WHERE HAVE THEY LEFT me? Are they still here?

I flinch out of instinct, expecting the slicing pain of her claws... or his teeth, but they aren’t there. I’m staring at the ceiling in the foyer, at the top of the stairs. I’m re-dressed, the rips are gone. Everything is once again reset for the next attack. The children did not get their pound of flesh. At least not yet. But they should have... something is different this time.

Sitting up, I smooth my hand across the folds of my skirt. The last I remember, I’d been gutted and left for undead on the floor of the attic, accused of horrible things that were never my sins. Spirits of the people my mother murdered screamed. I wish she could bear the forever weight of her crimes.

I woke up at the top of the stairs, re-dressed, whole, and determined. I’ve been prowling my manor home since. The sound of an engine joins with the crunch of the gravel beneath the tires as someone pulls into the long drive. Hi-beams from the headlights throw a smattering of rainbows across the foyer. I listen until I hear the slam of the driver’s door and Spencer’s gruff voice following it.

He’s home.

When Spencer’s key rattles in the lock, I lean back against the curve of the railing on the stairs. He curses when the deadbolt doesn’t open, and I panic. I decide I would look better leaning against the wall on the other side of the grand staircase.

I pull the top of my dress open to expose the swell of my breasts. I’m going to seduce him again. And again. And again. Until he believes I am real.

A strange voice tickles my ear. He’s speaking to someone and I lift up to my toes and crane my neck to try to see who it is through the transom window. I can’t see anything. It’s too dark.

The front door opens a crack, but Spencer puts his arm in front of it, blocking the way of his guest. “It’s an old place, but there’s a bed upstairs,” Spencer says. “Are you sure about this, Sophie?”

“I’m sure-er than anybody you’ll meet in New Orleans.” She giggles and leans into him. Her shirt is unbuttoned nearly down to her navel. She leans forward, and Spencer looks down her shirt.

He looks.

I clamp my hands over my mouth to keep from yelling at him. I hear Nelly’s voice. It’s not ladylike to curse. I may be stuck outside his reality, but I’m not dead. No matter how much I wish it.

He smiles and moves his arm out of Sophie’s way, and she slides into the house with him close behind. Her movement sets a chill across my skin, and I close my top against it. There’s something about her.

As Sophie moves into the foyer, Spencer closes the door behind them. She drags her gaze all around. For a moment, I’m certain she sees me, but, instead of stopping, she turns to Spencer. “It’ll be beautiful when it’s finished.”

“It’s supposed to be my last shot at getting back to life,” he answers. “I needed a new project, and it’s taken everything I had to buy this place and resettle here. I’ve been dead too long.”

“You don’t seem dead to me.” She flips her hair and takes several steps toward him. “I’m glad you picked this place. We never would have met otherwise.” She presses herself against him, moving up and down.

My stomach twists. Spencer isn’t stopping her. He isn’t telling her about the woman he made love to only the day before. “Why?” I whimper.

His eyes dart from Sophie’s face to where I stand on the staircase and then back again. He gives a little cough. It’s a telltale stutter in their dance. He can still sense me or see me. Maybe only hear me. He presses his lips to the base of her neck and layers kisses on top of her collarbone. She groans and sighs, closing her eyes and wrapping her arms around him to steady herself.

I move down the stairs, descending as a thousand Southern Belles have before, meeting their beaus. I don’t ask him to cease his ministrations, but I move closer. If he’s going to do this, I’ll haunt him even as her name is on his lips. He’ll see my face even as he thrusts in her. I won’t be denied. He’s the first man that has touched me and the first man that I have touched in almost two hundred years. I won’t give Spencer up without a fight.

He spins her and pushes her hard against the door. She squeals his name, and he growls in response. He devours her mouth as though he’s a starving man. He tries to unbutton the remainder of her shirt to get access to her breasts but grows frustrated and tugs too hard. Buttons scatter across the floor as he lowers his mouth, plunging his hand into her strawberry-blond tresses that are nearly dark ginger in the shadows.

I’m close enough to touch him, watching him, wishing I was in Sophie’s place and real to him. I want him, God help me, so I reach for him and drag my fingertip down the back of his neck. “Spencer,” I whisper. “Beloved.”

He curses and goes rigid. I can see the goosebumps raise on the back of his neck. He can still feel me, even with his fingers twined in her hair. He knows I’m here. On some level, he knows that I’m right here.

“What is it?” Sophie asks. Her eyes are still closed, but she arches against him, encouraging him to kiss her again.

“Nothing.” He clears his throat. “The bed came with the house.” His voice is husky with desire. For her. The knowledge cuts as sharp as the fangs of mother’s ex-slaves. “It’s not that comfortable or clean.”

This is my house. It has been my home longer than she has been alive. I am bound to it as surely as the ghosts that frequent the crypts in Saint Louis Cemetery where they buried my mother’s body.

I should tear this trollop limb from limb and feed her pieces to the street dogs. That is exactly what I will do. A chill touches my lips. From far away, I hear mother crooning her voodoo spells as she twirls intestines around her hand. My blood runs cold.

I am not my mother. I will never be her.

They’re writhing against each other, caught up in ravenous lust.

“You won’t win him,” I say, knowing she can’t hear me. “He’s mine.” He can feel me. That must mean something. He’s the answer. He’s my savior. I believe it with every cell in my body.

Sophie’s eyelids pop open, her wide-open gaze drilling into mine. Instead of the whites of a mortal’s eyes, eyeballs washed in black stare—not at Spencer, but at me. Her cherry red lips twist in a cruel smile. “Of course. I’ll go to bed with you.” She raises an eyebrow at me, a challenge. Her eyes flash nearly black. Can he see it too? Fear bubbles in my stomach.

I stumble backwards, and shock steals my determination. “Who are you?” I hiss, but her eyes are closed once more.

She arches into him again, and he gropes her breasts. Then he moves her arms over her head, holding her wrists against the door, her shirt spread wide. He grunts when she nips his ear. I hate my body for the wetness and the desire that throbs between my legs. I was in his arms less than twenty-four hours ago.

I hate it. I hate it. But I can’t look away.

Sophie breathes. “Borquita won’t mind. She’s a good girl.” Her eyes open slowly until her gaze pierces me to my soul. She can see. I’m sure of it.

Gasping, I say, “How do you know that name?” My knees go weak, and I pitch forward, instinctively catching myself on the table in the hallway, preparing to sink to the floor. Yet my hand doesn’t fall through, and I’m still upright. I’m more solid than I’ve been since last night.

I’m sure it’s Spencer. It’s Spencer. He makes me real. The thought catches, lodging itself in my head and heart. Maybe that’s the key to unlocking the curse, the one I’m never supposed to find.

Sophie’s words are slower to register in Spencer’s mind. He stops and pulls back, peering into her face. “Who?” His voice is rough.

Sophie’s eyes widen in fake innocence. “I didn’t say anything. Are you hearing things again?”

Spencer scowls, disgruntled by her nonchalance about his emotional scars, but she laughs and bites his bottom lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but nearly. “Take me to bed,” she purrs.

He sucks at the air, something between a gasp and a choking sound. “God, Sophie, are you sure?”

She isn’t what she seems. I want to scream it at him. Don’t take her to bed.

She smirks at me like the cat that swallowed my canary. “I’m sure. Take me to bed and let me wash the ghosts from your mind.”

He scoops her into his arms, his gait only slightly awkward. She turns her chin as they pass me on the stairs. “He’s mine, you foolish child.” Her words are soft, meant only for me.

She wants me to try to stop her.

She wants to win.

And Spencer has no idea who or what he’s about to bed.

For that matter, neither do I.