"What's going on, miscreant?" Logan stood in the doorway, wearing his favorite frock coat as usual, but there were rips in his jeans. I lifted my eyebrows at his pants. "Holes?" He was impeccable about his fancy goth clothes. "Isabeau," he admitted ruefully. "The Hounds are a great tribe, but they have no sense of fashion." "So she tore your jeans?" He grinned. "No, she tore at a . I just happened to get in the way." I grinned back at him. "Cool." Have I mentioned? Our girlfriends are fierce."