Dr. Barton did not look happy to see me. A three-inch jagged set of cuts ran along his eyebrow—the marks my fingernails had made when I'd scratched him. Until just a few moments ago, I'd forgotten about the incident when I first regained consciousness. But by the look on his face, I could tell he was not about to let it go. Gone was the patient, kind expression he usually wore. In its place was disdain. I could see it in his eyes, simmering just below the surface.

He motioned to a nearby chair, and I obediently took a seat.

If I'd thought sitting across from him before was uncomfortable, now there was a whole new level of animosity swimming in the air between us. I'd been in a panic when he grabbed me, and it wasn't my fault. I hadn't remembered who I was or what was going on at the time. I'd reacted like a scared, caged animal. He couldn't hold me responsible for what I'd done, could he?

But I knew that he would.

In the time I'd been in this place I'd come to realize there weren't many kind souls on the staff. Most of the employees were sadistic. Did they all start out that way? Was it something about being around these patients that tainted them? Or was it this place itself? There was, at times, a sort of eerie, angry vibe radiating in the air around here. An almost tangible feeling of hate and evil permeated the walls.

I shook my head and took a deep breath. It was a wild thought, thinking that the environment or the property itself had somehow morphed these people. A more reasonable explanation was that the person in charge of hiring wasn't too particular about the type of workers they took on. Maybe management liked an underqualified staff a bit on the mean side.

I'd thought, up until now, that Barton was a kind man. He'd never shown any type of aggression toward me until the other day when he'd restrained me, and I attacked him. But then, I had seen a hint of darkness in those eyes—a tinge of uncontrolled violence that he'd masked quickly. It was there after I scratched him. I didn't imagine it. It was a look I now recognized. One that stared back at me daily from my own reflection in the mirror.

It was there now in his expression as he sat across from me, tapping his pencil against his yellow notepad. I reminded myself that this man had the power to give me lightning therapy. He had done it once. He could do it again. He had the ability to force medications down my throat. He could, with just one word, get me thrown into solitary confinement.

He was not someone I wanted as an enemy.

I cleared my throat. "Dr. Barton, how are you doing today?" I'd never bothered to greet him in the past. During our previous sessions, I'd barely mumbled affirmatives when asked if I wanted a glass of water.

His expression turned suspicious. "Fine. Are you ready for our session?"

I straightened and clasped my hands in my lap, forcing a smile onto my face. "Yes, I'm ready."

He leaned back in his chair, "Let us begin with your childhood. Tell me something about your family."

At the word "family," my hands balled into fists. Memories flashed before my eyes.

My father held against his will. A knife rose high in the air. The glint of the blade as it swung down and slit his throat. Watching a stream of blood pour from my father's fatal wound. Being unable to help as he struggled, as the life left his eyes. My mother, darting across the room, trying to escape. The bullet tearing through her flesh. Her body slumped to the floor, then a pool of blood rushing from her pierced skull.

I closed my eyes and shook my head, trying to force the images away.

I can't talk about my family. Not to this man.

"Colina, we've had—" he flipped through the pad "—four sessions now, and so far, you haven't told me anything personal about yourself. How do you expect to get better if you don't start to explore your inner feelings?"

I cannot afford to have this man as my enemy, I reminded myself. I cleared my throat, "My family... They're all dead."

This confession suddenly coming from my lips seemed to get his interest.

He leaned forward, pen posed, ready to scribble. "How did they die?"

I looked away, hot, flustered, and unable to meet his eyes when I answered, "A madman had them killed. He slaughtered my family."

"Tell me what you are feeling right at this moment."

Anger. A red-hot anger pounded through my veins. I exploded to my feet; my hands clenched in fists. I killed the man who had murdered my family, but revenge didn't take away the heartache and pain I still felt. I wanted so badly to hurt Macaven again.

I want to kill him, this time with my bare hands.

At my sudden movement, the doctor scooted back in his chair. He reached across his desk for the phone.

I forced myself to take one deep breath after another. I need to calm down. I needed to do whatever necessary to get out of this session without landing my butt in restraints.

I sat down and my words came out in a rush. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I'm still not over their deaths. I apologize for getting so upset."

Barton's hand floated just above the phone. He watched me, waiting for me to explode again.

I gave him a half smile. "I guess it's one of the issues I need to work on. My unresolved anger about my family's death."

Barton nodded, and his hand moved away from the phone.

I sighed in relief. Now I just have to keep my head for the rest of the session. I can do this. I just have to play it smart and keep my cool.

Barton spoke again. "It's understandable that you feel anger. It's a natural emotion to feel in such circumstances. But what we must do is find a way for you to channel your anger. Direct your emotions into a more productive avenue." He dropped the pen. His fingers reached up and touched the scab above his eye. "You can't keep lashing out. When you do, you're a danger to yourself and to the entire staff."

I lowered my gaze and nodded. "You are right."

"Before we continue on, I need to ask about your depression. The nurses have reported back to me that you've been doing remarkably well. How is your depression today, if you had to rate it from one to ten?"

I had the feeling that saying I had no depression would be pushing it, so I answered, "It's a two. A two or a three."

He picked up the pen and started scribbling on the pad. "Good. And the voices? Have you heard any voices since the lightning therapy?"

I had. The words help me had rung out when I was in the common room. But they weren't imaginary voices. They weren't voices coming from an unbalanced mind. They were spirits trying to communicate with me. I was a death dealer, and I could talk to the dead. But Barton didn't know that. I had come to the hospital under the guise of a healer—a healer who had lost her grip on her powers and her mind.

Healers didn't communicate with spirits. Healers considered death dealers the scum of the earth. If I told Barton the truth now, it might jeopardize all my plans.

I shook my head. "No voices. None whatsoever."

"Good." He jotted down something in the pad again. He reached into his desk and pulled out a tape recorder. "I taped the session we had right before the procedure." He hit the play button and voices rang out.

It was a girl's voice, but not mine. "They're being killed! Don't you understand?" she pleaded.

The doctor spoke up on the tape. "Calm yourself. Who is being killed?"

There was a moment of silence and then an unnatural laugh. "All of them. Every last one of them. They were all killed. Why won't any of you believe me?"

"Colina, I must insist you stay in your chair."

Morgana. The words coming out of the tape were hers as she controlled my body and spoke using my mouth. I felt a chill run down my spine. The doctor would have never assumed possession. Possession was pretty rare outside of the Death Arts. And if and when it did come up, the only ones equipped to handle it were the death dealers. He wouldn't have thought a slight change in my voice meant I was possessed.

"Colina, if you don't calm down, we'll have to give you a sedative." Barton's voice sounded strained.

"You stupid man. Aren't you listening to what I'm saying?" she asked. A long silence followed her question.

Barton answered, though this time he was calm and reassuring. "I hear you. I do. I want to help you, but I can't unless you let me."

Morgana's voice came out in a whisper. "Don't you hear them, Doctor?"

"Hear who?" Barton asked.

"They're crying out for help. They need our help. You have to help them."

"Colina, please sit down. You need to calm yourself." There was the sound of a chair moving, and then I heard Barton again. "Nurse, can you ask the orderlies to come in?"

Morgana cried out, "Hearts! Beating hearts, can you hear them? Can't you hear their screams? Every beat, every scream. Don't you hear them? They're dying, and no one is doing anything to help them!"

I could hear a door opening and footsteps. There was the sound of a struggle and then silence.

Barton turned off the tape and looked at me. "Do you have any memory of that session?"

I shook my head. "No." Barton would think my memory was affected by the lightning therapy, but I knew better. Morgana had completely taken over my body. She had moved through the hospital using my limbs. She had spoken to the staff with my mouth. I had no memory of any of it. But I knew the words Morgana spoke to the Doctor were the truth, because ever since I'd been in the hospital, I'd heard the cries of spirits, of the unsettled dead.

They were begging for help. They were crying out for vengeance.

* * *

Somehow, I survived the half-hour psych session. Barton gave me some techniques to help curb my anger, and he wanted me to keep a daily journal. He assured me that if these measures didn't work, there were other ways we could deal with my issues. On the top of his list of "techniques" was medication. He showed me a list of new pills we could try.

I didn't want any more meds. A nurse already doled out a small, white paper cup filled with a colorful assortment of pills each day and night. Yellow pills for anxiety, a pink one for depression, and a blue one to help me sleep. Most of the patients walking around this place were mental zombies kept in a fog of medication. It probably made them easier to deal with.

I faked my compliance and cheeked the pills. Then at the first opportunity, I flushed them down the toilet.

After the session, the rest of the day went by painfully slow. There were a few hours spent in the common area. I played a game of checkers with Andrew. Andrew's checker playing was as erratic as his eating habits. After every few moves, he would grab a piece off the board and nervously shuffle it back and forth across the table.

Occasionally, he would gleefully pick up a plastic checker and start to jump over all the other pieces. The only problem? He always did this when it was my turn. I realized early on that there was no need to keep score. There would be no winner or loser when playing with this crowd. The game was more a way of keeping my mind occupied and passing the time. There wasn't much to do in a place without any computers or televisions.

Lunch was uneventful and consisted of some nondescript brown casserole. The highlight of the meal for me was a piece of apple pie. Unlike the normal fare in this place, the pie was actually quite good. The crust was flaky and the apples crisp. I spent a few moments eyeing Andrews's pie from across the room, but I had nothing to trade for it. Contraband was a hot commodity around here—mostly candy and snack food, usually smuggled in by visitors. The staff seemed aware but unconcerned by the stream of underground currency.

After lunch, I spent an hour outside in the community garden under the watchful eye of a half-dozen staff. Pulling weeds in the sun was actually the most relaxing part of my day. It reminded me of my childhood, time spent helping my mother in her herb garden. I had always enjoyed growing things. The garden was therapeutic but also had a practical purpose. The hospital used the vegetables and herbs they grew as part of our meals.

Garden time was followed by a mandatory group walk around the grounds for twenty minutes, and then it was back to the common room and more board games—this time chess. I played one game with my ever-vigilant shadow, Caroline. I won the first game. She took the second.

When the sun began to set, we marched off to the cafeteria again, this time for dinner. I choked down a decent portion of soggy meatloaf and sticky mashed potatoes. When dinner ended, the nurse escorted me back to my room. Finally, I was free of my shadow. I watched her walk out of my room, locking the door behind her.

I pulled three packets of salt out of my pocket and carefully tore them open, sprinkling as much as I could across my doorway and along the windowsill. Was it enough to keep the choking ghost away? I hoped so. It had never bothered me before. Sure, I'd heard people talking about it, and every so often I felt a chill late at night as though something might be in the room with me, but it'd never come forth or tried to harm me.

But then I'd lost my memory, and it attacked. I hoped it would leave me alone now that my memories were back, but I wouldn't count on it. I had never encountered a spirit with so much power. If it came at me again, would I be able to use my ghostbusting powers to push it to the other side?

I went over to thebed and lay down. Boring monetary filled the minutes, just like every other dayI'd spent here. I was just biding time until Mildred would come and release mefrom my cell. The witching hour had always been a time I'd looked to with trepidation,but now it was the only time I was truly happy. The only time Luke and I couldbe together. I closed my eyes and willed the minutes to fly by

***