Page 67 of Spit

I’d always wondered how much sex machines cost. The ones that looked like a locomotive in action, save for the phallus at the end. It would probably be safer than having a flesh and blood man between my thighs.

Trey followed my gaze. “See something you like?”

I shrugged in a noncommittal fashion. “Where’s the bar?

“We’re going shopping first.” Trey grinned.

His phone vibrated, and Trey pulled it from his pocket and silenced it before putting the phone away again.

“You’re not buying me a dildo,” I warned.

“Innuendos aside, I already bought you a knife.” He pointed out. “You’re wearing Camio’s clothing. The demon has been dead for a year, and no offense to the Steward of Gluttony, but you have more curves than he did.”

I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. “I don’t want to wear latex or PVC.”

Trey eyed my jacket. “Is leather okay?”

“Trey,” I warned.

He held up his hands in a dismissive fashion. “Okay. Okay. Message received.”

We found a reasonably innocuous shop. One that sold blouses, tailored trousers, and women’s suits, amongst other things. All very pedestrian, though I supposed my pink hair would have to do the hard pulling when it came to my alt look.

Some witches could spell tokens, like pinkie rings or bracelets, to affect a person’s appearance. However, it only worked when you wore the token. Rosie had a necklace that she used to erase her freckles. My mother had offered to buy me one as a child, but my magic nullified any kind of token.

If I could get one now, I’d choose a charm to keep my hair pink—the perfect blend of fuchsia and bubblegum that could only be obtained by mixing Arcticfox, manic panic, and crazy color. Instead, I had to do a color refresh every 4 weeks. Sometimes more.

My fingers flicked through the clothing racks, trying to find a comfortable T-shirt that didn’t hug my stomach like most fitted women’s T-shirts did. Trey was over by the dresses, eying a tight number that looked like it was made of silk and mesh, and held together with luck and a dream.

“That’s Trey Legion.” Two women stood at the rack behind me, checking out Trey. Whispering behind their hands as if the demon couldn’t hear them from a hundred feet away at a whisper.

They were acting like high schoolers, though they looked my age. Both women sported a brand on their wrist—a sigil I had seen before. The swooping circle of Cyclian runes and chicken scratch of demonic writing around the edge. Their tattoos were burnt orange, showing they belonged to Gluttony.

“What’s Sloth doing here?” Blondie whispered.

The redhead shrugged. “Sharing steward duties, I suspect.”

“He can arrest me any day.” Blondie fanned herself.

“Demons don’t arrest people. They kill them.” The redhead hissed, trying to lead Blondie away.

At least one of them had some sense.

“Do you think he’d want a quick fuck?” Blondie pressed. “Maybe we can go to the fitting room?”

I didn’t know what possessed me, but I grabbed a blouse off the rack; ignoring the two women, I marched over to Trey, brandishing the item.

“Look what I found.” I declared as I approached the demon.

Trey’s smile was bemused. “A silk blouse?”

“Yep,” I said brightly. “Come and try it on with me.”

Before I could think too deeply about what I was doing, I grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the fitting rooms.

The blonde and the redhead eyed me contemptuously as I dragged Trey through the shop.

He lifted a hand, oblivious, and gave them a wave. “Ladies.” Trey nodded.

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