My God, she was kissing him in the slowest, most erotic fashion that he momentarily forgot where they were. He was hard as iron, barely able to stop himself from grabbing her around the waist and pushing his hips against hers. He’d never wanted to touch anyone so badly.

They broke away from each other, breath ragged. She could’ve pulled back, could’ve pushed him away, but she didn’t. A single syllable fell from her mouth—“oh”—and her cheek fell against his.

An unexpected tenderness washed over him. He bent his head lower, breathing in the sweet smell of her skin. “Aida . . .” His hand twitched. He wanted to touch her face if nothing else, and he might have broken his promise and done just that, if it weren’t for the blinding headlights that shined on them from the street.

Aida turned her head. He lifted a hand to block the light, out of sorts. She said something that he couldn’t hear. He made some strange noise in return, and she repeated herself.

“I think that might be the taxi,” she said hoarsely.

“Oh.”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her glove and cleared her throat as a door slammed in the distance. “The driver’s headed up to Mrs. Beecham’s.”

He pulled away and composed himself. “Seems so.” Whistling loudly, he waved a hand in the driver’s direction, catching his attention as he was heading up Florie’s stairs. The driver lifted a hand in acknowledgment and returned to his taxi to pull forward.

Winter thought of the potentially cramped backseat, which in most taxis was barely big enough for him alone. The thought of Aida crowded into that constrictive space alongside him inspired several ideas all at once.

Oh, the things he could do to her in the back of that dark cab. Maybe she was right about him being a pervert; he’d certainly never felt more deviant than he did at that moment.

And something more . . . a dizzying lightness. A burden lifted. If a monster’s heart beat inside his ribs, her kiss was a sharper lancet than the one she used to pierce the veil: it opened up a small hole that allowed some of the darkness to drain.

She straightened her hat and pulled the brim down tight. Stepping aside, he allowed her to shuffle past him, the fronts of their coats lightly brushing. He followed her to the curb, smiling the entire way.

As the taxi shifted into gear and began rumbling down the hill from Florie’s, he noticed movement in his peripheral vision. A figure stepped out of the darkness near his shoulder: a man dressed in a red suit, his hair in disarray. His eyes glowed yellow, reflecting the headlights of the taxi as it rolled toward them.

White smoke rushed from Aida’s mouth at the same moment Winter realized that the man’s suit wasn’t red at all—he was covered in blood.

Ghost.

Aida looked down at her breath. “Oh no . . . not now.”

Winter turned to face the ghost, all the hairs on his arms rising as panic tightened his chest. The bloody man looked straight at him—saw him, just like the prostitute. This was no random ghost, no accident victim tied to the street where he’d been hit. This was deliberate. And if the poisonous spell was broken, and he was no longer a walking ghost magnet, then something else was drawing it to him.

This was an attack.

The ghost came for Winter, reaching out with both hands. A strange electrical current crackled through his arm where bloody hands touched him.

Touched. Solid. The ghost was corporeal. Worse—Winter knew his face! From somewhere, someplace. So goddamn familiar, but he couldn’t remember.

Recoiling in horror, he jerked back and slammed into Aida. She yelped. He swiveled around in time to witness her, mid-stumble, as she tripped on her heel and fell into the path of the taxi.

Brakes squealed.

Winter lunged.

• • •

Aida felt her ankle give way as she staggered into the taxi’s path. She heard a terrible squeal and squeezed her eyes shut as headlights flashed across her face.

Her world tilted. She was jerked in the opposite direction, away from the rolling car. A sharp impact shook her bones as her face smashed against linen and wool and male. The taxi skidded by, veering sharply. Then everything was drowned by the sound of the crash. Metal exploded. Burnt rubber and asphalt filled her lungs.

Winter’s arm slackened and she tumbled from his grip. Her face scraped against the pavement as the wind was knocked out of her lungs. She wanted to cry out in pain but couldn’t. It took her several seconds to get her breath back. When it did come, that breath remained cold and white.

The ghost was still here somewhere, but she couldn’t see it.

Arms shaking, she pushed herself up on her elbows and twisted around, terrified until she felt Winter’s leg under hers. He was on his side, cradling his arm, grimacing. She shuffled around and quickly surveyed the rest of him. Saw no blood or tears in his clothing. Nothing but a streak of dirt on the bulk of his upper left arm.

He’d been struck on his shoulder while pulling her out of the taxi’s path. That was the thud she’d felt in her bones; he’d absorbed the impact.

“Winter?” She didn’t want to touch him, fearing that she’d hurt him further. His jaw clenched. “Mr. Magnusson?”

He exhaled on a loud grunt and shifted his leg, pain causing lines to crease around his eyes. He pulled himself up to sit, coddling his arm close to his side. “You okay?” He nodded to a small rent in her coat sleeve.

“Must have scraped the wheel cover or running board. It’s fine. Your shoulder hit the car. Is it broken?”