door—one that looked no different from any of the other ten doors they’d passed on their way to this one.
“Here we are,” Fiona said, pulling a small bronze key from a chain around her neck and inserting it into the door’s lock. “Count Orlov is waiting for you inside.”
This she directed at Agatha, who clapped her hands together, then turned back and gave Happy and Callie a big, sloppy wink.
“Yippee! I’ll see you guys later!”
And then she was pushing past Fiona, her feet dancing with excitement as she crossed the threshold and disappeared into the darkness of the room. Happy, who didn’t look at all like her name at that moment, started to protest, but Agatha was already gone, Fiona slamming the door shut on her retreating back.
“There we go,” Fiona said, slipping the key back into the lock and turning it twice. “Now, let’s get the two of you settled.”
She gestured for Happy and Callie to follow her as she continued down the hall, and though neither of the girls wanted to go with her, neither could figure out a way to refuse the invitation.
As they walked, the darkness inside the house became as pervasive as the cold and wet outside the house, and Callie couldn’t help wishing she was lying back in the snow making snow angels or freezing to quasi-death (she was immortal, so it would be Popsicle City, not Death Town) instead of traipsing through the creepy old Victorian mansion.
“The sitting room is just beyond this door. There’s a fire already in the grate,” Fiona said, her voice sending the silence skittering away into the corners. “All you have to do is go inside.”
They had come to the end of the hallway and only one more door remained to be opened—and a narrow, sickly looking doorway it was. The whole bottom right side of the molding appeared to have been shredded into pieces, like someone, or something, had clawed unsuccessfully at it for days or weeks—or even years—until finally they, or it, had just given up and faded away.
Fiona continued to beckon them forward, her blond updo and camel-colored suit looking oddly sinister in the candlelight—and that was when Callie decided she wasn’t going to go anywhere near the door, regardless of who she offended.
She knew that there was something terribly wrong with the mansion and with Fiona and with everything else they’d experienced since they’d stepped inside the house. If she and Happy were foolish enough to open the decrepit door at the end of the hallway, then any negative outcome that occurred would be of their own doing. She didn’t know if Happy was going to appreciate where her thoughts were leading her, but she hoped so . . . because Callie had been hoodwinked too many times in her life not to recognize a setup when she saw one.
“Nope. Not gonna happen,” Callie said, holding her ground in a pair of dirty Jimmy Choos. “I think we’re gonna go back down this hall and you’re gonna use that little key of yours to open the door to the room you stashed Agatha in—”
The words had no sooner left Callie’s mouth than Fiona was scrambling for the doorknob, using the element of surprise to try to open the door before Callie and Happy realized what she was doing.
“Not in this lifetime!” Callie cried as she dove for Fiona’s waist, wrapping her arms around the older woman’s middle and toppling them both onto the red shag runner.
Fiona was a spitfire, almost bending in half in order to dig her French-manicured nails into Callie’s throat, cutting long crimson gashes into the girl’s otherwise pristine flesh. The “Girl Who Would Be Death” cried out in pain, losing her grip on her opponent as she tried to stanch the flow of blood from her wounded neck.
The blood was flowing fast and loose from Callie’s throat, but she ignored it. Dropping her hand from her throat—it was useless there; her body would heal of its own accord without any external help—she flipped herself onto her belly, slip-sliding in the puddle of blood that’d gathered underneath her, while a few feet away from her, she saw Happy punching Fiona, hard, in the solar plexus.
“I see . . . that you . . . don’t need . . . my help,” Callie wheezed, finally managing to pull herself up alongside the brunette, who seemed to be rather enjoying the pummeling she was giving the older woman.
“I think she’s incapacitated now,” Happy said, as Fiona’s green eyes rolled up behind her eyelids and she stopped struggling.
“I think so,” Callie said, appreciating the quick work Happy had made of Count Orlov’s associate. “Let’s grab the key and get out of here.”
Happy nodded, grasping the chain around Fiona’s neck and giving it a good yank.
“The bitch tried to bite me,” Happy said, as she pocketed the key, then looked down at her hoodie, which was streaked with Callie’s blood and Fiona’s saliva.
“That’s disgusting,” Callie said, reaching into the pocket of her dress and pulling out a moist towelette. “Moist towelette?”
Happy stared at the neat white package, disbelief in her eyes.
“You gotta be kidding me.”
Callie shook her head.
“I never kid about hygiene. Here, take one.”
Happy accepted the packet, tearing it open and fishing the moist towelette from its innards.
“What about you? You’re losing a lot of blood,” Happy said, pointing at Callie’s throat.
“I’m . . .” She paused, not sure what to say—a last-minute impulse brought out the truth.
“I’m immortal and I’m pretty sure I come from an alternate universe. Just FYI.”
Happy snorted. “Of course you are and of course you do.”
“Now I’ve told you all about me so we’re even-steven,” Callie said, starting to laugh a little hysterically.
“It’s not funny,” Happy continued, helping Callie to her feet. “I think there’s a powerful telepathic illusionist running this show—someone we’ve dealt with in the past. And if that’s the case, then Agatha’s in a whole heap of trouble.”
“A telepathic what?” Callie asked as she followed Happy back down the hallway.
“Illusionist. Someone who can manipulate matter, affect people’s minds,” Happy replied. “And they can wreak all kinds of havoc if left unchallenged. Especially this guy. He’s obsessed with Agatha and has a serious bad attitude to boot.”
“That’s not good,” Callie said, shuddering.
“No, it’s not.”
When they reached what they thought was the door Agatha had disappeared through, Happy thrust the key into the lock, but it jammed, not wanting to go in.
“Wrong door,” Callie murmured. And then she slumped forward, grasping for the wall as her body went limp and rubbery.
“Callie!” Happy cried, grabbing the other girl around the waist and slowly easing her to the ground.
“I feel so . . . woozy,” Callie said, eyes fluttering as, for the second time in her life, she realized she
It had almost happened once before, when she’d been poisoned with promethium—every immortal had a killing weakness, one that was totally unique to them, and Callie’s just happened to be promethium—but she’d been careful to stay far, far away from the stuff since then.
“Is there . . . promethium?” Callie choked out, fear etching her gut like acid.
“Promethia-what?” Happy cried, confused. “I thought you said you were immortal. You’re still bleeding like a stuck pig!”
With a shaky hand, Callie reached up and put her fingers to her neck. Sure enough, the wound had not closed, but, instead, was continuing to leak her lifeblood out onto the rug.
And then it dawned on her.
“It’s you, Happy,” Callie said, finally understanding why she hadn’t been able to call up a wormhole while she was in this alternate universe. “You inhibit psychic ability . . . what we call ‘magic’ in my universe. And it means that you’re blocking . . . my immortality.”
“Shit,” Happy said, backing away from Callie.
“No, no . . . come back,” Callie said. “I just need to stop the flow of blood for now. Give me . . . your
