“Don’t you get crude with me in my house,” the widow said to Winter, then pointed at Aida. “I’m paying you for a séance, so get inside that room and do your job.”

A thousand emotions crackled inside Aida. She had wild thoughts of taking Mrs. Beecham’s cigarette holder and shoving it inside the woman’s ear. “You want a séance?” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll give you a séance.”

Aida stormed to the back of the parlor, ignoring the mumbles and whispers. She stopped at the gypsy table and removed her trusty silver lancet from her handbag, unscrewing a cap on the end to bare a small blade. The garish painting of Mrs. Beecham hung on the wall a couple of feet away. “What was your husband’s name?” she shouted back at the widow.

“What?”

“His first name.”

“I don’t want to participate. This is for my guests. Andy, you go first. Where’s the violinist? We can’t start un—”

Aida squinted at the corner of the painting. “Harold Beecham.”

“Oh, yes, well. I’d rather you didn’t—Andy?” Mrs. Beecham called desperately. “Where are you? It’s so dark in here. There aren’t enough candles.”

“Over here, Florie. I’m coming.” A brown-haired man sidestepped behind a few chairs to stand next to her.

Aida ignored them. With one hand on the painting, she took a deep breath and pricked her thigh with the lancet blade. Tears stung her eyes as endorphins reared up. Using the pain to enter a winking, oh-so-brief trance state, she reached out into the void, calling for Mrs. Beecham’s husband.

Her vision wavered. She inhaled sharply, feeling a silent answer to her call. The spirit came rushing toward her over the veil like a demon released from the pit of hell.

EIGHT

WINTER HALTED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE PARLOR WHEN AIDA’S breath turned visible, barely hearing the gasps of surprise around him. He wasn’t unsettled by the puffs of white billowing from her mouth—not anymore. He was more interested in the silver instrument she had in her hand.

Aida’s body stiffened, then her face became animated. Her head swiveled around in all directions until she found Florie. “Sweetheart,” she said. “I never thought I’d lay eyes on you again.”

Florie froze, then backed up as Aida stalked her around the rows of chairs.

“Aren’t you glad to see me?” Aida’s voice said. “I remember your last words like it was yesterday . . . when I found you riding the Halstead boy like a prized pony at the county fair.”

Florie paled, then laughed nervously. Her eyes flicked to her apparent lover, Andy Halstead, who stood next to her looking as if he were going to faint and keel over.

Aida walked faster. “When my heart failed, you didn’t even try to save me. You just said, ‘Looks like we killed him.’”

Florie’s back hit the wall. She yelped. Aida lunged with outstretched arms. Something flew from her fingers and sailed through air, dinging against the wall, but she didn’t seem to notice. She was too busy grasping Florie’s throat with both hands as she wrestled his college friend to the floor. Winter raced toward them, knocking chairs out of the way while party guests stood by in a drunken daze.

Aida straddled Florie. The mesh handbag dangling around her wrist smacked against the floor as she choked her. A vase shattered. Florie was grasping the leg of a side table, trying to buck her off in a panic. Christ. The medium was going to kill her.

“Aida!” he shouted.

Her head snapped toward his voice. She looked at him with her eyes, but it wasn’t her. She was possessed. Feral. Unearthly. A violent chill ran down Winter’s arms.

“Aida, let go,” he commanded roughly.

She shuddered . . . then fell sideways off Florie and landed in a heap. Her frosty breath swirled away. Florie gulped air and pumped her legs, scurrying backward. People snapped into action.

One of the servants bent to help her up. “Are you all right, ma’am?”

Florie coughed, then pointed at Aida and choked out, “She’s crazy! Get her out of here!”

Winter slung an arm around Aida’s waist and hefted her to her feet. He brushed dust off her black dress and slid both hands around the back of her neck to hold her steady and get a look at her. He could feel her pulse hammering beneath his hands. “You okay?”

She sniffled. “Fine.” Her chest heaved with several labored breaths before she nodded her head. He released her. She looked over her shoulder at Florie and made a low noise of regret, her face contorting with a reluctant embarrassment.

“Come lay down, ma’am,” the servant was telling Florie. “I’ll bring you water and your pills.”

Halstead helped the servant lift Florie onto a settee. Winter watched him with mild interest, unsurprised that the man had been screwing Florie behind her husband’s back. Rather fascinating what Aida’s ability could dredge up.

“I want her out,” Florie yelled at no one in particular.

“Don’t have to tell me twice.” Aida rotated her shoulder to pull away from him, mumbling, “I just need to get my bag.”

As people were filing past, he spotted a flash of silver on the floor—what Aida had dropped—and picked it up as she got her bag, nearly cutting himself on a small, sharp blade. Before he could inspect it properly, he spotted the black lines of Aida’s stockings moving toward the door. He slipped the silver instrument inside his tuxedo pocket, hearing it ding against something inside as he ran after her and called for one of the servants to retrieve his coat.