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“Shut the fuck up.”
Over two hundred years ago, Willamina had walked into his father’s shop situated in a small village near Geneva, Switzerland. Damien had been unable to take his eyes off her silky blonde locks, rosy cheeks, and long neck. As she perused the ribbons, her mother fought with his father over making two ballgowns—something his father simply did not do. Clothing for men, yes. Tailoring, too. But Greystone and Sons did not make ballgowns.
“But the dressmaker is ill, and my daughter leaves in two weeks for London. She is to stay with her aunt and uncle and come out!” her mother had argued.
Damien could tell from his father’s stern gaze that he would not bend.
“I will do it.” Damien stood from his workbench. “I can make the dresses.”
“You?” His father raised a dark brow.
“I merely need a sketch of the garments and your daughter’s measurements.” Damien knew this might end in disaster, but the chance to see Willamina one last time felt worth it. The coy smile she gave him also helped.
Desperate, the mother agreed, and he went to work. Night and day for fourteen days, Damien hand stitched two extravagant dresses, leaving no detail untouched. Each stitch was carefully placed to match the contour of her feminine curves, tiny floral embellishments lined every hem, and the silk lining would caress her like a soft glove. He’d put his heart and soul into the garments, knowing that every time she wore them, she would think of him.
Finally, the day came to see her again. Damien had washed up, combed his hair, and put on his church clothes. He hung the dresses in the window so Willamina would see them the moment her carriage pulled up.
“You are wasting your time, son,” his father had said. “A fine woman like that will never feel safe around you. And rightly so.”
All Damien wanted was to watch her face light up when she took in the statement of his affection. “I know, Father. But you always say to treat the customer like royalty. I am merely a humble servant, hoping I’ve pleased a queen.”
But Damien would never get to see the expression on her face. The mother had sent a servant to pick up the dresses. In fact, he would not see Willamina again for several years when she returned a married lady. That was the moment his innocent affection turned into something else. Something he would regret always.
Just as the sunrise turned the LA sky to pink, Damien’s cell phone rang on his nightstand, jarring him from his dark memories. He walked inside and grabbed it, wondering who would be calling at this hour. “Greystone here.”
“Boss? It’s MF.”
“Yes?”
“We’ve had a little incident at the shop. You need to come.”
He looked at his watch. It was just past six a.m. Why was MF at the store so early? “What is the matter?”
“Just come.” She ended the call.
He hoped it wasn’t a fire. Or even worse, Bonbon killed someone by sucking all the love out of them. Very rare, but it happened.
Damien hit the shower. He’d have to grab the fairy and head out to San Diego straight after going to the store.
Damien needed to be hunting down clues, so whatever this was, it’d better be good. The gods expected answers by tomorrow, and he still had no leads. What really made Pet an outlier? Why hadn’t she been zapped off the planet and sent to the Underworld? Was it that bunker? Had she even been inside it nine months ago? He wouldn’t know until he saw the place and, if very lucky, got the opportunity to interview her friends.
Damien parked his red Porsche in the spot behind his shop. He grabbed his travel bag containing his tools and one very annoyed fairy and entered through the back door leading to the workshop. Today was supposed to be exceptionally warm, so he wore his favorite black linen suit with a crisp white linen shirt—unbuttoned at the top, no tie—and a pair of extra-starchy boxers.
Damien entered, expecting to find chaos, but the workshop had been cleaned. MF must’ve straightened up. He pulled open one of the long drawers mounted on the wall.
Impressive.She’d even organized his spools by color.
“MF? Bonbon?” he called out, noticing the whirring sound of a motor.
Damien entered the storefront, finding Bonbon in his little bed, lying belly up. He was in a food coma, drool sliding off his long pink tongue into a puddle on the floor.
“Boss! You’re here!” MF came from the dressing room, dragging the vacuum cleaner. She was wearing a respectable outfit—red pencil skirt, black flats, and a cream-colored cardigan. Nothing underneath the sweater. And yes, her nipples could be seen through the fabric, but this was still a big improvement.
“So who did he kill?” Damien jerked his head at Bonbon.
“Kill? No one.”
“Then why’s he lying like that?”
