False Gods (Sins of the Father 2)

“You’re telling me,” she growled, “that the expensive, enchanted designer piece I lent you out of the goodness of my own heart is just – gone? Just like that?”

“Exploded,” I said, trying to be factual and flat, but realizing I was taking a little pleasure in seeing her fume. I gestured with my hands, banging my fists together, then spreading my fingers as I separated them again. “Kaboom, then whoosh.”

She waved her hands impatiently. “What do you mean ‘whoosh,’ what the hell is that?”

“When the bag was destroyed, it looked like the pocket dimension in it was turned out into this reality,” Florian offered. He was less sheepish than before, clearly making an active effort to be more social with Beatrice. Good for him, I thought, even though I found her mostly insufferable.

More importantly, good for us. The mere fact that Florian spoke up softened something in Beatrice’s features. But her eyes met mine, and she went full feral again.

“You’re paying for that thing,” she said.

I held up my hands. “I’m pretty sure we’ve had this conversation before, but I really don’t have that kind of money.”

“It was all that stuff we were supposed to sell to the Amphora,” Florian cut in. “You know, like you suggested. Good idea, by the way.”

Beatrice hesitated again, but once more, just as soon as her eyes left Florian’s face, she let loose with the first of what was sure to be another barrage of insults. “I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you to take care of something so valuable,” she said, directing her ire towards me very visibly by stabbing one manicured finger towards my nose.

“Hey, get that out of my face,” I said, grimacing. “That thing was probably better off incinerated, anyway.”

Her eyes went huge, and she reeled back, hissing as she sipped in a huge chestful of breath. Uh-oh.

“That ‘thing’ was a couture collaboration between me and my design partners. It was one of a kind. Irreplaceable. And a boorish idiot like you would never understand its true value, because – ”

“Now, now,” came a voice from the backroom, speaking in a British lilt. “There’s really no cause to be so incensed, Beatrice.”

It was joined shortly by a second voice. “We can always make another, you know.” This one was clearly American, and both voices were deep, strong, yet somehow feminine.

The beaded curtain leading into the backroom of Beatrice’s workshop parted with a cascade of click-clacks, and out stepped two enormous women – two enormous men, rather, who were dressed as women. My mouth fell open at the sight of them, Valero legends in their own right, the night club owners and arcane vigilantes known collectively as the Fuck-Tons.

Statuesque was the best way to describe the Fuck-Tons. Stylish, in their own way, that kind of garish, gaudy aesthetic that favored a lot of bright colors and loud details, all the good stuff you’d see from a pair of seasoned drag queens. The outfit of the day, apparently, consisted of looking like ladies of the French court, all white powdered wigs and huge skirts, with the special detail of the two queens wearing a golden monocle on opposite sides of their faces. I thought back to the handbag and the rest of Beatrice’s collection. Their partnership suddenly made so much more sense.

“Now, what seems to be the problem here?” said Imperial Fuck-Ton, the British one. The stories differed: the Fuck-Tons either met on the internet or on the club circuit, and thus their partnership began. Imperial looked at me, then blinked. “Oh. I know you.”

I smiled politely, the anger draining out of my body through the soles of my feet. I could sense Beatrice getting pissed at the fact th

at I was already putting on a different face and leaving our argument behind. Hah. Served her right.

“Imperial, good to meet you,” I said to the first Fuck-Ton. “And Metric. I’ve heard so much about you. The two of you are legends, huge stars in the arcane underground.”

Metric unfolded a fan and held it over her mouth, giggling. “Oh, this one’s a flatterer. I like him.”

“Ladies,” Florian said, leaning one elbow on the table. He waggled his eyebrows, eliciting another round of titters from Metric. Imperial looked less than impressed, but I thought I saw a little crack in the veneer of her face.

Florian was apparently emboldened by the fact that this really was purely a business relationship after all, and that the word ‘partner’ referred strictly to Beatrice Rex’s commercial pursuits. It all hung together. The Fuck-Tons were powerful enchanters in their own right, weaving spells and magic into mundane objects to use them as weapons against the more villainous elements of the underground: ensorcelled press-on nails, teleportation compacts, lipstick grenades, you name it.

I never thought that Beatrice’s idea of collaboration went beyond the style of her wares, but it was clear that the three were working together to empower the substance of the items they created, making significantly more effective enchantments and artifacts by combining their talents. As for why the collection was made entirely out of leather products? Well, the Fuck-Tons also owned and operated an S&M club called the Leather Glovebox. Come to your own conclusions.

“The name’s Florian,” Florian said out of the side of his mouth, all his bashfulness gone, returned now to the leafy Lothario we knew and loved. Beatrice clearly felt the same, already forgetting about butting heads with me. From her perspective, I might as well not have existed. “I do nature magic, that kind of thing. I’m your man if you need lotions, potions, commotions.” He winked, and Metric, who by that point had convinced me that she would laugh at practically anything, tittered again. Florian gestured at me, meaning to introduce me to the Fuck-Tons. “And this is – ”

Imperial looked at me down the bridge of her nose. “Oh, we know very well who he is. Mason Albrecht. The nephilim.”

Beatrice’s gaze switched from Imperial, to me, then back again. “A nefa-what now?”

Metric took Beatrice’s hand and patted it on the back. “Oh, you didn’t know, did you? The boy is half angel. That’s what makes him different.” She adjusted her monocle, peering closer. I blinked at her, unsure of how to respond. “And I imagine that he’s been after your services so insistently because he means to disguise the aura of his spirit from the rest of the supernatural world. Did I guess correctly, dear heart?”

I nodded. Beatrice sputtered.

“Are you serious? All this time, and you didn’t tell me?”