I have been insanely busy. I might as well fess up that I'm essentially working 2 jobs right now. Our finances are stable, but I'm working too much. I will maintain this for as long as I am physically able to, though, until something else comes along to help us out. To the surprise of no one, the second job is basically doing editing work for Editor-kun. So understand, I won't tell people or mention anything about what I do for him, only know that there are published works out there that have been outlined and edited in part by me.
PREVIOUSLY ON BM: Sinister things are happening behind the scenes of those running the guilds.
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Chapter 51: Cum Into My ParlorâŚ
When Honoka stepped out of the van into a cold September Norwood morning, her first thought was that she craved chapstick. Norwood was humid, less than an hourâs drive from the beach with muggy summers and frosty winters. Sheâd lived here for eight years, lived in Florida for the other nineteen: humidity was her natural state of being. And Norwood reached eighty percent some days. However, after living in Harvardtown for only a few weeks, already she had grown used to a constant one hundred percent saturation down there. Norwood was as arid as the Sahara on both pairs of her lips. Honoka smacked those lips as she closed the van door and walked to the building that used to be named
Solomonâs.
âThis is a mistake,â Diane grumbled, adjusting her new bra underneath the elegant - if inexpensive - muumuu she wore. The bra had been fitted yesterday, but the pregnant succubus had been fiddling with it the entire drive up here, leaving everything skewampus. The muumuu was a collection of bright colors, like a Jerry Garcia watercolor themed in reds and greens, matching her hair, wings and tail. Clothing was stylishly paired with a simple red purse hanging off one shoulder. Pregnant she might be, but at that moment she appeared regal standing in a parking lot lit with the predawn.
âGrumpy much?â Honoka snarked, holding back a yawn.
Diane shot out a Preggo Glareâ˘, then sighed and rubbed her eyes. âSorry, spent hours on the phone yesterday with an Enchanter trying to invent a replacement for Hunger Boxes. Sarah - her name is Sarah, works for a guild in Seattle - was like talking to an eight year old genius hyped up on twenty pounds of sugary candy. I wanted to help, but she asked the most random questions on top of each other. Iâve been in orgies less exhausting than talking to her.â
âDid she get what she wanted?â Honoka was understandably curious, thinking her own children might have to use Hunger Boxes in their future.
âI think? Sheâs still in the preliminary stages, but she ordered one of my hunger potions and Iâll ship it when I have time. If I can help, it could change the world in a few years for all young demonics.â
âWhy am I here again?â Miaka asked as she stretched and yawned, finally roused from her seat in the van and joining the other women. A few small feathers shook loose when she flapped to wake herself up after an hour and a half drive. Normally an energetic drill sergeant whipping all the wives onto treadmills and weight benches, the owl woman was beat after returning from a delve a few minutes before the three left for topside. With no sleep and still wearing delving gear, the Japanese fighter nursed her second bottle of warm holstaur milk to stay awake.
âNobody does anything alone,â Honoka said, leading the three women to the front doors. Honokaâs clothing appeared formal, the black on black of her
kimono
top tucked into a
hakama
, looking dignified even if it appeared foreign. Only someone familiar with Japanese culture would notice the clothing was too small for Honoka. Also, that this uniform was designed for a martial artist and not a formal occasion. Her feet couldnât fit into the
tabi
style shoes, so they were cut to look more like an open toe sandal. Overall, the black half Asian woman appeared strange yet not unprofessional.
âI mean, I get nobody should go alone anywhere after the attack, but why am
I
here? Wouldnât some wife who hadnât pulled an all nighter in a Floor requiring us to
swim
for six hours make more sense?â Miaka chugged the rest of the bottle, tossing it towards a nearby trash can next to the door. Bouncing off the rim, the plastic bottle landed on the floor. Miaka glared at it, but didnât go to pick it up.
âYou arenât here to fight, you are here to
look dangerous.â
Diane gave Miaka an appreciative glance up and down, nodding absently as she placed her hand inside her purse and fingered something there. âIf intimidation doesnât work, your job is to get me out of the building while Honoka does the fighting.â
âHope it doesnât come to that,â Honoka mumbled, opening the doors to the newly refurbished and rebranded