An hour later I stood in the bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror. I no longer recognized myself. Something about me had changed. My face was my own, yet it wasn't. What had the rituals done to me? I continued to study my reflection. It was almost as though I was seeing the shadow of another face on top of mine. I wiped a hand over my face. No, it was definitely my reflection looking back at me in the mirror, but something was off. It was something in my eyes, in my expression—it wasn't just the way I looked, I felt different.

Darkness now filled me.

I felt as if my soul had been torn from my body and not fully replaced. I was not myself. I had been shattered. The world looked bleaker, grayer. And in the place where there was normally fear, I now felt anger. It burned through me like a great flame fueling my blood.

I was invincible.

Before I'd felt powerless and helpless, but not anymore. I was ready and willing to fight, and I felt a sudden desire to inflict pain.

Inflict pain. The thought stopped me cold. It was true; I felt an odd desire to hurt someone, which was not normally in my nature. I had wanted the men who killed my family to die, but I had never really thought about actually killing them. Their deaths were more of an abstract thought. I'd been brought up as a healer, to care for people and take away their pain. This newfound desire to see someone cower before me, to feel their fear, was so strong I could almost taste it.

The awakening was dangerous, the traveler had said, and now I fully understood what she meant. I felt as though I stood at the edge of a great abyss, a sea of darkness reaching before me. Farther within the darkness, nameless, faceless voices and shadows called out to me, enticing me to come join them.

The thought of what those men did to my family filled me with a swell of violence. As it consumed me, the hatred roared through my body and my blood. If I could wrap my hands around the necks of the men that hurt my family, I would strangle them with my bare hands. I would make them suffer, like they made my family suffer. Slit their throats and watch the blood ooze from their gashed necks. Watch bullets tear into their flesh.

The thought brought me a feeling of glee.

Was I actually feeling gleeful about inflicting gruesome pain on human beings?

I looked again at my face in the mirror. It was contorted in rage and hate. Violence gleamed out of my eyes, and my hands reached toward the reflection in the mirror.

Who was this girl?

Darla. You must save Darla, whispered across my brain. I had forgotten about her. My lust for vengeance had filled me in a way it never had before, and that terrified me. I was changing that was true, but I told myself, I was becoming whatever I had to in order to survive.

***

I exited the bathroom, glancing at the mussed sheets on the unmade bed before heading for the dresser. I'd finally slept—no tossing or turning this time, but I woke with a heaviness that seemed to fill the air around me. My brain wasn't working at full speed. I felt slowed down, both mentally and physically drained by last night's activities. I should be thankful I'd survived another one of the rituals, instead, a feeling of foreboding filled me.

I picked up Darla's suitcase and put it on top of the bed. I needed something to wear. I held up a yellow top and threw it back down. I couldn't bring myself to put on such a cheerful color. It didn't match my current mood. I'd woken up in a funk. Bright clothes no longer seemed appropriate—the darkness had touched the very essence of my being and changed me. I held up another brightly colored top and realized I wanted to dress in a way that matched how I felt inside.

I rummaged through Pagan's closet since she wasn't around to protest and hit pay dirt. I shimmied into a tight black dress that flared out around my knees and threw on a dark gray and black striped sweater over the top of it for warmth. A pair of black tights and black lace up chunky boots finished the ensemble.

In the bathroom, I helped myself to a drawer full of makeup. I normally didn't bother with the stuff, but today was a day for something different. I lined my eyes with thick black eyeliner and opened one lipstick, and then another, until I came across a deep purple. I took my finger and ran it over the surface of the lipstick, then leaned forward and carefully smeared the purple over my lips. My hand reached up and touched the hair hanging in gentle waves to my shoulders. In another drawer, I found a straightener. I took my time taming my wavy hair until it was straight and sleek. Finally satisfied, I took a step back for a closer look at my image in the mirror.

Gone was the middle-class girl who'd stepped into the magic shop days ago. In her place stood someone who now looked more dark and dangerous. I stared at my reflection for a long time. I had always been an optimistic person. I had always been surrounded by happy people.

But that part of me—the part that considered the glass half full—now seemed very, very far away.

When I was done, I made my way into the kitchen.

Luke was pouring himself a glass of orange juice. He slowly took in my appearance. There was an appreciative gleam in his eyes. "New look?"

I shrugged my shoulders and tried not to feel self-conscious. "I guess." I opened a loaf of bread sitting on the counter and slid two pieces into the toaster.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked.

I shrugged my shoulders again. He looked at me, waiting for an answer. When I realized, he was not going to let it go, I finally admitted out loud, "I don't feel like myself. It's hard to explain."

His expression changed and turned more serious. "It happens after the rituals."

Here was someone who had gone through the exact same thing I did. If anyone knew how I felt at the moment, it was Luke. "Did you feel different afterward?"

He nodded. "I did."

"In what way?"

"I became..." He turned and stared out the window for a few seconds before answering. "Stronger. Harder."

Last night, after I broke free of the possession, I no longer felt the panic or fear that had been constantly swirling inside me. That fear had been my steady companion since watching my parents' murders. I now felt a new sense of... It was hard to put into words. Violence? Hatred? Whatever it was, it seemed to be coursing through my veins and warming my blood.

When I first met Luke, I had sensed an overwhelming violence radiating from his whole being. Was that a product of the rituals? As I continued forward in the process, would I keep changing? Morphing into someone different? Before I could voice my questions, I found that I suddenly felt very odd.

A tingling at the base of my neck slowly spread and radiated down my spine. The room turned cold. We weren't alone. I tilted my head and looked over to the far corner of the kitchen. Something was there.

Something not of this world.

I looked over at Luke and realized he was staring at the same spot.

"There's a spirit. I can feel it."

Here was the power I had begged to learn. The Death Arts—magic at the upmost top of the magic food chain. I could now feel spirits. At that realization, I felt shaken to my very core.

Being possessed, having my very essence forced into the dark recesses of oblivion, had been a terrifying experience. I hadn't been in control of my body. Something else had looked out of my eyes and spoken with my vocal cords. Something else had been inside me, and I was freaked out at the prospect of it happening again.

I stood frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from the corner, horrified that at any moment I would see a rush of dark shadows coming toward me again.

"Tell me what you see," Luke said, coming to my side. He put his hand on my shoulder.

For the first time since the night in the cemetery, I didn't recoil at his touch. Instead, I had a strong desire to throw myself into his arms and beg for protection. I didn't want any part of the thing in the corner, didn't want to deal with whatever restless soul was lingering around the ether sea, waiting for the opportunity to jump into me again. At the thought, I wrapped my arms around myself.

But this is what I wanted, I reminded myself. I was getting my deepest desire, and if we were going to save Darla, I had to face down my worst fears.

I took a deep breath and tried to focus on the corner. "I don't see anything."

"You're not looking hard enough."

I glanced around the kitchen. As my eyes passed over a small mirror hanging from the wall near the fridge, I could have sworn I saw a shadow move across its surface.

"By the mirror?" I asked.

"Yes," Luke answered. "Now try communicating with it."

I shook my head and took a step back. "But what if...what if...it takes me over?" I forced out between clenched teeth.

"This spirit is someone I've dealt with before. I promise he won't hurt you. You don't have to be afraid. Just open yourself up and communicate with him."

"How?" I asked, my hands now trembling.

Luke's voice was calm and reassuring. "Reach out with your mind. Focus all your energy in the direction of the shadow."

A wisp of breeze when I knew there could be none rustled the window coverings, and the room grew even colder. I could actually see my breath.

Luke was suddenly behind me. He leaned against me and whispered in my ear, "You can do this. Trust yourself. I'm here to help you."

The image of darkness filled my head—those swirls of gray floating around me, hungry things, awful things, that I could feel coming near me. The cackle of Wanda's voice inside my head. As the memories rushed in, I felt panic rise from the pit of my stomach.

"Where is he now?" Luke asked.

I took another deep breath and forced myself to look around the room. A knock sounded at my right. I physically jumped at the sound.

"Steady." Luke's arm encircled my waist.

Another knock, this time closer.

"There." I pointed across the room by the dining room table.

"Yes. The spirit is there. Now, make contact."

I can do this. Luke is here. I am not alone. I focused on the spot above the table and an image slowly began to form. A white, shimmering light began to waver in and out, and ever so slowly an outline came into focus. A face—there was a face. I could just make it out as it flickered in and out of the sunlight streaming through the window.

I tried to erase the panic from my voice. "It looks like a child."

Luke's arm tightened around me. "Good."

"He's small, maybe ten or eleven years old."

"Ask for a name. Ask out loud."

I licked my lips, they felt so dry and chapped all of a sudden. "What's your name?"

"Thomas." The word floated past me as if carried on the wind.

"He said his name is Thomas."

The presence moved toward me, and I instinctively began to back up.

"Stand your ground. Don't be afraid," Luke said. "Trust me. It's okay, you're not in any danger."

The shadow continued forward until it was directly before me. Then I felt the sensation of small fingers caressing my arm.

"Colina." The childlike voice said my name.

"He just said my name."

"Good. Ask him what he wants."

I spoke again, but this time my voice was stronger and calmer. "What do you want?"

"I have a message for you." The words were there again, and with them a warm tingle of air fluttered against my cheek.

"What's the message?"

This time the words slid through my mind. He's coming for you.

Small, invisible fingers ran down my hand.

"Who?" I asked, trying not to freak out and pull my arm back.

"The one you've been seeking." There was a light giggle and then, "He doesn't like it that you got away. You're the one that got away." I felt a tug on my hair. "It won't be long now. He'll find you."

A cupboard door banged open and shut once. Twice.

"Who will?" I demanded.

"Are you ready for judgment day?" the boy whispered, and then he vanished in front of me.