Chapter Six
“Ze Fey?” Francoise
looked doubtful.
“That’s one theory,”
I said, as yet another guy elbowed me in the ribs.
It was the next
afternoon. Mircea was in New York, doing important stuff for the
Senate. Pritkin was in Faerie, risking his life to find
information. And where was I?
I was
shopping.
But at least I wasn’t
enjoying it.
I glared at the rude
guy, but I don’t even think he noticed. I was in baggy jeans and a
sweatshirt to cover the bruises, with my green curls in a ragged
ponytail. I hadn’t bothered to put on makeup when I got up this
morning, so the dark circles under my eyes and the bruise along my
cheekbone were perfectly visible.
Of course, on my best
day, I couldn’t compete with Francoise, who was tall, dark, lovely
and very, very French. And at the moment, she was also almost
naked, which explained why I was having a hard time getting close
enough to ask her anything.
Francoise had
recently taken a job as a sales clerk for the designer she
occasionally modeled for. His posh shop was the crown jewel of the
hotel’s main drag, mainly because he had refused to go along with
the Wild West–meets-hell theme the rest of the place had going on.
Augustine was better than that.
But he wasn’t too
good to dress his models like strippers to lure in additional
customers. Francoise and the three other sylphlike beauties
currently on the clock were modeling his latest creation, which as
far as I could tell wasn’t a dress at all. It was more like an
eighteen-inch-wide satin ribbon—red, in her case—that wrapped
around the body and ended in a flourish behind the
head.
It was obviously
magicked to cover strategic areas, because no matter how much she
turned and twisted, getting down items from the shelves behind her
for the salivating horde of customers, she never flashed anyone.
But the guys were clearly living in hope. And while they did, they
bought things from the tacky tourist line Augustine made fun of,
but never actually got around to deleting.
I browsed through the
T-shirts and found one that showed a frazzled-looking ’toon with
bulging eyes. The caption read “There’s too much blood in my
caffeine system.” I bought it for Pritkin, knowing he’d probably
never wear it, just to see his face.
Assuming I saw his
face again. Assuming—
I snatched the shirt
off the rack and told myself to stop being an idiot. If ever there
was a guy who could take care of himself, he was Pritkin. And he
knew Faerie better than most. He’d be fine.
He’d be fine, or I’d
kill him.
“When you get a
chance, I could use some help,” I told Francoise, as she handed
back my credit card.
“Some
’elp?”
“I need to talk to
you. And I need a dress.”
She shot me a look.
“You ’ave a dress. Or you would, if you evair came for a fitting.
Each day you do not, you make him more of a . . .” She waved a hand
to indicate an English word that wouldn’t come to her. “Salaud.”
“Asshole?” I
guessed.
“Zat,
too.”
We were talking about
Augustine, and the dress he was supposedly designing for my
inauguration. I say “supposedly,” because I’d never seen it. Nor
had I been given a sketch, a mock-up or even a description. The
ceremony was a little over a week away, and all I’d seen of my
outfit so far was a bunch of brown paper, the kind patterns are
made of.
Considering my past
history with Augustine, it was making me very nervous. I was going
to have to stand up in front of the leaders of the magical world
with no pedigree, little training and few skills. I couldn’t afford
to look crappy, too.
“I’m boycotting until
I get some details,” I told her.
“You ’aven’t seen
eet?” Francoise looked puzzled.
“No.”
“ ’Ave you
asked?”
“Of course. But he
won’t show it to me. He says I wouldn’t understand the artistic
process, or something. Anyway, I’m afraid if he gets a chance to
fit the damn thing, they’ll make me wear it, no matter what it
looks like—”
“Augustine is a good
designer,” she protested.
“And he hates me. You
know he does.”
Francoise didn’t
argue. She just pursed her lips and rolled her eyes, and because
she was French, actually made it sexy. A nearby guy
groaned.
“If you saw eet, you
might change your mind,” she told me.
“I might. Can you ask
him for me?”
“I do not sink zat
would do any good,” Francoise said, looking thoughtful. “ ’E is
very strict wiz his designs.”
“But?” I said,
because there’d clearly been one in her tone.
“But ’e is on lunch
at ze moment. . . .”
“And?”
She pulled something
out of a drawer and dangled it off one finger. “And I ’ave his
keys.”
She waved one of the
other girls over to cover for her, and in less than a minute, we
were past the back counter and into the fitting area, where I had
to stop to deal with my shadows. The two golden-eyed vamps had been
loitering nearby all morning, pretending to be part of the scenery.
They weren’t doing it particularly well. Everybody else was in
shorts and T-shirts, in respect for the 120-plus-degree heat wave
outside, while they were impersonating the Men in
Black.
Still, we had a
truce; I pretended I didn’t notice them, and they didn’t crowd me
too closely. But enough was enough. “Out,” I told them
abruptly.
“We have to do a
check first.”
“Then do it and
leave.”
“Why?” One of them
demanded. He was one of the new guys and I didn’t know his name.
“What are you planning to do in here?”
I blinked at him.
“It’s a dressing room. What do you think I’m planning to
do?”
“That doesn’t explain
why we have to go.”
“Because I might be
trying on some clothes.”
“And?”
“And I might have to
get naked!”
He just looked at me
for a moment. “You are aware that we’ve seen it,
right?”
“OUT!”
As soon as they’d
left, Francoise unlocked the door to Augustine’s workroom and we
scurried inside. It was a lot like the man himself, a flamboyant
sprawl of creative excess, which in this case involved bolts of
expensive fabric, bins of precious trims, heaps of glossy furs, and
assorted sparkly things. There were tables holding materials,
whiteboards covered with sketches and some half-assembled
mannequins looking like war victims in the corner.
But I didn’t see any
sewing machines or other nonfabulous equipment. Only a couple of
tomato-shaped pin cushions that buzzed around our heads as soon as
we entered. Like they knew we weren’t supposed to be
there.
Francoise waved them
away and they floated over to the back wall, where they huddled
together ominously. Then she pulled back a curtain, and I promptly
forgot about them and the vamps and even my aching body. Because
Augustine was a bastard, but he was a brilliant
bastard.
“Ze spring line,”
Francoise said with a flourish worthy of a TV
spokesmodel.
I didn’t say
anything, because my mouth was busy hanging open. Okay, I decided,
maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Because obviously he’d been
busy.
I recognized some of
his staples: a nude sheath dress with black lace fans embroidered
on it that opened and closed every few seconds; a bunch of kicky
little origami dresses that constantly reworked themselves into new
shapes; and a selection of jeweled columns of what looked like
liquid ruby, sapphire and diamond, the last so bright it was hard
to look at.
But the real story
this season was obviously the seasons themselves.
A nearby pale blue
gown was printed with a swirl of autumn leaves—russet, gold and
rich, earthen brown. But the leaves didn’t just move; they also
didn’t see any need to actually stay on the fabric. They tumbled
down the garment and spilled out into the air, swirling around the
dress in one last, brief, ecstatic dance before finally
vanishing.
The same was true for
a shimmering white gown that shed glistening snowflakes whenever I
touched it, and a grass green one with sleeves formed of hundreds
of fluttering butterflies. But the real showstopper was a pale pink
kimono with a Japanese landscape hand painted onto the
silk.
Francoise had been
watching me with an amused tilt to her red lips. “ ’E is good,
no?”
“He is good, yes,” I
breathed, as the kimono shimmered seductively under the
lights.
It would have been
beautiful on its own, but the scene had been magicked to change as
I watched. Snow melted from the bare branches of a tree, which
sprouted leaves, and then delicate pink and white blossoms. They
hung there, trembling, until blown off the surface of the dress by
a summer’s breeze.
But unlike the images
on the other dresses, these didn’t almost immediately disappear.
They hung in the air for a long moment, creating a sort of train
effect that gradually vanished maybe three feet behind the dress.
And when I caught one on my hand, I swear it was petal soft, with
weight and substance, before it melted away into
nothingness.
“Zees is one of ze
special orders for ze ceremony,” Francoise said, reaching up to
flip over a little card affixed to the hanger.
“Is it . . . is it
mine?” I asked, fervently promising every deity I could think of
unswerving devotion if only it said my name. I could look like a
Pythia in that dress. I could take on the world in that
dress.
“Non,” Francoise said, squinting at the
card.
“Whose is it?” I
asked, breathing a little harder. And wondering whether said
individual might be open to bribery. There was still a week and a
half to the big day. Maybe Augustine could make another dress for
whomever—
“Ming-duh,” Francoise
read, scrunching up her face. “Or’owevair you say
eet.”
“What?” I snatched
the little card and stared at it, hoping she’d just mangled the
pronunciation. But no. The card bore the name of the leader of the
East Asian Vampire Court.
Goddamnit.
“But . . . but she’s
Chinese,” I protested. “Why would she want a kimono?”
Francoise gave a
Gallic shrug. “You wanted it,” she pointed out. “And she ees also
ze head of ze Japanese vampires, is she not? Perhaps eet is—’ow you
say?—diplomacy.”
I looked at the
dress, which had cycled back to the winter stage again. It was no
less lovely, despite the relative bleakness. The black branches
were a beautiful contrast to the shell-pink silk, and on the one
slashing across the skirt, a bluebird had paused to delicately
preen its feathers.
It was achingly,
desperately beautiful, and there was no way, no way at all, that
anything I wore was going to compete. That wouldn’t have bothered
me quite so much if it had been going to someone else. But Ming-de
wasn’t just one of the world’s most powerful vampires. She was also
one of the women I strongly suspected of having been among Mircea’s
lovers.
And if that wasn’t
bad enough, she was also an arresting, delicate porcelain doll of a
woman. Even in her normal clothes, she made my five-foot-four frame
look Amazonian and cloddish, and my reddish blond coloring look
washedout and common. And in this—
Okay, it was
official. My life sucked.
Francoise noticed my
expression and frowned. “We’aven’t seen your dress yet,” she
pointed out. “It may be even better.”
I shook my head. “It
won’t be.”
“You don’t know zat,”
she said impatiently, sorting through the other gowns and sending a
cloud of multicolored magic into the air.
There were a lot of
them—it looked like business was booming—and I didn’t know when
Augustine might be back from lunch. I plowed in to help her. “I
came by for a couple of reasons,” I said, as we furiously flipped
tags.
“Vraiment? Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”
I explained about the
night’s events. “I wanted to ask about what Pritkin said,” I
finished. “You were in Faerie a while, right?”
“Too long,” she said
darkly.
I hesitated, not
wanting to poke at old wounds, because Francoise’s trip to the land
of the Fey hadn’t been by choice. One of the things the old legends
got right was the Fey’s poor reproductive record, which you’d think
wouldn’t matter so much to beings who lived as long as they did.
But apparently that wasn’t the case, because they had no
compunction at all about kidnapping anyone they thought might be
able to give them a little help.
But Francoise didn’t
change the subject. “I only saw a leetle of ze Light Fey lands
before I escaped,” she told me. “But I ’ave ’eard about zem. And I
know ze Dark Fey court well. And nevair do I hear of any Fey who
does ze possession.”
“Neither have I,” I
admitted. “I always thought they were flesh and blood, like us.
Well, more or less.”
“Zey are. And zere
are no spirits in zeir world, and no ghosts. So ’ow could zey
possess?”
“I don’t know. But
Pritkin seemed pretty adamant.”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘adamant’?”
“Sure. He was pretty
sure.”
“Adamant,” she rolled
it over her tongue thoughtfully. “I like zees word. Eet ees fun to
say, no?”
“I suppose.” I paused
to take a look at a crimson silk evening dress that was doing
something strange—just hanging on the rack. I poked it, but nothing
flew up or off or morphed into anything else. Either Augustine
hadn’t gotten around to fiddling with it yet, or it was designed
for his nonmagic customers.
It was pretty and
fairly classic, with a low-cut top that ended in a little jeweled
belt and a flouncy hem. I put it to the side. “So you never heard
any stories, legends, anything like that, about the Fey being able
to possess anyone?” I asked.
“Non. I am adamant.” She looked pleased with
herself. “What did Pritkin say?”
“Not a lot. Just that
he thought it might be Fey.”
“I do not sink so,”
she said, and frowned. We’d come to the end of the rack and hadn’t
found a little white tag with my name on it.
“Maybe he hasn’t
started mine yet?” I wondered.
“Non. ’E ’as been working on ze enchantment for
weeks. Eet is all he talks about.”
Her bright red nails
drummed on a tabletop for a moment, and then she looked up and
smiled. “Of course. ’E must still ’ave it in back.”
“I thought this
was the back.”
She shook her head. “
’Is private workroom is through zere.” She nodded at a small door I
hadn’t noticed, over by the hovering pincushions.
“Well, let’s go.” I
started forward, only to have her put a hand on my
arm.
“You can’t. No one
ees allowed in zere, ozzair than ze employees.”
“But he won’t
know.”
“Eet ees warded. ’E
will know. And zose things, zey launch pins,” she said, nodding at
the Tomatoes of Doom.
“Then
how—”
“I weel go and bring
it out.”
I nodded and folded
my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking. I didn’t know
why I was so nervous. Okay, I did. Because this whole thing had
gotten entirely out of hand.
Normally, the
ceremony installing a new Pythia was no big deal. The guests
typically included a handful of dignitaries from the major groups
in the supernatural community: vamps, Weres and the Silver Circle.
It generally took the form of a short meet and greet, sometimes
followed by dinner. Last time, there’d been a brief photo op. And
that was it.
Fast forward to
today.
Last time I’d seen
the guest list, it had almost two thousand names on it. That
included the elite of the vampire world, who suddenly had a renewed
interest in the Pythia, since I was the first in anyone’s memory
who was not a Circle-raised Initiate. It also helped that I was
dating—or married to, in their eyes—one of the senior members of
the North American Vampire Senate.
Add that to the war,
which had everyone more than usually worried about politics, and
the fact that I was currently the darling of the magical tabloids,
and suddenly the simple little ceremony was the hottest ticket in
town. To make matters even more fun, someone had decided that it
might help morale to broadcast the damn thing live. So in addition
to however many people they finally managed to squeeze onto
Mircea’s estate, at least half the magical community was expected
to tune in via a simple spell.
I really, really
wanted to call in sick. But since that wasn’t possible, I at least
needed to look the part. For once in my life, I really needed to
look good.
It suddenly occurred
to me that Francoise had been gone a long time. A long, long time.
I was actually starting to get worried when she finally reappeared,
looking a little pale.
“What is
it?”
“I . . . I don’t sink
Augustine ’as started eet yet,” she told me.
I frowned. “But you
just said—”
“I know what I said!
But . . . but ’e must be behind.” She started to close the door,
but I got a foot in it. The tomatoes dipped menacingly
lower.
“Let me
see.”
She shook her head.
“Non, Cassie. Vraiment—”
“Let me see.”
“You don’t want to
see.”
“How bad can it
be?”
She just looked at
me, her dark eyes huge. “I was wrong.’E ’ates you.”
“Francoise,
move!” I pushed past her, ignoring the
kamikaze pincushions and the static tingle of a ward. And there it
was, in solitary splendor on a dressmaker’s form in the center of
the room.
For a moment, I just
stared, not sure what I was seeing. Because it didn’t look like a
dress. It looked like a bunch of wire hangers that had had a
drunken binge with a load of paper bags. Cheap paper bags. The
brown kind they give you at the grocery store that have been
recycled a couple dozen times. It wasn’t just hideous; it was sad.
A sad, brownpaper-bag dress with what looked like—
“Uh,” Francoise said
faintly.
I didn’t say
anything. I narrowed my eyes and moved closer. And saw a banana
peel masquerading as a shoulder pad, a line of bottle caps on a
string for a necklace and a hollowed-out tin can as a belt buckle.
There were coffee grounds on the shoulder and red wine on the hip
and what looked like a desiccated mouse pinned to the bodice. The
whole thing looked like it had taken a roll through a Dumpster
before—
And then I got it,
and speechless became furious.
“Okay,” I said, my
voice trembling slightly. “So I trashed one of his dresses—all
right, a couple—in the line of duty and through no fault of my own.
So he makes me a trash heap of a dress? Is
that what this is?”
Francoise just looked
at me, a terrible kind of pity on her face. “Zere is a
card.”
And there was,
attached to the dress form above the desiccated rat. I yanked it
off and stared at it.
I thought I would save you some time on this one. You’ll get the real dress when it’s finished, and not a second before. And get out of my workroom.—A
I said some creative
things about the creative genius, until I ran out. “Eet is not
nice,” Francoise agreed. “But what can you do?”
For a moment I just
stood there, contemplating Augustine’s face if I showed up wearing
another designer’s creation. But I didn’t know any other designers,
any magical ones, at least, and it wasn’t like I could just go out
looking for them. And, frankly, I doubted anyone else would stand
up to the competition I would be facing.
I needed a dress, and
I needed a good one. Fortunately, I was surrounded by them. “How
long until he gets back?” I asked quickly.
Francoise’s eyes
narrowed. “Why?”
“Because I feel like
doing some shopping.”