"Bottoms up!" Ant Eater quaffed the last few drops from the silver pot. She wiped her chin as I screamed, "No!"
"Gotta be quicker than that, sport." She wiped down the pot with a blue bandanna.
She had no idea what she'd done. There went my protection, my insurance policy against the demon Vald, who—according to Crazy Frieda—was at this very moment on his way to see us. I had to fix this. "Is there any more? What about that bakki root? Did you save any of that?" Please!
She swallowed a minty burp. "'Scuse me." She fanned the air with her hand. "Greedy little cuss, aren't ya? Well, I hate to break it to you, but when it comes to magic, we don't keep leftovers."
Holy hexes.
I had to find Grandma. She'd know what to do, after she kicked me into next Thursday. Why didn't I just drink the potion?
The thwump, thwump of heavy-metal music blared in the bar above me, accompanied by the whoops and cheers of the coven. I scrambled out of the hole and nearly fell into a cheap, metal-backed chair with a vinyl-padded seat. Every table in the bar had been lined up to form a massive banquet table.
It would have smelled heavenly—roasted potatoes, onions and garlic—if I hadn't known the other ingredients. The tiny blue-haired witch next to me flopped into the nearest empty place. "Liquid appetizers!" she hollered, as she reached for a pitcher of beer. Two of her friends sidled up, mugs in hand.
A buffet line ten witches deep formed in front of the steaming dishes set out on the bar. Sidecar Bob pulled up to the table with two heaping plates of roadkill surprise. Pirate bounced on his lap, nearly out of his skin with anticipation. "Lizzie! It's people food! And I have a plate. Lookie there. Food! On a plate. For me! Me! I've made it, I tell you. I've finally got a seat at the table!"
Sweet squirrels. My stomach rolled over. "That's roadkill, Pirate."
"Oh, no," Bob piped in. "We wouldn't waste roadkill on a banquet. Roadkill's special magic. It goes straight into a spell jar. This here on the table is hunted meat."
Okay, that was a relief. But still, Pirate should have been eating his Healthy Lite dog chow. Of course that disappeared off the bike along with my clothes. I watched him eat an entire slice of meat in two bites. Pirate loved to eat. And despite his enormous energy and complete willingness to chase anything that moved, he tended to have weight issues. Pirate peeked up from his plate, took one look at me and started to eat even faster.
Lucky for him, his weight was the least of my concerns now. "Bob, Grandma got out of the pit before I could talk to her. Frieda said she was heading off to meditate. Do you have any idea where she might be?" I ignored his disapproving look. "This is serious," I said over the thwump, thwump, thwump of the speaker above us. "I have to talk to her before she gets too involved with whatever she does in there."
Bob sopped up some gravy on a piece of bread and fed it to Pirate. "Listen to this guitar solo," He closed his eyes and felt the music. "You hear that? That's Marty Friedman, the old Megadeth axeman. Oh yeah." He played air guitar against his chest. "Yeet, yeet, yeet!"
"Bob!" I'd tell him where to shove his yeet. "This is a matter of life or death."
I really hoped I was exaggerating.
"Where's Grandma?" I asked again.
He hung his head. "Aw, Lizzie. Don't ask me that. The Cave of Visions is sacred ground."
"I wouldn't be asking you if it wasn't absolutely necessary." We didn't have time to haggle. "I mean it, Bob. You've gotta trust me on this one."
Bob rubbed Pirate's back absently as Pirate climbed halfway onto the table and began to lick his plate clean. "Okay." He scratched at his arms. "But if she chews out my ass, I'm sending her after you next."
"My butt is yours."
Pirate leaned too far over his plate and nearly knocked over Bob's beer. Bob snatched up his wobbling brew and took a long swallow, watching me.
Pirate sniffed at his empty plate. "I'm sorry. My manners are rusty. I haven't been using my table manners when I've been forced to eat out of a dog bowl." He sniffed at Bob's full plate. "You don't mind, do you?" Pirate started in on Bob's dinner.
Bob slipped Pirate, and his plate, onto the floor. "Come on," he wheeled backward, away from the table. "It's out back. Looks like a cheap storage shed. What the hell am I saying? It is a cheap storage shed. We needed to get her someplace quiet, and this bar didn't cut it."
"Thanks." I patted his shoulder as we wove our way through the crowd toward the back door.
"Lizzie." He captured my arm. "Don't go barreling out there. Your grandma's under guard. Approach slowly. Tell them who you are. Be prepared to prove it. Demons can take on many forms."
"Right," I said. I could handle this. I hoped.
The back door clacked on its hinges as I stepped out behind the bar and onto a small patio, crowded with rusting bar chairs. Sheesh. And I thought they'd dumped all their junk into the hole. Crushed beer cans littered the narrow parking lot that led into the alley beside the bar. Tufts of grass and weeds poked up between and around the faded yellow lines. A rusting Camaro sat stranded on concrete blocks.
At the edge of the parking lot, just beyond the Dumpster, stood a plastic storage shed framed by scraggly trees.
Bob nodded to the tall, red-haired witch standing guard. I recognized her from the protection ceremony downstairs. "Go on out. If she can, I'll bet Gertie will be more than glad to hear what you have to say. If not, well, there'll be time later."
Yeah, well maybe. Maybe not.
The chilly night air tore at my hair and whipped the dried leaves and grass into circles. I crunched over a mashed Budweiser can as I made my way to the storage shed. I could see a faint light between the plastic swinging doors and I chose to focus on that, rather than at the hawk-nosed witch standing guard. She hadn't looked too friendly down in the hole and she looked even less glad to see me now.
"Hi. I need to talk to my grandmother." When she didn't move, I added, "It's a matter of life and death." How terrible to realize I wasn't exaggerating at all.
She stood her ground in front of doors imprinted with the word Yardsaver. "Leave," she said automatically, "or I'll be forced to have you removed."
An eerie creek sounded from inside the storage unit. A blast of air shot out between the doors, chilling me to the core.
"What was that?" I smelled sulfur, evil. Oh my word, I hoped Grandma was okay in there. "You'd better check on her," I told the tall witch. "Grandma?" I hollered. "Do you need me in there?" Like I could help her, I thought automatically. Wait. It was time to get out of that habit. I could help her. Somehow.
The tall witch blocked me. "No, Lizzie," she said, low and serious. "She's meditating. No one disturbs her when she's out of body. It's dangerous." Her eyes traveled to a spot over my shoulder. "Ant Eater, see that Lizzie makes it back inside. And keep her there."
"What? Oh, come on," I said, as Ant Eater's grip practically wrung the blood from my right arm. "Ow!" Where had she come from? "Look, I made a mistake. We need to straighten this out," I said, as Ant Eater practically dragged me back into the bar. "Damn it." I tried to shake her grip. "Let me go! You don't understand." I tugged at the black, spiked bands crisscrossing her wrist. "I screwed up. Royally."
She dragged me through the back door and bulldozed me against an old-fashioned phone booth. Pain laced through my shoulder blades. I could smell the bakki root on her breath. "Don't you ever push me, bitch." She shoved me again, hard. "I don't care whose grandbaby you are or what you can do. I will fuck you up."
What the frig was wrong with these people? "Okay, okay," I said, trying to catch my breath. Her last slam had knocked the wind out of me. "Are you done? We don't have time for this. I need to talk to Grandma."
She brought her fist back. Holy schneikies! I braced myself, sure she was going to haul off and hit me.
My salvation came in the form of a blonde bouffan-ted Frieda waving a roasted leg of... something. "God almighty, E!" Frieda yanked me so hard my arm about stretched out o
f its socket. "What the hell are you doing?"
Ant Eater stood there with her fist cocked, breathing heavily. "That bitch almost killed Gertie."
"What?" Frieda exclaimed.
"No!" Never. "I need to talk to Grandma," I insisted. "This is important. Hugely important. I was trying to explain myself out there when this jerk went all Naomi Campbell on me."
Frieda glared at Ant Eater. Then she leveled the same contempt at me.
What the heck did I do?
"Come on," Frieda said as she hustled me out of Ant Eater's reach. I met at least twenty pairs of eyes as the witches stopped their feast to watch the show. Frieda dragged me through the crowd and back into the kitchen.
Industrial pots bubbled with stews and sauces. A rust-stained sink labored under a mountain of dirty dishes. Bob loaded up a fresh tray of barbequed squirrel while Pirate snatched up every scrap Bob tossed down to him.
"I swear I'm gonna kick some ass!" Frieda dragged me toward the stairs.
"You said it. I can't believe the way she manhandled me. That woman needs professional help!" I tried to catch Bob's eye, but he took a sudden interest in his oven mitts.
Frieda dragged me up the stairs. "Lizzie, I love ya. I really do. But if you pull something like that again, I'll strangle you myself."
Wait, she was on Ant Eater's side? "You've got to be kidding."
She pulled me into a room at the end of the hall and slammed the rough, wooden door. Homemade bunk beds lined each wall, with room for little else. Frieda blinked her rhinestone-tipped lashes, fighting for control. "Lizzie. Oh, Lizzie. You could have killed your grandmama tonight."
I felt myself pale a few shades.
"Sit." She plopped my butt down onto a saggy mattress and, straightening her back, arranged herself next to me. "When Gertie is in a meditative state, any interruption can be dangerous. Fatal." She paused to take a breath. "To see into the evil that surrounds us, she needs to draw herself closer than any of us would ever dare. Any breach, any break in her concentration, well—it would be like walking through the ghetto waving a wallet full of fifties. You're just asking for trouble."
"I'm sorry," I said. "I had no idea."
She patted my hand. "I know, sweetie. Ant Eater does too. She's an overprotective sort."
Overprotective like a Mack truck. "How long does Grandma stay in her trances?" I asked.
"A few hours, a few days—however long it takes." She knitted her brows. "I worry about her. It's not like she goes out to the shed often, but when she does, she usually prepares. Gathers her strength. Tonight, she ran in there like Rambo. At her age, it's just not smart."
From what I'd seen, Grandma hadn't slowed down since I met her. "I think she might be trying to learn more about the demon who attacked us in my bathroom." Or the imps we met on the road.
Frieda crossed her legs and leaned in closer. "She's trying to get a leg up on Vald. He's pure evil."
I remembered her talking about him. "Vald?"
"He's a fifth-level demon—the worst. Your Great-great Aunt Evie, the last slayer, locked him up in the second layer of hell. He's been trying to break out ever since. As far as we can tell, he's close. I don't even want to think about what he'd try to do to us." She shook her head. "When—" She paused. "Well, that is to say, after an unfortunate incident with your mother, we've been on the run from Vald's minions. He's got a nasty streak and an army of sub-demons."
"What happened to my mother?" From what Frieda had said, it didn't sound good. But still, I had to know.
"Um," Frieda cleared her throat. "Your mother . . . It's complicated," she said, embarrassed.
"Please," I said. "I never met her. I never knew her. But I'd like to know what happened."
"Oh, sugar." Frieda patted my leg, the corners of her eyes growing moist. "Your mamma? It's like this." She blinked several times, as if trying to decide how to word it. Finally she said, "Your mamma didn't quite make the cut."
Call me confused. "What does that mean?"
Frieda squeezed my leg, shooting pain through cuts I forgot I even had. "Truth is, we don't know what happened to Phoenix."
"Phoenix? My mom's name was Phoenix?" Knowing Grandma, she had a tougher name for her Harley. Life must have gotten a bit more rough-and-tumble for Grandma. Heck, she'd been on the run for thirty years.
"Your grandma will explain later."
"But—"
She threw up her hands, "I'm sorry, baby. I've already interfered enough. This is a family matter best discussed with your grandmother."
Point taken. "Okay, then answer me this: What would happen if Vald came back?" It had to be bad or the coven wouldn't have put me under their immediate protection. And Grandma wouldn't have rushed out there tonight.
Frieda worked a bit too long on her answer.
She could sugarcoat it all she wanted. Heck, she could wrap it in cotton candy. I already knew. "He'd come after me, wouldn't he?"
She blinked. "He'd certainly try. But don't worry, honey! That's why we put you under our protection tonight. You're bound to us now!"
Sure. If I'd been smart enough to actually drink the potion.
"You okay? Here." She fished a hand down her bra and pulled out an airline bottle of Jack Daniels Tennessee whiskey. She handed it to me and I took a swig.
It burned all the way down to my stomach. Yeah, Lizzie, drink a shot of Jack but not the uher-rare protection potion. I was the worst demon slayer ever.
Frieda finished the bottle. "Got some more under the bed. You want to hang out a bit?"
Definitely. I'd have to stop drinking, of course. I could already feel that shot in my dazed head. Out of all the dumb things I'd done today, getting drunk wouldn't be one of them. I needed to be sharp, especially if Vald decided to show up.
Frieda dug through the plastic grocery bags under her bed while I took a look at the photos she'd plastered across the wall beside her bed. Most were of Frieda and various witches I'd seen downstairs. And there were two more of the heavy-lidded man whose picture I'd seen in the hallway. Mr. Love in an Elevator. I wondered what had happened to him.
Frieda handed me a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream liqueur. Darn. I would have had to waste my shot on the Jack. I rolled it between my hands. I should get to the bed they'd given me, but I didn't want to be alone. Heck, I didn't even want to think. It was hard enough to let go of the fact that I'd faked my way through the protection ceremony tonight. Me, the person who prized honesty above all things. Then again—I yanked the orange tank top down over my stomach—I wasn't exactly myself tonight.
An eerie moan drifted up from the yard outside. I reached for Frieda's bony arm. "What was that?"
"Come on." She led me over to the window. Years of dirt clouded the glass. I tried to yank it open, but it didn't budge. Together, we pried it away from the rotting windowsill. Another moan, louder this time, pierced the sounds of crickets chirping in the night. "Your grandma's having one of her visions."
I looked out into the copse of trees beyond the back parking lot. Purple rays of light streamed from every joint and corner of the Yardsaver shed. Heaven help her. "Grandma?" I gulped.
The red-headed witch knelt in front of the swinging doors, her arms spread against them as if she held them closed. Her even chants floated out into the night air.
Frieda peeked out beside me. "Don't worry," she whispered. "Scarlet has her covered."
Yeah, well I didn't like Scarlet. The snitch. From what I could tell, Grandma needed someone who could think on her feet, not a panicky know-it-all who would rather call the guard instead of having an honest-to-goodness conversation with someone, aka me.
"Come on back, baby," Frieda said. "We'll only distract them."
Scarlet looked pretty intense to me. I hoped Grandma could handle herself. Or if she couldn't, that Scarlet was half as powerful as the griffin who'd come to our rescue at the edge of the lake.
For the moment, I let Frieda lead me away from the window. W
e each sat on the bottom of a bunk bed, facing each other. It felt like a twisted version of summer camp. If I heard anything strange—anything—I'd be down there faster than Frieda could blink those crazy lashes of hers.
And since she'd mentioned rescuing, "Frieda, what do you think of Dimitri? He said he's my protector, but I don't know. You'd think I would have felt something, kind of like when I met Grandma. Something about her made me feel like I was supposed to be with her."
Frieda handed me an airline bottle of Smirnoff. "Hard to say." She plopped onto her side, reached into a plastic Valu-Mart bag on the floor and withdrew her own little bottle of Jagermeister. "He's helped us out from time to time," she said, unscrewing the bottle. "Done us some favors. But with guys like him, favors always seem to come with a price tag attached." She took a long sip. "E-yahhh." Her bracelets jangled as she wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist. "One thing's sure. He seems to have taken a shine to you."
I tipped my Smirnoff bottle back and forth, watching the liquid swirl. No question about it, that man could get my blood flowing. I didn't know if it was the way he'd looked at me downstairs—like he'd like to devour me whole—or the fact that he probably could. I hadn't met anyone like him. Heck, I hadn't run into many interesting guys at all since college. Happy Hands Preschool wasn't exactly hot date central. It felt good to be pursued. Then again, I wasn't about to lose my head just because some hunka hunka burning male rescued us from the side of the road. "I don't trust him. It's too convenient. He has to want something."
Frieda waggled her brows and I felt my face warm.
"Besides . . . that," I added. Oh lordy, I had to stop thinking about that kiss. I had no business indulging in mildly shocking, utterly delectable forays with my mysterious Greek protector. He belonged in their world. Not mine. As soon as I learned to control my powers, I'd be back to my normal life, and that didn't include men whose eyes flashed yellow and who hung out with griffins.
"I can't believe I saw a griffin tonight," I said.
"Saw one?" Frieda scoffed. "You smooched one."
My stomach squinched. "I was afraid of that."
Angie Fox -The Accidental Demon Slayer Page 7