As soon as they’d left, Francoise unlocked the door to Augustine’s workroom and we scurried inside. It was a lot like the man himself, a flamboyant sprawl of creative excess, which in this case involved bolts of expensive fabric, bins of precious trims, heaps of glossy furs, and assorted sparkly things. There were tables holding materials, whiteboards covered with sketches and some half-assembled mannequins looking like war victims in the corner.

But I didn’t see any sewing machines or other nonfabulous equipment. Only a couple of tomato-shaped pin cushions that buzzed around our heads as soon as we entered. Like they knew we weren’t supposed to be there.

Francoise waved them away and they floated over to the back wall, where they huddled together ominously. Then she pulled back a curtain, and I promptly forgot about them and the vamps and even my aching body. Because Augustine was a bastard, but he was a brilliant bastard.

“Ze spring line,” Francoise said with a flourish worthy of a TV spokesmodel.

I didn’t say anything, because my mouth was busy hanging open. Okay, I decided, maybe I’d misjudged the guy. Because obviously he’d been busy.

I recognized some of his staples: a nude sheath dress with black lace fans embroidered on it that opened and closed every few seconds; a bunch of kicky little origami dresses that constantly reworked themselves into new shapes; and a selection of jeweled columns of what looked like liquid ruby, sapphire and diamond, the last so bright it was hard to look at.

But the real story this season was obviously the seasons themselves.

A nearby pale blue gown was printed with a swirl of autumn leaves—russet, gold and rich, earthen brown. But the leaves didn’t just move; they also didn’t see any need to actually stay on the fabric. They tumbled down the garment and spilled out into the air, swirling around the dress in one last, brief, ecstatic dance before finally vanishing.

The same was true for a shimmering white gown that shed glistening snowflakes whenever I touched it, and a grass green one with sleeves formed of hundreds of fluttering butterflies. But the real showstopper was a pale pink kimono with a Japanese landscape hand painted onto the silk.

Francoise had been watching me with an amused tilt to her red lips. “ ’E is good, no?”

“He is good, yes,” I breathed, as the kimono shimmered seductively under the lights.

It would have been beautiful on its own, but the scene had been magicked to change as I watched. Snow melted from the bare branches of a tree, which sprouted leaves, and then delicate pink and white blossoms. They hung there, trembling, until blown off the surface of the dress by a summer’s breeze.

But unlike the images on the other dresses, these didn’t almost immediately disappear. They hung in the air for a long moment, creating a sort of train effect that gradually vanished maybe three feet behind the dress. And when I caught one on my hand, I swear it was petal soft, with weight and substance, before it melted away into nothingness.

“Zees is one of ze special orders for ze ceremony,” Francoise said, reaching up to flip over a little card affixed to the hanger.

“Is it . . . is it mine?” I asked, fervently promising every deity I could think of unswerving devotion if only it said my name. I could look like a Pythia in that dress. I could take on the world in that dress.

“Non,” Francoise said, squinting at the card.

“Whose is it?” I asked, breathing a little harder. And wondering whether said individual might be open to bribery. There was still a week and a half to the big day. Maybe Augustine could make another dress for whomever—

“Ming-duh,” Francoise read, scrunching up her face. “Or’owevair you say eet.”

“What?” I snatched the little card and stared at it, hoping she’d just mangled the pronunciation. But no. The card bore the name of the leader of the East Asian Vampire Court.

Goddamnit.

“But . . . but she’s Chinese,” I protested. “Why would she want a kimono?”

Francoise gave a Gallic shrug. “You wanted it,” she pointed out. “And she ees also ze head of ze Japanese vampires, is she not? Perhaps eet is—’ow you say?—diplomacy.”

I looked at the dress, which had cycled back to the winter stage again. It was no less lovely, despite the relative bleakness. The black branches were a beautiful contrast to the shell-pink silk, and on the one slashing across the skirt, a bluebird had paused to delicately preen its feathers.

It was achingly, desperately beautiful, and there was no way, no way at all, that anything I wore was going to compete. That wouldn’t have bothered me quite so much if it had been going to someone else. But Ming-de wasn’t just one of the world’s most powerful vampires. She was also one of the women I strongly suspected of having been among Mircea’s lovers.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, she was also an arresting, delicate porcelain doll of a woman. Even in her normal clothes, she made my five-foot-four frame look Amazonian and cloddish, and my reddish blond coloring look washedout and common. And in this—

Okay, it was official. My life sucked.

Francoise noticed my expression and frowned. “We’aven’t seen your dress yet,” she pointed out. “It may be even better.”

I shook my head. “It won’t be.”

“You don’t know zat,” she said impatiently, sorting through the other gowns and sending a cloud of multicolored magic into the air.

There were a lot of them—it looked like business was booming—and I didn’t know when Augustine might be back from lunch. I plowed in to help her. “I came by for a couple of reasons,” I said, as we furiously flipped tags.

“Vraiment? Qu’est-ce que tu veux?”

I explained about the night’s events. “I wanted to ask about what Pritkin said,” I finished. “You were in Faerie a while, right?”

“Too long,” she said darkly.

I hesitated, not wanting to poke at old wounds, because Francoise’s trip to the land of the Fey hadn’t been by choice. One of the things the old legends got right was the Fey’s poor reproductive record, which you’d think wouldn’t matter so much to beings who lived as long as they did. But apparently that wasn’t the case, because they had no compunction at all about kidnapping anyone they thought might be able to give them a little help.

But Francoise didn’t change the subject. “I only saw a leetle of ze Light Fey lands before I escaped,” she told me. “But I ’ave ’eard about zem. And I know ze Dark Fey court well. And nevair do I hear of any Fey who does ze possession.”

“Neither have I,” I admitted. “I always thought they were flesh and blood, like us. Well, more or less.”

“Zey are. And zere are no spirits in zeir world, and no ghosts. So ’ow could zey possess?”

“I don’t know. But Pritkin seemed pretty adamant.”

“Qu’est-ce que c’est ‘adamant’?”

“Sure. He was pretty sure.”

“Adamant,” she rolled it over her tongue thoughtfully. “I like zees word. Eet ees fun to say, no?”

“I suppose.” I paused to take a look at a crimson silk evening dress that was doing something strange—just hanging on the rack. I poked it, but nothing flew up or off or morphed into anything else. Either Augustine hadn’t gotten around to fiddling with it yet, or it was designed for his nonmagic customers.

It was pretty and fairly classic, with a low-cut top that ended in a little jeweled belt and a flouncy hem. I put it to the side. “So you never heard any stories, legends, anything like that, about the Fey being able to possess anyone?” I asked.

“Non. I am adamant.” She looked pleased with herself. “What did Pritkin say?”

“Not a lot. Just that he thought it might be Fey.”

“I do not sink so,” she said, and frowned. We’d come to the end of the rack and hadn’t found a little white tag with my name on it.

“Maybe he hasn’t started mine yet?” I wondered.

“Non. ’E ’as been working on ze enchantment for weeks. Eet is all he talks about.”

Her bright red nails drummed on a tabletop for a moment, and then she looked up and smiled. “Of course. ’E must still ’ave it in back.”

“I thought this was the back.”

She shook her head. “ ’Is private workroom is through zere.” She nodded at a small door I hadn’t noticed, over by the hovering pincushions.

“Well, let’s go.” I started forward, only to have her put a hand on my arm.

“You can’t. No one ees allowed in zere, ozzair than ze employees.”

“But he won’t know.”

“Eet ees warded. ’E will know. And zose things, zey launch pins,” she said, nodding at the Tomatoes of Doom.

“Then how—”

“I weel go and bring it out.”

I nodded and folded my hands behind my back to keep them from shaking. I didn’t know why I was so nervous. Okay, I did. Because this whole thing had gotten entirely out of hand.

Normally, the ceremony installing a new Pythia was no big deal. The guests typically included a handful of dignitaries from the major groups in the supernatural community: vamps, Weres and the Silver Circle. It generally took the form of a short meet and greet, sometimes followed by dinner. Last time, there’d been a brief photo op. And that was it.

Fast forward to today.

Last time I’d seen the guest list, it had almost two thousand names on it. That included the elite of the vampire world, who suddenly had a renewed interest in the Pythia, since I was the first in anyone’s memory who was not a Circle-raised Initiate. It also helped that I was dating—or married to, in their eyes—one of the senior members of the North American Vampire Senate.

Add that to the war, which had everyone more than usually worried about politics, and the fact that I was currently the darling of the magical tabloids, and suddenly the simple little ceremony was the hottest ticket in town. To make matters even more fun, someone had decided that it might help morale to broadcast the damn thing live. So in addition to however many people they finally managed to squeeze onto Mircea’s estate, at least half the magical community was expected to tune in via a simple spell.