by Angie Fox
I let out a slow breath. “Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule.”
He pulled a thin silver lariat from the back pocket of his jeans. With practiced movements, he tied it into the shape of a hangman’s noose. “Take this,” he said, hand shaking as he held it out to me. “It will lead you to me.”
Tempting.
He certainly knew my weakness – I loved to know exactly what was going on. Then I could plan, which I enjoyed way too much.
I wanted to take my father’s silver lariat. Badly. Which probably meant it would either strangle me or poison me, if it didn’t fling me straight to hell.
After all, I didn’t trust my mother. Why should I trust my father?
He was surrounded by evil.
But was it his fault?
I couldn’t be sure.
When I didn’t move, the crow took the silver rope and broke the barrier with a screech. It scurried up to me, my dad’s present in its beak.
“Drop it,” I said.
The bird’s milky eyes lolled back in its head as it deposited the rope at my feet. It dipped its mashed head sideways before trotting back to the fire wall.
Slow and steady, I retrieved my father’s gift with the tip of a switch star, watching the rope bend and swirl with a life of its own.
My father’s image began to fade. “I won’t be strong enough to reach you again,” he said quietly.
I held his gift out in front of me and watched it try to curl itself around my switch star.
Fabulous. I was a grey haired biker with what appeared to be yet another magical creature clinging to me.
Chapter Three
One step at a time. I made my way back to Big Nose Kate’s, holding the lariat out in front of me like a poisonous snake. It kept trying to weave itself around my switch star, taking one shock after another as my weapon repelled it. Whatever my father had given me, it wasn’t exactly friendly – or smart.
The gloom of the night settled around me.
I had a potentially evil pet, a semi-demonic dad and gray hair.
I tried to look at it objectively.
Maybe I could handle my father. I refused to touch the rope. Which left my hair. I’d never been vain, but still – my hair?
What would Dimitri say?
Just when I was starting to feel attractive and confident. Now I was going to have to wear a hat for the rest of my life. Or one of those turbans you see on old movie stars. Somehow, I doubted they made them to go with cute red sweater dresses from the Ann Taylor Outlet.
My only hope was Frieda got it wrong and we had more time.
I clung to the thought until halfway across the parking lot when the spell on my head sizzled one last time and gave a large poof.
It was pretty much the theme of my life as a demon slayer – forward motion and then – poof.
Maybe I could keep my muddy, smelly outfit on and wind my new red dress into a turban around my head.
Rather than think about my future as a silver-haired beauty, I banged open the door of the bar and headed straight for my grandma. She was running down a checklist of to-do’s with Ant Eater and a few other witches. Perhaps I was related to this woman after all.
Her eyes widened and she almost dropped her clipboard as I held up my prize.
“What the hell is that?”
“You tell me.” Seeing her, showing her, made it all too real. “It’s a gift,” I said sarcastically, “from Daddy.”
Grandma whooshed out a breath. “Xavier is out there?” She banged her hand on the bar. “Hey, Bob, I need a Critter Trap!”
A ponytailed biker in running pants and a Ride to Survive T-shirt dug around in a cabinet below the liquor bottles. He reached up from his wheelchair and sent an empty jelly jar sliding down the bar, Old West style.
“Is Dimitri back yet?” I asked.
“No,” Grandma said, worried.
He’ll be okay. Please let him be okay.
Grandma held the lid open and I dropped the rope inside.
I watched the whole thing with a sort of numb fascination. ”What do you know about him?”
“What I told you,” she said, as if I’d whacked my head on a tree.
That she’d barely known him. My mom had never talked about him. I’d spent years craving any scrap of knowledge, any kind of connection. Did I have the same hair as him? Yes. The same eyes? Hard to tell. Would he be as organized as me? I had to have gotten it from somewhere.
Why had he left me?
I didn’t know any of the important things and I might not find out even if I did help him.
The lariat bucked and hissed as Grandma popped the lid on top.
I watched her. “If it makes any difference, I asked him for a pony.”
Grandma held up the jar and watched the rope attack the glass. “What’s he like?”
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. “He seemed to care about me.”
She patted me on the shoulder. “Buck up. We’ll figure this out.”
That’s what I was afraid of.
Hells bells. It was bad enough my mother abandoned me when I was just a baby. Now my father, who couldn’t even stick around for my birth, just zapped into my life asking for salvation.
“Convocation time, people!” Grandma shouted over my shoulder.
Chairs creaked as the witches clambered off their barstools.
“Wait,” I said, planting a hand on her shoulder as Grandma started to take off.
There was one more thing she needed to know.
“He wants me to go see him,” I said.
She gave a sour look. “I’ll just bet he does.” She shook the jar. “We’re going to find out what that man really wants.”
“You can trace him?”
“Hell, yes.” She grinned.
“He made some kind of bad deal. He didn’t tell me what.” He probably didn’t want to scare me off.
“Dang it, Lizzie,” she said, flat out frustrated. “You ever think of bringing me out there with you?”
“You weren’t invited,” I said. She hadn’t sensed the presence of my father. She wouldn’t have even known he was there if I hadn’t just told her.
Two witches leaned past us as Sidecar Bob started handing over candles from underneath the bar. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched Frieda stalk up to me, hands on her hips.
Her blue-shadowed eyes narrowed. “Where in hell’s knob did you go?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Don’t worry, Lizzie.” Grandma clapped me on the shoulder. “We’re going to find out exactly what’s going on.”
I hoped.
Frieda wrinkled her nose. “Well my spell is fried.” She took me by the arm. “Come on.”
Grandma walked past me. “Convocation in five minutes,” she said over her shoulder.
“Where?” I asked. “In the bar?”
“Nah, we got a better place.” Ant Eater showed Grandma a jar full of brackish liquid and the two walked off together.
“Bathroom first,” Frieda said, leading me by the neck to the sink in the ladies room.
“It won’t do any good. I missed the deadline.”
“Don’t be such a baby,” Frieda coaxed, angling my head over the ancient industrial sink.
I’d blown the cure. “I felt it poof.” Frankly, I didn’t want to know what was under the black goop on my head.
Frieda snapped her gum and thought about it. “Let’s just see what that poof meant.” She turned on the faucet and sprayed my head and neck with cold water. “I don’t like to make my spells too precise or you lose the element of surprise.”
I gritted my teeth against the rivulets of water trickling around my neck and down the front of my kick butt demon slayer bodice. “Did I ever tell you I don’t appreciate surprises?” I shouted from inside the sink.
“My stars, where’s the fun in that?”
I watched the black water run down into the sink. The biker witches didn’t take things seriously enou
gh. Yes, they’d saved my butt more than once. Sure, they could be a kick to hang with. But I just wished they could be a little more focused.
As if answering my unspoken request, Ant Eater banged into the girl’s room. “C’mon. Everybody’s in the Bathtub Club waiting for you.”
I lifted my sopping head. “You’ve got two dozen witches stuffed in a bathroom?” I wouldn’t put it past them.
“No, Einstein. It’s the name of Creely’s momma’s speakeasy. This used to be her bar. When Prohibition hit, they had to improvise.” She planted her hands on her silver studded belt. “Grandmamma Creely was a witch too. We’re good at winging it.”
No kidding.
Frieda shoved my head into the sink. “They brewed gin in the bathtub upstairs, hence the name.”
I tilted my head enough to see out. “Don’t tell me you’ve got booze going.” They’d barely cleared the Harley off the pool table.
“Nah,” Ant Eater waved me off, “we just use it for spells. It’s the only badass secret place here, which is what you need for what we’re about to do.” She grinned, her gold tooth glinting. “Now get. Demons don’t worry about hairdos before they attack.”
Ant Eater turned to go.
“My dad’s not fully demonic,” I called after her, knowing how bad it sounded, “and he’s going to attack.”
“If you say so,” she said over her shoulder.
I stopped, water running down my back. “Do you know anything?” I asked Frieda.
She shrugged. “I know he showed up when he needed you.”
“True. But he didn’t realize that I wasn’t living a great life with my mom.” It sounded lame even to me.
Frieda tossed a towel over my head and I rubbed myself dry. “How does it look?” I pulled the towel back and nearly fell over.
The blonde biker witch cringed.
“Purple?” I bleated. “You were supposed to make my hair black and you made it purple?”
I touched my hair gingerly and fought the urge to cry on the spot. It was lavender, like the flower. Only this was not beautiful and it smelled like motor oil. I ran my fingers through my roots. Every stinking hair on my head was the color of an Easter egg.
Enough. I turned away from the mirror to once again face my hairdresser. Frieda’s overdyed blond bouffant suddenly seemed the height of normal.
“I didn’t do anything,” she protested. “You left it on too long.” She leveled a pink-tipped fingernail at me. “I told you to rinse it on time.”
“What about non-precise spells?” I demanded.
“I gave you a cowbell.”
I was not about to go tromping out in the woods with a cowbell. “And now my hair matches my bustier.”
“Hey yeah,” Frieda said, impressed. “You might start yourself a new fashion trend.”
“Lizzie!” Ant Eater yelled from out in the bar.
“Oh, I’m coming,” I stomped out of the bathroom.
Ant Eater stood inside an old wooden phone booth near the back. A year ago, I would have thought that was strange. Now I was just glad there were no creatures or roadkill souvenirs in there.
“Inside,” she said, shoving me past her. She dialed a combination on the rust-flecked rotary phone and a wooden door on the wall slid open.
What was this? Maxwell Smart?
A spiral staircase led straight down. “Welcome to the Bathtub Club,” she said as she led me inside. Her leather pants and jacket whooshed loudly in the enclosed space. “It’s not as classy as the Cotton Club, but the gin tastes the same.”
The old iron staircase shuddered and the air temperature dropped at least ten degrees as we wound our way down. I touched the damp brick wall and it was freezing cold. “Did people use this place?”
“Are you kidding?” Ant Eater gave a sandpapery laugh. “It was the hangout for Monmouth and at least three more counties. I hear the women were loose. Don’t tell Creely.”
She kicked open an unmarked wooden door and we found ourselves in a 1920s supper club.
The ceiling hung low and I felt the tang of paraffin in the back of my throat. A gorgeous carved bar stood in one corner, a raised bandstand in the other, both of them layered with candles and lounging biker witches. Betty Two Sticks raised her glass to me and winked.
Brass and crystal chandeliers hung with an array of candles. The motley shapes and colors of the tapers clashed terribly with high rent fixtures. Soft light from the flames danced across their faces as their whoops and hollers echoed off the damp brick walls.
“You made it.” Ant Eater thwacked me on the arm, her skull and crossbones do-rag hanging crookedly over her forehead. “Finally. Now let’s get a move on.”
Sure. Why not?
In another life, I would have loved to get a better look at this place. Maybe I’d take Dimitri down here after our date tonight. My insides warmed just thinking about it.
We gathered in a semicircle around a discarded wooden barrel Grandma had commandeered. She’d placed my father’s gift on top – still inside the protective jar. It bucked and hissed against its magical cage.
“Nice hairdo.” Creely the engineering witch sidled up to me.
I didn’t know whether she was serious or not, seeing as Creely had green streaks running through her hair.
It was always the quiet ones.
Frieda took the place next to me.
“Pipe down, people.” Grandma eyed the open back door. “Bob, seal ‘er up.”
I hadn’t even heard him come down behind us.
“Just a sec!” He hollered. “I got a wheel stuck in the dumbwaiter.”
A rattle sounded, then a series of dull thuds.
Bob’s weathered face popped up on the other side of the door. “Easy peasey.” He gave Grandma a thumbs-up before the unmarked wooden door hissed closed like an airlock.
The candles burned brighter in the darkness surrounding us.
“Join hands,” Grandma murmured.
I took Creely’s warm hand and Freida’s chilly one. The crowd of two dozen witches drew closer. They closed their eyes and concentrated. The temperature in the room began to rise.
Swallowing hard, I tried to do some thinking of my own. As much as I had every right to grouse over the events of the night – and believe me, I liked to brood - I needed to let it go for the moment. I closed my eyes and tried to be one with this coven, this place.
For the first time that night, I felt warm.
A grinding noise shook me out of my thoughts. Two of the Red Skulls, along with Bettina the library witch, huffed and struggled as they dragged a battered footlocker to the center of the group.
Bettina wasn’t even a hundred pounds soaking wet. She drew her silver hair out of her eyes and kicked the box twice with a steel-toed biker boot. The box groaned and opened with a creak.
She shot us an apologetic glance, still catching her breath. “I haven’t had a chance to feed my ingredients tonight. They get testy when they haven’t had their supper.”
“Are there live animals in there?” I whispered to Frieda, horrified.
“No, honey,” she said, her breath tickling my neck. “Live spells. They eat just about anything. Cracker crumbs, leftover lasagna, motor oil. They like to graze. Only Bettina keeps ‘em locked up. For obvious reasons.”
My head began to itch, but I knew better than to break the circle.
Grandma lit three red candles around the jar of rope. She blew out her match and deposited it on the table. Eyes on the jar, she held out her hand. “Okay, give me the enchanted eyeballs.”
My stomach squinched. “From what?” I whispered.
I could feel Creely’s impatience. “From your dinner last night. Or did you forget how you went to town on that poached salmon?”
Okay. Never mind.
The biker witches never let anything go to waste. Bettina had soaked the eyeballs in something clear and I suddenly felt bad for ever liking croquettes with lemon glaze.
The flames burned brighter
as the silver rope began to growl and hiss. It threw itself against the glass like a wild beast. Boy was I glad I hadn’t tried to touch it. And for about the tenth time, I wondered just how desperate my dad had to be to give me such a gift.
Maybe I should be glad he was never around at Christmastime.
The other ingredients clacked together as Bettina unscrewed the lid. With two bony fingers, she plucked a single eye out of the mixture and examined it. “Oh yes,” she crooned at it like a pet. “Nice and fat. You’ll do a good job for us, won’t you?”
“Now?” Grandma asked.
Bettina nodded as Grandma pulled out an old Swiss army knife. It was as long as her palm, with an unending number of gadgets. She drew out the corkscrew and, as the rope reared and attacked, she drilled a tiny eyeball-sized hole in the top of the jar. “Ready everybody?”
The witches drew together, and I felt the magic build. For a moment, the room was completely quiet except for the hissing of the rope. The air grew heavy as candles leapt and danced.
Grandma bowed her head and the witches followed suit. “We, the witches of the Red Skull bind together now. We call on 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, divine the true nature of this gift before us. Let us seek the greater good for our sister Lizzie and for the magic that empowers us.”
I sucked in a breath. For all my abilities, it always amazed me just what these witches could do.
Grandma drew her hands around the jar once, twice, three times before she dropped the eyeball inside. We watched with rapt anticipation as the eyeball latched on to the enchanted rope and burrowed until we could no longer see it.
The rope thrashed like a stuck pig. It slammed against the side of the jar, squealing before it shuddered and fell limp. Grandma held her hands over the concoction, her eyes closed tight.
“Ostendo,” she uttered, as if forcing the words from somewhere deep inside. “Ostendo!” She repeated, louder this time.
I stared at the jar in front of her, then back to her face. Her skin had gone pale. Red color rose to her cheeks. “Ostendo!”