AN: Huh, this one didn't take long. It's a little dialog heavy, but that's how it worked out, so it's about 300 words shorter than normal. Thanks to AceLions for his review.

**Damnit! Nights died way before Bach was even born! Crap. What does this mean? It means the music box couldn't play Sleepers Wake. Okay, I'm gonna have to fix that asap. Sorry, about that, folks.**

The two stared at each other for five minutes before Nightshade asked, "What the hell are you doin' my mirror?"

The boy blinked and rubbed his hand over his face. "I must not be gettin' enough sleep," he mumbled in his thick texan accent.

"What?! You think your measly little breather mind made me up due to lack of sleep?"

"Breather?"

"Yeah, you're a breather. AKA alive. Hey, kid, you still didn't answer my question."

"What question?"

"Why are you in my mirror," Nights said slowly.

"Lady, you're in mine."

Nightshade raised a brow, and started to lean forward so she could examine his side of the mirror. She stopped, though, before she could pass through the glass. She still had her fedora on, and the rim would block the kid from her view. So she took it off, and tossed it on her bed. Then she passed her torso through the glass and looked at the frame of his mirror. It was the same.

"What's your name, kid?" she asked, looking up at him.

"Derrick. What's yours?"

Nightshade smirked, and rested her forearms on the bottom frame of the mirror. "I can't tell you that, cowboy."

"Why not?"

"'Cause if I tell you, you'll tell yer friends, and yer friends . . . okay, Ace, I physically cannot say my one name. We can play a little game, though, and you can guess it."

"Okay."

"So, the first part of my name is the opposite of day."

"Night?"

"Yup. The second part is . . . um, let's see . . . goes over a lamp?"

"Somethin' that goes over a lamp?"

"Yes."

"Nothin' goes over a lamp. Bad things'll happen."

"No, no, no, the coney thing!"

"Lampshade?"

"Yes!"

"Your name is Night Lampshade?"

"No. Take out 'lamp'."

"Nightshade?"

"That's it! Now say it two more times."

"Why?"

Nightshade blinked, taken aback by his blunt question. No one had ever asked why. Of course, most people summoned her on accident. It usually happened when they were looking for the plant that shared her name.

"Well," she said, after a short pause. "You wanna have fun, right?"

Derrick shrugged. "Who doesn't?"

Nights lightly bit her bottom lip, trying to look cute. "I'm the funnest chick you'll ever meet."

The kid smirked and crossed his arms. "'Funnest' ain't a word."

"'Ain't' ain't one, either," she growled, dropping the cute persona. The little brat had waited too long, and she could feel the last threads of the summons dissipate. Nights stood up, and leaned her shoulder against the frame, glaring at the breather.

"Fine. Nightshade, Nightshade."

"Say it again."

"But--"

"You waited too long! Now fuckin' say my name!"

"Nightshade."

The blonde grinned as the summons pulled her to the other side, and she rematerialized, sitting on the end of his bed.

Now, she was able to get a good look at him. His jet black, shoulder length hair was slick back, and he had a bit of a widow's peak. His skin was a dark golden tan from working out in the sun. He was wearing a white t-shirt, blue jeans, and white socks. No shoes. The ghost's eyes widened slightly as she, ahem, noticed he has some . . . delicious muscles.

Blushing slightly, Nightshade looked away, finding her red nails rather interesting. "So, Ace, how old are you?"

"Sixteen, doll."

"Ah," she said, examining his room. The walls were a cream color, and the wood floors were a dark brown. A dresser in the corner against the wall across from the queen sized bed. A closet in the same wall. Night stands on either side of the bed, each with a little lamp. There was good sized window on the wall parallel to his bed, and the mirror hung across the room on the wall opposite the window. Not a small room, either.

Then she looked back at her breather. "So, where are we?"

"Midland, Texas." He was taking this all surprisingly well.

Nightshade nodded as a shiny object on his dresser caught her attention. She floated over, and picked it up.

Emily held her breath as she she pressed her ear to the door of Blackthorn's study. She didn't hear anyone in the room, so she slowly opened to door. As soon as it was wide enough for her to slip though, she did so with one last look down the hall. Once she was in, she gently pushed the door closed behind her. Not checking to make sure the door latched shut, she walked over to the glass cabinet. She opened the cabinet and pulled out the fancy little music box.

"As soon as William sees you, he'll know," she told it as she turned it over in her hands. "He'll know you'll be worth some shiny coins. Then he'll say 'Emily, you've done--'"

The young woman froze as a heavy hand gripped her shoulder. Oh, no.

"I knew we couldn't trust you, Amelia." David, Blackthorn's most trusted servant. No. No, no, no.

Emily screamed as she suddenly found herself over the big man's shoulder, the music box falling to the ground. She kicked as David walked to the library, showing little effort to keep the woman captive.

She nearly dropped the damn silver music box again.

"Hey, Derrick?" she asked, her voice a bit shaky.

"Yeah," he answered, walking up to her.

"What's your last name?"

"Blackthorn."

She took a deep breath she didn't need and looked over at him. "Family heirloom," she asked, holding up the little box slightly.

"Yeah. It don't work. Not for six hundred years, apparently. Story is, some chick tried to steal it. When she got caught, she dropped it. If you can fix it, you can keep it."

Nightshade zapped it with her majik. Then she turned the little handle type thing on the back and lifted the lid. Soft strains of Sleepers Wake drifted out of the music box.

"How did you . . ."

The ghost closed the lid and slipped the music box into one of the pockets of her trench coat. She ran her thumb over the tips of her fingers before answering.

"I'm a ghost. A poltergeist, to be exact. I have power."

His dark blue eyes lit up, and he looked at her with admiration. "What else can you do?"

Nightshade smirked. This kid was fueling her ego with that look.

"You like horses?"

"Of course! I own horses.

Nights moved to an empty space in his room and turned into a horse. There she stood, thirteen hands, her head held high. Blood red mane, tail, and hair above her hooves like a Clydesdale, and black for the rest of her body.

"Wow," he breathed, slowly walking over to her, and placing his hand on her soft velvet nose. "You're beautiful."

The only answer she gave him was the glitter of her jade green eyes.

After nearly six hundred year, Nightshade was going to get her revenge. She wasn't gonna kill the kid. That would be stupid. No, there were worse things than death. Now, she just had to figure out what.

AN: Yup. Time for fun facts! Let's see . . . She's got a chant thing, too. Y'know BJ's "though I know I should be wary" thing? Yeah, Nights has one, too. I figured all poltergeists would have it, and the first two lines would be the same. The third line is different because it has to rhyme with their name. Her chant will have a place in this story . . . I just gotta remember what the hell it was . . . Oh, and if you haven't seen, I have some new pics of Nightshade up. URL is over in my profile, and two of her pics are in my scraps instead of the gallery.