Shatter the Earth (Cassandra Palmer 10)

“Dressy casual.”

She nodded, but instead of going to fetch it herself, she merely pressed a spot on one of the mirrors, and it began reflecting a rotating selection of garments, most of them way too ladies-who-lunch for me. Until it reached a cute little sundress in a white spotted, crinkly yellow fabric with a short white jacket over it. I fell in love with it immediately.

“That one.”

“As madam wishes.”

And then she reached through the mirror and snagged it out.

One of these days, that sort of thing is going to stop bothering me, I thought.

“Shall I have it sized while madam showers?” she asked, with another smile. Which was the most genteel way of saying “you reek” that I thought I’d ever heard.

“There’s a shower?”

She indicated another mirror which, sure enough, allowed me to step right through. It felt a little weird against my skin, too cool and vaguely liquid-y, but the bathroom on the other side was a marvel of golden marble, plush gold towels, and no fewer than nine shower heads in a massive shower that pummeled me from all directions like a Turkish masseur. Damn, I needed one of these!

I stepped out, dried off, and found that the little sundress had been left in place of my other clothing, which had been whisked away somewhere. There were no underthings provided, but I had those with me except for stockings, and I’d waxed my legs a couple of days ago. Shoes, on the other hand were a problem, with my only options being peasant boots or an old pair of Keds.

But when I stepped back into the dressing room, I found the attendant holding some white sandals in what looked like my size.

“I can change them for closed toed shoes if you’d prefer,” she told me.

“No, these are perfect.” I put them on and checked out my reflection. From the neck down everything was fine, even cute. The skirt was swingy and hit the sweet spot between respectable and cha-cha, and the sandals and jacket set it off perfectly. But from the neck up . . . was a tragedy.

As well as the persistently glowing eyes, I had a large scrape down my left cheekbone—probably from the damned tree limbs hitting me in the face—a bruise on my right jaw, and what appeared to be . . .

Yeah. I scratched something that had imbedded itself near my hairline, and a couple bits of rubble fell out and hit the white tiled floor, making little clattering sounds. The attendant didn’t say anything, so I didn’t, either. I guessed we were both going to agree that hadn’t happened.

“The glamourie will cover the entire head,” she informed me deadpan, and I felt my spine relax.

“Okay, let’s do this.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was two inches away from one of the mirrors, checking out my eyes. Pale blue, a little bloodshot, and with a swipe of slightly gunked-up mascara, because I’d told her not to make me look too perfect. The guy I was going to see was never going to be fooled by perfect.

But, damn, this thing would fool me, I thought, checking out the slightly messy hair and half assed makeup from every side. The technician hadn’t asked why I wanted to look like I’d been up half the night and just rolled out of bed. She’d just accommodated.

Rhea had been right—this place was great. Particularly for Pythias who couldn’t go home to change, because there were too many people there who might ask questions! And too many vamp noses that might detect scents I couldn’t easily explain.

But I didn’t think anyone would detect them now. The glamourie had a really distinct odor, not unpleasant—quite the contrary—but a little overpowering. Sort of like I’d been hit in the face by a field of flowers.

“The scent will fade, over time,” the attendant assured me, probably noticing my nose twitching.

“Is there any way to speed that up?” I asked. I was having lunch with a guy who brewed potions on the regular. I didn’t need him figuring out that I was wearing a glamourie, much less why.

“I am afraid not,” she looked suitably regretful. “The scent is impossible to mask, being a byproduct of the fey flora used in the mixture.”

“Fey flora?”

“Only the best for our clients.” She smiled again.

I kind of wished she’d stop doing that, since it flashed the fangs, but it wasn’t the sort of thing I could ask.

“However, the scent is very similar to our perfumes, which use some of the same ingredients as a base. If madam would like to see?”

I was beginning to understand how the troll woman ended up with all those packages. “Thanks.”

More fang. Damn, they were distracting, probably because they were longer and thicker than a vamp’s, which was the kind I was used to. But vamps could retract theirs for perfect, Hollywood teeth whenever they chose. It didn’t look like she could.