by Angie Fox
"Who said anything about dog food?" Pirate balked.
I noticed the biker witches didn't even pause at the large front desk just inside the doors. I signed my name and hoped they'd think Pirate was a service dog.
"It'd help if you wore the hat," I told him.
"Only if you can catch me," he said, ready to flee.
Stubborn dog.
We set off down the hall, with me trying to hold my cupcake box as evenly as possible and Pirate glancing back at me, as if he expected me to swoop down any minute to plunk a tricorn hat on his head.
I would have, too, if I thought I could get away with it.
Handrails lined the hall on either side, and groupings of chairs dotted the corridor.
My dog took it all in, even as his little legs churned so fast that his striped shirt looked like a blur. "We should have brought Flappy," he said, whipping his head from side to side, trying to see inside the rooms as we passed.
"No dragons in the senior center," I told him. "I saw a sign."
Besides, the dragon had been on a growth spurt lately. I doubted he'd have fit through the front door.
"Don't worry. I'll smuggle home some treats for him," Pirate said, taking the lead as we made a sharp left.
Ant Eater pulled open the doors to a rec room. A warm enchanted breeze whooshed out and I drew up short. I should have expected it. I should have known.
And yet? I paused for a moment to take it in.
While Pirate dashed forward—heading for the snack bar, no doubt—I savored.
The entire room sparkled with magic. Bob sat at the piano by the door, pounding out old show tunes. A pair of round yellow smiley faces bobbed from his head on springy wires. Next to him sat a woman in a wheelchair much like his. She giggled as they came to a double glissando and swept their hands down the keyboard.
"I haven't been able to play since '57!" she hollered to me.
A wisp of a woman struggled to pass me in the doorway. I stepped back and as soon as she crossed the threshold, her gait changed and her shoulders lifted. She raised a hand and caught the beat as she began to boogie out to the dance floor.
Unbelievable. "I see what you're doing here," I said to Ant Eater.
She merely grinned.
The two witches I'd encountered outside had planted their black cauldron in the middle of a snack table that lined the left wall. They busied themselves mixing herbs while another member of the coven poured a jug of what appeared to be orange soda into the cauldron.
I'd bet anything the drinks were spelled.
Abandoned wheelchairs and walkers mingled with the black and orange streamers against the walls as residents swing danced and boogied.
"This is great," I said. My words died on my lips. "Ohmigosh." I pointed to a couple in the corner, making out. "They need to get a room."
Ant Eater followed my gaze. "Oh, that's Mr. and Mrs. Levinson. They already share a room."
I gasped. "They should know better."
Ant Eater shot me a squirrely look. "Like we never caught you naked in the garden with Dimitri."
I almost dropped my cupcakes.
"Ahem. I need to put these snacks out," I told her, clutching the box, ignoring her toothy grin as I escaped to the refreshment table.
I hated when Ant Eater was right.
I placed the spider cupcakes between a plate full of caramel apple slices and a bowl full of Chex mix with candy corn mixed in.
A few paces away from the snack table stood Creely, the witch who wore her Kool-Aid-red hair in ponytails. From her shoulders to her knees, she wore a sphere with glass tiles glued all over it. Oh my. She'd come as a disco ball. Creely had a rapt crowd of about a dozen circled around her.
"Abracadabra and all that jazz." She grinned.
As she spoke the words, she waggled her fingers at a pair of spectacles in her palm. Slowly, they lifted into the air. The crowd oohed and ahhed as the glasses began to spin in lazy circles.
They clapped at her cleverness.
Only it was no trick. It was straight-up bona fide magic.
"Want to see how it works?" she asked teasingly. "You just might."
Oh my. She couldn't be planning to share her little secret.
Or could she?
A large black banner proclaimed this party as the Witches' Bash.
Before I could worry about it too much, something short and furry bounced off my leg.
"Oh, hey. Excuse me," Pirate said, his chin down, chewing. He glanced up, saw me, and swallowed whatever he'd been eating. Whole. "The plate fell," he said quickly. "I was just cleaning up," he added, before I could get a word in edgewise.
"Why don't you go see if Bob needs help on the piano?" I asked. It was on the other side of the room from the food.
Although the last thing we needed was a dog singing party tunes.
A witch named Frieda clattered up on platform heels. She wore a black catsuit and a pair of furry kitty ears on her head. "Sooo," she drawled, hands on her hips, "what do you think?"
"I never could have imagined it," I said. It was the God's honest truth.
Grandma walked up on my other side. She'd colored her skin green and wore a witch's hat and a flowing black dress. She looked like a bad napkin. "A witch?" I asked her. "Really?"
She planted the end of her broomstick on the floor. "If the hat fits." She grinned. "Where's your costume?"
I pointed to my web earrings. "I'm a spider."
"You're not even trying," Frieda said.
"Hey, I baked for this party," I told her. "And besides, I have to tell you. I don't think anybody here realizes you're serious."
Grandma had an Elphaba impression going on. Frieda had drawn a kitty-cat nose and whiskers on her face. All-powerful witches didn't usually do that.
"Of course they know about us," Grandma said, reaching to the snack table behind her and handing me a drink. "It's right there on the sign."
Technically, yes. "But it could be seen as a joke."
Grandma sobered. "I don't joke about magic."
Okay. How to explain… "Most people don't believe," I told her.
Grandma shrugged. "The ones we want do." She took a long drink from her cup, and then wiped her mouth with her hand. "Make no mistake. This is a recruitment event."
"You want people to join the Red Skulls?" I asked, trying to get it through my head. It couldn't be as simple as that.
"It's a respectable life choice," she said, somewhat defensively.
Hmm… So that's why she'd traded in her usual leather chaps for the Wicked Witch of the West ensemble. "I figured you were here to help some nice people have a good time."
"We are," she said, looking out over the crowd, "but you know we've lost some members over the years."
Yes, to demon attacks and battles with banshees, as well as a particularly unfortunate trebuchet accident.
Grandma slapped me on the back. "We could stand to muster some new blood. Speaking of which…" She flagged down a kind-faced old woman with gray dreadlocks and a large pink feather in her hair. "This is Rosette. She was a great witch back in the day."
"Pish," the woman said, waving Grandma off. "I only dabbled. A little of this, little of that." She fingered the sleeve of her flowing pink sparkly gown. "I picked up a few tricks over the years, but nothing like these ladies."
"Perfect recruit," Grandma concluded.
Rosette pursed her lips. "I have my hands full here. Anyhow"—she took one of my hands in both of hers—"you must be Lizzie the demon slayer. Your grandma is so proud."
"I love your accent," I told her. It was a melodious Cajun Creole.
"Isn't that sweet?" she said. "Your grandmama didn't tell me you were coming." She held up a finger. "If you have any special talents you want to lend to the party, you just let me know."
I didn't have any magic, and I wasn't about to start tossing weapons. "Um, no thanks," I told her. "Did you organize this?"
She nodded. "I told your grandma we hav
e lots of people here at Ocean View who have…how should I say it? Magical tendencies? It's always good for folks to try a new hobby."
Sure, like witchcraft.
Grandma grinned. She quickly started coughing, though.
I patted her on the back. "Hey, ouch." That didn't sound good. I took her drink from her while she caught her breath. The cup smelled like lemonade, and it was nearly empty. "Is this pink lemonade or yellow? I'll get you some more."
"No need." She reached down the front of her dress and into her bra.
"Grandma," I protested, as she withdrew a small silver flask.
"I've got more right here," she said proudly unscrewing the flask. "Here. Hold this steady." She placed the cup in my hand while she poured a yellow liquid into it. Bits of herbs swirled, and a faint smattering of bubbles clung to the bottom.
"What's this?" I asked, sniffing.
Grandma gently but firmly removed it from my grasp. "It's for my back. And my legs. And my joints." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not feeling so hot today."
She took a sip, before trying to force another, larger gulp.
"Are you sick?" I asked. I'd never seen Grandma have a health issue that didn't have to do with getting shot with magic or possessed by a demon.
She leaned heavily on her broomstick as she brought a hand to her head. "I think it's getting worse," she said to her friend, not to me. "I might need to lie down."
"Of course," Rosette said, flashing me a worried glance. "You can rest in my room."
That or we could simply try this on another day. "Maybe I should take you home," I said, as we escorted her out of the party.
"Nah," Grandma said, fighting my grip, waving to her friends and pretending nothing was wrong. "I'm one of the hosts."
This didn't feel right.
When we made it out of the rec room, I opened up my demon slayer senses. Bits of biker witch magic clung to the beige hallway. That was to be expected. I ignored them. Instead, I focused my energy on anything new or unusual.
My gifts didn't merely help me hunt down and destroy hell spawn, they gave me the ability to sense danger in many forms. I was insanely attracted to anything that could chop my head off, eat me, or leave me crying for my mother.
It had been a bit of a curse when I first started. Now I used it to my advantage.
Rosette led us down a side corridor, done in mauve wallpaper. Grandma clung to the balance rail along the wall. I wished she'd have held on to me, but I wasn't going to push it. We passed doorways with gold nameplates and various fall wreaths, poster board pumpkin cutouts, family pictures, and other personal decorations.
I willed my mind to calm, my breathing to grow even. I opened my mind and searched with my powers like fingers reaching through cold, dark water.
A sharp, tingling magic churned in the air. I pressed harder, trying to get a lock on the source. One thing I knew for sure: it didn't come from the Red Skulls.
It was too…cutting.
I didn't want to criticize Rosette's home, but, "Grandma, do you feel that?"
"I don't know," she said, stumbling against Rosette.
For a second, I thought they were both going down. I moved in behind them, but her friend caught her.
"It's the next door," she said to both of us. "And yes, there are stirrings in the air," she said, glancing at me. "The land here is not good. Come inside and I will explain."
We escorted Grandma into a tidy, colorful room with a homemade quilt on the bed and pots of herbs lining the windowsill. It smelled of orange peels and lavender incense. A small altar occupied a sturdy wooden table next to her nightstand. Candles, playing cards, beads, shells, and airline bottles of rum crowded a small hand-sewn depiction of a skeleton in a top hat smoking a cigar. The pull string for a nurse's call dangled near the bed.
Grandma collapsed into the mattress and closed her eyes.
I didn't like the flush of her skin, or the way her limbs tangled on the bed, unmoving. "Are you okay?" I asked. We might need a nurse.
"I'm fine," she said, eyes closed. "Rosette, you tell her."
Wooden beads clattered around the old woman's neck as she motioned me to a small purple velvet chair. I pulled it up close to Grandma while Rosette settled herself into an orange-and-pink-painted rocking chair near her altar.
She folded her hands on her lap as she began. "I came here because these people needed me. I also needed a place to live," she added, practically.
"Rosette may not be the queen of spells"—Grandma chuckled, her breath rattling in her chest—"but she's been doing magical outreach for as long as I've known her." She cleared her throat. "It's important to keep good magic flowing on bad land," she added, still not opening her eyes. "Rosie does that. She acts as a conduit for good, healthy energy. Otherwise, people get sick easier, they get hurt. They just don't feel as good."
"Like you feel right now?" I asked. "If this place is affecting you, there's no shame in leaving." Rosette would understand. "Thanks for the hospitality," I said, standing. "I'm sure the rest of the party will be great, but we should go."
"Sit your ass down," Grandma groaned. "I don't want to bug out. It'd make me feel worse, not better." She cracked her eyes open. "Have you ever considered the fact that I'm just old?"
"No," I answered immediately. Honestly. She'd never shown her age, not really.
Until today.
Rosette ran her hands along the arms of her rocking chair. "Your granddaughter is right. You do not look so good." She reached underneath her altar and slid out a wooden box painted with red X's. "If you please, I have a healing draft that might help."
"No, thanks," Grandma said, waving her off. "I just took an elixir and I don't want any magical interactions."
"Ah." Rosette nodded, holding the box.
I could feel the power swirling inside the box. Rosette may not consider herself a talented spell caster, but Grandma was right—her friend possessed a gift.
Since that was the case, she had to be feeling what I did.
Maybe I was too used to trouble finding us, but, "This entire situation feels wrong."
Rosette watched me, her expression grave. "I will prepare extra protective herbs for this room." She clutched the arms of her rocking chair as she stood.
"You do that," I said, ignoring Grandma's huff of indignation.
She cracked open her eyes, struggled up on an elbow. "I like how you're suspicious. Hell, I trained you that way. But let me tell you something about the human body. Things start slowing down at seventy-seven, even with a daily dose of herbal magic." She began to cough, and then fought it off with a hard swallow. "What we're doing here is important. We're pumping up the vitality of this place. Yeah, I joked about a recruiting event. It would be nice to find a few new members. But we're mainly here to load everything from the people to the walls with positive energy. It'll make it easier for Rosette to do her job the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year."
"On Samhain, the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest," Rosette explained, opening a drawer on her nightstand. She removed three small jars: mugwort, basil, and dragon's blood. All three acted as protective herbs, and had most likely been enchanted beyond their natural organic abilities. "Tonight, we can conjure good forces that will protect this place long after I'm gone," she said, carefully pouring out the herbs into an earthenware bowl. "I'm not getting any younger, either."
"That's a large undertaking," I said, watching her unwrap a small animal's skull.
It would be a tall order, even if the woman didn't look as if she were about a hundred years old.
"I do just fine." She straightened as she glanced over at Grandma. "Oh"—her expression softened—"she has fallen asleep." She lowered her voice. "I'll finish my conjuring when she is awake. For now, let's leave her to rest."
I hesitated.
I didn't want to leave her, period.
"This room is mine. It is protected," she assured me. Rosette drew the homemade quilt ove
r Grandma, taking extra time to tuck it in around her. "We have been friends for many years. I wouldn't leave her unless she was safe."
I focused my energy and searched the room for myself.
Dark magic mingled with the light.
It would kill me if anything happened to Grandma, whether by otherworldly means or by something as simple as getting old.
I pulled Rosette's rocking chair closer to the bed. "I'm going to sit with her if that's all right."
"Of course, my dear," she said, lowering the shade. "She's lucky to have you."
The older woman paused. "I do not wish to imply your grandmother has any issues, but this weakness surprises me. It's not like her to have it or to hide it. You may want to ask some of her coven if this is a new issue or if she has been suffering for some time."
Good idea. I appreciated her honesty. Besides, learning more about the problem would help me isolate it, and figure out how we could tackle it. In fact, it would be easy enough to ask Frieda right now. That way Grandma wouldn't get upset about it, or try to stop me.
"Will you stay with her?" I asked Rosette. "It won't take me more than a few minutes."
She nodded. "If she wakes, I'll let her know you will be back soon."
"Thanks," I said, slipping out the door.
Unfortunately, that's all it took for things to go to hell.
Chapter 3
I returned to the rec room to find the party in full swing. Bob spun tunes on the karaoke machine. Mr. and Mrs. Levinson had stopped making out in the corner long enough to stand next to a television on a wheeled cart, singing "Cotton Eye Joe" on full volume. A conga line snaked past them.
The women had kicked off their shoes and were dancing barefoot. Men were wiping sweat off their foreheads. The hot bartender didn't have a shirt on.
Hey, wait…
I grabbed Frieda off the conga line. "Where did that guy come from? You shouldn't be serving alcohol to retirement home residents."
The rhinestones on her red cat collar twinkled. "What? Because they're not twenty-one?" She chomped on her gum, the heat from the dance floor wilting her blond bouffant hairdo at the edges. "These people aren't senile. They just need a little extra help sometimes. And Kellen the bartender sure gets your blood pumping," she added, as if daring me to protest.