Proof. Damn it. Stefan smacked his steering wheel with his fist. How the hell was he going to get proof that Luke wasn’t Luke? What kind of proof would Peg accept anyway? He drew the line at luring Luke into his car and taking him to Marguerite’s shop, because being in such close proximity? No, just no.

He slowed as he approached the gallery’s tiny parking lot. He had a reserved space there, but Luke knew that’s where Stefan parked. Did the ghost have access to Luke’s memories, like it was logging on to his brain and accessing random files? Arcoletti had been able to capitalize on Stefan’s artistic ability, but it had never seemed as if he’d hijacked anything else.

Of course, he might not have cared. Stefan hadn’t been any stellar prize back then, so maybe the ghost had written his memories off as not worth the bother.

To be safe, Stefan parked on the next block instead, then hurried down the street, glancing over his shoulder every few minutes. He couldn’t suppress a shudder when he saw Luke’s car parked in its usual spot in the alley behind the gallery. He’s here.

Stefan scuttled past, breathing easier once he reached the gallery’s back door. But as he fumbled the key out of his jeans, he paused. The car had been there when he’d left this morning for his psychic search, but Luke hadn’t been in the gallery at the time. How long had the car sat without moving—and why the hell hadn’t Stefan noticed it before? He was an artist, damn it. He was supposed to be so freaking observant, yet he hadn’t paid any attention.

Good thing I’m not an investigator like Luke, because I suck at crime scene processing.

He stumbled then, caroming off the stucco wall with his shoulder, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s not a crime scene. I won’t accept that. Even though Luke’s body was being driven by someone else, Luke—the real Luke—was still inside. Stefan had to believe that because anything else was unthinkable. He just had to figure out how to banish whatever was riding him.

Yeah, that didn’t sound crazy at all.

He opened the door and slipped into the back hallway. For the first time, he wished that he could get to his studio without passing through the gallery. When it was closed, the night lights turned the larger sculptures into hulking monsters and cast eerie shadows on the pieces on the walls. As he crept across the floor, he swore Antoinette’s animal masks followed him with their eyes.

He scanned the balcony, but it was empty. At least Luke isn’t lurking outside my door. Stefan raced up the stairs. Rather than bursting into his studio, though, he unlocked the door and peered inside. Dark. Quiet. He sidled in, keeping his back against the wall, and listened. Still nothing but the purr of the ventilation system and the rougher hiccup of his refrigerator cycling on.

Okay. I guess I’m really alone.

He flicked on the lights revealing the empty room, exactly as he’d left it early this morning. Aaannnd now I just feel stupid.

Taking a deep breath, he focused on the real challenge of the evening—finding proof that Luke was sharing headspace with a hitchhiker. What would satisfy Peg? Photographic evidence?

Stefan hurried into the changing room, where he kept his memorabilia. It didn’t take up much space—he’d only had a few months to accumulate it after all. Anything from his old life had been lost when Marius’s sister had locked him out of the house in Indio.

He stood on a low stool, retrieved the box from the back of the top shelf, then jumped down to sit on the stool. He didn’t hold out much hope. He and Luke had never been picture-takers, even back when photographs hadn’t been strictly digital. But right on top was a photo that one of Luke’s neighbors at the condo complex had given him: the two of them at a Memorial Day party on the beach. Stefan had finally put on enough weight that he couldn’t double for a Survivor survivor anymore, and he and Luke had both been shirtless in garish board shorts. Luke had picked them up at some surplus store as a joke because Stefan refused to spend more than five bucks on something he was only going to wear into the ocean.

In the picture, both of them held beers up in a toast to the photographer, although Stefan couldn’t remember who it had been. Luke’s other arm was draped across Stefan’s shoulders and he had a grin the size of the Sunshine Skyway Bridge plastered across his face.

Stefan’s hands shook so much that he dropped the picture. What if he never saw that grin again? Never gloried in Luke’s embrace, in his kiss?

When Luke had been possessed by Arcoletti’s ghost, his hazel eyes had gone black. His eyes had looked normal yesterday, but he’d felt different. Stefan could hardly capture that in a photograph, even if he could come up with a good excuse to take one.

He mounted the stool again and shoved the box back in its place. Stupid picture wouldn’t prove anything to Peg. She’d just say anyone could change their mood or their mind and move on.

As he climbed down, he caught a glimpse of something in one of the models’ convenience baskets. Damn it. Had Jason conveniently left his possessions behind—again—after his last modeling session? Stefan never mentioned the guy’s flirtatious behavior to Luke because unlike Rudy, Jason actually seemed serious—and unconcerned that Stefan was in a committed relationship.

“That’s all I need right now,” he muttered, and snagged the basket off the shelf. “To be haunted by a flesh-and-blood horndog as well as a supernatural one. Screw that. Jason can damn well—”

His breath stuttered in his chest. Luke’s wallet. Luke’s phone. Luke’s keys.

Why had he left them here? When had he left them here? Stefan gathered the items in trembling hands. Before Luke—or whatever had been hiding inside Luke—had done his unselfconscious strip the other day, he’d been searching for these. Guess that answers the question about memories. If the ghost was able to access them, he’d have known where to find the missing belongings.

That also explained why Luke’s car was still parked in the alley. Even if the ghost could identify it, he couldn’t drive it.

And he never will, if I have anything to do with it. Besides, this was proof, right? These days, people might wander around without their wallet, but their phone? Never.

Getting caught with this stuff on his person would be bad, though—how could he justify not turning it over? But where could he hide them that Fake Luke wouldn’t think to look, if he ever sneaked into the studio again? Stefan carried Luke’s things to the worktable, scanning the studio for a likely hiding place. Not the loft. He’d expect that. Not the filing cabinet or anything that locks. His gaze drifted to the kitchenette cabinets. Okay. That could work.

He pawed through his junk drawer until he found a battered zip lock bag. He dropped phone, wallet, and keys into it and zipped it up. Phase one. Opening the cabinet, he considered his options. He selected the box of Frosted Mini-Wheats, stuffed the zip lock under the half-empty bag of cereal, then set the box back in the cabinet between the Raisin Bran and Cheerios. He allowed himself a small smile. There.

But what if Peg didn’t consider the orphaned car and personal items definitive evidence? He needed something else, another method of corroboration, another witness.

Antoinette. She’d met Luke, had spent enough time around him to know when he was behaving abnormally, but didn’t have the same bias as Stefan. Maybe her opinion would carry more weight with Peg.

Stefan unlocked his door and peeked onto the balcony. Still empty, still quiet. He sprinted from his studio door to Antoinette’s apartment and knocked softly. “Antoinette?”

No response, but the door wasn’t completely latched. He pushed it open and called again. “It’s me. Are you here?”

The heavy curtain in front of her studio door was drawn back, the door ajar, a dead giveaway that she wasn’t working. She was always meticulous about preventing the spread of potentially toxic dust.

A moan whispered down the hallway from behind Signor DiBartolo’s closed bedroom door. “Rudy?” Stefan called softly.

Technically, it was late enough that Rudy should have already left for the evening. Antoinette said Signor DiBartolo didn’t need round-the-clock surveillance, but should he be left completely alone? Stefan had never asked Antoinette whether he had a panic button or some other way to call for help. Maybe Stefan should volunteer to put a baby monitor in his studio. Not like he was ever out of it lately.

The moan again, louder this time, even though the only other sound in the apartment was the tick of the grandfather clock in the sitting room and the constant hum of the air conditioner and air purifier. Stefan padded down the hallway. He didn’t want to upset Signor DiBartolo if nothing was wrong, but the moan sounded so desperate, and no one was answering.

He eased the door open and peered through the crack, expecting to see Signor DiBartolo’s head thrashing on his pillow as it had before. Instead, the man was staring straight at the door, right into Stefan’s eyes.

“Christ.” Stefan jumped back and wiped a hand over his mouth. Another moan, louder this time. Had he just sent Signor DiBartolo into another fit? He leaned forward, ready to retreat if Signor DiBartolo reacted badly. The man still had his gaze riveted to the door. When he saw Stefan, he raised his arm, and Stefan was ready to bolt, had his cell phone out, ready to call Rudy’s emergency number. But instead of flailing, Signor DiBartolo beckoned to Stefan, his eyes filled not with hate but with desperate longing.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay.” Stefan pushed the door open and crossed to the bed, tucking his phone back in his pocket. When he got within arm’s reach, Signor DiBartolo’s hand scrabbled against his leg, trying to clutch his pants. Stefan folded the trembling hand in both of his and placed it on the heaving chest with a pat. “Shh, Signor DiBartolo. Do you need your meds? Should I call Rudy or Antoinette?”

Signor DiBartolo’s hand flopped like a beached fish, off his chest and onto the blanket by his hip. The left side of his face sagged as if a cosmic sculptor had passed a careless hand down clay not yet dry. He uttered a guttural sound, wild and urgent.

Stefan sank down on the edge of the bed. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what you need.” He caught a flutter of movement next to his hand, the barest brush of flesh on flesh.

He froze, meeting Signor DiBartolo’s tortured eyes. “Was that— Did you touch me by accident?”

Signor DiBartolo shook his head slowly, deliberately, his gaze never leaving Stefan’s, and traced a path across Stefan’s little finger in the exact spot where Marius’s signet ring used to be. As he repeated the touch, over and over, chills chased down Stefan’s spine and formed a ball of ice in his belly.

It can’t be. I don’t believe it. Stefan’s mind rebelled at the half-formed thought. Ghostly possession was one thing, something he’d had no choice but to accept. With Marius gone, however, only one man knew what had been on Stefan’s finger and now wasn’t. Only one man cared. And that man was not a ghost.

His throat suddenly tight, Stefan forced the word out. “Luke?”

Relief. Longing. Terror. Luke’s chest threatened to burst with his warring emotions. Stefan is here. Stefan recognizes me.

He hid his face behind his hand, because Stefan was here, and Luke looked like this.

“Oh my God, Luke, I’ve been so worried.” Stefan’s hand was warm against Luke’s sagging cheek, and Luke craved the touch as much as he wanted to shrink from it. This isn’t me. Or rather it is me, but how can he stand it? “What happened? Well, I know what happened. Sort of. But I mean how did it happen? Shit, you can’t speak. If I—wait. This is so nuts. I need to be sure.”

When Stefan’s hand vanished from Luke’s face, Luke peeked out from between his fingers. Stefan’s eyebrows were bunched over his nose, and he wore what Luke called his “instructor” expression. “How many paintings did Marius’s sister swipe from me?”

Luke didn’t uncover his face, but he folded his thumb under. Four fingers.

Stefan captured his hand in both of his own. “It’s really you. I knew it.” He squeezed Luke’s fingers, his expression turning fierce. “I knew the guy walking around in your skin wasn’t you, but I thought it was another ghost, another possession. Who the hell would ever imagine something like this?”

For an instant, relief came out on top in Luke’s emotional wrestling match. He wasn’t fooled. He could tell DiBartolo wasn’t me. He knows me. But then his hands started trembling as terror slammed into him again. If DiBartolo guessed that Stefan knew, would he take drastic steps to protect the secret, steps that could put Stefan in danger?

Stefan needed to know everything, but how could Luke convey the whole load of freaky-ass shit? Because Stefan was right—who’d ever imagine it? Body swappers? Death masks? Magic clay? Ghostly possession was totally meh in comparison.

But they had an immediate problem. The damn room didn’t have a clock, at least not one that Luke could see, so he had to depend on his own wonky perception of the passage of time. He tugged his fingers free and tapped Stefan’s watch, a cheap Timex, not the Rolex Marius had given him.

“You want to know the time? About nine thirty. Why?”

Shit. Antoinette had roared out of the apartment soon after Rudy left an hour ago? Two? A while anyway, and Luke had no idea where she was going or for how long. She’d seemed extra harried as she’d cleared all possible writing implements from the room—although what she thought he could do with them given his last pathetic attempt was beyond him. She’d done nothing else other than make sure Luke could reach the medical alert button—which apparently would notify her as well as the emergency responders, damn it—before she’d jetted. But she could come back any time. Or worse, DiBartolo could show up and find Stefan at the scene of the crime.

Luke made shooing motions and pointed toward the door.

“You want me to leave? But I just got here. I need to tell you—”

Luke tapped the watch and jabbed his finger at the exit more forcefully.

“Ah. I get it. I need to make my getaway. Does DiBartolo show up here every night? He never made daily visits before, and it’s bound to look doubly weird now since it’s, well, you, not him. But—”

Luke smacked Stefan’s leg and pointed. Again. Come on, Stef, move your ass before they come back and kick it for you.

“Okay, okay. I’ll go. But listen. I’ve found someone who doesn’t look at me as if I’m a lunatic when I talk about ghosts. Although what she’s going to say about this, I have no notion. She might give me the lunatic stare after all.”

Stefan sighed and stroked Luke’s hair. Luke was tempted to lean into the touch and purr, but Stefan needed to get the fuck out, so instead he head-butted Stefan’s hand and growled.

Stefan smiled at him, a wry twist of his full lips. “Now I’m sure it’s you. All right. But I’ll try to come back when the coast is clear next time.”

Luke inhaled, closing his eyes and nodding, because God, yes.

“We kicked weird supernatural ass before. We can do it again.” He kissed the back of Luke’s hand. “Hold tight. You can do it—you’re the strongest man I know.”

Not likely. Luke freed his hand and tapped Stefan on the chest.

“Me? Hell, I’m not strong. Aren’t you always telling me I need you to take care of me?”

Shit. I have done that, haven’t I? What a douchebag. Luke shook his head and patted Stefan’s chest again.

“Okay. No idea what that means, but . . .” Stefan stood up—finally. “Let’s hope I don’t fuck this up.”

He paused by the door and offered Luke one last smile. “I love you.” Then he disappeared down the hall.

When the front door latched behind Stefan, Luke wanted to howl, to find some way to beg Stefan to come back. But that wasn’t safe for either of them, and for Stefan most of all.

God, when Luke had been capable of speech, he’d wasted so much time being a total dickhead, refusing to speak to Stef out of stubborn pride. Now, when he had so much he wanted to say, needed to say, it was karmic payback that he couldn’t do it.

He clutched the blanket, his stomach knotting. Shit. I didn’t warn Stef about Antoinette. But Stefan had gotten the picture surely. If he could identify Luke in a foreign body, he had to figure Antoinette could do the same with her own lover.

The next time Stefan snuck in here, Luke would just have to figure out a way to give him the big picture.

The door of the apartment opened and slammed, accompanied by two voices arguing in fierce undertones. Enter body-stealing assholes, stage left. Luke wiped his hand over his face. That was cutting it too close.

Footsteps and argument approached, and DiBartolo sauntered in, followed by Antoinette.

“Don’t try to deny it.” Antoinette was clutching her handbag to her chest. “I followed you from the tavern. To her car. You—you did that with her. In her car.”

DiBartolo flicked his fingers in dismissal. “Calm down, Tonina. Weren’t you just complaining that I had no thought for your next host? Well, perhaps I have found one for you.”

“Jacques, she is my student.” She flung her purse into the wingback chair in the corner. “I know her.”

He shrugged. “Eh, what does that matter? You’ve known all the others too, and that didn’t stop you.”

“No.” She swallowed, her expression bleak. “But perhaps it should have.”

He reached for her face, but she turned away, lips pressed into a thin line. He wound a lock of her hair around his finger instead. “It is too late to second-guess our past.” He tugged her hair, and from her wince, it wasn’t gentle. “We must now plan our future. Isn’t that why you invited our guest here? So we could plan our future?” He glanced sidelong at Luke. The goddamn smug bastard.

“I told you,” she said. “This was to be temporary only. I had not intended to use him at all. And as for my student—non.”

“Be sensible, Tonina.” He gripped her shoulders and gave her a tiny shake. “It will be better to choose a host who has some facility with clay, don’t you think? People—those people you’re always so concerned with—will ask fewer questions if she doesn’t suddenly change her profession.” He glanced over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at Luke. “I didn’t believe it at first, but I begin to think that your choice for me is perfect. A man who works for himself, who’s known to travel, who has connections in the art world. Yes, it will do very well.”

Heat grew in Luke’s belly, begging for an outlet, but all he could do was fist the damn blankets. What I wouldn’t give for Arcoletti’s flamethrower superpower. You would be a fucking cinder. Who cared if he’d be incinerating his own body? This guy was evil. He needed to go down hard.

From the stony expression on Antoinette’s face, she was having similar thoughts. “Did you sleep with her last night too?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. It matters. This body does not belong to you.”

“Yet.”

“And you—”

“You think I belong to you? Don’t confuse a beneficial partnership with undying devotion, Tonina. We’re both far too wise and experienced to believe such tripe.”

She jerked as if he had struck her. Shit. Don’t tell me this is news to you, sister. I had his number ten minutes after I met him. DiBartolo didn’t appear to notice her reaction because he was smirking at Luke again. Typical. It’s all about you, isn’t it, you asshole?

“It doesn’t matter what you think or what I think, Jacques. Without my original mask, I couldn’t make the jump anyway.”

“Yet you were able to work this one without it.” He gestured between himself and Luke. “The original mask must not be as necessary as we had believed.” He scowled. “That bastardo Niccolo lied about that too, no doubt.”

“But what if . . . what if it was an accident? He had already been in contact with the mask when he brought it from the chateau. At least a day and a night spent with the soul anchor no more than a field away, that’s what Niccolo told us was necessary to prepare the host.”

“That reminds me.” He let go of her and strode to the bed to stand looming over Luke. “I need my mask. Where is it? In your office? Your home?”

Luke flipped him off. Bite me, asshole. Because if the thing was so damned important to him, Luke had no intention of letting him have it.

DiBartolo flushed, the muscles in his—my—jaw jumping. “You will tell me what I need to know, or I will use other methods.” He planted his fists on the mattress and leaned forward. “Your painter. You’ve fucked him in your home many times. He probably even has a key. I’m sure he’d be willing to bend over for me there again. And when I’m done with him—”

Luke struck out with all his limited power, plowing his fist into DiBartolo’s side, just below the rib cage.

DiBartolo let out a pained oof, and fury infused his face. God, is that what I look like in a temper? He drew his fist back, but Antoinette grasped his wrist.

“Non, Jacques. You cannot hurt him.”

“Why not?”

“There will be questions. This is not the old country, the old days, the old ways. We must answer to other authorities now.”

“Bah.” He shook her off but stepped away from the bed. “Rules. We should never have left Italy.”

Luke glared at him. Forget Italy, buddy. If I have my way, you’re going straight to hell.