“Really? I thought it was sort of trite myself, but what can you do? Post a complaint against the universe? Anyway.” She brushed past me and took a slow look around the living room. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Hey, it’s the cats!” She held out a hand toward Cagney and Lacey, who were still doing their best to disappear under the coffee table. “Here Cagney, here Lacey—” The cats bolted, vanishing down the hall.

May shook her head and dropped onto the couch in an easy sprawl. “Silly cats. Anyway, you’d better put that bat down before you hurt someone, like me. I’m allergic to physical pain. I’m pretty sure it gives me hives.”

I closed the door without letting go of the bat, unwilling to take my eyes off her. She looked like me, she sounded like me; she could have fooled an uninformed observer. If she’d been willing to hold still and keep her mouth shut, she could have fooled my best friends. Even Devin’s hired Doppelganger hadn’t done its job that well.

May shook her head again. “Close your mouth. You look like a goldfish.” The barb hit home. Anyone who knew me well enough to steal my face should have known better than to make cracks about the time I spent as a fish.

My notoriously short-lived patience was running out. I glared, demanding, “What the hell are you?”

“A Fetch. Your Fetch, to be exact,” she said. “You know, the spirits that wear your face when they come to escort you to the lands of—”

“—the dead,” I finished. “Little problem: I’m not dead.” A Fetch is a duplicate of a living person created when it’s time for them to die. They’re incredibly rare, and most people don’t get one. I certainly never requested the honor.

May shrugged. “Mortality’s a constant. I have time; I can wait.”

“You can’t be my Fetch! I’m not going to die!”

“Are you sure?” she asked, looking at me with renewed interest. “Did you go all pureblooded and death-proof when I wasn’t looking?”

“Yes! I mean, no! I mean, yes, I’m sure!”

“I wouldn’t be. I mean, you’re not exactly Little Miss Caution. Look at this.” She pulled down the collar of her sweatshirt, displaying a knot of scar tissue on her left shoulder. “Iron bullets? Yeah, those are a sign of good survival prospects. Or this?” This time she raised the bottom of the shirt, showing the curved claw-marks that crossed her stomach. I’d never seen those scars from the outside: they looked a lot worse from this angle. Some of those wounds should have been fatal.

May tugged her shirt back into place. “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but you’re not exactly on the universe’s ‘ten longest projected life spans’ list. I wish you were, because when you die, I die with you.” She shrugged. “But fate doesn’t have a suggestion box.”

“Why are you trying so hard to make me believe that I haven’t got much time before I—”

“—shuffle off this mortal coil? Because you don’t, hon. I’m sorry, but it’s true. And what’s with the Shakespeare fixation? Didn’t your mother know about Nora Roberts?”

“Well, first, my mother doesn’t care about mortal authors,” I said, slowly. Her rapid subject changes were confusing me. “Second, I was born in 1952. How was I supposed to find Nora Roberts? Borrow a time machine? And if you have issues with my Shakespeare fixation, why are you wearing that shirt?”

She glanced down at herself. “It’s what they had in the Goodwill donations box. I didn’t manifest with clothes on. Do you have any idea how hard it is for naked people to go shopping?”

“I’ve never shopped naked,” I said.“I thought you were my Fetch. Aren’t you supposed to know these things?”

“Of course. I know everything there is to know about you, right up until the universe decided you were destined to die and created me to be your guide.”

“Everything?” I didn’t like the sound of that. There are some things I don’t want anyone to know.

“Everything. From what you got on your sixth birthday to what kind of flowers you leave on Dare’s grave. I even know what you were thinking about Tybalt after you saw him in those red leather pants—”

I held up my hand. “Stop. I believe you.”

“I thought you might.” She smirked, adding, “I didn’t even need to get detailed.”

“Trust me, I don’t want you to.” Raking my hair back with one hand, I gave her a long, hard look. It was like looking into a strange, hyperactive mirror. Your reflection doesn’t usually start to fidget and study its nails while you’re standing still.

“Why now?” I asked, finally.

May sobered, giving me the first serious look I’d seen from her. “I guess someone feels you’ve earned yourself some time to settle your affairs before you go. I’m your wake-up call. Don’t put anything off, because you may not be around that long.”

“I’m not ready to die!” I protested. My mind was racing. What was it going to be? Simon and Oleander coming back to finish what they’d started? Or something simpler, like a drunk driver who didn’t hit the brakes in time? There are a lot of ways to die, and I’d never really thought about them before. I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be thinking about them now.

Death omens aren’t a blessing, no matter what people say; they make you nervous, and that can get you killed. Maybe it’s just me, but I dislike self-fulfilling prophecies. They’re too much like cheating.

“I don’t know much about how people really think, since all my memories are borrowed from you, but I’m pretty sure no one’s ever ready to die.” May rose from the couch, moving with an easy, artless grace that finally confirmed she wasn’t a Doppelganger playing tricks.

When shapeshifters copy a person, they copy them exactly, body language and all. I’ve seen Fetches before. I would have known what she was the moment I saw her if I’d been willing to believe it. Fetches don’t have time to learn little things like motor control, so they come complete with the knowledge of how to move and comport themselves. May was created from fragments of me, but she moved like a pureblood: all fire and air and unconditional grace. She moved like something I’d never been and never would be.