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“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Anita said, pulling down on her cheek as she expertly traced her lower eyelid with a delicate black pencil.

“But we ran into you outside the store just this afternoon,” I said. “You told me your name was Ambrose.”

Her reflection glared at my reflection. “The least you can do when I’ve got half my face on is call me by my drag name.”

“Yeah,” Xtra Xtra snapped. “The least you can do when his dick is tucked all the way back to his ass is call him by his drag name.”

I rolled my eyes. Xavi Ximenez — sorry, Xtra Xtra — loved to use that line on me all the time.

“But yes, Ambrose is my boy name. You could have learned it anywhere, though. I’m sure I’ve told you at some point. And I was at Happy Links, obviously.” She jiggled her wrist, the little charms making a melodic tinkle. “How else did I buy these? But I don’t remember seeing either of you there.”

Morrow and I exchanged a puzzled look.

“Well, we won’t bother you ladies anymore,” Morrow said through his most dazzling smile. “We look forward to seeing both your numbers tonight.”

Anita batted her lashes at him. When Theodore Morrow turned on the charm, no one could resist, apparently.

“Oh, I’m not performing tonight,” she said. “Tired enough picking up all these extra shifts. But I’m sure that linebacker over there has something special prepared.”

Xtra Xtra gasped. “You’re a huge bitch, Anita. You always were.”

Anita Cocktail blew her a kiss. I could see where the comment was coming from. Xtra Xtra was shaped like a nacho chip, huge, exaggerated shoulder pads and a tiny, cinched waist. That corset was probably holding all her internal organs in place.

“See you girls out there,” I said, following Morrow out to the hallway. “What was that?” I hissed. “I had more questions for Anita.”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? She was getting agitated by your line of questioning, and we have what we need already. This only supports our theory. Something about the charms is, er, charming whoever wears them.”

“Fair point, except that only brings up more questions. You saw her wearing her charm bracelet back there. Why was she talking all normal? No trance state, no weird sleepy slurring.”

Morrow only shook his head. We ordered our drinks from the bartender who was nearing the end of her shift, the one Anita Cocktail would be taking over for. Yoanna Hangover was a dab hand at mixing drinks, but there was just something extra special about the way Anita made cocktails.

We picked our way through the crowd to look for a table, finding a stud with shoulder-length blond hair spilling out of a cowboy hat instead. My jaw dropped.

“Houston?” I said. “SeraphiCorp Houston?”

He tipped his hat and grinned, bare bicep flexing as he did. “Frost. Morrow. Good to see you both.”

I took a moment to appraise his impressive arms, nicely exposed because of his choice of outfit: a brown fringed suede vest over a clean white tank top, blue jeans, and cowboy boots.

“You’re looking very handsome tonight,” I said. “And you’ve clearly been working out. Damn.”

It was so easy being so generous with the compliments around Houston. I wasn’t feeling cautious about him taking anything the wrong way, whether in offense or as flirtation. Besides, the fact that he was sitting alone in a queer bar kind of suggested that he wouldn’t have any problems being so openly complimented by another guy.

And was I maybe doing it to make a certain other blond buff gentleman a little bit jealous? Was this my own sneaky little way to see if I would get a reaction out of the aloof yet occasionally handsy Theodore Morrow? Sure. Yeah. Of course, it was.

And it worked, too. Morrow tried not to show it, and maybe I was imagining some of it, but he looked jealous enough to me. In my experience, straight guys sulked if you didn’t gush about their very obvious pecs and biceps. He was wearing that same tight T-shirt I made him wear to Club Debussy the last time, and —

Yep, there it was. He was holding his shoulders a little broader, puffing his chest out a little too much. Like a rooster, a cockerel, the cock of the walk. It was so amusing to see. Except the real cock I wanted to see was —

“Good to see you again,” Morrow said, his muscles flexed so taut that his expression bordered on constipation. “And here, of all places.”

Houston’s cheeks reddened. He lowered his head and scratched the back of his neck, all but oozing that country boy, “Aw, shucks” charisma from his very pores.

“Actually, I’d heard that Xtra Xtra was performing tonight. Remember when Angelica and I helped out at the newsstand? I tried to talk Xtra up that night, but she kicked us out of the backroom real quick.”

I remembered, of course, the night when one of the cultists broke into the astral backroom layered onto Xavi’s newsstand, the pocket dimension where the Ximenez family kept its collection of grimoires and rare magical books hidden.

“Xtra’s a little extra like that,” I told Houston. “But I have a feeling she’s going to be happy to see you. Happier than the night we fucked up her backroom, at least.”