“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.
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.
“I’ll go pet that cute little dog.” MF headed to the front of the store.
Yes, you do that. She’d soon find herself with a splitting headache and a craving for chocolate—the result of having one’s endorphins leached from their body.
Damien stared at Cimil expectantly, aware that he had to hold his ground but tread carefully. Cimil was not known for being a kind goddess, and she got downright nasty when she didn’t get her way.
“I didn’t come here just because of your background, Greystone. I know about your curse.”
How had Cimil found out? He thought no one knew except for himself and the woman who’d cast it. “All right. And?”
“And it wasn’t your fault, you know. She made her choices. Which is why if you do this one favor for me, I’ll help you end the curse.”
Damien did not want to discuss “her” or what had led to his curse. It wasn’t anyone’s business but his own.
Besides, he knew Cimil was full of shit. He’d spent years researching his curse. There was no cure, and even if there were, he deserved his fate: immortality. But not the fun kind. Watching the world move on while he remained alone, frozen for all eternity, was maddening.
“Well,” he said, “I thank you for the offer, but I am not interested, so I will politely decline. May I interest you in a new pair of lederhosen while you are here?” He hoped this would distract her.
“No. I have fifty pairs already, and my hubby, Roberto, banned me from adding more to my collection. Closet’s getting full. You know, with all the shoes, dresses, and people-pets I have shoved in there.”
People-pets? He cocked a brow. “A shame.”
“Well, marriage is like life: it’s all about compromise. Which is why you’ll do as I say.”
“That is not a compromise.”
“Isn’t it?” Cimil folded her camo-covered arms. “I agree not to send you to the Underworld, where Minky my unicorn will use you like a blow-up sex doll in the pokey-pokey room, and in exchange, you will find out how to bring back all the immortals who were banished from Earth in the blast.”
Pokey-pokey room? That sounded unpleasant. Especially because he suspected he would not be doing the poking.
She added, “And before you give me another one of your excuses, Greystone, I know about the demon.” She flashed a cold smile. “Take the job, or I’ll tell my brethren you’ve been breaking our no-demon rule.”
Fuck. He dropped his head, forcing himself to maintain his gentlemanly façade. There was no use fighting her now. She had him by the cufflinks.
“I will do this favor, Cimil; however, I want something in return. I want you to find a mate for Bonbon.” Cimil and her brother Zac, the God of Temptation, used to run a dating agency for immortals. They weren’t particularly good at it, but Cimil had a way of making things happen.
“You don’t want your curse broken?” Cimil asked. “I think even she would have forgiven you by now. Maybe you should try the same.”
Maybe you should butt the hell out of my life. “Bonbon is getting quite old, and I would hate to see him live out his final years in my shop. Also, he pisses on the floor. And wants to be held all the time.” Not really Damien’s cup of tea.
“You are one complicated hombre, D-Man, but okay. It’s a deal.”
They shook hands.
“Where would you like me to start?” he asked.
“I would say start with you, but I already know why you were unaffected by the blast. So start with the demon. Nothing happened to him. Why?”