Al misted into existence in a seated, slouched posture, and I stared, fascinated and repulsed as he took on a gross parody of me. His legs were twisted akimbo, skinny shoulders slumped and bare, carrying red-rimmed scratches that held crusted blood. The slack-jawed face staring back at me was mine, but it was blank and empty, the red stringy curls lank. It was the eyes that were the worst—demon-red, goat-slitted orbs staring at me from my own face.

I hated it when he showed up as me.

“That’s nice,” I said, easing back from the circle.

A flicker of anger lit through his empty expression, and a shimmer of ever-after coated him. His form grew blockier, more solid. A whiff of lilac came to me, and the clean scent of crushed velvet. He faced me squarely, full of elegance and lordly refinement, sitting cross-legged on the cold cement: lace at his cuffs, boots shining in the light, ruddy complexion clean, and every vestige of a bruise or cut gone.

“I knew it was you,” he said, the hatred in his deep voice pulling a shiver through me. “You’re the only one who knows it.”

I swallowed and tucked a curl behind my ear. “I never wanted your name. I only wanted you to leave me alone. Why the hell couldn’t you just leave me alone?”

He sniffed, only now looking around with a haughty disdain. “Is that why you’re calling me into…a park? You want to trade back? Afraid you’re going to be drawn back to the ever-after when the sun rises?” His head tilted, and he smiled, showing me his flat, blocky teeth. “You should be. I’m most curious about that myself.”

My mouth went dry. “I’m not a demon,” I said boldly. “You can’t scare me.”

The subtle tension in him rose. I saw it in the slight tightening of his fingers. “Rachel, honey, if you’re not scared, you’re not going to survive.” His manner turned cocky and bitter. “Well, you took my name,” he said, his noble British accent perfect and precise. “Isn’t it pleasant, being at someone’s mercy? Trapped by a hack in a little tiny bubble. Is it a wonder we try to kill you?” An eyebrow rising, he turned introspective. “Did Thomas Arthur Bansen escape?”

I nodded, and he smiled knowingly. “Look,” I said, glancing at the growing light, “for what it’s worth, I’m sorry, and if you’d shut up about poor little you and listen, we might be able to both come away with something. Unless you want to go back to that cell of yours.”

Al was silent. Then he inclined his head. “I’m listening.”