Page 92 of Fallen Court

Clearly, I can’t trust you.

Oh, c’mon.

I’ll dress up. And then, after a short pause: Nothing with tights.

Deal.

“You are grinning like a fool,” Ciara informed me when I slid the phone back into my pocket. “Not regretting the mating bond as much these days?”

“It helps that I’m in love with him.” A hot surge of nerves shot up my throat, and I swallowed. “But the whole fated-mate thing is…”

“A lot.” She nodded sympathetically.

I couldn’t tell her why. I didn’t want to remind her that it largely came down to how scared I was that the Wild Hunt would catch him—not while she was dealing with her own anxiety over the future.

“Look on the bright side.” She flashed me a dazzling smile. “You got a sister out of it.”

“More than one,” I said, “and a brother.” I’d gone from being nearly alone in the world to instant family.

But Ciara’s face dimmed. “Speaking of Fiona…” She grimaced like she’d prefer not to. “Has Lach heard anything from her? Have they found anything at the Astral Court?”

“Not that I know of,” I said. Her face fell further, and I quickly added, “But Lach doesn’t tell me everything.”

She sighed. “I wish he would just take back this stupid ring.”

And the penumbra wearing its twin. “I’m surprised he hasn’t,” I admitted. “Roark is always with him.”

“No, he isn’t,” she said glumly. “When you two are off getting busy, Roark finds me.”

“Is he that bad?” I’d spent plenty of time with Roark back when his primary occupation was cock-blocking Lach and me.

She plucked a feather boa off a hanger and wrapped it around her shoulders. “I’m just used to a little more autonomy.”

“Tell me about it.”

“But at least you’re getting laid,” she pointed out.

Something told me that Roark would be happy to add that to his list of duties with Ciara, but since the mention of his name seemed to inspire homicidal urges in her, I kept the thought to myself.

The cheap, overly colorful costumes at the front of the shop gave way quickly, as did good lighting, to a selection of slightly older and more interesting costumes—and a musty smell that suggested a decades-old couch. One rack had feather boas in a rainbow of colors, and another had just one item—a pirate’s fancy coat, flipped outward on a swivel-hooked hanger to help display its grandeur. Gold buttons and brocade, once rich but now faded velveteen, and a silk sash. Apart from the moth holes, it looked like it had never been worn.

Ciara snorted when she saw its tag: authentic eighteenth century, owned by a real pirate! “I bet you a million dollars this was never owned by a real pirate. Please, please, please make my brother wear this.” She giggled, grabbing it from the hanger and attempting to thrust it into my arms. “He can plunder your booty.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to never repeat that sentence,” I said with as much seriousness as I could muster.

But I couldn’t help but burst out laughing, which brought the sound of clacking hangers and footsteps closer to us. “Did you need something, dears?” the voice from earlier called.

“No,” said Ciara, her eyes round with barely contained laughter. “We’re fine, thanks.”

The clacking sound of hangers toddled away from us, and I could have sworn I heard the shopkeeper grumble “know-nothing kids” under her breath.

“What are we doing after trick-or-treating?” Ciara asked when we were safely alone again.

I respected her intentional change of subject for what it was. “Going home and gorging on candy?”

She grunted her disapproval. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

Of course she felt that way. She had no idea there was a killer in the city. We had managed to keep the murders a secret, even from her. Lach planned to increase security throughout New Orleans for the holiday, but why tempt fate? “I’m not sure Lach will want to party if—”