Eliza was gone, and Harry was gone, and though the long table and the chairs and the plates and silverware had never been cleared away, all of these things were gone.

My stomach had stopped hurting, though, and that was nice. I could breathe again, and that was nice too. I could still taste the concoction in the back of my mouth, clinging to my tonsils and refusing to slide down all the way, and that was not so nice. But I was no longer afraid.

Not at first.

Not until I began to see that although Harry and Eliza were no longer with me, I was not alone in this new darkness. Beside me, behind me, around me, and above me, there was movement. The fast kisses of displaced air tickled the hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck until they all stood at attention, waiting to be touched.

“Hello?”

A match was struck.

In that brief flare I saw the sketch outlines of a face, but the face drew back as the flame caught a wick. Now there was a candle, and there was some light, but I still could not see my company. The face and its owner had retreated to a corner away from the candle, which seemed to have been lit for my benefit.

Against the wall leaned a man, tall and broad of shoulder, with his arms crossed and his head down. His skin was not as dark as Dave’s but not as light as Lulu’s or mine. His hair stood out in a curly halo that cast just enough shadow to obscure his face in the half-light, half-dark where we met.

I waited for him to speak, but he did not. Instead, he pointed at the candle—no, he pointed at the bottle beside the candle. I stood, and was glad to note I once more had the use of my legs. I picked up the bottle and read the label.

Drink me.

“But I already did,” I said to the man in the corner.

“Yes, that’s why you’re here, baby.” Every word was rich and low, and charged with energy. Each word, falling coolly into place in a resonant line of displeasure, made me more uncertain and more afraid.

“Where am I?” I didn’t know what else to ask.

He did not move. I did not even see his jaw line rise or fall when he replied. “Here with me. You’re not supposed to be. You’re not who I thought you were.”

“You expected Eliza?”

He nodded. “You’re not supposed to be here, but here you are. May as well make the most of it. You’re on your way to find me anyway. You’re on your way home to me.”

“Who . . . who are you?”