Page 22 of Cry for Help

“Your human has a nickel allergy,” Seir said once we emerged from the fitting room. Barely any time had passed, but my arms were full of clothing—jeans, t-shirts, and even a wool coat. “She also has an infected wound on her arm. You need to take her to the Tailor.”

I eyed Seir as if he was mad. I thoughthewas the Tailor. Not that I knew much about the demon; he hadn’t said more than two words as he’d measured me with disinterest.

I turned expectantly to Stolas. Waiting for him to explain. He ignored me.

“Bad?” Stolas’s lip pinched.

“Unpleasant.” Seir corrected.

I’d had enough of the two demons talking about me as if I wasn’t there, but there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Seir reached into the pocket of his baggy pants and produced a piece of paper. “I require payment for services rendered.”

“Of course you do,” Stolas said dryly, plucking the paper from Seir’s hand.

“An invitation to Behem’s shindig. A feast, in his honor, on the next full moon. He’s been asking for your attendance.”

“Of course he has,” Stolas muttered. “Since when have you done Gluttony’s dirty work?”

“Since Gluttony rules this city.” Seir snapped his fingers. “You know that.”

Stolas scoffed.

“Your flock is invited. Naturally.” Seir added.

Stolas ushered me to the side door instead of the front without bothering to make an excuse for his quick escape.

Chapter Five

If the cut on my arm was really as bad as Seir said, surely Stolas would have taken me to a hospital instead of a ‘Tailor.’ My arm had gone numb, but I’d long since learned to ignore things that wouldn’t kill me.

Being sent to the med-ward in prison was next to impossible unless you were bleeding to death.

The decor shifted as we stepped into the next room of the store. My stomach flipped, even if the ground under my feet remained steady.

The dust was replaced by black and white checkered tiles and a leather couch. A reception desk sat on the other side of the room, and a female demon with golden skin filed her nails—not bothering to look up as we approached.

“Appointment?” She drawled, her ice-blue eyes flicking to Stolas in irritation.

“Seir referred us,” Stolas said impassively.

“Hmm.” A lot of judgment was loaded into the sound. She put down her nail file and whirled around on her chair, knocking on the door behind her. “Tailor?”

“Yeah?” A grumpy voice called from behind the door.

“Seir sent a referral.” She drawled.

“For fuck sake!” The Tailor barked back. A moment later, a bulbous head poked around the door, hidden behind strange glasses—a dozen lenses stacked around a lollipop human face. The Tailor’s eyes narrowed, visible through each of the magnifying lenses. He frowned at Stolas, and his nose twitched.

“The fallen prince.” The Tailor regarded him with mildcuriosity. “Come in, I don’t have all day.”

Stolas shrugged as we skirted around the reception desk, following the demon into his office.

Though Stolas had told me he had an errand in Lust to run, and clothes were a pitstop, I felt like an accessory. A backpack Stolas was carrying around for the day.

The Tailor rushed around the room, patting the exam chair as he brushed past. The large apparatus sat in the center of the room, made of black leather and tilted back like a dentist's chair. There weren’t any sewing machines or fabric. Maybe a Tailor was a special demon word for doctor.

“Strip.” The Tailor didn’t look up as he barked the command.

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