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I hate those.“Goddess, may I ask, and please do not take this the wrong way, but if what you say is true, then how areyoustill here?”
“Ah! Well, the initial blast nine months ago sent us gods to the Underworld, too, but we escaped through a secret demon portal in the Underworld’s janitor closet—a long story. Unfortunately, the journey reshuffled my and my thirteen brethren’s powers. Demon portals are very nasty. Sort of like a blender that smells like raw sewage. Now I am the Goddess of Death and War.”
Cimil has Votan’s powers? Not good.Votan, like the other male deities, was seven feet of battle-ready ruthlessness. Damien recalled the first time he’d fitted him for a tux. Even with Damien’s height, six feet and three inches, he’d had to use a stepladder to take Votan’s measurements. His point was that Votan had been born for the role of leading the gods’ army. Cimil was, well, Cimil. Crazy as fuck.
“I am sorry to hear of your predicament, goddess, but how can I possibly be of help?”
“Cut the crap, Greystone. We know who you are—armed forces, bounty hunter, supernatural weapons expert.”
That wasn’t exactly true. He’d served inanarmy long, long ago. Think muskets and swords. As for being a bounty hunter, that was also a stretch. He’d hunted the occasional creature, but he’d been more of a hunter of information. Supernatural weapons, though? Yes, he knew about those. But why were the gods snooping into his past?
“I also know about your other little secret,” Cimil said.
Did she mean Bonbon? He hoped not.
“Whichthatare you referring to?” he said, playing dumb.
“You were once a fixer.”
Phew.“Oh,thatthat.” Damien reached for his apron and grabbed his shears, getting back to the tweed coat. He did not want to anger Cimil—always a bad idea—but he’d hung up the weapons long ago. And for good reason.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, goddess, but I am no longer that man. I tailor suits, shirts, and the occasional pair of extra-large underpants for the God of Wine, but my killing days are over.”
“I’m not asking you to kill. I’m asking you tofix.We need you to do some digging and figure out how to reverse the effects of the blast, you being a supernatural weapons expert and all.”
He shook his head. His fixer days were over, too. Roughing people up, finding their vulnerabilities to silence them, extortion, and making people (or creatures) disappear. Yes, he had been good at it. Playing the thug came naturally to a man like himself. But going back to that dark place in his life? Never.
“I have no one to look after the shop,” he said coldly. “And I have orders to fill.” At one point, he’d had several employees working in the shop, but one bad apple had put an end to that. Now he worked alone.
“Ah, I figured you’d say that. Which is why I have the perfect person to help you out.” Cimil snapped her fingers.
In strolled a five-foot-three woman—auburn hair, mid-twenties, size eight—wearing torn jeans, biker boots, and a beat-up leather jacket. It was ninety degrees outside here in downtown LA. Judging by her clothes, she was attempting to make a statement:“Stay away. I am afraid on the inside and do not want you to get too close.”
Interesting.
“Hey,” said the woman, smacking on a wad of gum. “MF. Niceta meetcha.” She extended her hand.
MF is her name? As in motherfucker?He hoped not.Terrible name.
Damien shook her hand. “A pleasure.”
“What’s with the butler getup, dude?” MF asked.
Damien glanced in the mirror mounted on the wall to his side. Clean shaven, neatly combed light brown hair, immaculately pressed white shirt, and black slacks. Today he had on a vintage olive-green tie with golden paisleys to match his hazel eyes. Hardly a butler.More inconspicuous cursed tailor with a dark past and a proclivity for violence. But who’s judging?
Apparently, MF was.Rude.
“What is with the bitch getup?” he replied bluntly.
The sound of snorting exploded from the other room. Demons loved conflict.
MF snarled and looked at Cimil. “I’m not working for this sad bag of dicks.”
Butler or bag of dicks? Make up your mind, woman.“I see you attended etiquette school in a public bathroom, which is why you and I are in agreement, MF. You cannot look after my shop.”
He turned his attention back to Cimil. Had he persuaded her to bark up someone else’s tree? Because there wasn’t a chance in hell he would be taking this job.
“Give us a sec, MF,” said Cimil, waving her out of his workshop.
