I’ve heard it said that fashion is pain, but for me, it could also be deadly.
As a finalist on Model Designer: Olympus Edition, the hottest fashion competition on TV, I was going to have to navigate that narrow catwalk very carefully.
I frowned at the dressform as I pinned folds
I scrambled across the roof of the Royal Treasury Coop. Hopefully the City Guard wouldn’t spot me holding a squawking golden chicken above my head and assume the worst.
A metal hook clanged against the clay tiles just ahead. I dodged the attached rope and glanced back. Two gray-cloaked thugs pursued me.
“Recepticore is offline. Starlink power is depleted.”
Eddie Caplan burst into the engine room. “What the blazes is it this time? Reeves, report!”
“Dunno.” His young assistant snapped her gum. “Just like the ship said, couldn’t link up with the star’s recepticore. Psh, dwarf stars, am I right? Betcha we wouldn’t have this
Of all the underground clubs in this sodden sponge of a city, it had to be that one.
I tugged my fedora lower over my brows, but it did little to block out the damp chill of the October night. My neck prickled as I surveyed the disturbing sight splayed out on the alley’s cracked asphalt.
“Stop messing with your hair, girl. You look acceptable.” Smorloc’s shout echoed from the potions chamber.
I rolled my eyes at my workroom mirror. He’d yet to even see me this morning.
The glass surface rippled and the mirror’s oracle emerged from its murky depths. “Lookin’ good,” he drawled. “Old Smores got summoned to the palace, huh? I can’t believe they keep calling back the one wizard who can’t even do magic.”
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