snatched my property back. It was one of my favorites, a plain white tee with a bowl of leaves on the front and “Salad, the Taste of Sadness” underneath. He’d just ripped it off a hanger and was in the process of tossing it on a pile he was making in the corner. “Don’t disrespect thrift stores. Half of my wardrobe used to come from there.”
“Used to?”
“Augustine—”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “I was being rude.”
“That’s better.”
“You’ve clearly been mugging hobos.” And he upturned an entire drawer.
“What are you doing?”
“Crap, crap—that’s nice. Oh, it’s mine. I should have—”
“Cut it out!”
“You need to come see me, darling,” he said seriously. “This is excrement, all of it. Except for my pieces, of course.”
“See you where? Your place burned down!” Along with the rest of the main drag of the hotel. Which was how the Battle on the Drag had gotten its name.
Dante’s was currently undergoing renovations due to the attack and was closed to the public, which was why Augustine was staying here. His shop was barely an outline on the floor at the moment, so the builders had an idea of where everything was supposed to go. And he had flatly refused to return to his apartment, being sure that the dark mages who’d attacked us were out to get him. Since he’d helped in the fight, I’d offered him a place with us—temporarily.
Why did I do these things?
“I’m doing a trunk show next week in the gold ballroom,” he informed me. “Only for preferred clients, of course. A sneak preview of my new, war-themed line. It’s exquisite.”
Considering that the last time I’d heard him say that, it had been about a pith helmet that projected scenes out of Lawrence of Arabia into the air—complete with spitting camel—I had my doubts.
Like I doubted I’d have anything left to wear if he didn’t stop already!
I grabbed the latest item destined for the pile, a nice black pencil skirt that I’d planned to pair with . . . something . . . for my trip, only Augustine wasn’t letting go.
“I need this!”
The thin lips sneered. “For what? Your new secretarial position? Your job as a paralegal? Your upcoming debut as the Pythia with the worst fashion sense in the history of—”
“All right! Then what would you suggest I wear? I have to go to the senate—”
Augustine’s blue eyes narrowed.
“What?” I said warily.
“I have the perfect thing,” he told me. “Absolutely ravishing. The kind of ensemble, I daresay, that might make even a . . . consul . . . jealous?”
I licked my lips. And thought of Cleo and her outrageous fashion sense. She only did it for the shock value, no longer needing to play the power games that most vamps did. They sometimes wore outfits out of their pasts as an intimidation tactic, to show how old and therefore how strong they were. It made any gathering of venerable vamps look like a costume party and any human, aka me, who stumbled into their midst feel even more insignificant than normal.
Not that I planned to be in their midst. I needed to catch Mircea alone, where I could actually get a word in, not surrounded by a crowd like he usually was these days. But still . . . it would be nice to wear something impressive for a change.
“How much?” I asked apprehensively. Because Augustine didn’t come cheap.
“It’s not for sale,” he told me. “I’ll gift it to you.”
I felt my own eyes narrow.
“Why?”
“You’re going to do me a favor.”
The eye-narrowing intensified. “What kind of favor?”
“You know very well what kind! I want to know where you found that dress—”
“What dress?”
“What dre—”
I clapped a hand over his mouth, because I wasn’t sure if the soundproofing worked if you were already inside the suite, and Rhea might still be out there. “Hush!” I hissed. “Or do you want everybody to find out how easily you run around, spying on everyone?”
“Hn bmph mph anmph!”
“What?”
He removed the hand. “I don’t spy on anyone!”
He was still yelling, but he was whisper yelling, so I guessed that was an improvement.
“Anyone but me,” I pointed out.
“I wasn’t spying! You jump around like a manic chicken; no one can get a word in—”
“That’s not true!”
“It’s entirely true! You’re never here, and when you are, you’re closeted away somewhere—”
“I am not!” I thought about it. “All right, maybe I am, but when I’m not, I’m mobbed. I have to go to the bathroom to get some peace and quiet anymore, and