Mr. Deveraux did not answer. Sophie could sense a tornado of emotion emanating from him and ripping through her. A deep sadness gave way to disappointment and then surged again to fury before settling into an ominous sense of betrayal.

Through her memories of the night, Mr. Deveraux saw and interpreted his wife’s actions, and through his, Sophie felt the cart being thrust deliberately and firmly into his back. Mrs. Deveraux had not tripped, and when her husband turned, his coat on fire and fear stark on his face, she had smiled and turned away to stand in the shelter of the arms of a young man who had reached out to her.

Now another emotion, the desire for retribution, made bile rise in the back of Sophie’s throat.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

That brought a chuckle that sent gooseflesh racing up Sophie’s arms. “You mean what are we going to do, don’t you?”

She shook her head. “I can’t be a part of malefic evil,” she said firmly. “I am a good witch.”

Mr. Deveraux grew quiet, Sophie grew uneasy. At last, Mr. Deveraux said, “Where are we anyway?”

His abrupt change of subject made Sophie suspicious but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. She turned so that her eyes swept the area. “This is my home.”

“You live in a—” He groped for the right word. “Warehouse?”

She shook her head. “This is the basement. Where I make my—” She stopped. Maybe she shouldn’t go into what she made. It might lead back to why they found themselves in this predicament to begin with.

It didn’t seem to matter to Mr. Deveraux anyway because he didn’t pursue it. “So show me the rest of the place,” he said. “I hope it’s nicer than this.”

Sophie bridled at his condescending tone. “It’s a very nice home. I happen to love it.”

“Then show me.”

Sophie started upstairs. Slowly. Even though she had been quick to snap at his insult, she was fully aware that Mr. Deveraux, until very recently, had lived in a mansion in the best part of the city. She, on the other hand, lived in a cottage on the edge of town, and while she did love it, he might not recognize its charm or appreciate its character.

And he did not.

When she completed the tour (it took about a minute), he lapsed into stunned silence.

Then he said, “Well. We can do something about this right off. We’re moving to the mansion. It does belong to me, after all.”

“But what about Mrs. Deveraux?” Sophie asked, trying to point out the obvious.

He snickered. “What about her? It will give me great pleasure to throw my wife out on her pretty butt. She and her boyfriend can find their own place to live.”

Sophie felt a chill. She didn’t ask how he planned to accomplish such a thing because she knew. Mr. Deveraux had no intention of throwing his wife out. He had something much more sinister in mind for her, and for the boyfriend. “I won’t be a party to murder,” she said.

She expected an outburst. Instead Mr. Deveraux changed tack again. “I think I’m hungry,” he said, his voice reflecting confusion and awe. “For food. Human food.”

Sophie panicked. Was he hungry for humans? Had he gone from drinking blood to actually craving the corporeal body? Was that a result of the melding of their species? She hadn’t had time to consider all the ramifications of a vampire and human commingling of the flesh. This one was pretty awful.

Mr. Deveraux started to laugh. “No, silly. I mean I’m hungry for steak. Steak and French fries. Maybe a beer.”

Sophie shook her head “I don’t have steak or beer,” she said. “I’m a vegetarian and I don’t drink alcohol. I could bake a potato for you though.”

A long, exasperated sigh escaped Mr. Deveraux’s lips. “For the first time in a century and a half, I can enjoy real food, and I get trapped inside a teetotaling vegetarian? Well, let’s get one thing straight right now, missy. If I have to live life as a woman, you are going to have to make a few concessions, too. And the first is finding me a steak and a beer.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Sophie said. “I told you I don’t eat meat. I can’t even bear to touch it. You’ll have to learn to—”

Sophie didn’t finish the sentence. She couldn’t. Her breath was cut off. Pressure built in her chest. It felt as if Mr. Deveraux had inflated a balloon that squeezed against her heart and cut off her oxygen. Gasping, she fell to her knees. The pain got worse and her vision began to fade. She was losing consciousness, darkness closing in until it surrounded her, beat her down, and she knew what it felt like to be dying.

And then it was over.

Sophie rolled onto her back, panting and clutching at her chest.

Mr. Deveraux’s voice cut through her fear. “We have to coexist, Sophie. Let’s try to make the best of it.”

It was the first time he had used her name. Somehow it chilled her as nothing else before. She gathered her wits about her and sat up. Her nightgown had bunched up around her waist and she tugged it into place, embarrassed that she had so exposed herself. Mr. Deveraux seemed strangely absent from her mind, as if he was giving her time to compose herself. It did not comfort her. This demonstration had made it plain that he was in charge. He had given her physical beauty and taken away free will.

“Are you all right now?”

Sophie pushed herself into a standing position. “What do you think?”

He ignored the sarcasm. “Do you live alone?”

Another abrupt change of subject that sent ice through Sophie’s veins. “Yes.”

“No boyfriend? Husband?”

Sophie shrugged, “No.”

“Widowed, then?”

“No.”

Sophie felt a gentle probing of her mind and, more disturbingly, of her body. Then she felt Mr. Deveraux’s startled reaction. “You’re a virgin? You lived eighty human years and never had sex?”

He said it as if it was a terrible failing on Sophie’s part, as if she had somehow let him down.

“Oh, this gets better and better,” he moaned. “No red meat, no alcohol, and no sex. What fresh hell is this?”

Sophie squared her shoulders. “I wanted to save myself,” she said with great dignity. “For the man I loved.”

“Oh? How’d that work out for you?”

His disdain cut like a whip. It also triggered a flash of temper. “At least my wife didn’t set me on fire to get rid of me,” she snapped.

Mr. Deveraux lapsed again into silence. Sophie congratulated herself on the tiny victory and went into the kitchen. She could use a cup of tea.

“Coffee,” Mr. Deveraux corrected.

“No,” Sophie responded. “Tea.”

She waited for something to happen, for Mr. Deveraux to hurt her again, but he didn’t. Once again, he was strangely absent. He seemed to feel the same things she did. Perhaps his display of cruelty backfired because the pain inflicted on her came back to torture him.

She fixed the tea and sat down at the kitchen table. Her head spun with confusion and anxiety. She had no idea what she should do. On the one hand, she could live her dream. She was sitting here in the body of a beautiful twenty-year-old with the unlimited possibilities that offered. On the other hand, she shared that body with a man who could inflict pain. A man who was not very nice. Who might even be—she gulped at the thought—wicked.

She wished she could talk to someone about her dilemma. Her sister, maybe. But Belinda lived in San Diego and was caught up in some intrigue of her own. Besides, to Sophie’s dismay, Belinda teetered on the knife-edge of white and black magic. Sophie couldn’t always trust her advice.

Sophie sipped at her tea. She watched herself, her reflection caught in the window over the sink. Her hair fell in a straight, shiny sweep to her shoulders. Her eyes shone with bright expectation. If she saw this woman in a café or restaurant, she would be envious. Wonderful things happened for beautiful women. Boyfriends and husbands, families who showered them with love. Beautiful women learned early what they could get with a dazzling smile.