The Last of the Demon Slayers

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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.

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