"Stop!"

A familiar voice, coming from the tunnel behind us.

I swung around, lantern high.

"I knew you were back," she said. "I could feel you."

She was dressed in one of her long black gowns, a flashlight in her hand. "You always loved these tunnels. Especially this stretch. I couldn't keep you away from them."

It was true.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded. "You promised to never walk the streets-or tunnels-of Savannah again."

She sounded confused, speaking in that exaggerated accent I'd always hated. The woman had lived in the United States her entire life. Why did she try to sound like some hoodoo priestess?

Four years ago, she'd paid me to leave. She paid me to leave and never come back so she could pretend I was dead. So she could wear her black clothes and pray over my grave. So people would feel sorry for her.

"I missed Savannah," I told her. "I missed the tunnels."

"How long…?"

"I returned almost two years ago."

Strata Luna let out a strangled sob, then pressed a hand to her mouth to smother the sound.

Oh, she always pretended to be so strong, but she was just as weak as the rest of them.

"Where did you stay?"

"Sometimes in the tunnels. Sometimes on the street."

A chameleon, dressing like a man or a woman. Whatever struck me. Of course I hadn't done it all on my own. Enrique had helped. He'd brought food and clothing. Money. Whatever I needed. Whatever I wanted. He'd even purchased the CDs I took to Gary Turello's funeral.

I'd always suspected Enrique had been a little in love with me. Either that or he simply felt sorry for someone whose own mother had turned her back on her.

"I knew it was you, but didn't want to believe it," Strata Luna wailed, suddenly transformed from regal priestess to whimpering, frightened old lady. "Tell me I'm wrong! Tell me you aren't the one doing all this killing."

She stretched out an imploring hand, the movement graceful even in her overwrought state. "Enrique! Poor Enrique! He loved you. He would have done anything for you.'*

"He did. He died for me."

"Why?"

I thought of one of her favorite lines, Evil doesn't need a reason to exist, but I didn't want to quote her. I didn't want to honor her. "He meant too much to you."

"You were jealous?" she asked, still trying to understand.

I laughed. She was so far off. "I wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to be a lonely old woman. I wanted to take away everybody you cared about."

Her gaze fell to the gurney. "Who is that?" She stepped closer.

"David Gould."

"The detective? If what you say is true, what does he have to do with any of this? He means nothing to me."

"I just like him."

She nodded, remembering. "Even when you were little, you had a strong curiosity about death. Something unhealthy. Something compelling and twisted and sick."

"Go back home, old woman."

I'd forgotten how she could annoy me so quickly. "I've had enough of you already."

"I should have destroyed you when you were young," she said. "When I realized you were evil. But I couldn't kill my own child. My own baby girl."

"I'm not your daughter! You conjured me!" Sudden tears stung my eyes. I impatiently wiped them away with the back of my hand. "You conjured me from twigs and cat intestines soaked in blood!"

"No!"

She pretended to be shocked by my words. What an actress.

"Who told you such a lie?" she asked.

How could I possibly recall the origins of something I'd always known?

"You are my daughter. A part of me. Just as Delil-iah was my daughter. You pretended that you tried to save her, but I could see through you. I could always see through you. But you were never conjured. I wish I could say you were. I wish I could say you didn't come from me, but that would be a lie."

I pulled out the knife I'd used to kill Enrique and Flora. It was very sharp, and I was filled with hatred and rage. This woman had ruined my life. She had showered attention on Deliliah, then Enrique and Flora, while ignoring me. While pushing me away.

"You were evil," she said, trying to explain away her failings.

"You should love all of your children equally," I told her. "That's a mother's job. To love without blame, without question."

"Even murderers?"

"Even murderers."

I lifted the knife high.

She should have zigzagged. She should have made a crooked path out of there. Instead, she remained immobile, watching me. She placed a splayed hand to her breast, where she must have had a wanga hidden. Her mouth began to move, and she muttered words meant to bring me down:

If I hang from a single thread In a place no one shall see It will bring fear into the heart of her who shall harm me It will bring fear into the heart of her who shall harm me She will be binded by fear from harming me She will be binded by fear from harming me.

I came from the earth and dead things; I was stronger than any spell she could cast.

"Evil travels in a straight line," I told her. I brought the blade down, plunging it into the heart of my mother, the heart of Strata Luna.