Mircea pushed it the rest of the way in, essentially burying the man standing up, and then he did an encore—only instead of hiding someone, he was doing the opposite. I felt a fist knotting in the front of my robe, and then a powerful jerk. And the next moment, a solid looking me was standing beside him on the rocky soil, which felt uncomfortable, cold, and all too real under my bare feet.

That was disorienting enough, but then I looked up and found myself facing Captain Jack Sparrow.

It took me a second to recognize Mircea with unbound, sweaty hair, a dirt-streaked face, and wearing the tattered remains of his once opulent ballroom attire. That consisted of a pair of wide legged trousers confined by calf hugging boots; a stained, blue silk sash around his waist with a sword thrust through it; and a Renaissance type shirt with a lace up front and full sleeves. There was blood on the sleeves, as well as on the shirt, where big rents had left him with cold shoulders.

But no wings.

He’d lost them somewhere, but I could see the ridges where they’d been through the gaps. My hand moved before I could stop it, feeling strange bumps beneath the skin that had never been there before. And that shouldn’t be there now, with a vampire’s healing abilities.

“What is happening to us?” I whispered.

He caught my hand and kissed it, and his lips felt warm, too. “I don’t know. Are you alright?”

I nodded automatically, and then had to clutch his arm to stay upright. “What is this? How did you shift me here?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what do you call this?”

“Projection. It’s easier to talk to you this way.”

I stared around some more. “That sounds familiar.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

But unlike the incubus, who had used the same trick, I wasn’t smoking. In fact, I looked just as I had when descending the stairs a few moments ago. Where my body still was, I realized, feeling the vague impression of hard wood under my butt. And the pattern of Gertie’s raised wallpaper on my cheek, where I’d slumped against it when my consciousness was hijacked.

Again.

I decided that I could either freak out and waste time, or kneel down and check Pritkin over. I chose the latter, and didn’t like what I found. His skin was pale and clammy, and his breathing was shallow. The usually spiky blond hair was limp and covered in the same dust that smeared the ratty old coat. I tried to push the leather back, to get a better look at him, but of course, it didn’t work.

I wasn’t really there.