The Last of the Demon Slayers (22 page)

Good slayer.

      
Gripping Grandma’s magic jar, I made my way to the darkened front door. Even from the front porch, I could smell the coppery tinge of blood.

      
You can do this.

      
I stepped over the threshold and clicked on my Maglite.

      
Roxie hurried up behind me, as if she didn’t want me leaving her alone in the barren front yard. “It’s too quiet,” she whispered.

      
“I know,” I said in my normal voice.

Whatever was in there knew we were coming.

      
I found a light switch and tried it. Nothing.

      
The walls groaned and shifted as my pool of light filtered across the dirty carpet to the walls with their bloody scrawl.
Subvenio arranagnato Zatar unum levis letum.
Was it a warning, a threat…or promise?

      
Roxie sucked in a breath. “He’s calling the demon.”

      
I froze. “What?” I didn’t hear anything.

      
She pointed to the wall. “
Subvenio arranagnato Zatar unum levis letum,”
she whispered.

I traced my flashlight over the gruesome letters. “I don’t speak Latin.”

      
“It’s not Latin. It’s Harken, the language of the other worlds.”

      
More things to learn. It was one of the most frustrating parts of the job because I liked to know everything going in. And then I liked to plan it, map it or file it…or at the very least type it out.

“I didn’t do the academic side of training,” I said to Roxie. Just the killing part. “What do you mean he’s calling a demon?”

      
She shook her head, the faint light bathing her face in shadows. “He’s helping it.”

      
My heart thudded against my chest. Heaven save us if that were true.

      
But it didn’t make any sense. Why would my dad be in league with a demon if he was trying to escape it? He’d called me, begged me, to find a way for him to be free.

“I’ll say one thing for him. He gets around,” Roxie murmured, as she followed the word
Zatar
, scrawled in blood on the side of an oak bookcase, the ceiling above us to the front door that clicked closed on its own.

“Dad?” I stepped over the books cluttering the room, trying to ignore the dark power radiating from the cracked and worn volumes.

There was no answer.

I didn’t appreciate the way Roxie had barged into my life but I had to be thankful that I now had someone – an experienced slayer – who could help me figure out what was happening to my dad.

Roxie struck a match. The sizzle of it filled the room, along with the heady scent of sulfur. “Look at this,” she said, excited.

She lit a fat red candle, similar to one of Grandma’s ritual candles.

“Are you so sure that’s a good idea?” I asked.

“You can’t draw power with just one.” She positioned the candle on a low table and opened a medieval looking volume. The cover was carved wood, painted in grotesque images of hell.

“Can we look at these?” I asked, still reluctant to spend too much time with the books.

“We can if we’re careful. If you start to enjoy it or lose yourself in a book, get out right away.”

Got it. “There’s a picture of Zatar somewhere around here,” I said, shining my pool of light over endless books. My eye caught a red leather-bound volume with the name Evangeline embossed in gold lettering on a black background. Tiny golden clover flowers, and holy heavens, switch stars formed a border.

“Look at this. This is from a demon slayer,” I said, taking it and opening it in the light from Roxie’s candle.

“It looks like a diary,” she said, as we examined the stained pages. Precise notes, written in vintage script detailed imp sightings, water nymphs in freshly dug wells and whether or not the Pony Express had been infiltrated by valkyries.

Roxie sniffed at that last one. “As if they’d let women ride.”

I ran my fingers over the precisely written notes. It was basically an 1800s version of my own Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers.

Roxie shook her head. “It’s even indexed, by hand.”

Well, sure – that made complete sense. I indexed my hand-written notes too. This Evangeline was a smart cookie.

A low moan echoed from the back of the house. The hairs on my arms stood on end as a chill ran through me.

I handed the diary to Roxie. “Keep this. See what else you run across. I’m going to find my dad.”

My breath hitched as I moved into the next room, a small kitchen. The linoleum was gritty under my feet. Bloody messages trailed up the country wallpaper. They called for Zatar.

Oh no, Dad.

Sweat slicked my palms.

Where was he?

The walls groaned and shifted. I could taste the rotten fear of this place.

The zombie crow skittered across the counter toward me.

“Caw!”

“Go away,” I said under my breath.

“Caw!” Its milky white eyes followed me.

There were no doors in this part of the house, no way to escape. It was like walking farther and farther into the mouth of the whale. And the sadistic thing was ready to swallow me whole.

“Lizzie.” His voice barely carried from the next room.

A small flood of cockroaches skittered out from under the door. “Lizzie?”

      
“Dad?” My hand traced down to where my switch stars used to be. “I’m coming. Hold on.”

      
Steady does it.

      
I cracked open the door. Dad lay sprawled on the floor next to a makeshift altar. His chest heaved, and his breath came in small pants.

This did not look good. For one thing, I could smell the sulfur. For another, Dad looked…off.

I stopped. Every stick of furniture in the room had been shoved aside to make room for the hideous altar.

      
It had been cobbled together with rough stones, masonry and animal bones. At least I hoped they were animal bones. Fluid oozed from cracks in the stone and fire had blackened one entire side of the structure. A bronze bowl at the top held a low-burning flame.

      
Holy hoodoo.

“Whatcha doing?” I tried to sound casual, but it came out more than a little panicked. Hells bells – what was he trying to pull?

      
This was starting to look like a Zatar love fest.

      
He’s been helping the demon.

      
Or had he just been trying to survive?

      
Dad wore a pair of blue striped pajama pants. Strange symbols snaked over his chest and arms. I tried to make them out, but they were nothing I’d ever seen before. As I drew closer, I realized they were sliced into his chest. Blood dried crisp on the edges of the wounds.

Over his heart, I saw a twisted sickle.

      
Dad followed my gaze. “The name of the demon,” he said, tears in his eyes.

      
“Did you put it there?” I asked breathlessly.

He shook his head hard and mouthed, “No.”

“We can fix this,” I said, feeling like scum. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even want to know this stuff, much less stand there unarmed at the altar of Zatar. “I have to get you out of here.” Maybe if he got out of this house, away from the altar and the dead things, we could fix him.

We could at least wash this junk off his chest. Then maybe Roxie would know what to do.

Dad seemed to be thinking the same thing. He reached a hand up to me.

“Can you stand?” I asked, moving behind him, trying to lift him off the wall. He was heavier than he looked, a dead weight.

“You came back,” he said, patting me faintly on the arm. A half run-over chipmunk clambered out from under the mattress.

“Of course I came back,” I said, lifting him. “Help me, okay? We’ve got to get out of here.”

He nodded his head weakly.

I felt the power building in the room. We were ticking somebody off. And if they noticed Dad standing, they were really going to feel it once I got him moving.

“Hurry,” I urged, as he wobbled on his feet.

“Lizzie,” he said, his breath pained.

The mattress shuffled against the wall.

“Don’t talk,” I said, leaning back so I could see his face. He looked so much older than when I’d first seen him. He held on to my arm, then reached out to me with the other hand, as if we were meeting for the first time.

“What?” I asked, taking his hand in mine. It was a comfortable gesture, familiar and yet as soon as his fingers closed around mine, I sensed a change in him.

Power surged through the room, shaking the walls.

“Dad!” I tried to pull away, but his hand locked around mine.

He gasped for breath, groaning under an unseen weight. “Don’t let go, Lizzie. Don’t ever let me go.”

I gasped as the floor cracked under our feet. Red light churned underneath.

“Jump!” I hollered as a portal opened directly below us.

It was too late. Dad fell.

He clutched me tightly, and I didn’t let go as the churning mass swallowed us whole.

Chapter Seventeen

The portal spit us out between two trash bins overflowing with old beer cans, fast-food wrappers and muck. The air was damp and smelled like rot and urine.

“Stay here,” I said, helping my dad brace himself against a cold brick wall. Sirens blared in the distance. The silver portal snapped shut, abandoning us in a narrow alley.

“God, I hope Roxie knows where we went.” Because I didn’t have a clue.

The vortex had a powerful suction. I’d lost the Maglite, my grandma’s jar, even my ponytail holder. Tucking my hair behind my ears, I pulled the GPS out of my back pocket and flipped it open.

Error.

Yeah, I needed a $112 computer to tell me that.

The GPS had been a long shot at best. Still, I needed to figure out where we were.

To our left, past a teetering pile of boxes, I could see figures in the street. We’d risk that in a minute, once Dad had a chance to rest.

To our right, the alley ended in a brick wall covered with drab gray notices.

Need an escape? Haunt Jamaica! Call Millennium Travel!

Not in a million years.

2 for 1 tacos at Taco Bell

Pirate would like that.

EZ Soul Counseling: Clean up your eternal credit score

My stomach tingled. “Dad, I think we’re in trouble.”

He stood with a groan.

“No,” I said, backtracking toward him. “Don’t move.” I didn’t want him to panic. I was close enough to it myself.

He looked awful. “You’re weak,” I said, feeling his forehead. “You were just at the altar of a demon.”

He rubbed at his eyes. “At least I was still at home.”

Now we were in some kind of supernatural slum.

“I feel better,” he said, testing his arms.

“No, you don’t.” I really didn’t want him to come out from between the trashcans and see this.

He blinked, orienting himself. “I do. I feel stronger. It must be something in the air here.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, watching black clouds billow over dank gray skies.

The zombie rope’s jar bumped against my leg. Naturally I didn’t lose
him
.

I tipped the jar to get a better look and he slid sideways into the lid. “What is this thing anyway?” I asked dad.

He shrugged. “A simple compulsion spell,” he answered. “My mom used to give them to me when I first started driving.” He softened at the memory. “They helped me find my way home.”

I watched as the zombie rope coiled along the bottom of the jar. “This one seems to have taken on a life of its own.”

Dad watched. “It was only supposed to help you to Pasadena.”

“What do you think, buddy?”

He stood on end and sniffed his nub at the air, the gray silent type. If I wasn’t mistaken, he seemed perkier too.

What was it with this place?

Something clanged out on the street. I handed the zombie rope to my dad. “You guys stay here.” I’d check it out. I grabbed a trashcan lid along the way. At least they had metal ones here. I also picked up a nice-sized rock. I could only imagine what my dad must think. Here was his demon-slayer daughter in Birkenstocks and torn leather pants, swimming in a black T-shirt and carrying urban cavewoman weapons.

What can I say? I was in it for the glory.

I certainly wasn’t in it for the clothes.

The alley opened up on a city street swirling with debris. There wasn’t a car in sight. Instead, people with grayish skin wandered up and down. A trashcan had toppled on its side, spilling empty cups and even more wrappers.

Nobody seemed to care. These people were like empty shells. They bumped against street lights, unused parking meters and even each other with barely a nod of recognition.

      
There were no birds, no plants, nothing but gray streets, stone buildings and an eerie quiet. Compared to this, our brick alley seemed positively cheery.

      
My mouth went dry and my palms started to sweat. “This isn’t cold enough to be hell,” I said to myself, trying to look on the bright side.

      
“It’s purgatory,” my dad said.

      
Shock rocketed through me. “What?”

I had the sudden urge to run back to where our portal had been. Operative word being
had
. Our exit was long gone. And I sure didn’t know how to summon another portal – or get us out of here.

Skill #673 that I wish I knew – portal manipulation.

Rachmort spent six months out of the year in purgatory, ministering to lost souls, but he never told me how to get in – or out.

I tapped my rock against my trashcan shield, nervous. “I should have asked my mentor how to summon a portal.”

“Demon slayers don’t do that,” Dad said.

Yet another thing I planned to change.

      
Dad raised himself up off the wall and came to stand next to me, stronger and more balanced than he’d been since I saw him in the wall of fire. I checked his skin tone, then mine. Both were pink as a baby’s butt. “You look…good.”