Hunt the Moon

things.”

“What kind of things?”

Fred waved a hand toward the interior of the suite. “That thing. He stormed in a few minutes ago and demanded to see you. And, of course, I had to tell him that you weren’t in and I didn’t know when you’d be back. And he went off—”

“He who?”

“—and started going though your stuff. I told him he couldn’t, but—”

I didn’t have to wonder what he meant for long, because a second later, a tall, enraged blond emerged from the hall. He was wearing a glittering green brocade tailcoat that, with his height and overall skinniness, made him look like a particularly fabulous praying mantis. “You!”

A long, bony finger was pointed, and of course it was at me.

“I’ve been wanting to see you,” I told him, but I may as well have saved my breath. Augustine wasn’t listening.

“Who are you wearing, and don’t lie to me!”

“What?”

“A month of my life—a month. Do you understand?” The finger was shaking now, and so was he, but I didn’t think it was in fear of the circling ring of vamps. In fact, I got the impression that Augustine didn’t even see them. His eyes were fixed on me, and if blue eyes could burn, they were doing it. “I have slaved— slaved, worked myself into a frenzy. My masterpiece! Do you understand?”

“No.”

“My masterpiece,” he screeched. “The finest gown I have ever made. It’s almost ready, and what do you do? Who are you wearing?”

“Okay, no touching,” the redhead guard told him, prying long, bony white hands off the front of my shirt.

“You set me up!” Augustine’s usually perfect complexion was an ugly, mottled red. “You planned this all the time!”

“Planned what?” I asked, staying calm because I thought there was an outside chance the guy might actually have a heart attack right there.

“It isn’t ready! Do you understand? Another day, even two—but not by tonight!”

“Tonight? What is tonight?”

“Don’t give me that! We started getting requests this afternoon, but I didn’t think anything of it. It’s normal that people would want to pick up their dresses in advance. They are accustomed to dealing with inferior tailors, people like that Claude, who can’t fit a gown to save his life, or that ridiculous Tyndale. Tyndale—what kind of name is that for a—”

“Augustine—”

“But they kept on coming, didn’t they? Request after request, and do you know how many gowns I have left now? One! The one. The one in comparison to which all others are garbage— garbage. Do you understand? Except for mine, of course, but even they—”

I grabbed him. And I guess that was okay, because none of the vamps interfered this time. “Are you trying to tell me that the dresses for the coronation went out today?”

“You know damned well they did! Which means they changed the date, didn’t they? But no one bothered to tell me, and it isn’t finished! It isn’t—”

I didn’t hear what else it wasn’t, because I’d already shifted.

You know it’s not going to be a fun party when a serial killer answers the door. Of course, I’d been assuming that anyway. Crashing a vampire ball to which you’ve been specifically uninvited pretty much ensures that the evening will suck.

The killer in question leaned against the doorframe and looked me up and down, the pallid face stretching into a rictus. “Cassandra Palmer. And just when I thought the evening would be a frightful bore.”

I pushed fake black hair out of my eyes and glared. I’d been hoping for a nice human or even a lower-level vampire—someone who might have been fooled by the glamourie I’d used to give my too-round cheeks a little definition and to tint my blue eyes brown. So of course I ended up with a master vamp who thought he was funny.

“How did you recognize me?” I demanded.

“You have a style all your own.”

I looked down at the disguise I’d had to assemble on the fly. I’d been going for high-end waitress, but Dante’s wasn’t exactly known for good taste. As a result, I’d ended up with a cross between naughty French maid and The Rocky Horror Picture Show: ratty green velvet, torn fishnets and an Elvira wig that kept falling into my eyes.

I looked back up. “Ha. Ha.”

He leaned closer, his nostrils flaring. “And your scent is really quite . . . distinctive.”

I tried not to flinch or to let the fact that he knew what I smelled like gross me out.

But I must not have done a great job, because that horrible smile emerged again. Someone should mention that it wasn’t a good look for him. Of course, it was hard to think of anything that would be.

He dressed like an old-fashioned mortician, his hair was the flat black of a bad dye job and his fangs were always out and always yellow. I had no idea why he chose to look like that. Anyone who had been a vampire since the Victorian era had definitely had time to get it down pat.

He kept leaning in until I could feel his breath on my throat. “I would know you in the dark,” he whispered.

And then he licked my neck.

I stumbled back, fighting revulsion, and lost my grip on the tray of hors d’oeuvres I was carrying. I grabbed for it and for my ridiculously short skirt at the same time and caught only one. My butt hit the bottom of a short flight of cold, wet steps just as the door slammed shut above me.

“Jack!”

There was no response.

I hauled myself off the ground, pulled my thong out of my ass and stomped back up the steps. I peered through the door but didn’t see much. The frosted glass in the servant’s entrance showed me only vague shadows, one of whom I was pretty sure was laughing at me. “I’m not going to just go away, you know!”

Nothing.

“It’s my goddamned party!” I yelled, and kicked the door. All I got for my trouble was a stubbed toe and a warning thump from the house wards.

I cursed and went to retrieve my tray. The blinis were no longer edible, having been scattered all over the grass, but I needed them for my disguise. Assuming I ever got inside to use it.

But that was looking less and less likely. My power couldn’t even feel the house, much less get a grip on it. Every time I tried, it slipped through my metaphysical clutches like a wet piece of glass, leaving me holding nothing. It didn’t feel like a spell or like I was being blocked somehow. I’d had that happen before, and this was different. I could see the house, could reach out and touch the damn thing, but as far as my power was concerned, it just wasn’t there.

“Told you that wouldn’t work,” Billy said, lounging in the air beside me.

“I didn’t hear you come up with any better ideas,” I pointed out, just as I noticed a new tear in my hose. Goddamnit!

“You shoulda just come in jeans. All the servers I saw are male—and vampire.”

“You mean I dressed like this for nothing?”

“Well, you look cute,” he offered, trying to look up my skirt.

“Stop that! And find me a way in.”

He shook his head. “That’s what I came to tell you, Cass. There is no way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I figured it out when I tried to float through a window and I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it!”

“So? Maybe it’s warded.”

“It shouldn’t matter. I’m a ghost. There’s never been a ward invented that works on me.”