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"Bit expensive, too," Toby said. "Amanda ain't cheap."
We continued down the list. There was another possibility or two, but none whose initials matched appointments in the calendar. Amanda it was, then. When we were done, Mom picked up her sword.
"Find some rope, Savannah," she said.
"Wh-what?" Toby said, starting to rise. "Why do you need rope--?"
Mom pointed the sword at his throat and he fell back into the cushions. "I've told you my secret, Toby. You know that I'm back and what I am. That's very valuable information. After you double-crossed me the last time, I don't trust you."
"But--but you didn't need to tell me! I'd have listened to your offer without knowing you're an angel."
"Huh. My mistake, then. But, since you do know, I can't have you running around. You'll need to wait here for the Cortezes."
His voice went shrill. "You promised to protect me from the Cortezes."
"No, I said I could. Not that I would."
"You bitch!" He started to leap up. One wrist-flick of the sword and he sat back down. "You set me up."
"Just returning the favor. Savannah?"
"I'll get some rope."
We had to settle for extension cords and electrical tape, but they did the job. Then I called Lucas and told him where Toby was. They'd have a lot of questions for him, questions better answered in Cortez custody. That's why Mom played the angel card--an excuse to have the Cortezes take him even after he'd fulfilled the bargain. Of course, since she had the big, glowing sword, she didn't need an excuse, but that wouldn't have been fair. In my mother's world, playing fair is important, even if her definition of it is a little malleable.
When we got back into the car, I said, "We need a disguise."
Mom looked over, brows lifting.
"Either we disguise ourselves or we have to leave a trail of bound and gagged supernaturals in our wake," I said. "Which could be appropriate, considering half the supernatural population of New Orleans seems to be eyeball deep in this shit. But the next person who recognizes you might escape before they're in our sights."
"Not in my sights," she said. "I have superhuman vision, remember."
I gave her a look.
"Yes, I take your point," she said. "I don't disguise easily and I suspect you don't either, but I may have a solution. I've picked up a few tricks on the other side. Let's just hope they work."
The trick was a modified glamour spell. The normal one allows the caster to take on the appearance of another person, but it works only if the target expects to see that other person.
Mom's "modification" was actually an older version, predating the spell we used, and didn't require expectation to work. I'd heard of it before. Even seen it in a grimoire--an old spellbook--at Cortez headquarters. But it required that most troubling of special ingredients: human sacrifice. It took an average of a hundred iterations for a witch to master the spell. Even the Cortezes hadn't taught anyone to use it since before Benicio's time. The cost-benefit ratio was just too high.
Fortunately, Mom had learned the spell to help her celestial bounty-hunting duties, which meant no body count--there's no way of killing someone in the afterlife. So Mom could cast the spell without a corpse. Or she could in the afterlife. Here? She wasn't sure. Also, it was difficult to test, because even after she cast the spell, she looked the same to me. So we accosted a few unsuspecting passersby, which left some people in New Orleans wondering about the crazy women asking what color their hair was.
But the spell had worked. We'd glamoured ourselves based on two photos from Glamour, appropriately enough. We picked the two most average-looking young women in its pages, which still meant we were well above average. As for clothing, we outfitted ourselves in jerseys, sneakers and jeans. Two students, pretty but nonthreatening.
We almost misse
d Amanda. When we arrived, she was leaving, gym bag in hand. She looked to be in her early thirties, with soft features and sleek, shoulder-length, ash-blond hair. She was dressed stylishly and conservatively, in slacks, boots and an Oxford shirt. Put a crop in her hand and she'd look ready for a day of riding. Horses, I mean. Not the kind of riding she apparently did for a living.
I strode up behind her and said, "Um, Amanda? Amanda Griffin?"
She turned. Looked me up and down, expressionless. "Yes?"
"Um . . ." I wiped my hands on my jeans. "Sorry, I--I'm just a little nervous. I'm Brianne White. I go to Delgado with my friend here, Sami. Someone gave us your name and, uh . . ."
Her brows arched. Amused. "If you're looking for a little college experimentation, honey, I can give you some names. That's not my thing."
"Experiment--?" I let out a high-pitched giggle. "Oh, no. Not that. I mean . . ."
