"Yeah, right. Hon, you should invest in a textbook and read up on what Valerius Magnus did in his lifetime."
She folded her arms over her chest and cocked her head. "Excuse me, Mr. Carvalletti, I'll have you know I hold a master's in Ancient Civ. Do you?"
"No, I hold a doctorate from Princeton."
She was impressed in spite of herself. Princeton didn't let in stupid people. "In Ancient Civ?"
"No. Film Studies," he said in a low tone.
"Pardon?" she asked, her eyes wide. "Did you say film?" She was aghast at that. "You majored in movies? Oh, and I was almost impressed."
"Hey," he said defensively, "I'll have you know I worked my ass off for that degree, thank you very much."
"Oh, yeah, right. I was a Fulbright Scholar. Did you ever attend a school where Daddy didn't put up a building?"
"My father didn't put up a building there..." He paused before adding, "My great-grandfather did."
Tabitha snorted. "I'm sorry, but I had to learn four languages to get my degree. What about you?"
"None. I grew up speaking twelve."
"Well aren't you Mr. Fancy Pants? Ooo, and you have the nerve to crack on Val? At least he doesn't walk around flaunting his superior intellect."
"No, he just flaunts his superior breeding. Bow down before me, all you plebeian scum."
"Maybe he wouldn't act that way if all of you weren't damned nasty to him all the time."
"I'm nasty to him! Lady, you don't even know me."
Tabitha backed off, especially since she felt his hurt. "You're right, Otto, I don't know you and I'm probably doing the same thing to you that you did to Val when you met him. I took one look at you, listened to three seconds of your conversation, and made some really harsh judgments that could be wrong just as easily as they could be right."
She approached him with her hands clasped behind her back. "Case in point. Your hair, while attractive, is shaggy, but it's that kind of shabby-chic that only comes from a really expensive beautician. You haven't shaved in what? Two days?"
"Three."
She ignored him. "You're wearing a loud, obnoxiously bright red Hawaiian shirt that I know belongs to Nick because he only wears it whenever he wants to jerk Kyrian's chain. He had to special-order it online for the mere tackiness of it alone. You're barefoot and I saw the beater IROC outside, which, I assume now, is yours."
He stiffened noticeably, which confirmed her suspicion.
She continued her summation. "At first glance, you look like one of those out-of-work party guys who come into my shop browsing the video closet that we keep in back because no self-respecting woman will go out with you. The kind of guy who buys all the naked boob and fornicating Mardi Gras beads to hang around his neck and then spends the entire week drunk and puking, screaming at women to show him their cans."
He folded his arms and gave her a sullen glare.
"Now let's contrast that with a few other facts I've noticed. You're a Squire and from your own admission you're a Blue Blood, which means you come from entire generations of Squires. Your family has had more money than God for a long time. You actually went to Princeton, and even with a laughable major, you went through the trouble of getting a doctorate. That tells me that status does mean something to you. Let me guess: That really cool, metallic black Jag that literally glistens in darkness that Nick has parked at his house and yet never drives is actually yours."
She paused beside him and looked him up and down. "Not to mention you carry yourself like a man used to being respected, even while trying to pretend to be a tasteless slob. Anyone with even an ounce of perception isn't fooled by the tough way you stand."
She lifted his hand, where a spiderweb was tattooed. "Nice watch," she said dryly. "Patek Philippe Grand Complications Chronographs. Let me guess: it's the 5004P which sells for one hundred fifty thousand dollars."
"How do you know that?"
"I come from a long line of store owners and my Aunt Zelda has a jewelry store." She held her arm up to him. "Look, see my coffin watch? It retails for thirty-two dollars at Hot Topic and it has the same time yours does. It takes a Daimon licking and keeps on ticking."
He rolled his eyes at her.
Tabitha continued her rant. "And you're not just a regular Squire." She tapped the spiderweb tattoo on the back of his hand that all Squires of his ilk were marked with. "You're a Blood Rite. Why, Dr. Carvalletti, I do believe that in real life, you're not too far away from being just like Val yourself. Tough, arrogant, and willing to do whatever is necessary to get your job done."
She tilted her head. "I think what bothers you most is that if you were a Dark-Hunter, you'd be just like him. I think it kills you to know exactly how similar the two of you are. Where is your black Armani suit hanging? Nick's house?"