She ought to be, seeing as she had over a thousand years of servitude to a demon. The doors started closing again, and I hit the button for a few more seconds. “Everything went to hell when Trent found out you use black magic to protect him, eh?”
Quen didn’t shift, even maintaining his sedate breathing, but his very stillness told me I was right.
“So?” I said belligerently.
“So he’s starting to entertain the thought that you might be trustworthy, too. Will you at least consider it? We need the sample.”
The reminder of my own demon-smut-laced soul bothered me, and I jabbed at the “close” button. No freaking way. “Get back to me later, Quen. Like a hundred years later.”
“We don’t have a hundred years,” Quen said, desperation entering his voice. “We have eight months.”
Oh, shit.
I pushed myself into motion, my shoulder bag catching on the doors as I shoved my way past them. Quen had moved back. His lips were tightly pressed, as if he wished he hadn’t had to say that to get me to listen. “What do you mean, eight months? As in one less than nine?”
Quen said nothing. Didn’t even look at me. And I didn’t dare touch him.
“He got her pregnant?” I exclaimed, not caring who heard me. “The son of a bitch! The stinking son of a bitch!”
I was so angry, I was almost laughing. Quen’s jaw had clenched so tight his pox scars stood out white and stark. “Will you do it?” he said stiffly.
“I want to talk to Trent,” I said. No wonder Ceri was avoiding me. The woman was recovering from a thousand years of demon servitude, and Trent goes and gets her pregnant! “Where is he?”
“Shopping.”
My eyes narrowed. “Where?”
“Across the street.”
He was shopping. A hundred to one it wasn’t for baby booties or a car seat. Remembering Marshal and our coffee date, I glanced out the cloudy window to estimate the time. It couldn’t be much past one o’clock. Plenty of time. Unless this was a ruse and Trent was going to try to kill me—in which case I might run a little late.
I hit the “down” button hard, and the elevator doors opened immediately. Shopping? He was shopping? “After you,” I said, and followed Quen into the lift.
The thin heat from the sidewalk vanished when I turned the corner and entered the shadow of tall buildings. “Where is he?” I said, holding my hair out of my face when I looked to Quen. He was beside and a little behind me, and it gave me the creeps.
The quiet, powerful man pointed with his eyes across the street, and when I followed his gaze, I felt a wash of apprehension. OTHER EARTHLINGS COSTUMER, INC. Holy crap, Trent was picking out a Halloween costume?
I pushed myself into motion and headed for the exclusive costumer. Well, why not? Trent had parties to go to like anyone else. Probably more of them. But Other Earthlings? You needed an appointment just to walk in, especially in October.
Hesitating at the curb, I felt Quen’s presence slide up behind me. “Will you stop guarding me?” I muttered, and Quen made a little start.
“Sorry,” he said, then hastened to catch up when I crossed in the middle of the street. I caught him glancing at the crosswalk and snickered. Yeah, me bad.
After a moment’s hesitation at the brass BY APPOINTMENT ONLY sign, I reached for the door only to have someone from inside pull it open. The doorman looked seriously brain-dead when I entered, but before I could say anything, an older woman in a crisp peach skirt and jacket click-clacked to us, the sound of her heels muffled when they found the thick white carpet. “I’m sorry. We’re closed to walk-ins,” the woman said, her face a mix of cool professionalism and polite disdain at my jeans and sweater. “Would you like to make an appointment for next year?”
My pulse quickened and I cocked my hip at her obvious but unspoken opinion that hell would freeze over before I’d ever have enough money to buy even a complexion charm from them. I took a breath to demand to see their hair straighteners, knowing their claim to be able to straighten any hair wouldn’t be able to touch mine, when Quen settled in behind me, too close for my comfort.
“Oh! You’re with Mr. Kalamack?” she said, only the faintest blush marring the aged whiteness of her complexion.
I glanced at Quen. “Not really. I’m Rachel Morgan, and I’ve got something to say to Mr. Kalamack. I understand he’s here?”
The woman’s mouth dropped open, and she came forward to take my hands. “You’re Alice’s daughter?” she said breathlessly. “Oh, I should have known. You look just like her, or you would if she wouldn’t spell herself down. It is such a pleasure to meet you!”
Excuse me? She was pumping my arm up and down enthusiastically, and when I looked at Quen, he seemed as mystified as me.
“We don’t have any openings today, sweetheart,” she said, and I blinked at her familiarity. “But let me talk to Renfold. He’ll stay late for you. Your mother’s straightening charms have saved our reputation too many times.”
“My mother’s hair straighteners?” I managed, grabbing her wrist and extraditing my hand from hers. I was going to have to talk to my mother. This was so not-good. Just how long had she been making bootleg charms?
The woman, Sylvia, according to a name tag outlined in green pearls, smiled and winked at me as if we were grand friends. “You don’t think you’re the only person who has difficult-to-charm hair?” she said, then reached to touch my hair fondly as if it were a thing of beauty, not a constant bother. “I will never understand why no one is satisfied with what nature gives them. I think it’s wonderful that you appreciate yours.”
“Appreciate” wasn’t the right word, but I didn’t want to stand here and discuss hair. “Uh, I need to speak to Trent. He’s still here, right?”
The woman’s surprise that I was on a first-name basis with the eminently eligible bachelor flashed across her face. She glanced at Quen, who nodded, and with a soft “This way, please,” she led us through the store.
I felt better now that we were moving, even if the staff was whispering as Sylvia led us along a wandering path through racks of scrumptious clothing. The store smelled wonderfully of expensive fabrics and exotic perfumes, plus the snap of ozone that said ley line charms were made and invoked here. Other Earthlings was an all-encompassing costumer, supplying the clothes, prosthetics as needed, and charms to make anyone into anyone else. They weren’t online, and the only way you could get their products was to make an appointment. I couldn’t help but wonder what Trent was going for, costumewise.
Quen was behind me again, and Sylvia led us past a small back counter and to a short hall with four doors. They were set back like the entries to high-class hotel rooms, and from behind the last, I could hear Trent’s voice.
The soft murmur of it went right to my middle and twisted something. God, he had a beautiful voice: low, resonant, and rich with unexplored undertones—like shadowed moss in the sun-dappled woods. I was certain his voice contributed to how well he did in the city elections—if the generous donations to underprivileged children and hospitals weren’t enough.
Clearly not hearing anything in Trent’s voice but words, Sylvia knocked smartly on the door and entered without waiting for an invitation. I hung back and let Quen go in ahead of me. I didn’t like being burst in upon by rude salespeople,