Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54626 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 273(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 182(@300wpm)
“Yes,” Damien replied. “Ixtab came by, but to be honest, I thought she was talking about some sort of wardrobe situation.” Like the time Cimil had proclaimed everyone in her “family” (aka, the gods) was to wear crotchless pants. Damien had done what any good tailor would do: ignored her. Crotchless pants were entirely a personal choice.
“Well, I am sorry to inform you, Greystone, that this situation is mucho más importante.” Cimil maintained a stone-cold gaze with her turquoise eyes. Something was definitely wrong with her. “As you may have heard, my unicorn, Minky, fucked a hellhound named Mittens. Apparently, this is a supernatural no-no. Like filling Twinkies with lard or sprinkling pubes on your friends’ cereal. But the result of their union was more than a stomachache. It caused an explosion that removed all immortal energy from the planet. Beings such as fairies and unicorns were sent to the Underworld. Anyone who was once human—vampires and demigods, for example—reverted back.”
Strange. He hadn’t heard anything about this event. So then why was Bonbon perfectly fine? And, from what Damien could tell, his own curse had not gone anywhere either. The darkness inside him was as toxic as ever.
Cimil added, “The only beings spared from the blast were the immortals without physical bodies. Ghosts, for example. And those strange little creatures who steal your car keys and hide them when you’re in a hurry.”
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 are you still 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 in an army 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.
“Which that are you referring to?” he said, playing dumb.
“You were once a fixer.”
Phew. “Oh, that that.” 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 to fix. 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.