“They fit.” More or less. Good thing they stretched or I wouldn’t be able to sit without popping a zipper. Claudia’s at least a size smaller than I am.

“They should. They were yours,” she says, tossing me the boots.

I give her a weird look, but she’s rummaging through a dresser drawer.

“What happens when someone realizes they can’t sense Luka?” I say, chewing my lip.

“You’re ruining your lipstick! There will be too many Progeny there for anyone to realize they can’t sense him.” She pauses. “Stay close to him if we leave with anyone. Shouldn’t be hard for you to do, I think?”

The last thing she hands me is a heavy pendant on a long chain. A bronze, three-toed talon. The Bathory coat of arms.

I turn it over in my hand. “Was this mine, too?”

She looks away. “It was your mother’s. You gave it to me before you left.” The hurt is there, I can see it.

“I’m sorry,” I say, thinking that between her and Luka, I’m surrounded by abandonment issues varied only by circumstance, all of my making.

I clasp the pendant tightly before lowering the chain carefully over my wig. As I do, I catch sight of the mirror and start. It’s not the first time in my life I’ve failed to recognize myself.

*  *  *

I give a nervous glance around as we step out into the night. On the street, Piotrek pauses to lean on the silver handle of an elaborate cane. A black-and-white cravat is tied at his neck, his face obscured by a mask that hangs down from the edge of a top hat brimmed with feathers. Luka, apparently, has managed to hold out for the most part. He’s dressed in a black jacquard tuxedo jacket over an equally black shirt, black pants, heavy boots. A thin jet tie hangs from a tight, smart knot at his throat. His mask is plain, and clings to the contours of his cheekbones. As we make our way up the street, he pulls the generous cowl of a shapeless black trench coat over his head. At first I think he looks like a hooded monk until he turns his head; from this angle, he might just be the grim reaper.

Claudia loops her arm through Piotrek’s and leads us toward the Lego church. There’s a couple milling ahead, a man and woman in period costume. There’s another pair farther down the street—a noblewoman in petticoats, and a knight with a shield across his back.

“If we were trying to look like them, I think we missed the mark,” I murmur. Luka reaches for my hand and clasps it over his arm.

“Have I told you today that you’re beautiful?” he whispers. “Even with purple hair.”

“Well, you look like a vampire.”