“I’m not a god, either,” I told him briefly, and shifted.
Chapter Four
“Number six,” I told the shopkeeper, and he obligingly slid an elongated, jewel shaped, faintly purple bottle out of a display case. “This is one of the good ones?” I added, because I needed to be sure.
He looked offended. “Madam, everything we stock is “one of the good ones.”
And, yeah, I guessed so. Magical glamouries came in a thousand different varieties, everything from the cheapies you found at the supernatural equivalent of a convenience store, to super expensive models at places like this. Good thing I had the Pythian Court’s credit line, I thought, and plunked down a card.
The man—tuxedo clad, dark haired and distinctly posh sounding—looked pained. I didn’t know why. How else was I supposed to pay for the thing?
“We will put it on your account,” he assured me solemnly.
“I have an account?” I looked around the shop, which was situated on a discreet side street in London’s Chelsea neighborhood. Outside, it was attractive if bland, designed to look like one of the chic row houses in the area. Inside, it was basically an overpriced day spa for the magical community.
Not that there was anything particularly magical to be seen at the moment, except for the perfume-like bottle of potion, standing all by itself on its little point on the counter, as steady as a newly spun top.
Its gold lettering and what looked like a solid gold cap went with the glittering chandeliers, soft carpets, and comfy sofas in the room next door, where more salesmen were chatting up potential clientele. They were all women, but unlike me their hair was perfectly coifed, their outfits couture, and their scents something other than blood and horse. I wondered what they needed with a glamourie.
Only to have VampVision kick in and show me. I reared back slightly, a little shocked to see the genteel group on the sofas suddenly change to . . . something else. Something that, in many cases, wasn’t even human.
“The Pythian Court has an account,” the salesman said discreetly, pulling my attention back to him. “Perhaps you would care for one of our technicians to assist?”
“Uh, assist with what?” I asked, a little distracted.
He looked pained again.
I was pretty sure he just wanted to get me off the floor, considering that I was kind of a reverse ad right now. But I went with it, not having much time. He pressed a discreet button, and while we waited, a large troll came out of a hallway, a collection of tiny bags in her hands, all with a golden lotus embossed on the front.
That was the name of this place: The Golden Lotus. It offered the usual day spa
type of stuff—manicures, facials, deep tissue massage—as well as some more esoteric offerings that I hadn’t understood until now: hoof trimming, horn polishing, and tusk rejuvenation. And, of course, glamouries of all possible varieties, a house specialty.
I’d gotten the recommendation from Rhea, my chief acolyte, who used to live in London. Her mother, the former Pythia, had frequented the place in the last years of her life, when the office—and some discreet poisoning by an heir who wanted to inherit early—had taken a toll. Magical cosmetics could do wonders, but when you really needed to change your whole outlook, you went with a glamourie.
Which was why, I supposed, that the troll woman, who must have topped eight feet and had pierced tusks with little jeweled earrings—tusk rings? —on them, suddenly transformed into a sylph-like redhead in a snazzy blue suit as she passed through the outer doors.
“Glamourie on demand is one of our best sellers,” a woman’s voice said.
I turned from the door to see a technician waiting by the desk. She looked human enough, in a dark, skirted suit and a pristine white blouse, her black hair scraped away from a lovely café au lait forehead. But her eyes were a vivid purple.
“On demand?” I repeated.
“Instead of wearing it all the time, it comes and goes as needed,” she explained. “In human areas, the glamourie switches on, so that you blend in with the crowd. In magically warded ones, it automatically goes off, without the cumbersome need to remove it.”
“Like glasses that turn into shades in the sunlight,” I said.
She smiled, showing somewhat pointed incisors. “Exactly. This way madam.”
She led me down the same hallway the troll woman had come out of, and into a room that looked like a cross between a dressing room and a doctor’s office. It was all white, with mirrors on three sides, but instead of benches or a clothing rack, it had a reclining, white leather dentist-type chair in the center. I felt my tongue run over my teeth, wondering if I’d remembered to floss.
“Would madam be needing a change of attire, as well?” she asked discreetly, without so much as a glance at my blood stained, medieval peasant attire.
I thought about the jeans and ruffled blouse in my overnight bag, the latter of which was probably all creased up by now. And decided what the hell. Go for it.
“Yes, madam would. I mean, I would. Thank you.”
“Type?”