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My clip was empty again, the little click, click telling me to reload. I pressed a button and missed the grab. The spent clip bumped against my shoe before spinning away on the floor. I retrieved it and manually reloaded with fifteen new bullets.
Despite the ache in my wrist, my hands were steady. I kept being surprised by that, kept expecting to fall apart. I’d washed up in front of the bathroom mirror after we got back, letting the washcloth linger on the back of my neck, cool and soothing, while I waited to dissolve. Only I hadn’t yet. It was starting to really worry me.
Once when I was about six, Alphonse had come back from a job covered in blood, with a gash in his forehead that almost bisected the scalp, making him look like Frankenstein’s monster before the doc stitched him up. But he’d been in a rare good mood, because the other guys, the ones he’d left lying in pieces all over a basketball court, had looked worse. They’d taken out a couple of our people in a territory dispute and, since the dead had been Alphonse’s vamps, Tony had let him handle it. Alphonse had done his usual thorough job.
He’d seen me loitering around a corner, watching him with wide eyes, and had chucked me on the chin in passing. It had left a red mark on my skin, which Eugenie had scrubbed off later while inadvertently teaching me my first swear word. When I was older, I’d realized that he’d been making a point, coming back covered in blood to show that the insult had been properly avenged, but all I’d thought at the time was that it was strange to see him so relaxed. If it hadn’t been for the gore, he could have been anybody returning from a good night’s work.
It hadn’t bothered him either.
I aimed at the target again, which was still looking pretty pristine despite the fact that the air was getting acrid. I thought of Mircea’s face, his eyes reflecting fire, his body outlined in jumping, deadly flames. I wanted to touch him so badly that I could feel his fingers on my wrist, like a phantom ache. This was how reaching for something with a missing hand must feel, restless and empty and wrong. And I’d almost been left with it forever, thanks to a guy who thought that trying to electrocute someone was an acceptable way of saying hello.
The air rang with gunshots and the sound of ripping paper until the clicking noise came again. I reloaded, my eyes smarting from the smoke, wishing life was that easy. Just fill up what was empty, replace what was lost. But it wasn’t. Some things couldn’t be replaced. So you had to make sure you didn’t lose them to begin with.
It was all the way past crazy and out the other side that I was starting to agree with Alphonse.
That afternoon, Françoise and I made our way to the imposing marble and glass edifice in the main arcade where Augustine had set up shop. My run-in with the dark mages had made one thing very clear: if Mircea hadn’t been there, I’d have lasted all of about thirty seconds. If I had any hope of actually getting my hands on the Codex, I had to be better prepared. I just hoped Augustine could do what I had in mind.
Françoise had paused in front of the two large plate-glass windows that displayed selections from the ready-to-wear line. She eyed a slim flute of a dress with golden bubbles rising upwards from the hem, like champagne, but passed on without comment. Inside, a large chandelier took up most of the ceiling, its crystals formed by icicles charmed not to melt despite the candles scattered among its many tiers. Françoise immediately began browsing, although what she planned to use for money I had no idea. I’d offered to take her shopping, since she’d ended up here sans family, friends and wardrobe. But my bank account didn’t run so much to pricey boutiques.
I decided to explain things if and when she found something, and walked past the staff into the small workroom in back. Nobody tried to stop me. I was back in Elvira mode, wearing a black wig and an official-looking name badge. I’d discovered that it avoided a lot of questions if I looked like an employee, although it wasn’t doing my arches any good.
The workroom was so crowded with racks of garments and bolts of fabric that I couldn’t even see Augustine, but I heard someone muttering in a far corner. It turned out to be the great man himself, wrestling with a piece of golden fur that appeared to be trying to eat him. He threw it off and slapped a chair down on it, then started digging in the pile of papers on a nearby desk and muttering more.
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I approached with caution, because the fabric was bucking and making a valiant attempt to throw off the chair. “Uh, hello?”
“It’s no use complaining,” he told me quickly. “There was no show, so nobody gets paid. Including me.”
“I’m not here about that.”
The fur gave a heave and almost dumped him onto the floor. He pretended not to notice, but he surreptitiously slid the edge of the heavy desk over to join the chair. “Then I’m at your disposal.”
“I’m thinking about a dress. Something French.”
“You can’t mean that complete hack Edouard,” he said, sounding appalled. “Darling, please. I can design you something better with my eyes closed. Hell, I could design you something better dead!”
“I don’t mean I want a French designer,” I tried to explain. “Just something that looks—”
“Forget Paris. Paris is done,” he told me airily. “Now, at what occasion are you planning to showcase my work?”
“I need an outfit that would fit into the late eighteenth century.”
“Oh, a costume party. I don’t do costumes.” Considering that Augustine’s personal style was a cross between Galliano and Liberace, I thought that was debatable. At the moment he was wearing a saffron yellow tunic with puffy sleeves over a pair of purple harem pants. A gold sash tied around his waist pirate style held not a saber but a pair of scissors, a measuring tape and a tomato-shaped pincushion.
“I don’t think you understand,” I told him patiently. “It’s kind of important.”
“Ah, you want to dress to impress,” Augustine said archly. “Well, in that case, you’ve come to the right place.” He pulled me over to a dressmaker’s form in one of the few open spaces in the room. With a mumbled word, it took on a very familiar, very detailed shape. I had a sudden urge to throw a towel over it. “Any special orders I need to know about?” he demanded. “Some of those can affect the design.”
“No. I just—”
“Because I don’t want you coming to me at the last minute saying you need a charm to make you dance better or hold your liquor or be a scintillating conversationalist and just forgot to mention it—”
“You can do that with a dress?”
“Darling, I can do anything with a dress. Anything legal, that is. So don’t go asking for a love potion or some nonsense, because I’m not about to lose my license.”
“What else can you do?” My mind was racing with the possibilities.
