Page 107 of Blood and Bonbons

“Hush,” Cross said, watching the fairy intently as it gestured to itself then to my lower back again.

“Perhaps I understand,” Cross said. “Women mark their flesh with tattoos now, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I believe the fairy is trying to tell us the woman had a tattoo of a fairy on her backside.”

The fairy straightened and nodded once.

I eased out of Cross’ arms. “Oh. I guess that would make sense. But why a fairy tattoo?” I shuddered.

The fairy zipped forward, snatched a lock of my hair, and yanked hard.

“Hey,” I snapped. “One of your kind tried to kill me for a stupid curling iron. Don’t tempt me to retaliate.”

The fairy flew away and picked up the heavy silver frame. It bobbed in the air as it flew to the door and waited for Cross to open it. I was glad when it was gone.

“If not many people would want a fairy tattoo, then finding this woman should be simple,” Cross said.

“Simple? Do you know how many tattoo artists are in the D.C. area alone?”

“I do not.”

“Neither do I. But I know it’s a lot. Do you smell anything else that might help?”

“No. But I insist you throw away the cake. I will buy you better confectionery.”

I took the cake, threw it in the garbage, and cinched the bag closed. “Someday, I want to own a bakery.”

“You do?”

“I’m going to school for business management and taking any culinary-type classes they offer.”

“You would resign yourself willingly to the servant class?”

His tone had me grinning.

“It’s not like that anymore. Jobs that were once for servants are now for those who find passion in it.”

“Passion,” he echoed as his eyes scanned my face and rested on my lips. “This new world tempts with its possibilities.”

I fought not to flush and cleared my throat.

“Do you have any passions?”

He smirked. “A few.”

Ignoring his darkening gaze, I headed to the door with the garbage bag.

“Times have changed greatly since I last walked among humans,” Cross commented as he followed. “Servants used to remove the trash, and women did not live alone.”

“I’m not alone. I have Vena. And if you want to carry the scrotum-cake trash, I’ll let you.”

He made a noncommittal sound as I set the bag down outside and locked the door. When I finished, he held the trash.

“If I want to blend, I will need your assistance procuring a residence. Although preferably something nicer than this and closer to your home.”

“There aren’t nicer houses close to mine,” I said, leading him toward the car. “And with the way you want to dress, you’re going to need fancy. Maybe even something with a doorman.”

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