“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER.”
“CASSIE PALMER IS IN—”
“You’re a reporter?” I asked the brunette, pretty unnecessarily at this point.
“What?” Augustine’s profile appeared over Enyo’s shoulder. The tallest and scariest of the sisters had slapped him on her back facing the other way so he couldn’t look directly at us.
But that didn’t stop him from trying. “Are you here to cover the fall line?”
Everybody ignored him.
“Not a reporter,” the brunette told me quickly. “Carla Torres—call me Carla—”
“I have a few other suggestions,” Crystal Gazing muttered, from a burnt-up wad on the floor.
“—senior editor for Graphology,” Carla said, smiling at me determinedly. And grinding the remains of the competition to powder underneath a stylish black heel. “A considerably better choice for you than that ridiculous tabloid Crystal Gazing, or that pompous British toady to the Circle—”
“If you mean the Oracle,” Deino’s captive commented, “you could at least have the courage to say so.”
“I thought I just did!”
“And the girl?” I asked.
“My daughter.” She shoved more frizzy hair out of her face. “You’re rumored to like children. I thought you might find a kid charming—”
“That keed?” Françoise said, only to have the mother glare at her.
“You couldn’t have just come up and introduced yourself?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” Carla threw out her hands. “Yes! Why didn’t I think of that?”
“With respect, what do you think we have been attempting to do for weeks now?” the Oracle asked, a little indistinctly, since Deino had managed to push it over into one cheek.
“But you’re never in,” Carla said. “Or you’re never up! Or those damn vampires you live with find some other reason that ensures no access—”
“And we were informed that you don’t have an appointment secretary yet,” the Oracle added, disapprovingly.
“—so when I spotted you in that ridiculous disguise—”
“It’s not a disguise,” I said.
“—which might have fooled the others, I don’t know, but I’ve been doing little except staring at a picture of your face for weeks! I’d know you anywhere, and I’ve been camped out in this damn hotel for days. I barely sleep, I rarely see my family, and I strongly suspect I smell—”
“I wasn’t going to mention eet,” Françoise murmured.
“—but damn it! I will have that interview!”
“Or perhaps a pie?” Witch’s Companion burbled. “We have our annual bake-off coming up, and we would love to feature an entry by—”
“Shut up!” everyone told her.
She shut up.
“Well, how about it?” Carla said, breathing a little hard. “You can’t avoid us forever. And, frankly, I know some of my colleagues. If you don’t tell your story, they’ll tell it for you. And after the merry chase you’ve led us, believe me, it won’t be a version you’ll like!”
“That sounds a lot like blackmail,” I pointed out.