Frieda shimmied up to me. “Oh Lizzie, you are hotter than a two-dollar pistol. You meet Ant Eater?” Frieda indicated her gold-toothed buddy. “Whew, does she have some good stories. This woman—” She paused while Ant Eater guffawed. “This woman will try anything once.” She cocked her head and leaned in closer. “And I do mean anything.”

“Okay people, pipe down!” Grandma hollered from behind me. She lifted her head toward the open hole. “Bob, you can close ’er up.” The trap door above hissed like an airlock. The candles blazed as the light from the bar receded and we were left in semidarkness. “Join hands,” Grandma instructed.

I took Grandma’s strong hand and Frieda’s chilly one, as the crowd of about twenty witches drew back. A fire crackled in the center of the room. Flames curled around a smoke-stained burner on a portable camping stove. A worn, silver pot boiled on top of it. My mouth went dry. If Bob was upstairs stirring the port-braised beaver, I couldn’t imagine what they dumped in that pot.

The witches stood transfixed and closed their eyes. I felt the magic build. The only sound in the room came from bubbles frothing in the pot. The air grew warmer, thicker by the second as the candles cast tall shadows on the walls behind us.

Grandma bowed her head and the others followed. “We, the witches of the Red Skull, are bound to 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, we welcome into our fold a sister who was lost to us. As we pledge ourselves to her, she pledges herself to us.”

My hands grew damp. Oh boy. I wasn’t too sure about that last line. What did pledging myself to them mean? Sure, I wanted answers, but I wasn’t ready to join the Red Skulls.

Grandma stepped into the circle, holding a monstrous ziplock bag filled with rust-colored pulp. Ant Eater scrambled for my free hand. The witches observed Grandma with bated breath as she popped open the seal and dipped her fingers into the mush. She stood and faced me, her heavy breath tickling my bangs.

“From death comes new life.” She rubbed the goo onto my forehead. It felt sticky, wet and it smelled like roadkill. She dipped her fingers again and came at me a second time with the wet, lumpy gloop. “May you see with new eyes.” She rubbed it into my manicured brows.

“May you listen to your heart.” She rubbed it onto my ears. A rivulet of juice trickled into my ear canal.

“May you speak against the evil that surrounds us.”

Oh no. I pressed my lips together, and she slopped the pulp from one side of my mouth to the other. The sweet, meaty fumes scoured my nose, and I almost gagged.

“May we forever travel together as guardians of the light.”

She visited each witch, thumbing a portion of the gloop onto their foreheads. I wondered if I was allowed to wipe mine off. The small room, jam-packed with bodies, started to feel stuffy. My tiger-striped leather pants grew sweaty and itchy. A drip of liquid trailed past my left brow and down toward my eye.

Grandma stood in the middle of the circle. “May we see our future as one coven, united in our quest.” The witches scurried to the boxes behind them. One by one, they held up dead animal pelts. Foxes, coyotes, deer. Oh my.

The animals had been skinned so that their legs and tails dangled. The witches positioned the animal heads over their own, peering out of the hollowed eye sockets.

Frieda jabbed me in the arm with her fingernail. “Here,” she handed me a damp, burlap cloth. “Wipe that raccoon liver off your face. We don’t want it staining your deer hide.”

“Urgle.” I rubbed the rag against my mouth and face until my skin felt raw. I wasn’t cut out for this. “What is it with the dead animals?” I cringed as Frieda lowered a deer head over mine.

“It’s the circle of life, sweetie.” Frieda tugged at the deer’s empty eye sockets until I could see, well, barely. The thing had about as much visibility as a Halloween mask and it smelled like old leather and mothballs.

“Don’t fret,” she whispered, wrapping the deceased deer’s front legs around my shoulders while the hooves bumped against my chest. “It’s only for show. Ceremonial and all.”

Now she tells me.