Page 22 of Bumpy, the Gargoyle Slayer

Down, boy.

Alas, it’s too late for orders.

The modiste, Mrs. Kwan, hurries over from the pile of fabrics she’s laid across the bed. “We’re ready again, Mr. D’Ange. Miss Winters.” She gestures towards the bed before holding out her hand to take my fake-girlfriend’s. When Bunny extends her fingers and stands, Mrs. Kwan grabs her and examines each digit, frowning. “What a mess. We’ll have to work on your nails, and I suggest a polish for your skin, too. Now, I’ve put the more luxurious fabrics along the base of the bed. How many outfits are you envisioning?” But the last she says to me, over her shoulder, as she leads Bunny away from where I sit next to the demolished chair.

Right. Math. Roughly thirty days, three changes per day, maybe a few extra. “About a hundred outfits, give or take.”

“A hundred?” Mrs. Kwan and Bunny turn and gape at me at the same moment.

“Yes. Along with some ready-wear: swimsuit, underwear, lingerie, shoes, bags… that sort of thing.”

I cross my legs again and take care to look away from the small mirror on the desk, the one that handily reflects the larger mirror in the closet. Not that I’ll watch Bunny undress once it’s time for her to be measured. I’m not that kind of gargoyle, not like Simeon, who used to spy on the troisieme etage of the apartment complex across the way.

Poor Simeon. He burned in the fire.

And I’m burning in my own Hell, thinking of Bunny naked. Heavens, she’s lovely. All those curves. All that smooth skin. The scent of her. The pink of her flesh. I can’t wait to lap her up all over again.

I close my eyes and turn myself to stone from the chest down. Not all the way into gargoyle form, but enough so that I can’t feel anymore.

Much better.

Bunny soon loses herself in petting fabrics and approving images from the magazines Mrs. Kwan shows her. She’s got an eye for clothing.

Bumpy, the fashion slayer. She can slay me any time.

I push the thought right out of my head, but it lodges deep anyway, especially once Bunny moves into the closet to change down to her underwear. Resolutely, I close my eyes and try counting to sixteen-quintuplet-billion-seventy-nine-and-five, a nonsensical number that usually has me calculating rather than focusing on what I shouldn’t.

It’s no use. I hang my head in my hands to prevent me from breaking my own rules and peeping at her like some lecher. It’s not easy being a good monster. It’s a lot harder with such provocation standing less than twenty feet away.

I keep the position while Mrs. Kwan finishes measuring my fake-girlfriend, and only raise my head when they both re-enter the bedroom.

“I have a team of twenty I can call in. I’ll send the daywear over first, a few options at a time, as daywear is the easiest. The evening dresses will take longer since fit is so important. We’ll set up final alterations for the end of this week and have everything by the weekend. Is that suitable?”

I raise my brow in question, seeking Bunny’s response.

“Don’t look at me, gargoy—er, Alain. I’m fine with off the rack.”

Mrs. Kwan’s face tightens.

“That will be fine, Mrs. Kwan, but send the ready-wear purchases by tomorrow, if you would. Thirty of everything for now. No budget.”

Mrs. Kwan’s eyes gleam. Humans are obsessed with money. I can see her making calculations in her head.

Once Mrs. Kwan leaves, Bunny sinks down onto the bed. She doesn’t seem to realize what a tantalizing sight she makes in connection to the furniture. Dressed in loaned clothing from Mrs. Dumay, the too-loose pants cinched with a belt, she’s still too lovely for my state of mind.

“I’ve never been so tired in my entire life,” she moans, before flopping back.

“Etiquette lessons and fittings will do that.” Don’t look at her with lust, Alain. Be a gargoyle, not a troll. “Will you be up to dining out tonight at a restaurant? I’ve got an eight o’clock reservation at Le Tour.” I name the hottest restaurant in Manhattan. Paparazzi always hang outside like damp bats, hoping to catch the rich and famous unaware. I intend for them to catch us.

That’s the whole point of this pretense, after all, though it’s easy to forget.

“I’ll be okay.” She sits up again. “I could use some caffeine, though. And a nice hot bath. I love being in water.”

“There’s a pool up on the roof under a glass enclosure. You can have a nice swim. I’ll call in the hair and makeup people and have them ready.”

“My clothes…”

“I ordered an outfit for you while you were failing etiquette lessons. From Coco. Shoes and handbag, too.”