Relief flooded through me, pushing back the darkness, letting the light in, and though the weight on my chest still pressed me down, I drifted like a feather, the voices rising and falling around me, indistinct and unimportant.

Gradually I settled back into myself.

I kept my eyes closed. There was no point opening them, not when it would only encourage fucking Necro Neil to get his tame ghost torturer to have another go—and if I didn’t open my eyes, I didn’t have to look at my torturer’s plague-eaten face—its missing nose and rotten black stumps of teeth were still freaking me out. I lay there, trying to ignore Scarface the ghost sitting on my chest, pretending to be more dead than I was, thankful that at least the ghost’s pain-inflicting skills were limited to strangling and suffocating me; he hadn’t enough personality left to implement Necro Neil’s more inventive—and considerably less wholesome—ideas.

Never mind giving myself nightmares from trying to posses my own body, as Moth-girl had predicted: if I got out of this I would have more than enough of them to last until I hit my third century.

Of course, that was if I got to see another dawn.

And that was looking less likely every time Scarface’s bony fingers closed round my throat.

‘Well, Ms Taylor,’ Necro Neil’s eager voice was accompanied with a tug on my hand, ‘you look like you’ve recovered enough for me to ask you again: will you go into the locket?’

‘No,’ I croaked in a whisper, not entirely sure why he couldn’t force me.

The ghost shifted his position on top of me and I braced myself ready for the next attack.

‘That’s our guest,’ Hannah said, excitement colouring her voice. ‘Come on, leave her for now. She can’t escape again, not with the added Containment spell I’ve put on the place.’

‘I thought you said you could handle him on your own.’ Necro Neil’s words carried a sullen edge.

‘I can—but better to be safe than sorry. We don’t want anything going wrong at this late stage, do we?’

‘No,’ he said, and their voices faded into nothing.

I felt carefully around for the ghost knife. It had still been in my hand when Scarface and half a dozen other ghosts had jumped me when the red thread deposited me back at Necro Neil’s shiny black shoes. No one had tried to take it away from me—but then, no one had needed to, not when there were ghosts enough to sit on every limb ... but now only Scarface was left, perching on my chest like some malevolent spirit.

A bony finger poked me in the cheek and I flinched, but kept my eyes closed. The reek of rot made my stomach give a dry heave. A voice rasped next to my ear, ‘Grab ... go.’

Grab go.The words didn’t make sense.

‘Wake,’ the voice rasped again. ‘Ghos ... grab ... go.’

Ghost-grabber? Was he saying Necro Neil was gone? Why? Warily, I opened one eye and squinted up at Scarface. ‘What?’ I whispered.

His lipless mouth opened wide, the scar on his cheek splitting like a second pair of lips to reveal the glistening bone.

‘Up.’

Was he telling me to get up? ‘Can’t,’ I croaked, ‘you’re sitting on me.’

One dried eyeball rolled in its socket. ‘Sor ... ry,’ he rasped, and shuffled off me.

Relieved, I lifted my arm and rubbed my throat; being strangled had hurt at the time, but it didn’t appear to have left any lasting injuries to my ghostly form.

‘Up ... help.’ Scarface was crouched beside me now. A bony finger poked urgently at my shoulder. ‘Grab ... back ... soon.’

Mystified at being let go, but not enough to question it, I rolled over and pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The knife was still there. I picked it up. The handle felt warm and solid, almost comforting, even if it only worked against other ghosts. I scrambled to my feet and looked around. Scarface was shuffling away into the distance, just the same way he had when I’d watched him during the ghost survey ...

And it was in the same arched tunnel—the same tunnel where all the ghosts had been gathered ... Only the place was brightly lit now, and the ghosts were gone; all that remained was the Fabergé egg, which sat in solitary splendour in the middle of a large circle marked out in red sand. Curled up next to the egg was the florist’s lad, still tied hand and foot, a fresh black eye decorating his tear-stained face.

It looked like the demon welcome mat was laid out, all ready to go.

I headed over to the circle and stopped at its edge. The boy’s chest rose and fell; he was either unconscious or asleep. I was betting on the former. I stuck out my hand, but my palm flexed against an invisible wall and when I looked down, there were flecks of green and chunks of grey dotted with rusty stains mixed in with the red sand: yew, to stop the dead from passing, and consecrated bone splashed with sanctified blood to contain the demon.

Not a circle I could pass in my ghostly form. I’d have to find some way to come back for the boy before midnight.

Who was the guest? Maybe whoever it was could help, or at least provide a distraction. I headed for the breeze-block wall at the end of the tunnel, keeping close to the side and carefully skirting round the pile of cordoned-off old bones, I eased through the open doorway and peered into the room beyond. It was the one with the wall painting of the barren landscape, where Hannah had performed her kamikaze ritual and taken over my body. There were people inside, live ones, and I ducked back, then mentally snorted at my stupidity. I was a ghost, and Necro Neil was the only one who could see me—and without his ghostly minions he couldn’t touch me, not until midnight. I crept inside, then stopped, keeping my eye out for him.

Hannah was walking towards me, sweeping the long train of a ballgown in burnt-orange and black—her Hallowe’en fetish was still showing—with her hair piled up in some sort of beehive style that sported a coronet-thing sparkling with amber and diamonds. For a second I almost didn’t recognise my body under the dress, new hairdo and make-up. At least she hadn’t managed to give me a boob job in the last few hours. When I finally dragged my eyes away from my own body, I realised who was walking with her.

Malik al-Khan.

My ghostly heart thudded: why was he looking at her with his usual impassive expression on his perfect, pretty face? Didn’t he realise that it wasn’t me in my body but Hannah? And why wasn’t he killing her? I clenched my fists. I wanted to shout at him to get on with it, but knew he couldn’t hear me. Then my heart thudded for a different reason. What if Moth-girl hadn’t woken up? What if she hadn’t managed to find him, or pass on my messages?

Damn. Plan A wasn’t working; time to find another one.

I scanned the room, but I couldn’t see Necro Neil anywhere. I looked back at Hannah, wearing my body. She had her hand tucked into Malik’s arm. They made a striking couple, her in her ballgown, him in what had to be a hand-tailored evening suit and shirt, both black, the only relief the triangle of smooth, pale skin at his throat where he’d dispensed with the bowtie.

‘Here she is.’ Hannah stopped in front of an alcove—Rosa’s alcove.

I moved forward until I was standing near enough to watch both them and the vampire lying in soulless state on her altar of stone. Candles lit the interior of the alcove, casting wavering shadows over the white shroud that covered Rosa’s body.

Malik drew back the sheet with the hand not claimed by Hannah and stared down at the grimacing, fangs-drawn vampire, his eyes as unemotional and opaque as black glass. ‘You are certain you will be able to restore her soul to her body?’ he asked.

Hannah smiled and patted his arm. ‘Of course, Malik. I told you, with the soul-bonder knife you gave me, all I need is a small spell. It takes a matter of seconds.’

Malik had givenher the knife? She hadn’t stolen it? And he knew‘I’ wasn’t me! What the hell was going on here?