It was supposed to be a quiet night.

I had a beer, a book, and every intention of ignoring the supernatural war brewing under the streets of Chicago. But, of course, that was before the blood hit the runway.

The White Council had a brilliant idea. I say that with all the sarcasm in my wizardly little heart. Someone—some Warden with more paranoia than sense—had gotten wind of a potential Red Court coup, and somehow, it all circled back to high fashion.

I was still trying to wrap my head around that last part when I found myself stuffed into a rented tux, my blasting rod disguised as a walking cane, and my patience already worn thinner than the champagne flutes they were handing out.

Chicago's fashion scene was a mystery to me, much like quantum mechanics or why people voluntarily ate kale. But even I could tell that the show had drawn the crème de la crème. Supermodels strutted across the stage, so beautiful it made my teeth ache. Photographers clicked away, fashion moguls sipped thousand-dollar drinks, and I tried not to feel like an oversized scarecrow in a world of golden statues.

Then the lights went out.

The screaming started half a second later.

I was already moving, hand going for my staff as something snarled, wet and hungry. Then—before I could even get a shield up—a blur of motion cut past me.

One of the models. Tall, statuesque, spiked black hair that gleamed under the emergency lights. A man so stupidly beautiful that even in the dimness, his cheekbones threatened to reshape the laws of physics.

Then he turned. Just the slightest tilt of his chin. His lips pursed. His eyes narrowed.

Blue Steel.

The Red Court vampires charging toward him froze. Their eyes widened. Their bodies locked in place as if caught in some primordial force beyond their comprehension. Their mouths hung open in a stunned, hungry sort of awe.

I stared. "Are you—serious?"

I shouldn't have been surprised. Not after everything I'd seen. But this? This was new.

Before I could even process what was happening, I lifted my blasting rod and shouted, "Forzare!"

The force slammed into one of the paralyzed vamps, sending it flying into the back wall with a meaty crack. The other barely had time to react before a sword blade sang through the air.

Morgan, grim-faced and already moving, decapitated the second vampire in one brutal, efficient arc.

I turned to him, gesturing wildly at Zoolander. "Okay, but we're just gonna ignore the fact that he Jedi mind-tricked those vamps?"

Morgan wiped his blade clean and sheathed it with a snap. "That wasn't magic."

I let out an incredulous laugh. "The hell it wasn't!"

Morgan's eyes darkened. "Magic has rules, Dresden. That? That was something else entirely." His mouth curled like the words tasted bitter. "Something older. And if you ever think about stepping over that line magically, you won't have to worry about the White Council. You'll have to worry about me."

I swallowed. Morgan wasn't the type to make idle threats.

Meanwhile, Derek Zoolander—fashion icon, human golden retriever, and apparent supernatural horror showstopper—was casually adjusting his cuffs, his expression all satisfied amusement.

And just like that, the Red Court's attack on the fashion show ended in blood, dust, and questions.

The White Council's orders were clear: find out who was behind this and stop them. And apparently, that meant I had a new partner.

A partner whose greatest claim to fame was looking good while walking in a straight line.

"Look, Zoolander—"

"Call me Derek," he interrupted smoothly. "Or 'D.' I let my really close friends call me 'D.'"

I closed my eyes. Counted to five. Opened them again. "Fine. Derek. You might be good at stopping vampires—somehow—but this isn't just a rogue fashion disaster. The Red Court is making a play for Chicago. This is about more than bad taste in ruffles."

Derek's expression turned serious. Or at least, as serious as a man who pouted for a living could look. "Fashion is power, Harry. It shapes minds, bends wills. If someone's using it for evil, that's, like, the worst kind of crime."

I rubbed my temples. "Fine. But if we're doing this, we do it my way. No impromptu runway poses in battle."

"Only if you promise not to wear that coat to the next gala."

I was really starting to regret my life choices.

Still, if this lunatic could turn modelling skills into a weapon, maybe—just maybe—we had a shot at stopping this fashion-fueled vampire coup.

Stranger things had happened.

And knowing my luck, they probably would again before sunrise.