Jeff’s phone began to buzz, and he pulled it out, took a look. “It’s Chuck,” he said, waggling the phone. “I’m going to head back upstairs.”

“We’ll see you,” Luc said. “And really well done. I’ll communicate your findings to the team.”

Jeff nodded, then grinned at me. “Save me a dance.”

“I’ll do what I can,” I said, and he winked and headed out.

“That’s a spot of good news,” Luc said. “And it’s not the only one: Reed held up his end of the bargain, signed all the transfer papers during business hours today. Navarre is in the clear, at least with respect to anything it owed the Circle.”

“Morgan must be relieved.”

“Probably would be, except he’s still got Irina to deal with. Word on the street is she’s gunning for his job.”

That made me sit up a bit straighter. “She’s challenged him?”

“Not outright, but it could be coming. Do I think he has a unique chance to get his House in order given the circumstances? Yes. But he’s got to take advantage of that, got to see it that way. Time will tell if he can do it.”

Time would inevitably tell. “Ethan okay?”

“He’s nervous. But security’s in place and your grandfather and the CPD are in the loop. We’ll all have earpieces, even the sorcerers, so we can stay in touch. We’re recommending you and Ethan not contact each other telepathically until he’s in our grasp. Whoever this guy is, he’s a powerful, powerful psych. Could sense it, get spooked. And we don’t want that. It’s taken too much to get this thing planned. And now, thank God, there’s nothing else to do but see it play out.”

He crossed his hands over his stomach, grinned at me. “And, hopefully, watch you bring in an award-winning performance playing the vampire spurned.”

“I was in several musicals,” I said, rising from my chair. “Hopefully, it’ll all come back to me.”

“Newsies doesn’t count,” Lindsey said.

I thought about correcting her—clarifying that I hadn’t been in Newsies, had only been obsessed with it—but decided it wouldn’t help my case. Instead I looked at Luc in sympathy. “Don’t we have a rule about no snark on an op?”

He lifted a shoulder. “She scored a pretty good hit with Newsies. I’m going to give her that one,” he said, exchanged a high five with his girlfriend.

I rose, pointed accusatory fingers at both of them. “You two keep at it. I’m going to see a woman about a dress.”

*   *   *

This wasn’t just a party, so it wasn’t just party preparation. It was an op, and since Helen provided the dress, she intended to oversee the dressing, too.

So for the second time in a week, I was made into something glamorous.

I was shuffled into the dressing room attached to the House’s ballroom, closed off just for these purposes, where a staff of four humans hurried to turn me into a Sentinel Fit for a Ball, rather than the scrubby fighter Helen apparently seemed to think I usually was. I sat in a barber-style chair in a red bustier and matching panties, discomfortingly purchased by Helen while they swirled around me. The primpers—two men and two women—were also eager to talk about me and Ethan and the Breakup That Shook Chicago.

“It was so wrong of him to dump you,” said a thin and tattooed man with a heavy beard and thick waves of dark hair, currently applying dark shadow and liner to my lids, cat’s-eye-style.

Play the part, I told myself. “It was out of the blue,” I agreed quietly, trying to stay still and keep the pointier ends of his tools from puncturing my eyeballs.

“You will make him so jealous,” said a petite woman with a curling iron as long as her arm that smelled of heat and hair spray.

“That would be a bonus,” I agreed, doing my best to offer an envious pout.

“Your dress is fabulous,” said another woman, an adorable brunette with a butterfly clip in her hair and as many tattoos as the bearded man. “They’re giving it a final steam.”

“I haven’t seen it yet.”

“You’ll love it.”

“Very dramatic,” said the tiny woman, clipping a curl into place while she worked on another section of my hair. “You’re my first vampire. It’s not really that different from doing a human, I guess.”

“No,” I said, staring at myself in the mirror when she moved away.

My eyes were darkly lined and shadowed, my cheekbones highlighted, my lips full and crimson. The bustier pushed up my not terribly impressive cleavage; stilettos with thin red straps that matched the dress showed off my quite impressive legs. My hair was dark and glossy, and as the hairdresser began unfastening the clips, it fell in large, loose waves around my shoulders.

This was to my prep work for Reed’s gala what fast food was to the prix fixe at Alinea, Chicago’s fanciest restaurant. Not really in the same stratosphere.

My bangs were tucked, the waves texturized and fluffed, and a faintly floral perfume was dabbed along my neck and ears. And the bearded man shooed the others away, moved toward me with a giant brush dusted with faintly shimmering powder the color of candlelight.

“Final step,” he said, and began dusting my face, neck, torso, cleavage, which began to shimmer beneath the bulbs of the room.

“Just a hint of glow,” he said. “We want vampire glamour, not Miami Beach glitter.”