She leaned closer at my expression, running her hand up my chest. In my ear, she whispered, “Says who, Reid?” She cupped my cheek, and for just a second, I lost myself in her voice. If I closed my eyes, I could pretend a different Lou held me this way. I could pretend this icy touch belonged to another—to a foul-mouthed thief, a heathen, a witch. I could pretend her breath smelled of cinnamon, and her hair flowed long and brown down her shoulders. Could pretend this was all part of an elaborate joke. An inappropriate joke. She would’ve laughed and flicked my nose at this point. Told me I needed to loosen up. Instead, her lips hovered over mine. “Who says we have to die?”

Swallowing hard, I opened my eyes, and the spell broke.

My Name Is Legion

Lou

There are very few advantages to losing possession of one’s body—or rather, losing awareness of one’s body. With no eyes to see and no ears to hear, no legs to walk and no teeth to eat, I pass my time floating in darkness. Except . . . can one even float without a body? Or am I merely existing? And this darkness isn’t quite darkness, is it? Which means—

Oh god. I’m now existing inside Nicholina le Clair.

No. She is existing inside me, the body-snatching bitch.

Hopefully I’m on my monthly bleed. She’d deserve it.

Though I wait for her response, impatient, no ghostly chuckle answers my provocation, so I try again. Louder this time. Shouting my thoughts—can one have thoughts without a brain?—into the abyss. I know you can hear me. I hope my uterus is rioting against you.

The darkness seems to shift in reply, but still she says nothing.

Forcing myself to concentrate, I push against her oppressive presence. It doesn’t budge. I try again, harder this time. Nothing. I don’t know how long I push. I don’t know how much time has passed since I regained consciousness. Time has no meaning here. At this rate, I’ll reclaim my body in approximately three hundred years, waking in a grave as more dust than skeleton. At least my mother can’t kill a skeleton. At least they don’t have uteruses.

I think I’m going mad.

With one last vicious shove, I resist a fit of rage. Emotions seem . . . different in this place. They run wild and unchecked without a body to cage them, and sometimes, in moments like these, I feel myself—whatever form I’ve now taken—slip into them, unadulterated. As if I become the emotion.

Reid would hate it here.

The thought of him lances through my consciousness, and a new emotion threatens to consume me. Melancholy.

Has he noticed I’m not myself? Has anyone? Do they realize what’s happened to me?