The booth turned out to be an elaborate tent with display tables and a curtained-off area in the back. It was crammed with tacky jewelry and colorful potions—none quite as tacky or as colorful as Dominique herself. Her hair was dyed in platinum-blond and hot-pink stripes, half of it scooped into a side ponytail. The other half was crimped and hair-sprayed to a hard sheen. She wore a ripped lace shirt, a black leather miniskirt, purple fingerless gloves, and what looked like a significant portion of her jewelry inventory around her neck. Her warlock mark, a long, feathered pink tail, was slung over her shoulders like a boa.

“It’s like an Eidolon demon tried turning into Cyndi Lauper and accidentally got stuck midway through,” Céline joked.

“Huh?” Robert said. “Is that another warlock?”

Stephen smirked. “Yeah, Robert. Another warlock. The Clave executed her ’cause she just wanted to have fun.”

Céline and Stephen laughed together, and Robert’s obvious fury at being mocked only made them laugh harder. Like most Shadowhunters, Céline had grown up entirely ignorant of mundane pop culture. But Stephen showed up at the Academy full of arcane knowledge about bands, books, songs, movies that no one had ever heard of. Once he’d joined the Circle, he’d dropped his love of the Sex Pistols just as quickly as he’d traded his leather jacket and frayed denim for the dull black uniform that Valentine favored. Still, Céline had spent the last couple of years studying mundane TV, just in case.

I can be whatever you want me to be, she thought, wishing she had the nerve to say it.

Céline knew Amatis, Stephen’s wife. At least, she knew enough. Amatis was sharp-tongued and stuck-up. She was opinionated, argumentative, stubborn, and not even that pretty. There were also rumors that she still secretly associated with her werewolf brother. Céline didn’t much care about that—she had nothing against Downworlders. But she had plenty against Amatis, who obviously didn’t appreciate what she had. Stephen needed someone who would admire him, agree with him, support him. Someone like Céline. If only she could make him see that for himself.

They surveilled the warlock for a couple of hours. Dominique du Froid was constantly leaving her booth unattended, scurrying off to gossip or trade with other sellers. It was almost like she wanted someone to rifle through her belongings.

Stephen yawned theatrically. “I was hoping for slightly more of a challenge. But let’s get this done and get out of here. This place stinks of Downworlders. I already feel like I need a shower.”

“Ouais, c’est terrible,” Céline lied.