Trent twitched, recovering smoothly. The reaction made him look as young as he was. “Mine’s not a rental,” he said.

I shrugged, foot jiggling as I looked out the smoked window.

“Warm enough?” he asked.

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you.”

Jonathan drove us past the guardhouse without slowing, the rising bar reaching its apex the second we passed under it. It closed equally fast. I fidgeted, checking my clutch purse for my charms, feeling for the press of my splat gun, and touching my hair. Trent was looking out the window again, lost in his own world, which had nothing to do with me.

“Hey, sorry about the window,” I said, not liking the silence.

“I’ll send you a bill if it can’t be fixed.” He turned to me. “You look nice.”

“Thank you.” I sent my eyes over his silk-lined wool suit. He wasn’t wearing an overcoat, and it was tailored to show off every inch of him. His boutonniere was a tiny black bud rose, and I wondered if he had grown it himself. “You wash up good yourself.”

He gave me one of his professional smiles, but there was a new glint to it, and I thought it might actually have a tinge of real warmth.

“The dress is beautiful,” I added, wondering how I was going to get through tonight without resorting to talk about the weather. I leaned to tug my nylons straight.

“That reminds me.” Trent twisted to dip a hand into a pocket. “These go with it.” He held out his hand, dropping a heavy set of earrings into my palm. “There’s a necklace, too.”

“Thanks.” I tilted my head to take out my simple hoops, dropping them into my clutch purse and snapping it closed. Trent’s earrings were a series of interlocking circles, and heavy enough to be real gold. I worked them into place, feeling their unfamiliar weight.

“And the necklace …” Trent held it up, and my eyes widened. It was gorgeous, made of interlaced rings the size of my thumbnail and matching the earrings. They made a delicate lace panel, and I would have labeled it goth but for its richness. A wooden pendant in the shape of the Celtic rune for protection hung from the nadir, and I hesitated in my reach. It was beautiful, but I suspected its peekaboo lace would make me a veritable vampire slut.

And Celtic magic gave me the willies. It was a specialized art, much of it depending upon one’s belief, not if you did the spell right or not. More of a religion than magic. I didn’t like mixing religion and magic—it made for terribly strong forces when something unmeasurable mixed its will with that of the practitioner’s intent, making the results not necessarily in line with what was expected. It was wild magic, and I preferred mine nicely scientific. If you invoke the help of a higher being, you can’t complain when things don’t go to your plan, but to its.