I took the dress and went to the dressing room. I took the purple monstrosity off and pulled the black dress off the hanger. Black lace over black fabric. Not me. I slipped the black dress on, stepped out, and looked into the three-paneled full-length mirror.

The black dress hugged me like a glove, stopping about three inches above my knee. Solid black below the waist, the asymmetric gown climbed up diagonally across my chest, over my left shoulder. The left side had a tiny sleeve, but the right shoulder was shockingly bare. A long serpentine shape of a Chinese dragon was cut into the black fabric of the dress. Its head rested on the left side of my chest, its long body slithering between my breasts, just a hair too narrow to be indecent, curving to the right, and sliding down my right thigh. Black, jagged lace overlaid the dragon’s outline, its pattern mimicking the dragon’s scales, giving a sexy glimpse of my bare skin. A single red stone marked the dragon’s eye and as I turned, it shone with the pure ruby glow of a bouda’s eyes.

Black had never been my color, but it was today.

Deasia set a pair of black pumps in front of me. I stepped into them, picking up four inches of height.

Holy shit. I looked aggressive. “This is an evil dress.”

“Evil can be beautiful,” Deasia said. “Don’t over-accessorize. Pair of earrings, nothing too large, and maybe a bracelet. That’s it. Oh, and this dress calls for a red mouth, Andrea. Scarlet red.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Of course you will. Knock him dead.”

Raphael wouldn’t know what hit him. Neither would Anapa. And if any evidence of Anapa’s connection to the deaths of the shapeshifters existed, I would do my best to find it.

When I walked into Cutting Edge’s offices, a man was sitting in my client chair. He was bent over, doing something with his feet, and as he turned his head at my approach, I saw a car seat. A baby lay in it, a little spot of white and pink against the green fabric patterned with cartoon dinosaurs. The man’s face seemed familiar. It took me a second, and then I placed it. Nick Moreau.

The last time I’d seen him, in June, he’d looked ten years younger. The man who sat in front of me now seemed old and tired, and when he gazed at me, his eyes were devoid of life, as if they had been covered with ash.

“I told him you were out,” Ascanio said, from the storeroom doorway. “He said he didn’t mind waiting.”

I sat in the other chair next to Nick. He ran his hand through his light brown hair.

“That’s my son,” he said.

“He’s beautiful,” I told him.

“Would you like to hold him?”

“May I?”