Night of the Living Demon Slayer (23 page)
"Trouble?"
She held up her phone to show me a text photo of her five-year-old son, sitting next to a pile of debris, grinning. "Hiram got hold of a screwdriver and took apart the hall clock while Tom was working on the banister. I'd better go."
Typical day in the Clementine household. I folded her into a hug. "Thanks for the support."
She squeezed hard. "Thanks for the laugh." She smiled as she pulled back. "I love you, girlie." She tilted her chin down. "And I, for one, am glad you came home."
She was a true friend, and for that I was grateful. "Me, too."
***
After she left, I took that vase off the mantel and traced my finger over it. Boy, girl…and that really could be a goat. I smiled to myself. Lauralee was right. I would make it through this, despite Beau and his mother and every damned one of them.
I'd be strong. Free. Maybe not quite as free as those happy fun time people painted on the vase, but I'd be a new woman all the same. My own woman.
I wet the pad of my thumb and used it to wipe the dust from the rim. As I did, something shifted inside of it. Strange. I lifted the small bronze lid and saw at least three inches of dirt.
Well, no wonder. Nobody had cleaned the thing or showed it any love in ages.
No problem. I'd take it outside and rinse it down with the hose. I could turn the dented spot toward the wall and this little piece of faded glory might pass for something worth buying.
Now would also be a good time to track down Lucy. That sneaky little skunk would spend all night outside terrorizing the neighbors if I'd let her.
I pushed past the screen door and saw she wasn't in her bed out on our sprawling back porch. A walk down the steps showed she wasn't under her favorite apple tree, either —or as she probably thought of it: the place where snacks dropped down from heaven. After a little bit of searching, I found Lucy catching the last bit of sun on the stone pavers lining the rose garden at the back of the house.
As soon as she saw me, she rolled right off the paver and landed on her back in the grass. She gave a chipper, skunky grunt and waddled over to greet me. I loved the way she walked, with her head down and her little body churning with every step. It was the cutest thing ever.
"Hiya, sweetie pie," I bent down on one knee to greet her. She thrust her entire snout into my palm and then turned her head for easy petting, making husky, purr-like squawks. She had the softest little cheeks. I stroked her there, then down along the neck and between the ears in the way that made her right back leg twitch. "You enjoying your last day at the house?"
An apartment just wasn't going to be the same for Lucy. I'd found a place that accepted exotic pets, but believe it or not, people around here held a certain bias against skunks. It wasn't enough that I'd had little Lucy's scent glands removed. They wanted her to stop being who she was.
Poor baby.
I'd have to make some adjustments as well after we moved. Our new home, The Regal Towers, was basically an old six-family flat down by the railroad tracks. So close, in fact, that the windows rattled every time a train went by. The doors were made of plywood. I wasn't even sure that was legal, not that management cared. Morton Davis, slumlord extraordinaire, had offered to save it for me on account of the fact we'd attended grades K through eight together at Stonewall Jackson Elementary. I knew it was available because no one else wanted it.
There had to be a way out of this.
Lucy snuggled up to me and tried to climb my leg to get closer.
"You want to help?" I asked making sure I reached clear of Lucy as I dumped the contents of the vase over Grandma's rose bushes. She gave the little pile a sniff and sneezed.
"You said it." The dirt was loose and dry, which I was glad to see. I'd heard that sort of thing was good for the roots.
It certainly couldn't hurt.
When the last of the fine dust had settled down out of the air, I hosed out the vase and poured the water on the roses. They needed it. I'd been neglecting them lately.
"How do you like that?" I asked my climbing vines.
A chilly breeze whipped straight up my spine and shot goose bumps down my arms. It startled me, and I dropped the vase. Lucy darted away.
"Nice work, butterfingers," I mumbled to myself, retrieving it. I spotted a stubborn patch of dirt down in the base and rinsed it out again, but the stuff wouldn't budge.
The rose bushes shuddered. It had to be the wind, but this time, I didn't feel it.
For the first time, I felt uncomfortable in my grandmother's garden.
It was a strange feeling, and an unwelcome one at that. "It's getting late," I told myself, as if that would explain it.
Quick as I could, I reached for the rose snippers I kept under the hose. I cut a full red bloom, with a stem as thick as my finger, and popped it into the vase with a dash of water. Then I hurried back toward the house, careful not to spill a drop.
"Lucy," I called, half-wondering if the skunk wasn't the source of the strange rustling in the rose bushes behind me. "Come on, girl."
She came running from her hiding place under the porch. Something had scared her, too.
The house had never been what you'd call ordinary. We had fish in the pond, each one big as a cat; more often than not, I found fireflies in the attic.
But this was unusual, even for my ancestral home. I didn't like it at all.
Especially when the windows rattled.
"What the hey, girl?" I asked Lucy. And myself.
She turned around and headed back under the porch. Darn it all. She tended to snuggle under my covers at night and I didn't want her all dirty.
You have no idea how hard it is to give a skunk a bath.
A low creaking came from inside the house. The hair on my arms stood on end. Perhaps Lucy was the smart one after all. Unfortunately, there wasn't room under the porch for me.
Instead, I took the steps slowly and crossed the threshold into the darkened kitchen.
My eyes strained against the shadows. Not for the first time, I wished I'd kept at least one light. With shaking fingers, I lit the big, orange, three-wicked candle I'd been using for the last few days.
The house stood still, quiet as a grave. Almost as if it were waiting.
"Is it you, Grandma?" I asked on a whisper. "Are you mad I'm selling?"
If she'd been watching down on me at all—and I knew she did—Grandma would understand I'd been given no choice in the matter.
"Oh no," said a ghostly male voice. "You're staying put, sweetheart." With shock and horror, I realized it was coming from the vase. I dropped it.
The door slammed closed behind me. The bolt clicked, locking on its own as the vase spun and rattled to a stop on the floor.
A chill swept the room. I retreated until my back hit solid wood. I'd never seen a ghost or heard a ghost although I watched Ghost Adventures on television and I certainly believed in them and sweet Jesus I was trapped.
I couldn't feel my fingers, or my limbs for that matter. My entire body had gone ice cold. "What do you want?" I asked, voice shaking. Seeing as I hadn't dropped dead on the spot from a heart attack, this had better well be my salvation. "Why are you here?"
The voice laughed, as if it were honest-to-God amused. "I'm here because you chiseled me, princess."
…Excerpt from
SOUTHERN SPIRITS
by Angie Fox
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SOUTHERN SPIRITS
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Most of the following Angie Fox titles are also available in print format.
THE BIKER WITCHES/
ACCIDENTAL DEMON SLAYER SERIES:
The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers
My Big Fat Demon Slayer Wedding
Night of the Living Demon Slayer
Date with a Demon Slayer - coming June 2015
THE SOUTHERN GHOST HUNTER SERIES
A Ghostly Gift
(short story)
The Skeleton in the Closet - coming fall 2015
THE MONSTER MASH SERIES:
SHORT STORIES:
The Tenth Dark Lord 'A Leaping
: Lizzie and Dimitri's first Christmas (a demon slayer novella)
Gentlemen Prefer Voodoo
: the story of Aimee and Dante from
Night of the Living Demon Slayer
Murder on Mysteria Lane (from
The Real Werewives of Vampire County
anthology)
What Slays in Vegas (from the
So I Married a Demon Slayer
anthology)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Angie Fox is the
New York Times
bestselling author of several books about vampires, werewolves and things that go bump in the night. She claims that researching her stories can be just as much fun as writing them. In the name of fact-finding, Angie has ridden with Harley biker gangs, explored the tunnels underneath Hoover Dam and found an interesting recipe for Mamma Coalpot's Southern Skunk Surprise (she's still trying to get her courage up to try it).
Angie earned a Journalism degree from the University of Missouri. During that time, she also skipped class for an entire week so she could read Anne Rice's vampire series straight through. Angie has always loved books and is shocked, honored and tickled pink that she now gets to write books for a living. Although, she did skip writing for a few weeks last year so she could read Lynsay Sands Argeneau vampire series straight through.
Angie makes her home in St. Louis, Missouri with a football-addicted husband, two kids, and Moxie the dog (who so far, doesn't talk…at least not in real sentences).
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