Page 48 of Tracking Snow

I cap the mascara and reach for the tiny bottle of body shimmer. "I'm simply going out looking like a hot villainess because it’s my right as a woman and occasional public menace."

I pick up the bottle and ever so carefully twist the cap off with the precision of a nuclear scientist handling a radioactive bomb. One wrong move and the silver glitter will end up everywhere. And there is no getting that shit out.

A mass of black fur and claws launches from the pits of hell.

Lucifer, my feline nemesis, hits my vanity in a full-body pounce, all four paws skidding across the surface. One claw catches my wrist, another clips the bottle, and the little demon crashes into my hand like a furry grenade.

"Lucifer, no," I cry with the full-body terror of a girl who just realized the killer is already inside the house.

Too late.

The bottle jumps from my grip, spins once in the air, hits the floor, and explodes.

Shimmer oil splatters up my bare legs, across my black leather skirt, and somehow all over one side of my perfectly applied dark purple lipstick.

Ariel gasps.

I stare at my reflection.

Half of me is a dangerous nighttime fantasy with winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass.

The other side looks like I got attacked by a horny disco ball.

Lucifer sits on the vanity, cavalierly licking a paw, watching me with the soulless calm of a creature who knows he's completed his evil deed for the day.

"Snow," Ariel warns.

"I'm calm."

"You’re holding your flat iron like a murder weapon."

I glance at myself. My hand grips the handle of the very hot flat iron beside me. Steam still curls faintly from the ceramic plates.

"That's because it is one."

Lucifer lowers his paw.

I lunge. "Die, you furry little hate crime!"

He launches off the vanity a half second before I reach him, sailing past my shoulder in a streak. The flat iron clamps on empty air with a hot little click.

Lucifer lands on my bed.

Right on top of the pile of rejected outfits for the evening.

My heart stops.

The black corset sits at the very top, perfect boning, laces still loose, looking innocent and like two months’ worth of tips, completely unaware it has just become a hostage.

"No," I whisper.

Lucifer turns his head toward me.

A single claw flexes against the fabric.

Every instinct screams at me to launch myself across the room and snatch him up by his furry little demon neck. But if I rush him, he'll bolt. If he bolts, he'll shred the corset on his way out.

Which means I need to do the hardest thing I've ever done in my entire life.