A Tale of Two Demon Slayers
Angie Fox
LOVE SPELL
NEW YORK CITY
I knocked on the door to Dimitri’s room. He opened it wearing a pair of green plaid boxers and nothing else. The man was temptation in the flesh. Too bad we didn’t have time for that right now. I placed the book in his hands. “Take a look at this.”
I ignored the way he undressed me with his eyes. Instead, I scooted past my personal Greek god and flopped down on his bed. He cocked a brow and sat down next to me, book in hand. He frowned as he read the passage predicting my downfall.
“Chopped in half,” I said, in case he hadn’t read fast enough.
He ran a finger over the page, contemplating it like an academic. “Split in two,” he murmured, focused on the book in front of him.
Oh please. He was far too calm about this. “What’s the difference? This is the second death prediction in forty-eight hours.”
He leaned close enough to kiss, his chocolate brown eyes fixed on mine. “You are in control.”
Had he read the passage? “No, I’m not.” I hadn’t been in control since my grandma showed up on my doorstep with jelly-jar magic and a demon on her tail.
His fingers tightened on my arms. “You decide your own destiny, Lizzie. Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”
Oh, so I was supposed to sit around, ignoring the warnings, pretending I was in charge. Not happening. I was a demon slayer. I shook off his grip and crossed my hands over my chest. He’d better feel like a rotten jerk when I turned up dead in a forest clearing.
To my husband, Jim, who has never doubted my dreams, no matter how crazy they might be.
After all my years of organizing field trips, fire drills and potty breaks for my three-year-olds at Happy Hands Preschool, you’d think I could get two geriatric biker witches through the Las Vegas airport in under an hour. But sometimes the things that look simple on the outside aren’t. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.
“Don’t you even dream about casting a spell on that man,” I said to my grandma, who had paused next to a heavyset guy sneaking a cigarette in the nonsmoking area outside the Fly Away Bar and Grill. Her black “Harley’s Angels” T-shirt stood in stark contrast to his pinstripe business suit and red power tie.
Grandma tossed a lock of long gray hair over her shoulder as she rooted through her black leather bag. “He won’t even know what hit him,” she answered in a voice roughened by hard living and an extra-loud rendition of “The Devil Went Down to Georgia” sung in the parking-garage elevator.
I gritted my teeth as a bearded student thwacked my elbow with his taped-together backpack. In all fairness, he was busy avoiding a woman lugging a rolling suitcase that tipped over every three seconds. Was it sad that I envied them? At least they were moving.
Normally I’m a fast walker, an organized person and certainly not the type to be late for my flight. I glanced
down the immense glass and silver terminal as six more people joined the already overloaded airport-security line.
Ant Eater, Grandma’s second in command, flexed her shoulders and stretched out her neck. “I hope the stuffed suit’s not a lawyer.” She adjusted her silver-spiked riding gloves. “He might sue you if I kick his ass.”
“Nobody is kicking anybody’s—” I searched for the right word. “Tuffet.”
Seven years with preschoolers had made it nearly impossible for me to curse.
“Okay, now I’m really late. Time to go.” I took Grandma by the purse and was about to grab Ant Eater by the silver-stud belt. Then I thought the better of it. Ant Eater took orders about as well as Genghis Kahn tap-danced.
She caught my hesitation and grinned at me, her gold tooth glinting in the late-afternoon sunlight.
Grandma shook off my hold, moved in behind the smoking man, and with the stealth of someone well-practiced at placing “Kick Me” signs, she sprinkled what looked to be sawdust over his back and shoulders. Poor guy was going to think he had dandruff—or that he’d stood too close to a wood chipper.
The man gasped, the lit cigarette teetering on his lip. Meanwhile Grandma uttered something under her breath that sounded strikingly like a Gregorian chant. Fingers shaking, he dropped the cigarette on the floor and ground it out under his heel.
“Once rude. Always rude,” Ant Eater huffed.
The man turned to Grandma, eyes unfocused like he was waking up from a dream. “I don’t smoke. Do I?”
“Not anymore.” Grandma slapped him on the back.
Amazing. And here I thought she was going to Itch-spell him, maybe hit him with a Frozen Underwear bomb. “Is that new?” Never mind what it meant to mess with the man’s free will. Or what would happen if GlaxoSmith-Kline ever got wind of it.
“Mixed it up yesterday,” she said, with more than a hint of pride.
We’d talk about it later. But at the moment…
“I need to go,” I said, ducking into the crowd behind what looked to be an entire soccer team heading for Terminal C. “You can see me off at the security line, or you can see me off here. Doesn’t matter.”
I started walking, witches be darned. I had a sexy shape-shifting griffin to meet. Frankly, it was the only way you could get me on a plane. I wasn’t crazy about flying. It was bad enough Dimitri’s business had kept him from escorting me to the airport. I mean, isn’t that how a romantic trip to Greece is supposed to start?
Besides, Grandma and the gang should have been packing. They only had three days to drive out to New York if they wanted to catch their seniors’ cruise to the Mediterranean. It was the easiest way to bring Harleys along. Plus, those witches loved buffets.
Now that I
finally
had a ticket and I almost had a griffin, I wasn’t going to let a couple of pokey witches make me miss my flight.
I quickened my pace and took an inventory of the crowd in front of me: several kids in jeans that were either too tight or gangster baggy, an athletic coach who always seemed to find the break in the crowd. I squinted. I’d bet
my big toe he was part fairy, but I doubted even he was aware of it. A couple of businesspeople…Nothing out of the ordinary, at least from a supernatural perspective.
A nice, normal day. It almost felt strange. It was like I was waiting for something to go wrong.
The two witches clanked behind me. Between their silver accessories and the spells they carried in glass jars, they could hardly move without something banging together.
“Lizzie Brown.” Grandma drew a labored breath, but I wasn’t buying it. This woman would smoke me in a footrace for a shot of Southern Comfort. “You’re as jumpy as a jackrabbit.”
“Can’t help it. I’m too close,” I said, dodging a family of four. Close to a dream vacation, without demons, imps, hellions or anything else that went bump in the night. A blessedly normal trip. Did I even remember what normal felt like anymore? I couldn’t wait to find out.
“Hold up,” Grandma rumbled next to me, keeping pace.
I ignored her.
They were supposed to make this easy. They were supposed to drop me off at the outside baggage check. Instead, they had to find parking for their Harleys, hit every wrong button on the parking-lot elevator and insult the check-in clerk. Of course American Airlines didn’t offer upgrades for demon slayers, even if I had saved Las Vegas and pretty much the entire West Coast from Armageddon. As it stood, I was lucky those two didn’t get me downgraded to crazy.
I dug a finger under the strap of my sundress, which had fallen down with the weight of my carry-on, and said
a quick prayer of thanks for my ultracomfy Adidas Supernova Cushion cross-trainers.
“You’re not late,” Ant Eater growled off my left shoulder. “You’re two and a half hours early.”
Yeah, well that was late in my book. I always liked to arrive for international flights at least three hours prior to takeoff. Next time, I’d add a half hour for each witch who decided to see me off.
“Well, you can take one more minute.” Grandma cut in front of me and attempted to detour us toward a metal bench with thin gray cushions. “This is important. Vital,” she said, her blue eyes boring into mine.
“No. It can’t be.” I could practically hear my departure gate calling for me. “Why can’t it wait?”
“Loosen your bra straps, okay?” Grandma said, as she led me over to the bench. “I helped save you from a she-demon, you can give me a minute on an airport bench.”
“One minute,” I said, knowing I was doomed.
Grandma took my hands, her silver rings hard against my skin and her palms rough from riding her bike. “Our situation has changed. I felt it on the way over here, Lizzie. I think you’re ready.”
The only thing I was ready for was an in-flight cocktail.
While Grandma and the rest of the Red Skull biker witches took their magic very seriously, they also had a way of practicing the kind of loosey-goosey lifestyle that gave me hives.
“Ready for what?” I asked, hefting my shoulder strap again. The Port-A-Pooch pet carrier was the best on the market. I’d researched it. But the darned thing wasn’t light. Neither was its cargo.
Grandma nodded and Ant Eater reached inside her
black fringed bag. Out came a small wooden chest, about half the size of a shoe box.
Oh help me, Rhonda.
Thick iron bands supported the bottom and wrapped around the lid. Studs drilled into the bands. The tips of them pointed out like switch stars, the main weapon of demon slayers like me. I traced a finger over the wood itself—old and furrowed with carving marks, as if the box had been sculpted from solid wood.
“This was your mother’s,” Grandma said, her fingers tracing a switch star. “After your mom left us, I promised your Aunt Serefina that if we found you, if you had powers, I’d give this to you when I thought you were ready.” She placed the box into my hands like it was a piece of fine china. “I think you can handle it now.”
“Oh.” The box was lighter than I’d expected. Smoother. I found the bench and sat with the box in my lap.
I tried to tune out the noise of the airport and take this in, be appreciative. For all I knew, this could be a watershed moment—one I’d look back on for the rest of my life. I wanted to recognize the importance of my demon slayer heritage. Instead, my mind kept wandering back to the words Grandma had used.
I think you can handle it now.
Handle what? Everything I’d handled since Grandma found me two months ago, right before I’d morphed into the Demon Slayer of Dalea, had been much more of an adventure than I’d ever asked for—or wanted.
As uncomfortable as it was, if I was truly honest with myself, the only thing I had a mind to handle was the sexy shape-shifting griffin meeting me at my departure gate.
I studied the protective runes carved into the bottom of the box. “What makes you think I’m ready now?”
Grandma took a seat next to me. “I’m not sure you are,” she admitted. “Let’s see if you can open it.”
Oh lovely, and just what I needed—a test.
The box didn’t have a keyhole or a groove indicating where the lid started. In fact, I didn’t see any openings at all. “Should we really try to open this here?” In a crowded airport? “Do we know what’s inside? I’m going to have enough trouble getting my switch stars through security.”
My hand went to my demon slayer utility belt and the five switch stars it held. The stars were flat and round, about the shape of small dinner plates. Razor-sharp blades curled around the edges. The TSA wouldn’t like them, but I had to have them on me at all times.
Grandma sighed. “I told you, we put a spell on your switch stars so nobody can see them. Otherwise, you’d have been arrested by now.”
Ant Eater nodded, her gray curls bobbing slightly as she looked down at me. “You should have let us take care of your jumbo bottle of shampoo too. I don’t know why you insisted on stuffing everything into a one-quart Baggie.”
“Rules are rules.” A fact Grandma and the gang would have done well to remember. Besides, I was worried enough about getting my switch stars through the metal detector. I didn’t need things to fall apart if something went wrong with my Pantene Pro-V.
As for the box? “Please say it’s not something live.”
A nose snorted from my carry-on. “I heard that.”
Ever since I came into my demon slaying powers, my
Jack Russell terrier could speak—real words. I was still getting used to it.
Pirate wriggled an ear, then a nose, and finally his entire top half out of the green Port-A-Pooch. He blinked sleepily. Today, I’d followed my checklist for preparing an animal for flight, which had meant lots of exercise to wear him out and hopefully get him to snooze through a good portion of the trip. It had worked, until now.
“You sounded worried,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry, because I am on the job.” Pirate squirmed the rest of the way out of the carrier and shook off, his tags clinking. “Some days, I think I’m part German shepherd.” He sniffed at the box, his little body quivering. He was mostly white, with a dollop of brown on his back that wound up his neck and over one eye.
He gave a full-body sneeze. “No animals,” he announced. “In fact, it don’t have any smell at all. That’s too bad.”
I turned the box over in my hands.
Pirate licked at it. “It’s pretty.”
Sure. Pretty like Pandora’s box. My mom hadn’t exactly been the best influence on me. And she’d proven that I couldn’t trust her. “We’ll check it with the luggage and I’ll open it in Greece.”
“Why?” Grandma asked. “I want to see what’s in it.”
“You don’t know?” I didn’t like that one bit.
Maybe it was a good idea to open it with Grandma and Ant Eater here, in case whatever was in there decided to attack.
I tugged at the teardrop emerald around my neck, given to me by Dimitri. It held an endless source of protective
magic, which was good, because otherwise it would have been used up a week after he’d given it to me.
I glanced at Ant Eater. “You still have those stun spells?”
She patted her black fringe purse. And I had my switch stars.
No telling what my mom had left behind in this box. She’d shirked her duty, passed along her demon slayer powers to me before dumping me off on my adoptive family in Atlanta. I didn’t relish the idea of any more surprises from Mom.
Grandma placed a sandpapery hand on my arm. “Open it, Lizzie. It’s part of your destiny.”
Destiny my foot. Since when was I going to get to choose my own life? I’d been forced to go up against a mad scientist demon and then a sex-on-the-brain Las Vegas succubus, and right when I was about to take off on a dream trip to Greece with my hot boyfriend, Grandma wanted me to open a box full of trouble.
“If I open this now, I could get arrested, miss my flight, let a creature loose on the airport…”
Grandma nodded, admitting the possibility. “Or you could gain a powerful tool that you need right now.”
“I don’t need anything right now except sun, sand and a shot or two of ouzo.”
“So you say.”
“So I know.”
“Then why are you still holding the box?”
Why indeed?
Heaven help me. The worst part was I knew how to open the box without a latch or a lock. I touched each of
the fingers on my right hand to each of the five switch-star adornments on the box. They warmed under my fingers and my stomach filled with dread.
I wasn’t kidding Grandma about the “getting arrested” part. My short time in the magical world had taught me that unexpected things could—and always did—happen to me.
“Hold on to your britches.” I pulled away the iron bars around the box.
The wood made a low, crackling sound. Grandma let out a whistle as a hairline fracture worked its way across the side of the chest.
Pirate’s collar jingled as he danced in place. “Ooh…smoky!”
A thin stream of vapor flowed from the narrow slit, giving way to delicate rings.
