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Like Damien had mentioned, her solutions always came with a price. He’d asked her to find a mate for Bonbon so that the creature could go off into the world and live out its life with a companion. Cimil had delivered on her promise—Gorgonzolina—but with the added bonus that neither demon wanted to vacate his shop.
Damien rubbed his forehead. “Fuck me. My life is so complicated.”
“Yep,” said Bonbon. “But so is everyone’s. Get over it, tailor.”
Agreed, tailor. You should spend more time killing. Less time complaining.
“Okay. I’m all ready to go!” MF came from the back room, holding a duffel bag and wearing leather short-shorts, knee-high pleather boots, and a fishnet turtleneck. No bra. She had her auburn hair up in pigtails with studded hairpins on her temples.
Why must she try my patience with her aggressive fashion?
MF was the new manager at his shop, also compliments of Cimil, who felt Damien would need someone to look after things while he was away. Turned out that MF, short for Mountain Flower, had been raised by hippy parents who taught her to sew. She was quite the seamstress.
Ah, but remember how there was always a catch? MF was no different.
MF was an ex-vampire, her vampirism wiped out in the Great Explosion. Her biggest wish was to become a vampire again.
“Absolutely not,” he said to MF. “Someone needs to take care of the customers.”
MF stared defiantly with her big brown eyes. “Cimil said my entire future hinges on being turned again, and the only way to make that happen is to convince this vampire to do it.”
Damien growled, “Your vampirism isnotthe priority here. It’s retrieving the damned vampire. You will simply have to wait to speak to him when he gets here.Ifhe gets here.”
MF snarled.
“No.” Damien put his foot down. “You cannot come. You’ll only slow me down.”
CHAPTER THREE
“So what do you know about this Brutus guy?” MF asked from the seat beside him, sipping on her inflight cocktail.
Damien snarled in her general direction.
“I don’t think he’s talking to you right now, MF.” Bonbon howled from the dog carrier at his feet. “Damien is a sore loser.”
“Oh! I think I understood Bonbon!” MF crouched toward the dog and whispered loudly over the roaring engines, “You said Damien is a giant stuffy prick, right, Bonbon?”
Bonbon and Gorgonzolina snickered. Pet cackled in Damien’s jacket pocket.
“Very funny.” Damien sipped his whisky.
MF shrugged. “I have my moments. But I’m getting better at this whole love-sucking demon speak.”
“They just talk backwards and add the words ‘hug me’ to the end of every sentence,” Pet called out.
Damien pressed his hand over his pocket. “Silence. Someone will hear you.”
“Thanks for the tip, Pet.” MF turned to Damien. “So tell me about this Brutus. Do you think he’s really going to help us?”
“I do not know,” he replied. “I’ve only met the man a handful of times, and he does not speak much. He’s Uchben.”
“Uchben? Wow. I’ve never met one before. Is it true what they say? Can they kill you with one look?”
“I think their deadliness has been exaggerated.” The Uchben were an organization of mostly humans, overseen by the gods. Their sole purpose was to act as the gods’ eyes and ears. Many were soldiers, but others were civil servants, conducting surveillance or doing scientific research. There were even accountants to manage the gods’ assets. Brutus was once a highly decorated soldier but retired after finding his mate—some Amazonian warrior princess. Her village was their destination.
“Nevertheless,” Damien added, “you would be smart to mind your Ps and Qs around Brutus. He is not the sort of man you wish to make angry. Nor his mate. I hear her tribe is very savage.”
MF waved a hand through the air. “If I can handle Big Foot, I can handle anyone.”
