My mind mentally scanned my closet, then scanned Seth’s. “When you say ‘dress up like in the old days,’ do you mean corsets and funny hoops beneath my dress, or what?”

Eli laughed. “No, just modern formal wear.”

At the door I stopped, rose up on my toes, and kissed him. “I’m not your typical debutante, you know.”

“Yeah, I know,” he answered, eyes locked on mine. “It’s one of your charms.”

I grinned. “Yep. We’re up for it. What time?”

“Seven.”

Seth rounded the corner alley with Chaz just as we were stepping inside. “Sounds good. I’ll ask Nyx to take my appointments after five.”

“What’s up?” Seth asked as we walked through the doorway. Chaz ran ahead, his nails clicking on the wood plank floor.

“Dinner with Dracula and Company,” I answered, shooting Eli a smart-ass grin. “Saturday night. Seven. And no Vans and baggy shorts with the crotch at the knees and your drawers hanging out. Formal wear.”

“Sweet,” Seth said.

Eli just smiled and shook his head.

We spent the rest of Sunday pretending everything was normal. I guess for us, it was, although my mind never fully let loose the events that led me to where I’m at right now. Part of me was glad; Eli was in my life. For how long, I didn’t know. The other part hated it. The Arcoses had nearly claimed my baby brother, and I don’t know if I could have survived that.

We walked Estelle’s stuff over and visited with her and Preacher for a bit. Their back kitchen seemed like a mystical, unearthly place now, dimmed lights and shadows, where the unique African herbs and concoctions from Da Plat Eye wafted in like some crazy aromatic air infusion. Estelle’s sausage, shrimp, and red rice stewed on the stovetop, and she sat in the corner, surrounded by sweetgrass strands, weaving a basket and wearing her hair wrapped in one of her colorful traditional Gullah cloths. Preacher sat, wearing his usual long-sleeved plaid shirt and denims (he called them dungarees, and that totally cracked me up), scolding me (after Eli ratted me out) about forgetting my tea.

“Don’ get too complacent, girl,” Preacher had said, his ebony skin a beautiful contrast to his snow-white hair. He reminded me of an older Danny Glover. “I mean dat, right. You git too big for your britches, you might get hurt.” He’d reached over and grasped my hands with his. “I ain’t puttin’ up wit dat, now.”

Capote, Preacher’s cousin, had stopped by, and I swear, he was one funny-ass old man. He never, never went without a big, blinding smile, and he always had some sort of hysterical story to tell about him and Preacher from their childhood. He sat at the table with us, a bag of boiled peanuts in his lap, eating and shelling just as fast as his fingers and mouth would work. He’d looked at me and shaken his head. “Girl, you done fell in wit some crazy folk, right?” he’d said, jerking his head toward Eli. “Dem Duprés—wooo, now, you done fell in wit dem for sure.” He laughed and shook his head again. “Dey good folk doh, dat’s right. Always have been. Dey treat you good. You do da same.”

Once we left Preacher’s (with a big Tupperware filled with Estelle’s gumbo and a bag of boiled peanuts—I swear I could live off them), we headed to Monterey Square. Seth was already there with Josie; Phin and Luc had just returned from Tybee (they’d been checking out some new gaming software Ned Gillespie had developed); the Lord of the Flies boys, along with Zetty, walked in behind Eli and me. We’d all agreed on group training twice a week at the Dupré House, where the complete top floor had been renovated into a wicked-awesome, upgraded donjon. It’d been pretty cool as a gym before, but now? Damn. I walked in for the first time and stared.

“Wow,” I muttered, and looked around at the punching bags, table of blades, the vamp dummies, and the various-sized surfaces—pretty much synthetic rock—for leaping and jumping. I glanced at Elise and Gilles, who’d followed us upstairs. “You’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, sweet Mr. and Mrs. D.,” Riggs said, pushing past me. “Awesome.”

I glanced at Riggs; at his baggy shorts, his Eminem T-shirt, and his Nike Airs, and then, his shaggy hair held in place by a red bandanna. “Nice headband, Riggs,” I said, noticing he had one holding back his bangs.

“I wore it just for you, babe,” he said, grinning. He inclined his head. “Wanna spar?”

I grinned back. The little turd knew I hated being called babe. “Oh yeah,” I said. “Let’s go.”

Luc let out a whistle, clapped, and smiled, the hoop in his lip silver and, in my biased opinion, so him. “Yeah, baby—some action! Step back, folks—kids, wannabes”—he glanced at his parents—“and the elderly.” He grinned and backed toward the wall. “Poe’s got the floor.”

I rolled my eyes at him—what a nerd. I pointed at him. “You’re next.”

A round of oooh’s went through the donjon.

Elise Dupré smiled broadly at me. “That I’ll be looking forward to, darling.” She turned to Gilles. “We’ve got that auction on eBay, darling.”

“Oui,” he answered, and, grinning, the two left the donjon.

I felt pretty certain she hadn’t particularly appreciated being called elderly. It was one thing to think it, but to say it? Eesh. I did think it hilarious that the matriarch and patriarch of the family raced to eBay auctions.

Riggs sauntered to the center of the mat, whipped his Emenem shirt over his head, and tossed it aside, leaving a pretty impressive six-pack (for a kid) exposed. Good God, that boy thought his boat rocked. Before he had tendencies, he was just a smart-ass adolescent with a cocky attitude. Now he had … powers. And while his experience had matured him some, he was still, well, pervy, cocky Riggs. Now he and his ego would be impossible to live with. He needed an attitude adjustment.

I was going to kick his ass.

With a quick glance at Eli, whose wicked grin told me he’d just read my thoughts, I met Riggs on the mat. The others watching clapped, Phin whistled again, and Riggs began to circle me. I let him—for a few. You know, he had to show off a little, for the other Flies, and I gave him that. He did some pretty amazing wall jumps (where he ran toward the wall, then sort of ran up it, then flipped over me), some sick leaps directly over my head, and a few cool roundhouse kicks. Yep. He was one impressive little shit-with-tendencies.

The moment he landed from his roundhouse, I crouched and swept his legs with one kick. Riggs hit the mat, back down with a smack. Everyone laughed, clapped—whatever.

Riggs stared up at me from the floor, grinning, as I extended my hand. He took it, and I pulled him up. He leaned close. “See? I knew I’d get you to touch me,” he said in my ear. “Babe.”

Then, all at once, several things, none of which I had any control over, hit me hard.

Quick as lightning, Riggs grasped my forearm and whole-body flipped me. As I went airborne, that same sick sensation I’d experienced with Seth came over me; I knew another awful image was about to fill my brain. My body went limp, and shadows fell behind my eyelids. I saw nothing, heard nothing—couldn’t speak, and I don’t remember even hitting the mat. I remained weightless in some dark, cloudy fog, where nothing else existed, as if I’d totally left the donjon. Finally, a sound—a heartbeat. I can’t tell you if it was mine or someone else’s. At first, it was muffled, but it grew in tone and intensity.

Then, slowly, my vision returned. Blurred at first, it went in and out of tune like an old TV set, and finally, it focused on … I blinked several times. A girl. In a bar. No, a club. In a booth. Music banging. Punk music banging. Surroundings unfamiliar. Girl unfamiliar. Girl totally wasted. She was a partier, midtwenties, heavy black eye makeup, Marilyn Monroe–ish, white-bleached bobbed hair with orange streaks. Her black leather strapless bustier barely contained her heavy breasts. She leaned over the table, picked up the glass of her mixed drink, and licked first the rim, then her dark red lips. Her brown eyes were hazed, and her pheromones were so pungent, I could smell them. She was horny and wanted me, only … I wasn’t me. Of course I wasn’t me. I wasn’t into girls. She saw him; not me. I could hear her heart beating erratically. She reached out for my hand, grasped it, and I looked down. The hand wasn’t mine. It was male; older, rough-skinned, not Victorian’s smooth pale skin. I knew that, though.

She stood and led me out of the booth. The leather miniskirt she was wearing hardly covered her ass, and the bustier was laced in back, revealing bare skin. I noticed a tattoo on her lower back. It was Death’s fingers, his long skeletal bones spread out across her, beckoning; it was my work. I had inked her before. She was laughing, stumbling as she made her way to the exit. She was pulling me, and I could feel her hand in mine; yet … it wasn’t me. But I could feel whoever it was. I knew what was going to happen; I could feel the anticipation of the kill inside me. I tried to move my lips, vibrated my vocal cords, and tried to warn her. I tried to scream, and deep inside me, I felt immense anxiety to warn her. It was no use. I was speechless, useless, not really even here. I could do nothing but watch—watch and be horrified.

The girl pushed out into the night, and the air was muggy, heavy; the faint scent of salt clung to my tongue. She hung on me as we walked, and she half stumbled, half pulled me along the sidewalk, drunkenly laughing, until the lights from the club, the thumping music from within, became dull and barely there. I heard only her heartbeat. I tried to yank back, but my body wasn’t really my own. Long shadows fell across her, and she pulled me into an alley. The scent of mingled mold and urine and brine reached my nostrils, and she fell against the brick wall, staring at me with her wide, drug-hazed, lust-filled eyes. How stupid she was; how utterly freaking ignorantly stupid.

A zipper closed the front of her leather bustier. She grasped the metal tab and pulled it down to her waist. Her breasts spilled out, and she grabbed my hands, pressing them to her skin. Inwardly, I resisted. Again, it was no use. Her head fell back, and she moaned.