Which meant I’d be spending Christmas in the company of relative strangers, learning how to control my new form. Deciding how much I did or didn’t trust the twins, especially with regard to the netherworld and its demons.

I sighed softly and then shrugged. “Okay, Gabrielle. Let’s go play dress up while you tell me more about this Risen stuff.”

“Awesome!” she squealed, her blue eyes sparkling. Then she leaned in close and whispered, “Gaby.”

“Huh?”

This time her smile actually managed to look a little shy. “Call me Gaby. Everyone who’s anyone does.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “And by ‘anyone,’ you mean Felix?”

“Well, I am her only friend,” he said. Gabrielle angled her entire body around me and stuck her tongue out at him.

He gave her a dismissive wave. “Don’t act offended; you know it’s true.”

A little noise chirped, and Felix fumbled in his pocket. He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open to check something, and then glanced back up at us. “Work is texting—looks like they want everyone there bright and early to prep for the Christmas Eve banquet tonight. I’ve got to go.”

“Felix is a waiter at Antoine’s,” Gabrielle explained. “They totally use and abuse him.”

“Someone’s got to pay for those beignets,” he grumbled. “And it’s not like Marie’s been handing you a paycheck every Friday.”

Gabrielle grinned. “If she could see me, I’m sure she would.”

“She can’t?” I asked, surprised.

“Not unless I want her to. Which I don’t. I’ll show you how that works at breakfast, I promise.”

And just like that, Gabrielle was dragging me across the room, chattering happily about the actress’s well-stocked closet. I peeked over my shoulder at Felix, who still watched us with a concerned frown. Right before Gabrielle pulled me through the archway, he mouthed:

You okay?

Like someone who cared about me. Like a friend.

So I shook my head lightly—a gesture that said I don’t honestly know—and then ducked under the archway after Gabrielle.

Chapter

TWENTY-THREE

Gabrielle tugged me through an open doorway into what must have been the master bedroom. Once inside, I couldn’t help but breathe a soft “Wow.”

I’d expected this room to be as dark and narrow as the hallway we’d just crossed. But here the space was bright and airy, with floor-to-ceiling windows lining two of the pearl-colored walls. Although the windows were shut tight against the winter cold, all their shutters lay open, flooding the room with sunshine. It lit up the rich wooden floor, the antique vanity, the oversize bed and its gauzy white canopy.

While Gabrielle threw open the double doors leading into the master closet, I walked over to a row of windows and peered outside. On one side of the apartment I could see the gray waters of the Mississippi River moving alongside a long wharf of shops and restaurants. On the other side I saw something familiar. Past the hanging ferns and the iron balcony rail, through a thick wall of surrounding trees, I could just make out the tilt of Andrew Jackson’s bronze head.

“Jackson Square?”

“Yup,” Gabrielle called back from somewhere deep inside the closet. “This is the corner apartment of the Lower Pontalba Building. One of the oldest apartment buildings in the country. Prime view, right?”

“Sure,” I muttered. But looking out at the square, I still shivered.

However “prime” the view, I turned away from it and walked cautiously over to the closet, from which several loud clunks and more than several foul words were emanating. I grasped one of the doors—trying not to freak out about the smooth feel of painted wood against my hand—and peeked inside.

At first I couldn’t see Gabrielle for all the clothes: furs and silks and sequins and lace, hanging and draped and folded on a labyrinth of shelves and racks. The vast majority of the wardrobe, however, appeared to have landed in a knee-high pile on the floor. In the middle of the pile, almost buried in fabric, Gabrielle knelt, muttering profanity and pawing through the jumbled mess around her.

“You know your whole, ‘we’ve hardly touched the place’ philosophy?” I asked her. “Well, this closet sort of makes you a liar.”

Gabrielle simply ignored me. Then, to my horror, she pulled out two completely see-through tops and held them up for comparison. When she saw my stricken expression, she sighed heavily and threw those back into the sea of fabric, only to yank out a pair of boots and a bundle of more acceptable garments. She tossed them at me without explanation and then ducked into the adjoining bathroom with her own handful of clothing.

I waited for some further instruction; but when I realized that this bundle of fabric was the only hint I’d get, I looked for someplace more private to change. Finding none, I used the bed’s canopy as a cover while I slipped out of my robe.

Everything about this situation felt strange, invasive, so I hurriedly pulled on my new set of clothes without studying them; honestly, I couldn’t pay attention to much more than the chilly air and my ongoing feelings of nausea.

By the time I finished dressing, Gabrielle had come breezing out of the bathroom. I don’t know how she’d managed it in such a short time, but she looked even prettier than before, in skintight gray leggings, a cream-colored tunic, and purple ankle boots.

“Check it out,” she said, twirling in a circle. “It’s from a couple seasons ago, but still—it’s a Rachel Zoe. Did I break into the right house or what?”

“It’s still stealing,” I murmured.

Gabrielle scoffed, dumping the contents of a small black bag onto the bed. “We’ll put it all back before the bank auctions everything off, I promise.”

I glanced down at the items on the bed and grimaced. “Makeup? Is that really going to stay on my face, considering … you know …?”

“The clothes are staying on, aren’t they?” She shrugged and grabbed a glinting eyelash curler. “Now hold still so I can make you look less like … well, what you are.”

Ten cringe-worthy minutes later, Gabrielle backed away and gave me an appraising look. Her blue eyes flashed with approval, and she nodded.

“Better. Much.” She nodded in the direction of a full-length mirror standing in the other corner of the room. “Go look at yourself. I bet you’re just dying to. Pun intended.”

So slowly I thought Gabrielle might just give up and push me to it, I stood and walked over to the mirror. Other than a few glimpses of my senior yearbook photo, I hadn’t seen myself in a very long time. I knew I wouldn’t look like a corpse; besides that, I had no idea what to expect.

I certainly didn’t expect to catch a glimpse of the pretty girl staring back at me in the mirror.

Her long brown hair fell in thick waves down her back—almost to the waistband of her skinny-jeans, which were tucked into caramel-colored, over-the-knee boots. As I watched her, she fidgeted nervously with one thin strap of her flowing beaded white tank.

Despite her obvious unease, the girl in the mirror looked stylish. Sexy, even. Her cheeks flushed, and her green eyes sparkled with fire. With life.

At that moment I had a fleeting thought:

What would Joshua think of me now?

Even when I’d repressed the question—and the unbidden, accompanying image of his eyes—I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t tell Gabrielle what I thought of this transformation.

Until, finally, I asked, “White? Again?”

Gabrielle’s laughter filled the room. “That is Dolce&Gabbana—you should be hugging me right now. Besides, after much deliberation I decided you really can rock the white.”