Page 187 of Mayhem and Minnie

Her lips flatten as she looks at me, her features tight with worry.

She takes a deep breath and meets my gaze. There’s conviction there, one that’s shadowed by sadness.

“If you were to become a demon, I’d be forced to kill you,” she states in a low, sorrowful voice.

25

She’s not a witch.

She’s a fucking demon slayer.

Somehow that’s hotter, but it still doesn’t help my current dilemma.

I stroke my chin pensively as I stare at the equipment I’ve set up in my basement. Given how precarious her situation is, I don’t want to waste any time in getting her ring and thereby marrying her once and for all.

It’s not just that I want to fuck her—though that’s a good enough reason seeing how I’ve been struggling to keep my arousal in check lately. No, this is symbolic.

That fucking Lucien didn’t get to marry her, which will make me her first husband. She’ll officially be mine in a way that she was never his.

Yes. A couple of days later and I’m still bitter about that—will likely be for a long time.

In fact, I’ve photoshopped Minnie out of the picture with Lucien and printed it for my target practice. It’s been quite liberating to see him slowly get shredded to pieces.

Petty, I know, since the man’s already dead. But if I could, I’d resurrect him just to have the satisfaction of killing him with my own hands. I’m not too sure Minnie would be pleased about that, but she’d have to make a choice—me or him. As it stands, I’m the only one available, which doesn’t help with my peace of mind.

No, he deserves to die a second death, preferably with Minnie watching and cheering me on. Now that would be perfection. Unfortunately, I’m only left with desecrating his picture since I can’t do it to him directly.

Or…

My eyes widen as an idea strikes me.

I get my phone and plug in Giles’s number.

“Yes,” he answers immediately.

“I need you to find something for me. By the end of the day.”

“It’s already noon,” he answers dryly.

“I don’t care. You must find it.”

He sighs.

“What is it?”

“The burial place of a certain Lucien de Vitry. He was a soldier in World War II. I believe he died in France in 1945. I reckon he’d be buried somewhere around there.”

Silence greets me.

“And why would you want me to find the burial place of a man who died almost a hundred years ago?”

“Just do it, all right?”

Another sigh.

“How did he die?”

“Tuberculosis.”

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