“Do you think it’s really that easy?” she said. “Do you think that doesn’t happen to at least one of us every day? It happens again and again, and we are reborn, again and again. Devoured and reborn, and constantly surrounded by those who cannot wait to do the devouring.”

“Sounds like you have a group dynamics issue. I’d suggest team-building exercises.”

She flew at me—literally flew—her arms becoming wings, her edges turning to smoke again, teeth bared, blank eyes fixed on mine, her face coming so close all I could see were those eyes.

“Our sluagh is right,” she said. “You do think you are clever. You don’t need to worry about becoming one of us, Miss Larsen. You have no soul to give. You are as empty as the bitch who whelped you.”

“Right, yeah, because I don’t feel sorry for you. Is that what this is supposed to be? A tableau to make me feel guilty about what my mother did?” I snorted and headed into the hall.

“Don’t you walk away on me.”

“You want to chat? Keep up. I have some escaping to do. As for making me feel bad, don’t bother. First, I’m not my mother. Second, my soul is just fine because, third, I really don’t give a shit about the terrible fate that befell someone who decided it’d be fun to slaughter innocent people with her boyfriend. That’s not my idea of date night.”

“You have it all figured out, haven’t you? You know exactly what happened, just like your mother did. You don’t care to dig deeper because then, if you decide I didn’t deserve to die, well, that’s a little bit uncomfortable. Much easier to tell yourself I deserved it.”

I paused near the hole in the floor, considered edging around it, and then decided to take another route. As I walked, I said, “I’m sure you’ve convinced yourself—”

“I thought it was a performance. A game. A staged performance. That’s what Eddie told me, and I was young and stupid and in love. Crazy in love with this guy who showed me a whole new world. A world where I didn’t need to be the good girl anymore. Where I could be bad. And by bad, I mean having fun with dark-magic rituals. Don’t pretend not to understand what I mean. The good girl from the rich family, running around abandoned schools with a switchblade and a biker.”

“I definitely understand the power of a good adrenaline rush. I also understand that morals and ethics are luxuries we can’t always afford. But this?” I waggled my switchblade. “This has never killed anyone. I could, in self-defense. What you did, though, was cold murder, and to call it a game only makes it even more loathsome.”