PURGATORY, a place Down Under

Chapter One

  Part of the Secret Worlds Boxed Set, $0.99 for 21 Books in 1 Set for a Limited Time.

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Doppelganger

I am who you are.

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I push myself into your body, absorb everything that is you, and wear it like a glove.

Then there are two of us.

  ONE

TAKE ME

I glide along pavement under a blanket of night, and cling to the shadow of a young woman with perky tits. It's Friday evening and we are waiting in a line outside a bar in Orlando. She's with several friends, all of whom she clearly feels are of less importance, given her constant chatter and their rapt devotion. All she can talk about is a European vacation her family is going on in less than two days: the long plane ride, places they will stay, sexy foreign men with "to die for" accents, and the shopping she will be doing.

I am a myth—a night fright—a demon's blunder. I have no name, no sex, no flesh . . . unless I wear one of you, a human. I will be wearing this one by the time she boards her plane.

The line moves. I move with it, a shadow stone skipping other shadows.

* * *

Another bar, another Friday night, a different town—I've been wearing perky tits for five days.

"So, CeCe, your whole family was, like, dead when you got home?" the guy on the barstool next to me says. "Crap. That had to be hard."

Yeah, perky tits' name is CeCe. A bit too . . . adorable for me, but anyone who can drag attention from a bunch of guys in a sports bar offering free food during happy hour, is my kind of wardrobe.

All shoulders and ass, Mr. I'm-Doing-You-A-Favor looks at me with dreamy blue eyes through jet-black bangs that hang to his lower lids. He has a chin screaming to be nibbled and a little strip of chest peeking out of his half unbuttoned shirt that makes me want to explore.

"Yes." I take a sip of my White Russian. "It was."

Scantily clad waitresses with plastic smiles rush from table to table with cumbersome trays of jostling liquids, overflowing ashtrays, and half-empty tip jars. Loud music pulses overhead and a group of college kids working the free food source knock it up a notch with riotous laughter and taunts. I need to get Dreamy-Eyes out of here and into me, big time.

"So, like, you had to be totally freaked," he presses on. "I mean, hell, I'd be brain-dead if that happened to me."

I don't want to tell him he's tipping the cranial scales on brain matter already. And I sure as hell don't want to tell him the girl with chestnut hair and eyes he's so superficially concerned with is actually on a thirty-day tour of Europe—I'm just a carbon copy. Nor do I care to mention the dead family thing is only a fantasy of mine—so wish my doppelganger, wannabe mother was in a body bag. Unfortunately, I'm sure Mommy is Down Under, perched on one of Purgatory's barstools and probably sipping her beverage of choice. I take another sip of mine and catch a reflection of my host in the half empty glass.

When I borrowed/cloned/absorbed CeCe's persona—my kind calls it doubling up—she was sitting on a toilet at Orlando International Airport, illegally smoking a clove cigarette. The smell was horrid; the taste was worse. Sometimes, being a doppelganger is a pain in the ass.