My wig itched like a son of a bitch.

I wanted to say I didn't know how I'd gotten myself into it, but the truth was, I knew exactly how I had: Phoebe Kostelis, normally my fencing teacher. Tonight, however, she played the part of my short Sapphic sidekick, working the crowd outside the party hall like she'd been born to it. They looked happy to be worked, since she wore only slightly more clothing than I did and had a body that even I coveted in a strictly Platonic sense.

I hadn't thought this much about ancient Greeks since college, which probably meant I wasn't having enough fun. Phoebe, on the other hand, was having a blast, wheezing with laughter as she clutched the arm of a cop I didn't know. At least, I thought he was a cop: he was dressed as one, anyway.

But then, Phoebe was dressed in a scrap of cloth wrapped around her breasts, a very short skirt and a blond wig that suited her even more poorly than long hair suited me. At least my wig and my natural hair color were the same: black. Phoebe's hair was also black, and being blond did her olive complexion no favors. On the other hand, she was having fun, though I wasn't convinced it was more fun than she'd have as a brunette. It didn't matter either way, as long as she kept everybody's attention off me.

I should have known better than to let her choose my Halloween costume. The last time she'd dressed me I'd ended up in an itty-bitty gold-lamé shirt, and jeans that stopped somewhere several miles south of my navel. This time she'd put me in a midriff-baring, boob-enhancing, hip-riding leather-pleated-skirt thing with ass-kicking boots and a variety of increasingly useless-looking weapons. I'd flat-out refused to wea