Hadley’s pulse swished in her temples. She couldn’t concentrate on her father’s words. Degree. University of California, Berkeley. With honors. Rising star in his field. She stared at Lowe. He looked as confused as she felt. Her breath came too fast.

“. . . and so it is with great enthusiasm that I nominate Mr. Magnusson as a candidate for primary consideration to continue my legacy.”

A round of polite applause roared in her ears. Lowe was saying something in reply, how it was unexpected and an honor to even be considered, and something else she couldn’t catch.

Considered for her job. She was her father’s legacy. Heir apparent. She had studied for it. Worked for it. And she damn well deserved it. More than any man sitting at this table. A thousand times more than Lowe Magnusson.

He briefly shook his head at her, claiming innocence. Bravo. What a performance. Quietly charm the girl in the garden—an easy task, because she was so starved for company that any scrap of affection thrown her way would do—then sit back and claim your crown.

What a fool she was.

Rage and hurt called the Mori, who rose up from the floor. Dark limbs, blinking eyes, grotesque features. Monsters, fueled by her pain. Dead things pulled from the Spirit World. Things she didn’t understand and could barely control, but they coalesced into a writhing mass of gloom and shifting shadow, crawling up the marble walls and columns. Sniffing out opportunity as they tugged images from her mind.

Command us, they whispered inside her head. Dark avengers, ready and willing to do her bidding. To avenge her through abhorrent deeds. Through fright. Injury.

And death.

Her negative emotions were like carrion. Drawn to them, the specters scavenged her mind, always hungry. And they were hers to command.

Him, she thought, as angry tears flooded her eyes. No, both of them. Her father for his betrayal. And Lowe for carrying it out and lying to her face. Both of them.

The museum director was standing, raising a toast, while her specters slithered across the ceiling like a cloud of black exhaust toward their goal: a massive crystal chandelier dangling high above the table.

A rumble shook the ceiling.

The guests stilled, poised with glasses in hand.

Until his blindness, her father could see the specters. But now the great Dr. Bacall was as oblivious as the rest of the guests, who assigned an easy logical excuse to the unnatural act—

“Earthquake?”

Once the word flew out of someone’s mouth, fear dominoed down the table.

At her elbow, Oliver lurched from his seat, looking up. Could he see them? How was that possible? It didn’t matter. Too late to reel the specters back in now.

Hundreds of crystals clinked in unison. The ceiling cracked. Electricity sparked. And as the light dimmed in the chandelier, one of the cables suspending it snapped with a horrifying metallic twang! The chandelier swung on its side like a great glass pendulum.

Startled gasps bounced around the hall. Chairs skidded on marble. Guests scattered.

Everyone but Father, who couldn’t see to move. And Lowe, who was struggling to pull a blind man out of his seat, just as Oliver was pulling her in the opposite direction.

“Hadley!” her father roared.

The sound of his voice penetrated the fog of her anger. Good sense flooded through.

Father knew it was her specters—he knew, he knew, he knew!

Oh, God. What had she done?

With monumental effort, she pushed the Mori away. They vanished into the ceiling as she despaired, shouting, “Run!”

Too late.

The second cable snapped. And like a car tumbling off a cliff, the glittering glass plummeted. Screams pierced the air.

Lowe’s chair skidded backward. He threw an arm around her father and pulled him to the floor as the chandelier crashed onto the table in an explosion of glass and splintering wood.

Lowe crawled beneath the shuddering carcass that teetered precariously on the table above, dragging her father to safety. She flailed against Oliver’s arms and shoved away from him, nearly falling on her face as she ran.

“Father!”

“I’m fine,” he barked, using the wall for the leverage he needed to stand.

Lowe brushed glass from her father’s shoulder, then glanced at his own clothes.

“Are you—” she started.

“In one piece? Think so.” Slightly dazed, he shook out his jacket and glanced around at the destruction, mumbling, “What in the world just happened here?”

“You,” her father said, his face red with emotion. “You and your petty anger. Your mother would be ashamed.”

As shouts and animated conversation blew through the hall, Lowe narrowed his eyes and shifted a suspicious gaze between her and her father.

God only knew if her father’s pronouncement of shame was on the mark—she didn’t remember much about her mother. But he was right to be angry. She’d nearly killed him. And Lowe. And other guests. She glanced around at the chaos. No one seemed to be injured, but the poor staff was in a panic.

Tears threatened. Before her father could spit out another word, before Lowe could decipher her father’s accusation, Hadley turned and marched out of the house.

EIGHT

HEAVY FOG CLUNG TO the rooftops lining Broadway. Her father’s driver had taken her to the party, a small detail she remembered once she made it outside. It was also nippy, and not only had she forgotten her gloves, which she’d removed for dinner—they’d likely fallen from her lap during the fiasco—but she’d also failed to collect her coat. Now what? Go back inside with her tail tucked between her legs?