Alva cried out, this time the long, panicked sound of a frightened animal. Sam’s own fear took him by the throat, and he held her tighter.

“It’s not real,” he said, looking anxiously down the stairs as he willed Henry to hurry. “Alva, listen to me. Nothing you’re seeing is real.”

She’d already been under twice as long as before, maybe more. He’d never felt so helpless before, unable to do anything but wait while the woman he loved battled horrors he couldn’t even imagine.

“You’re strong,” he told her, his voice thick. “It’s the first thing I noticed about you. You looked like you were expecting a punch on the jaw and whoever swung first should be damn sure they could swing last, too. Everything about you is strong, Alva. Your beauty, your mind, your spirit. Your heart. Damn it, this is nothing to a woman like you. A little ghost. Throw her off and get back here to me.”

She was crying, he realized, tracing the path of her tears with a finger. His own throat clutched when he saw it.

“I love you,” he said, hunched over her as though to protect her with his body. “Come back to me. I love you. Come back to me.…”

He repeated the words until they blended together, chant-like. There was nothing he could do but hope.

She rocked back and forth, staring at the body on the floor. It was nothing but a shell. The man she’d loved wasn’t in there anymore.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no, no.”

“Oh dear,” Alain said, his face flickering. “Did you like him? You really should have known better, silly cow. Now he’s dead, and it’s all because of you.”

He squatted down next to her, running his bloody hand up her throat, leaving a red smear in his wake.

“There,” he said, giggling. “After all, there’s no need to be subtle, not when it’s just the two of us.”

She stared at him, taking in his smudged edges, and abruptly clarity flooded through her. The fear lifted from her senses, leaving only cold anger behind.

“You’re a puppet,” she said, the words coming more easily. She stood, still looking at him. His face was wrong because it couldn’t decide between Alain and Alfred, she realized. It was as if their faces were layered, one on top of the other. Almost, but not completely, matching.

“You’re not real,” she said.

“So you’ve finally lost your senses,” Alain-Alfred said, rising. “I suppose it was only a matter of time, but I assure you this is very real. Look at your lover’s body. How his eyes stay open in death, staring at you with nothing left behind them.”