“Remember, no opening the fridge just in case it’s a long one,” Flo stated as she returned carrying a candle with a flickering flame. She set it on the living room table—actually a chest I’d saved from the garbage men on the curb—and then plopped another pair of wax tapers beside it, which she lit.

“Really wishing I’d grabbed the chip dip before it happened,” I groaned. Regular chips really needed something to sauce them with. “Let me see if Hydro Ottawa has an estimate on repair.” I pulled out my phone and would have loaded their app, which had an outage section giving estimates on restoration time, only… “This is odd. I’m not getting any signal.”

“Me either,” Flo stated with a frown. “Must be a big outage if the cell towers aren’t working.”

No shit. Only happened once that I recalled when a derecho ripped through the west end of Ottawa. However, “It didn’t storm today.” While overcast and slightly cool for late summer, the cloudy skies hadn’t dumped any precipitation, and the wind lacked enough force to make the windchimes by my front door rattle.

“Probably some meathead drove his car or truck into a transformer.”

“Could be. Or maybe it’s the wildlife finally coming after humanity,” I half joked. No way of knowing, though, because the Facebook group I followed for local news couldn’t be loaded without data. The lack of contact with the online world had me jittery. Did I rely on my phone too much? Yup. I don’t know how the previous generations managed to survive without instant access to information.

“Wanna drink?” Flo asked. “No ice, obviously, but I could whip us up something with an unopened bottle of juice in the pantry, and I’m pretty sure we have a half-bottle of tequila in the liquor cabinet.”

According to my still pounding head? “I will never drink again,” I groaned.

Flo snickered. “You’re such a hangover princess. Hair of the dog would fix you right up.”

“Pretty sure hair of the cat in my wine last night is what has me feeling like reheated shit on a stick.” Speaking of cat… “Have you seen Cedric?”

“Not since before dinner last night. Why?”

“Just wondering.” Maybe that mangy cur had finally decided he’d rather live elsewhere. A girl could hope. On social media, cats were cute and cuddly and snuggly little fur balls of love. Cedric, whom I’d inherited, along with Grams’ house, was a black, sly, mean feline who did his claws on the brand-new leather couch I’d bought.

In the silence of no television, no humming fridge, no whirring anything, a strange ululation from outside raised the hairs on my body but not my head. My tight curls had been sprayed with enough product so as to not move even in a monsoon.

“What the fuck was that?” Flo exclaimed.

“Probably teenagers thinking they’re funny.” Once upon a time, I’d have been that annoying kid trying to spook the neighbors. Now, at the ripe age of thirty-six, I was the woman on her front porch at Halloween screaming, “Egg my house and I will make you regret your mother didn’t swallow.” In my defense, dried yolk stuck like glue to painted wooden siding. Also, it should be noted, I’d handed out a shit-ton of candy. The teens should have come by earlier if they wanted any because, at nine, I turned off my porch light and ate what remained.

With nothing else to do, me and Flo pressed our faces to the window as if we could see in the dark. We couldn’t, which made the blood-curdling scream in the distance all the freakier.

“Did you hear that?” Flo whispered.

“Yeah.”

“Is the door locked?” she then asked, her voice quavering.

“Always.” Ottawa might be safer than some cities, but women on their own always took precautions even in decent neighborhoods.

“Still no internet or even cell service,” Flo lamented as she flopped back onto the couch.

“You still offering drinks? I could use a stiff shot.” I tried to ask lightheartedly and yet couldn’t help a slight hitch as yet another scream rang out.

“Should we be getting drunk with the apocalypse upon us?”

“Is there a better time?”

“I’m just thinking we night need booze as currency you know so we don’t have to bargain with our bodies.”

“While your forethought is admirable, this is not the apocalypse,” I retorted with more conviction than I felt. Yes, a part of me understood power failures happened, more often than I liked and usually during my favorite show, The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives, but something about this particular one felt off.

“Says you. I’m thinking I might feel better with a weapon.”

“Take your pick. Baseball bat by the bed or kitchen knife?”

“A bat has more reach,” she mused just as we heard a noise from the kitchen. Flo’s wide eyes almost fell out of her head. “What was that?”

“Cat door.” Guess Cedric, the roaming tom cat, had returned.

“Kitty!” Flo exclaimed, her expression brightening. Despite his less-than-cuddly nature, she’d not given up on getting Cedric to like her. Me, I couldn’t care less. I’d always been more of a dog lover.

Flo grabbed a lit candle and headed for the kitchen, determined to pet the borderline rabid cat. “Here, kitty, kitty,” she crooned while I rolled my eyes.

“What are you doing hiding up—Eek!” The strident scream sent me bolting for the kitchen to see Flo standing frozen, candle held aloft, staring at something overhead.

My gaze tracked upward, and my jaw dropped at the sight of the scaly winged creature clinging to the hanging pot rack. The moment it noticed me, it uttered a hiss and launched itself.

I don’t know where my sudden Matrix abilities came from, maybe those years I spent in gymnastics, but I twisted to the side, and it flew past me, smacking into the wall.

“Oh, my gawd, there’s a bat in the house!” Flo screeched, which totally helped my own panic.

I grabbed a stool and held it in front of me as the thing—which definitely resembled a bat if it had been dropped in a mutant vat of radioactive waste—got to its feet and bared its teeth in my direction.

It appeared to have a hate on for me. Guess it sensed I wasn’t an animal person, as once more, ignoring Flo, it lunged for me. I swung the stool. Thwap. I connected and sent the critter flying and hitting the side of the kitchen island. It didn’t seem to care I’d now batted it aside twice because it stood up on scratchy clawed toes and came for me again. Only this time, Flo, who’d recovered her wits, smashed it in the head with a frying pan. Not one. Not twice. She kept smacking the mutant bat until it stopped moving.

“I think it’s dead,” I muttered, seeing as how Flo stood poised to hit it again.

“Every time they say that in the movies, it always comes back to life,” her logical reply.

We both stared at it, waiting for it to twitch, but instead of recovering, its body caved in—literally. It lost all shape, like a balloon deflating, and turned into a smoking pile of goo.

Unexpected and freaky and Flo understandably screeched, “What the fuck was that?”

“A demon, you moron,” stated a dry, very masculine voice.

I should mention there were no men in the house, hence why I screeched, “Who said that?” as I whirled with my stool, seeking the source of the snarky speaker.

“Me, and now I guess I should prepare for more screaming,” riposted the same male voice.

“What the fuck?” I still saw no one.

“Uh, Charlie. I think it was kitty.” Flo pointed, and my gaze tracked downwards and settled on Cedric sitting in front of the pet door.

“Fuck off, Flo. Not funny. There’s someone in the house.”

“Every day I understand more and more why your grandmother thought you weren’t worthy to teach.” I heard the words, saw the cat’s mouth open and shutting, but reconciling the two…

I closed my eyes and shook my head. “Like hell. Must be a gas leak or something making us high and hallucinating.”

“Wish I was high right now instead of dealing with you two. Alas, we are all annoyingly sober.”

My eyes shot open. “Cats don’t talk.”

“Regular felines don’t, but I’m special and not in the hockey-helmet, window-licking type of way like you.”

I blinked as I absorbed his comment. “Did you just call me stupid?”

“Look at you with a grasp of the English language.” Cedric’s mouth kept moving, and it hit me like a serious ton of bricks.

“Holy fuck. You really can talk!”

“No shit. Now if you’re done stating the obvious, I do believe there are more demons coming.”

“Demons? Demons aren’t real,” I squeaked.

“Tell that to the one you killed.”

I glanced at the goo, which had mostly evaporated, leaving a scorched mark on the floor. “That wasn’t a mutant bat?”

“Nope. That was a demon. A minor imp if we’re being technical.”

“What’s it doing in my house?”

“Likely coming after the person who summoned it. Duh. You see, demons are usually contained to the Infernal dimension, but someone”—Cedric fixed me with a baleful yellow glare—“decided to cast a spell she didn’t understand and opened a portal, allowing them to enter our world.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Only, I suddenly recalled—a bit fuzzily—the night before pulling out Grams’ Grimoire and flipping through it while smashing two bottles of wine with Flo. Pretty sure there were a few joints involved too. We’d giggled at the names and descriptions of some of the spells, and I had a vague recollection of Flo saying, “Do it! I triple dog dare you.”

Dare me to do what, you might wonder. Apparently summon demons.

And to think it all began with a phone call telling me Grams, a horrid woman I’d avoided like the plague, had died.

Chapter 1

Before my dumb ass summoned demons…

My cell phone rang while I was at work, the caller ID showing Smith & Clarke Legal Services. Most likely spam, but given my boredom—and love of fucking with scammers—I answered.

“Hello, can I help you?”

“Good afternoon, ma’am. I am Adam Clarke of Smith and Clarke Legal Services. Am I speaking to Ms. Charlotte Alice Miller?”

“Yes.” The use of my full name didn’t surprise. Scammers tended to know the basics of the people they called.

“You are the daughter of Ava Danielle Miller.”

“I should hope so since she claimed her vag was never the same after she pushed out my fat head.”

Not even a chuckle. “You are the granddaughter of Alice Ava Miller?”

I rolled my eyes. “Also yes. What’s this about?”

“Your grandmother recently passed, and as her only surviving heir, you’ve inherited her assets.”

My first reaction? A vehement, “Fuck off.”

“Excuse me?”

“Surely you could come up with something more believable. No way that old bat died and left me her shit.”

“I assure you, Mrs. Miller has indeed passed of natural causes. As per her final wishes, there will be no funeral and her remains are to be cremated. As her executor, it is my duty to locate the heirs mentioned in her will.”

“Doubt my name was in it.” Although she might have referred to me as that unholy bastard or that wretched disappointment.

“You weren’t specified by name. However, the will states the entirety of Mrs. Miller’s assets are to be divided among her direct descendants. With Mrs. Miller’s daughter, your mother, being deceased, that leaves you, her granddaughter, as the only living heir.”

“Pretty sure she didn’t mean to do that. Grams hated me.” Hated everyone actually. But me, she seemed particularly vehement toward. Why must you slouch? Get out in the sun and darken your skin, you’re embarrassing our ancestors. Do something about that rat’s nest of hair.

“Very sure, Ms. Miller. How soon can we meet to go over the details of the estate?”

Knowing how Grams lived, I doubted it would amount to much. For my birthday, I never got a gift but rather unwanted advice. Only whores need taxies after midnight. Never marry for love because their poor ass will leave you high and dry with a baby. Never accept handouts because that means they’re looking down on you. And my favorite, If at first you don’t succeed, it’s probably because you’re stupid.

Despite not expecting much, two days later, I found myself in Mr. Clarke’s office, a nicer one than I would have expected given my Grams’ finances. The lawyer, a portly man in his fifties, walked me through the probate process, which, for the uninitiated, involved many headaches and a whole lot of frustration. While Grams surprisingly had registered a proper will, that turned out to be the only organized thing she did. I soon found out her idea of filing involved stuffing bills in the most random places or using the paper as liners for the bottom of the kitty litter box.

Oh yeah, me who’d never had a pet, suddenly owned a black cat named Cedric who didn’t like me, seeing as how every time I caught his eye he hissed. I thought of rehoming the testy fucker, but that would involve getting close enough to stuff his ass into a cage. I valued my flesh too much to pit myself against his claws. Maybe he’d get eaten by a giant city rat when he went on one of his excursions. Grams had a pet door installed so he could come and go as he pleased. He must have spent a bunch of time roaming—and hunting—because, despite visiting every day to refill his kitty kibble and water dish, neither ever seemed to be touched. Thinking he hated the brand I’d bought, because, of course, I couldn’t locate what Grams fed him, I tried different varieties; dried nuggets, wet pate, cans of tuna—which stank! None of it got eaten, but I consoled myself with the fact I tried.

To my surprise, it turned out Grams owned her home, free and clear, and as her heir, I inherited the hoarder’s paradise. All the rooms except for the kitchen and bathroom held stacks of eclectic junk, clothing, and books. But in good news, despite the mess, I saw no sign of rodents or bugs. While the house might have been brimming with stuff, Grams kept it clean.

Seeing as how Grams didn’t trust banks, I had no idea how she paid her bills. Apparently, late or not at all since I ended up with vultures—AKA debt collectors—hounding me for payment. Mr. Smith handled them, somehow finding the funds necessary to have them skulk away, but that left nothing for me. Pity, I could have used some cash.

I managed to hold on to the house only barely. I used my meager savings to pay the death tax owed on the property, which, given its derelict state, ended up with a lower-than-expected value despite its prime location in an established Kanata neighborhood. Since the property taxes and utilities combined for it amounted to less than my rent, I chose to move in and began the process of clearing it out.

Now you might wonder why I’m telling you this. I mean, you’re expecting a story about demons. Did I find one in a box I opened as I went room by room clearing out items? Nope. Just a bunch of weird knick-knacks that I took pictures of and posted on Kijiji and Facebook marketplace to make a few bucks. Turned out plenty of folks wanted the inappropriate statue of a fat dude bending over an equally voluptuous woman and the oversized wooden spoon and fork. As I discovered items, I put them online. Most surprisingly sold, and those that didn’t, I donated.

As the piles of junk began to disappear, I discovered the house might be more awesome than I initially thought. It had original wood floors and molding, which, with a bit of elbow work, would look nice and new again. I could have done without the layers of wallpaper that needed peeling, though.

It took several weeks to get the place habitable because, hey, a girl had to work, and given I’d landed a cushy government job—with benefits—I knew better than to do anything to screw up the easy gig. My bestie, Florence—who went by Flo—moved in with me once the second bedroom became usable, making my monthly bills even easier to manage. With my expenses greatly reduced, I’d finally be able to save up enough for that Caribbean cruise I’d always longed to go on.

Okay, so now that we’d covered Grams’ death and my inheritance, time to remind you about the books I mentioned. Before you imagine some awesome bodice rippers, or encyclopedias, I should mention those dusty tomes—some of them actually handwritten and bound in leather—turned out to all be devoted to the arcane. AKA magic. Witchery. Monsters. Wild stuff with crazy images and incantations that Flo theorized might be worth money to the right collector.

“Dude, there’s people who will pay big bucks for this kind of shit,” Flo insisted.

As I flipped through a cookbook of spells with mind-boggling ingredients—a drop of blood from a virgin’s hymen, the skin of a toad who’d never seen the full moon—and even crazier titles—How to Hex an Annoying Neighbor, Make Your Garden Grow Without Burying a Body, Trapping a Pesky Fairy—I shook my head. “Mom never mentioned Grams was a witch.”

“Don’t be so sure. I mean could be we mistook a few of those bitches she tossed around,” Flo stated, reminding me of Mom’s most oft used term when it came to my Grams. Some people had warm and fuzzy relationships with their grandmothers. Not me, or my mom for that matter.

My mother had only rarely popped in for visits, probably because those short meetings usually involved insults—You ever going to make something of yourself? Good fucking grief, what kind of trash are you wearing? Can’t believe I raised a whore who had a child out of wedlock. The barbs weren’t limited to my mom either. Grams used to cluck her tongue and shake her head at the sight of me. I was too chunky as a youngster. Then too thin as teen. My hair too kinky—especially compared to an old lady who kept hers buzzed short. Why did I have to be so nosy? I mean, can you blame a kid for being curious about the many strange treasures scattered around? Exploring the maze of paths through the precarious towers was how I entertained myself when mom did her filial duty.

Of course, that curiosity didn’t come without chastisement. Don’t touch that. Don’t read that. Break anything and I will skin you.

As a teen, I’d asked my mom, “Why do you bother visiting? Grams hates us.”

The reply? “I know she’s unpleasant, but she’s my mother.”

Not an excuse I accepted, and when my mom passed—fluke accident where an air conditioner fell from a window and bonked her in the head—I saw no reason to subject myself to the verbal abuse. No more visits with Grams. I spent a lovely fourteen years without being criticized.

Oops, off topic again. You want to know about the demons. Right. So anyhow, back to the books on magic and shit. I made a spreadsheet with titles—if they had one—authors—of which many of the tomes seemed to lack any—and a basic summary of the content. I then searched online for a starting price before I placed the first one on eBay for auction.

I started with the one titled Herbology for the Arcanely Gifted. It seemed to be in the best shape with an actual title page that listed the author and publisher—Jinxed and Blotted, which no longer seemed to exist.

To my shock, within twenty-four hours, my starting price of fifty dollars ballooned. At the end of the seven-day auction, I had someone offering me five thousand three hundred dollars.

Ka-ching. I mailed out that sucker soon as the payment hit my account even as I expected the buyer to bail or cancel or chargeback. Given my trepidation—because who the fuck would pay that much for a joke of a book?—I put the money from the sale into a savings account and didn’t touch it for a month. But it turned out to not be an anomaly because the second dusty book, How to Train Your Fairies, fetched even more.

The success led to Flo saying, “Maybe we should hold off selling for a bit. You know, until we find out more about the books.”

“Find out what? I’ve searched for them online, and it’s like they don’t exist.”

“Well, obviously they must be known in some circles, or we wouldn’t have people getting into bidding wars,” she countered.

“No accounting for folks’ weird taste.” But Flo had a point. Was I underselling the tomes? Could it be the right collector would pay even more? How would I even find them?

I held off posting any more of Grams’ collection, meaning to delve deeper into their origin, only life got busy. AKA, I went on a few dates with a dude that seemed promising. Handsome. Employed. Awesome kisser. Pity he turned out to be married. Such a bummer and why I found myself in the living room on a Friday night, smoking a joke, drinking wine, lamenting life.

“I’ll never find a man.”

Which was when Flo exclaimed, “I’ll bet there’s a spell in one of those books to turn your love life around.”