Hunt the Moon cp-5 Read online

  “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 t
he 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.”

  Chapter Seven

  “That’s more like it,” Marco said approvingly, as I staggered through the door of the suite half an hour later.

  “I thought they were supposed to help,” I gasped, nodding my head at my shadows. It was the only thing
I could move, since every other appendage was laden with bags, boxes and packages.

  “Need our hands free for weapons,” one of them said blandly.

  “Both of you?”

  “You have a lot of enemies.”

  “I have a lot of pulled muscles now, too!” I snapped, lurching into the living room.

  “That mage is here,” Marco warned me.

  “Pritkin?” I asked, my head coming up.

  “Naw. That old one. And some slick-haired guy.”

  I didn’t know who Slick Hair was, but That Old One was Jonas Marsden, acting head of the Silver Circle. Of course, Marco knew that perfectly well, but the vamps were never happy whenever a mage showed up. And that went double for their leader.

  Jonas rose to help me after I stumbled into the lounge, and I shot Marco a look. That got a kiss blown in my general direction and a promise to be right outside aimed at the mages. In case they intended to use some nefarious wizard trickery to make off with me or something.

  “Sorry I wasn’t here, but I thought we weren’t meeting until three,” I panted.

  “No matter. I should have called,” Jonas said genially. “But I did want to talk to you, if you have a moment.”

  “About last night?”

  “Oh, I do truly hope not,” he said, which would have sounded odd coming from anyone else. But Jonas was always odd.

  For one, he was the only person I knew with hair worse than Pritkin’s. It was extra poufy today, a magnificent silver-white ball of static electricity that appeared to have a life of its own. Like some alien creature had happened to light on his head and decided to stay a while. In contrast, his face was surprisingly normal, with pleasant features, rosy cheeks and fewer lines than one would expect for his age, whatever that was. Jonas usually just described it as “damned old.”

  “And Niall did so want to meet you,” he added, as I stumbled toward the bedroom.

  “Niall?”

  “Niall Edwards.” A sharp-faced brunet with slickedback hair came forward, and I managed to get a hand out. But either he didn’t see or he ignored it. “Have you thought about losing five to ten?” he asked, circling me.

  I turned, trying to keep him in my field of vision, and dropped a heavy shoe box on my foot. “Five to ten what?” I asked, wincing.