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Thanking my lucky stars there were no humans involved in the fashion show, I pulled a wine cooler out of the roomy pocket of my caftan and downed it. Magicals inhabited a very private existence in public. Underneath the unsuspecting noses of the human population lived vampires, demons, werewolves, genies, mermaids, witches, and wizards like myself. The not so good old days of being burned at the stake and being hunted were over as long as we were careful.
“Are you wounded?” I asked, checking her out.
“No,” she sobbed. “Just so happy. I’m so proud of you, Johnson. You’re a star!”
Helen was about five foot nothing with jet-black hair and the palest skin I’d ever seen. I’d pegged her as a vampire on our first meeting—a Tupperware party last year at the rec center, which was actually a gathering for menopausal Immortals—which had turned into a fabulous friendship. I quickly checked the color of her eyes. You could always spot a hungry vamp by the color of their peepers. Bright red was a sure sign to haul ass. Helen was allergic to blood and drank protein shakes, but my little buddy could be destructive when famished. Luckily, her eyes were emerald green.
“You must get ahold of yourself, darling,” I told her, grabbing a caftan off a rack and handing it to her. She was a bloody mess. It still floored me that vamps cried blood. Unfortunately, Helen cried often.
“I know,” she said, dabbing at her tears with the expensive frock.
Shaking my head, I grabbed another and gently pushed her into an empty changing room. “Sweetikins, while your pride in our accomplishment is lovely, the fact that you’ve just destroyed two custom-made caftans is giving me gas. No one wants that. Asphyxiating the talent with stress toots during the biggest show of our lives would be bad for business.”
“I’m so sorry,” she wailed, ready to ruin yet another of my creations. “Can you put a little spell on me? One to make me stop crying?”
I winced as I considered her request. As a wizard, I could cast the spell. However, the last time I’d helped her out that way, she’d had an explosive nose bleed. Apparently, the blood had to go somewhere. “How about a few wine coolers, instead?” I suggested.
Helen was a lightweight and a very happy drunk. It would be far better to get my small friend tipsy than to have her make our fashion show look like a Friday the Thirteenth come to life.
“Oh yes!” she said, clasping her tiny pale hands together. “Wonderful plan.”
It was and it wasn’t, but it was definitely the lesser of the evils. When intoxicated, Helen enjoyed twisting herself into a pretzel and making realistic mouth farts on her arm. Fake flatulence was preferable to the real deal. I pulled four strawberry wine coolers out of my pocket and handed them to her. I mentally congratulated myself on the size of the pockets I’d designed for the caftans. They held a plethora of necessary items.
My dear buddy Dwayne popped his head into the dressing room. “Johnson, we have a problem.”
He looked frazzled. That was not good. My intestines rumbled ominously. Dwayne was normally as calm as a cucumber. He’d flown in to help with my big day. My big day was careening into Hell rather quickly.
“What kind of problem?” I asked.
“A mermaid problem,” he replied.
“Shit,” I muttered. “Did anyone get eaten?”
He shook his head and I almost cried with relief. It had been an enormous risk to hire mermaid models, considering they ate their paramours and enemies. However, they were wildly alluring in the looks department and made my caftans look fabulous.
“We had to muzzle two,” he explained as I joined him in a sprint to the next catastrophe.
“Dear God.” I wiped the sweat from my brow. “How could I have been so shortsighted to hire man-eaters?”
“We all make mistakes, Johnson.” He patted me on the back. “Last week I paired hot pants with combat boots. I’m unsure if I can live that down.”
I smiled. It was weak, but having support was lovely indeed.
Dwayne, a vampire, had been one of my best buds for over seventy-five years. Neither of us looked a day over forty. Immortal genes were delightful. Due to the fact that we made each other laugh until we cried and both loved dressing in drag, we’d considered dating about fifty years ago, but we weren’t remotely attracted to each other. That was a good thing. Unlike lovers, friends were indispensable. Well, for me, anyhow. My luck in the love department was terrible. I’d ghosted my last paramour due to him being far too good-looking. With my somewhat low-ish self-esteem, I didn’t need that kind of complication in my life. So, I’d broken up with the hottie before he could break my heart… a very lonely win-win.
Dwayne, on the other hand, was not a loser in love. He was married to a wonderful and dastardly demon named Belphegor. The wedding had been an over-the-top affair in Dwayne’s adopted town of Hung, Georgia. His gown had been to-die-for—strapless with only a hint of beading. It had hugged his tall, muscular body beautifully. Of course, he’d made up for the simplicity of the gown with an obscene diamond and ruby choker, huge diamond earrings and a tiara on his bald head that rivaled the Queen of England’s. He’d opted to go with no veil. He believed them to be tacky. I agreed.
“There,” Dwayne whispered, pointing to the man-eating culprit.
I nodded and approached warily. “What seems to be the problem, Persephone?”
“I’d like to expose my breast, Johnson,” she insisted as she lined up to walk the runway. “Tits are hot, and mine are glorious.”
Models were a fucking nightmare. Mermaid models were the absolute worst. It would have been better if I’d used automated mannequins for my designs. This was the biggest day in my career thus far and Persephone was trying to ruin it with an exposed bosom.
For the last year, I’d busted my wizard ass designing and promoting my dream. Helen had run the business side brilliantly. I’d handled the artistic venture. Caftans by Johnson was my baby, and a boob wasn’t going to burn it to the ground. I rubbed my hands over my bald head and willed myself not to cast a spell on the vapid idiot. She’d been a thorn in my very nice rear end the entire week. I wanted to fire her so badly, I could taste it.
“You’re wearing a caftan,” I reminded her through gritted teeth, plastering on a forced smile. “This is a fashion show, not a strip show.”
