Page 29 of Sincerely, Secretary of Doom

“You are like the fairytale fairies,” she said from the kitchen doorway. “I bet you flutter around and cook and clean for princes and princesses.” Laughter filled her voice.

Mor slapped the towel down onto the counter and turned to face her. “I don’t regret using you as bait,” he told her matter-of-factly. “I’d do it again a hundred times over. You are as obnoxious as a moonbug scurrying into a perfectly good spiked citrus and spoiling it.”

Violet thought for a moment—not revealing a thing in her expression now. She sauntered in, seeming to decide she was no longer afraid of him even after he’d flexed his power in her pretty little human face. “Do it, then,” she said. “Use me as bait.”

Mor’s gaze sharpened as she came to stand before him. The speed at which her resolve had changed was astounding. He couldn’t determine her ploy, or her reasons.

“Use me to catch that devil. And stop him,” she articulated through her plum lips. “I might not like you, Master of Doom, but I hate him more. He’s the one going after helpless people.”

Mor stifled a fairy curse. She wasn’t even joking.

The scent of her flourishing home garden wafted over him this close, along with the scent of himself—still too potent. She clearly didn’t realize how much trouble she was in. “You would regret it if I did. I already used you once, Human, and now I know I can draw him out with my scent alone. I don’t need to put you in harm’s way again to trap him.” He carefully slid around her so their bare arms wouldn’t brush, and he headed out of the kitchen. She followed.

“Wait! Where are you going?” she asked, her heels clicking faster this time. “You can’t leave me trapped in this haunted mansion again!”

“I’m going to undo your scent problem,” Mor stated, stretching out his hands. Lightly touching the almost-healed burns on his palms.

“I just told you that you could use me. Now you want to erase myDoom Perfume? Why?”

Mor stopped walking and turned back. He flexed his fingers, thinking of the sting about to come. “Because I lied about your odds, and my tongue is burning from the falsehood. The truth is, you likely won’t survive the next twenty-four hours if I don’t do something about this.”

He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her to him. A burst of flaming heat erupted from everywhere their skin connected as they vanished.

13

Violet Miller and the Whole Sweater Thing

Violet couldn’t get used to the world dissolving around her and sharpening into a different scene. The ground disappeared, and for a split second, it felt like she was falling.

When she was steady enough to not scream, Violet realized she was gripping tight handfuls of Doom’s shirt. It was his low, pained grunt that made her drop her grip and step back. Her elbow hit a wall and a ball of yarn tumbled off a shelf beside her.

Mor—he’d claimed his name was—was facing her, standing remarkably still. Violet blinked the rush of teleporting away and shrieked when she realizedwhyhe wasn’t moving a muscle.

A dozen sharp knitting needle points were aimed at the back of his neck. A small crowd of women held them, and for the life of her, Violet couldn’t figure out why they all looked ready to stab. Behind them was a wide, storefront-like space covered in pastel-coloured wallpaper and filled with hundreds of baskets of yarn.

“Doom…” Violet rasped and pointed toward the women. “There’s a bunch of ladies behind you. I think they want your attention.”

“I’m aware,” Mor said. And then, “Doom?”

“Master of Doom. That’s what I’m going to call you in my article,” she said, swallowing. She pointed back to the women with needles. “Now, um… maybe you should—”

Mor turned and the women armed with needles crouched as though taking a defensive stance. Like they thought Mor was going to attack them.

“I’m in need of a sweater,” Mor’s deep voice declared to the room.

“For you?” one of the women asked in disgust—an older lady with gray hair. The only one who still sat knitting on a couch. “Never,” she stated.

“Not for me, you foolish females. For her.” Mor nodded back toward Violet.

Some of the women leaned to peek around Mor. They studied Violet standing there, plastered against the wall.

“I already have a fairy goddaughter. I don’t need another,” the old woman said from the couch as she wound pale blue yarn around a long needle. “Toss him out.”

The rest of the women reached for Mor. Mor sighed and shoved their needles away from his neck. “Forget it, then. I’ll find one myself.” He seemed about to leave but the old woman piped up again.

“If you learned the ways of the yarn, Assassin, you could make your human lover a sweater yourself,” she said, and Violet felt a pinch of warmth on her cheeks.

Mor snarled. “She’s not my—”

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