The Adley's home lay beyond the Jazz City, where stone roads turned to dirt and meandered along gray, overgrown swamps before reaching plantation lands. Fields of tobacco stretched out on either side of the road, confined behind white wooden fences. Rain pattered upon the coach - I was bundled in a black fur coat against the cold, and Damian had turned up the collar on his long jacket. My heart set a beat nearly as quick as the falling rain. It was a simple holiday party, meant to be joyous, a festive occasion! But it was so much more than that.

It meant so much more. 

Margaux Adley and her husband could be the ones to put an end to this - but even that I hardly dared to hope. At the least, in secret, I hoped Margaux could send me in the right direction. If she truly did have the Sight...perhaps she could help me find Dr. Carnickey.

We had driven for nearly an hour before Jacobi stopped the carriage. He had to climb down from his perch to read the address in the rain, painted in flowing white lettering upon the stone pillars that held a massive iron gate. This was it: the home of the Adley's. The long driveway was lined with ancient, overhanging oak trees that dripped massive droplets of rain upon the carriage. Beyond the oaks, I could see the Adley's orchards - peach trees, if I had to guess, dormant and barren in the cold winter weather.

Danger here - go back - where is she taking us?

I shut out their distant protests. I was still on my high from that morning - warm and content from my session with Damian, but slowly feeling that familiar chill creep back into my bones. They would be upon me soon, I knew it. But I still had my comfort.

That morning, after we separated and had laid for a while in the afterglow, Damian had untied my hands but left the ropes he'd bound around my scars in place.

"Don't be afraid," he said gently, tracing those woven lines that held me like his own arms. "Remember that I have you. Remember that you're safe."

Those ropes still bound me now, hidden beneath my violet taffeta gown. Every time I shifted in my seat, they bit into my skin like Damian's own grip. I felt guilty for feeling so safe with them around me. I was determined that it was my duty to protect Damian now - protect him from myself. But I couldn't stop feeling so reassured in his presence.

It would make it hurt all the more when I had to leave.

"Samara," Damian's voice brought me out of my thoughts. "How do you feel?"

"Nervous," I said softly, peering out the window as the Adley's monumental home came into view. "I feel as if I'm attending a funeral, not a party."

Six white pillars guarded the house's front facade. There were six windows to each floor, an upper gallery and lower veranda wrapping around the house. All the windows were aglow, and nearly a dozen carriages were nestled in front beneath the trees, one of which was still having its horse's unbridled and led to shelter by a young man. Jacobi stopped the carriage right at the steps, and before Damian could even open his door, a middle-aged gentleman in a fine white suit approached with a large umbrella in hand.

"Right this way, Monsieur, Madame. Watch your step." He ushered us from the carriage, allowing the rain to dampen his fine jacket in his effort to keep the two of us dry on the way to the porch. "Welcome to Maison d'Adley. Not to worry, your horses will be seen to and your driver will have a meal and lodging. May I see your invitation, Monsieur?" Damian produced the letter, which the butler received with a warm smile. Two younger men awaited us beside the white front doors, and at a nod from the butler granted us entrance. It was only with great effort that my jaw did not hit the floor in awe. I had always believed Damian's home to be the pinnacle of finery - it was certainly the finest I had ever set foot in...

Maison d'Adley came close to my childhood dreams of royal castles.

The entry hall was awash with the warm glow of an overhanging crystalline chandelier and dozens of candles nestled among the festive decor. The stairway was trimmed with holly - as was every doorway within my sight - and wound with silvery ribbons. Our coats were hung for us, and with no small amount of nerves I followed after Damian into the large sitting room to our right. Most of the crowds were gathered there, milling about making small talk with drinks in hand, as servants dressed in white made the rounds with plates of hors d'oeuvres. A massive pine tree stood in the corner, festooned with all the pomp and sparkle of Christmas regalia: small glass ornaments that twinkled in the candlelight, ribbons and candies. The crowds pressed close, and my anxiety began to rise. Damian put an arm around my waist and gently squeezed.

"Stay close to me," he said gently. "You'll be alright."

He's lying to you. The danger is nearer than ever.

I tried to keep Damian's words at the forefront of my mind. We lingered near the edges of the room, watching as folks danced to the upbeat jazz playing from a gramophone in the room's corner. I was interested to see a mixture of folks both rich and poor among the guests: I could judge only on their clothing, in truth, but it seemed that quite a number of average working folk were in attendance. Their clothing was more plain, unadorned in comparison to the lavish garments worn by the wealthy - the kind of simple clothing I had always been used to.

It made me wonder even more on who Margaux truly was: a wealthy woman, obviously, but what was her game? Who was she to these people? I was on the lookout for her, but she was nowhere to be seen as of yet. I surveyed the crowds, the numerous faces - and spotted someone strangely familiar.

A red-haired woman, staring at me.

Not her, not here. Danger, Samara, you stupid girl. Wretched bitch. Don't force our hands. She dared come here...

I sensed their fear, washing over me nauseously - their hatred caused my vision to grow blurred and my heart to pound. I did not look away from the red-haired woman fast enough, and our eyes met and locked. I had seen her before, but where? That red hair, so familiar, so very like...so very like Kiiji's. She was dressed all in black: trousers, a knit shirt, and odd short boots. She was alone, and as I watched, party guests moved around her almost as if she wasn't there. She looked away from me with a small smile, and I suddenly remembered where I had seen her before.

She had been standing outside the apartments when I had attended the exorcism with Damian. She had watched me then, and she was still watching me now. And I suspected - in fact, I was almost certain - that I was the only one who could see her.

I leaned over to Damian. "I'll be right back. Do want any punch?"

"Ah, let me get it for you-"

"No, no, it's fine," I placed a hand on his chest, insistent that he let me go. "Keep an eye out for Margaux. I'll get the drinks for us." I smiled, but the expression certainly looked tense, I could feel it on my face. This woman who looked like Kiiji, who no one else seemed able to see...I approached her slowly, weaving my way through the crowd, my heart in my throat.

I came up alongside her, slowly collecting two glasses to ladle the punch into. "Good evening," I said softly.

"Good evening, Samara," her voice was deep, calm. She'd been expecting me.

Don't look at us, damned bitch.

"Can anyone else see you?" My voice was barely above a whisper. The last thing I needed was for some other party-goer to see me talking to myself like a mad woman.

"No," she said. "For now, you alone can see me."

We can still see you. We haven't forgotten you. We haven't forgiven you.

My hands shook on the punch ladle. Dozens of questions fought to be given voice, and goosebumps prickled down my arms. Only I could see her...then that had to mean...

"You're a reaper, aren't you?" I didn't want the answer. My heart was pounding. Why was she here? Why was she following me? Why-

"I am. You're a clever girl, aren't you? Or did the others give you a hint?"

"I don't need their help," I said sharply. Their voices were growing louder, all of them shouting over each other, fury and anger filling me with so much tension I could scarcely ladle punch into our glasses. Finally, I put it down. I picked up the glass I'd managed to halfway fill, guzzled it down with a wince at the rum, and ladled more in.

"Have I frightened you?" the reaper said.

"Yes. Yes, you have. Why are you here? What the hell do you want with me?" I guzzled more of the drink, waiting for the liquor to boil down to my belly and still my nerves. I turned back toward the room, arms clenched at my sides. I didn't want to make my distress apparent, lest Damian see, but the last thing I needed was yet another paranormal freak inserting themselves into my life.

We could get rid of her. Let us. This can all end now, if you'll let it. Let us kill her. Let us destroy her.

"They couldn't kill me if they wanted to, Samara," she said gently. Could she hear them as clearly as I? "My name is Lijiali. I know the one's inside you: four of them, at least. Long ago, long before the world as you know it, I created the seals that bind them to you."

I whipped my head aside to look at her, regardless of if I looked mad or not. Undoubtedly Damian would be along soon, wondering what was taking so long. I spoke quickly, as quietly as I could. "You know the demons inside me? You know their names?"

"Of course I do," she chuckled. "But as someone who has already spent some time around a reaper, you should already know: it is not our place to interfere in the affairs of humans, nor to utter the powerful names of ancient ones. There is only one method by which we may interfere, and only under very specific circumstances."

"And what method or circumstances are those?"

She glanced down skeptically. I had not noticed how close I had moved to her, my hand clenched upon the edge of the table beside us, knuckles white. When she looked up again, her expression was grim. "I am a reaper, Samara," she said. "Reapers collect the souls of the dead. When the need arises, some souls may be forcibly collected."

I went cold. The punch roiled in my belly. "When the need...what need? What need would-"

"If the balance of our worlds is at stake, then one such as I may interfere." She reached out, gently, and laid an icy cold hand upon my face. Her touch made my bones feel rigid, my stomach turn. "I have been watching you, waiting. Waiting to see if I must interfere. The situation is dire, Samara. I had hoped it would resolve itself. In all sincerity, I had hoped someone would have killed you by now. Your exorcist, for example." She nodded back in the direction Damian waited for me. "He should know better. He should know there's no saving you."

I wanted to pull away from her touch, but I was frozen in place, terrified. Every beat of my heart was painful. "There's still hope," I whispered. Of course there was hope. There was always hope, wasn't there-?

"No, my dear. Not anymore. Those four are ready to break free, and when they do, all their chaos comes with them. But don't worry: I will be near. And when the time comes..." She leaned down, close enough to whisper in my ear, "I will be there to collect your soul."