I Brake for Biker Witches Read online

  Contents

  I Brake for Biker Witches

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  COMPLETE BOOKLIST

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ******

  I BRAKE FOR BIKER WITCHES

  BY ANGIE FOX

  ******

  Author's Note: This short story takes place two weeks after the events in The Last of the Demon Slayers, and refers indirectly to the events in What Slays in Vegas (from the So I Married a Demon Slayer anthology). It's not necessary to read any of the other demon slayer stories, though, in order to enjoy this one. As the biker witches would say: No worries. It's all good. Now where did I put that bottle of Jack?…

  Chapter One

  It was a dark and lonely night. No, seriously—it was. You wouldn't believe the pitch black you get in the middle of the desert in California. No lights. No people. Nothing. We hadn't even seen another vehicle in almost an hour.

  I gunned my Harley and heard the answering roar of two dozen biker witches on my tail.

  We were one-hundred-and-fifty miles into the Mojave desert, on our way back from Las Vegas to L.A. Some over-zealous jerk had reported a demon infestation in Sin City, but when we'd gotten there, we'd only found a half-succubus running a pampered pet salon.

  We let her be. I couldn't smite a dog person, especially after she had my Jack Russell Terrier smelling like Paws-4-Patchouli. Besides, the girl with the demonic bent was more good than bad. My demon slayer powers had told me that much.

  The headset inside my silver helmet buzzed with static and then clicked. "Where the hell are we?"

  My biker witch grandma's voice tickled my ear. "Zzyzx."

  I didn't quite catch that. "You cut out."

  "Zzyzx." Grandma said, "It's the name of the town."

  Frankly, I didn't see anything but a straight dark road and acres of scrub. Still, there was something here that wasn't quite right. I'd felt it at back of my neck for the last fifty miles, the prickling unease that signaled trouble.

  It had gotten worse in the last minute. Way worse. "Does anyone else feel that?"

  "You mean like low in my stomach?" Ant Eater asked.

  "Yes." And tingling up my spine. It wasn't necessarily demonic—I knew exactly what that felt like. But it was something else. Something I'd never felt before.

  The radio crackled. "Maybe we need to stop and get some snacks," my Jack Russell terrier suggested.

  "No," everyone said at once.

  In his defense, Pirate was a dog with a one-track mind, usually trained on food. Because of our powers, we could hear him talk, and talk…and talk. We should never have given him a head set.

  At least the sweet-smelling troublemaker was riding shotgun with Bob. I didn't want Pirate up here with me if we ran into trouble.

  Our headlights reflected off a lone green highway sign up ahead. "Well would you look at that," I said under my breath. In big, white letters it read: Zzyzx.

  Pirate gave a yip. "I just won the alphabet game."

  "Wait." Ant Eater's voice sharpened. She was the scariest biker I knew. That's why she always rode shotgun. "You see that? Dead ahead."

  "I see it." My pulse thrummed with anticipation. A figure of a man stood under the sign. We wouldn't have seen him so far out, except he was glowing.

  Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule. We couldn't even take one ride through the desert without trouble.

  I could almost hear the witches going for their spell jars.

  We slowed as we approached, our headlights trained on a bald man with a thick, braided beard. I strained for a better look as recognition wound through me.

  "Holy hell," Frieda whispered.

  I remembered where I'd seen him before. Frieda had been carrying his picture for as long as I'd known her. She'd post it over her bed, clip it on her spell books, have it handy wherever we happened to be. She'd rub him on the forehead and hum the same tune every time.

  This was Mister Love in an Elevator.

  He'd been dead for as long as I'd known her.

  I ground my bike to a halt about ten feet back from him. Close enough to talk, far enough to throw a switch star if it came to that.

  Frieda would tan my hide. I said a silent prayer for him to behave.

  One by one, the Red Skull witches cut their engines. I took my helmet off and hung it over a handle bar.

  Frieda had already scrambled out from behind one of the bikers toward the front. She approached the phantom slowly, all the while holding a spell jar behind her back. It swirled with a brackish, blue and gold liquid.

  Grandma stood next to me as I dismounted, one hand on my weapons belt. I tilted my head toward her. "What's she got?"

  "Ghost zapper," she said, her voice gritty from years of hard riding and semi-truck exhaust, "It blasts their energy field. Damned thing better not be expired."

  Good point. We didn't get too many ghosts.

  This one wore leather chaps, a black leather jacket and a Texas bikers t-shirt.

  I pulled a switch star from my belt, just in case. It was flat and round. Five blades curled around the edge.

  The white from Frieda's zebra print leather pants glowed in our headlights as she tottered forward on four-inch red wedge sandals. "Carl? Is that you, baby?"

  Sweat tickled the back of my neck. Frieda was a sitting duck if this didn't work.

  Amusement sparked from the ghost's heavy lidded eyes. "Well don't you look pretty?"

  She stopped a few feet in front of him, her red dice earrings swaying as she shook. "Are you…alive?"

  He wound his thumbs under his black leather belt. "Aw, now you know I'da come back for you if I was." He glanced past Frieda, his bottomless blue eyes locking on me. "I wouldn't be back now. Except we need your help."

  Dread pooled in my stomach. This couldn't be good "Who's we?"

  The ghost eyed me. "We got a new gang going, for those of us who have passed on."

  Oh lordy.

  "Shouldn't you be in heaven or something?" Frieda asked.

  "Not yet, baby." He touched her fluffy blonde hair. It ruffled slightly as his fingers moved straight through it. "You still need us, whether you realize it or not. But we've gotten into a little trouble in the mean time."

  He had to be kidding. I was a demon slayer, not a ghost whisperer. I couldn't babysit a bunch of undead bikers. "What exactly do you want me to do?"

  He turned his back on us as a chrome and black Harley appeared on the side of the road. Neat trick.

  "Come on," he said, heading for his bike, "I'll show you."

  Chapter Two

  "Oh sure," I muttered as we trailed after him through the darkness, sharp rocks sounding like fireworks under our tires. "Go off road. Follow an undead biker through the middle of the Mojave desert." I could feel the dirt in my eyes. I could taste it in my mouth. Our Harley's weren't built for this.

  "No worries, demon slayer," Ant Eater's voice sounded behind my ear, "I know where we are."

  My bike was vibrating so bad my arms were going numb. "What? With magic?"

  "GPS."

  Okay. Well there was that.

  Ant Eater chuckled low in her throat.

  We'd been following the former Carl for at least twenty miles. I stared out into the night sky, the stars impossibly bright now that we were truly in the middle of nowhere. And about due for a breakdown.

  We gunned our engines up and over a small rise.

  I stopped so hard my bike skid sideways.

  "What the hell is that?" Grandma choked.

  Lights shone from a building below. Only it wasn't a building exactly.
It was a shell of a foundation, half buried in the dirt. Phantom walls surrounded it and I could see glowing figures moving inside.

  The building shimmered and in that moment, I could make out a distinct, two-story Wild West tavern. Cracked paint announced the Tanglefoot Saloon. The rough wood front looked gray from the weather and age. At the horse hitch outside, I saw a line of ghostly gray horses. And motorcycles.

  The image shifted and I saw the faint outline of a two-story stucco building with neon bar signs in the window. Then it shifted back to the saloon. Iron Maiden's Twilight Zone thumped out into the parking lot, mixed with the faint tinkling of a piano.

  What the—? I glanced at Grandma, who just shook her head.

  We pulled closer. Weeds sprouted around the front of the saloon and a prickly pear cactus grew straight through the sign for the Paradise Bar and Grill.

  Our tires nudged the edge of a cracked parking lot. The desert stretched for miles in every direction.

  "It's not real," I said, almost convinced.

  "Damn straight," Ant Eater said, agreeing with me for once.

  We could deny it until gypsies grew wings, but there it was, as if it had sprung from the desert floor itself.

  "I smell pickled eggs," Pirate said, scrambling through the maze of Red Skull bikers, heading for the front door.

  "Wait," I scooped him up. I was detecting something else.

  "Demonic?" Grandma asked.

  I opened my senses. "Maybe."

  There was a raw energy to this place, like nothing I'd ever felt before. There was also a wrong-ness that I couldn't quite put my finger on. I tucked my dog under my arm. "Stick close, buddy," I said, not giving him a choice.

  "Aw now, Lizzie. Why don't you let me have any fun?" His legs dangled as he tried to push off me and jump down. "I'll be careful."

  Like a bulldozer.

  Grandma studied the phantom bar. "Okay," she said, rubbing at her mouth. "I want half of you to stay outside and make a perimeter," she said to the witches. "Get your spells out and be ready to use them." She eyed Carl, who had already walked up to the front door and stood beckoning us. She raised her voice. "The rest of us will follow Carl."

  Ant Eater leaned in close, as she pried off her leather riding gloves. "You sure that's a good plan?"

  "Best one we got," Grandma muttered.

  I was with Ant Eater on this one. A demon could take on many forms. Of course I wasn't naïve enough to think we were safe outside, or anywhere for that matter. "I'll go first," I said, setting my dog down on the ground. "You," I said, pointing at him, "are on backup patrol." Maybe I could at least keep him out of trouble.

  "Now that's just crazy." He said, circling before he sat. "Who ever heard of a watch dog going last?"

  I gave him a quick rub on the head before Grandma, Ant Eater and I led the way across the parking lot.

  The ghost paused at a shimmering wooden door. Clusters of cinnamon sticks wrapped in sage faded in and out of the wood and a rusty red substance streamed down the frame.

  It was all too familiar—and stinky. Okay, so maybe I was starting to believe that Carl really was the ghost of a Red Skull biker witch.

  He opened the door and music poured out, along with a great deal of bar noise.

  I stepped inside and nearly fell sideways.

  The Tanglefoot/Paradise looked like a saloon, straight out of a Wild West movie. The large high-ceiling room featured a scattering of rounded tables under gas-lit chandeliers. The walls were rough wood. A long carved bar stretched along the back, with a mirror behind it. Along one side, a standing piano hunkered next to a modern sound system.

  Biker witches crowded the tables, playing poker with outlaws and cowhands. Saloon girls weaved between the tables. Cheers erupted over a minor fistfight next to some kind of big, round gambling wheel.

  Sadly, this wasn't the strangest thing I'd ever seen.

  And then I saw them.

  "There's Hog Wild Harriet," I gasped, "dealing poker." And cheating from the look of the cards stuffed in her bra. I could see them every time she faded out.

  And there was Easy Edna, Lucinda the Lush and a half dozen other dead witches. They'd been killed helping us, sacrificing for us.

  Grandma drew up short. "Son of a bitch."

  "Heyyy!" Betty Two Sticks staggered up to us, a bottle of 1800 whiskey in hand. "This stuff is good. Now I'm seeing demon slayers." She poked me with a finger, only it went straight through. "Damn it all, it is a demon slayer. I was hoping you'd make it."

  I turned to Grandma. "She's smashing drunk."

  Betty screwed up her face like she had to think about that one. "I know you are, but what am I?"

  "They're all here," Grandma muttered. "I know every god damned one of them."

  Unbelievable. I stared at drunkard next to me, from her tie-dyed bandana to her steel toed boots. "What is this place?"

  Betty stuck her face inches from mine. She smelled like the inside of a Jack Daniels bottle. "Hey," she tried to whisper, only she was on full volume, "you gotta meet this guy. He shot seven people. He's the fastest gun in," she turned around, "what are you the fastest gun in?" she yelled to a table of outlaws behind her.

  This was too much. "Where's Carl?" I leaned to see past Betty. "Oh. Great." He was over by the juke box, making out with Frieda. That was a big help.

  The bar flashed to modern and then back west again. And Betty had clearly forgotten the meaning of personal space. I took a step back. "Why are you here?"

  She screwed up her face like it was a tough question, not even flinching as one ghostly cowboy clocked another over the head with a whiskey bottle. "I'm socializing," she concluded. "Had my eye on a few of them hotties from the Lazy K Ranch."

  Oh geez. "No, I meant—" How could I explain?

  It was like reasoning with Pirate, only way worse. I didn't want to think of these dead bikers stuck here. They deserved to be in a better place.

  "You can move on, Betty," I said, ducking as a chair flew past my head. It didn't matter. The chair crashed straight through Grandma and skittered across the hard wood floor. "Why didn't you go to the light?"

  I wasn't sure how one went to the light, or got out of this place for that matter, but I hoped somebody around here could give her a few hints. Then again, it could be a spiritually sticky place. Clearly the Wild West show had been playing for awhile.

  She clutched the neck of her whiskey bottle, eyeing me intently. "Scarlet went to the light."

  At least that was one.

  "She was a real pussy about it too. The rest of us are waiting," she said proudly.

  My head was starting to hurt. "For what?"

  She flipped her long grey braid behind her back. "For you."

  Okay that was creepy. My heart thudded in my chest. This had better not be a trap.

  "You see this?" Grandma clapped a hand on my shoulder. "Battina, Easy Edna," she said as the ghosts of biker witches ambled up behind her.

  I gave a half wave, not getting this at all. Grandma merely grinned, watching as the biker witches, live and dead re-united. Some tried hugs, but their arms went straight through their friends, so they'd settled on clinking whiskey glasses and gathering around the rough, wooden tables and along dusty barstools.

  "Damn it's good to see everyone. I wouldn't mind spending a century or two holed up here," Grandma said, her gaze traveling over the bar. "Except for that," she added, fixing on a rickety wooden staircase near the back bar. A thick yellow fog tumbled from the top. I could feel malice at the top of those stairs.

  I focused my demon slayer senses and saw it like a dot in the back of my mind—latent evil waiting to strike.

  And then I saw someone else and my heart instantly lightened. "Uncle Phil!"

  I'd lost my fairy grandfather almost a year before. He'd died saving me.

  Leave it to Phil. He wasn't partying or goofing around. He was busy working some kind of a spell at the bottom of the stairway. Well, at least that was the only thing I
could figure from the way he waved his short, thick arms.

  He stood in a cloud of silver sparkles, his bushy eyebrows fixed in concentration and his bulbous nose as red as it had ever been. I could almost smell his familiar bubblegum scent.

  "Watch my back," I said to Grandma as I made a path straight for him.

  Phil didn't see me until I was almost up on him. When he did, his mouth broke into a wide grin. "Lizzie! I knew you'd come. I just knew it." His voice shot through me like sunshine. "I'd hug you, but I'd go right through you."

  Didn't I know it. "What are you doing here?"

  Fairy dust settled over his pointy ears, which looked like they'd been crammed on as an afterthought. "I told you I'd always watch out for you."

  Sure, but, "here?"

  A frigid wind whipped from the top of the stairs, startling us both.

  "Just a second," Phil said, replacing pennies that had tumbled down. It was then I noticed that coins littering the stairs.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Basic fairy protection," he said, hurrying. "We use coins for good wishes, but the positive energy can also work against evil spirits, or any basic malicious entity."

  Another dose of cold power blasted the stairs and more pennies scattered down the steps.

  "Cripes. We're down seven," he said, lobbing them back up. He glanced over his shoulder. "You wouldn't happen to have any extra change, would you?"

  I hitched my switch star and began digging in my pockets. "Two quarters and a dime."

  His eyes lit up. "Oh yes. That's good. We like the big spenders."

  I'd never been accused of that. "What is this?"

  "Wish magic," he said, carefully arranging the coins on the bottom steps. "Only this is a lot more powerful that what you humans do when you throw pennies in the fountain at the park."

  No kidding. "Is that where we got it?"

  "Of course. Now aim for the top. As you throw it, wish for the darkness to fade. I want to get as many up there as I can."

  "Okay," I said, stepping onto the bottom stair.