witches.
“How’s your leg?” Dimitri asked, inspecting the bandage.
“The feeling is starting to come back,” I said, the greatest understatement of the year. My entire leg burned from the knee up. It was like coming off a giant dose of Novocaine.
The insect snarled inside a jar on the side table. The zombie rope had disintegrated to ash along the bottom, no doubt trying to hide. “Any theories on what this is?” I asked.
“It’s a pressure bug,” Grandma said. “I’d never seen one, but I’ve read about them. They try to get under your skin. Literally. Then they hijack your free will.”
No kidding.
“What is Dad caught up in? This was worse than the banshees.” And here I thought a mini-horde of acid spitting creatures was my problem.
Ant Eater held up the jar, watching the bug slam against the glass. “No angel, fallen or otherwise would have access to something like this.” She gave me a stern look. “It has demon written all over it.”
“So what do we do with it?” I asked.
“Test it,” Dimitri said to Grandma.
She blanched. “I can’t touch something that evil.”
“Then what do we do?” Ant Eater asked.
I watched the creature attack the lid of the jar. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Eight
“Lizzie!” Pirate dashed through the crowd of witches and jumped right onto my leg, nailing me with a prickling pain.
“Baby dog.” I let him nuzzle under my arm and sniff Grandma’s jar on the table next to me.
“That’s it? That’s the bug? Shoot. I’ve eaten bigger bugs than this for dessert. You want me to chomp it?”
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but not this time.”
I’d spare my attacker from death-by-dog. I wanted to observe it, learn more about it. Besides, Pirate didn’t need to be eating enchanted creatures.
It was bad enough he’d adopted a dragon.
“He looks crunchy. I like crunchy bugs,” Pirate said. “You change your mind, you tell me. ’Cause you know I’ll eat anything.”
Did I ever.
“Ho-boy.” Pirate scrabbled against me. His whole body quivered as he attempted to slather every inch of the jar in dog nose. “You didn’t tell me it was magic!”
“What are you talking about? It’s not -” Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule. “Grandma. Take a look at this.”
My attacker was no longer a red insect. It twisted upon itself, chest heaving, wings collapsing. It bent and flattened until it morphed into a fleshy, plasticky lump. It reminded me of the silly putty I used to play with as a kid. But this thing was hard. It shimmied against the glass, sounding like a wobbling penny.
Frieda, Sid and a half dozen other biker witches scooted back. Grandma, Dimitri and I moved closer.
She whistled under her breath. “Pressure bugs can’t do that.”
Dimitri watched it as if he’d cornered a viper. “That was never a pressure bug.”
A bad feeling crept over me. For the love of Pete. “I can’t believe it’s worse than a demonic bug.”
The rope cowered as the bug-turned-blob gained momentum and began slamming against the side of the jar.
I stood to get closer, trying not to wince as pain shot through my thigh. As long as the leg didn’t buckle, I’d be okay. If I was going to be a big, bad demon slayer, it would look better if I didn’t wipe out on the floor.
Grandma pulled out a pair of reading glasses with rhinestones clustered in the corners and went nose-to-nose with the jar. “I hate it when Dimitri’s right.”
“Then what is it?” I asked, wanting – no, needing – answers.
Grandma lowered her glasses. “Dunno. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Wonderful. We were now testing the limits of biker witch knowledge.
Grandma spoke slowly. “We spent thirty years dealing with everything Vald had to throw at us from the fifth level of hell. I thought I’d seen everything.”
“What? Could this
“How’s your leg?” Dimitri asked, inspecting the bandage.
“The feeling is starting to come back,” I said, the greatest understatement of the year. My entire leg burned from the knee up. It was like coming off a giant dose of Novocaine.
The insect snarled inside a jar on the side table. The zombie rope had disintegrated to ash along the bottom, no doubt trying to hide. “Any theories on what this is?” I asked.
“It’s a pressure bug,” Grandma said. “I’d never seen one, but I’ve read about them. They try to get under your skin. Literally. Then they hijack your free will.”
No kidding.
“What is Dad caught up in? This was worse than the banshees.” And here I thought a mini-horde of acid spitting creatures was my problem.
Ant Eater held up the jar, watching the bug slam against the glass. “No angel, fallen or otherwise would have access to something like this.” She gave me a stern look. “It has demon written all over it.”
“So what do we do with it?” I asked.
“Test it,” Dimitri said to Grandma.
She blanched. “I can’t touch something that evil.”
“Then what do we do?” Ant Eater asked.
I watched the creature attack the lid of the jar. “I don’t know.”
Chapter Eight
“Lizzie!” Pirate dashed through the crowd of witches and jumped right onto my leg, nailing me with a prickling pain.
“Baby dog.” I let him nuzzle under my arm and sniff Grandma’s jar on the table next to me.
“That’s it? That’s the bug? Shoot. I’ve eaten bigger bugs than this for dessert. You want me to chomp it?”
“Thanks for the offer,” I said, “but not this time.”
I’d spare my attacker from death-by-dog. I wanted to observe it, learn more about it. Besides, Pirate didn’t need to be eating enchanted creatures.
It was bad enough he’d adopted a dragon.
“He looks crunchy. I like crunchy bugs,” Pirate said. “You change your mind, you tell me. ’Cause you know I’ll eat anything.”
Did I ever.
“Ho-boy.” Pirate scrabbled against me. His whole body quivered as he attempted to slather every inch of the jar in dog nose. “You didn’t tell me it was magic!”
“What are you talking about? It’s not -” Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the mule. “Grandma. Take a look at this.”
My attacker was no longer a red insect. It twisted upon itself, chest heaving, wings collapsing. It bent and flattened until it morphed into a fleshy, plasticky lump. It reminded me of the silly putty I used to play with as a kid. But this thing was hard. It shimmied against the glass, sounding like a wobbling penny.
Frieda, Sid and a half dozen other biker witches scooted back. Grandma, Dimitri and I moved closer.
She whistled under her breath. “Pressure bugs can’t do that.”
Dimitri watched it as if he’d cornered a viper. “That was never a pressure bug.”
A bad feeling crept over me. For the love of Pete. “I can’t believe it’s worse than a demonic bug.”
The rope cowered as the bug-turned-blob gained momentum and began slamming against the side of the jar.
I stood to get closer, trying not to wince as pain shot through my thigh. As long as the leg didn’t buckle, I’d be okay. If I was going to be a big, bad demon slayer, it would look better if I didn’t wipe out on the floor.
Grandma pulled out a pair of reading glasses with rhinestones clustered in the corners and went nose-to-nose with the jar. “I hate it when Dimitri’s right.”
“Then what is it?” I asked, wanting – no, needing – answers.
Grandma lowered her glasses. “Dunno. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Wonderful. We were now testing the limits of biker witch knowledge.
Grandma spoke slowly. “We spent thirty years dealing with everything Vald had to throw at us from the fifth level of hell. I thought I’d seen everything.”
“What? Could this
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