“No,” she said weakly. “Of course not.”

“Are you going to give me any useful answers? Like, what my glow is, and how I can use it again?”

Her subsequent silence didn’t surprise me, not at all.

I abruptly shifted my legs under me and pressed myself up so that I towered over her. “Look, I don’t need any more supernatural beings mucking around with my afterlife. So thanks for your … help, I guess. I have the feeling that you’re part of whatever the opposite of the netherworld is, and I appreciate the fact that you guys have finally noticed that I exist.”

She looked a little stricken by my bitter tone, but when she didn’t respond, I went on.

“That being said: I don’t want your help anymore. Not unless you can keep the demons from going after me and—”

“We can!” she interjected, right as I finished with “And the living people I love.”

Her face fell.

“We can’t do that,” she said. “Rules are rules; they get to make their choices, just like we get to make ours.”

“Then I’m making mine, right now. Your help isn’t worth anything if it doesn’t extend to the living people I care about. I’m not like those ghosts back in the French Quarter—I wouldn’t trade someone else to save myself.”

She frowned up at me from the beach without commenting; apparently, she didn’t like how I’d summarized her offer. And that was just too bad.

“Okay,” I said firmly. “Since that’s settled, stay out of my business. And stop giving me creepy dreams and hallucinations—my afterlife is weird enough. I mean, making me imagine my dad’s voice in the prairie? That was below the belt.”

The girl opened her mouth to object but then popped it shut. When I felt certain she didn’t have anything more to add, I turned away from her and examined the endless stretch of water and sand around us. Other than the eerie pavilion—still unoccupied, thank goodness—I didn’t see any other structures or objects. No doors or windows or cars or boats … nothing to take me back to reality.

I looked down at the girl. “I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how to get out of here?”

She shrugged—a gesture that looked strange, considering she still lay flat on her back. “Close your eyes tight and say ‘There’s no place like home’ a couple times.”

I snorted derisively. “Are you going to tell me I need to click my heels next?”

Even through her scowl, the girl laughed. “Okay, okay. But you’ve still got to close your eyes.”

“Why?” I asked, justifiably suspicious.

“Because I’m going to end this dream, and I can’t do it while your eyes are open.”

I quirked one corner of my lip in disbelief, and she sighed. “Please, Amelia. Just close your eyes.”

I studied her for a moment longer—lying back in the sand like she didn’t have a care in the world except for me: a stubborn, anomalous dead girl. Then, against my better judgment, I lowered my eyelids.

Of course, I didn’t close them fully until she chided, “Stop peeking.”

After I obeyed, I heard the soft whoosh of air. When I reopened them, I no longer saw the beach. But my new surroundings weren’t exactly comforting, either.

Mostly because, almost immediately, I recognized the small, dark room in which I’d woken. The slatted windows, the slipcovered furniture, the rainbow of pills on the coffee table in front of me—all elements of one of my darkest dreams.

The one in which I saw myself alive.

And dying.

Chapter

TWENTY-ONE

I tried to sit up, but almost every inch of my body shrieked in protest at even the slightest movement. So instead, I lay perfectly still, gazing around with bleary eyes.

Dawn was breaking here, too—I could tell from the light creeping in between the heavily slatted shutters across from me. As the room lightened and my eyes began to clear, I could see more than just the elements I recognized.

Now free of the dream haze, I realized that this room was actually far nicer than I’d first thought. The walls were painted a rich purple and hung with what looked suspiciously like original canvases of priceless art. The furniture (at least those pieces not covered in white sheets) had an expensive sort of feel to it, all highly polished wood and lush fabrics and gilt accents. Even the coffee table with its collection of spilled narcotics was inlaid with gorgeous mosaic tiles and decorated with clusters of lit, luxe-smelling candles.

Despite the candles, however, the place still smelled … odd. Almost palpable, even. Like rich food and humidity overlaying the sweet scent of decay. The longer I lay there, the stronger the smells grew.

But that … didn’t make sense. I dragged in a deeper breath through my nose, and the scent followed, strong and continuous. It didn’t fade like it was supposed to. I just kept right on smelling it.

Even weirder, I felt other things, too: a bitter taste in my mouth, dryness in my throat, and an itch just begging to be scratched on my arm. Sensations I’d never felt long enough to fully experience.

Until now.

I did another self-assessment, noting the raw ache in my legs, the pounding at my temples, the strange heaviness in my chest.

Not a single part of my body was numb. Not anymore.

I was trying to make sense of all this, trying to reason through it, when I heard a soft snore from somewhere near my feet. I gritted my teeth and hazarded some movement, using one elbow to prop myself up on the couch. Although everything—and I mean everything—hurt, I craned my neck so I could see over the rolled arm of the sofa.

There, sitting in a dark corner a few feet away from the couch, was a boy. He’d slumped forward in his chair, with his arms dangling over its sides and his head flopped down to his chest.

I listened to one more snore and then I did the only thing I could think to do.

“Hey!” I shouted. “Who are you?”

Except I didn’t actually shout. I tried to, but the sound came out scratchy and dry, like I was recovering from a nasty cold.

Still, the boy must have heard me. He stirred, shifting backward in the chair and releasing a final, rough snore. Half yawning, half groaning, he shook himself awake and then wiped one hand from his forehead to his chin.

For that brief moment I couldn’t see his face. But when he removed his hand and opened his eyes, I sucked in a sharp breath.

The boy looked exactly like Gabrielle, the Voodoo girl. The same coffee-and-cream skin, the same flawless bone structure. Their only difference, aside from gender, might have been age. His stubble and the frown lines around his mouth made him seem older … but not by many years.

His luminous blue eyes caught mine, and I suddenly felt dizzy. I swayed for a second; and though I tried to stay upright, my elbow gave out, and I dropped back to the couch.

The boy, however, didn’t move. If I angled just right, I could still see him, sitting awkward and stiff in the chair. It didn’t look like a comfortable place to wake up, and his handsome face showed the burden of sleeping there all night. Like he’d been keeping watch.

Or watching over me.

I hadn’t made up my mind which option seemed more likely when he called out in a voice almost as rough as mine.

“Gaby, she’s awake.”

I heard a muted curse from somewhere deep in the apartment, followed by the sound of footsteps. Within seconds, Gabrielle emerged from the archway next to the boy’s chair. She wore a long, embroidered kimono, and although she didn’t look half as tired as he did, she still yawned as she plodded into the room.

Even tired, she was still prettier than the last time I’d seen her: covered in blood and possibly possessed. In fact, compared to last night, she looked positively cheery.