The Last of the Demon Slayers ds-4 Read online

  The Last of the Demon Slayers

  ( Demon Slayer - 4 )

  Angie Fox

  Lizzie Brown would like to have one normal date. Instead, she gets a towering inferno with a message: her long-lost dad is a fallen angel in danger of becoming a demon. Not good. Especially since she’s a demon slayer.

  Her grandma advises her to stay out of it. Her sexy-as-sin shape-shifter boyfriend would much rather she devote her attention to more carnal pursuits. And her dog’s one demand is for more bacon. After all, he can’t train his pet dragon on an empty stomach.

  But Lizzie knows there’s no other choice but to hop on her Harley and help her dad—even if the search for the truth brings a bad-boy slayer back into her life and leads her into the middle of a war to end all wars.

  The Last of the Demon Slayers

  Angie Fox

  FIRST EDITION

  THE LAST OF THE DEMON SLAYERS

  copyright © 2010 by Angie Fox.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen.

  No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of Angie Fox.

  CRITICS PRAISE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR ANGIE FOX!

  THE ACCIDENTAL DEMON SLAYER

  “With its sharp, witty writing and unique characters, Angie Fox’s contemporary paranormal debut is fabulously fun.”

  —Chicago Tribune

  “This rollicking paranormal comedy will appeal to fans of Dakota Cassidy, MaryJanice Davidson, and Tate Hallaway.”

  —Booklist

  “A new talent just hit the urban fantasy genre, and she has a genuine gift for creating dangerously hilarious drama.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “In the uber popular genre of paranormal romance, just about everything has been done before, yet The Accidental Demon Slayer keeps it fresh and unique, carving out a place for itself.”

  —CK2S Kwips and Kritiques

  THE DANGEROUS BOOK FOR DEMON SLAYERS

  “Fox is back and serving up a second helping of high-octane mania. The world according to new demon slayer Lizzie Brown is full of major potholes and irritating biker witches, and the gaps in this heroine’s demon-slaying education are both hilarious and dangerous. The phrase Sin City never rang truer than it does in this supernatural ruckus!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers has an entertaining story line with paranormal action and adventure at every turn. Fans of The Accidental Demon Slayer won’t want to miss Lizzie’s latest escapade.”

  —Darque Reviews

  “Filled with humor, fans will enjoy Angie Fox’s lighthearted frolic.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  “This book is a pleasure to read. It is fun, humorous, and reminiscent of Charlaine Harris or Kim Harrison’s books.”

  —Sacramento Book Review

  A TALE OF TWO DEMON SLAYERS

  The third outing in Fox's wacky supernatural saga continues to vividly demonstrate why this author is on the fast track. The combo of chills and hilarity is delicious, and Lizzie's internal musings are highly entertaining. Hang on for a rollicking good ride!

  —RT Book Reviews

  She may have been The Accidental Demon Slayer, but in spite of her lack of experience, Lizzie Brown proved that a preschool teacher can kick butt.

  —Harriet Klausner

  Ms. Fox does a marvelous job of developing her characters - providing additional insights into those returning and creating wonderful new villains and allies.

  —Bitten by Books

  If you're looking for a funny paranormal romp with a little heat and lots of action, this book is for you.

  —Fresh Fiction

  Other books by Angie Fox:

  THE ACCIDENTAL DEMON SLAYER

  THE DANGEROUS BOOK FOR DEMON SLAYERS

  A TALE OF TWO DEMON SLAYERS

  Chapter One

  Here’s some advice: when a gang of geriatric biker witches tells you they’ve cleared out all of the spells they left at Big Nose Kate’s Biker Bar in 1977 – don’t believe them.

  I was on edge that cold-as-death March afternoon, and it wasn’t just the biker witches and their Jack Daniels brand of magic. Something in the air didn’t feel right.

  Like smoke on the horizon.

  I killed the engine on my Harley and planted the toes of my black leather boots on the cracked blacktop. The early spring breeze melted through my riding jacket, sending goosebumps skittering up my arms.

  We were on the hunt for a new headquarters for the Red Skull witches. And while I’d suggested a cute bungalow on the shore or perhaps a progressive retirement community, Grandma and the gang had their hearts set on this boarded-up wreck of a place near the New Jersey turnpike.

  Dimitri pulled up on my right, handsome as sin in a black leather jacket and shades. “Trouble?” he asked, studying me.

  “How’d you know?”

  The side of his mouth cocked into a grin. “I know you.”

  Did he ever. Heat pooled low in my belly at the thought of exactly how well this man knew me.

  The witches hooted and hollered as they dismounted behind us.

  “I don’t know where it’s coming from,” I told Dimitri.

  I reached out with my demon slayer powers, trying to get a grip on the energies that threatened us.

  The low-slung brick building sagged with age. Old beer signs and jumbled blinds crowded the windows. A hand-painted sign read: Big Nose Kate’s – The more you drink, the better he looks.

  It was the last holdout at the end of a long-abandoned road. Woods surrounded the bar on three sides, like an impenetrable barrier. A light fog swirled, making the whole place seem even more isolated and empty.

  I held still, on high alert. “I think it’s everywhere.”

  He eased off his bike. “Okay. I’ll fly around the perimeter. You check out the bar.”

  I tried to hide my surprise. “You trust me?” Dimitri was forever trying to protect me.

  “I do,” he grinned. He knew. “You can handle it.”

  Dimitri could handle himself too. “Be careful.”

  His eyes met mine. “Always.”

  He strolled toward the woods, motioning to Flappy, an adolescent dragon we’d adopted a few months back.

  I tugged off my helmet and hung it from the right handlebar of my bike, fully aware of the churning in my gut.

  Whatever was wrong here, I’d find it.

  Grandma lumbered toward me, gravel crunching under her Drill Sergeant-style motorcycle boots.

  “Told you it was a beaut.” Her long gray hair tangled over her shoulders. She squinted against the setting sun, making her wind-burned cheeks bunch and look even rosier. Grandma wore suede chaps, an American flag bandana and a black leather jacket with Kiss My Asphalt written across the back in rhinestone studs.

  “Something’s up,” I said. The air held a sizzle of anticipation.

  “I don’t feel anything,” Grandma said.

  I watched a winged griffin soar from the trees and toward the setting sun. A gangly dragon tottered behind.

  “Why don’t you all stay outside for a minute?” I asked, expecting an argument.

  Instead I got a wink from a tattooed witch named Bettina. “You heard the demon slayer.” She let out a w
hoop and dashed toward a broken-down Ping-Pong table in the parking lot. A dozen others followed.

  Grandma peeled off her black fingerless riding gloves. “What is it, Lizzie?” she asked, her voice gravelly as if she’d spent the last century breathing semi-truck exhaust. She adjusted her chunky silver rings. “Because I tell you, Big Nose Kate’s is warded like Fort Knox.”

  I had faith in Grandma and her magic. But I had to trust my instincts too.

  The biker witches shouted to one another as they scavenged along the tree line.

  “It’s hard to say what’s wrong yet,” I said, “other than the fact that Creely is about to chop down some pool cues.”

  I nodded toward the giddy engineering witch as she headed for a spindly evergreen, toolbox in hand.

  Grandma trundled off to investigate while I swiped the key to Big Nose Kate’s from her chrome-studded saddlebag. It was the only way I could do this alone.

  I kicked aside chunks of asphalt as I made my way to the bar.

  I didn’t like this place. I stiffened as I caught a flicker of movement in the far left window. The haggard blinds began to sway. Maybe it was just a rat, or better yet, a ghost.

  Somehow, I doubted I’d be that lucky.

  “What are you?” I murmured, the back of my neck prickling as I trailed my fingertips along the barbed wire framing the front door. I felt the familiar hum of my grandmother’s wards, left to protect the building against intruders. Yet there was something else as well. It throbbed low and steady underneath.

  I braced a hand on the old wood door and listened for subtle changes in the magic. I coaxed it out until I could almost see it.

  “Gotcha,” I said, running both hands along the door, up to the edge of the barbed wire. This was the same touch of energy I’d felt when we first pulled up to the place. I could almost taste a smoky, burning presence. It was stronger here at the door. “Who made you?”

  The barbed wire began to curl toward my fingers and I jerked them back. Just because Grandma’s wards recognized me didn’t mean I wanted them to get too friendly. Like most of her spells, they were a bit too prickly for my taste.

  I took a deep breath and inserted Grandma’s key into the lock. The iron bolt opened with a creak and a poof of smoke and sparks.

  Big Nose Kate’s was cold and dark. I wrinkled my nose at the smell of old bricks and a healthy dose of mildew. But there was something else in the bar.

  It smelled like death.

  Judging from the laughter and boot clomps echoing up the walk I had about two seconds to figure this out by myself.

  I eased past an overturned barstool and shrieked as I walked right into a spider web.

  “Hells bells!” I scrambled to snatch the sticky mess off my face. Yes, I’d gone eyeball-to-eyeball with a demon, a possessed werewolf and a virtual army of imps, but it didn’t mean I enjoyed getting bugs up my nose.

  “Why, Lizzie Brown,” Grandma chuckled from the front door, “you’re hopping like a cricket in a frying pan.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, forcing myself to stand perfectly still. I had a reputation to uphold, however shaky it might be.

  I yanked at a piece of web tickling my nose. It ended up being the spider - a big, fat, bubbly-butted spider. This time, there was no mistaking the shriek as I launched it halfway across the bar.

  Grandma bellowed in delight as I rubbed at my cheeks, my chin, my hair until I was sure the bug didn’t have any friends, and in the process, transferred the sticky mess of a web from my face to the leg of my brand new black leather pants.

  Yuck.

  Meanwhile Grandma was doubled over, tears in her eyes.

  “Cut it.” We had real problems here.

  “Sorry,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “Here you are this bad-ass demon slayer…”

  It would take more than a spider to change that.

  “Stay behind me,” I said as the hairs on the back of my neck began to tingle. I’d been feeling a disturbance for the past fifty miles.

  “Look,” she said, straightening and wiping her eyes, “we stayed outside while you John Wayne’d your way in here. But take a gander. Our wards held.”

  True. Still, “something’s wrong.”

  “Tell me about it.” Creely planted a hand on the door jamb behind us. “I don’t know how we’re going to get the Ping-Pong table through the door.”

  It was strange none of the witches could sense it. Grandma’s coven had spent thirty years on the run from a fifth-level demon. Any one of them could spot a hex from a half-county away.

  An icy breeze whipped through the door behind us and I shivered. “I don’t like this place.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s perfect!” Grandma said, tossing a Light ‘em Up spell. Bulbs flickered to life across the bar, even the ones that had broken in their sockets or fallen to the floor. Nice trick.

  I scanned the window where I’d seen movement earlier. There was nothing but mangled blinds and a smudge in the dust.

  And then I focused on the rest of the tavern…

  A wreck of a Harley lay crushed on top of a wooden pool table in a snarl of green felt and shattered timber. Whiskey bottles covered in three decades of grime hunkered together behind a long oak bar. Pickled egg jars held up a handwritten sign advertising $1.00 drafts.

  I wrinkled my nose. “You left it this way?”

  “It was easier than cleaning,” Grandma said. She slapped me on the back. “Lighten up, Lizzie. The wards in this joint helped us hide from a fifth-level demon for almost a year. We’re safe. And we’re about to have a very good time.”

  I surveyed the well-used barstools and peanut shells still strewn across the floor. “You say this place is soaked in protective magic.”

  That meant whatever I was feeling had to be coming from outside. I hoped Dimitri was all right.

  “Something’s been chewing on the Steel Trap wards, but we can fix that tomorrow. Meanwhile, we’ve got defensive spells above,” Grandma said, jamming a thumb toward the ceiling.

  I followed her gaze. “Looks like graffiti to me.” Black marker scrawls streaked across the orange tiles.

  Hell’s half acre.

  Lusty Lucinda rides like a girl.

  Midnight bugs taste best.

  “It’s not always what you can see,” Grandma remarked.

  Good point.

  “Okay. Fine. Let’s stay the night.” I was about to let out the breath I’d been holding when a streak of red shot out from under the dusty jukebox and darted straight for my head.

  “Incoming!” I ducked and heard it splat into Grandma’s leather jacket.

  Ant Eater, Grandma’s second in command, guffawed behind her. “Hot Foot Spell!”

  Grandma cursed, hopping on one foot. “You gonna help me get rid of it?”

  “No. I’m going to enjoy it,” Ant Eater said.

  I stared at Grandma. “You left live spells in here?” I couldn’t believe it. Then again, this was the Red Skulls we were talking about.

  Grandma ground her steel-toed boot into the floor while she dug the sticky glob of a spell out of her jacket and flung it at Ant Eater.

  I was about to tell her it served her right when a wet spell slapped me upside the head. “Ow!”

  Ant Eater’s eyes widened. “Oh hell.”

  “What?” I demanded. My forehead stung where it hit. I touched it and felt a hard knot.

  She turned to the mess of witches behind her. “We have a situation!”

  My scalp started to tingle. “What is it?” Some of these spells could be really dangerous. I couldn’t believe Grandma just let them fly around loose. Anybody could have walked in here over the years. What if the wards had weakened and some kids had wandered by? What if a homeless person had needed a warm place to stay? Heck, even a burglar deserved better than to be hit by random magical incantations.

  “Hey!” I protested as Ant Eater mashed her fingernails against my forehead and pulled away a quarter-sized piece o
f flat rubbery goo.

  “Ohhh…” A witch with a blond bouffant pushed her way through a growing number of gray-haired, leather-clad oglers. She planted a manicured hand on each of my cheeks and studied the point of impact. “Tar and feathers, Lizzie,” she exhaled, sending out a waft of cigarette and bubble gum breath. “I don’t know how we’re going to fix this.”

  My stomach churned. “As long as it’s not deadly I’m fine,” I said.

  “It won’t kill you. But it might just make you cry a little bit.” Chomping her gum, she dug through her white purse until the fringe at the bottom shook. “It’s more of a beauty-product emergency.”

  She had to be kidding. “Beauty product?” These witches did mud masks the old fashioned way – by riding through puddles. Well, all except for Frieda.

  “Here ya go,” she said, handing me a rhinestone-studded compact.

  I took it and gasped. My hair was gray. Steel gray. Which would have been fine except it had been black about a minute ago.

  “What did you do?” I demanded.

  I’d had three gray hairs in my entire life. Three. And I plucked them as soon as I saw them. So this? Well, this was unacceptable.

  “It looks nice,” Grandma said, not really paying attention to me as she ran her boot along the bottom rung of a bar stool.

  “It doesn’t look nice,” I said, panic rising. “That’s what people say when they don’t know how to fix things.” I turned to Frieda. “But you can reverse this because you are a Red Skull biker witch and you know your magic.”

  “Well…” Frieda chomped at her gum, buying time. “It’s less magic and more…hair enhancer. It used to be platinum blonde. I guess it got old.” She tested a lock of my hair between her fingers. “Problem is, it’s the permanent kind. We brewed it so you don’t ever have to worry about dyeing your hair again. No other color will take.”

  Oh no. Wrong answer. “Well then you’d better figure out how to fix it. Now.” I had a big date tonight. Finally. Dimitri and I had been trying to get something going for quite some time now and no biker witch spell was going to blow it for me.