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I opened my eyes to gold. Blinking, I sat up. The gold vanished. I looked up and there it was. “Huh.”

The ceiling was gilded. Nice touch. Like a classy mirror on the ceiling.

Kind of modern for the architecture though.

I looked around, feeling a sense of familiarity.

The room was large but not as large as I had hoped for.

Still, it had a feeling of grandeur to it.

I got off the bed. It was a four-poster.

A heavy one, but very feminine. It matched the crown moldings and other plaster details that made the room feel very French. Like fancy French.

“Hold on one stinking second!” I scratched my nose as I hurried to a pair of French doors covered in lightweight curtains. Pulling them apart like Scarlett O'Hara, I gasped, then declared, “Fuck!”

Part of me was delighted. I have to admit that.

But another part of me recoiled. I stepped out onto the balcony and glanced to the side.

It was more of a terrace, extending the entire length of the mansion with enough space to set several tables and chairs out there.

Below me was an oak tree-lined street with other mansions spaced along it.

The garden was modest but acceptable for the front.

“Fucking Palmer Avenue. Well done, Hades.” I couldn't see the park from my balcony, but I knew it was near.

I marched back into the house and past the primary bath. Out on the second-floor landing, I grimaced at the historic details of the house. They were lovely. Perfect. But they came from a time that I would have preferred to forget.

“Damn it all,” I grumbled as I marched along the corridor, finding room after room full of antiques and modern pieces—a blend to go with the house.

Three more bedrooms, a laundry room, and a fucking mini kitchen were all on the second floor.

I stomped down a sweeping staircase, glaring at the hand-painted mural of a landscape that covered the wall alongside it.

I suspected it was original to the house.

Another mural greeted me in the formal dining room, and I was annoyed to find the original pocket doors tucked into the walls.

Soaring above me, the ceilings were all decorated like the one in the primary bedroom.

Not with gold, mind you (that must have been the previous owner's nod to the new age), but with millwork and moldings.

There was a wet bar in the den, a chef's kitchen, and a fucking butler's pantry all kitted out with everything someone might need to prepare a feast for thirty.

You don't find that shit in the Garden District.

It was why I was so impressed with Hades.

People not from New Orleans usually assumed the Garden District was the best place to live.

Sure, it was pretty, and you had those streetcars going past. But the houses were also crowded together, everything so squished that it felt as if you were shoulder-to-shoulder with your neighbors.

And there were those damn streetcars that rumbled by your front yard.

The Audubon neighborhood (which I was in), however, had an old-world style with some elbow room. And there was Audubon Park nearby. This was where people who wanted style and substance lived. That is, if you wanted to live in a fucking state named after that fucking bastard Louis XIV.

All right, I didn't actually know that king. Not him. But I knew his great-grandson very well. You could say he was my misspent youth. He was also named Louis. I mean, how many dumb-ass Louies do you need?

“Fuck,” I muttered again as I opened the double-pane glass doors and stepped out onto the covered terrace, into a tropical wonderland.

The backyard was stunning, with exotic plants and flowers crowding the property artistically.

Off the terrace was a flagstone patio with an outdoor kitchen equipped with Viking appliances.

Beyond that was a heated saltwater pool with fountains. Fountains!

“Ugh!” I threw my arms up in the air and tromped up the steps, back onto the terrace where I flung myself onto a very comfortable wicker couch. “I finally return to life only to be haunted by my ex.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, attempting to scrub away the memories that threatened to rise.

Yeah, I wanted my memories. I didn't want to lose all the hard-earned knowledge I'd amassed over the centuries.

Plus, I needed to know that I was working for Hades.

Kinda sorta. And there was Wren. I wanted to find Wren.

But she was miles away in Oregon. Hades failed to mention that part.

Or the Louisiana part.

“Fucking Louis,” I muttered. Then I took a breath. “That asshole is dead. I'm not. So, I've already beaten him. Ha! Fucking disgusting prick. Beloved king, my ass!” I got up, still muttering about a long-dead French king.

Yep. I'd been the mistress of a king once. Very briefly. When I was sixteen.

Nope, I'm not getting into it. I'm letting that shit go. I've got a new life, and I was going to make the most of it. Even if my hot self and hot mansion was in hot New Orleans—the last two hots being literal. It was damn humid there. My curvy Salma body was already sweating.

“Angelina!” I ran to the closest mirror and took a look at my new mug.

In all my anxiety over location, I'd forgotten to check out the goods.

“Holy shit,” I whispered. “It's like Salma Hayek and Angelina Jolie had a baby. And I am that lucky offspring!” I laughed, turning my face from side to side.

“All right, Hades. I forgive you for the New Orleans shit.”

And no, I didn't pronounce it Nawlins. Because I was an old school New Orlean. I lived there back when it was pronounced Oh-lee-on. Because it was named after the Prime Minister, the Duke of Orlean. And that's how you say his name, bitches. Google it.

“I'm back in the Land of Louis.” I tried out the words.

“But I'm not French and I don't give a fuck about dead kings. This is the new me. Shit. Do I have to start calling it Nawlins?” I grimaced, knowing I had mispronounced the mispronunciation.

Then I narrowed my eyes. “I wonder if those fucked up nuns are still here?” I wandered back into the house and found a black leather handbag on a side table in the hallway.

“Oh, a purse!” I snatched it up. “Oh, nice touch. Hermes.” I pulled out a matching wallet and then my ID. “Good. He kept his promise.”

My new face, all golden-brown like a saucy Latina but with Angie's green eyes and full lips, stared back at me.

Beside the face was my new name—Salina Haven.

Yes, I'd gone with combining Angelina and Salma—my little tribute to the women whose bodies I snatched.

Not really, but you know what I mean. Plus, Salina worked.

It was pretty and not too unusual. I'm not about to pull a Renesmee.

No, thank you. There aren't those kinds of vampires in New Orleans.

My Salma body had a simple black sheath dress on but it, like the purse, felt like luxury. Nice fabric, perfect tailoring, fully lined. Oh, yeah. I went to the closet to see what else Hades had left me.

“Nothing.” I grimaced. “Well, at least he didn't plop me down here naked. And it's way more fun to buy my own things.”

I opened the purse once more and found a cellphone. That was nice of Hades. Getting a cell would have been a pain in the ass. I opened it and saw one number in my address book—labeled “My Mates.” I rolled my eyes. As if I was going to call them up and say, “Hey. I'm your mate. Come and get me!”

“Not today, Hades.” I paused and snickered.

“Hell, no.” I needed to establish myself before I went looking for the local Cerberus.

I had plans. Sexy plans. First, I needed a wardrobe that could make that happen.

“Well, no time like the present.” I took another look in the tall mirror near the front door and smoothed the silk dress over my hips—Hades had good taste.

Then I rooted around in my purse and found my keys.

House keys and . . . “Is that a Bentley symbol?” I lifted the key fob to inspect it.

“Nice. Very nice indeed. Hades, you are a god and a gentleman. Well done, sir.”