I awoke in the girlish blue room near the courtyard. Sunlight threaded through the windows. Samael was asleep in an armchair, a book of Walt Whitman poetry on his lap. Halloween over, he had returned to his human form, with dark circles under his eyes and uncomfortable-looking piercings. He snored loudly, like he had sleep apnea.
There was some kind of sweet-smelling poultice on my brow. I undid the bandage holding it in place and used a towel from the nightstand to wipe off the paste. I glanced in the mirror: my makeup was gone, and I wore a kimono-like robe with lotus blossoms, supposedly meant for sleep. The perv had changed me again.
"Well that's embarrassing," I muttered. "Good thing he doesn't like redheads."
I paused, remembering his absinthe-fueled words:
You have her eyes. It's like being haunted.
And Michael's speech:
You're delusional. She'll never love you.
I panicked. "He's still in love with Eve. And I look just like her. I am her - no, no no no."
