Many Bloody Returns

The Witch and the Wicked Jeanne C. Stein

Jeanne C. Stein is the author of the Anna Strong series, the first of which, The Becoming, was released in December 2006. The second book, Blood Drive, was published in July. She lives in Colorado, where, when not working on her novels, she edits a newsletter for a beer importer and takes kickboxing classes to stay in shape. She can be reached through her website, www.jeannestein.com.

The idea came to Sophie during Jonathon Deveraux’s one hundred fiftieth birthday party.

She was not there as a guest, of course. Witches are seldom invited to vampire functions, their magics dismissed as parlor tricks to amuse the masses. No, she was catering the event. Her business, Weird and Wonderful Catering (voted number one in the latest Supernatural Hot Ticket poll as the caterer for that special event), made her the only choice for a party of this scope and magnitude. For the moment, at least, her questionable heritage as a witch was forgotten.

Sophie blew on the tip of her finger and muttered, “Extinguishé.”

The small lick of flame sputtered and died. She waved her hand in the air in a vaguely distracted way, looking down at the cake and its many candles.

“Damn vamps,” she said to no one in particular. Well, to no one at all, really, since she was alone in the room. Still, that didn’t stop her from rambling on. “Why did I agree to this? I almost burned my finger off lighting all those damned candles.”

She turned from the table with a rustle of silk, her long burgundy skirt swirling around her legs. She wasn’t an old witch, as witches go. Only eighty years. Her back was still straight, her dark hair barely touched with gray. She didn’t look a day over forty, really. Good genes. And even better cosmetics, most of her own making.

She blew again on her smarting fingertip. She ought to pursue that—marketing her own line of fine cosmetics—instead of this thankless occupation. Caterers were underpaid, overworked, and generally ignored. Unless something went wrong. Then they became the center of unwanted and often perilous attention.

Especially with her unique clientele.

The door to the kitchen swung open. “Are you ready with the cake, Sophie?”

The question was asked in an eager, breathless way by a woman who looked twenty but whom Sophie suspected might be a little older, though certainly not by much. With vampires it was hard to tell. The woman standing in front of Sophie was confident, beautiful, and wife to a distinguished vampire. She was dressed to the nines in a designer gown with jewels that flashed at her neck and ears. Rumor had it that Mr. Deveraux turned her on their wedding night, and that was only six months ago. Now here she was, acting every bit the mistress of the manor.

Sophie swallowed a wave of envy and said, “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to bring it in?”

“Oh, I want to do it.” The woman’s face glowed with anticipation. “Jonathon will be so surprised.”

Sophie frowned. “You must be careful, Mrs. Deveraux,” she said. “There are one hundred fifty burning candles on this cake. If your dress brushes against even one of them—”

Her concern was flicked away with the back of a bejeweled hand. “Don’t worry. I know how to be careful around fire. This is my surprise and I want to deliver it.”

Sophie stepped back from the table. “As you wish.”

The woman took her place behind a tea cart bearing the huge tower of a cake. Sophie held open the door, careful to keep her own dress and hair out of the path of the blazing birthday tribute. The air fairly shimmered from the heat and glare of the candles. Why a vampire, especially such an old one, wanted candles on his cake was a mystery to her. One spark and he would burst into flame like an old Christmas tree.

Sophie hadn’t met Jonathon Deveraux, tonight’s guest of honor, but she had seen a picture of him, a portrait hanging over the fireplace, when she came to finalize the party arrangements. He was a tall, good-looking man who must have been turned in his thirties because his face was unlined, his hair dark and thick. That it was a contemporary portrait was borne out by his clothing, a casual shirt and linen slacks, and a backdrop of the stables here on the property. It was just an impression, the feeling that this was not a man who would have indulged in such a pretentious birthday display as one hundred fifty burning candles. No, Sophie thought, this must have been the idea of his vacuous new wife, too recently turned to know the danger.

Oh, well. Sophie looked at the mountain of cake pans and utensils stacked in the sink. Not her problem. Time to clean up.

She waved a hand. “Lavàto.”

The dishes arranged and rearranged themselves, moving from a sink of soapy water to another of clear running water and then onto a rack to be dried by a gentle stream of warm air. From the rack, they floated to the proper shelves in the cupboard or into silverware drawers. All done in the whisk of a cat’s tail.

For the first time this evening, Sophie could relax. The cake was done, the kitchen in order. She had nothing to do now but wait for the festivities to be over. In reality, a vampire party was the easiest of all supernatural functions to cater. Vampires didn’t require food. But they did like to impress each other with flashy displays, like the birthday cake. She found her biggest challenge for a vampire party was coming up with novel ways to serve blood. Like real Bloody Marys (finding thirty women named Mary to donate blood was no easy feat!). Tonight she had gone to great lengths to find something really special—a case of vintage Rothschild taken from actual Rothschilds. She hoped the guest of honor appreciated the effort, since he was paying for it. But like most rich vampires, and their condescending wives, he would most likely take the gesture for granted along with the witch who provided it.

Thankless. This job was thankless.

Sophie took a seat on a stool and leaned her elbows on a granite countertop. She let her thoughts wander again to her favorite subject of late—starting her own cosmetics firm. She was facing the shiny surface of a chrome toaster and she scooted down to examine her reflection.

Clear skin. Tiny wrinkles touching the corners of wide blue eyes. Generous mouth with none of the telltale crinkles that caused lipstick to smear and marked the lips of the middle-aged woman. She truly did not look her age. Not in the way of vampires who not only physically stopped the aging process but reversed it. But nearly as good. Her creams slowed it to a crawl. And her cosmetics transformed the plain into…She examined her features. Her mascara made pale lashes long and dark, and her blush gave cheeks the definition that nature hadn’t.

She touched the tip of her nose. Nothing short of surgery would fix something like that, of course. But artfully applied foundation, dark at the sides of her nose and light at the tip, diminished the contour.

She wasn’t beautiful by any means. But she was good at this. She could show others how to be good at it, too.

She’d made a success of the catering business; why not try her hand at cosmetics?

The screech and howl came simultaneously and Sophie jumped off the stool.

Ye gods, she thought. The idiot has caught herself on fire.

This was exactly what she feared might happen. Sophie knew in spite of her warnings to Mrs. Deveraux, she would be blamed for the accident.

For a second, she considered fleeing. But that would be a waste of time. Mr. Deveraux knew his wife had hired Sophie to cater his party. Unless she planned to transport herself to an alternate universe, he would find her.

She might as well face the music now. Teleportation would be a last resort. She listened as the din of the crowd gradually faded from shock and horror to mumbled condolences to the new widower. Sophie waited for the kitchen door to open and for the bereaved to storm in to exact his revenge.

It took much longer than she anticipated. The crowd was slow to leave, evidently, and Mr. Deveraux in no hurry to show them out. This puzzled Sophie but again, the antics of vampires were a constant source of puzzlement to her. They never did what was expected or what decorum dictated. She guessed that’s what came from living hundreds of years and not being tied to the laws of god or man.

Sophie began to relax. Obviously, Mr. Deveraux was not devastated by the loss of his wife. Perhaps he had grown tired of her already. After all, what could he have had in common with such a young woman? In the manner of adolescents today (for to Sophie, anyone under the age of thirty was an adolescent), she would neither know nor care anything about recent history, let alone events from her husband’s distant past.

Sophie took the fact that Deveraux had not yet made an attempt on her life as a sign from the gods that it was indeed time to switch careers.

When it became obvious that the party was proceeding, Sophie took a seat again at the counter. She pulled a small notebook from the pocket of her tunic and opened it. On the inside cover was clipped a pen which she pulled free. With a careful, precise hand, she started making notations. She thought a night cream would be a good introductory product. When women saw the results, they would naturally want something for the daytime, too. Following that, she would launch cosmetics: foundation, blushers, mascaras. All with the same miraculous base guaranteed to slow the ravages of age.

Hmmmm. Ravishing. That might be an appropriate name for the line. A play on words. Ravaged to Ravishing. Voilà. A slogan.

Sophie felt the excitement build. She would do this. While the catering business was basically a one-woman show, this would be different. Her lotions were made the old-fashioned way, by hand. She would need to find a suitable place to make the cosmetics in batches large enough to accommodate what was sure to be a huge demand. And there was packaging and marketing to consider. She knew a warlock in advertising. He could help her find the right people to handle—

The kitchen door flew open. Sophie, caught unaware and deep in her own musings, nearly fell off the stool. She scrambled to regain her footing and steeled herself to meet Mr. Deveraux.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she began, turning to face what would surely be her angry host.

The words died on her lips. Mrs. Deveraux stood smiling at her from the doorway. “Not to worry, Sophie,” she said. “Mr. Deveraux had a long, full life. He went out in a blaze of glory befitting a vampire of his age and stature.”

Sophie was too stunned to reply. How could a vampire as old as Mr. Deveraux let himself be caught on fire? Her candles were magic. One puff on one candle and the rest extinguished themselves. It was a safety feature of her own invention designed exclusively for vampires. The only danger would have come when the cake was presented.

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Mrs. Deveraux waved a hand. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. I have no intention of seeking retribution.” She bent her head and examined her carefully manicured fingernails. “It was entirely my fault. I tripped on the rug and the cart bumped Mr. Deveraux. When he turned around, poof. His jacket caught. It was an unfortunate accident.”

She looked up at Sophie then, her own eyes tightening a little at the corners. “I’m sure you must be relieved to know I don’t hold you responsible in any way.”

Sophie was smart enough to recognize the threat. She shrugged. “I am relieved, yes.”

The bright smile returned. “Then please come and do a quick cleanup, will you? There is ash on the cake, but I think if you work your magic, you can re-frost it or something and we can enjoy it. After all, my guests and I have heard so much about your wonderful cakes. It would be a shame to throw this one away. Will you fix it? Please?”

Sophie waved a hand, and a spatula flew from a drawer and into her grasp. She followed Mrs. Deveraux into the living room, barely drawing so much as a glance from anyone at the party. In fact, everyone seemed to have recovered quite nicely from the recent tragedy, thank you. The laughter and chatter and clink of glassware went on as if Sophie were here to clean up a small culinary accident instead of disposing of the host’s mortal remains.

Sophie examined the cake. A dusting of ash did indeed cover one side, and a small mound of the stuff sparkled on the floor. Vampire dust was like diamond dust, hard and bright and the consistency of fine beach sand. Wouldn’t do to bite into it. She started to smooth dust and icing away from the base of the candles when Mrs. Deveraux stopped her with a butterfly touch to the arm.

“Get rid of those candles, too, won’t you? It’s a gruesome reminder of—well, you know.”

Sophie nodded. Yes, she did know. Mrs. Deveraux showed no more grief for her dearly departed than any of her guests. Maybe it was a good thing Sophie hadn’t met Mr. Deveraux. He must have been a thoroughly disagreeable individual to have his passing marked with such ambivalence.

Sophie invoked a spell and the candles disappeared. It made patching the icing much easier. When she was finished with the cake, she muttered another spell and a small dustpan and whisk broom materialized. She scooped up the ash from the floor and the small mound of dust-embedded icing and, with a nod to Mrs. Deveraux, retreated with relief back to the kitchen.

Sophie scraped the gritty icing into the garbage disposal. She stared at the sandy residue left sparkling in the dustpan. This was the first time anything like this had happened at one of her parties. She’d heard the stories of vampires accidentally immolating themselves through drunken or careless behavior. It happened more often than people realized, actually. Vampires took their immortality for granted and didn’t follow basic principles of common sense. Falling asleep with a lighted cigarette, for instance, was as fatal to vampires as humans.

Sophie shook the remains of the late Mr. Deveraux into the palm of her hand and let him—it—sift through her fingers. The ash felt surprisingly silky to the touch. She thought of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Mr. Deveraux died the second death on his one hundred fiftieth birthday, and yet he passed among humans as a thirty-year-old. Now that was the ultimate age defyer.

She sat up straight. How did vampires do it? How did they remain physically ageless regardless of the passing of time?

They drank blood, for one.

Sophie’s brow wrinkled in concentration. She reviewed what she knew about vampire physiology. It wasn’t a lot. She did remember reading somewhere that the blood thing was to supply energy needed to replace what could no longer be derived from normal food sources. Vampires had all the internal organs of an ordinary human. They just no longer functioned, frozen in their bodies, Sophie guessed, to preserve the outward physical appearance of a normal human being.

So was that what made them immortal? Organs that did not atrophy with age or disease? Was that what stopped the aging process?

She had no idea. Nor did she have anyone she could ask. Witches and vampires avoided each other. She was an exception, as were other witches who supplied services that vampires were unable or unwilling to perform for themselves.

She looked again at the ash, winking like starlight in the glare of the kitchen’s bright incandescence. This was the essence of a vampire.

What would happen if she mixed some of the ash into her lotions?

She felt a thrill as the idea took shape. Why not try it? What if adding the ash to her moisturizer, instead of merely slowing or decreasing the signs of age was, in fact, able to reverse them? It would be a revolutionary breakthrough. And it would be hers.

Sophie carefully emptied the ash into a ziplock bag and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. She grew restless, impatient to get out of here and eager to experiment with this new ingredient. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just a little before 1 a.m. Drat. Since vampires had adapted to sunlight, the constraint of getting home before dawn was no longer an issue. This party could drag on well into midday.

How to get around that?

What could she say to get Mrs. Deveraux to allow her leave early? The obvious answer would be that she was devastated by the accident. She could offer to come back tomorrow and clean up, maybe even throw in a free cocktail party to be given at Mrs. Deveraux’s time of choosing.

Vampires, for all their accumulated wealth, were notoriously tight-fisted. The free party might just do it.

Sophie closed her eyes and willed Mrs. Deveraux to come into the kitchen. She had only to wait a minute before the woman appeared at the door, looking slightly puzzled.

She frowned at Sophie. “Now this is strange. A second ago I had a reason to come into the kitchen but now I seem to have forgotten it completely.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “The events of this evening must have unnerved me more than I realized.”

Sophie assumed a properly downcast expression. She even began to clasp and unclasp her hands like an anxious schoolgirl facing a stern headmistress, making sure her distress transmitted itself through the air and into Mrs. Deveraux’s consciousness.

Mrs. Deveraux immediately picked up on Sophie’s angst. She reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her. Sophie was, after all, the help and a witch to boot. “Please, Sophie,” she said. “I can see how upset you are. I assure you there will be no repercussions from tonight’s accident.”

Sophie let a single tear trail down her cheek. “I just feel so awful. The whole thing is making me physically ill.” For added emphasis, she brought a fist up and pressed it against her mouth.

Mrs. Deveraux backed away in alarm. “Perhaps you should go home,” she said quickly. “I didn’t consider how this might affect a woman of your age. I can have my own staff clean up tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay.” She caught herself then and gave Sophie a sideways glance. “Naturally, I would expect a credit on the bill….”

Vampires were so predictable. Sophie kept her face a mask of unhappiness. “Naturally.”

After that impudent crack about “a woman of her age” (for Mrs. Deveraux had no way of knowing how old Sophie was), Sophie was tempted to forget about the party offer. But she didn’t have that many vampire contacts and if the ash worked…She acknowledged Mrs. Deveraux’s permission to leave with a nod. “And for your consideration, I would be happy to cater a small cocktail party for you in the future. No charge.”

That clinched it. Mrs. Deveraux practically pushed Sophie out the door with admonitions to take care going home and to put the unfortunate event of the evening out of her mind.

Sophie waited until the door was firmly latched behind her to allow a smile. She summoned her transport telepathically. She didn’t drive. Often she teleported herself, a trick she learned from her big sister. Not many witches could do it. It took concentration, though, and she found when she was distracted or excited the results were sometimes spotty. She might end up in a different county or a different state. Tonight she was both distracted and excited. Better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, she liked to support local business. The company she used was owned by a warlock with a driving service that provided after-hours transportation for supernaturals at reduced rates. Sometimes that meant waiting awhile for a car to appear. But tonight Sophie was lucky.

In a matter of minutes, the cab materialized in the driveway. Sophie climbed in, greeted the driver, and gave her address. The cabbie neither acknowledged the greeting nor the address. In fact, he hardly waited for her to pull shut the door before the car lurched away. Sophie’s head banged against the headrest.

Had a bad day, have we?, she thought grumpily, wondering if she should make it worse by giving him warts.

But happier thoughts soon prevailed. She couldn’t wait to get home and mix up a batch of moisturizer, this time with a pinch of Mr. Deveraux. How much to use would be a serious consideration. She pulled the baggie out of her pocket. There wasn’t a lot of ash. Even considering what little she scraped off the cake, the amount left would maybe fill a half-cup measure. It must be terrifically concentrated.

The driver screeched to a stop in front of her house the same abrupt way he had pulled away from the Deveraux mansion. Again, Sophie’s head bounced. Her temper flared and she raised a hand to plant a great big hairy wart on the tip of his nose when he turned around for the first time.

She let her hand fall. Great. Of all the drivers in the city I get the troll, she thought. His hairy face was already covered with warts. And trolls were notoriously bad drivers.

His guttural voice barked at her. “Here you be, ma’am. That’ll be twenty bucks.”

She clicked her tongue and forked over the cash, adding a five-dollar tip even though she knew he didn’t deserve it. She had a soft spot for trolls. They couldn’t help how they looked or their thorny temperaments. It was genetic.

At least this time, he waited for her to get all the way out of the cab before gunning away from the curb.

Sophie started up the path to her house. She lived on the outskirts of the city, a place close enough to allow access to the museums and theaters she loved, but far enough removed to allow the kind of outdoor activity witches enjoyed without attracting the curiosity or attention of neighbors. Her cottage was small but comfortable and she filled it with beautiful earthly objects—rocks, seashells, flowers, and plants. It was a place of refuge and light.

And best of all, it was a place with a basement.

Which is where Sophie headed now, pausing only to switch on a light upstairs before heading down. Her workshop was here. Her tools, her cauldrons, her herbs. She’d had an industrial sink and stove installed and shelving to hold the basic ingredients of her cosmetic line. Everything was neat and orderly and stored in a way to make her work easy.

Sophie was nothing if not organized.

She tied her hair back and an apron around her slender frame and got right to work. In forty minutes, she had a batch of moisturizer brewing on the stove. It was time to add the new ingredient; time to add Mr. Deveraux and see what he brought to the mix. Her hand was shaking with excitement as she measured out a teaspoon, then reduced it by one half. After all, she had no idea what the effect of the ash would be. And since she was going to be the guinea pig in this experiment, she felt it prudent to proceed cautiously. She could always add more to a later batch if need be.

Sophie stirred in the ash. It dissolved into the cream base instantly. Now all she had to do was wait for the mixture to cool. She could hardly stand still, her excitement and impatience bubbled up inside her like champagne waiting to be uncorked. She stuck her finger into the pan, testing, again and again only to snatch it back and dance around waving her burned digit. Why was it taking so long for the damned stuff to cool? She had spells to make things hot as fire but none that did the opposite. She’d have to work on that.

Later.

At last, the mixture was cool enough to allow Sophie to spoon a portion onto a glass plate. She swirled it a bit, approving of the texture—not too greasy, not too dry. She lifted the plate and sniffed. A nice citrusy bouquet…with just a slight undercurrent of musk. She wrinkled her nose and sniffed again. The citrus was supposed to be there. The musk? She wasn’t too thrilled but realized that the musk was Mr. Deveraux. He was male, after all. Perhaps in the next batch she would add a stronger fragrance—essence of jasmine, maybe, or frangipani—to counteract it.

In any case, the scent was not important. It was time to sample the cream, to see if what she hoped was true.

Her hand shook a little as she scooped a portion onto two fingers. She crossed the room to watch in the mirror as she smoothed the moisturizer onto her face. It felt rich and luxurious on her skin. That was a good thing. It was absorbed quickly into her skin, leaving no greasy residue. Good, again. It tingled just a little. Sophie’s inspiration for when she took the stuff public. It gave the impression that there were active ingredients in the lotion, that it was doing something. An attribute of her original formula.

They were all attributes of her original formula.

So far, she saw and felt nothing new. No flush of rejuvenation. No tightening of the skin to signal a return to youthful firmness and texture.

Maybe she needed to give it more time.

She stared at her reflection. And waited.

And waited.

Finally, after fifteen minutes, she gave up. With a shrug, she turned away from the mirror. She wouldn’t let herself be too disappointed. This was only a first attempt, after all. She stared at the pan on the stove, wondering if she should give it another try tonight. But her tired feet and tight shoulders intervened, begging to be put to bed.

Sophie acquiesced with a sigh. She was exhausted. She locked the baggie with the remains of Mr. Deveraux in a drawer, flipped off the light, and went upstairs to lay her weary bones to rest.

When she awoke the next morning, the first thing Sophie did was rush into the bathroom to examine her face in the mirror. She’d had a dream that the cream worked. Her dreams were often portents of things to come and she believed in them.

But she could see nothing changed in the heart-shaped face that stared back at her. The tiny wrinkles still radiated out from the corners of her eyes. Her hair was still touched with gray at the temples, though she hadn’t really expected the cream would change her hair. Not unless she rubbed the stuff into it. She scolded herself in impatience for thinking such ridiculous thoughts. If she wanted to change her hair, there were plenty of conventional human products on the market to take care of it. No, she was looking for something different. Something to take the years away, not just cover them up.

She got dressed and went directly back down to the basement. This time she added a full teaspoon of the ash to a new batch of moisturizer. She applied it liberally and went about her day.

There were always lots of chores for a practicing witch. Besides her catering business, Sophie had clientele who came for readings or spells. There were herbs to gather, earth summonings to perform. She was an important witch in her part of the country, and a great deal of her time was spent in correspondence with others of similar station all around the world. Generally, the time passed quickly and she was content.

Today, however, Sophie felt restless and ill at ease. She couldn’t concentrate on her readings, had no interest in her spells. She ignored the weeds in her garden and cut short her correspondence on the Worldwide Witches Web, even though one of the messages was from her sister and marked “important.”

When at last evening arrived, she allowed herself to look in the mirror. She saw no remarkable changes. Actually, she saw no changes at all. She stared at her reflection and frowned bitterly.

Then she grew angry with herself. She recognized why her day had been unproductive and knew very well what was at the root of her restlessness. She had been self-indulgent, selfish, something very out of character. She had gotten caught up in a foolish daydream. She knew there was nothing (short of becoming vampire) that could reverse the signs of age. What had possessed her to even consider it? Especially since her own formulas worked a kind of magic in themselves and didn’t rely on immolated vampire dust to work.

No, better to proceed with her original formulas. They were pretty darned good when you thought about it. Look at her. She was eighty, for goodness sake, and no one ever believed it when she told them. Besides, even if the formula had worked, how did she think she’d get her hands on more vampire ash? More birthday candle accidents? How likely was that?

She hurried down to the basement, determined to throw Mr. Deveraux right into the trash. She opened the drawer and pulled out the baggie, even had her foot on the pedal that levitated the lid of the trash can, when something stayed her hand.

The dream.

The dream she’d had last night. She closed her eyes and conjured the image. In the dream, she had been standing right in this very place, at this very counter, and when her eyes had risen to the mirror, the face and body reflected there were hers but younger, prettier. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full, her body lush. She was perfect. She was beautiful. The cream had not only transformed her face but had altered her entirely.

For a woman who had always been considered “plain” (though not unattractive, she was quick to amend), it was a captivating and alluring dream. And one she was, in reality, loathe to abandon.

And so Sophie made the decision to give it one more try. This time, she would add all that was left of Mr. Deveraux’s mortal remains to the cream in the bottom of her kettle. She did it quickly before she could change her mind. Then she scooped the mixture onto her fingers and smoothed it thickly onto her skin.

She didn’t stand around this time and wait for something to happen. She went straight to bed. If when she awoke in the morning, there was still no change, she would give it not one more thought. No, she’d proceed with her original plan and contact a witch she knew in real estate to start looking for an industrial site where she could manufacture her night cream. Her night cream. No more thoughts of adding vampire dust to a perfectly good product.

Sophie first heard the voice at 2:30 a.m. At least she thought it was a voice. It—something—made her sit straight up in bed, heart pounding. She looked around, wild-eyed and gasping. She was so frightened she dove back under the covers and waved her hand to illuminate every light in the house. Only when the cottage was aglow did she again peek out, eyes darting into every corner.

She was alone.

Sophie crept out of bed. She tiptoed from one room to the other, finding nothing amiss, no one (or thing) lurking anywhere. Just to be certain, she looked in every closet and peeked under the bed and under every large piece of furniture. She went from being frightened to embarrassed and then to feeling more than a little foolish.

What was wrong with her?

Sophie trudged into the basement. She was wide-awake now. Might as well clean up the mess she’d left after her unsuccessful experiments with Mr. Deveraux. As she moved around, sending pots and utensils into the sink to be scoured, she thought how fortunate it was that none of her witch friends had been here to see that mortifying display of cowardice. She would have been drummed out of the Witches’ Benevolent Society whose sole purpose was to come to the aid of fellow witches in times of peril. No one would have entrusted her safety to a witch that showed such a lack of courage, and because of what? An imagined whisper in a stupid dream.

Sophie looked around once the chores were done. She was keenly aware that deep inside her heart of hearts disappointment coiled like a serpent ready to pump its deadly poison into her psyche if she let it. Despite her best efforts to contain her optimism, she had wanted the cream to work. It would have elevated her in the human world, something from which Sophie had always felt separate and apart. It would have been her entrée into a world of celebrity and acceptance. She would have been welcomed and sought after because she could offer what no one else had ever been able to—a veritable fountain of youth. It would—

“My god, how long am I going to have to listen to this drivel?”

The voice was right at Sophie’s ear. She started and yelped in surprise and shock. She whirled around, fists at the ready, a curse of protection on her lips.

She was alone.

How could that be?

Her heart seemed ready to burst from her chest. “Who’s there?” she yelled, adrenaline making her voice fierce and harsh. “I am a powerful witch. If you don’t show yourself, I’ll send you to Hades in a million broken pieces.”

There was a chuckle. Once again, right at her ear. “I’m afraid you’ve fixed it so I can’t show myself. However, if you look in that mirror over there, we might be able to figure this out.”

The voice was masculine, authoritative, with a hint of a British accent.

Sophie didn’t move. She was afraid it might be a trick. There were, after all, lots of invisible beings in the spirit world and not all of them were friendly. In order to battle one, however, she had to know what she was dealing with.

“I have no idea what I am now,” the voice replied rather snippily, as if divining her thoughts. “You’ve fixed that, too. Now go over to the mirror. I’d like to know even if you don’t.”

Then, through no effort or will on Sophie’s part, her feet moved toward the mirror. She tried to stop, digging in her heels, grasping at the counter with both hands. It did no good. Her feet trudged onward, and some invisible force broke her grip. She was being inexorably drawn to the mirror like a puppet responding to a master’s tug on her strings. Her temper flared. Whatever this was might get her to the damned mirror but it couldn’t make her look.

She squeezed her eyes shut, even pressed the palms of her hands against her eyelids, refusing to give in.

“Oh, for the love of everything evil and unnatural in this world and the next, will you stop behaving like a child? You’re the one who did this. At least allow me to see what kind of hell you’ve trapped me in.”

Sophie began to panic. The voice was right. Whatever it was had taken up residence in her body. How is that possible? She knew of possession. But whatever this was did not feel like a devil, exactly. And she wasn’t levitating or spewing invective—

“Not yet anyway,” the voice said. “But if you don’t open your eyes in ten seconds, you’ll be spewing more than invective, I promise you.”

Sophie swallowed hard and took a deep breath. Okay. Let’s get this over with.

She opened one eye.

The other flew open all on its own.

Ye gods. What was she seeing?

She rubbed her eyes and raised them again to the mirror.

“What the—”

The voice managed to sound both amused and horrified at the same time.

Sophie’s right hand reached up and grasped her chin. It turned her head to the left and right and back again.

“You’re a girl.” This time the voice held only horror.

A girl.

Sophie couldn’t ignore the thrill that swept over her. The face in the mirror was hers. But not exactly. She looked twenty again, but not the twenty that had been her reality. This young woman’s perfect skin stretched smooth and unwrinkled over high cheekbones. Her lashes were long and luxurious, her lips full.

She stepped back a bit, to see the rest. A body that was lush, perfect. A body she had seen before. The body in her dream.

Sophie gasped. The cream had worked!

“Cream? What cream? What is going on?”

Sophie’s excitement morphed into irritation. The voice’s intrusion into her thoughts brought with it a wave of emotion different from her own. The voice had its own power over her feelings. She had two separate and distinct personalities inhabiting this one perfect body. And she knew who the second personality belonged to.

“Mr. Deveraux?” she whispered.

“You know who I am?”

She nodded at the mirror. “I think this is my fault.”

“Think?” This time the voice thundered. “What did you do, witch?”

Sophie’s shoulders slumped a little as she told him. She felt his anger and frustration and they flooded her with guilt. When she finished explaining, though, a shift occurred. His fury dissipated to be replaced by cold amusement at the absurdity of his predicament.

“So this is the result of a science experiment gone wrong?”

Sophie bristled. “Not gone wrong. Gone right, actually.”

“Oh? I am trapped inside the body of a girl witch. This is the way it was supposed to be?”

Sophie shrugged. “Well. Not entirely. You see, you were supposed to make me…” She pirouetted in front of the mirror. “Like this. But you weren’t supposed to come back. I mean, the mental part of you.”

Mr. Deveraux snorted. “How like a woman. Only wants a man for his body.”

Sophie felt color creep into her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant. I thought your ash—”

“Which is another thing you have to answer for,” he interrupted with an impatient huff. “What did you think you were doing, letting my wife handle such a dangerous thing as a blazing cake? What kind of caterer are you? Was this your first vampire affair?”

It was Sophie’s turn to interrupt with an indignant huff of her own. “Now just a minute. I warned her about the danger. Even offered to bring the cake in myself. She wouldn’t hear of it. In fact, she insisted it was her surprise and she wanted to present it.”

As soon as the words were spoken, Sophie and Mr. Deveraux were hit by the same thought. While Sophie’s reaction was shock, Mr. Deveraux’s was something quite different. Rage scorched through Sophie like an inferno.

“It was no accident.”

They spoke the words as one, not aloud but like an echo that bounced from one consciousness to the other.

Sophie was half afraid to ask the next question but felt she owed it to herself as well as Mr. Deveraux to find the answer.

“Why would she do such a thing?”

Mr. Deveraux did not answer. Sophie could sense a tornado of emotion emanating from him and ripping through her. A deep sadness gave way to disappointment and then surged again to fury before settling into an ominous sense of betrayal.

Through her memories of the night, Mr. Deveraux saw and interpreted his wife’s actions, and through his, Sophie felt the cart being thrust deliberately and firmly into his back. Mrs. Deveraux had not tripped, and when her husband turned, his coat on fire and fear stark on his face, she had smiled and turned away to stand in the shelter of the arms of a young man who had reached out to her.

Now another emotion, the desire for retribution, made bile rise in the back of Sophie’s throat.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

That brought a chuckle that sent gooseflesh racing up Sophie’s arms. “You mean what are we going to do, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be a part of malefic evil,” she said firmly. “I am a good witch.”

Mr. Deveraux grew quiet, Sophie grew uneasy. At last, Mr. Deveraux said, “Where are we anyway?”

His abrupt change of subject made Sophie suspicious but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She turned so that her eyes swept the area. “This is my home.”

“You live in a—” He groped for the right word. “Warehouse?”

She shook her head. “This is the basement. Where I make my—” She stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t go into what she made. It might lead back to why they found themselves in this predicament to begin with.

It didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Deveraux anyway because he didn’t pursue it. “So show me the rest of the place,” he said. “I hope it’s nicer than this.”

Sophie bridled at his condescending tone. “It’s a very nice home. I happen to love it.”

“Then show me.”

Sophie started upstairs. Slowly. Even though she had been quick to snap at his insult, she was fully aware that Mr. Deveraux, until very recently, had lived in a mansion in the best part of the city. She, on the other hand, lived in a cottage on the edge of town, and while she did love it, he might not recognize its charm or appreciate its character.

And he did not.

When she completed the tour (it took about a minute), he lapsed into stunned silence.

Then he said, “Well. We can do something about this right off. We’re moving to the mansion. It does belong to me, after all.”

“But what about Mrs. Deveraux?” Sophie asked, trying to point out the obvious.

He snickered. “What about her? It will give me great pleasure to throw my wife out on her pretty butt. She and her boyfriend can find their own place to live.”

Sophie felt a chill. She didn’t ask how he planned to accomplish such a thing because she knew. Mr. Deveraux had no intention of throwing his wife out. He had something much more sinister in mind for her, and for the boyfriend. “I won’t be a party to murder,” she said.

She expected an outburst. Instead Mr. Deveraux changed tack again. “I think I’m hungry,” he said, his voice reflecting confusion and awe. “For food. Human food.”

Sophie panicked. Was he hungry for humans? Had he gone from drinking blood to actually craving the corporeal body? Was that a result of the melding of their species? She hadn’t had time to consider all the ramifications of a vampire and human commingling of the flesh. This one was pretty awful.

Mr. Deveraux started to laugh. “No, silly. I mean I’m hungry for steak. Steak and French fries. Maybe a beer.”

Sophie shook her head “I don’t have steak or beer,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian and I don’t drink alcohol. I could bake a potato for you though.”

A long, exasperated sigh escaped Mr. Deveraux’s lips. “For the first time in a century and a half, I can enjoy real food, and I get trapped inside a teetotaling vegetarian? Well, let’s get one thing straight right now, missy. If I have to live life as a woman, you are going to have to make a few concessions, too. And the first is finding me a steak and a beer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Sophie said. “I told you I don’t eat meat. I can’t even bear to touch it. You’ll have to learn to—”

Sophie didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t. Her breath was cut off. Pressure built in her chest. It felt as if Mr. Deveraux had inflated a balloon that squeezed against her heart and cut off her oxygen. Gasping, she fell to her knees. The pain got worse and her vision began to fade. She was losing consciousness, darkness closing in until it surrounded her, beat her down, and she knew what it felt like to be dying.

And then it was over.

Sophie rolled onto her back, panting and clutching at her chest.

Mr. Deveraux’s voice cut through her fear. “We have to coexist, Sophie. Let’s try to make the best of it.”

It was the first time he had used her name. Somehow it chilled her as nothing else before. She gathered her wits about her and sat up. Her nightgown had bunched up around her waist and she tugged it into place, embarrassed that she had so exposed herself. Mr. Deveraux seemed strangely absent from her mind, as if he was giving her time to compose herself. It did not comfort her. This demonstration had made it plain that he was in charge. He had given her physical beauty and taken away free will.

“Are you all right now?”

Sophie pushed herself into a standing position. “What do you think?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “Do you live alone?”

Another abrupt change of subject that sent ice through Sophie’s veins. “Yes.”

“No boyfriend? Husband?”

Sophie shrugged, “No.”

“Widowed, then?”

“No.”

Sophie felt a gentle probing of her mind and, more disturbingly, of her body. Then she felt Mr. Deveraux’s startled reaction. “You’re a virgin? You lived eighty human years and never had sex?”

He said it as if it was a terrible failing on Sophie’s part, as if she had somehow let him down.

“Oh, this gets better and better,” he moaned. “No red meat, no alcohol, and no sex. What fresh hell is this?”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “I wanted to save myself,” she said with great dignity. “For the man I loved.”

“Oh? How’d that work out for you?”

His disdain cut like a whip. It also triggered a flash of temper. “At least my wife didn’t set me on fire to get rid of me,” she snapped.

Mr. Deveraux lapsed again into silence. Sophie congratulated herself on the tiny victory and went into the kitchen. She could use a cup of tea.

“Coffee,” Mr. Deveraux corrected.

“No,” Sophie responded. “Tea.”

She waited for something to happen, for Mr. Deveraux to hurt her again, but he didn’t. Once again, he was strangely absent. He seemed to feel the same things she did. Perhaps his display of cruelty backfired because the pain inflicted on her came back to torture him.

She fixed the tea and sat down at the kitchen table. Her head spun with confusion and anxiety. She had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, she could live her dream. She was sitting here in the body of a beautiful twenty-year-old with the unlimited possibilities that offered. On the other hand, she shared that body with a man who could inflict pain. A man who was not very nice. Who might even be—she gulped at the thought—wicked.

She wished she could talk to someone about her dilemma. Her sister, maybe. But Belinda lived in San Diego and was caught up in some intrigue of her own. Besides, to Sophie’s dismay, Belinda teetered on the knife-edge of white and black magic. Sophie couldn’t always trust her advice.

Sophie sipped at her tea. She watched herself, her reflection caught in the window over the sink. Her hair fell in a straight, shiny sweep to her shoulders. Her eyes shone with bright expectation. If she saw this woman in a café or restaurant, she would be envious. Wonderful things happened for beautiful women. Boyfriends and husbands, families who showered them with love. Beautiful women learned early what they could get with a dazzling smile.

Sophie had never before possessed a dazzling smile.

Mr. Deveraux made fun of her when she said she had not had sex because she had saved herself. Sophie realized he probably knew the truth. No opportunities had ever presented themselves. She had never had a boyfriend.

“We’re going to do something about that.”

Mr. Deveraux was back. His tone this time was not caustic but actually cheerful. “I’ve been taking a test drive thorough the neighborhood,” he said brightly. “It’s not too bad in here. You’ve got a brain, a fairly good one for a female. Business sense. A knockout body. Sophie, you’ve got potential.”

Sophie was almost afraid to ask. “Potential for what?”

“Why, for just about anything. This night cream, for instance. Great idea. We can do something with it.”

Sophie shook her head. “I’ve been thinking about that. Look what happened to me—to us. If we started going around setting vampires on fire, it would certainly attract unwelcome attention from the community. Once or twice is an accident; more than that is war.”

He clucked his tongue. “No. You don’t understand. We’re not going to use ash.”

“What then?”

“We’re going to use blood.”

“Blood?”

“Yes. I’ve been thinking about it, too. You were correct in assuming the ash was the concentrated essence of a vampire. Concentrated being the key word. You got the whole enchilada. Something else I’d like to try, by the way. Blood, on the other hand, is a vampire’s source of physical energy. Blood keeps a vampire strong and controls the outward signs of aging. Get it?”

Sophie nodded. The way Mr. Deveraux explained it made perfect sense. If they added blood to her cream, the user would get the benefit of youthful beauty without—

What was she thinking?

Sophie squeaked in protest. “If we thought setting vampires on fire would be a problem,” she said, “what do you think will happen if we start bleeding them?”

“Well, I admit there are some wrinkles to iron out.”

He said it in an offhand, casual way that made Sophie wary. “What are you up to?” she asked.

He chuckled. “Well, conjoined less than a day and you have me figured out. All right. I’ll confess. We need a test subject, right?”

Sophie nodded.

“I have the perfect person in mind.”

Since it happened to be her mind, too, Sophie knew exactly who that perfect person was. “How do you expect to get Mrs. Deveraux to agree?”

A hush settled deep in Sophie’s consciousness. It was neither peaceful nor serene but heavy with foreboding. She shivered involuntarily.

“I cannot be a party to evil,” she said, for what seemed the thousandth time.

A flare of indignation burned through her. “You have already been a party to evil,” Mr. Deveraux answered with contempt. “You made the damned cake that murdered me.”

Sophie squirmed in the heat of his accusation. “Well, we won’t have to kill her, will we?”

In a flash the indignation was gone. “Of course not. What good would it do to kill her? We need to keep her alive to use her blood, don’t we? And if it works, we’ll pick only the most wicked vampires to drain. The gods know there are plenty of them around. Think about it, Sophie. We’ll be performing a public service. Ridding the world of bad vampires and offering mortal women the gift of beauty. It’s perfect.”

Sophie sighed. She couldn’t believe she was actually considering Mr. Deveraux’s plan. But some of what he said made sense. Mrs. Deveraux was not exactly an innocent. She had murdered her husband. On his birthday, no less. And there were lots of bad vampires around wreaking havoc and taking innocent lives. This would get them out of circulation.

Besides, she was a partner in this enterprise. She would use her good influence to counterbalance any evil Mr. Deveraux tried to sneak by her. Like exacting revenge on the guests at his party who carried on as if nothing had happened after his death.

Sophie knew Mr. Deveraux was sensing the shift in her thinking. She could feel it in the shifting of his own disposition. Warmth flooded her system.

“How are we going to approach her?” Sophie asked at last.

Mr. Deveraux greeted her question with a mental clap of approval. “That’s my girl. Sophie, this is going to be the start of a great adventure, I promise. Now go get dressed and throw some things in a suitcase.”

“Suitcase?”

“I told you we would be moving to the mansion.”

Sophie stood up slowly from the counter and looked around. “I’ve lived here a long time. Do we have to move?”

He released a snort of impatience. “You’ve seen the mansion. You can’t possibly expect me to live here.”

But when he sensed the spark of anger his remark provoked in Sophie, he added, “But we’ll keep this place. You can come visit anytime you want. How’s that?”

Sophie thought about it a minute. She had seen the mansion. And the grounds. And the cars. What would it hurt to experience them, too?

She moved toward her bedroom. “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “How are we going to approach Mrs. Deveraux?”

Mr. Deveraux remained silent for the time it took Sophie to throw some things into a battered valise. She felt timid, at first, getting dressed with Mr. Deveraux here. But she did it by standing away from mirrors and only stepping in front of one to comb her hair. Seeing her reflection sent a thrill once more along her spine. She was truly, wonderfully beautiful.

Her dress, however, looked like a rag on her youthful frame.

Mr. Deveraux clucked his tongue. “We need to go shopping. Your taste in clothes runs to the archaic.”

Sophie didn’t argue. He was right.

She smiled at her reflection. She couldn’t help it. Just as she couldn’t help the thrill of anticipation coursing through her. Mr. Deveraux had said they were embarking on a great adventure. She’d never had a great adventure.

She turned away from the mirror and snatched up the suitcase. “Okay. What’s the plan?”

Mr. Deveraux was smiling, Sophie could feel it. “You promised my wife a party, right?”

Sophie nodded.

“Well, it just so happens that Mrs. Deveraux has a birthday of her own coming up. Next week, in fact.”

“Do you think she’ll recognize me?” Sophie asked, casting another approving glance at her reflection.

“Doesn’t matter. You can tell her you’re Sophie’s granddaughter. Her business manager.”

Sophie smiled. It could work.

“Of course it will work, Sophie,” Mr. Deveraux said. “It’s all going to work. Now let’s go see a woman about a party.”