Sophie shook the remains of the late Mr. Deveraux into the palm of her hand and let him—it—sift through her fingers. The ash felt surprisingly silky to the touch. She thought of the portrait hanging over the fireplace. Mr. Deveraux died the second death on his one hundred fiftieth birthday, and yet he passed among humans as a thirty-year-old. Now that was the ultimate age defyer.

She sat up straight. How did vampires do it? How did they remain physically ageless regardless of the passing of time?

They drank blood, for one.

Sophie’s brow wrinkled in concentration. She reviewed what she knew about vampire physiology. It wasn’t a lot. She did remember reading somewhere that the blood thing was to supply energy needed to replace what could no longer be derived from normal food sources. Vampires had all the internal organs of an ordinary human. They just no longer functioned, frozen in their bodies, Sophie guessed, to preserve the outward physical appearance of a normal human being.

So was that what made them immortal? Organs that did not atrophy with age or disease? Was that what stopped the aging process?

She had no idea. Nor did she have anyone she could ask. Witches and vampires avoided each other. She was an exception, as were other witches who supplied services that vampires were unable or unwilling to perform for themselves.

She looked again at the ash, winking like starlight in the glare of the kitchen’s bright incandescence. This was the essence of a vampire.

What would happen if she mixed some of the ash into her lotions?

She felt a thrill as the idea took shape. Why not try it? What if adding the ash to her moisturizer, instead of merely slowing or decreasing the signs of age was, in fact, able to reverse them? It would be a revolutionary breakthrough. And it would be hers.

Sophie carefully emptied the ash into a ziplock bag and tucked it into a pocket in her tunic. She grew restless, impatient to get out of here and eager to experiment with this new ingredient. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was just a little before 1 a.m. Drat. Since vampires had adapted to sunlight, the constraint of getting home before dawn was no longer an issue. This party could drag on well into midday.

How to get around that?

What could she say to get Mrs. Deveraux to allow her leave early? The obvious answer would be that she was devastated by the accident. She could offer to come back tomorrow and clean up, maybe even throw in a free cocktail party to be given at Mrs. Deveraux’s time of choosing.

Vampires, for all their accumulated wealth, were notoriously tight-fisted. The free party might just do it.

Sophie closed her eyes and willed Mrs. Deveraux to come into the kitchen. She had only to wait a minute before the woman appeared at the door, looking slightly puzzled.

She frowned at Sophie. “Now this is strange. A second ago I had a reason to come into the kitchen but now I seem to have forgotten it completely.” She laughed a little self-consciously. “The events of this evening must have unnerved me more than I realized.”

Sophie assumed a properly downcast expression. She even began to clasp and unclasp her hands like an anxious schoolgirl facing a stern headmistress, making sure her distress transmitted itself through the air and into Mrs. Deveraux’s consciousness.

Mrs. Deveraux immediately picked up on Sophie’s angst. She reached out a hand but stopped just short of touching her. Sophie was, after all, the help and a witch to boot. “Please, Sophie,” she said. “I can see how upset you are. I assure you there will be no repercussions from tonight’s accident.”

Sophie let a single tear trail down her cheek. “I just feel so awful. The whole thing is making me physically ill.” For added emphasis, she brought a fist up and pressed it against her mouth.

Mrs. Deveraux backed away in alarm. “Perhaps you should go home,” she said quickly. “I didn’t consider how this might affect a woman of your age. I can have my own staff clean up tomorrow. There is no need for you to stay.” She caught herself then and gave Sophie a sideways glance. “Naturally, I would expect a credit on the bill….”

Vampires were so predictable. Sophie kept her face a mask of unhappiness. “Naturally.”

After that impudent crack about “a woman of her age” (for Mrs. Deveraux had no way of knowing how old Sophie was), Sophie was tempted to forget about the party offer. But she didn’t have that many vampire contacts and if the ash worked…She acknowledged Mrs. Deveraux’s permission to leave with a nod. “And for your consideration, I would be happy to cater a small cocktail party for you in the future. No charge.”

That clinched it. Mrs. Deveraux practically pushed Sophie out the door with admonitions to take care going home and to put the unfortunate event of the evening out of her mind.

Sophie waited until the door was firmly latched behind her to allow a smile. She summoned her transport telepathically. She didn’t drive. Often she teleported herself, a trick she learned from her big sister. Not many witches could do it. It took concentration, though, and she found when she was distracted or excited the results were sometimes spotty. She might end up in a different county or a different state. Tonight she was both distracted and excited. Better to be safe than sorry.

Besides, she liked to support local business. The company she used was owned by a warlock with a driving service that provided after-hours transportation for supernaturals at reduced rates. Sometimes that meant waiting awhile for a car to appear. But tonight Sophie was lucky.

In a matter of minutes, the cab materialized in the driveway. Sophie climbed in, greeted the driver, and gave her address. The cabbie neither acknowledged the greeting nor the address. In fact, he hardly waited for her to pull shut the door before the car lurched away. Sophie’s head banged against the headrest.

Had a bad day, have we?, she thought grumpily, wondering if she should make it worse by giving him warts.

But happier thoughts soon prevailed. She couldn’t wait to get home and mix up a batch of moisturizer, this time with a pinch of Mr. Deveraux. How much to use would be a serious consideration. She pulled the baggie out of her pocket. There wasn’t a lot of ash. Even considering what little she scraped off the cake, the amount left would maybe fill a half-cup measure. It must be terrifically concentrated.

The driver screeched to a stop in front of her house the same abrupt way he had pulled away from the Deveraux mansion. Again, Sophie’s head bounced. Her temper flared and she raised a hand to plant a great big hairy wart on the tip of his nose when he turned around for the first time.

She let her hand fall. Great. Of all the drivers in the city I get the troll, she thought. His hairy face was already covered with warts. And trolls were notoriously bad drivers.

His guttural voice barked at her. “Here you be, ma’am. That’ll be twenty bucks.”

She clicked her tongue and forked over the cash, adding a five-dollar tip even though she knew he didn’t deserve it. She had a soft spot for trolls. They couldn’t help how they looked or their thorny temperaments. It was genetic.

At least this time, he waited for her to get all the way out of the cab before gunning away from the curb.

Sophie started up the path to her house. She lived on the outskirts of the city, a place close enough to allow access to the museums and theaters she loved, but far enough removed to allow the kind of outdoor activity witches enjoyed without attracting the curiosity or attention of neighbors. Her cottage was small but comfortable and she filled it with beautiful earthly objects—rocks, seashells, flowers, and plants. It was a place of refuge and light.

And best of all, it was a place with a basement.