The sentence remained unfinished, but the idea was clear: I and my lunch, not to mention my mission, were to be held hostage to that pic.
Or not, I thought, as an outraged genius suddenly appeared in my face. “You.”
I started for the door with my armful of stuff, since it didn’t matter anymore. “That’s not my fault,” I told him, nodding at the disturbance.
“Not your fault?” Augustine barred the way into his establishment with a long, spindly arm. He always reminded me of a blond praying mantis, all arms and legs on a model-slim body, a fact heightened today by a jumpsuit in his favorite iridescent green. “You brought them here!”
“I brought them to the hotel,” I said, trying to limbo myself under the obstruction without spilling anything. “I don’t decide where they go—”
“Get them out!” he told me, shoving a knee in my way.
“From here?”
“Yes, from here! You’re leaving—and so are they!”
“Tell them that,” I said, looking past him. To where three cloth-covered mounds were roaming about, perusing the items on offer.
At least, I guessed that was what they were doing, but who could tell? They looked like animated mountains of laundry, to the point that I only knew who they were by the gnarled, yellowish toenails protruding like claws from under trailing silks, taffetas, and laces. A lot of silks, taffetas, and laces. Like half the store’s worth.
I could understand why Augustine was upset—his inventory was getting ravaged—but it was his own fault. He was the one who had decided to put an antishoplifting spell on his wares, resulting in any sticky-fingered customers turning literally sticky. To the point that everything they touched ended up adhered to them like superglue.
It had caused grown men to return, blubbering in submission and missing some skin, after a wild ride on the outside of the taxi they’d become stuck to. But it didn’t seem to be bothering the current group, judging by the dirty hand that had just emerged from one of the piles to finger a cashmere sweater. And to casually pull it off its hanger and to smack it on the growing heap over her left shoulder.
It did not stick to her hand.
I hadn’t expected it to.
Minor-level spells weren’t designed to ensnare ancient magical beings, who seemed to view this one as a useful alternative to a shopping basket.
“You tell them that!” Augustine said furiously. “You brought them here!”
“Oh, please,” I said, looking up at him in annoyance, not half because I was still stuck between him and the door. “That was almost four months ago!”
It had been in the early days of this job, when I’d accidentally released the girls from the supernatural snare they were trapped in. Trapped for no good reason I could see, since the three old women known to mythology as the Graeae were usually fairly harmless. Of course, I didn’t make a habit of pissing them off.
Unlike Augustine, who forgot about me when one of the mounds bent over to get a better look at a lower shelf, and bumped into an elegant display of hats. Which went flying when the table fell over, including a jaunty purple number that landed at a raffish angle on her long gray curls. And immediately transformed the wrinkled face beneath it.
The Graeae usually looked like baked-apple dolls, with a Shar-pei’s worth of folds for a face and little else. That still held true. Only now the wrinkled visage peering out of the clothes pile also sported a full makeup job, including scarlet lipstick, rosy cheeks, and fake eyelashes, despite the fact that the latter had nothing to adhere to, since she was not currently in possession of the one eye the trio shared.
The lashes fluttered anyway as she turned her head this way and that, and then up, trying to figure out what had just happened. And finally realized that something was stuck to her face. Which she dealt with by feeling around with one clawed hand until she located the problem and pulled it off.
And ate it.
“What . . . did she just . . . how . . . why?” the girl’s mother asked as Françoise all but flew over.
“Holograms,” she told the woman firmly.
“Holograms?”
But Françoise had already pulled me inside and was hustling me away.
“Holograms?” I whispered.
“Eet is the standard reply. Most humans cannot see zee spells Augustine puts
on zee clothes. But some of zem ’ave a leetle magic in zere blood, and for zem”—she shrugged—“zere are zees holograms.”
“While in reality?”