Ele Scofield

“Saiman reached into the trunk and pulled out a pink tulle tutu.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“It won’t fit.”
“Elastic waistband,” Saiman said. “It will fit.” Curran’s grin was pure evil.
“Don’t you dare,” I told him.
“It’s too bad the magic is up,” he said. “I’d take pictures.”
“Shut up.”
“Have no fear, Alpha,” Ascanio said. “We’ll tell no one.”
Kill me, somebody.
Saiman held out the tulle skirt to me.
“Maybe it will work without it.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“If I put this on, it will be ridiculous.”
Saiman waved the pink tutu in front of me. Fine. I snatched it out of his hands and pulled it on over my hips.
Ascanio collapsed into a moaning heap of laughter.
“Now what?”
“Move around onstage. It would help if you danced.”
Curran was dying. That was the only rational explanation for the noises coming from his direction.”
― Ilona Andrews