Still, the carbon copy outward appearance was under the best of circumstances. The past few months spent as a guest of the federal corrections system had been less than kind to Annalise, effectively blurring those similarities in the worst way. Instead of a smooth, ivory complexion, she was tainted with a drawn, grey pallor. Her hair was cropped short, and though apparently clean, its once vibrant auburn was lackluster. Instead of bright, jade-green eyes like my wife’s, hers were dull and lifeless. They were staring at me now from deep, darkly rimmed sockets.

While she was still the spitting image of Felicity, she appeared now as a frail and sickly version of her, which triggered an automatic surge of sympathy deep inside me that was hard to quell. I struggled with the new feeling for a moment, letting out a slow, quiet sigh while closing my eyes. When I reopened them nothing had changed-not that I’d expected such. Still, it was worth a try.

For all intents and purposes, Annalise Devereaux looked drained, both emotionally and physically. She was used up-for lack of a better expression. She appeared as if she’d had no rest at all for untold ages, and while appearances can sometimes be deceiving, this time it was dead on. I also had a better than sneaking suspicion that it was not just the incarceration that had done all of this to her. A good portion of it was due to the parasite she had invited to set up residence in her body.

Miranda.

Unholy wasn’t a word I used often, but in this case it was the perfect descriptor for the brimstone-charred spirit that inhabited my wife’s heretofore unknown half-sister. Miranda was the unfortunately immortal soul of a sadistic murderess from another century, brought back to life in the here and now by proxy-all because the woman sitting in front of me played with magick she didn’t truly understand.