“Could you… be in love with me?”

A moment later, I laughed at myself.

I had been dead too long. I was losing my mind.

Lucian would never love me. He had said so himself.

Earlier that year, Julian celebrated his birthday at a private club. His friends filled the room, and after a few drinks, someone challenged me to choose a man and drink with our arms linked.

In public, Julian and I were still brother and sister. We had to be careful.

So I chose a server who had just brought in a platter of fruit.

I offered him the other glass.

Before he could take it, Julian stepped forward, took it himself, and linked his arm through mine.

The room went quiet.

I drank with my face burning, then made an excuse and escaped.

Near our room, a server had left another door ajar.

Felix Sinclair’s drunken voice drifted out.

“Come on, stop brooding. Pick one. Plenty of beautiful women here. Or tell me which actress you want, and I’ll call her.”

“Fuck off.”

Lucian.

The room was dim. I could make out the shapes of several women.

“All right, out,” Felix said. “Lucian doesn’t want what you’re selling.”

I had no intention of eavesdropping.

Then I heard my name.

“You’ve been fighting with Stella for years. Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings. Is she your type?”

I stopped.

There was a brief silence.

Then Lucian scoffed.

“Like her? Have all the other women in the world died?”

I remembered that perfectly.

Whatever reason he had for becoming Mr. L, affection wasn’t it.

He finished his cigarette and went back inside.

I followed.

Suddenly, an icy wind tore through the room.

The curtains billowed. Gray-black currents twisted through the air, groping toward me.

Before I could retreat, they formed a vortex.

I couldn’t get free.

Somewhere, Buddhist chanting rose over the tapping of a wooden temple block. The rhythm grew faster.

The vortex swallowed me.

“Lucian!”

His fingers were resting on his bracelet.

He abruptly turned his head, his face going pale.

For a moment, I thought he had heard me.

But all he could see were the curtains settling in the moonlight.

He couldn’t see me.

The bitter cold around me gave way to warmth.

Light flickered.

I was standing in an ancient, ruined temple.

Paint peeled from the walls. Dust covered the Buddha’s statue.

Yet the place glowed with hundreds upon hundreds of vigil lamps.

Who had lit them all?

I followed the tapping behind the statue.

My mother knelt there, her back bowed, striking the wooden block. Her lips moved around words that scarcely made sense.

“Mom.”

My eyes burned.

Her hair had gone white. She looked so much older.

I dropped to my knees in front of her.

“Mom, I’m here.”

She couldn’t hear me.

Had heaven finally taken pity on us?

It had helped those who hurt me all my life. Now that I was dead, it finally let me see the person who truly loved me.

Had she lit every one of those lamps?

She barely knew how to read. In her desperation, she had turned to prayer, to a spirit-summoning ritual, to anything that might bring her daughter back.

She was still searching for me.

Alive or dead, she wouldn’t stop.

She opened her eyes and looked around anxiously, hope trembling across her face.

She was waiting for a miracle.

But the gods had never protected me.

I tried to put my arms around her.

They passed straight through.

I tried again.

And again.

“Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry…”

I had failed to recognize her. I had never given her a single good day.

Now I couldn’t even hold her.

Grief and guilt tore through me until all I could do was cry.

What had we done wrong?

What had my mother and I done to deserve this?

Why couldn’t I have had one day to take care of her?

I hated the Whitmores.

I hated them so much I thought the hatred might split what remained of me apart.

Then Vivian’s voice rang out beyond the temple doors.

“That lunatic is inside! Don’t let her get away!”

They had found her.