I did a little mental arithmetic. The two outfits with ac-companying underwear would eat up almost a quarter of my meager funds. Still, I was in Paris, buying authentic French clothes…. "What the heck, I'll just eat cheap for a few days. The answer to your question is nothing. In-spector Proust didn't seem to care anything about Drake. To be truthful"—I did a spin in front of the mirror, en-joying the way the dress flared out—"I don't think he be-lieved me about Drake."

Rene didn't say anything. I turned back to him, my hands spread in front of me. "I'm telling the truth, Rene. I know it sounds fantastic, but it's the truth. You believe me, don't you?"

He stood slowly, waving to his cousin's wife, who was arranging a display in the shop window. "You do not have the air of a murderer. I believe you. But I am not the one you need to convince, eh? You must convince the inspec-tor that you are telling the truth."

"Easier said man done. I don't know how to go about proving Ididn't do something."

I waited while Rene spoke rapidly to Berthilde, who took the linen pantsuit and my stained dress, putting them both in a tote bag.

"It is difficult, yes, but there is no need for you to de-range yourself. I will take you wherever you need to go, yes? And with me helping, we will solve this little prob-lem of yours."

I paid Berthilde, thanked her, and stepped out into the sunny June morning. "I appreciate the help—I truly do—I'm just at a loss as to how to start proving that I'm innocent, and where to look for Drake."

Rene mused as we strolled down the street to where he'd parked his taxi. Paris on a sunny summer morning was a delight—if you discounted the blare of horns, the variety of music spilling from shops with doors flung wide open (no two shops seemed to have their radio tuned to the same station), and the air heavy with the smell of gasoline. Still, it was Paris, and even though I was having the worst time of my life, I was determined to embrace the City of Light.

"Me, I think in order to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, you need to know who drew the magic circle on the floor. Once you find that person, you will prove tomonsieur I'inspecteur that you did not do the crime."

I couldn't keep a little giggle from slipping out at the sly look Rene gave me. The lack of sleep was definitely making me silly. "This isn't some sort of mystery story, Rene. I'm not Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I'm not even Miss Marple. I'm just an extremely tired American who is probably this close to being sent to the guillotine for a murder she didn't commit. And even if I did manage to find out who killed Mme. Deauxville, my uncle will kill me for losing the aquamanile."

"Stop hitting your biscuit—we will figure it all out."

I blinked at him. (I seemed to be doing that quite a bit lately.) "Huh? Stop hitting my biscuit? What biscuit?"

His hands danced in the air as he tried to explain. "Yes, yes. Stop hitting your biscuit. Stop being angry at your-self because you cannot proceed."

"Oh. Stop beating my head against a wall?"

He made a face, pulling out his keys to unlock the car doors. "My expression is more elegant, but yes, the idea is the same. As for the situation with Mme. Deauxville and the man who stole your dragon, how do you know the two things are not related?"

I paused as he opened the door, staring at him as my tired brain hashed that idea over. "Drake said he didn't kill Mme. Deauxville. I know he lied about the other things, but he… he just didn't seem like a murderer. And besides, if he was, he could have killed me the sec-ond I walked into the apartment, and he didn't. But hedid call the cops. That's definitely a point in his favor."

Rene patted my hand. "He might not have killed the old woman, but what was he doing there?"

"I don't know. I asked, but he evaded the question." My eyes opened wide as something occurred to me. Yeah, yeahyou probably thought of this hours ago, but hey! I'd been up all night. Cut me a little slack. "Do you think he drew the circle? He didn't act like he did. In fact, he questioned me about whether or not it was complete, just before he went off about demons being summoned by the circle."

"Demons? The circle was to attract demons? You mean the little devils?"

I got into the car. "Well… kind of. Technically demons are the servants of the demon lords, who are the main warriors of Hell, each responsible for varying num-bers of legions. The legions are made up of demons, greater and lesser, all of whom are bound to their lords— servants, if you will, whom the demon lords can call, and who can be summoned by mortals who invoke the mas-ter's name. The demons themselves are an interesting group—according to my research, there are several dif-ferent types of demons, each with specific abilities and levels of competence. One book I read claimed that not all demons were actually evil; some were simply mis-guided or mischievous."

Rene shot me another look over his shoulder as he slid behind the steering wheel.

I grinned. "It's my hobby. I study medieval demon texts. They're really interesting, and offer quite an insight into how the medieval mind dealt with the concepts of heaven and hell, but unlike Drake, I don't believe demons actually exist."

He made a relieved moue. "I am happy to hear so. I think, however, you have the answer to the question you asked earlier—how to find M. Drake the dragon thief: There is a strong occult society here in Paris. No doubt someone in it will have heard of him and will know how you can find him."

That made sense, but… "I have no idea if he's still in Paris or not. For all I know, he could have taken my dragon and run."

Rene shrugged again and yelled something that sounded like an obscenity out the window to a man on a bike who dashed in front of him. "It is, perhaps, the only lead you have, yes?"

"Yes," I agreed, feeling like I was a hundred years old. My whole body felt fragile, as if one touch would shatter me into a gazillion pieces. "It is theonly lead I have. I really should go to the American Embassy, but I got the feeling from the police last night that they wouldn't be much help. I suppose I could call them later, after I chase down my nebulous lead. Any ideas on how I get in con-tact with the dark side of Paris?"

As it turns out, he did. We started out by visiting oc-cult bookstores, but the people there didn't seem to know too much. We stopped for an early lunch (bread, cheese, and sliced ham from a small shop), then headed into the Latin Quarter, where Rene said he knew of a shop that catered to the witch trade.