“Yep,” she said with a barely concealed eye roll.
“Can I maim them?”
“No,” she said. “No removal of appendages.”
“Electrocution?”
She nodded. “Yes, that’s acceptable.”
“Multiple electrocutions?” I pressed.
“Define multiple,” she shot back.
“Ten thousand,” I answered. That was letting the bastards off easy.
“Two,” she countered.
Closing my eyes, I counted to ten. Sogdroth had recommended counting when I was tempted to commit mass destruction. It didn’t work. I tried again. Still didn’t fucking work. Sogdroth was worthless. He’d also encouraged reasoning. It was repulsive and weak, but I was running out of options that didn’t end in bloodshed. Bloodshed would lead to me being stuck with a vagina until the end of time.
“Let me turn the tables, Astrid,” I said through clenched teeth. “If someone disparaged, belittled, ridiculed, slandered and mocked your bosom in the company of others, what would you do?”
“Ummm,” she choked out trying to stifle a laugh. She failed. Without missing a beat, she pointed at the old idiots. “Gals, would you like to field this question?”
“With fuckin’ pleasure, Boobs McMelonKnockers!” Martha said gleefully. “Hooters LaBumpBump is a real good sport about me and Martha knockin’ on her knockers.”
“True that,” Jane chimed in. “Sweater-meat Joobs La LadyNuts don’t give two craps. In fact, she just calls us names right back, like cantankerous, stank-crotch old geezers.”
“That was a good one!” Martha said with a chuckle. “More fittin’ for Jane than me.”
“Take that back, hussy,” Jane snapped.
“Make me,” Martha said, raising her cane high in the air.
Astrid stepped between them, still drooling. “I’ve already warned you once. If either of you mess up your Chanel pantsuits, I will move your unappetizing hooters to your foreheads and send you home.”
“Harsh,” Martha muttered, lowering her cane.
“Mean,” Jane added.
“Don’t care,” Astrid said. She turned her attention back to me. “Sticks and stones… and canes might break your bones but words will never hurt you, Uncle Fucker.”
I heard her. I didn’t agree. However, if I slipped and decapitated them, I wouldn’t technically be breaking the rules.
“Fine,” I said emotionlessly. “I agree to the terms. I shall take you to multiple dinners today. Give me the names.”
She paused for a long beat and examined me. I was fairly sure she didn’t quite believe me. She was smart. But in the end, I got what I wanted. Always.
“Critter Steve and Trapper Rick.”
My gaze shot to Lizard’s. I hadn’t seen either of those Demons in at least a century—not since I’d punished them for insolence and sentenced them to work as Night Soil Men. Was it possible they were still pissed about that?
Absurd.
Didn’t matter if they were still put out. Making fun of my wand of life would not go unpunished no matter how much words weren’t supposed to hurt.
“Are you ready to eat, Astrid?” I inquired.
“Does the Pope wear a pointy hat?” she shot back.
I rolled my eyes. “Let’s not bring my brother’s people into this. Are you ready to have some fun?”
I winced as she wiped away the drool with the arm of the Armani jacket. “I’m ready.”
And so was I. My agenda was for her to eat her way through London and end up on Oxford Street. It had been a shitty day thus far, but I planned to have it end on a fabulously violent note.
