My feeble attempts at ignoring Boaz were about as successful as the time I tried resuscitating a T-rex skeleton at a natural history museum when I was eight. A security guard hauled me in front of Maud and explained how I had been caught painting the dinosaur bones red. She had laughed, brayed really, until tears streamed down her face and streaked her mascara. To prevent gums from bumping about the incident, she made a sizable donation to ensure the local media outlets wouldn’t come sniffing around for coverage of the chubby-faced vandal with artistic aspirations.

The Society for Post-Life Management was about as forgiving of such indiscretions as an old-money wife spotting a nouveau-riche neighbor wearing white after Labor Day.

The third member of our trio that day had been Linus, Maud’s nephew. He was five years older than me, so thirteen at the time, and he had spent that weekend with us. Call it a hunch, but I always suspected he was the one who’d tattled to the mortal authorities.

Even as a kid, he had been as stuffy as a taxidermied moose.

The short walk home thawed my limbs, and my unexpected arrival so soon after departing meant Woolly didn’t have time to mount an offensive. I strolled right in, Boaz on my heels, and headed straight for the kitchen. I set Maud’s bag on the table in plain sight to remind me to wash out the brush before returning her supplies to storage then patted the squirmy lump nestled in the front pocket of my T-shirt.

“Look who’s back,” I called out to Woolly. “Our old pal Keet.” I jerked my chin in Boaz’s direction. “Oh yeah. This weirdo followed me home too.”

The light cast from the overhead fixtures swelled with such bright joy I had to squint to bear the glare. Cupboard doors flapped open on their hinges, sounding like a round of applause as they bumped off the base cabinets, and he took a sweeping bow.

“Up high.” His palm smacked an upper cabinet door that swung out to meet him. “Down low.” He switched hands, and the lower cabinet bounced off his palm. Darting past me, he leapt up and tagged one of the smaller cabinets above the fridge before she guessed his next move. “Too slow.”

“Okay, kids.” I shoved him onto a barstool at the counter. “No running or jumping in the house.”

The lights overhead dimmed to normal levels, minus the occasional surge as happiness shot through her wiring.

“You hungry, boy?” I gathered a wriggling Keet in my hand. “You’re always peckish after rising.”

A weak chirp melted me into a puddle of goo. I really had missed the little guy. My tiny family, such as we were, was now complete. Woolly, Keet, Amelie, Boaz and me. The gang was back together again.

“What are your plans for the night?” I wedged a stopper in the deep farmhouse sink then shredded a few paper towels to make a comfortable nest. Keet’s poor little stick legs proved too wobbly to support him just yet, so I placed him on his side and went to make good on my offer. “Anything interesting?”

“My next stop is home. I’ve had all the interesting I can handle for one night.”

“Home?” I glanced up at him. “Your parents don’t know you’re back yet?”

“Figured I’d surprise them.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure the commander would let me go.” His gaze flicked up to mine. “This wasn’t my first attempt. More like my third.” He rubbed the base of his neck. “I was pissed at you, yeah, but I filed paperwork the day Amelie told me you got out. I wasn’t staying away to punish you. Or me. Or hell, both of us. I came as soon as I could without having desertion charges brought up against me.”

“You’re here now.” In my house. In my kitchen. In my life. “That’s all that matters.”

“It’s really not, Squirt.” His arms fell to his side. “How are you here? Why did they let you go?”

“I don’t know.” I shook my head. “No one told me. Even if they did…”

A sentinel had written my home address on a sticky note and pinned the yellow square to my shirt like I was a kid about to ride a school bus for the first time instead of an inmate with the mental capacity of a kindergartener. He escorted me onto the plane, and I flashed the note at the first taxi driver to approach me after I landed, just as I had been instructed. The nice old man with his crooked smile had taken me to Woolly, hooked his arm in mine, walked me up to the door, and said in a crackling voice, “You’re home.”

That girl? The one who stumbled reading that sequence of numbers and letters, who wondered why the combination sounded so familiar? She had asked no questions. Not a single one. And I didn’t blame her.

“Grier…” The way he rumbled my name was better than being wrapped in a warm blanket. “If you ever need to talk about what happened…”

“Thanks.” My throat worked over a hard lump. “But I can’t.”

“I get that.” He kicked out his amputated leg. “I understand witnessing horrors you can’t put into words. I’m just saying I’m here. You need to talk, you come to me. Understand?”

I cocked an eyebrow at him. “What about Amelie?”

“I don’t care who you talk to as long as you open up to someone when the time comes.” He flashed me a crooked grin. “But I’m willing to make out with you to help take your mind off things after. Amelie won’t go the distance like I will.”

I almost swallowed my tongue.

To give my cheeks time to cool, I turned my back on him. I kept a basket of fresh veggies from the greenhouse on the counter near the fridge. I grabbed a box grater from a drawer then selected a carrot and started shredding Keet a snack. I would have to buy him fresh seed and a cuttlebone tomorrow. I could afford those if I skimped on dinner this week. I’d also have to hike the stairs leading up into the attic and find his old cage and floor stand. Unless I could con Boaz into doing the work for me.

The blare of Boaz’s cellphone ringing made me jump on my way back to the sink, and a few veggie shreds spilled from my fingers before I could catch them and mound them with the rest in Keet’s temporary nest.

“Hey, sis,” Boaz answered, still laughing. “How did you know—?” His gaze bored a hole through my spine. “Figures.” He grunted. “I’m still not convinced Mom didn’t have us microchipped.” A pause. “Yeah, I’ll remind her.”

“Well?” I prompted, joining him at the bar after he ended the call.

“Mom overheard our conversation. She called Amelie to scream at her for not telling her I was home, so she called to yell at me for not telling anyone I was home, and then she put two and two together and got five.”

“I asked her to cover my first tour so I could recover Keet while he was still fresh.” A groan left me slumped over the counter. “She must think that I… That we…”

“There’s still time.” His eyes twinkled. “She said you’ve got forty-five minutes left. I can get you there in ten.”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I tapped my fingertips on my elbows. “Are you offering me a ride to work or an orgasm?”

“Both? Either?”

“You should go.” I planted my palm in the center of his rock-hard chest and shoved. He swayed a centimeter. Maybe. “Your mommy is waiting to smother you with kisses.”

If he heard the faint undercurrent of jealousy, that he still had someone to fret over his boo-boos, real and imagined, he ignored it. “I’d rather you smother me with kisses.”

I flashed him a saccharine smile. “I’d rather just smother you.”

“Kinky.”

“I have to run.” I ushered him toward the door. “That means you have to go too.”

Boaz shuffled along until we reached the foyer, but when I tried opening the door, Woolly fought me. Big surprise. While I was busy jiggling the knob, Boaz slipped behind me. He wrapped his thick arms around my middle, twisting me until my head spun, and I found myself sandwiched between a hardwood door and an even harder man.

I hadn’t let myself look at him, not really, but I had no choice now.

Boaz was taller than me by a few inches, so I had to tip my head back to hold his gaze. Milk-chocolate irises striated with lighter bands, like swirled caramel, stared back at me. White scars stood in stark contrast against his tanned skin. His platinum hair, baby fine and impossible to style, was shaved on the sides and longer on the top. Grudgingly, I admitted the blunt cut suited his square jaw and harsh features. Boaz was not a handsome man, but his charm made him irresistible. Sometimes I had trouble seeing past his personality to all the rest. At least when all the rest wasn’t pressed hip to hip with me.

“I missed you,” he rasped softly. “So damn much it hurt to breathe.”

I melted against him, allowing him to hold me, and rested my forehead on his chest. “Me too.”

“I want to kiss you.”

Lungs tight, I snapped my head up to find his mouth hovering inches from mine.

“But I’m scared you’ll hide from me again if I do.”

A thousand denials sprang to my lips, and they each died a thousand deaths.

“Woolly, you mind?” He flicked a glance up at the foyer chandelier. “Don’t want to keep Mom waiting.”

The door snicked open under his hand. The traitor.

I scurried out on his heels before she could slam it shut in my face.

“Night, Grier.”

“Night, Boaz.”

The boy next door left me standing on my front porch, unkissed and unsure where this left us.

“This has been a night full of surprises,” I told the old house, and the porch light hummed agreement.

I left Woolly with the usual instructions on how to behave once Amelie and her guests arrived. A flickering light, a couple of curtains blown by the floor registers, that kind of thing. Simple stuff that wouldn’t get me in trouble. The architectural spotlights had to go. Nothing killed ambiance like floodlights. Plus, darkness facilitated better shots. The odds were in the tour’s favor of snapping pictures of orb lights or other traceries indicative of a true haunting since Woolworth House was steeped in old magic from the not-so-secret lab in the basement to the junktique paradise under the rafters.

Despite the boost to my morale—and libido—Boaz had gifted me, resorting to whoring Woolly out to human gawkers left me feeling dirty.

“Make no apologies for surviving.”

One of Maud’s favorite sayings, and my personal talisman against the tough choices I made daily.

The garage door whined in protest when I mashed the button on my fob, and I couldn’t suppress an eager grin. Boaz would kill me when he noticed I’d helped myself to Jolene. Not waiting on the mechanism to grind all the way up, I ducked under the door and crossed to the coat rack holding my riding leathers and helmet. Both were from before and a smidge tight, but I made them work. Replacing them was light-years outside my budget.

I zipped up the plated jacket, plopped down on an overturned plastic bucket, then pulled on thick socks and boots. Done with that, I wiggled on flexible gloves. I waited until after I’d straddled the motorcycle, a crimson Yamaha V Star 250, to slide on my helmet. Dark, tight places made me nauseous, but I gritted my teeth and rolled us down the driveway. I wanted as little distance between me and the road as possible just in case Mrs. Pritchard wasn’t holding on to Boaz when he heard Jolene’s familiar growl.

Twist, flip, press. The engine caught, and her rhythmic purr blocked out the garage door closing behind me. The steady rumble vibrated through my body, soothing my frazzled nerves, and I fought a grin imagining his expression when he realized his mistake in storing Jolene in my garage. I blazed a trail into town as though the hounds of hell—or one really pissed-off necromancer—were chasing me.

A large crowd milled in front of the bar where Cricket asked our victims to meet and mingle while waiting for their tours to begin. I pulled into the employee parking lot in back and did my best shadow impersonation before the boss caught me showing up late and out of costume.

“Cricket is looking for you.” Neely hooked his arm through mine as I walked in the door and whirled me in the opposite direction from the downstairs salon, guiding me up a flight of stairs to the cramped room where the guys changed. “Smoke is pouring out of her ears.”

“Family emergency.” The reminder that my next of kin was a newly resurrected parakeet put my whole life into perspective. “Amelie is covering my tour, right?”

“Yes.” He rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t mean Cricket won’t chirp at you about responsibility and accountability and all her other favorite ilities until either she’s blue in the face or you are.”

“Ugh.” I was not in the mood for a lecture tonight. “Blue is so not my color.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Why Cricket assigned you as Blue Belle, I’ll never understand,” he lamented. “I moved your costume into booth two.” He hauled me onto the landing then shoved me toward a curtained-off corner. “Go on. Shoo.”

Sidestepping the puff of azure fabric that was my dress, I skimmed over the costume accoutrements, checking that all the thingamajiggers and doohickeys were present. Afraid of being caught with my pants down, I stripped to my bra and panties then fitted the corset in place.

Fiddlesticks.

This next part wasn’t happening without divine intervention or a glob of Crisco to lube up my torso. Squishing into the silky torture device left me winded from sucking in my belly to fasten the bottom hooks at my spine. The laces… Yeah. Not happening. Not without the aforementioned shortening so I could twist it to the front, lace it, and then spin it around back.

Usually Amelie and I changed together for this very reason. Except she was at my house right about now. Poor Ame. Being that close to her annoying oaf of a big brother without being able to pop in for a hug must be torture. Much like this corset.

While I wriggled in my best worm-on-a-hook impersonation, the stairs groaned loud enough for me to hear over my frustrated panting. I held my breath, afraid to give myself away. Excuses tripped over my tongue as I armed myself to face the Wrath of Cricket about the time a husky, masculine groan preceded ardent smacking noises.

“Um, Neely?” I called, crossing my arms over my chest to pin the corset in place. “Little help here?”

A handsome man with tanned skin, black hair and dark eyes yanked back the curtain, wearing a stern expression. “Should I be concerned about Neely hiding a half-naked woman in his dressing room?”

“Guess it depends.” Blushing under his frank scrutiny, glad I’d worn my good underwear, I curled my toes in my stockings. “How do you feel about half-naked women?”

“They’re like avocados. I can appreciate they exist, but I wouldn’t want to eat one.”

Hooting laughter exploded through the room. “Dang, baby.” Neely hooked his arm around Cruz’s wide shoulders. “You didn’t have to be so mean. We like Grier, remember?”

“We do like Grier,” he agreed. “We just prefer she wear more clothes around happily married men in the future.”

“You’re so cute when you get jealous.” Neely planted a loud kiss on Cruz’s cheek then shoved him aside. “Now scoot back so I can get her tied up.” A wicked grin lit his face. “Behave, and I’ll let you tie me up later.”

Cruz’s molten gaze skimmed the length of Neely’s body. “Deal.”

“Do you mind if he stays?” Neely waded through a parade of half-naked women in various stages of undress nightly. He was blind to girl bits. Cruz, however, was not. Boobs clearly intimidated him. “I can blindfold him if you’d like.” He wet his bottom lip. “I know I would.”

“Neely.” I snapped my fingers at the end of his nose. “Focus.”

“Sorry.” He jolted to attention. “It’s just he’s been working a case in Atlanta all week.”

“The quicker you finish with her,” Cruz said, retreating to a chair he angled to face the wall, “the faster you can get back to me.”

Neely sighed dreamily at his gallant husband then whirled his finger for me. I did as he instructed, planted my palms against the wall, and sucked in my stomach until my navel touched my spine the way Cricket had taught me. He laced me up in record time then helped get the rest of the outfit straight before hauling me into the well-lit bathroom suite and starting to work on my hair and makeup.

“How did you get so good at this?” I gazed at the sagging ceiling while he applied my eyeliner.

Neely was about three years older than me, so I remembered him from high school, but I hadn’t gotten to know him until I worked my first summer as a Haint when I was fifteen. Things went south for me soon after, but Neely hadn’t changed a bit, and I could almost pretend no time had passed instead of facing the gap that yawned in our friendship.

“Are you asking because he’s a guy?” Chair legs scraped in the corner. Cruz twisted his chair and sat down facing my back, all the better to glare at me in the mirror. “Or because he’s gay?”

Mostly I was asking out of desperation. That almost-kiss with Boaz was occupying too much of my headspace for comfort.

Tension thrummed in the warm hand Neely rested on my cheek, and the eyeliner pencil wobbled.

I touched his wrist to let him know I was all right. “Are you asking because you’re insecure or paranoid?”

Cruz growled low in his throat, but very little scared me these days. When the worst had already happened, there wasn’t much left to dread.

“Grier is good people,” Neely said softly. “She’s not like…” He mashed his lips into a hard line. “Just dial it down, okay?”

A quiet breath hissed from between Cruz’s teeth as he stood. He left without saying another word.

Neely swayed toward the empty doorway like the bond between them was tugging him after Cruz.

“Do you need a minute?” I rested my hand on his forearm. “This can keep.”

“Cruz runs hot.” He shook his head and got back to applying the finishing touches. “Cooling off before we talk about this will help us both.”

Sensing Neely craved a distraction as much as I did, I picked up where Cruz had cut us off earlier.

“I don’t know the business end of a sponge applicator from one of those eyelash crimpy things.” Maud had been a fan of the natural look, but one glance in her bathroom proved how many cosmetics were required to achieve that bare-skin glow. “How did you learn?”

“Trial and error. Mostly error.” He clicked his tongue, going to work on braiding my unruly hair into an artful crown that circled my head. “It’s a miracle my sisters didn’t murder me for stealing their makeup. Erin, the second youngest, was the one who noticed I had a good eye and a steady hand. She started asking me to doll her up before dates. Later, Regan, the eldest, let me do her makeup for graduation.”

“How many sisters do you have?”

“Four. Two older and two younger. I’m the middlest.”

A twinge drew my chest tight as I imagined his big heart and wide smile multiplied by four. “That must be nice.”

“Nice is a strong word for growing up in a two-bedroom, one-bathroom house with four siblings.” He scooted back, giving me a clear view of my reflection for the first time since Cruz left. “Well, what do you think?”

The bags under my eyes had vanished beneath a layer of concealer, and the ragged skin on my chapped lips was hidden by the careful application of tinted gloss. Rather than appearing washed out from my confinement, he somehow smoothed my flaws into a porcelain glow. Even my frizzy hair behaved itself, sleeked back and coiled into demureness upon my head.

I flicked my gaze up to his. “Explain to me why you don’t do this professionally again?”

“There’s a reason so many people hang up on their calling. Dreams don’t always pay the bills.” He tapped the end of my nose with his fingertip. “Mom raised us on her own, and she was always worried about paying the bills. She figured the best way to have money was to work for people who had plenty. That’s why she nudged me into corporate accounting.”

“And that’s how you met Cruz.” That much of their story I had heard.

“He gave me the last bear claw during the longest, most boring meeting of our lives when the sugar might have given him the will to live through closing arguments. That’s when I started believing in love at first bite.” He flicked his wrist. “Now scoot. You’ve got victims waiting.”

I rose, straightening my skirt, then balanced on the edge of the top step. “Good luck with the kissing and making up.”

“Thanks.” He swiped a coat of clear gloss over his bottom lip with his pinky then pressed them together. “But I got this in the bag.”

Leaving Neely to hunt down his man, careful not to comment on the length of untied cravat in his hand that would do as a blindfold in a pinch, I braved the narrow staircase. Fabric rustled against the walls on both sides, and the ribs of the hoop skirt groaned as they were compressed. I counted the steps to make sure I didn’t fall flat on my face and breathed a sigh of relief when I hit bottom.

Thankfully, we were allowed to wear color-coordinated sneakers. Otherwise, I would have broken my neck in period-appropriate shoes on the way down. Not to mention grown a blister the size of some small children after a few hours.

The bulletin board where Cricket pinned our nightly assignments stood empty. I almost panicked before smacking my forehead with my palm. Duh. Of course my packet was gone. Leaving it up there for all to see would have shined a spotlight on my absence. Refusing to let panic wrestle me into a chokehold, I patted down my skirt in search of its hidden pockets. The crisp edge of stiff paper under my fingertips reassured me, and I pulled out an assignment sheet Amelie must have stuffed in there before enlisting Neely to the cause.

The note pinned to the top said the waiting group was twenty-nine strong. Considering the cutoff was thirty, it was a healthy size. My night was looking up already.

Stepping out into the cool air, I popped open my parasol, set it on my shoulder and twirled it all the way to The Point of No Return, which was a neon yellow line we used to cue up the next tour for departure.

My victims waited inside the red square, my favorite color. Another good omen. The blue and yellow squares stood empty, so those tours had already left. Most of the people in the green square had staggered outside of it, which was not a good sign. Drunk folks didn’t tip well. Except themselves. It was a miracle none of them had kissed asphalt yet.

“Evening, y’all.” I poured on the Southern charm. “I’ll be your guide through haunted downtown Savannah. Feel free to ask any questions you might have, but do please stay with our group. Trespassers will be shot on sight.” The crowd gasped on cue, and I tittered like a kitten on helium. “I’m kidding.” My face went stone-cold serious. “Or am I?”

While inviting them to join me at the starting line, I finished my spiel and reminded the crowd of the local liquor laws. Grateful for the routine, my nerves calmed for the first time since the sigil charred my skin. I had the local history memorized, and I knew how to pull a laugh out of the crowd, how to gauge what kind of guide my group required.

All was well until we reached the house often billed as the most-haunted location in the city.

I stepped off the sidewalk, urged them into a huddle, and grasped the wrought-iron railing that surrounded the mansion, the metal chilly in my hand.

“This is Volkov House. Back in 1765, Anatoly Volkov passed away, leaving his estate to his son and daughter. Now, Nestor and Dina Volkov had both survived ugly divorces. Neither had much money, even with their inheritances, so the pair returned to their ancestral home to make ends meet.” The crowd shifted, studying the home and trying to picture the downtrodden siblings returning with their tails tucked between their legs. “Nestor was a bit of a bookworm—both the siblings were—and one night he came home from work, pulled an old favorite from the house library, and settled into his favorite chair while Dina started supper.

“Bang.” I clapped my hands, and the folks in the front row jumped. “A single gunshot blasted through the library. Dina was so shocked that she tipped the pan on the stove, and the oil she was using to fry pork chops spilled on her. Dripping grease, she ran into the living room and found her brother sitting in his chair with a book spread over his lap, a shotgun in his hands, and the back of his skull decorating the living room wall.” Shocked gasps rose, and I suppressed a chuckle, because that never got old. “Earlier that day, he had received a letter from his ex-wife, alerting him of her impending nuptials. Still in love with her, he took his own life rather than live without hope of ever winning her back.”

Searching window after window, their gazes touched each frame in search of the library.

“Two weeks later, Dina was home alone reading in her bed, recovering from her burns.” I clapped my hands again. “Bang.” I was rewarded by a young woman’s shriek. “Dina heard the sound again, coming from downstairs. Figuring it must be a heartless prank by some of the neighborhood kids, she jumped out of bed, ready to set them straight. Except nightgowns in those days were long, frilly affairs, and she tripped over her hem and fell against her nightstand. She knocked over the kerosene lantern by her bed, and her gown caught fire. She burned to death alone in the house. By the time the neighbors saw the flames, it was too late. Volkov House was nothing but ashes.”

A heavy silence blanketed the crowd, and I thrived on the high of knowing I had shaken them.

“If the house burned down, then what are we looking at?” my first skeptic of the night asked.

“Well, the thing is, Volkov House was a local institution. It was the most beautiful, most luxurious and most extravagant home in town, and the mayor had had his eye on it for a long while, hoping the destitute heirs would consent to sell it.” I painted on a frown. “When he heard about the tragic deaths of the Volkovs, he set about convincing prospective buyers the property was haunted by Nester and Dina’s ghosts. The property went to auction, and with no one to bid against him, the lot and the charred skeleton of the house went for five hundred dollars.”

Someone whistled. “That was a steal.”

“Yes, it was.” I tapped the bronzed plaque marking the place as a historical landmark, one best known for the mayor who went on to be governor and pitched a hissy to have his home declared the state manse. He failed, by the way. “Mayor Rouillard, for he was at the time, rebuilt the home from partial plans found in the builder’s records and redecorated it down to the gold-tasseled couch cushions from memory.”

“Creepy.”

“Very,” I agreed with absolute conviction.

“Is this the part where you claim the locals report hearing a gunshot every night at midnight?” a thickly accented voice sliced through the crowd. “Or where you tell us passersby have seen a flaming woman pounding on the windows, trying to escape the fire?”

The gathering parted to reveal a man who wore his charcoal suit with the ease of a businessman, but violence beat beneath his skin, the same as mine. A knowing passed between us, and I felt his awareness of me as other to the tips of my toes.

The expensive threads matched his thundercloud eyes, and his wavy hair was so black the moon lent him blue highlights. He strode forward, and I leaned in, two opposite sides of a magnet caught in helpless attraction. His eyes, predator-sharp, searched my face for some unknown revelation. He invaded my personal space, crowding me against the fence. The fragrance of his skin reminded me of old coins and crushed rosemary.

“Have you been on this tour before?” The words tore from me on a ragged whisper.

Had he been in my group earlier, I would have noticed. My knees would have liquefied sooner.

“No.” His tumultuous silver gaze swept over me, lingering on my throat. “I overheard you last night.”

I palmed the side of my neck to get his eyes off my pulse. “Come again?”

“I’m Danill Volkov.” His cocky smile bared straight white teeth. No fangs in sight. “This is my home.”

Had his family name meant nothing to me, I would have recognized his breed.

Vampire.

The intoxicating pheromones he was tossing my way, his lure, had me ready to mewl for his kiss.

“I apologize.” I flattened my spine against the warming metal. “I didn’t realize you were in town.” I peered around him, aiming my parasol at a stop sign marking our next turn. “Why don’t you guys hang out over there and give me a moment alone with Mr. Volkov?”

The name raised more than a few eyebrows. Afraid they might be trespassing, or perhaps taking me too seriously about the shotgun warning, they scurried off to give us privacy.

Cricket orchestrated our tours to cause as little disruption to the locations and owners as possible, since pissing off fourth-generation locals meant stern calls from the chamber of commerce. She would not be thrilled to hear about the disruption Mr. Volkov’s appearance caused in tonight’s haunted history lesson or the fact she would lose the crowning gem of her downtown tour in the interim.

“I arrived three days ago.” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and his canines sharpened before my eyes. “Perhaps I will see you here. Tomorrow night. Around the same time.”

“That’s not a great idea.” For too many reasons to count. “I’m not what you think I am.”

“Oh yes, you are.” He lowered his head, the tip of his nose trailing along my jaw. His lips moved against my skin, the warmth of his exhale puffing in my ear. “You call to me, necromancer.”

Breath hitching, I swore I felt the rasp of teeth against my skin. “I don’t practice.”

“Liar,” he breathed. “I smell the grave on your skin.”

“I should go.” Volkov might as well have been carved from stone for all the give when I pushed him. “I have a tour to, uh, guide.”

A cool smile bent his mouth as he let me escape. “I will see you again.”

“I’ll talk to my boss about removing your house from the tour.” I stumbled toward the scattered group waiting on the corner, impatience and curiosity mingling on their faces. “I don’t want to disturb you.”

“You do not disturb me.” His nostrils flared one last time. “Good night…”

The single, damning word tumbled past my lips without consulting my brain. “Grier.”

“Grier,” he repeated, possessing my name as if I had given it to him for safekeeping.

Sneakers glued to the sidewalk, I stood there while he let himself through the gate then disappeared inside his house. Only when the front door closed did the others rejoin me.

Smoothing my skirts, I faced them with a pasted-on smile meant to reassure. “Now if you’ll all follow me…”

I set off at breakneck speed to the next destination, desperate to put distance between Volkov and me.

The rest of the night passed in a different kind of blur. When I reached The Point of Hey You Made It Back, I collected my tips, waved off my group, and made a beeline for HQ. I was counting on Amelie’s teensy obsession with the new guide, who was about as theatrical as a moth-eaten curtain, to delay her.

Sure enough, I found her all but swooning over his historically inaccurate retelling of one of my favorite ghost stories.

“Come on.” I hooked my arm through hers on my way past and hauled her into the parlor where the female Haints changed. “We need to talk.”

She stumbled after me. “Boaz made me promise—”

“This is not about that.” Though that talk was coming. “I saw something tonight.”

“Based on your reviews on Yelp, I’d say you make sure you see something every night.” She disentangled from me and started unpinning her hair from its elaborate twist. “Not that I’m jealous or anything. Except I am. Totally. My skin is green under this dress.”

Envy was a sore topic between Amelie and me, always had been, so I pretended not to hear. “I’m serious.”

“Okay.” Her fingers hesitated before she unspooled her first curl. “What happened?”

“I met Danill Volkov.”

She barked out an incredulous laugh. “Wait. You’re serious?” She bared her teeth and tapped her canines. “Like an honest-to-God Volkov? A descendant of the guy who built the crazypants murder house?”

I bobbed my head like a juicy apple floating in a water-filled barrel.

“Wow.” She leaned her hip against the sink. “Did he speak? Or did he just glare from the porch and shake his cane at the kids on his lawn?”

“Oh yeah. He spoke all right.” Recalling all the things he’d said, the heat of his breath on my skin, raised gooseflesh. “He’s not grandpa material either. He’s mid-twenties or early thirties. At least that’s how he appears.”

Clapping her hands together, she squealed, “Tell me everything.”

I repeated him word for word and watched her eyebrows ratchet higher and higher toward her hairline.

“You didn’t give him your last name?” She smacked her forehead with the heel of her palm, illustrating where I had picked up the habit. “Or your phone number?” She bit her bottom lip. “Maybe you should have given him your number if he’s that hot.”

“Best-case scenario is he’s a vampire. Necromancers are like catnip to them.” And Volkov had already pawed me once tonight. “The options get worse from there.”

The undead came in several flavors, and I wasn’t about to taste Volkov to determine his. He struck me as the kind of guy who bit back. Hard. Vamps were common in necromantic society. Not unexpected since they were our creations. Not to mention our bread-and-butter. But there were vampires, and then there were vampires. I got the feeling he fell into the latter category.

Your basic undead are created when a necromancer tethers a human soul with very, very deep pockets to its body after death. Those vampires are classified as resurrections, humans resuscitated by necromantic magic, and they rise as the undead with a thirst for human blood. They come equipped with a lure, a sensuous magnetism, that helps them ensnare prey. But only the oldest among them are a threat to necromancers. We have a natural immunity to them. So, pretty classic by horror-movie standards.

Those don’t last forever, and most go insane and have to be put down before the half-century mark.

Then you’ve got the Last Seeds. Turns out sperm can stay alive inside a dead man’s body for up to thirty-six hours. Freezing the swimmers doesn’t work. Magic and medicine don’t always see eye to eye on such matters. But that still gives resurrected vamps plenty of time to knock up willing surrogates (or human partners) for the purpose of creating offspring. For a fee, of course. A steep one. Last Seeds are just that—a male vampire’s last drops of humanity preserved for all eternity in his child. They’re also so rare and so cosseted by their vampire clans as to be fabled.

Last Seeds are immortal from birth and stop aging in their thirties. The Society allows them to live because in addition to being rare, they’re also sterile, making their population even easier to control. Otherwise, there’s no way those High Society stuffed-shirts would allow the Last Seeds and their irresistible lures to traipse around ensnaring necros willy-nilly, as I suspected Volkov had done to me.

Stashed in the bottom drawer are ghosts, ghouls and wraiths, byproducts of violent deaths, resuscitations gone wrong, and dark magic used to take lives.

The creation of psychopomps were a specialization as well. I won’t even lie. Necros who focus on pets make all the money. We’ve all seen people carrying teeny-tiny toy dogs around in designer purses. Offer a rich owner the chance to give Mr. Fluffy Lumpkins a second leash on life and cha-ching.

Even the fae deigned to bargain with us for the lives of their most beloved companions.

I got hot flashes just thinking about all that cold, hard cash.

Despite all appearances to the contrary, necromancy was a lucrative field, regardless of your specialty. Practitioners made bank, but skilled assistants, those without criminal records, earned more than I would see in a human lifetime.

How the mighty have fallen.

“I’m kidding, Grier. Sheesh. Give me some credit. I might be Low Society, but I’m not human.” Her sobering words brought my attention swinging back to her. “Volkov would have recognized your last name.”

Maud had been famous in her own right. Me? I was more infamous. Not quite the same thing.

“You were smart to protect yourself. We have no idea how the Society as a whole, let alone the Undead Coalition, will react to the news of your release once it trickles down.” She worked three more bobby pins loose from her hair. “Boaz will start knocking heads together if any of the factions take exception to your pardon, and that will get messy fast.” She winked. “And that’s not counting what I’ll do.”

The cold fingers of dread traced a line down my spine. “Amelie, you can’t—”

“I’m not afraid of the Society, and they don’t even know I exist. I’m too far below their notice.” Bitterness tinged her voice. The title of assistant might have stung my pride, but she burned for even that much respect among our peers. “Can you imagine if they did try to silence me?”

Actually, I could. Easily. After all, they’d done a bang-up job of muzzling me.

“Rumor has it that poor Amelie Pritchard took on a ruthless secret society and was silenced for her daring.” She strode toward one of the dressing booths and pushed aside the curtain as though she were opening a door. “Amelie was shoved down three flights of stairs by Matilda Bolivar at Sorrel-Weed House while leading a tour, and now she haunts this very house. It’s said that only people she once guided can see her, and that she awaits them to join her as she tours the afterlife.”

I cracked up at her ridiculousness. “You’re horrible.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is hilarious. You’re not the only one with Yelp reviews, you know.”

I pinched my lips closed to prevent more snark from slipping free.

“So, what are you going to do about the vamp?”

“Tell Cricket to remove his house from the tour routes and avoid his street like the plague.”

“I approve of this plan.” She cleared her throat delicately. “Speaking of avoidance…”

“Yes, yes. I saw your brother tonight.” The skin of my throat tingled in memory of his wide palm wrapping the delicate column like a necklace. “Most of him anyway.”

Blood rushed from her cheeks, and she leaned against the nearest wall for support. “He made me promise.”

“Did he honestly believe it would make any difference to me?” I picked at the worn lace on the front of my dress. “I never thought I’d see him—or you—again. Does he think I’m that shallow?”

“He’s a man, and men are ninety percent pride.” She chewed on her thumbnail. “And I think, even if he doesn’t want to admit it, he was punishing you. He had no idea what was happening to you inside…” She let the sentence fade. “He must have figured it was only fair you had no idea how bad things had gotten out here for him either.”

“He tried to kiss me,” I blurted.

“This is Boaz we’re talking about.” Amelie didn’t blink. “What did you expect?”

“For him to ignore the fact I’m a grown woman until the day he died? Probably from having sex with a set of triplets half his age?”

She didn’t disagree. “Do you remember how you two met?”

I narrowed my gaze. “You’re not helping his case here.”

“Picture it.” Her tour guide voice came back in full force. “The playground. Kindergarten. Me and you. Sitting on the swings at recess, eating apple slices instead of sour candy straws, because even then Mom didn’t want me to live my best life. Boaz steps out the double doors, hops down the steps and walks right up to you. He stuck out his hand and—”

“He basically karate-chopped me in the chest,” I protested. “I wasn’t holding on to the chains. I was eating my apple. I fell.”

“The facts are these: he walked up to you, and you hit the dirt on your back with your legs sticking straight up in the air.” She snickered. “He’s been trying to get you back there ever since.”

“He got plenty of other girls in the dead-bug position.” So many I’d lost count of how my heart broke each time he brought a new girl home on his arm. “He just wanted another specimen to add to his collection.”

Having nursed me through many of those late-night crying jags, I recognized her world-class diversion techniques. All he’d had to do was crook his finger, and I would have been his for the asking. We both knew that. Heck, all three of us did, and that made the shame of my open secret so much worse.

Amelie flounced over, bumped hoop skirts with me in solidarity, and I started pulling on her laces.

“You were fifteen when he noticed you were a girl and not just his kid sister’s best friend.” She clicked her tongue. “He was eighteen. You weren’t ready for sex, and he’d just figured out he could sweet-talk his way into girls’ panties and what to do when he got there.” She shuddered at the thought. “He was a decent guy, but he was still a hormonal teenager. He wasn’t ready to give up his new favorite hobby while he waited for you to mature.”

“But has he matured?” The searing intensity in him when he ticked off his reasons for leaving still smoldered in my memory. But Boaz was blessed with a silver tongue, and he had slipped it down way too many throats for me to believe mine was anything special.

“Boaz doesn’t come home often, and he never stays long.” Her casual shrug didn’t fool me for a minute. She was close to her brother, and she must miss him something fierce. “Part of me hopes having you back home will anchor him.” She rubbed the spot over her breastbone. “The other part knows in order for you to heal, you need to figure yourself out first.” She dipped her chin to hide the moisture pooling in her eyes. “But I know how determined he can be. He won’t stop until he gets what he wants. And it terrifies me that it’s you. I’m worried if he cuts and runs again, if he breaks your heart for real this time, that I’ll lose you both.”

I crossed to her and gathered her in my arms, ignoring the dampness spreading across my shoulder. “I don’t know what I want for breakfast most mornings, let alone who I want to share it with.”

No matter how solid Boaz had felt trapped between my thighs, Amelie was right. I might hide from my problems, but he had a bad habit of running from his, and I was tired of being the reason he avoided his home and family. Maybe it was time both our inner teenagers grew up before we ruined a good thing.

“The late-late tour leaves in a few. I need to get out there and twirl my parasol before Cricket has a coronary.” I waited until Amelie peeled out of her corset before I turned. “See you tomorrow?”

“Call if anything else creepy happens.” She pointed a warning finger at me. “I mean it.”

“I will.” I curtsied and unlocked the door on my way out. “Promise.”

On my way downstairs, I ducked into Cricket’s empty office and left a note on her desk about the Volkov heir’s mysterious return then slipped back into the parking lot with a sigh as cool air teased my skirt. Sunlight bathing my face was nice, but give me the kiss of the moon, the call of night birds, the smells of light extinguished, of the darker world rousing to wakefulness, any day.

The ardent cry of a mockingbird caught my attention, and I glanced up at the lightning-struck Bradford pear tree leaning over the entryway. The pale gray bird perched on a charred limb, deep in shadow that ought to have concealed him, chest fluffed out as it completed a pitch-perfect impersonation of Cricket’s car alarm. But I saw him, and when he noticed that, he took personal offense and flew away.

Enhanced night vision came with the necromantic package. We had evolved alongside the vampires we created, both of us embracing nocturnal lifestyles. Us through choice, them through necessity. Vamps wouldn’t go up in flames if exposed to sunlight, but the effects weren’t pretty. Made vamps rose with solar urticaria, an allergy to UV radiation, while born vamps developed a less severe form of photosensitivity similar to polymorphous light eruption, another form of sun allergy.

Theories abounded as to why the vampire population was afflicted. The most prevalent theory, the one printed in our textbooks, was that because Hecate was a goddess associated with the moon, and necromancers were her children, that our magic bound them to the dark, to her whims.

As I hadn’t believed in gods of any kind for a long time now, I had no opinion on the topic.

Careful to avoid the street where the Volkov House sat, I guided fourteen brave souls down a secondary route where I whiled away the early-morning hours. Once the last slightly wobbly patron had pressed damp bills into my palm, I headed inside to change. I met another guide in the dressing room, and we stripped each other with the eagerness of two virgins under the bleachers at homecoming.

Amelie’s warning about keeping her posted about creepy goings on rang in my ears when I arrived home and found an unexpected guest waiting in my driveway on the wrong side of the fence. I parked Jolene, palmed an ash stake from a hidden compartment under the seat, then closed the garage and joined him. “Can I help you?”

“Grier Woolworth?” The stranger eased into a sliver of moonlight, his skin flawless, his gaze fathomless. His presence weighted me in place, and for the second time in one night, I felt myself being measured by predatory eyes. Though these held none of Volkov’s primal attraction. A made vampire then. “Can we talk?”

“It’s late, and I’m tired.” And I had a healthy sense of self-preservation these days. “We’ll have to do this some other time.”

Point to him, he stepped aside and allowed me to reach the porch. “I represent someone eager to make your acquaintance.”

A foreboding chill rippled down my arms, and I clenched the stake tighter. “I have enough friends, thanks.”

“Aren’t you curious why you were released from Atramentous?” He strolled forward with a spring in his step. “Only the worst of our criminals are sentenced to that pit and only after lengthy deliberation. You were a child when they closed the grate behind you. Sixteen. The youngest inmate in its long and miserable history. And, rumor has it, you had no trial at all.”

The moisture wicked from my tongue. Shut it down. Shut. It. Down.

“You are the sole exception any Grande Dame has ever made, a singular pardon. Why?” He tapped the side of his nose. “That debt would make me nervous if I were you.”

The ground trembled beneath me as the bomb he’d dropped detonated.

I should have probed the ragged edges of my personal miracle before now, but I had been all too happy to slap a bandage over the wound and pretend I wasn’t slowly bleeding to death from a thousand cuts. I had been living a small life, a quiet life, a safe life, since my release. But safety was an illusion, wasn’t it?

The hand that had guided me into the light could just as easily shove me tumbling back into the dark.

The Grande Dame had spared me. I ought to feel grateful. Instead a feverish heat swept chills over me.

“I’m going to bed now.” Turning my back on him gave me the willies as I gripped the front doorknob.

I was still holding the brass sphere when his hand landed on my shoulder in a touch meant to ask for my attention. I barely had time to register the potential threat before Woolly used me as a conduit, zinging an electrical charge through me and into him. I whirled around as the vampire was blasted clear off the porch and tumbled across the lawn, landing in a tight crouch that spoke of feline reflexes.

“Night, Grier,” he said, a chuckle in his voice as though the volts had tickled his funny bone.

I slipped inside and locked the door behind me.

Two vampire sightings in one night. What were the odds this was a coincidence?

Slim to none. Emphasis on the none.

Say he was right about the Grande Dame pardoning me, what did she want in return? And could I afford to give it to her?