The Dangerous Book for Demon Slayers by Angie Fox Read Free Book Online

wouldn't have
been strange, except for a certain person in almost every picture—me.
    I was so shocked I almost slid right down onto the glass-covered couch.
There was no way Phil could have been there to take pictures of my college
graduation, my stint as a molar in
Tommy and the Toothbrush
, the time
I'd trashed my dollhouse in the name of science.
    Impossible.
    Illogical.
    The glass crunched under my bronze butt plate as I leaned over as far as I
could. There I was at the sixth-grade science fair, powering up my dollhouse
with a potato, and was that my old retainer, on his bookshelf, encased in
glass? Of all the things I could have expected, this wasn't it.
    I braced my hands on the pillow and concentrated on taking long, even breaths.
There had to be a logical explanation for this.
    Yeah, right.
    I'd never even seen Uncle Phil, technically my great-uncle. He was part of
the package that came with meeting my real family. And that had only started
happening a few weeks ago.
    Legs shaking, I scrambled off the couch to inspect a picture of Pirate right
after I'd picked him up at the Paws for Love pet adoption event. Phil had been
there.
    Grandma hadn't known how to find me until I'd grown into my powers. You'd
think Phil would have helped out, or heck, introduced himself. In an eerie way,
I didn't know whether to be wigged out at the idea of him following me all of
these years or to be glad someone, anyone—besides my parents'
housekeeper—had actually made it to some of the most important events in
my life. My adoptive parents, it seemed, always had a party or a charity
function or a tennis match. Unless it was a "see and be seen" kind of
event. Then they'd spend the whole time talking to other people.
    From the look of it, Phil had been there for everything. And he'd certainly
brought plenty of film. But why hadn't he said anything?
    More albums crowded two tall bookcases that flanked the entrance to the
kitchen. I walked over to take a closer look and—holy moly. He had copies
of my diaries. Every journal I'd kept since I'd learned how to write. I pulled
one off the shelf.
    Pages and pages of badly drawn horses—mine—from the days when
I'd wanted to be a jockey. That was before I grew hips. And a butt.
    I slammed the book closed.
    "Aw, hell." Grandma poked her head through the window behind me,
her long gray hair tangling around her shoulders. "I was wondering what
took you so long to open the door."
    I turned to her, diary in hand. "You're not going to believe
this."
    "Try me."
    I unlocked Phil's door and flung it open. "Uncle Phil is an insane,
lunatic stalker."
    Grandma didn't look convinced. "Nah. He's just your fairy
godfather."
    "Fairy what?" I asked, scarcely believing what I'd heard.
    "Not
that
kind of fairy."
    "Excuse me?" This didn't make any sense.
    "You need me to draw you a picture? Uncle Phil is your fairy godfather.
You know, a guardian type, a do-gooder, bibbity bobbity boo and shit."
    I opened my mouth, then closed it. I didn't know what to think.
    A flicker of warmth caught hold of me. I thought I'd been all alone. For
years, it was simply me. Then it was me and Pirate. I didn't know anyone else
had truly cared.
    "I have a fairy godfather," I said, letting it sink in. I was sooo
not Cinderella.
    A black and silver Mind Wiper buzzed past Grandma's ear and dive-bombed me.
I dodged and flicked it back into the front yard. "Out!" I told the
wiper. Those things better leave my dog alone. Pirate chased spells like they
were fireflies.
    Dread tickled the back of my neck. "Where is Pirate?"
    She snorted. "Playing rescue dog."
    I stared at her incredulously. "You mind-wiped my dog?"
    Grandma looked offended. "Of course not," she said. "He ate
Peter."
    Dang it. Reason #512 why live spells are a bad idea. I scanned Phil's barren
front yard for any sign of my dog. When I didn't find any, I squeezed past
Grandma and dashed for the back of the house.
    "Oh, come on, Lizzie. Pirate's having a ball." Grandma