The Last of the Demon Slayers Read Online Free PDF Page B

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