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What could possibly hurt me now?

I moved to the small mirror hanging by the door, curious if the change was visible. My reflection startled me. I looked the same, but different somehow–my posture straighter, my eyes brighter, more alive than they'd been since...well, since I'd actually been alive. There was something almost predatory in my smile, something that would have terrified me an hour ago.

Now it just looked right.

I felt incredible. Powerful. Like I could take on the world and win. The cottage suddenly felt too small, too confining. I needed air, needed movement, needed to test this new fearlessness under the open sky.

You should stay inside, some tiny rational part of my mind whispered. This feeling isn't natural. You've unbalanced yourself.

But that voice was easy to ignore now, weak and distant. I was fine. Better than fine. I was magnificent.

The night air felt wonderful against my skin as I stepped outside, each breath somehow sweeter than any I could remember taking. Had breathing always felt this good? Or was this sensation–this hyper-awareness of being alive–a side effect of having been dead?

The thought didn't disturb me. Instead, I found myself laughing at the irony. Death had given me both magick and a keener appreciation for life. There was poetry to that, dark as it might be.

I walked with purpose, my steps confident and sure. The shadows that would have made me nervous before now seemed welcoming, full of possibilities rather than dangers. Every sensation felt heightened–the cool air on my skin, the sound of my footsteps on pavement, the way the moonlight painted everything in silver.

Twenty minutes of brisk walking brought me to the entertainment district, where a few establishments still glowed with warm light. A bar on the corner was just closing, small groups of people spilling onto the sidewalk in that loud, loose-limbed way of the moderately intoxicated.

Under normal circumstances, I would have given them a wide berth. But tonight, fear had no hold on me. I walked directly through their midst, head high, moving with confidence that felt foreign and absolutely thrilling.

"Hey beautiful," called a voice as I passed. "Why so serious?"

The comment slid off me like water off glass, completely insignificant. I was beyond such petty concerns, above them. Let them look. Let them call. I was untouchable.

The bar crowd thinned as I continued down the street. I found myself approaching a narrower side street, poorly lit and lined with the back entrances of various businesses. In my fearless state, the shadowy passage looked interesting ratherthan threatening–a path less traveled, a new perspective on the town I was still learning.

I had almost reached the entrance to the alleyway when I heard it–a female voice, tight with tension and barely controlled panic. "No. Stop it. I told you I'm not interested."

I paused, turning toward the sound. It had come from just inside the alley, where the shadows were deepest.

"Come on, baby, don't be like that." A man's voice now, cajoling but with an undercurrent of aggression that made my skin crawl. "I just want to talk. Just want to get to know you better."

In the dim light filtering from a distant security lamp, I could make out two figures—a man backing a woman against the brick wall, one hand gripping her arm while she tried to pull away. Her purse dangled awkwardly from her shoulder, the strap clearly broken.

This was exactly the kind of situation that would have sent Hazel scurrying away to find help. But Hazel was weak, frightened, controlled by others. Juniper was fearless, and could handle this herself.

"Hey," I called, my voice ringing with unexpected authority that seemed to echo off the brick walls. "She said to let her go."

The man turned, momentarily startled. He was handsome in a conventional way—strong jaw, broad shoulders, the kind of looks that probably got him his way more often than not. His surprise quickly shifted to dismissive annoyance when he took in my appearance–just one woman, alone, clearly no threat to someone of his size and strength.

How wrong he was.

"Mind your own business, lady," he said, barely glancing at me before turning back to the woman. "My girlfriend and I are having a private conversation."

"I'm not your girlfriend," the woman protested, trying to pull away again. She was younger than I'd first thought, maybe early twenties, with a round face that looked made for smiling, though now it was tense with fear. "I told you at the bar, I'm not interested. Please just let me go."

"You heard her," I said, taking another step closer. The confidence flowing through me was intoxicating, making me feel ten feet tall and bulletproof. "She's not interested. Let her go."

This time when he turned, his expression had hardened into something ugly. He released the woman's arm, but only to face me fully, drawing himself up to his full height–at least a foot taller than me, probably twice my weight. Under normal circumstances, this display of physical dominance might have intimidated me.

Now it just seemed pathetic.

"You really want to get involved in this?" he asked, his tone making it clear he thought I should reconsider. "Why don't you turn around and walk away while you still can?"

Behind him, the woman looked torn between hope that I might help and fear that I would leave her alone with him. I recognized that expression–I'd worn it myself, caught between someone's false charm and their true nature.

Something snapped inside me at the realization–a protective fury unlike anything I'd ever experienced. This man was another predator who thought his desires outweighed a woman's right to say no. Another man who used his physical advantage to corner and intimidate.