by Sarah Kuhn
“Oh!” I exclaimed, my eyes going wide. “You’ve been working on your power level-up!”
“I have,” Shruti said, beaming. “And it’s strange, but I’m starting to be able to feel things with my hair—it’s as if the ends are additional fingertips. Or an additional sense.”
“That’s so cool!” I said.
“It is cool,” she said, her smile turning thoughtful. “Or at least I hope it is. It’s interesting—I’ve always felt a bit conflicted about my power—”
“Conflicted, really?” I interrupted. “But why? Even in its lesser state, it always seemed to enhance all that inherent personal style you’ve got going for you.”
“Thank you,” she said with a laugh. “I think it’s because, I don’t know, it had to do with my hair having some sort of supernatural quality? My parents are more traditional Sikhs than I am and they both have this amazing, super long, uncut hair. When I was younger, so many of the kids in my class used to tease me, ask if my dad’s hair was a ‘monster’ or if it had ‘evil powers’ and was that why it was so long, why he wore a turban?”
“Ugh.” I made a face. “Tiny racists can suck it. I remember mean little white kids asking me if my dad was a magic martial arts master—if he knew any ‘ancient Chinese secrets.’”
“Lovely,” Shruti said, with an eye-roll. “Anyway, the fact that my hair actually does have some kind of supernatural power has always been a bit . . . disconcerting. And when my level-up first manifested, and I didn’t know how strong I was, when I reacted instinctively and nearly choked that lady who was hurting Evie . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling. Like my hair suddenly did have evil potential.”
“All powers have the potential for good or evil,” I said. “And I know what you mean—we superheroines of color always have an extra layer of pressure to represent well. But it’s the person attached to the power who determines what they use it for.” I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile.
“Well, I want to use it to be a massively cool superheroine with a massively cool power,” Shruti said, striking a pose. “And gloriously fashion forward ensembles.”
“In that case, you have nothing to worry about,” I said, my smile widening. “You’re well on your way. Now. Would you like to demonstrate said cool power and pick the lock on Maisy’s chamber of secrets?”
“Yes,” Shruti said, beaming. “And thank you.”
We cast another furtive eye at Dave, who was still staring into his cup, then walked over to the curtain that led to the back hallway of Pussy Queen. I’d never seen this part of the store, but witnessing it now, I was unimpressed. Boxes were piled against the walls in haphazard stacks, bits of ribbon and lace were scattered here and there, and everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. Maisy had done a stellar job revamping the front-facing part of the shop, but this area was clearly due for a makeover.
We reached a doorway at the end of the hall that had been painted a cheery shade of pink, but now the color had faded and the paint was patchy and chipped. It looked like a version of Barbie’s Dream House that had gone into foreclosure.
Shruti breathed deeply, allowed her eyes to go unfocused again, and the ends of her hair twitched. They floated upward, the tendrils entwining themselves into the lock, twisting back and forth. I heard a click. And we were in.
If the outside of the door had given me a Barbie’s Foreclosed Dream House vibe, the actual room took things in more of a Miss Havisham direction. There was a collection of ornate-looking chairs covered in what once must have been a sumptuous gold brocade. Now they were buried in dust and cobwebs, the gold devoid of any sheen. A battered desk was shoved into the corner and littered with papers that seemed to bear more of Maisy’s messy grids. Bits of material—lace and satin and silk—were tossed here and there. And in the back . . . I squinted, trying to make out what appeared to be a collection of headless, armless dress forms.
I shivered. Even if Maisy wasn’t up to anything weird, this room was definitely creepy.
“Found the light!” Shruti called out behind me. She flicked it on and the room was flooded by harsh fluorescent illumination, casting a sickly glow that only made it creepier.
I crossed the space to the dress forms, trying to get a better look. They were outfitted in concoctions of white lace lingerie, like the ones Maisy had put on the Evie mannequins in her display. But something about these garments was different. They were more elaborate, the stitching more precise, the lace more delicate. And they all had a bit of colorful fabric sewn in around the bustline—a deep crimson brocade on one, a vibrant emerald silk on another.
“Wait.” Shruti’s fingertips drifted to the crimson brocade. “I recognize this fabric. I need to double-check, but . . .” Her eyes scanned the dress forms, her brows knitting together. “And they all have some sort of label.”
I lowered my gaze and saw what she was talking about: each dress form had a paper tag attached to the waist with a bit of twine. I lifted the tag on the center mannequin and read what was calligraphied on it: Carol Kepler.
The chill running up my spine increased in intensity. I lifted the tag on the dress form right next to it. Gwen Martinez. Shit. What did it mean?
I reached over to lift the tag on the last dress form, but before I could touch it a loud BANG rang out from the other side of the room. Shruti and I both jumped.
“Excuse me!” a voice rang out.
We both whipped around, but I already knew what we were going to see.
Maisy. Standing in the doorway, totally pissed off.
“Ladies,” she said, planting her hands on her hips. “What the hell are you doing back here?”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“OUT, OUT, OUT!” Maisy ordered. She stomped across the room and planted herself between us and the dress forms. “Aveda, I know you’re a celebrity, but even famous people need boundaries.” She gave me a not-at-all-gentle shove toward the door. “And snooping around someone’s private inspiration space is definitely violating boundaries.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking fast. “But as I was telling Shruti here, I’ve been dying to find Evie a special engagement gift, and custom lingerie seems like just the thing.”
“And, I, uh, thought you might have some samples back here I could show Aveda,” Shruti improvised. “Even though you haven’t officially delved into the custom-order business just yet.”
Maisy kept shoving us toward the door, her movements so insistent, they kicked up the clouds of dust blanketing the ornate, Victorian-style chairs. I sneezed. I could have pushed back with my telekinesis, but now wasn’t the time to get into a knock-down, drag-out fight with her. Not if I wanted more information on what she was doing.
Instead, I allowed Maisy to prod us out of the room and slam the door behind her. She turned to face us, her flaky gray face screwed into a look of suspicion. “As I’ve told Evie many times, I’m happy to design something for her,” Maisy said. “But she has no interest, so I’m not sure what poking around in my private area accomplishes.”
“Poking around in your what, now?” Shruti said, giggling. I gave her a look.
Now was the time to go on the offensive—at least a little bit. I didn’t want to push Maisy physically, but I needed to flip this conversation around on her in order to take control. As in the kickboxing dance, I needed to make her follow me.
“I thought you weren’t making custom bridal lingerie yet,” I said, examining my nails and affecting as nonchalant a pose as possible. “I mean, you made a real point of saying that when it was brought up.”
Maisy’s eyes shifted back and forth. I’d thrown her off balance. Good. “Well. I, uh. . . .”
“And strange how you also claimed Carol hadn’t shopped here before—how adamant you were about that—when there’s a dress form in there with her name on it.” I arched an eyeb
row at her. “Care to explain?”
I stared her down, waiting for the moment when I could sweep her legs out from under her and knock her to the ground. Metaphorically speaking, that is. Maisy met my gaze and stared back, her eyes expressionless. Which was extra creepy, what with her glowing demon eyes and all. For a moment, we just stood there, caught in a stare-off, the tension mounting with every moment of loaded silence. Shruti looked from me to Maisy and back again, unsure of what to do.
Then Maisy’s face broke into a wide smile, and she threw back her head and laughed.
“Oh, A. Jupes!” she said, her tone resetting to its usual saccharine-coated cadence. “I can never get anything by you, can I?” She leaned in close, as if about to reveal the biggest, juiciest secret of all time. “You got me. I am designing a bridal lingerie line and I’ve already lined up select clientele. But I have some nerves about showing off my designs before I’ve gotten them just right—and I’ve also been waiting for our wee li’l Evie to come around to the idea so I can make her the face of the campaign.” Maisy held up her hands like a director framing a shot. “But I can’t let her in on anything I’m doing until I have her explicit consent. You won’t say anything, will you?”
Maisy smiled at me hopefully—but I couldn’t help but feel something else was lurking underneath her cheery grin.
“How are you getting this select clientele to keep the secret as well?” I asked. “Do you have them sign some sort of NDA?”
“Well, basically,” Maisy said, waving a desiccated hand. “One reason I haven’t designed many sets yet.”
“Why don’t you let me take a closer look?” I said. “I know Evie’s taste. Perhaps I can guide you toward a design that will make her come around.”
Maisy’s grin disappeared entirely. Her face went deathly sober, and her arm shot out to block the door.
“I’m afraid that isn’t possible,” she said, her tone firm. “I have a very strict policy about people seeing my designs before they’re one hundred percent ready. They must be absolutely perfect—and these aren’t even close. I’m sure you understand, Aveda. What with your constant quest for perfection.”
She schooled her features once more, giving me a toothy grin. I gritted my teeth. Every muscle in my body was screaming at me to push past her, bust the door down, get a closer look at the dress forms. Declare some kind of supernatural state of emergency.
But there were still too many unknowns. If I alerted Maisy I was onto her, it would give her time to undo or hide whatever she was doing. I needed to draw her out in a more organic way, to force her to reveal whatever she was up to because she had no idea I suspected anything. Part of controlling the dance is knowing when to pull back.
I let out a deep breath and forced my face into a bland smile.
“Of course I understand,” I said. “But . . .” I gave her a wistful look. “I know Evie would love your creations if she could just see them. Try them on, even. Really get a sense of how good she looks in them and how good they make her feel. What if you brought one to her engagement party as a surprise gift? She might even agree to do an impromptu photo shoot on the spot!”
“Really?” Maisy said, and now there was definitely another element creeping into her expression. It was the depraved spark of someone who sensed she could get some really good PR if she milked an opportunity just right. Or maybe it was the look of a supposedly reformed half-demon princess who’d secretly returned to her evil roots and saw an opportunity to attack the most high-profile bride in the city.
“I didn’t know I was even invited to the engagement party,” Maisy said. “I thought it was only for family and the closest of friends.”
“And what do you think you are?” I countered, giving her a big, fake smile. “Please. Your invitation’s in the mail.” Or at least it would be once I got home and told Bea to go to the post office. “Bring the lingerie and I’ll help with the surprise. I’ll help with the whole thing.”
Maisy’s ghoulish grin stretched the entire length of her face.
“I wish I’d gotten a better look at that creepy lingerie,” I muttered.
We were back in Shruti’s pop-up area, where she was pretending to help me find something to wear to the engagement party. Maisy, for her part, didn’t appear to be paying attention to us anyway. She was ensconced behind her counter, sketching new lingerie designs with gusto.
“Hmm,” Shruti said, her expression going contemplative. “Remember how I said I recognized the fabric in the bustlines of those corsets?” She flipped through her Polaroids again and pulled out a series of shots of jewel-toned gowns. “The fabric came from these dresses, I’m sure of it.” She frowned at the Polaroids. “This lot came in from an estate sale a few weeks ago. I let Maisy have first crack at these dresses because I figured she wanted some fabulous things to wear around the store. But it looks like she just cut them up and used them in her possibly evil custom lingerie project.” She shook her head mournfully. “My poor babies.”
“Maybe she’s figured out how to control the puppy,” I said. “Scott said the puppy might be connected to something else—maybe that something is her?” I studied the Polaroids. “So somehow Maisy or the puppy demon—or the Maisy/puppy demon team-up—have figured out how to, what? Use repurposed fabric from vintage dresses—like these and the dress Marcus’s minion bought—to attack people?”
“I’m definitely not letting her near any more of my stock,” Shruti said, eyes narrowing.
I blew out a long breath, trying to pull together all the disparate threads of what we knew so far. Had Maisy used Marcus’s dress to attack Evie? And was she planning on using her custom lingerie to try again? But what did taking Evie out get her—other than getting rid of the city’s most popular superheroine and bride-to-be, of course? There had to be a more nefarious plan underneath that, something that involved ruling the city the way Shasta had once dreamed of.
In any case, it looked like we were going to have to make Evie bait again. But this time would be different. This time, we had more information, a good idea of how the puppy was going to attack. My strategy for taking it down would be more meticulous, more brilliant. I’d do a better job of protecting her.
And somehow, I’d kick that damn puppy’s ass.
I hustled back into HQ, full of purpose. I couldn’t wait to tell Evie what Shruti and I had uncovered. With each step, I felt more revitalized, more sure of myself.
Between the two of us, Evie and I would devise the perfect trap for the puppy, using all the knowledge we’d gained through our various confrontations—check!
And we’d capture it before the engagement party really got going, thereby preserving the festive nature of the event—check!
With evil vanquished, it would clear the way for Evie to have the perfect wedding she deserved, with me working at my highest level of kickass maid-of-honor mode to ensure everything went off without a hitch. Check, check, check!
I was practically humming by the time I reached Evie’s door. I stopped abruptly and knocked. Knocking prior to entering was something I’d recently added to my good-friend arsenal. Evie had gently reminded me quite a few times that knocking before making your presence known in someone else’s space was the respectful thing to do, but it hadn’t really sunk in until I’d barged in on her and Nate having intimate relations in the middle of the afternoon.
Now I always remembered.
“Come in,” she called out.
I marched in, prepared to unleash my righteous speech of renewed purpose. But something stopped me.
Evie was lying in bed surrounded by her mountain of pillows. Her face was pale, drawn, making her freckles stand out more than usual. And she was staring up at the ceiling like she’d just seen a ghost. She didn’t say so much as hello, didn’t even acknowledge that there was someone else in the room with her. She looked like she wasn’t even completely aware there
was someone else in the room with her.
“Evie?” My brow knitted in concern, and I made my way over to the bed and sat next to her. “What’s wrong?”
She turned to look at me, sitting up slowly.
“It’s . . . we . . .” She shook her head, as if she couldn’t quite get the words right. “Bea, Nate, Scott, and Rose worked together to run a bunch of tests on the trap while you were out. Even though the dress came back negative for supernatural energy, they thought there might still be something lurking in there.”
“And was there?” I put a hand on her shoulder, trying to encourage her.
“Sort of.” Her eyes went unfocused again. “It was another trace, like the one we found at Pussy Queen—a blip that indicated the puppy was there at some point.”
“But we already knew that, right? Like, that’s an educated guess we could have made, given the context clues? Of the dress trying to murder you?”
“Well, yeah,” she conceded. “But further analysis of the trace indicated the puppy is definitely connected to something else—remember how Scott theorized that was a possibility?”
“Yes,” I said, my brain whirring.
She twisted her hands together. “The tests show that something else is very likely . . . human.”
That stopped my brain in its tracks for a moment.
“The data doesn’t tell us much more than that,” Evie barreled on, her words spilling out. “But somehow it’s latched itself to a human. Whether the human is aware of this, we don’t know. We’re not sure what the nature of the connection is.”
“I know who it is!” I blurted out. “Or at least, I think I do.”
