Free Demon Hunting In Dixie by Lexi George Page B

the counter.
    â€œI’m telling you, I’m slap out of anything that will fit a man of your size.” Tweedy glared up at Brand like a Chihuahua squaring off against a Great Dane. “Dean Wilson bought the last tall suit I had in the shop two weeks ago. Or maybe it was David.” He frowned and shook his head. “Hard to keep all those Wilsons straight. Every last one of ’em built like a tank, and all of ’em with names that start with ‘d.’ Darryl and Daniel, Dalton and David, Dean and Del.” He gave a disgusted snort. “It’s like trying to name Santa’s reindeer or the seven dwarves. What was their mama thinking? There are twenty-five other letters in the alphabet she could have used. Duh-duh-duh-duh-dee. I feel like Porky Pig every time one of ’em comes in.” Shrugging aside his irritation at the Wilson matriarch, he said, “I could maybe get you something in a week, but that’s the best I can do.”
    Brand frowned at the smaller man. “I cannot wait a week. I need appropriate clothing now.”
    â€œI tell you nothing I have will fit.” Tweedy eyed Brand up and down. “What are you, six and a half feet? I put you in a thirty-inch inseam and we’re talking high waders.”
    â€œIs there a problem, brother?” Ansgar asked.
    â€œThere will not be once I ascertain the appropriate garb for this realm.” Evie’s stomach lurched as Brand turned his cold gaze on her. “I see you have brought Mistress Evie. Good. She can help us select clothing.”
    Tweedy whipped around, his eyes widening when he spied Ansgar’s tall form. “Good Lord, there’s two of ’em!”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Evie saw Ansgar stiffen. She smiled at Tweedy. “Morning, George,” she said, calling Tweedy by his given name to soothe his ruffled feathers. She shot Ansgar a meaningful look. “I’m sure Mr. Brand and Mr. Ansgar don’t mean to be any trouble.”
    Ansgar lifted his brows, but remained silent.
    Tweedy unbent a little. “Oh, you know these gentlemen, Evie?”
    â€œThey’re here for the Farris funeral.”
    Tweedy pulled her aside. “What’s with the getup?” He cut his eyes toward the two big men and back again. “Are they in some kind of cult?”
    â€œThey’re actors.” Evie felt a twinge of conscience at the lie, but somehow she didn’t think Tweedy was ready to add CLOTHIERS TO INTERDIMENSIONAL DEMON HUNTERS EVERYWHERE to the sign outside the store.
    â€œOh.” Tweedy seemed to digest this for a moment. He raised his voice for the benefit of the other two men. “And both of them are looking for suits? Like I said, I don’t have their size.”
    â€œThey don’t have to have a suit,” Evie said. Lord, give her patience. The very idea of Whaley Douglass giving anybody fashion advice was laughable. “What about a nice pair of slacks and a dress shirt? Something more conservative than they’re wearing now.”
    â€œShow up at a funeral sans jacket?” Tweedy shuddered. “Tacky. Still, when you live in a town where camouflage is considered haute couture, I don’t suppose it matters, especially since they’re not from here.”
    â€œAs long as the apparel is not something Conan would wear, it will suffice,” Brand said.
    Tweedy gave Evie a look of confusion. “Conan? Who’s Conan?”
    â€œA new designer.” Boy, she was getting scary good at this lying stuff. “Really out there. Lots of leather, but too avant-garde for a small-town funeral. They’re looking for something—uh—a little more traditional.”
    Traditional for medieval transrealm warrior types. Granny Moses. Addy owed her big time.
    â€œI’ve got a pair of summer-weight wool dress pants on hold for one of the Wilsons,” Tweedy said. He looked Brand and Ansgar up and down.