Darkride - Laura Bradley Rede

Darkride By Laura Bradley Rede Smashwords Edition Copyright © 2011 Laura Bradley Rede All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder. Darkride is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed herein are fictitious and are not based on any real persons living or dead. Smashwords Edition, License Notes This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Chapter 1: Cicely The boy is a mystery to me. Zoe grins as she leans in to read over my shoulder. “Um, who are you writing about, Cicely?” I swivel away from her on the wooden bleachers, covering my words with my hand. “Hello? Who said you could read my notebook?” “Hello yourself,” says Zoe, “Friends don’t let friends keep secrets. So, spill. Who’s the mystery boy?” “No one,” I say, “It’s fiction.” But I can’t keep myself from glancing at Ander. He is standing alone on the running track that circles the playing fields below us. As I watch, he stretches his long legs into a lunge, his eyes focused on the track ahead. Zoe follows my gaze and laughs out loud. “Come on, you don’t mean Ander?” She shakes her head, her red-dyed pigtails bouncing. “Cicely, Ander does not qualify as a mystery man! For one thing, he is a total boy, completely what-you-see-is-what-you-get. For another, you two have been best buds for how long? Like, three years?” “Four,” I say, “Since I was twelve.” “And you can practically finish each other’s sentences. He’s like the goofy, jock-boy, other half of your brain. So where’s the mystery there?” “Nowhere” I say, “No mystery at all. So can we drop it?” Zoe’s eyes twinkle at me over the top of her cat-eye sunglasses. “I don’t know,” she says, “Can we?” “Yes.” I shut my notebook. “We can.” But I can’t. I know I can’t. There’s no use trying to explain it to Zoe—I can barely understand it myself. But the more I know about Ander, the more I have the sneaking suspicion that there’s something I don’t know. I pull my eyes away from him and stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. It’s the third week of October in Monument, Minnesota, birthplace of cold, and evening is coming on fast. The woods that stretch out beyond the playing fields are flecked with the red and gold of sunset on bright fall leaves. It’s barely evening, but lately the days die young. Most days around this time, Ander would be raiding our fridge, or salivating over a bacon double cheese-burger at Zoe’s dad’s café. But right now, for once, he isn’t thinking about food. His mind is completely focused on the run. I watch him crouch into position at the starting line. For a long second he stays coiled, tensed like an animal about to pounce. Then an imaginary starting gun sounds in his head, and he springs. Arms pumping, legs pressing, he tears down the track. This is the tenth time he’s run in the last half an hour, but you’d never know it to see him. He revels in his own speed, not the least bit tired of running. And I’m not tired of watching. Frankly, I like what I see. But Ander and I are best friends— and he’s made it pretty clear that’s all we’re ever going to be: friends. No matter how much I want to be more than that. No matter how much it sometimes seems like Ander wants to be more than that, too. Joking with Ander, play-fighting with Ander, splitting a sandwich with Ander—all that is

allowed. But just watching Ander is a luxury I can’t usually afford. If he ever caught me watching him like this, if he knew I was crushing on him, he’d get the look—sad, serious, closed. I hate that look more than anything, so I keep my crushing in check. But way up here in the bleachers, I let myself enjoy the view. Ander is tall, broad-shouldered, and muscled, built more like a football player than a runner. Off the track, you might expect him to be strong, but not fast, and certainly not graceful. And in everyday life, he’s not. I can’t count the number of times he has sloshed Mountain Dew on me, fumbled the dishes, capsized our canoe. But when he runs, everything changes. He’s wearing shorts and a t-shirt now, in spite of the cold, and with every stride I watch his muscles work. How does this overgrown puppy-boy, with his baseball mitt hands and his size zillion kicks, turn into a thing of beauty on the track? I don’t know. But somehow when he runs, the sloppy teenage boy is gone and something powerful and primal takes his place. Is he running from something? Or to it? I just wish he was running to me. Well, maybe today will be different. Ander rounds the final curve and flies into the straightaway. He presses a little harder once the finish line is in sight, putting on a completely unnecessary rush of speed that would leave anyone else in his wake. He bursts across the finish line and keeps going, full tilt, for a few more yards before finally, reluctantly, slowing to a jog. I don’t need a stop-watch to know his time was great. Ander’s the sort of athlete any coach would kill for—if he would only come to practice. Which he won’t. Ander slows to a walk, grabs his thermos from the bottom bleacher, and takes a long swig. “Gatorade.” Zoe shakes her head, “The guy is constantly sucking down the jock juice.” “Only because he can’t get it intravenous.” Ander’s addiction to Gatorade is well known. He’s basically never without it. Sipping it is like a nervous habit with him, and he never, ever shares. Ander’s slowly coming out of the zone. He looks up and notices us for the first time. I smile and give him a thumbs-up while Zoe golf claps. He breaks into a goofy grin and lopes in our direction. The sleek, fast animal is gone. My usual doofus is back. And you know? That’s fine with me. I tug my worn red hoodie a little tighter around me, shove my notebook in my bag, pick up my violin case, and make my way down the bleachers, my combat boots clonking on the wood. Zoe follows me, even more slowly, in her leopard-print platform clogs. “Zoe,” I say, “It’s like zero degrees. Why are you wearing those shoes?” “Duh,” She says, “They go with my coat!” This makes sense only in Zoe World, since the coat in question is lime green polyester, circa nineteen-seventy. It doesn’t go with her shoes, or with her cherry-red dress, or with her striped leggings, for that matter. But it does make my usual uniform—gray t-shirt, red hoodie, dark jeans, black boots—look boring as hell. Luckily, Ander’s not the sort to care what anyone wears. The sweat pants he’s pulling on over his shorts are gray and worn at the knees. The sweatshirt is a size too small. It strains over his shoulders. He tugs it on, then reaches out a hand to help first me, then Zoe, down the last step. “Hey.” He smiles. “Thanks for hanging around.” Zoe shoots me a glance. “Cissa wouldn’t have it any other way.” I give her the evil eye. “I stayed after to practice in the music room. Hence the violin.”

“That?” Ander scowls. “I thought that was an uzi.” I pick up the violin case and pretend to shoot him with it. He slaps a hand over his chest. “Bullseye. Right in the heart.” Yeah. I know how that feels. “And then,” says Zoe, “Cicely insisted we come hang out on the bleachers.” “Well,” I smile, “You know what a sports fan I am.” Ander laughs. “Who won the last World Series?” “America?” “Not even close.” I shrug. “All football teams look alike to me, what with the helmets and the grunting and the scoring goals.” “Touchdowns,” he says, “And the World Series? Baseball, by the way. And they’re all American teams.” “Totally false advertising then.” Ander shakes his head. “I know,” says Zoe, “The smartest girl I know, but sometimes…” “Okay,” I say, “You got me. Not so much a sports fan. I just came down to see if you wanted to walk home together.” Ander looks genuinely pleased. “Sure. Zoe, you coming?” Zoe shakes her head. “I’ll let you two have some alone time. I need to go get ready for my shift. Besides, you know I don’t walk through the woods.” I groan. “Are we back to the Monument Monster? Again?” “Cicely, it’s real! People have seen it!” “Drunk people,” I say, “People with big imaginations.” “Ander!” She cries,” Back me up!” Ander backs away instead. “I’m not getting in the middle of this one.” Zoe crosses her arms over her chest. “Well I, for one, believe.” “You believe in everything,” I remind her. “Reincarnation, aliens, Santa Claus—” “And you believe in nothing! I just don’t get it! You read constantly. You’re a musician. Shouldn’t you be more, I don’t know…intuitive or something?” I shrug. “I read, but I know fact from fiction. And music is really just math.” Zoe groans and throws her hands up in frustration. “I give up. How are we best friends?” “How do any of us put up with her?” Ander says. He’s stretching now, cooling down his muscles. He still looks exhilarated from the run. His pale blue eyes are glittery with adrenaline, his blond hair spiked with sweat. “But I should probably get home. I need to hit the showers.” “Yeah,” I say, “I wasn’t going to say anything but you have…man musk.” Ander laughs and spreads his arms wide to catch the crisp fall breeze. “Or I could just air dry.” I fake a little choke. “Could you stand down wind? I’m fond of breathing.” He gets a wicked glint in his eye. “Come here.” “No!” I back up a step, “No way!” But I don’t actually try to get away. Instead I stand there protesting as Ander wraps his strong arms around me and nearly crushes me in one of his signature bear hugs. He does smell like sweat—but in a good way. He smells like shampoo, too, and that other smell I can never place—something sweet like cloves, but spicy. I try to breathe it in even while I’m pretending to gag. I squirm and struggle against his grip, which is futile because Ander is much taller than me and extremely strong. There’s no way I could get away

from him, even if I wanted to. And of course I don’t want to. What I want is for this to be a real hug. What I want is to stand up on my tip toes and kiss Ander’s smiling lips, to let him pull me even closer against his chest, run my nails through his sweaty hair. But if I tried, Ander would run so fast, it would make his track time look like a stroll. I know this from experience. So I don’t even go there. “Zoe!” I yell, “Save me! It’s got me! The thing has got me!” Zoe laughs and waves me away with her hand. “You’re on your own with this one.” She winks at me over Ander’s shoulder. “I think you’re getting exactly what you deserve.” “Zoe!” I yell, “Wait!” But she’s already turned towards the parking lot. “Toodaloo, kid,” she calls over her shoulder. “Stop by the café if you want your free birthday latte.” Ander stops mid-tickle. “What? It’s your birthday?” I smack him. “You forgot?” He laughs. “Of course not. Sweet sixteen.” And never been kissed, I finish mentally. “Yes. So you should be nice to me.” “Sweet sixteen.” He seems to mull this over. “I should be nice to you.” His arms are still around me. His face, still flushed with laughing, is suddenly serious. My breath is ragged from struggling. It comes in little pants that make my chest rise and fall against his. His voice is husky. “I should be nice.” His blue eyes meet mine for an instant. Then he glances away. “And so I’ll let you go.” He releases me so quickly I stumble back a step. And he’s gone, a few long strides down the playing field before I’ve even recovered enough to follow. I have to run to catch up. “Hey,” I say, “I thought I was walking you home.” He nods, but doesn’t say anything. He reaches up one big hand to massage the tension at the base of his neck, right where his birthmark—a dark blotch, shaped like an uneven star—shows above his collar. Home is a sore spot for Ander. I let him walk in silence for a few moments before I say, “Um, is anything wrong?” “No,” he says, “Nothing.” “Good,” I say, “Because that would really bum out my birthday.” That brings him back a little. He slows until we’re in step, me taking two strides to every one of his. “That I wouldn’t want to do.” “So,” I say, “Home?” He forces a smile and grabs hold of the hood of my sweatshirt, flipping it up on my head. “Into the woods, Miss Hood.” It’s an old joke between us—red riding hood, because my red hoodie is my comfort item. Right now in the evening light, my nickname seems to fit better than ever. Our school grounds remind me of a fairy tale. St. Agnes school itself is nothing to look at—a big tan box. But the old church building beside it, the one that serves as our school’s chapel, is different. Some rich eccentric brought it here bit-by-bit a century ago, a piece of old Europe transplanted on the prairie. It looks like a tiny cathedral, its gray stone walls twisted with gargoyles and saints, demons and angels. Behind it sits the church cemetery, surrounded by a wrought iron fence. Its five rows of gravestones remind me of boney fingers reaching out to stroke the dark back of the woods. They are pointing our way to the path that leads from the playing fields into the forest, and right now, I’m perfectly happy to follow. I feel the shadows fall over me as the trees swallow us. Even the sound of my boots is

muffled by the layer of leaves that upholsters the forest floor. I breathe in the loamy scent, feeling calmer. Ander seems to feel better, too. He jogs a little ways ahead of me, then doubles back, highfiving the trees as he comes. “So,” he says, “Your birthday. What are you doing to celebrate?” I shrug. “You know, helicopter ride, movie premier, champagne toast at sunrise. The usual.” His eyes are full of sympathy. “Mom working, huh?” “For the caterers tonight, then she has a wedding to do tomorrow, so I’m sure she’ll be busy. But she might make a cake.” “Oh,” he sighs, “your mom’s cake! Damn, that’s good.” “She’s a pro,” I say. “So,” he says, “What are you going to wish for?” I’m suddenly glad for the shadowy darkness. It hides my blush. “Same thing I wished for last year.” “And you haven’t gotten it yet?” “No,” I say, “Not yet.” “Well,” he says, “Maybe this is your year.” Right now all I wish for is to be able to see the expression on his face, but the shadows hide it. Does he know I wished for him? Is there some hidden promise in his words? There can’t be. I mean, if he felt the same, why wouldn’t he just tell me? If he felt the same, why didn’t he kiss me back there, when his arms were already around me? He can’t feel the same. I put a little extra stomp in my boots, trying to crush out any spark of hope before it has the chance to catch. This is how I get hurt. We walk for a while in silence. What is he thinking, I wonder? His face is unreadable in the half-light. Trying to see him makes my eyes hurt, and trying to understand him makes my brain hurt. Being best friends with Ander is like doing long division in your head all day. It’s like trying to follow a foreign film without the subtitles. How can Zoe say he’s straightforward when I feel like everything he says is in secret code? The woods have begun to thin. Up ahead, through the trees, I can just see Ander’s house, as dark and elongated as the shadows around us. It’s the only house around, shielded by trees on every side. Ander used to joke that I was the “girl next door,” because my mom’s trailer is the next closest place, and we’re on the other side of the woods. Only the long gravel drive connects Ander’s house to County 13 and the rest of the world. Its gray paint is peeling and the porch sags, but there are yellow marigolds in the window boxes and a welcome mat by the front door. I wonder who that welcome is meant for. I’ve never been invited in. Without saying a word about it, we both stop a respectful distance from the yard, like there’s an invisible line I can’t cross. “Well,” Ander says, “I guess I should go in.” He looks up at the sky, then glances at the house. There’s a light on in the kitchen window. His uncle is home. “Yeah,” I say, “I guess you should.” But neither of us goes anywhere. Ander takes a little swig of Gatorade. I take a deep breath. I almost hate to ask him, because I know he’ll have to say no. His uncle never lets him go out. But I promised myself I’d ask him. It’s a new year and I’m starting it right. Now or never, Cicely. “Do you want to go out tonight?”

Chapter 2: Ander “Out?” I say, “With you?” Cicely’s cheeks are as red as her hoodie. “Do you see anyone else here?” No. No, I don’t. It’s just me and Cicely. Me and my closest friend. Me and the girl I like. More than like. Alone. “Ander?” She studies me. I hesitate, a second too long. Her gaze drops to the gravel at her feet. “Listen, never mind. I—I’ll see you tomorrow.” She starts to turn away and I can feel the moment slipping. Soon it will be lost like everything else. I can see the hurt in her eyes. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s seeing Cicely hurt. Especially when I’m the one doing the hurting. Which is pretty much always. Well, not tonight. “Wait!” I say. She stops but doesn’t face me. “What?” “I…” Deep breath. “I’d love to go out with you.” She turns back slowly. “But…?” I smile. “But nothing. I want to go out with you.” She studies me, suspicious. ”Won’t your uncle say no?” I can see the struggle on her face: wanting to be happy, not wanting to get hurt. Well, maybe she won’t be hurt this time. “Parole for good behavior, maybe?” I try to keep my voice light. “What, are you trying to talk me out of it now?” “No.” You should be, I think. “Good,” I say, “Then you let me worry about my uncle. You just worry about where you want to go.” “Seriously?” I hold my hand up. “Scout’s honor.” A slow smile dawns on her face. She has such a great smile. “I think that’s the Vulcan sign. You know, ‘live long and prosper.’” “Even better,” I say. “So where to, oh sixteen-year old?” “Well, oh seventeen-year old, my mom is working but she isn’t taking the car so if you don’t mind driving—” “You only like me for my license.” “Well, how else are we getting anywhere?” “There’s my bike,” I say. Cicely frowns. She is not a motorcycle girl. “Anyways,” she says, “You want to… go to a movie?” Go to a movie. It sounds like the most normal thing in the world. How can going to a movie possibly be too much to ask? I take a nervous sip from my Gatorade bottle. The familiar taste of

the potion warms my throat. It tastes like hot mulled cider—if you mixed it with lemon-scented Pledge. Not exactly delicious, but I don’t care because it works—better than any other combination we’ve tried. Two months without an unpredicted turn. You can do this, I tell myself. After all, we were inches away from a kiss just now at school and Cicely walked away unharmed. “Um, Ander?” She’s looking at me doubtfully again. I realize I haven’t spoken. “I was just thinking…” I say, “You aren’t going to want to see a chick flick, are you?” She laughs, relieved. “I’ll let you choose.” “Well, in that case. Pick you up at, say, eight?” “Sure,” she says, “It’s a date.” Her voice is intentionally casual, but when she looks up at me, I can see the question in her eyes. Is this a date? I look her in the eye. “It’s a date.” Her smile widens. “See you then.” She turns and walks away, quickly, as if she’s afraid I might change my mind, say “psyche,” take it all back. And I should. I know I should. But I don’t. Instead, I watch her as she walks back towards the path, a little more bounce in her step than there was just a minute ago. At the edge of the tree line she stops, turns, and waves at me. Then she turns back again and her red-hooded figure is swallowed by the woods. I stifle a sudden pang of worry. I always worry about Cicely, especially when she is out of my sight—which is stupid when you stop to think about it. Cicely is actually safest away from me. The only monster in the woods is right here. Which is why I should never, ever have said yes. The reality of what I’ve done is beginning to sink in. Four years of pretending I’m not interested in Cicely, and I’ve undone it all with one little yes. Sure, the potion is working a little better—maybe even a lot better. I feel like I can keep it under control. But would I bet my life on it? No. And it isn’t even my life I’m betting. I know what Michael would say. “Don’t get cocky. Don’t get comfortable. Don’t drop your guard.” If he had any idea that I promised to go out with Cicely, he would declare my judgment completely fucked and I’d lose everything I’ve earned in the last few months: the unsupervised afternoons, the running, and most of all, the time with Cicely. Which is why I have to go in the house right now and act like nothing happened. Saying yes to Cicely might not have been the smartest thing I’ve ever done, but I’ll deal with it on my own. I walk onto the sagging front porch and rap on our front door. I know they are both home— Michael’s big white van is parked beside Danny’s rusty, orange Toyota—but I also know Michael will have the place locked up. "Who’s there?" Michael asks from the other side of the door. As if he can’t smell me. "It’s me,” I say. I hear the scraping of the locks as Michael undoes each one. Four of them. There are four on the outside, too, just in case. Michael opens the door. Even though he probably just got up, he’s already impeccably dressed in his usual dark suit and crisp white shirt, his black hair neatly combed. “Ander,” he says, “Come in.” I walk past him, catching a whiff of his scent mixed with the incense from the little Buddhist altar in the corner and the smell of eggs frying in the kitchen. “How are you?” he asks. It’s never a casual question. Michael is already studying me, his dark eyes taking a practiced inventory. "I'm fine," I say, a little defensive. He nods cautiously. “You look fine.” He wrinkles his nose. “A bit… sporty, perhaps.”

“And you look like you’re dressed for a funeral,” I say. “What’s your point?” “It doesn’t hurt to look respectable for work.” Even if your work’s not that respectable, I think. He takes hold of my hand, pressing his cool fingers against my wrist to take my pulse. It’s a totally unnecessary move—Michael could probably hear my pulse from a few feet away if he made the effort—and I wish he wouldn’t do it. His touch makes every muscle in my body tense. I've been living with Michael for six years, but I still can't get used to letting a vampire touch me. Just the thought of him feeling the blood pounding under the skin…I take a deep breath and let it out, willing myself to stay calm. It won't do me any good to get worked up. If I seemed unstable, Michael might stay home from work tonight, and then there’d be no chance of taking Cicely out. The thought of Cicely sends another rush of adrenaline through me. Michael scowls. "Your pulse is high. Is the new potion not holding its own?" I take my hand back. "I've been running is all." Michael regards me for a long moment. "If the potion isn’t working, Ander—if you’ve developed a tolerance, or if something’s happened to stress it—" "Michael, let the kid off the hook. He's cool." Danny comes into the kitchen balancing a tray full of bacon, eggs, and toast. He looks much more like someone who just got up. He’s still in his t-shirt and yoga pants, his dreadlocks pulled back in a loose knot. There’s a bruise on his throat, mostly hidden by the deep brown of his skin. "He’s just worked up about breakfast." "I am now," I say. The smell of the bacon is enough to make me drool. “Although you do know that normal folks have breakfast in the morning.” Danny laughs. "Normal is overrated. Go on, take a seat.” But I know better than to move on without Michael’s seal of approval. "Can I?" Michael nods. “You pass.” I can tell he still has some reservations. His vamp instincts must be working overtime. But, as usual, his mood has softened now that Danny is in the room. Michael seats himself at the head of the kitchen table. He takes a paper napkin from the pile and places it formally in his lap. “So,” he says, “Tell us about your day." I shrug and swing a chair around backwards to straddle it. Michael gives me a look and I swing it around again, right. "Nothing much to tell. School was all right. Ran afterwards.” I pause. “Cissa walked me home." Michael and Danny exchange a little look. “And how is Miss Cicely Watson?" "She's fine," I say. “She stayed late to walk with you?” Michael doesn’t look up from buttering his toast, but I can hear the mistrust in his voice. “She stayed late to practice violin.” Danny grins. “Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Michael frowns. “Don’t even joke.” “We kids, huh? You know you’re only ten years older than me, right?” “Age is meaningless.” He gives Michael’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze as he passes behind him, on his way back to the kitchen. Danny doesn’t ever sit for long. “You have to say that,” I say, “You’re bonded to an old man.” “May-December romance,” Danny sing-songs from the kitchen. “What’s a couple of centuries in the face of love? I’m an old soul.” He glides back into the kitchen, smiling, and sets a glass of orange juice down in front of Michael. “Thank you.” But Michael’s attention is still on me. “Age is meaningless in some cases. But not…” he looks pointedly at me, “…in others. And when you’re seventeen, it is sometimes very

hard to resist temptation, even if you know the consequences.” “Please,” I say, “Not the talk. Not again.” “I just think it bears repeating, Ander. No matter how good a potion may be—” “And the ones Michael makes are really good,” Danny adds. “—it has its limitations. And aside from the full moon, the thing most likely to make you change is what?” I sigh. “Passion. Anger. Lust. But—” “All the things teenage relationships are full of. It only takes one slip—” “I know. I know.” My life is like a fairy tale, in reverse. In fairy tales, a kiss can turn a beast into a prince, but with me it’s the other way around. One kiss can wake the wolf. “Oh, Michael, let him be.” Danny smiles at me sympathetically. “They were only walking home. The kid’s gotta have friends, right? I mean, why are we doing all this—the potions, the school—if not to have a normal life?” Yes, I think, if you want to call this normal. Danny wouldn’t know normal if it bit him. “Besides,” says Danny, “I really like Cicely.” “So do I,” Michael says, “That’s why I’m giving this speech.” I take another swig of potion, then help myself to another heaping plateful of bacon and eggs. I shovel a hot forkful into my mouth before anyone can ask me any more questions about my day. Even with all the practice I've had in the past six years, I am still not great at keeping secrets. If we chat too much about Cicely, I’m likely to accidentally remind them of her birthday. Then they might guess we have plans and I know where that will lead: lockdown. We eat in silence for a while—or, rather, I eat. Michael picks politely at his food. He can eat human food just fine, but he tends not to. He has more than enough opportunity to feed at work. He’s only eating now because he knows Danny loves to feed him. Of course, like all thralls, Danny is happiest being the meal, not cooking it, but Michael and Danny don’t do feedings in front of me. Instead we do this family-at-the-dinner-table thing, which is, in some ways, equally weird. “You aren’t eating enough,” Michael says to Danny. “You’re working tonight. You need your protein.” Danny takes another mouthful of egg before waltzing back to the kitchen, taking away dishes, fetching more Tabasco sauce for the eggs, making breakfast look like a choreographed routine. More than once, I catch Michael watching him with the loving, appreciative look that always makes me feel like a third wheel. Danny catches it, too, and puts a little extra sashay in his dancer’s walk, batting his long lashes at Michael as he clears his things away. They’re devoted to each other, of course. They pretty much have to be. They’re a bonded vampire and thrall. Their lives depend on each other. And my life depends on them. Because if it weren’t for Michael’s centuries of experience with potions, I’d never stand a chance of living in human society. Heck, I probably wouldn’t stand a chance of living at all, and if I did, it would be as a monster, not a passing-for-ordinary teenager. This house is the closest thing I have to a home now and Michael and Danny are the closest thing I have to a family. So, even though my whole childhood I was brought up to think of bonding as disgusting, I make it work. And even though this house is strange—with the locks on the doors and the bars on the bedroom windows, with Michael’s Buddhist altar and his library full of books, and Danny’s canary-yellow kitchen—I try to be grateful. After all, when I met Michael, he was living in a four-by-six cage. I know that, if things were a little different, that could be me.

“You’re quiet.” Danny studies me as he pours me my third glass of juice. “What’s on your mind?” “Nothing.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me, and I’m relieved when the phone rings. “I’ll get it,” I say quickly, half hoping it’s Cicely. But Michael stops me. “Don’t,” he says, “It’s Five.” Danny looks up from the egg sandwich he’s been making for himself. “You’d think it was you who was the psychic and not her! How can you be sure it’s Five?” “Only because she’s called three times already.” Danny’s expression is suddenly serious. “Did she see something?” “She won’t say. I mean, she’s had a vision, but she won’t say what it is unless we pay her.” “How much?” “Too much.” I look guiltily at my nearly empty plate. It’s my fault we’re always out of money. Between the cost of my potions and my school tuition, I’m the reason we’re always broke. That and the fact that I’m literally eating us out of house and home. Well, not at the moment. My appetite’s gone. The bacon and eggs in my stomach seem to be tying themselves in knots. What if Five had a vision of me sneaking out? What if she’s calling to tell Michael that I plan to break the rules and go on a date? What if she’s seen me hurt Cicely tonight? The phone stops ringing. "I’m sure it’s nothing,” Michael says. “You remember last time. We paid her and she had no specifics. The vision was practically useless.” “Still,” says Danny, “What if this is different? Maybe we should come up with the cash, dip into the emergency funds—” “No.” Michael’s tone is final. He considers the emergency fund sacred. That’s our run money, he always says. We’ll need it if we ever have to leave in a hurry. The thought of it makes me feel cold. Danny is up and bustling around the table, clearing away the dishes like they’ve personally offended him. He bangs the serving spoon into the frying pan with a loud clatter. “She has some nerve, charging you! Where the hell would she be without you two? Still locked up in a Hunter’s compound, being experimented on and—” “She doesn’t owe me anything,” I say. It’s tempting to rewrite history and pretend I’m just the guy who set Five and Michael free, but the truth is, I’m part of the reason they were there in the first place. “You were just a kid. You weren’t responsible,” Danny reminds me kindly. I nod, but I don’t really agree, I just want the subject closed. Danny wasn’t there. He doesn’t get it. Michael does. He’s been there since the beginning. Which makes it hard to lie to him. “So,” Michael says, leaning back in his chair, “I assume you’re in for the night?” I glance at the clock. Two hours until eight. Two hours before I’m supposed to be locked in my room. Two hours before I’m supposed to pick Cicely up for our first date. I think about Cicely, waiting for me. “Yeah,” I say, “I’m in.”

Chapter 3: Luke “Is that the girl?” I ask, although I know it is. I can smell it. “It is, my lord.” Marcus shifts uneasily beside me. “Cicely Watson. But I don’t think—” “Good.” I smile at him. “You shouldn’t. But you should stop calling me ‘my lord.’” “Yes my—Master Luke.” “Just Luke,” I say, “While we’re here.” “About that.” Marcus runs a nervous hand through his short brown hair. “Do you think it’s wise for you to be here, so close to her?” “Why would it be unwise?” “It’s just that the ceremony is still days away. Shouldn’t we wait until closer to the hour?” “It isn’t like seeing the bride before the wedding.” I am busy watching the girl. She is almost parallel to us now on the little path that snakes through the woods. She is wearing an over-shirt with a hood the red of a bright Autumn leaf. Her pants are dark. Her boots look like they should belong to a man. None of it is anything Deirdre would wear. Her face is probably nothing like Deirdre’s, either, although I can’t be sure. Her hood is up, hiding her features. “It’s just…I don’t think Queen Constanza would approve if she knew we were here.” Marcus’ voice is barely a whisper, as if he thinks just saying the queen’s name will somehow bring her here. “Which is exactly why we won’t tell her.” I fix him with a meaningful look. His gaze skates to the ground. “Of course, sir.” I turn my attention back to the girl. A thorn by the side of the path catches the leg of her pants and she bends to free it, her long, dark hair spilling forward to hide her face. She reaches up and tucks a lock back into her hood. For the briefest second I see a flash of her white skin, her cheek, the curve of her ear. “What is she wearing in her ear?” I ask, trying to distract myself. “Headphones. She is listening to music.” “Music.” Perhaps that explains the happy bounce in her walk, the way she swings the violin case at her side. She is light on her feet in spite of the heavy boots. I tilt my head to the side, straining to hear the song, but catch only the soft pounding of a drum, like a heartbeat. “Recorded music. A phonograph.” “In a manner of speaking.” “She can’t hear us then,” I say, and take a few steps closer. Marcus catches hold of my arm. “You mustn’t!” “Quitalo!” He lets go of my arm, but his voice is still pleading. “Please.” It amuses me to tease him. I point down to my feet. “Aren’t these shoes called sneakers? What good are they if I don’t get to sneak?” I take a few more exaggeratedly sneaky steps. Marcus follows. “What if she sees us?” I shrug. “Well, what if she does?” Marcus looks ordinary enough in his sweater and pants— jeans, they are called. He has told me my clothes are formal for a boy “my age,” but they would

still pass. We could easily be young humans of sixteen or seventeen. Marcus must have been about that when he died, and the torpor has kept me from aging. “I want to have a closer look.” I start to follow the girl, moving silently through the undergrowth. Marcus trails me reluctantly, whispering. “You’ve only just woken. Your hunger must be intense. And with all due respect, your self-control will not be at its best. If you were to yield to temptation and take the girl too soon—” I spin soundlessly and grab him by the throat. My voice, however, is calm. “Do you take me for an idiot?” He shakes his head as best he can. “No,” he chokes, “No!” I tighten my grip. “No, master.” “No, master!” He doesn’t try to fight. He wouldn’t win if he did. Marcus is ancient for his kind. I let him go. “Good.” He rubs his throat. “I have no intention of killing the girl too soon. I am perfectly aware that her death would be meaningless outside of the ceremony. I’m not about to squander our only chance at a cure.” “I understand. You would not kill her. But even if you only took a taste…no one would blame you, my lord, but under the circumstances, the risk of bonding would be so high. And given your…history…” “My history has nothing to do with it. I have no intention of bonding with her. I have no intention of even biting her. I simply wish to see where she lives, while she lives.” The girl is turning off the main path onto an even smaller trail. At the end of it, where the trees thin, I can see a small metal box of a house, and beyond that must be the road. I can hear a car rush past. The air here is saturated with the sickly-sweet scent of human food baking. A clothes-line is strung between the trees not far from the house. I watch Cicely walk past it, her figure momentarily silhouetted in front of the clean, white sheets. She has a lovely silhouette, small and slight, but strong. I cannot help but admire it. Then the sheets billow towards us as the wind shifts and all admiration is washed from my mind as her scent spills over me, momentarily overpowering even the scent of the human food. I shut my eyes and drink it in: Warm. Salty. Thick. Four or five yards separate me from the girl, at most. That could be bridged in a matter of seconds. She would certainly try to run into her house, but humans are so slow, and wearing those heavy boots…or she might not even get the chance to run. Listening to her phonograph, she might not hear me until I was on her. Then I could take her easily, run her down like a wolf runs a deer. I could be on top of her before she knew it, my teeth finding the sweet spot on her neck where her pulse races close under thin white skin, her heart pounding hard under my weight. I can almost feel the pop of fangs puncturing flesh, the warm rush of blood filling my mouth, warm liquid seasoned with cold revenge… “Master Luke?” Marcus sounds afraid. But I’m not watching him. I’m watching Cicely Watson. Some instinct has made her pause at her front door, as if she can feel the intensity of my gaze. She turns and peers into the shadows and, although I know she cannot see us, I can see her perfectly. And what I see stops me in my tracks. Her full lips. The puzzled crease of her brow. The way she tilts her head to remove a white cord from her ear and listens. It’s uncanny. “Master Luke? Is something wrong?”

I lick my lips and force the fangs to retract. My voice is hoarse. “I didn’t expect her to look so much like Deirdre.” I almost say like my Deirdre, but of course that’s ridiculous. Deirdre was never mine. “Well, yes.” Marcus looks confused, “The ceremony only works because they are of the same bloodline.” Bloodline. The mere mention of the word “blood” makes my throat burn. Marcus is right, I think, I am tempting fate. History repeats itself, they say. “Of course,” I say, “I knew that. I think we should go.” “Yes, of course,” He looks endlessly relieved. “You need to hunt. We have plenty of time before dawn.” He sets off quickly, obviously eager to put distance between us and the girl. But I watch for a moment more, until she disappears into the little house, letting the screen door slap shut behind her. “I’ll see you again, Miss Watson,” I whisper, “And soon.” Her bloodline brought death to mine, and I will return the favor. But the ceremony is still a week away and I am going to make the most of the time. Because it’s not enough to make her heart stop beating. I intend to break it first.

Chapter 4: Cicely “Mom!” I yell, “I’m home!” I don’t really need to yell, since our trailer isn’t very big. It also isn’t very new and, with my mother working as much as she does, it doesn’t even qualify as very clean. But it smells delicious. I take a deep breath. “It smells like cake in here!” My mother comes out of the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her paisley dress, her frizzy blond hair—so not like mine—pulled back under an old bandana. “Baby! What time is it? I totally lost track!” She catches me up in a hug, and for a second, I’m surrounded by her scent: frosting and butter and patchouli. I breathe it in as she stands back to brush the streaks of flour off my sweatshirt. “How was your birthday?” “Fine,” I say, although fine doesn’t begin to cover it. What should I say? Startling? Remarkable? Borderline miraculous? All the way home, I’ve been running the instant replay of my conversation with Ander, lingering in slow-mo over the last, crucial seconds, when he says “It’s a date.” I’m tempted to tell my mom all about it, just to make it seem more real. But Mom will never believe Ander’s uncle would let him go out, and she’d never be okay if she knew Ander planned to sneak out to meet me. So I keep my birthday plans to myself. Instead I say, “The cake smells great!” My mother’s brow furrows. “About that, sweetie. What you’re smelling are the cupcakes for my catering job. They called this afternoon to order three dozen more, and I ran late at the bakery…” She sighs. “The thing is, honey, I didn’t get a chance to make your cake yet. Oh, Cissa! I’m so sorry.” I force a smile. “Hey,” I say, “No big deal.” “Well, it is a big deal! You’re turning sixteen! And I promise tomorrow we’ll go out and do something—” “Mom,” I say, “It’s cool.” We both know we can’t afford to go out and do much of anything. The salad bowl on the coffee table is full of unpaid bills. The paying jobs have to come before anything else. But my mother is wringing her hands. “It’s just that I know how the other kids at your school celebrate their sixteenth birthdays. I mean, I worked that Lyla Jansen’s sweet sixteen just last week. She got a car, Cicely! A convertible!” I shrug. “I knew what I was getting into.” St. Agnes is the only private prep school around and it draws in every rich kid in the county. When I applied for my scholarship, I knew I would be one of the only poor kids there. “I just wish we could afford to buy you things, is all.” My mother sits down heavily on our sagging couch and I hear the springs creak. “If I really wanted anything,” I say hopefully, “I could always get a job.” My mother looks at me sternly. “And sacrifice study time? You’ve got to keep that scholarship, hon. And there’s college applications next year, and you have to keep up with the music.” She gives my violin case a loving pat. “I don’t want you to let that go, just because we can’t spring for lessons right now.” “I’m not letting anything go.”

She smiles. “I know. When have you ever? But that’s the other thing, Cicely. You have to have a little free time to be a teenager.” “Zoe has a job,” I remind her for the thousandth time. “Her father owns the café,” she says. “That’s different. And Ander doesn’t have a job.” “That’s different, too.” She knows as well as I do Ander’s uncle would never let him get a job. And Ander probably couldn’t keep a job if he had one. My mother sighs. “I didn’t want to talk about jobs. I was just trying to say I wish I could buy you something nice.” She’s trying to be sweet, but she’s bringing me down from my asked-out-by-Ander high. I sigh, too. “And I’m trying to say I don’t care about presents. I don’t care that there’s no cake. I —” “Oh, I never said there wasn’t any cake!” My mother is up off the couch and bustling to the kitchen. “I just said I couldn’t make you one special! Here, clear me a spot on the coffee table, would you?” “A spot for what?” But she’s already out of the room. I can hear her clanking around in the kitchen while I push aside last Sunday’s paper, stack the dirty coffee cups, and shift a few of my mother’s romance novels onto the couch along with the salad bowl full of unopened envelopes. A bill marked “final notice” in bold red letters slides out of the stack. I slip it back into the bottom of the pile. “Ta-da!” My mother is standing in the doorway holding a three-layer cake on a wooden platter. It is white with pale pink roses so perfectly made they almost look real. On top sit a plastic bride and groom. “Mom,” I say, “A wedding cake? You do know I’m not getting married, right?” “And neither is the couple who ordered the cake! They called the bakery today to say tomorrow’s wedding is off. Something about the groom and the maid of honor.” She wiggles her eyebrows suggestively and sets the cake down in front of me with a flourish. “Happy sweet sixteen, baby!” I laugh. “What does it say? Eternal Love?” My mother sighs. “Sadly, not everything written in frosting holds true. But,” she brightens, “No downers today! Today, we celebrate!” She hurries back into the kitchen and comes back with a pair of paper plates and a couple of forks. Then she cuts a thick wedge of cake from the top layer, plops it on my plate, and hands it to me with a flourish. “Have your cake and eat it, too —at least once in a while. Life gets serious enough, soon enough. When you’re sixteen you should have fun, go to parties, go out on dates! These are the only teenage years you’re gonna get, sweetie.” “Thank God.” For a second I’m tempted to tell her I am going out on a date, an actual date, tonight. But what if she went parental and told Ander’s uncle he planned to sneak out? I’ve waited four years for this date and I can’t stand the thought of it falling through. My mother has taken the little plastic groom off the cake and she is now licking the frosting off his little plastic shoes. I pick up my piece of cake. She has given me most of the word “Love,” written in curling, flowery script. I start to take a bite. “Stop! Stop! Your wish!” I sigh. “But there are no candles.” “We’ll pretend. Just close your eyes.” “Mother…don’t you have to deliver those cupcakes?” “Pretend, Cicely! Eyes shut!”

I shut my eyes. My mother takes my cake and sets it on the table. Then she takes both my hands in hers. “Now,” she says quietly. “Wish.” “I wish I could eat my cake,” I say. She smacks the back of my hand. “Wish!” “Okay, okay!” I take a deep breath. An hour ago, I knew exactly what to wish for: the same thing I wished for last year, the same thing I wish for every year. All I wanted was for Ander to ask me out. Now, the impossible has happened, and I find I’ve never really thought about what to wish for next. “I wish…” I say, “I wish…” I wish for eternal love. I open my eyes, already feeling silly. Eternal love is probably about as real as the Monument Monster. That’s what I’ve always told myself. But after what happened with Ander tonight…I want to be proven wrong. My mother is smiling at me. “There,” she says, “Was that so hard?” “No.” I smile back at her. “Now, is it time for cake?” “Time!” My mother jumps up. “Oh, God, look at the time! I told Erica I’d bring the cupcakes by eight! Cissa, will you put the cake away when you’re done, and tidy up, maybe do those dishes? I have to shower, get changed, load the car—” “Wait,” I say, “You’re taking the car? I thought Erica was driving.” “Her car is in the shop. I said I could drive.” So much for Ander driving our car. We’ll have to be here instead. Ander’s at our house all the time, but not at night, just the two of us. That sounds infinitely better than a movie. And infinitely scarier, too. Breathe. It’s only Ander. Nothing to be afraid of. “I’m sorry I didn’t make dinner,” My mother is searching through the clutter, probably trying to find her keys. “There’s still a frozen pizza in the fridge, and there’s the cake—” “I’ll be fine. I’ll whip myself up something gourmet. In the genes, you know.” We always joke about the genes. Since I’m adopted, we don’t actually share any genes, which is maybe why my mom is a great cook and I can barely boil water. “I have to help with clean-up, too, so I’ll probably be out late. But I’ll make you your favorite tomorrow. Since the wedding is off, we’ll have a girls’ day, okay? Or you can come along tonight if you like, help with set-up, hang out…” I shrug. “I may go by the café. Say hi to Zoe.” “Okay,” she says, “I’ll drop you there on my way.” I shake my head. “I have to get some stuff done first. I’ll just walk later.” She stops bustling and frowns. “I’m not sure you should. There was another girl missing, it was on the news last night…” “What have I told you about watching the news?” I give her a reassuring smile. “This isn’t Minneapolis. It’s Monument, and—” “Nothing monumental happens here,” she finishes. “Okay, but still. It’s supposed to storm later. I wouldn’t want you caught in it.” “Mom,” I say, “I’ll be fine.” She eyes me, still worried. “Are you sure?” “I’m sure.” In fact, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. Because soon Ander will arrive. Soon our first official date will begin and everything will change. The thought sends a nervous thrill up my spine. I swallow it down with a big, sweet forkful of cake. “Better than fine. I’ll be great.”

Chapter 5: Ander “Good night, Ander.” Danny says it like it like it’s an apology. He hates locking me in. “Good night.” I open the door just a bit, enough for Danny to see I’m wrapped in a towel. “I’m just going to hit the shower and go to bed.” I try to sound casual, but really, I’m holding my breath, hoping if Danny sees I’m undressed, he won’t insist on coming in. “Sounds like a plan.” Through the opening I can see him. He’s dressed for work in his tight black jeans, his locks pulled back. Under his arm he’s carrying a huge pair of feathery white wings. I nod towards them. “Nice wings.” “You like those?” Danny smiles. “For the new Halloween show. They’re a bitch to dance in.” “I can imagine,” I say, “Or, I mean, I could, but I really don’t want to.” Danny sighs. “I know. You hate my shop talk.” “Let’s just say the bar’s not my cup of tea. Or, you know, cup of whatever.” “Yeah, I know.” He nods sympathetically. “Michael and I will be back at about five, as usual.” He grins, “My nine-to-five job!” “You do know that when most people say that, they mean nine a.m. to five p.m. and not the other way around?” He laughs. “But we’re so not most people!” Yeah, I think, not like that’s a good thing. “Right. Well, have fun—I mean,” I add quickly, “Not too much fun. Be careful. Have they figured out what’s with the people going missing?” Danny shrugs. “Regular human stuff maybe? Or someone passing through? There have been more undead than usual at the bar…” I growl, just a little. “Nothing to get worked up over. I’m sure it will pass. The question is,” he peers at me through the half-open door, “Are you going to be okay?” Now he’s looking concerned. Not about the disappearances—Danny is never concerned enough about things like that—just about me. I shouldn’t have brought it up. Not if I want him to leave. “Yeah, I’ll be fine. I mean, if you stop letting in that draft.” He laughs. “I should let you get in the shower. Have a good night, honey.” “Yeah,” I say, “You, too.” “Oh, you know I always do!” He waves at me with an angel wing, “See you tomorrow!” The door clicks shut and I hear the scrape of the deadbolt being locked from the outside, followed by the clunk of the other two locks and the whir of the padlock. Usually the sound of the locks gives me a hopeless feeling in the pit of my stomach but tonight I feel a thrill race through me. He’s not going to come in and check the windows! I stand completely still, listening to Danny’s footsteps on the stairs, then to the sound of the front door shutting and locking behind him. His aging Toyota starts on the second try and I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel drive. Then nothing. Danny has left the building. Which means I am alone. Michael left right after dinner to set up for tonight’s shift—luckily,

or there’s no way I could get out tonight. Michael is a million times more careful than Danny. He would never let a window go unchecked. I am standing in the middle of my bedroom. Technically my room is a prison, but at least it’s a really big one. I got the largest room in the house—the “master suite”, I guess you’d call it— because I needed to have a bedroom with a bath attached, for when I’m locked in at night. The room looks even bigger than it actually is because it’s almost completely empty. The only furniture is a thin futon lying on the floor in the corner, the only “decorations” are the bars on the two bedroom windows. They are the sort of bars most people put on the outside of their windows to keep burglars out, but mounted on the inside so I can’t get at the glass. Michael will have to replace them again soon, I think. They are already getting bent. I walk into my bathroom. It’s empty, too, except for the sweats I sleep in (which Danny has left folded neatly on the back of the toilet) and the clothes I chose for tonight, which I stashed under the sink, along with my sneakers and my water bottle full of potion. I pick the clothes up and carefully shake them out. The jeans are black like the t-shirt, and the sweater is charcoal gray. I chose it for warmth—I knew I couldn’t move my jacket up here without someone noticing—and because I wanted colors that would blend in with the woods so I wouldn’t be seen. But I’m hoping it will look okay, too, since in a very short time I will be picking Cicely up for our first official date. I throw on the clothes, which, thankfully, fit pretty good—surprising, considering the fact that all my clothes are second hand. The way I destroy them, there’s no point buying anything new. I clip my bottle of potion to my belt loop and towel off my hair, then spend a few minutes staring at the mirror, wishing I could shave. Nobody gets five-o’clock shadow like a lycanthrope, but Michael doesn’t exactly let me keep razor blades in my bathroom, so the scruffy look it is. I brush my teeth and call it done. Now to get out of the house. I eye the window above the toilet. It isn’t very big, but it is bare. Michael wanted to put bars on it, but Danny convinced him not to. He said there had to be some way to get into the room and save me in the case of a fire. Plus, he said, the window was far too small for the wolf to fit through so there wasn’t any danger of me using it to escape after a change. Michael tried to argue with him: if there was a fire, he said, I was bound to get panicked and change, so there was no hope of saving me anyway. This upset Danny so much he teared up, and Michael really can’t say no to him when he cries, so the window stayed un-barred. After all, Michael said, it’s a second story window. There’s not much chance I could jump from that height in human form without breaking my neck. Well, I guess we’ll see about that. Carefully, I loop one end of the rope around the base of the toilet and tie it in a complex knot, just the way my father taught me. I give it a strong tug to test whether it will hold my weight. The last thing I need is to break a pipe or something. But the toilet doesn’t budge, so I climb up onto the lid and wrench the window open. Ordinarily, it’s locked at night but unlocked during the day to get a little ventilation because, frankly, werewolves smell like dogs. It creaks so loudly that I am grateful there is no one else in the house to hear it. I push the screen up and feel a breath of cold night air rush in. Something in the atmosphere has shifted since Cicely walked me home. A storm is rolling in and the air is charged with it. The metallic scent of ozone makes my nostrils tingle. I unclip the bottle of potion and take a long swallow. Breathe. Then I climb up onto the toilet back, praying it will hold my weight. Still holding onto the rope, I stick one leg out the window,

half straddling the sill, so I can feel the cold October breeze on my ankle. Taking a deep breath, I turn and stick the other leg out with it. Then I twist my hips around in the tight window frame, rolling over on my stomach so the bottom half of me is out the window, my top half still in. The wind whips through my jeans. The rope in my hands is taut. I glance over my shoulder. In the dark I can just make out the ground, far below. My foot knocks something loose from the side of the house and I hear it skitter down into the darkness. If I fall, I could break something. If I break something, I will change. Right now, this minute, I could climb back in and forget the whole thing. Bail on Cicely’s birthday. Make up a good excuse tomorrow. She would probably be very understanding. But she’d never give me another chance. Clutching the rope tight in both hands, feet braced against the house, I begin to lower myself slowly, hand over hand, out the window. It isn’t graceful. The soles of my sneakers scrape on the wood clapboards and the rough rope burns my palms. But I can do it—in fact, it’s a little easier than I thought it would be. This is exactly the sort of thing I trained for when I was a kid, and the added strength that comes from being a lycanthrope helps. Of course, if I changed, I could just jump. But I’m not going to change. Breathe. Just a few more feet. I lower myself just a little further. Then I jump. I land in a crouch on one of Danny's hostas. Oops. Instinctively I glance in both directions to make sure no one is around, but of course no one is. That’s the whole point of living where we do: no neighbors to see us come and go, no dogs to freak out when I pass, no one close enough to hear the howling in the night. I look up at the lighted window above me. The rope dangles, swaying slightly in the breeze. I wish there was some way to yank it down, to leave no trace of my escape, but of course that’s silly. I’m going to need it to get back in. I put my hand to my hip like a cowboy checking his gun. The bottle of "Gatorade" is still there and reassuringly full. I take a quick swig, then set off walking around the corner of the house, headed for the woods. I’m tempted to stop by the garage first and check on my motorcycle, just because sometimes being around it sort of calms me down and right now my nerves are jangling like Danny’s little wind chimes. But I’ve got to get to Cicely’s. Six crunching strides and the gravel drive is behind me. Seven and I’m in the trees, the darkness around me suddenly a few shades darker—and my mood suddenly a few shades lighter. I’m doing it! I’m actually out of the house, on my way to take Cicely out on our first date. The thought makes me so happy—freaks me out so bad—I just want to run, tear out, turn down the anxious chatter of my mind until it’s just background static behind the steady thump of my sneakers. Speed and strength are some of the only advantages to being a werewolf, and reveling in them is sometimes the only way to take my mind off all the disadvantages. The wind is whipping from the west and the forest smells rich with the storm that’s coming. It has been a long time since I’ve had the chance to run at night. But I’m not going to do it now. Running will only put me in an animal state of mind, and I need to be as human as…well, as human as inhumanly possible. I turn away from the shadowy woods and place myself firmly on the path. I will walk to Cicely’s house. Calmly. It isn’t easy. Sipping my potion, putting one foot in front of the other, I try to focus on Cicely. For four years, she’s been right there beside me yet completely out of reach. I would probably have dropped out of school if it wasn’t for wanting to see her every day. Everything I’ve done to control my lycanthropy, all the horrible-tasting potions, the herbs that made me sick,

the hours of meditation practice with Michael, have all been about wanting to spend more time with her, wanting to keep her safe, wanting to be someone she would want to be with. There have been times at the end of a change when I’ve wanted to just stay wolf, to give myself over to it completely and let what’s left of my weak little human mind wander off into the woods forever, because coming back was just too painful and the wolf was just too strong. But I’ve forced myself to stay tied to this human world because it’s Cicely’s world. Without her, there wouldn’t be a me any more. I’m human because I love her. I’ve never told anyone that. Michael and Danny would freak out if they knew how strongly I feel about her. And I certainly couldn’t tell Cicely. What good would it do, when nothing can ever happen between us? How fair would that really be? Up until tonight, I had resigned myself to keeping quiet forever. But tonight I’m feeling strong in a way that has nothing to do with the super-human strength of the wolf. Tonight I feel like anything is possible. Tonight I feel good. Smiling, I take a deep breath. The wind shifts. The smell hits me: Bitter. Burning. Metallic as blood. Vamp. Before the thought can even register, I’m reacting. My muscles tense and the hairs on the back of my neck rise. The color seems to bleed out of the leaves around me as my eyes shift to the black and white vision of the wolf, my color vision dialing down while my other senses go hyper. The woods around me seem to shift like a dream going lucid as I become suddenly aware of every twig snap, every rustle. My mind divides: the part of me that is still human is fumbling for my bottle, tearing off the cap, chugging one dose, two doses, three—as if I could drown it, swallow down the animal that is rising up inside me. The other half of my mind is thinking only one thing: vamp, vamp, vamp, vamp. I’m fighting instinct and I know I’m going to lose. The scent is strong, fresh. I am used to Michael’s scent; horrible though it was for me at first, I can ignore it now. But this? This isn’t Michael. This is a vampire I don’t know—at least one, maybe more. And they’re on my territory. I make a last, lame attempt at trying to breathe the way Michael showed me. I grasp for the stupid mantra he gave me, saying it over and over in my mind: Human is as human does, human is as human does…but it’s no use. The change is rising over me like water over a drowning man and fighting it only drives me deeper so I can’t breathe. A sudden shock of pain unzips my spine, bending me double. My hands hit the dirty forest floor. My mind latches on to a mantra of its own—please no please no please no—but it’s too late. I’m changing. Every time I change it's like I'm replaying the day the wolf attacked me. I can feel the claws ripping into my skin, the coarse fur against my back, the hot breath on my neck, the sound of my own screams. Except this time, it's my claws shredding my clothes, my fur rising on my back, my own panting breath I hear between my screams. This time the screams turn to howls. Because a part of me is still that little boy who was bitten by the wolf in the woods. But now part of me is the wolf, too. I feel all four paws hit the ground running. My nose is to the dirt. The change makes the scent almost unbearable, but I want it, too. I want to find it. I slice through the brush. My strides devour space. The smell is like a red thread pulling me forward. My mind isn't thinking, it's decoding. At least one. Maybe two. The scent is fresh. It's almost a visual thing to me, like an

afterglow where they passed—not even an hour ago, most likely. I snort the smell like an addict. It burns my nose, but I'm high on it. My claws tear into the loamy earth, sending dark clumps flying up behind me like chunks of flesh, and everything in me wants to tear into the vampire. My jaws clench and open in anticipation. I want to taste the vampire. I want to taste something. Anything. I feel the blackout rolling in like a thundercloud across an open plain. I see it coming, but there's nothing I can do to stop it. In a minute, my thinking mind will snuff out and whatever happens next will be a blank, another hole gouged out of my memory. Sometimes that’s a good thing. I begin to surrender, my consciousness slipping like hourglass sand. But something white flashes across the corner of my vision, a flapping far off between the trees. My animal mind pounces. Bird? Prey? But it’s too big. Only when the smell hits me do I get it. Sweet, flowery. Laundry detergent. And cake. Cicely’s clothesline. Cicely’s house. The vamp’s trail is leading me to Cicely’s house. White heat shoots through my brain. There are vampires tracking Cicely. My Cicely is in danger. Then the reality hits: vampires are the least of Cicely’s problems. Because in a few seconds I will be in her yard, out of control. The white sheet flapping on the line is like a flag of truce, and I can picture myself tearing through it, tearing through the door, tearing through whatever is on the other side of the door. Whoever is on the other side. Because in a minute, I won’t care. With the last scrap of my will, I force myself to turn away from the vampires’ trail. It’s like changing the course of a river. I’m just trying to put space between me and Cicely, running almost at random. I throw myself through the last few yards of trees and burst out on the other side, my feet smacking the pavement. I understand that I am in the middle of Route 13 about a half a second before I see the car. There’s time to dodge it, but I don’t. I run at it, full force. I need something to take me out, now, or I’ll be back in Cicely’s yard in a heartbeat, looking for something to kill. I feel the front of the car crunch. I feel a rib crack. The impact throws me, but not far enough. I’m back on the car in one leap. Glass fractures under my knees and I’m clawing, trying to get at something, desperate to connect with flesh. My fist dents the roof. The metal buckles. I see my own blood streak the window, spattering the rust-laced edge of the glass. Wait. Something about this car…that scent… Cicely’s car. The last thing I think before the world goes dark is Please, don’t let her be in it.

Chapter 6: Cicely Where is Ander? I glare at the clock for about the tenth time in the last ten minutes. It’s nine twenty-three. I am sitting alone at a table set for two. The pizza in front of me is cold. I have been waiting for Ander for almost an hour and a half. Forty-five minutes of that was pure worry. Did he get caught sneaking out? Did his uncle ground him for life? Worse, did he decide to ride that fool motorcycle of his and run himself into a ditch? I called his house five times (I didn’t dare call any more in case I was somehow making things worse with his uncle). When no one answered, I felt my gut twist with anxiety. It took all my effort to keep myself from walking to Ander’s house to check on him. After all, if he was in some kind of trouble, wasn’t it partly my fault? He was only trying to sneak out because he wanted to hang with me. That, however, was forty-five minutes ago and I have now moved beyond worry and gone right to hurt. Because I know in my heart Ander isn’t in trouble. He isn’t in a ditch somewhere. He may not even be grounded. He’s pulling an Ander, and he’s doing it on my birthday. In the four years I have been Ander’s closest friend, I have seen him skip out on everything: final exams and PSATs, favorite movies, parties, and more plans than I can count. I’ve seen him go AWOL on Christmas and turn up three days later, standing in my driveway with a sheepish smile and a crumpled present in his hands. For weeks he’ll keep it together, make it to his classes, be where he said he would be, then suddenly, he’s gone again, and then back with the lamest excuses: He ate bad tuna. He had to go to a funeral. He just lost track of time. Once, two years ago, I sat him down. It was during one of his bad times. He had ditched me three times in two weeks without so much as a call, and even the vice principal was asking me where he was. When he came back to school, he looked like hell. His hair was wild. His color was off. There were deep shadows under his eyes and dark purple bruises along his collarbone and wrists. That, more than anything, was what pushed me to finally say something. I never had before. There was an unspoken agreement between us that I wouldn’t ask too many questions or delve too deep. But that day after school, I asked him to meet me at our spot in the graveyard. When he actually showed, I sat him down and looked him in the eye. He looked back at me, uneasy. “Cissa,” he said, “What’s up?” I took a deep breath. “Ander, do you have a drug problem?” For a second he just stared at me, baffled. Then his tired face broke into a grin. “A drug problem?” “Or alcohol,” I added quickly. “Is there vodka in your Gatorade?” He was starting to laugh, relief all over his face. I could feel my own face getting hot with embarrassment. He thought I was being stupid, but I couldn’t stop. “Is it some sort of medical thing? Chemotherapy? Do you have to go for transfusions, or—” “No transfusions. No chemo.” His expression softened. “Cissa, I don’t want you to worry about me.” “Well, news flash, Ander, I do.” I reached out and took hold of his hand. It seemed very big and warm against mine. My own fingers shook. This felt too intimate, too forward. I was

breaking the implicit rule of our relationship—thou shalt not ask. But I had to say something. I turned his hand over in mine, gently pushed up the sleeve of his flannel shirt to reveal the worst of the bruises, a deep blue blotch already turning to yellow on the underside of his wrist. I forced myself to look him in the eye. “Ander,” I said, “You can tell me.” Gently, he took his hand back, pushing his sleeve carefully back into place. “Cicely, there’s nothing to tell.” His tone clearly said this talk is over, but I could read the conflict in his eyes. There was something he wanted to say, I was almost sure. “You know me. I go on walkabout. I’m ADHD with a capital A. I’m distracted by dust settling. So, you know, I blow off school sometimes. I was working on my bike.” “And the bruises?” He shrugged. “Banged it wheeling the bike through the door, maybe? Could have been a lot of things. You know I have high pain tolerance. I probably didn’t notice.” “So,” I said, “You have no explanation.” “I have no explanation.” I took a deep breath. I wanted to tell him how hard this was for me, violating our unspoken agreement. Ander comes off as laid back, and he usually is—as long as we’re joking around. But getting him to talk about anything deeper is like getting a wild animal to eat from your hand. One wrong move and I knew he would bolt. Maybe he’d disappear for a few more days. Or maybe, even worse, he would still hang around me but be distant, flip, and breezy the way he was with everyone else. Ander’s attitude had always been “take me or leave me,” and leaving Ander was the last thing I wanted to do. “Fine,” I said, “No explanations. But no excuses either.” I stopped short of saying, “Don’t lie to me any more,” but I knew Ander knew what I meant. He knows how I feel about lying. Ander thought for a minute, then nodded. “Alright,” he said, “No excuses. Now can we go back to normal?” And for a while we did. Ander’s bruises were gone by the next day—so healed, I began to think I had imagined them. He still disappeared, and he still wouldn’t tell me why, but at least he didn’t bother to lie. He didn’t say anything about it at all. But, like everything with Ander, it didn’t last. The excuses came creeping back. Now, sitting alone at home on my sixteenth birthday, I can’t help wondering what Ander’s excuse will be this time. I can’t imagine anything that would be good enough. I can’t stand to hear another lie. But at the same time, I’m afraid to hear the truth—that Ander changed his mind, that he regretted saying he would go out with me, that this was just a pity date all along. I tromp down the hall to my room, my half-laced boots flapping with every step. As I pass the full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door, I feel a stab of disappointment. I even looked okay tonight: v-neck white shirt over dark jeans, rolled up to show off my boots. My eyes, usually make-up free, are smoky with kohl. My hair is up, the way I never wear it, the way Ander once said he liked it. Wasted. I might as well just get into my pajamas now. I tromp into my room. Usually, just going in my room is enough to put me in a better mood. It’s my (very small, very messy) sanctuary. Sure, the bed is still the one I’ve had since I was six and the “shelves” are just cinder blocks and plywood, but the bed is covered with the big, squashy pillows I made last summer, and the shelves are stacked with my books and journals. The walls are a giant collage of people and things that mean something to me: the fliers for my last recital, the weird, over-exposed pictures of my mom I developed in photography class,

quotes copied out of books, and pictures from magazines. There isn’t really any blank wall left in most places, there are two or three layers of pictures. Pictures of bands I like half-cover the million horse posters I hung when I was a kid. The drawings I did last week are plastered over the ones I did last year. My mother always wants to know why I don’t just take things down, but I like it the way it is—like layers of sediment in an archeology dig, or overlapping scales of armor. My room is the safest place I know. But tonight, there is entirely too much Ander in it. I see his face in the strips of photo booth pictures taped to the headboard of my bed and in the sketches I did of him while he was sleeping in study hall last week. The posters are mainly for things we did together—or things I wanted us to do together. Things we could have done if Ander would only show. I flop down on the bed. I could just lie here and call it a birthday. I could go turn on the TV and eat someone else’s rejected wedding cake until I am too sugared up to care. Instead, I pick up the phone beside my bed. “Heyday Café!” Zoe sounds chipper in spite of the fact that she’s working, which makes me think she’s been hitting the free cappuccino. “It’s me,” I say. “Birthday girl! Did you decide to take me up on that latte?” Behind her voice, I can hear the usual bustle of the café. Even at nine-thirty there are still people there, mainly because there’s nowhere else to be. Monument, Minnesota isn’t exactly known for its nightlife. “I don’t know,” I say, “Maybe.” Being with people might be a good idea right now. “Is something wrong? You sound sort of blah.” “I’ll…I’ll explain it to you later.” I don’t want to go into the whole Ander-date-thing on the phone. I’m not even sure I want to go into it at all. I can hear Zoe’s dad yelling in the background. He’s pretty much always yelling something. Zoe must be covering the phone with her hand because her voice is muffled. “Hold on!” She comes back to me. “Come on over. We’re only, quote open until ten, but you know I’ll be here until o-late-thirty. I have about a billion dishes to load.” “But—” “See you soon!” There’s a click as Zoe hangs up the phone. “But I’m not sure I’m coming,” I say to the dial tone. Then I hang up and look out the window. My mom has the car; if I go out, I’ll have to walk. It certainly won’t be the first time. The café isn’t far and I’ve walked about a billion times before. But tonight it seems particularly dark. I can just make out the outlines of the trees and they are blowing as if the storm will be here soon. The way my night is going, the last thing I need is to get caught in a downpour. But it isn’t just the thought of the storm that makes me hesitate. For a moment, I flash back to walking home from Ander’s this afternoon, to the feeling I had just before I reached my front door. The feeling of being watched. Which is, of course, stupid. There is no one around to watch me. Zoe’s jokes about the Monument Monster are just that: jokes. Sure, people talk about something that lives in the woods —some giant bear or wolf or escaped lion or whatever—but that just proves what we already know: hunters drink. I personally have never been afraid of the woods, and I’m not going to start now. It’s that thought as much as anything else that makes me get up off my bed and finish lacing up my boots. Sure, it’s not anything exciting. It’s sure not a date with Ander. But, damn it, I’m going out on my birthday.

A few minutes later, I step out my front door and tug the hood of my red sweatshirt up against the chilly wind, buttoning my jean jacket up a little higher. A storm is coming, all right. The air is charged with it. The sheets flap on the line like ghosts. I should have brought them in —they’re going to get wet—but I don’t want to stop and do it now. Well, I think, these boots were made for walking. I set off down our dirt drive with quick, purposeful strides. For a minute I consider taking my iPod out of my pocket to give myself a little music to make the walk go faster, but then decide against it. The pre-storm rustle of the forest feels like the right soundtrack for my restless thoughts. Music would only jolly me out of my funk, and I’m in the mood to wallow a little longer. A few minutes more and I’m at County 13. Aside from the wind in the trees, the road is quiet, which doesn’t surprise me. No one uses this stretch much at night. Right now, the only sound is the tromp of my boots as I walk the narrow two-lane highway that cuts through Monument. I cross my arms over my chest, hugging myself for warmth, and keep my eyes trained on the road, watching my step. The only light comes from the moon glinting between the trees. I stumble a little on a hidden bump in the pavement and my boot crunches on a piece of broken glass. I hear an answering step from the woods. Instinctively, I freeze. An echo? The noise was too clear. An animal? It sounded too heavy for that. Human-sized. For a full minute, I stand still, listening. The wind whispers in the trees. My heart beats in my ears. But otherwise, everything is quiet. And why shouldn’t it be? No one is out here this time of night. I know that. It’s just that the feeling I had this afternoon—the strange feeling of being watched—is clinging to me, like the smell of smoke after a fire. I can’t quite seem to shake it. I listen for another second, and this time, a sound does come—the low growl of thunder. Damn it. I start walking again, faster, rounding a curve in the road. Part of me wants to turn around and go back, but I can’t stand the thought of walking back through the woods to my house. Instead I keep going forward. The café isn’t that much farther. I try to fill my mind with thoughts of warm latte. I’ll help Zoe load the industrial dishwasher, then Pete, the cook, will bring us a plate of onion rings, claiming they were a “mistake order,” and Zoe and I will eat and psychoanalyze Ander until her dad can drop me home. Not too much farther to go— Snap. The sound of a branch breaking. A footstep. Louder this time, and closer. I whip around, peering into the darkness behind me. Of course, I can’t see anything. But I can feel something, a prickling heat rising up the back of my neck, the feeling that I need to be anywhere but here. I turn around and run, just as the first fat drops of rain start to fall. Boots slapping, I round the bend. There’s a shape in the darkness, there by the side of the road. A car. For a second, relief washes over me. Maybe there is someone else out here on the road, someone who could help me. I run a little faster. But as I get closer, my steps falter. The car doesn’t belong to someone who can help me. It belongs to someone who needs help. It sits at an odd angle, half on and half off the other side of the road, and as I get closer, I can see the driver’s side window is smashed, the door dented, the front corner of the car crushed in like a can. Those poor people, I think. Then the lightning flashes and for a split second I can see every detail…the silver-blue paint edged with rust, the bumper sticker that says A Baker’s Life Is Sweet. My mother’s car.

The bottom drops out of my stomach and I feel like I will be sick. Everything around me swoops as I stand still. Numb. Blank. Then the sky opens up and the rain beats down in earnest and I run. “Mom!” I’m on the car in an instant, glass crunching under my feet, tearing at the front door. But it’s too dented to open. I grab the twisted rear view mirror—and slice my palm on a sharp edge, sending a few drops of my own blood trickling down the fractured glass. I barely feel it. I’m only thinking of my mom. I race around the back of the car, the rain slashing against my cheeks. The dirt under my boots is quickly becoming mud and I slip as I wrestle with the passenger side door, almost falling into the car on top of my mother who is slumped across the passenger seat. A vein of lightning cuts across the sky and I can see her, blue and pale and covered with tiny cubes of window glass that sparkle in the sudden light. Three deep gashes stripe her cheek. Her blond hair is clogged with blood. She isn’t moving. “Mom!” I take hold of her shoulder and shake her, first gently, then hard. “Mom!” Her skin is warm, but she is too still. “Wake up!” The rain drips from my hair. I’m crying. A gust of wind blows a sheet of rain through the open door, soaking us both. My mother stirs. “Mom? Can you hear me?” Relief floods through my body, even though my mind knows it’s too soon to hope. My mother’s eyes flutter open. She coughs and winces in pain. “Lie still,” I say. I’m patting her down for her cell phone, trying to be gentle as I search her pockets. “What happened?” I can barely hear her whisper above the thrumming of the rain on the roof. “I…I hit an animal.” “An animal?” I remember the crushed driver’s side of the car. The metal was folded like an accordion. “What kind of animal?” “A bear…I mean, a wolf.” Her eyes are shut again, and she isn’t making sense. Obviously she hit something big, but when was the last time anyone saw a bear in Monument? Still, there are those gashes on her cheek. “Did it hurt you?” Her hand drifts absently to her bleeding cheek. “It tried, but then the boy came and pulled it off the car.” “The boy? What boy? Was someone here?” “The boy.” Her smile is dreamy. “The handsome boy. He saved me. He wrestled the bear away.” My hand closes around her cell phone, wedged between the seats. Obviously she’s delirious. “I’m calling the ambulance now,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “Just lie still.” My fingers shake so hard it takes me three tries to dial 9-1-1. “State the nature of your emergency.” The woman’s voice is so emotionless that for a second I think I’ve reached a machine. “My mom,” I say, “My mom has been in an accident. It takes the ambulance eleven minutes to get to us because of the storm. It feels like eleven hours. I hover over my mother, leaving her only twice—once to get the plaid blanket out of the trunk, the one my mom always keeps in there “in case of spontaneous picnics.” I wrap her in it as best I can because she is soaked through with rain and shaking. Then I leave her a second time. I don’t want to, but I have to look around, to make sure there is no sign of whatever she hit, no

sign of her supposed rescuer. What I do find is blood and fur on the crushed side of the car. So it was an animal she hit, but there’s no sign of it now. Even the blood is quickly washing away in the driving rain. I wish my conscience could get so clean so fast. The last thing I said to my mother before she left the house tonight was a lie. Sure, it wasn’t a big lie, but still. My mother is slipping in and out of consciousness. The injuries on her face are bad enough. What if there are others I can’t even see? What if she slips away completely? I get back into the car just as the ambulance races around the corner, siren screaming, windshield-wipers flapping, the red and blue lights making bright watercolor pictures on the wet road. It takes time to explain I wasn’t in the accident, still more time to explain that I am, in fact, my mother’s daughter and not some passing good Samaritan—all this while they are shining a light in my mother’s eyes, asking her name, putting her on a back brace. But eventually we are both in the back of the ambulance, me perched on a cooler beside my mother, cut hand bandaged, hunched over to avoid the tubes and bags hanging from the ceiling. I hold her hand and tell her over and over, “You’re going to be okay.” She smiles weakly and nods once, but her teeth are gritted against the pain and I’m not sure she really believes me. I’m not sure I really believe me. I’m still holding the plaid blanket and now, under the glaring lights of the ambulance, I can see it is much bloodier than I realized. The cuts on my mother’s face look worse, too—three long parallel gashes, like claw marks, if there were anything in the woods with claws that big. At last—seconds later, but it feels like hours—the ambulance pulls away from the side of the road, the siren shrieking to life above us. I use my free hand to brace myself on my perch as we sway into motion. Out the back window, I can see my mother’s car abandoned by the side of the road. Then the lightning flashes and I swear I can see something else. A shadow detaches itself from the woods—a dark haired boy, dressed all in black. He stands by my mother’s car, stark still in the driving rain. Watching us go. I gasp and start to cry out. But it’s only light for a heartbeat, and when the lightning strikes again, he’s gone.

Chapter 7: Luke I slip back into the shadows as the ambulance disappears around the corner. Did the girl see me? I can’t be sure. It was foolish of me to step out into the open so hastily. The smell of blood made me over eager. I cross to the wrecked automobile. My clothes cling to me, heavy with the rain. I am so exhausted. It took all my strength to pull the beast off the car, all my energy to lead it on a chase through the woods. It was a risky move—Marcus is bound to scold me for it later, if the lycanthrope doesn’t catch him—but I thought Miss Cicely Watson was in the car. Now I can see it was only the mother. The upholstery is soaked with her blood, but it’s not her blood that interests me. I turn to the little mirror mounted on the side of the car, the place where Cicely Watson cut her hand. The mirror is a mass of cracks. The drops of precious blood hang suspended like flies in a spider’s web. I trace one fracture with my fingertip, then bring my it to my lips. I taste the rain and something else—something I haven’t tasted for a hundred years. My body hums with it. Deirdre. It was September of 1907 when we met. My brother and I were traveling to America—many vampires were in those days. Hundreds of our kind had expatriated to get away from the rumors rustling through Europe like wind through dead leaves. My mother would have nothing to do with the talk, of course. Why would the witches betray us? It was ridiculous, she said. But she offered to let us go anyhow, and Sal and I gladly took the opportunity. Sal was always up for an adventure and I was in need of a change. I was young—barely a century old—but I felt ancient. Melancholy clung to me like fog, although there was no reason for it. We had everything then— wealth, youth, immortality—but I still felt something was missing. Sal was sure a holiday would help shake my ennui. “It will be our American safari!” he said. Teddy Roosevelt was in the White House and safaris were all the rage. We fancied ourselves hunters of the biggest possible game. And so we set out. Sal passed the long journey from England by sea in the usual manner of our kind—in torpor, our special form of hibernation, sleeping like the dead in a coffin in the hold of a ship. It was the most practical way to travel considering one could not easily feed shipboard without being caught; one missing crewman might be presumed drowned, but more than that would launch an investigation. Some vampires would have brought along a thrall or two, but my mother considered feeding on willing victims vulgar, a sign of domestication, below the class of vampires such as ourselves. “The Marianez family hunts,” she would say, “And besides, there is always the danger of accidental bonding. You wouldn’t want to spend eternity with the wrong girl, would you?” And then, of course, there were the rumors. My mother might not believe them, but she still wasn’t taking any risks. No one was feeling very trusting of humans then. So we traveled without thralls, but I knew that it meant I would go hungry. Sal, in torpor, would feel no hunger, his body slowed to the point where it did not need to feed. I, however, have never been able to stay in torpor for long. My nature is simply too restless, I suppose. I slept in my assigned coffin for a few days, then rose to haunt the decks at night while the other

passengers slept. It was a lonely way to travel and I arrived in New York half starved. I woke my brother as the ship reached shore and we slipped in among the other passengers headed for the gangplank, eager to disembark. We needed to be long gone before our abandoned coffins were discovered, empty. On the docks, we found our welcoming committee. Javier looked just as I remembered: thin as a ferret, dressed like a dandy, his black mustache oiled to a shine. Beside him was his mate, our cousin, Constanza, wearing a yellow sundress that matched her pale blond hair and made her generous curves looked carved from butter. Behind them were two people I didn’t recognize—a big bear of a man with hair the color of rust, and a tiny woman with skin like coffee and cream, her black hair in a single braid thick as a ship’s rope. She was wearing a simple, white eyelet dress and smiling shyly. The big man stepped in front of her protectively as we approached and when her scent reached me, I knew why. She was human, a thrall. She smiled at me shyly and my fangs itched with need. “Sal! Luke! How are you?” Javi clapped me on the shoulder, grinning. “Awake!” said Sal. “Hungry,” I added. Constanza laughed. “We thought you might be.” “So you brought us a bite?” Sal smiled suggestively at the little dark-haired girl, who ducked her head and blushed. The big man growled low in his throat, bearing fangs. Constanza stepped casually between them. “Sal, this is our good friend Tony and his bonded, Paloma.” “Ah, his bonded.” Sal took a deliberate step back and made a formal bow to the girl. “A pleasure to meet you both.” “The pleasure is ours.” There was a musical lilt to the little thrall’s voice. The man didn’t say anything. “Are we off then?” said Sal. “We’re eager to sample American fare.” Constanza and Javier shared a sly smile. “That’s a shame,” Constanza said, “Because today we are drinking imported.” “Whatever you prefer,” I said quickly, “As long as it is soon.” Constanza slipped her arm through mine. “Patience, Luke! We’ll hunt soon. But first you have to see Javier’s new toy!” She took Sal by the hand and led us both towards the street where a motorcar the color of a ripe cherry sat waiting by the curb. Sal whistled low. “You got one!” “Si, primo. A Pierce Arrow.” Javi gave the fender a loving pat. “We’ve had it a few weeks now.” Sal circled the car with interest, inspecting the leather seats, prodding the tire with his toe. “How fast can she go?” “Ten miles in an hour!” Javi beamed. “Ten miles?” I said, “We’re far faster than that on foot!” Sal waved me off. “Who wants to be on foot? We want to ride in style, am I right?” “So get a horse,” I said. Constanza laughed and Sal rolled his eyes. “Horses, little brother, are a bane on vampire existence. I can barely get one to pull me in a carriage, never mind let me ride. We risk exposure every time one of them spooks at our touch, the stupid beasts.” Javi shook his head. “Not stupid. Smart. They know a predator when they see one. If humans

are ever as smart as horses, I think we may starve.” I may starve now, I thought. “I have never had any trouble riding horses.” “Perhaps they sense you are a gentle soul.” Paloma’s voice was soft, her accent rounding the edges of her words like the sea smoothes glass. I could tell she meant to be kind, but Sal laughed. “That’s Luke. Gentle.” “You know I’m not.” “You sound like a petulant child.” “So, Sal,” said Paloma, changing the subject, “Will you be buying a motorcar, then?” “Oh,” said Constanza, “There’s no need to buy one. They break down all the time.” “And someone is always crashing them,” Javi added. “Human reflexes simply aren’t meant for ten miles an hour. Just do as we did and wait until you see some idioto trying to push one out of a ditch. Then do him in and take the car.” “Bien. That’s what I’ll do,” Sal said, “Because I must have one.” “I thought you despised human things.” I was still feeling put out. “What about all that talk the day we left—how degrading it is to have to pass for human, to pretend we are something less than we are?” Sal shrugged. “Humans are inferior. What’s your point?” “Present company excepted.” Constanza smiled down at Paloma. “No offense taken,” she said. “Paloma isn’t just human.” Tony’s voice was rough, as if he didn’t use it often. “Bonded thralls are different. We give them our immortality.” “They are elevated by association,” Constanza agreed. “It is the difference between a common sparrow and a lovely little canary.” She smiled fondly at the thrall. “We give them our immortality,” Javier said, “If it is still ours to give.” “Oh, nonsense.” Constanza released my arm and leaned over to give Javier a quick kiss, as if to wipe the words from his lips. Her sleek s-curve of blond hair swung forward across her cheek. She brushed it smoothly back. “You don’t believe those horror stories, do you?” “Some people take them quite seriously in Europe,” Sal said. “They say the witches have gone over to the other side.” “To the Hunters? Why would they?” Constanza pursed her lips in annoyance. “The witches have at least as much reason to hate the Hunters as we do.” Sal shrugged. “How else do you explain the deaths?” “If there have really been any,” Constanza said. “If they aren’t just stories meant to scare the young.” Sal put up his hands. “I only tell what I hear, cariña.” “Tell me then, please,” said Paloma. “I haven’t heard.” Sal turned to her. “They say the witches have a spell that makes our kind mortal. They can only infect us one family line at a time, but once a family is mortal the Hunters can kill them as they would any human, simply pick them off, one by one…” “Stop it!” Constanza gave his arm a playful slap. “No human could ever kill us. Not even a Hunter.” Javier nodded sagely. “It would be a reversal of the natural order. They are our prey, not the other way round.” “Speaking of which,” I said impatiently. “Ah, yes!” Constanza beamed. “We should get Luke his lunch before he expires. Before he dies of hunger.” She reached over and gave Paloma’s braid a little tug. “Let the humans serve

their natural purpose, as it were.” Sal polished the cherry red fender of the Pierce Arrow with the cuff of his sleeve. “I thought their natural purpose was making motorcars.” “You see,” I say, “You do like human things.” Sal sighed. “When I said I didn’t like human things, I wasn’t talking about motorcars.” He spoke with exaggerated patience, as if I was a child of twenty or thirty. “I just meant I don’t like human things the way you like them.” He turned to the others, grinning. “Luke is a little packrat. He takes things from his kills—pocket watches and hip flasks and a baseball card of someone or other.” “Frank La Chance,” I said. “His steamer trunk is like a cabinet of curiosities.” Constanza looked amused. “Your mother is queen of our clan. You have all the money in the world. Why not just buy yourself things?” I shrugged. How could I explain? Sometimes the impulse was straightforward, like a crow’s need to grab a shiny thimble. Other times it felt like something deeper, a desire to make some connection. Which was silly, of course. I had already taken their lives. What deeper connection could there be? “Humans interest me.” Constanza patted my arm in a humoring way. “I think it’s endearing you are so sentimental.” Sal snickered. “What I am,” I said hotly, “Is starved.” “Into the car, then!” Constanza cried, “Our ship is about to come in!” We piled inside. They let Sal drive. Javi sat up front with him and the rest of us crushed in the back. I was pressed against Constanza in a way that almost made me like motorcars—she was, after all, only a distant cousin and sitting very close. Paloma sat on Tony’s lap like one of those little symbiotic birds that perch on the rhinos of Africa. My brother drove like a maniac, but luckily we weren’t going far. We sped past a few rows of warehouses, a few wide docks where giant steamers unloaded freight. Then Constanza yelled, “Stop! We’re here!” I got out of the motorcar and took a look around. The dock was crowded with people. Off to one side, a band was set up, ready to play. To the other, a clutch of photographers had set up their tripods like a little village of tents. Between the two, a huge herd of humans stood, anxiously waiting. No, not just humans. Males, every one of them, from teenage boys to greyhaired grandfathers. Some were in their best suits, others looked like they had come straight off a farm somewhere. Many held hand-lettered signs, some simply with a woman’s name on them, but others more enigmatic. I spotted, “Widower, Father of Four” and “Trained in Carpentry,” amongst the sea of placards. One gentleman, nearest me, could have been dressed to work here on the docks himself if he hadn’t been clutching a large bouquet of roses. Their scent mingled with the smell of fish that rose off his boots in the sun. I wrinkled my nose. “Javi, you don’t intend to hunt them, do you?” He laughed. “Not the men, Luke! The women!” He gestured to the harbor where a huge, gray steamship was lumbering into view. As it drew closer, the men on the docks began to jostle each other for position, the photographers began a flurry of picture-taking that left their little corner in a haze of smoke, and the band launched into a rousing rendition of “I Want You, Honey, Yes I Do.” Soon the ship was close enough for me to read the name on its side. The official name was The Balkan, but some clever sailor had hung a second name beside the first, temporarily rechristening her the Bonny Lass, and anyone could see why. The decks were absolutely teeming

with human girls, each one so eager to set foot in New York City it was a wonder she didn’t fall over board. I drew a deep breath, pungent with the smell of human sweat. “How many?” “The newspaper said one thousand and two.” Javier smiled without taking his eyes off the ship. “Give or take a few.” “We meet every bride-ship that comes,” said Constanza. Sal laughed. “Genius. They’ll never be missed. Where are they all from?” “Wales,” said Javier, “Scotland, England, Ireland. Anywhere worth leaving. They’re all young and unmarried and come in search of husbands.” Sal looked wistfully at the ship. “Virgins, every one.” Constanza barked a laugh. “Or so they claim.” “Come now,” I said, “You can hardly fault someone for pretending to be more innocent than she actually is.” We were passing an old woman—one of the only women in the crowd. She had wisely decided to raise a little coin by selling flowers. I reached into my pocket for an American quarter. “Keep the change,” I told her, taking a pure white lily from the bucket at her feet. I handed it to Constanza. “For you.” She smiled. “Save your charm for the prey.” But she took the flower anyway. I turned my attention back to the ship. It was close enough now that I could make out the individual women who crowded against the railing. They came in every shape and size, but all were dressed in their Sunday best: long dark skirts, pale blouses, hair in braids or piled high on their heads like girls in a Gibson drawing. I could see their eager faces peering out from beneath wide-brimmed summer hats, their smiles nervous and expectant, big eyes fixed on the New York City skyline. Hungry for their new lives to begin. Well, I was hungry, too. It was ironic, of course, to think some of them had come so far to die, but that was inevitable. They would get their chance to set foot on American soil. They might even be buried in it, if they weren’t sent home to Scotland or Wales or wherever they came from, back to tearful families who had lost a daughter and never seen so much as an American dollar sent home in return. Sal was already scanning the crowd, looking for a likely mark. I knew he was looking for a pretty one. Sal had a tendency to “play with his food,” as it were, and often bragged about the pretty girls he had taken in the act, timing his bite for the very climax of their lovemaking and then draining them slowly dry. I had seen his victims many times and even in death, they were lovely. Constanza, on the other hand, was interested only in the sport. She loved it when the prey ran and lived for the struggle. I could tell even from here there were plenty of girls on this ship who would give her the challenge she craved, strapping farm-girls who could run or fight her off, at least for a little while. But Constanza’s eyes were fixed on a young man making his way through the crowd towards us, his hat in his work-dirtied hands. “Beg pardon, ma’am, but may I ask a question?” His voice had the lilt of an Irishman’s, roughened a bit by his time in New York. Constanza smiled coyly, toying with the lily in her hand. “As long as it isn’t a proposal, sir. Only the girls on the ship are here to seek husbands, you understand.” The young man flushed an appetizing shade of red. “No ma’am! I mean, any man would be lucky, but I would never presume…” He glanced up at her, then quickly away, as if she were a light too bright to look at full-on. “It’s me sister, ma’am. She’s on the ship and she’ll be looking for work. I thought, if you come looking to hire a domestic…she’s a hard working girl, ma’am,

and a right good cook.” He glanced at her again, hopeful. “A good cook, you say?” Constanza smiled at me, a twinkle in her eyes. “Well, I have been saying I need to eat better, have I not? And I do like a man who isn’t afraid to ask for what he wants.” He was afraid, of course. I could hear his heartbeat, rapid as a rabbit’s, and smell the tang of his sweat. But he was not nearly as afraid as he should have been. He smiled, grateful. “Then you’ll hire her, ma’am?” Constanza nodded decisively. “Once you’ve signed a reference. I have writing things in my car. It is parked on the street. Come along.” “But ma’am…” He glanced nervously at the ship. It was laying anchor. Soon the gangplank would be lowered. “My sister, she’ll be looking for me. I don’t want her to think no one’s come to meet her.” No one has, I thought. Not as far as she’ll ever know. “Luke will meet her.” Constanza smiled at me as if she were handing me a present. “Will you? I’d be grateful, sir.” He glanced around at the other men, all straining to see the ship. “Bit of a rough crowd. Her name is Margaret Dodd. You’ll look after her, then?” “Gladly.” I said, seeing as it’s your dying wish. “Quickly, then,” said Constanza, “We mustn’t keep her waiting.” She set off, the crowd parting like water before her. He hesitated a second, the way they often do, their instincts kicking in too little, too late. But I caught his eye and gave him a firm, encouraging nod. He nodded back and followed obediently, a mouse chasing a cat. “Well,” said Sal, “One of us is fed.” “Let’s spread out a bit. I’ll take this direction. We’ll meet at the car when we’re done.” Javi gave us a wave and melted into the crowd. I looked around for Tony and Paloma, but they had wandered a bit further down the docks. I watched as the big vampire guided his thrall protectively through the jostling men. He didn’t so much as glance at the ship, concerned only for her. For a moment I wondered what it would be like to have a bonded thrall. So relaxing, to have that constant, reliable source to sustain you. But of course there were disadvantages, I reminded myself. A bonded vampire was dependent on his thrall, addicted to her particular blood, just as the thrall was addicted to being bitten by that particular vampire. Deprived of his bonded, a vampire would grow weak, hungry, even if he fed on other humans. A thrall deprived of her vampire would go insane. Both would go into withdrawal. Horrible, they said. It wouldn’t kill them, of course—our kind is immortal, and thralls share that immortality when they bond. But there are some things worse than death. No, my mother was right, I decided. Bonding was too complicated. Better to always leave them dead and never take the risk. I turned back to the ship. They were lowering the gangplank now. The crowd of women on deck surged towards it, eager to be off the boat at last and starting their new lives. A whoop went up from the waiting crowd of men as the plank hit the dock. They rushed forward, too, so eager the constables had to hold then back. The band struck up “Cupid’s Garden” and a flurry of flashbulbs popped as the first of the women paraded down the gangplank, grinning and waving to their admirers, some stooping to pick up the flowers tossed at their feet or to answer shouted questions from the reporters. I watched them come until they were swallowed by the waiting crowd. All, that is, but one. She stood on the deck, apart from the rest, but she would have stood out even in their midst.

Her hair was not bound like theirs. It hung in a dark curtain that stretched all the way to the waist of her deep red dress. She wore jewelry, too—silver hoops in her ears and a silver chain around her neck, a tear-shaped garnet nestled in the hollow of her throat. I swallowed hard. I had a weakness for girls like her, with dark hair and pale skin and a certain spice in their blood. Starved as I was, it was all I could do to keep myself under control. I would have rushed the gangplank if I could have. The girl was not anywhere near as eager to be off the boat as I was to be on it. She lingered by the railing, gazing back over the sea as if trying to see her way back home. Only when the crew began to descend the plank for their shore leave did she pick up her carpet bag and follow resolutely behind them. Sal smirked at me. “Have you found something you like?” When I didn’t answer he followed my gaze to the girl, who was walking down the gangplank now, eyes lowered, feet slow, as if she were walking to her execution. Which, of course, she was. Sal’s eyes widened appreciatively. “Do you care to share?” A low growl escaped me. Sal stared at me, surprised. I couldn’t blame him. After all, there is more than enough blood in the human body to go around, and he and I had often shared feeds when we were young. But something about this girl made me want to keep her for myself. Sal could have challenged me. He was my older brother, bigger and stronger than I. But something in my look must have told him I was serious. He took a step back, hands up in mock supplication. “You spied her first, of course. And there are plenty.” His gaze wandered to the milling crowds of ladies, now socializing on the docks. I saw him pause on one in particular, a tiny thing with strawberry-blond curls and a high, nervous laugh. She was already surrounded by a clutch of admiring suitors, as well as a reporter or two, but Sal walked right by them all as if they weren’t there. I watched the girl’s cheeks flush with pleasure as Sal bent to kiss her hand. In a moment she was ducking and giggling like a schoolgirl, her hand still in his, the other men forgotten. Yes, Sal had a way with them. I turned back to my own prey. For a minute I thought I had lost her, but then I spied her again, apart from the others, standing by the edge of the pier. I made my way towards her. A few yards away, an older man and his son were eyeing her as if she were a wild horse they intended to buy and break, but the girl ignored them completely. She leaned over the railing, staring down at the swirling gray water below. “Do you intend to jump?” I asked. She spun. “You startled me!” “I’m sorry.” I smiled at her. Up close, she looked even lovelier—and younger—than I would have guessed, perhaps seventeen or eighteen. Her eyes were a deep, warm brown, her features delicate but her lips full. I imagined she must be stunning when she smiled. If she ever smiled. “Are you all right?” “Only startled.” She said. “No, I mean are you all right. You seem unhappy.” She looked away. “I am here to do a job I would rather not do.” I nodded understandingly. It was hard to picture this graceful creature as someone’s maid or governess. I could only imagine how she must feel about it. “Perhaps your fate will change.” She shook her head. “I know my fate.” She sounded so certain. A minute ago, I had been certain, too—certain her fate was to die at my hands. Now I felt myself wavering for reasons I couldn’t explain.

“What is your name?” I asked. “Deirdre,” she said. Deirdre. It felt like a dangerous thing to know. I had never asked the name of prey before. It was one thing to keep their trinkets after, but another to know their names before. “It means sorrow, does it not? I regret to say it suits you.” A strand of her deep brown hair had fallen forward, but I wanted to see her face. I made bold to smooth it back into place, my eyes flickering to her throat where the garnet gleamed like a little drop of blood. Was it a dowry, I wondered? Hard to believe any of these rough American men would be worthy. She did not object to my touch. “And your name?” “Luke Marianez.” Distracted, I told her the truth without thinking. “Marianez?” She looked at me then—really looked at me—and I thought I saw a flash of recognition in her eyes. She lowered her voice. “You shouldn’t be here.” “What?” That wasn’t the response I was expecting. “Why would you say that?” She raised her voice again, her tone suddenly bright and flirtatious. “I mean, why would a gentleman like you need help in finding a wife? No, you shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be here at all.” I was right, she did have a stunning smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked over my shoulder, scanning the crowd behind me. Her voice fell to a whisper, almost too quiet for human ears to hear. “Run.” But it was too late. I heard Sal’s shout half a second before he reached me. He grabbed my arm, dragging me behind a stack of wooden cargo boxes, hiding us from view. The girl followed us but he ignored her. “Hunters,” he hissed at me, “Hide!” He jerked his head in the direction of our car. Peering through a crack between boxes, I saw them: four men and a woman, technically human, though bigger and stronger than any human had a right to be. The men were dressed as police officers. They hadn’t spotted us yet, but they would. The smell of them reached me, pungent even above the fish and sweat and perfume of the docks. I hissed as my fangs slid into place. “Then we fight.” Sal shook his head. “They outnumber us.” “There are five of us, too,” I said, “Not counting the thrall.” “Not any more.” “What do you mean?” I could see Tony and Paloma and Constanza from where I stood. They were headed our way. “Where is Javier? Did that little weasel run?” “Javi…” He shut his eyes. “Javier is dead.” “Dead?” The word echoed in my head like a foreign language. I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You know the Hunters can’t kill us—” “Luke, I saw it. He’s dead.” His stricken expression left no question. He was telling the truth. But everything in me wanted to deny it. Our kind had always been immortal. Hunters could curse us, injure us, put us into torpor for years. But kill us? It was impossible. But there was a look in Sal’s eyes, a look I had only seen in the eyes of humans just before I took their lives. The look of a predator become prey. “Then the rumors…”I said. “Are true.” A shot rang out across the dock. The humans scattered like birds before dogs. Women screamed, clutching their skirts as they ran. In the midst of them, I saw Constanza fall, the bullet hole bursting red on her yellow dress,

right above her heart. My own heart froze. Constanza couldn’t die. She was our cousin. If she died, it meant our family line had somehow been infected. If she died, we could all die. But Constanza was up almost as quickly as she went down, racing straight into the chaos of the crowd with two of the Hunters on her heels. She wasn’t even going to try to fight them, I realized. She wasn’t even going to try to avenge her mate. Tony, on the other hand, was defending his. The other three Hunters were closing in on him and Paloma. Tony stepped between them and the girl, putting his big body in the way of the Hunters’ guns. “Run!” he called to her, “Run!” Paloma did, turning and dashing for the motorcar, her long braid swinging. I expected them to let her go. A thrall might be bonded but she was still human as far as most Hunters were concerned. I started towards Tony, just as he threw himself at the Hunters. Another shot rang out. I assumed it must have hit Tony—how could it miss at that range? — but I also assumed it wouldn’t stop him. Even if he had become mortal—and there was no way to know if he had—what could one shot do to a vampire his size? It took me a beat to understand that they weren’t shooting at him. The second shot caught Paloma in the back. It knocked her completely off her feet, picking her up and dropping her again like a child drops a doll. She landed face down on the dock and skidded. A slow red stain bloomed on the back of her white dress. I could smell her blood from here, even above the stench of the docks. Tony’s scream was like a bull in pain. He froze, mid-step, as if the bullet had caught him, too. And then he went down. It was like watching a stone tower fall. He landed with his face to us, an expression of surprise frozen in his eyes. Even from here I could see he wasn’t getting up. So, that’s how it works now, I thought numbly. The thralls shared our eternal life, and now we share their death. The female Hunter threw a coat over him to hide him from human eyes, but most of the humans were long gone and the coat did nothing to cover Tony’s huge frame. One hand lay exposed and, when the woman stepped away, I saw Tony’s fingers begin to smoke, burning in the sunlight. In a second the hand crumbled to ash. The Hunters turned our way. Sal’s voice shook. “We have to get out of here.” The rational part of me kept saying Sal and I couldn’t die. But all of my instincts were screaming move! I stood frozen as if my feet were nailed to the deck. “Luke!” Sal hissed, “Listen to me! There are dinghies moored to the docks. We escape by water.” “Yes,” I said stupidly, “Of course.” What else was there to do? Something touched my arm. I jumped and spun to see Deirdre looking up at me. I had forgotten she was there at all. I could only imagine how I looked to her: fangs out, eyes wild with fear. Any sane girl would run. Her beautiful brown eyes looked once from my fangs to the Hunters and back again. Then she said “Take me with you.” I open my eyes, the taste of Cicely’s blood still on my tongue, achingly familiar. Around me the storm has stopped its sobbing, the wind died down to sighs. I can just make out the moon through the trees. It makes me think of the lycanthrope out there somewhere, following Marcus’ trail. If it hasn’t killed him, that is. Because Marcus can certainly die.

We all can now.

Chapter 8: Ander The first thing I am aware of are the straps around my wrists. I strain against them but my arms feel heavy and limp, like someone has taken out my bones and filled the skin with sand. I can move them, but it takes an effort and I can’t decide if it’s worth it because I can’t quite remember what I was trying to do a minute ago—an hour ago? A day? Time swims together in my mind. It’s like trying to remember a dream. Something important. Something that mattered. Something to do with… …Cicely. I sit bolt upright on the hard floor—or try to. The chain attached to the strap around my chest snaps me back so hard, I feel the reverb all the way down my spine. Something crunches below my heart and there’s a sharp stab of pain as one of my ribs shifts. Broken, most likely. I know from experience it will heal in a day, but the pain is enough to send a wave of heat washing over me as the wolf inside tries to take me again. But the wolf’s time is up. It has played itself out. Whether it took hours or days, I don’t know, but I do know it’s gone, at least for now. I feel wrung out, empty, abandoned. Usually there would be some sort of relief, too, but not now because the images are beginning to come back to me: a white cloth flapping, headlights, a car, a woman streaked with blood… I struggle to sit as upright as I can because I feel like I’m going to puke. Instead what comes out of me is a high, strangled whine, like an animal in pain. “He’s awake!” It’s Danny, just outside my bedroom door. I can hear Michael’s footsteps on the stairs. For a minute, I pray the wolf will just take me again. It can have me forever for all I care, just so I don’t have to face Danny and Michael, so I don’t have to hear what I’m afraid they have to say. But there’s no avoiding it. The locks scrape and the door inches open. Danny peers cautiously around the corner, then, satisfied I am human and still chained to the wall, he opens it a little further and slips inside, cautiously setting a bowl of soup on the floor beside me before taking a big step back. His locks are loose around his shoulders, the theater makeup around his eyes smudged. He looks almost as exhausted as I feel. He gives me a weak smile. “Hey. How you feelin’?” I don’t try to answer. I’m just watching the door. The fact that Danny came in first strikes me as strange; ordinarily, Michael would never let Danny walk into a dangerous situation first. He would always insist on standing between Danny and anything that might harm him. That’s just the way vampires are with their bonded thralls: chivalrous to the point of self-sacrifice, which is silly if you think about it since their lives are linked and if the vampire dies, so does the thrall. I have always thought this was strange and ironic, a flaw of nature, but right now I can see the logic in it clearly because if Cicely was in that car…well, I don’t want to stick around. The door opens a little further and Michael walks in and I understand why Danny came first. He was trying to protect me this time, to shield me from the look on Michael’s face. But I don’t deserve to be protected. I force myself to look Michael in the eye. He is trying to do that vamp thing, keeping his expression neutral, but I can see the emotions boiling under the surface. Anger. Betrayal. And a thousand times worse—disappointment. I want to tell him I’m sorry, that I will never in a million years do anything that stupid again,

but I can’t make my voice obey. My throat feels like I swallowed a box of nails and it takes all my effort just to croak out one word: “Cicely.” Danny shakes his head. “No. Her mother.” I feel a rush of relief before the guilt hits me. “Is she—?” “She’s alive but in the hospital,” Danny says quietly, “She’s hurt bad.” “She will likely survive.” Michael says. I let out my breath with relief, but the tone of Michael’s voice tells me he’s not sure this is a good thing. Then it dawns on me, the obvious. I haven’t killed Cicely’s mom, but I may have done something worse. I shut my eyes. I can’t look at them. “Did I bite her?” “No,” Danny says quickly. “At least,” says Michael, “we don’t think so. They’re only allowing family to visit so we haven’t been able to see her. But there’s a nurse at the hospital who used to work first-aid at the bar. Danny called in a favor and she looked at the records for us. There’s nothing about a bite, but there are lacerations on her face that are probably claw marks, but they could be teeth marks. They aren’t giving her rabies shots, which is a good sign. But even a scrape from your teeth… well, we don’t know for sure how much contact it would take to contract the curse. We don’t think she has it, but we could be wrong.” The sound that comes out of me is halfway between a sob and a howl. I want to bury my face in my hands and cry like a kid, but my hands are still bound behind my back. I realize I’m rocking back and forth. Danny reaches out to stroke my head, but Michael stops him. I’m still too worked up. Michael can see that. I shift as much as I can in my bonds, turning away from Danny. No matter how good it would feel to have his arm around my shoulder, I won’t let him get close to me. I shouldn’t let anyone. “How did you find her?” “We didn’t. Cicely beat us to it, unfortunately, or I would have been able to examine her myself.” “Cicely found her?” Just the thought of Cicely being there makes me feel sick. “But I didn’t…Cicely’s okay?” “Fine,” Michael says. “Unharmed. It seems you were far from there by the time she arrived. Personally, I was astonished you left Cicely’s mother in her car. It isn’t like a lycanthrope to abandon wounded prey. But something must have distracted you.” “The vamp.” It’s starting to come back to me now. I can remember reaching into the smashed car, remember my claws connecting with flesh, feel my muscles coiling for another spring. Then suddenly the scent of the vampire was right there, and something grabbed me... “That’s why I changed in the first place. There was a vampire—maybe more than one. They were trailing Cicely…” Michael and Danny exchange looks. I can tell this is the first they’ve heard of it, and they’re not sure whether to believe me. Maybe they think I’m delusional, or lying to explain why I changed. “We didn’t see any vampire,” Michael says, “but they may have been gone by the time we started tracking you.” “How did you find me?” I twist around, trying to get under the flannel blanket that covers my legs. I’m starting to feel cold. “Danny came home early,” Michael says. Danny shrugs. “Slow night at the bar. They let me off. When I got home, I went to check on you. You didn’t answer so I went in to look—” “Which was foolish,” Michael grumbles.

“And I saw you were gone—” “And there was a rope coming out of your bedroom window,” Michael’s glare almost burns me. “So he called me and we came back and tracked you. You weren’t far from here. We put sedatives in a steak. Luckily you were pretty run-out by the time we found you so it didn’t take any more than that to knock you out, and you turned human once you were unconscious— thankfully, or we never could have dragged you in. As it was, Sid had to help.” I nod. Sid is the bouncer at the bar. He’s six-foot-three and built, one of the few guys who might be able to pick me up. “I’ll have to thank him.” But Michael isn’t listening. He’s deep in thought. “And these vampires,” he asks quietly, “Did you recognize the scent?” Danny looks alarmed. “You don’t think someone we know came here? Everyone at the bar has been warned not to come to the house! We searched the woods. We didn’t find anyone hurt.” I feel a flash of anger shoot through me. Cicely’s mom is lying in a hospital somewhere, Cicely could have been killed, and Danny’s worried about some vampire? My father always taught me that thralling was a mental illness, and sometimes I still think he was right. “I don’t think I killed it,” I say, making no attempt to hide the disappointment in my voice, “I think I would remember that.” Michael shoots me a look. Danny looks wounded, so I add, “They were strangers. I’m sure. Not anyone I’ve ever smelled before. And they were hunting Cicely, I know it.” Michael nods gravely. “You would probably know best. And that would explain why you left Cicely’s mother. A normal lycanthrope might have stayed to kill her, but—” “But I’m not even normal for a lycanthrope.” Neither of them bothers to contradict me. We all know the truth: Most werewolves hate vampires the way any predator hates another predator on its turf. But I was bred and trained to be a vampire hunter long before I was a werewolf, which pretty much makes me a vampire killing machine. “Strangers, in our woods?” For once, Danny looks appropriately scared. “Why?” Michael rubs his temples wearily. “Who knows. They could have just been passing through. They could have followed your scent from the bar, for all we know. Whatever the reason—” he glances at me, “I’m sure they won’t come back now.” “So Cicely is safe.” I feel a small spark of comfort for the first time. Michael’s eyes narrow. “No, I wouldn’t say that. Ander, what were you thinking?” What was I thinking? That I could go out with the girl I love? Catch a movie? Hear a band? That I could mooch french-fries off her plate and put my arm around her when the lights went down? That I could walk with her under the light of the fucking moon? It’s all so obviously stupid now. I was thinking I was human. Which means I wasn’t thinking at all. But I have to say something. “It was her sixteenth birthday.” “Sixteenth,” says Michael, “Almost her last.” “Now, hon,” Danny says quickly, “Ander didn’t mean to—” “To what?” says Michael, “To crawl out the window? He knows damn well what the risks are and if he doesn’t care enough—” “Hey!” I jerk the chains so hard they clang and both Michael and Danny take a step back. Don’t care enough? About Cicely? I’m guilty of a million things, but that isn’t one of them. “For the last three months, no unpredicted changes. I’ve only changed on the full moon. The potion was working! I know it was wrong, I know I shouldn’t have gone, but I only did it because I thought I could handle it. I thought it would be all right.”

Michael is quiet. “If that is what you thought, then I have failed you. I’ve let you put too much faith in the potions, given you the impression they offer some real hope. For that I apologize.” His words hit me hard. I don’t know whether to argue with him or to thank him for telling me the truth. All I know is I feel ashamed all the way down to the pit of my stomach. Michael doesn’t owe me anything. Sure, I set him free, but that was as much for my sake as his, and it was partly my fault he was a prisoner to begin with. He could easily have lost me since then— killed me, left me running wild in the wilderness up north, left me chained here in this room. Technically, we’re nothing to each other and there’s no law that says he has to stick by me. But of course he has stayed by me, even though he knows there’s a good chance his devotion might cost him his life someday. And how do I repay him? By fucking up. “I won’t climb out the window again.” Michael nods. “You’re right. You won’t. Because we’re leaving.” “Leaving?” I can hear the horror in my own voice. But of course we have to leave. I almost killed Cicely and I may have done worse to her mother. There’s just no other choice. I look at Danny. There is pain in his eyes. He grew up in this house. He used to have it all to himself, before he met Michael and we moved in and turned the master suite into a prison. And now we’ll ask him to give the place up, and he’ll have no choice but to do it because he and Michael are bonded. Where Michael goes, Danny goes. Well, Cicely isn’t trapped like that. If I leave now, she can forget me. “When?” I ask, “Tomorrow?” “No.” Michael paces restlessly, a few steps away from me, a few steps back. “We stay through the full moon. We can’t risk being on the road when you change and we need to be here until then to know for sure whether Cicely’s mother is…affected. If we leave now, we may be leaving a mess behind us.” A mess. I think of Cicely’s mom in her worn jeans and her Greenpeace t-shirt, singing along with the 80’s station while she flips pancakes. She’s as close as I’ve come to having a mom these past few years and I’ve reduced her to a mess. And I have no idea how Michael would clean it up. “Four more days. Through Saturday.” It sounds like nothing. Four years of loving Cicely and it comes down to just four days. Not that Cicely and I will even have that. I’m sure I won’t see the outside of this room before we leave, and that’s probably for the best. The most important thing is to keep Cicely safe. “Cicely may come looking for me,” I say. “She won’t have to.” Michael stops and pulls himself up straighter. “You’ll see her at school tomorrow.” “Excuse me?” For a minute I think my hearing has come back screwed up. “You want me go to school?” “I need you to. We don’t know who saw what last night, and we don’t want anyone putting two and two together and guessing what you are. If it gets back to the Hunters…” Michael shakes his head and Danny takes a half step closer to him, laying a hand protectively on his arm. “We all need to keep to our regular routines. I want you to go to school and talk to Cicely about her mother, find out everything you can about her condition. Cicely is our best source of information. And it’s imperative you give her this.” He takes a small bottle from the pocket of his shirt. The dark brown liquid sloshes thickly, like maple syrup, but it smells like a poppy flower.

Michael takes out the key to my chains. He gives me a last, appraising look, as I will myself to stay calm. Then, satisfied, he reaches behind me and I hear the key click in the lock. I flex my arms and feel the shackles open with a satisfying pop. It feels good to bring my hands in front of me again. I rub some feeling back into my palms. Then I take the little bottle from Michael, turning it over in my hands. “What is this?” “Forgetfulness potion. We don’t know how much Cicely’s mother saw when you attacked her or how much she remembers, but we can’t have her telling everyone she had a close encounter with the Monument Monster. This will make her memories vague, make it easier for her to believe it was all her imagination, some by-product of the meds they gave her at the hospital. But she has to take it soon. Tell Cicely it’s an ancient remedy I learned on my travels. You said her mother is a student of yoga and herbalism, am I right?” “She took a couple of workshops, yeah.” “Then say whatever it takes to get her to try it. And try your best to get Cicely talking. We need to know every detail we can about her mother’s condition if we’re going to predict whether she’s going to change.” I nod numbly. I can tell Michael is trying to sound confident for our sakes, but what are the chances Cicely will give the remedy to her mother? What are the chances she will talk to me at all after I stood her up on our first date? “I’ll try.” He gives me a business-like nod. “That’s all we can do.” The room is silent for a moment. I work to keep my breathing deep and even, faking calm so Michael won’t think to put the chains back on, but inside I’m at war. On the one hand I feel like somebody on death row who has just been pardoned. I won’t have to leave Cicely for four whole days, long enough to see her again, tell her how sorry I am, maybe even help her mom in some little way. On the other hand, I want to run right now and never come back. Hadn’t we come close enough to tragedy? How could I justify putting Cicely in danger again? I reach for the soup and pull it closer to me, hoping it will calm me down. I take a deep breath. Chicken noodle laced with my potion, Danny’s usual post-change comfort food. But something about the potion smells different. Familiar, and not in a good way. “Michael?” I almost hate to ask. “How do we know I won’t just change at school?” He doesn’t meet my eye. “We’re going back to Potion Ten.” “Ten?” My stomach is screaming for food. It takes all my will to push the bowl of chicken soup away. “Michael, you know I can’t.” “Of all the formulas we’ve tried, it worked the best.” Yeah, I think, by whose definition? Sure, I’d had the fewest changes on Ten, but that was mainly because, as Michael would say, it “eliminated stimuli,” meaning it knocked out my sense of smell almost completely—something an ordinary human could stand, but torture for a lycanthrope. Like asking a human to be blindfolded all day. And that was nothing compared to the main side effect. “You know the dreams almost drove me crazy.” Danny gives me a sympathetic look. “We know, but it’s only a few more days. Then you can go back to the latest formula after we leave.” After we leave. I can tell it hurts Danny to say the words, but not nearly as much as it hurts me to hear them. I look back and forth between the two of them, searching for some sort of understanding, but between Danny’s watery smile and Michael’s grim resolve, I can’t see it. Of course they don’t understand. They don’t know how I truly feel about Cicely. They don’t know

what it’s like to have everything be your fault. And they can’t possibly understand why the dreams of my life before lycanthropy—even the happy ones—made it feel almost impossible to live my life now. Part of me wants to try to explain it all to them, to tell them the truth about me and Cicely, at least. But the words feel too big. Overwhelming. “Ander?” Danny’s voice is soft, “Are you okay?” Four long days of torture. Four short days with the girl I love. Four more days until full moon. “Put the chains back on,” I say. There’s a pretty good chance I’m gonna lose it.

Chapter 9: Cicely “Honestly,” my mother says, “I’m okay.” I give her my skeptical look. “You don’t look okay.” The swelling in her face has deflated a bit, but the three long gashes on her cheek are still enough to make me wince in sympathy. Even neatly stitched as they are now, they still look like something out of a horror movie, scary reminders of how close I came to losing her. “If it’s all the same to you,” I say, “I think I’ll stay here with you again today.” My mother’s brow creases with concern. “It’s not all the same to me, Cicely. It’s Wednesday, right? You’ve missed a day of school already. I don’t want you falling behind in your classes for my sake.” “Mom.” I perch on the edge of her bed, being careful not to jostle her. “It’s only the second month of school. It’s almost all review anyway. Besides,” I shrug, “I could fall a little behind and still be a little ahead.” My mother tries to purse her lips disapprovingly, but the stitches won’t allow it. I know she can’t really argue with me on this one anyhow. Academics have never been my problem. Instead she tries a different tact. “I’m sure Ander misses you.” “No,” I say, “He doesn’t.” My mother’s look of concern deepens. “Cicely, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ander, but I hope you can work it out. I hate to see you two fight.” I scowl at the red blinking lights on the monitor beside my mother’s bed. Of course she would feel that way. She doesn’t know about Ander standing me up. But it isn’t even about that any more. I’m pretty sure, by now, everyone at St. Agnes has heard my mother is in the hospital. Zoe and her dad have sent flowers. Vice Principal Hardwick sent a card. But my best friend hasn’t even picked up the phone. “I’m sure he misses you,” my mother says quickly, “It’s just that, at his age…he’s going through a lot…” “I’m going through a lot! You’re going through a lot! Ander…” I shake my head. There is no way she is going to get it. My mother puts on her most authoritarian expression. It isn’t easy for her to look strict with the stitches inhibiting half her face, but she manages. “Well Ander or no Ander, I want you to go to school, get outside, do something! You didn’t even get to have fun for your birthday! Why don’t you go out this weekend? Isn’t the Fall Formal this Saturday?” “Mom, I haven’t been to a school dance yet. Why would I start while you’re in the hospital?” “I’m sure Zoe would go with you. I feel just terrible watching you sit here. It would make me feel better to know you were having a little fun.” I shake my head. “No way.” “Please?” My mother looks me in the eye. “I just need to know things are going back to normal.” “Since when is me going to a school dance normal?” I have to wonder if my mom is using her sick status to her advantage here. But there’s no use arguing with her when she gets that look in her eye, and I’m certainly not going to argue with her now, when she’s propped up in a

hospital bed. “Okay,” I say grudgingly, “Maybe.” She smiles. It’s a tired smile, but it’s still nice to see it. “Okay, maybe to the dance. But school is non-negotiable. One day isn’t going to kill you.” I sigh. It’s not just leaving my mom. It’s having to see Ander. “Are you sure?” I say, “Because it might.” Twenty minutes later I am handing a cab driver the last of my cash. It’s hard to part with— we’ll need every penny if we want to fix our car—but I’d gladly pay him ten times that if he’d just keep driving. Looking up at the tan, brick box that is St. Agnes School, I feel a little queasy. I’m not ready to face my classes, my teachers, the work I missed. I’m not even ready to face Zoe’s sympathetic smile. And I’m certainly not ready to see Ander. Just thinking about it makes me feel flushed with embarrassment. I can’t shake the pathetic picture of myself, sitting alone at a table set for two. It’s hard to imagine what he could say that would make that image go away. Usually, all I want is to see Ander. But today, all I want is to avoid him. I look warily around the parking lot as the cab drives off without me. It has been two days since the thunderstorm hit on my birthday, but the weather still hasn’t recovered. It’s misting a cold rain now and it gives the parking lot a grainy look, like an antique photograph. There’s still a few minutes left before the first bell rings and people are making the most of them, loitering around their cars, listening to one last song, taking one last gulp of coffee, scribbling down one last bit of their homework. I scan the lot for Ander’s sandy hair, usually head and shoulders above the crowd, and feel relieved and disappointed at the same time when he’s nowhere to be seen. He’s probably just running late, as always, which means he’ll come walking out of the woods any minute now. I need somewhere to get myself together. My eyes light on the church of St. Agnes. I’m not a big believer in God, but something about the little church, with its twisted gargoyles and gothic saints, has always called to me. Maybe it’s the fact that they look so out of place, as out of place as I feel. Or maybe I just like the feel of the cool stones, the spicy smell of the incense, the way the sunlight shining through the stained glass windows paints cubist blocks of color on the pews. I could probably slip into the church right now, hole myself up for a while. If anyone caught me cutting class, I could just say I was praying for my mother. There is even a chance that might be true. But the church door is always open, so there’s a chance someone else may be there, and I just can’t deal with people today. Not living ones anyhow. My gaze drifts to the little graveyard behind the church. That’s where my ancestors are buried, from my birth mom back about a century. They are half the reason my mom stayed in this town, an attempt to keep me in touch with my roots. When I was little, she used to take me to visit my great-great-great-greatgrandmother’s grave at the feet of the white, marble angel statue at the center of the graveyard. Chipped and weathered tombstones stand at odd angles around it, like dominoes frozen mid-fall. A black iron fence topped with spikes surrounds the whole thing. That’s the school’s way of trying to keep us students out, and for the most part it works. Only Ander and I know about the “doggie door,” the spot where the fence meets the edge of the woods. That’s where Ander found a hole, dug by some animal trying to get under the fence. It’s not really visible unless you are right on top of it but it’s deep enough to make the fence there unstable. You can push it open just enough to slip through. That’s how Ander and I have gotten in there a million times before, to hang out after school or to wander around making grave-rubbings in my notebook, or just eat lunch quietly in the shadow of the angel. That, I decide, is where I want to be right now.

I cross the parking lot quickly and slip between the school and the church, glancing over my shoulder to make sure no one has seen me go. But the carved saints and demons are the only ones watching and I’m pretty sure they won’t tell, so I hurry along the fence line, into the shadow of the trees. My hand is on the loose section of fence when I freeze. There’s someone in the graveyard. For a second I think it must be Ander. I’ve never seen anyone else in there. But then I realize that is ridiculous. The guy standing in the graveyard couldn’t look less like Ander if he tried. He might be our age, but that is where the resemblance ends. He is shorter and slighter, with dark, loosely curled hair and deep olive skin. He’s looking away from me, but just from the cut of his jaw, I can tell he is handsome, the kind of guy I would remember if I had ever seen him around school before. Which means he’s probably not a student. Maybe he works for the church? I mean, obviously someone must come to tend the graves at least once in a while. But he certainly isn’t dressed for work. His dark jeans look new and the white button down shirt under his black leather coat is spotless. And timeless, really. I stifle a shiver that has nothing to do with the rain. Timeless, like a ghost. He moves like a ghost, too, graceful and silent. I crouch a little lower behind the wrought iron fence, watching him, suddenly glad my black clothes blend into the shadows. I could probably slip away if I wanted to, retrace my steps along the edge of the woods, get out of there and avoid the embarrassment of being caught staring at a stranger. But I can’t quite make myself move. Frankly there’s something mesmerizing about the way the guy walks, graceful and purposeful at the same time, like a cat. I watch him slip between the uneven rows of headstones until he stands in the shadow of the angel. He is carrying a package neatly wrapped in brown paper and when he unwraps it, I see it is a bouquet of flowers—roses, deep red. Without hesitation, he kneels in the dirt and lays the bouquet at the foot of the angel, on my great great great great grandmother’s grave. Why? Why would someone come to decorate the grave of a woman who has been dead for so long? Her gravestone is over ninety-years old. But his pain is fresh. He reaches out hesitantly and touches the stone, as if he’s trying to convince himself it’s real. Even without seeing his face, I can tell he is crying. He’s crying as if he knew her, as if she died yesterday rather than a century ago, and I’m not sure what to do. Part of me has an irrational urge to go and put my arms around him, to comfort him, because I feel like I know how he feels. Watching his pain, I can feel all the hurt of the last few days rising to the surface and I want to cry with him. But the more rational part of my brain keeps telling me to leave. I don’t have any business witnessing this stranger’s private pain. Even if the stranger happens to be kneeling on my ancestor’s grave. Slowly, he stands. I duck a step back into the woods, in case he’s about to turn this way. But he doesn’t. Instead, he picks up one polished black boot and brings it down on the roses, hard. Again and again, he stomps on them until they are crushed into the dirt and the loose petals scatter, like little red tears, like tiny drops of blood. But even then he isn’t satisfied. He draws back his boot and kicks the side of the angel, hard. It cracks. The solid stone cracks, one long fissure running up the length of the statue like a vein running to her heart. I gasp and the boy spins, his black coat flapping, his dark eyes searching the shadows. “Who’s there?” I couldn’t answer if I wanted to. It’s not just that he’s handsome—although he is, fiercely.

It’s more that he looks familiar in a way I can’t explain. Then it dawns on me: He’s the boy from the woods. The one I saw from the window of the ambulance the night of my mother’s accident. But there’s more than that, something more… The church bells ring at the same moment the school buzzer sounds. For a second, I feel suspended between the two sounds, caught between my everyday world and something much older, much deeper. In that second, the boy’s eyes find me. His gaze locks with mine and there is so much pain and anger in his look that a sliver of fear spikes through me. But even so, it takes all my effort to tear my gaze away and bolt. I run as fast as my boots can take me along the ragged hem of the woods, until I’m sure I’m out of sight, but even then I imagine I can feel the boy’s eyes on me. At the edge of the playing fields I stop, my hands on my knees, working to catch my breath. A second buzzer sounds from school, meaning I have only a few minutes to get myself and my excused absence note to the attendance office, then on to English before first period starts. I haul ass across the playing fields and burst through the back door into the bustling hallway of St. Agnes. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to the dim indoor light—and a lot longer for my brain to adjust to the fact that I’m back in real life. I feel like I’m experiencing some sort of reality whiplash. My life has been so surreal for the past few days, ever since Ander asked me out. The hospital was like its own little world of tense faces and blipping machines and round-the-clock nurses, completely out of sync with actual time. It would have been hard enough to adjust back to everyday life after a few sleepless, tearful nights on a cot. But now the scene in the cemetery has thrown me off in a whole new way. In fact, it seems so completely surreal that, now that I am away from it, I am starting to doubt I actually saw it at all. Is it possible I’ve snapped from too much stress? The halls of St. Agnes certainly seem real enough. All around me, girls are texting, shoving books into backpacks, applying a last coat of lip gloss. Ahead of me, a group of guys shove each other around and laugh while a couple commits PDA against their lockers. Normal. Like nothing has changed. But of course everything has. Instinctively, I scan the crowd for Ander, looking for his spiky, blond bed-head above the crowd. Not a sign of him. If I hurry now I can make it to the attendance office to hand in my note and still get to English on time. I didn’t want to come to school at all today, but now that I’m here, I just want to have as normal a day as possible. The thought of walking into English late, of having everyone stare at me, makes me cringe. I should run to the office. Instead, I take the long way, past Ander’s locker. It’s as if my feet have a mind of their own. But his locker is closed and he’s nowhere in sight. Has he come and gone, then? Or is he late like usual? Ordinarily I would wait for him, walk with him all the way to his American History class before doubling back to my own English class. Today I walk to the office alone, barely registering the sympathetic smile I get from the secretary as she hands me my excused absence slip, then stop off at my locker, trying to ignore the pictures of Ander and I that are taped up beside the poems and sketches on my locker door. I retrieve my English notebook and add it to the battered copy of Romeo and Julietalready in my bag. I’m supposed to have read the first act for today. I haven’t; even though I had plenty of time to read at the hospital, I wasn’t exactly in the mood for tragic romance. Luckily it doesn’t matter. I’ve read the play before for my own geeky pleasure, so I should be able to fake it. The rest of the day will be harder to finesse. I take a deep breath and step into the flow of people hurrying to class. I’m so lost in my

thoughts it takes me a moment to realize I have been sucked into the wake of Lyla Jansen. It’s something I try hard to avoid, considering the fact that Lyla likes to make my life miserable. I’ve managed to stay under her radar for the past few years, but I still don’t like to tempt fate. But there they are: Lyla Jansen, Hannah Obermar, and Emmie Gardner, deep in giggly conversation. “I saw him this morning.” Lyla’s chestnut ponytail swishes in time with the back of her designer jeans, “And I take it back, Hannah. He really is as hot as all that.” “I know, right?” Hannah is taller than Lyla, but she still walks a half-step behind her. With her long blond hair, she reminds me of an obedient afghan hound. “Do you think he’s going to the formal?” “I know he is,” Lyla says, “With me.” “What! I thought you already had a date for the dance!” Even from behind I can tell Hannah is pouting. “Yes, I had a date. Had, past tense. Or it will be past tense once I ask New Boy. You can have my old date if you want, Hannah. I mean, unless Emmie wants him.” Lyla laughs and I don’t blame her. It’s ridiculous to think of Emmie Gardner not having a date to a dance, since she is easily the prettiest girl at St. Agnes. Her skin is deep coffee, her hair a froth of tiny copper ringlets around her heart-shaped face, her wide eyes a startling hazel. She moved here a year ago from some warm Southern place and she has the sweet molasses drawl to prove it. The boys practically melt when she speaks. Even Ander once said you could draw Emmie as an Anime character without changing anything, which is a pretty high compliment, coming from him. Which, of course, means I hate her. Even though it is sort of like hating Bambi or something, because Emmie always dresses so cutesy. Following her down the hall, I watch the plastic Tinkerbell charm on her Hello Kitty backpack bounce. “Well, Emmie?” Lyla says, “Do you?” “What?” Emmie gives her a sleepy smile. “Oh, I’m sorry, y’all. I spaced.” Hannah giggles. “Imagine that!” Lyla frown at her. “Emmie, you need another Diet Coke. Or maybe a depth charge. Late night?” Emmie shakes her head so her curls bounce. “Just lost in my thoughts, I guess.” I find this a little hard to believe. Emmie is not exactly known for her thoughts. But that certainly doesn’t hurt her popularity. The crowd seems to part in front of Lyla and her friends without them even noticing. Absolutely everyone says hi to them, and sometimes they say hi back, or pause to accept a note from someone in the crowd, or to admire someone’s new slingbacks with all the sincerity of a politician kissing a baby. But mostly they just glide down the hallway. Just a few feet behind them, I can’t help thinking about a line from the battered Shakespeare in my bag: “A swan trooping among crows.” Except in this case it’s the opposite: I am a crow trooping after swans, and I look it, too. I am wearing even more black than usual this morning. Since my red hoodie is still covered with blood from the accident, I’ve replaced it with a black sweater with sleeves so long, they reach almost to my black-painted nails. My long hair is loose and lank from a few nights at the hospital. I tried to put on make-up in the cab on my way to school, but I wasn’t able to beat the dark circles under my eyes, so I decided to join them instead, lining my eyes in a layer of kohl dark enough to match my mood. It had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, walking behind pastel Emmie, I am suddenly aware that I look like the living dead. Luckily, no one is looking at me. Still, it’s a relief when Emmie and Hannah go their separate ways and I follow Lyla into AP

Brit Lit. Mrs. DeMasseter is already at the board, drawing a diagram of the Old Globe Theatre. As usual, she’s dressed like she should be acting in plays rather than teaching them; her overplucked eyebrows have been drawn back on as high black arches and her cheeks are two bright blotches of rouge. I slip past her, through the buzz of conversation, and slide into my usual seat by the window overlooking the spire of St. Agnes Church. Beyond it I can just see the edge of the graveyard, the tombstones like white teeth against the dark woods. There’s no sign of the boy and I’m becoming more and more convinced that I hallucinated him. I take my paperback Romeo and Juliet from my bag and pretend to read. I can’t concentrate on the words, but I don’t really need to since I know the story by heart. The book is just a “do not disturb” sign, to make sure no one talks to me. Not that anyone usually does. Although I’ll admit today I feel a little more visible than usual. Is it my imagination, or do people keep glancing in my direction? Maybe they heard my mother is in the hospital. I bury my nose a little deeper in my book. If someone were to bring up my mother right now, in the mood I’m in, I would probably break down and cry. So it’s actually a relief when Mrs. DeMasseter turns to the class, her leather-bound copy of Romeo and Juliet in hand. “Alright, settle down, people. We have a lot to get through today.” She raps her pointer on the chalkboard behind her until the whispering fades. “You are to have read the first act of Romeo and Juliet, am I correct?” There are nods all around. “Good. But as you know, the language of Shakespeare is meant to be spoken, so this morning we will be dividing into pairs to read aloud. Please find yourself a partner and divvy up your roles.” I sigh. Usually I don’t mind this kind of thing, but today the thought of interacting with another human being makes me feel sick. Well, better find someone quickly so I don’t get left pathetically partnerless. I turn around in my seat… …and find myself looking into the darkest eyes I have ever seen. The boy from the graveyard is sitting right behind me. My heart does something staccato and my breath catches. The boy smiles, his teeth very white against his olive skin. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” “I…I feel like I have.” “Yes,” he says, “I know the feeling.” He is looking at me way too closely, studying me. I feel like I should say something but it’s as if the signal between my mind and my mouth is being scrambled. A minute ago I had half convinced myself that this guy was a figment of my stressedout imagination or a phantom from another time. Now here he is under the bright lights of my English classroom, sitting so close I can smell the damp leather of his coat, so close I could reach out and touch the perfect curve of his jaw. Not that I would. What is wrong with me? This guy is completely not my type. For a second I conjure up an image of Ander in my mind, before I remember he isn’t my type, either. Not any more. “Are you all right?” The boy asks, but he sounds more amused than concerned. All of the anguish I saw in the graveyard is gone. Aside from the fact that his dark hair is damp and rumpled, he could have been sitting here all morning. And if he is a ghost, he is a very visible one. Every girl in the class seems to be looking at him. But Lyla moves the fastest. She crosses the classroom in an instant, her heels clicking, chestnut ponytail bouncing. She’s wearing the same pink sweater she wore in her student council campaign posters—and the same determined smile. It’s no wonder she won.

“Hi!” she beams, “I’m Lyla. I know you don’t know anyone yet, since this is only your second day, so I thought you could work with me.” The boy’s expression is nothing more than polite. “That is very kind of you, but I am already working with Cicely.” What? “With Cicely?” Lyla looks as surprised as I feel. “But, partners aren’t assigned. You get to choose.” His smile never falters. “Yes.” “I’m sure Cicely doesn’t mind if you switch.” Lyla turns her smile on me. “You don’t, do you, Cicely?” I can hear the faintest edge of a threat in her voice. “Well…” I say. “I don’t…” “I think we will keep things as they are,” he says, “If it is all the same to you.” It is not all the same to Lyla. I can see it in her eyes. She looks me up and down once, from my unwashed hair to my muddy boots and back. “Well,” she says, “If you’re sure.” Then she turns on her heels and walks stiffly back to her desk, where a small group of boys is waiting, each one eager to play Romeo to her Juliet. The boy chuckles quietly as he watches her go. “Well,” he says, “Shall we find a place with fewer interruptions?” Welcome back onto Lyla’s radar, I think. But I nod numbly and lead him across the classroom, past the pairs of students already stumbling their way through the prologue. All eyes watch us and I am relieved to get to my spot at the back of the room, where a low bookshelf shields a pair of chairs from the rest of the room. He settles himself into one of them, still smiling that beautiful smile. Behind him on the bookshelf, a prop skull—Yorik from last year’s Hamlet—smiles, too. “You’re sure you’re okay?” “I’m fine.” I say, defensive. I know I am acting like an idiot, getting so flustered just because a guy—okay, an admittedly hot guy—wants to read Romeo and Juliet with me. And because he is still staring at me. I can feel a flush creeping up my neck. If he had half a heart he would look away, let me get out from under the heat of his gaze and regain my composure, but of course he doesn’t look away. In fact, he’s watching intently as the color rises in my cheeks. His eyes travel down to my neck and his expression shifts from amusement to concern. “You’re wearing black.” “So?” “Black is the color of mourning, yes? Your mother, she isn’t—” “No! My mother is fine. How do you even know about my mother?” “A small school. Word travels quickly.” He looks relieved. “So, your mother lives?” “Yes, of course she lives. Who are you? I don’t even know your name.” He laughs suddenly. “No, I suppose you don’t. I am Luke Marianez. And you,” he adds, “Are Cicely Watson.” He says my name as if it means something to him, as if he is meeting a celebrity or a long-lost friend, and holds out his hand, formal and polite. What can I do but take it? His skin is cool on mine. He holds my hand a heartbeat longer than necessary, and for a half second I think he is going to kiss it the way gentlemen do in Merchant Ivory films. Which is, of course, ridiculous. I pull my hand back too quickly, certain I am blushing again, and Luke Marianez smiles. “If your mother is well, why are you dressed in black?” “I am in mourning for my life.”

His dark eyes spark with recognition. “That is a line, yes? From Anton Chekhov’s latest play. The Seagull, isn’t it?” “The Seagull.” I am trying not to freak. I have quoted that line a million times before and no one has ever recognized it. Probably because most guys my age don’t hang around reading turnof-the-century drama for fun. “Wait, did you say his latest play?” “Did I?” Luke frowns. “Of course I meant his greatest. My English is sometimes… imperfect.” From what I have seen so far, nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, his speech is a little too perfect, each word carefully chosen and pronounced, only the faintest ghost of a Spanish accent. I study him over the top of my book. There is something European about the way he is dressed, too: understated, no labels, nothing trendy. The way the very richest kids at this school dress, the ones who have nothing to prove. The ones who have nothing to do with me. “So,” I ask, “Where did you say you are from?” “I didn’t.” His attention is on his book. “Around.” He gestures vaguely. “I have grown up in many places. I travel.” “For your parents’ work?” A muscle tightens in his jaw. “My parents are dead.” Maybe that’s why he was so concerned about my mother. “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “Why?” he says, “It’s not as if it’s your fault.” But there’s an edge in his voice, as if it really is my fault. Maybe he’s angry with me for bringing it up. I’d like to say something to change the subject, but Mrs. DeMasseter is walking towards us. “Miss Watson. Mr. Marianez. I hope you are hard at work.” She arches her permanently arched eyebrows even higher and I am suddenly aware she is not the only one staring. All around the classroom, people have shifted their seats to peer around the bookshelf. They are watching us from behind their copies of Romeo and Juliet. I can see open envy on some of the girl’s faces, and complete bafflement on Lyla’s. And I can’t blame her. “Of course, ma’am.” Luke’s face softens to a charming smile. His tone is full of respect. “Cicely and I were discussing the play.” Mrs. DeMasseter looks doubtful, but I can tell his smile has disarmed her. “Well, then. Continue.” “Yes, ma’am.” As she walks away, Luke opens his book and begins, a little too loudly. “Oh speak again, bright angel! For thou art as glorious to this night, being o’er my head, as is a winged messenger of heaven unto the white-upturned wond’ring eyes of mortals…” He speaks the lines with total confidence, as if he has played the part before. From where I am sitting, I can see his book is open to the first act, but I know the speech he’s quoting is from the second. He’s saying it all from memory. And he’s saying it right to me. I want to just listen, to get lost in the sound of his clear, precise voice. It’s like it was made for poetry. But I can’t ignore the other sound: the snickers and giggles and whispers behind us. They think it’s a joke, someone like him paying attention to someone like me. How can it not be? There is definitely some double-meaning in his words whenever he speaks to me, a smile behind the intensity of his eyes. How do I know the joke isn’t on me? And when is the punch line going to come? My mind flashes involuntarily to an image of me, sitting alone at my candle-lit kitchen table, waiting for Ander to never show. Haven’t I been punked enough for one lifetime? Haven’t

I had enough of enigmatic boys? Mrs. DeMasseter has returned to the diagram of the Globe Theatre that she was drawing on the board. Luke ends his speech and settles back, comfortable in his chair. He rakes his fingers through his black curls. “Now. Where were we?” “Why are you speaking to me?” He looks taken-aback. “Because we are working together. That is the assignment.” “But why? Why are you working with me? Why did you sit by me?” “Should I not have?” His dark eyes are locked with mine. “Is there some rule that says I shouldn’t be near you?” The way he says it, it sounds like a real question, like there really might be some reason why we aren’t allowed to speak. “Well?” he says, “Is there?” “No.” No rule aside from the natural law of high school, the unspoken caste system that says that people like me are untouchable to people like him. “There is no rule.” “Good,” he says, “I would hate to break a rule.” The private joke is back in his tone, and I still can’t tell if it’s on me. He studies me. “You look uncomfortable.” “I saw you in the graveyard.” I figure someone in this conversation should just tell it like it is. I see a flash of apprehension in his eyes, but his smile stays. “Oh yes, just now. I needed a breath of fresh air before class. It looked like a pretty place to walk.” “You were crying.” His tone is light, but he lowers his eyes to his book. “It was raining. I’m sure my face was wet.” I’m not letting him off so easy. “You looked like you were in pain.” “Ah, yes.” His smile is tolerant. “I remember now. I did hurt myself.” “On the thorns?” I ask. “Or when you cracked solid stone?” His jaw clenches. “I’m not sure what you think you saw,” he says quietly, “But I think you have been through a lot lately. Perhaps we should get to work.” So we do. We read the first act of Romeo and Juliet, but my mind hardly registers the words. I am too busy trying to imagine what reason he had for being in the graveyard, trying to decide if it was him I saw by the side of the road the night of the accident. Trying not to watch his lips. When the bell finally rings, I am out of my chair in a rush and headed for the door. I need to lock myself in the ladies’ room or hole up in a quiet corner of the library and just breathe. Luke follows me, but he doesn’t get more than a step before he runs into interference; half the girls in our class are waiting to chat with the handsome new boy. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Lyla step in for another shot. Well, I think, she can have him. After all, they’re much better suited to each other than he and I would ever be. And what is he to me? Just some strange, slightly arrogant, good-looking boy who decided to talk to me, that’s all. A fluke anomaly in my high school life. Luckily, because my life is a thousand times more complicated than it should be as it is, and there’s no way I could deal with even one more thing. With a rush of relief I step out the classroom door— And directly into Ander. He looks bad. His blond hair spikes like he slept on it funny, but his eyes look like he hasn’t slept at all. The circles under them rival mine. His hand shakes a little as he runs it through his hair, leaving it even messier than before. Yes, he looks like hell. So why do I want to throw my arms around him? Why do I glance back into the classroom behind me, suddenly feeling guilty for even talking to Luke Marianez? I mean, it was a class

assignment! And if anyone should feel guilty, it’s Ander. “Where were you?” I demand, “I waited for you!” He shifts uncomfortably. “I was sick.” “Sick.” I can almost believe it, the way he looks. But hadn’t I seen him just hours before, setting a new land-speed record on the track, smiling and laughing in the woods? “That came on fast.” “Kinda hit me out of the blue.” He’s looking at the floor, avoiding my eyes, like a dog that has chewed up something important. Well, that look won’t work this time. “You could have called.” “Yeah,” he says, “I know you’re mad. I just…how’s your mom?” He looks so worried, I want to reassure him. But then, no one’s been there to reassure me. “She’s still in the hospital. Her wounds are healing, but they’re keeping her there a little longer, for observation.” “Why?” he asks quickly, “Did they say? I heard she was attacked by an animal—” “She hit something with her car and it came at her through the broken window. It scratched her face.” “Scratched?” he says, “Not bit?” I shake my head. “She’s not rabid.” I’m not either, I think, but I totally should be, after you dropped off the face of the earth. “And did she say what it was?” I sigh. “It was a mad hyena. It was the Monument Monster. Who knows what it was. Mom was pretty freaked out. She can’t remember much.” “Good,” he says, “I mean, not good in a head injury way, but good like who wants to remember that stuff? I’m sure she wants to block the whole night out.” Yeah, I think, me too. “Ander, what do you want?” He raises one big hand to rub the nape of his neck, self-conscious. I catch a little whiff of the spicy scent that lingers around Ander and it makes me want to touch him, but I hold back. “My uncle asked me to give you this.” He takes a little vial out of the pocket of his jeans. It’s still warm from Ander’s pocket and full of something brown and thick. “Maple syrup?” “It’s a healing thing. My uncle learned about it when he was traveling in India. You take just a few drops every night before you go to sleep. He said it works wonders.” So that’s why he’s here? To run errands for his uncle? Part of me wants to toss the vial back at him. How dare he try to be sweet now, too late, when I’m so mad? And what does he think this is going to do? This is serious. This is real. My mother doesn’t want your magic potion, I want to tell him. But the thing is, she totally would. Ancient remedies are exactly the sort of medicine my hippie mother respects. The placebo effect alone would probably be enough to help. And truthfully, I want to believe it would help. I could use a little magic, too. “Thanks,” I say. I slip the bottle into my bag. Ander looks relieved. “And you won’t forget?” he says. I shoulder my bag and turn like I’m going to leave. “I don’t forget important things.” Not like some people. “Cicely, wait.” He reaches out and touches my arm. His hand is warm. I turn, reluctantly. “What?” He forces himself to look me in the eye. “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

And he is. I can see it in his eyes. A few minutes ago I might have said there was no apology big enough for blowing off my birthday, standing me up on our first date, leaving me to flounder alone in the hospital with my mom. But the look in Ander’s eyes is so sick with guilt and shame and sorrow it takes me by surprise. I can feel myself softening. “Well,” I say, “It’s not like it’s your fault.” But instead of making him feel better, my words seem to make him feel worse. “Cicely,” he says, “We have to talk.”

Chapter 10: Ander I take a deep breath. I thought I could do it. I thought I could leave Cicely for her own good. But now, seeing her eyes so full of hurt, I know I can’t. Maybe it’s selfish, but I just can’t leave it like this. I have to tell her the truth. “Not here,” I say “Somewhere private.” She looks at me, caution and curiosity warring in her eyes. “Here or nowhere.” I look around us. The halls are almost empty. The last stragglers are disappearing into classrooms. In a second we’ll be alone. Okay, it’s not ideal, but when is? And this may be the only chance I get. I take a step closer, keeping my voice low. “Listen, Cicely, I know I should have told you this a long time ago. I was just…worried how you might react.” Understatement of the year. “But after all the trouble I’ve caused you…I feel like you have a right to know. The truth is—” “He was with me.” I turn, but I don’t really have to. There’s only one girl at St. Agnes with that honeyed, Southern drawl. Emmie Gardner is standing a few lockers behind me, her Hello Kitty backpack at her feet. “What?” Cicely says. “I said Ander was with me on Monday night. We were just hangin’ out and I guess we lost track of time.” Emmie shoots me a smile that would make most guys want to kiss her. It just makes me want to kill her. “Emmie,” I hiss, “What the—” “You two were hanging out? Together?” Cicely is looking back and forth between Emmie and me like she’s seeing us for the first time. I can see her taking in Emmie’s short skirt, her sparkly top, her pretty face. Emmie is still smiling. “I was just over at his house and—” “At his house?” Cicely practically shouts it. I’m surprised teachers don’t come running out into the hall. I’ve never once let Cicely in my house. She looks so betrayed it hurts me to look at her. “Cicely,” I say, “It’s not what it sounds like.” “Really?” she says, “Because it sure sounds like you were hanging out with Emmie Gardner on my birthday.” “I wasn’t,” I say. “I wasn’t with her.” “Well,” says Cicely, “You weren’t with me.” I can see the tears rising in her eyes, but she’s fighting them. “I know,” I say quickly, “And I’ll make it up to you.” “How?” I can’t stand the way her lip quivers. “You name it. Anything you want.” She casts around desperately. I see her gaze land on one of the yellow fliers taped to the wall. She glances at Emmie, then looks me in the eye. “Take me to the dance.” “The Fall Formal?” I search her face for any sign she’s joking, but she’s dead serious. “But…

it’s a formal!” “Hence the name.” “I know,” I say, “But since when—” “Since now.” Her face is set, her shoulders squared. “Take me to the dance or nothing.” I look at the yellow flier. Fall Formal. This Saturday. Full moon. “I can’t.” I see my words hit her like a slap, but she stands her ground. “I have to get to class.” She turns on her heels and takes off down the hall. Walking away from me, maybe for the last time. “Let her go.” Emmie’s voice is quiet. She lays the tips of her pink-painted nails on my arm, her big hazel eyes full of sympathy. “It’s better like that.” Of course I know she’s right. It was stupid of me to even consider telling Cicely my secret. If I care about her at all I should let her go. I should make her go—away from me, as far and as fast as she can. After all, in a few days Michael, Danny, and I will pull up stakes and be out of here. If I love her, I’ll make sure she doesn’t come looking for me. Human or not, be a man. “I can’t because I’m going with Emmie.” Cicely stops, but she doesn’t turn around. Just stands there, frozen. For a second no one breathes. Then someone steps out of the classroom beside me and the smell hits me like a punch to the gut. I couldn’t smell it before—not with the new potion practically taking my nose off-line—but I sure can now. Vamp. One of the two I smelled in the woods. In the closed school hallway, it’s enough to make me choke. He takes a step towards Cicely. It takes everything I’ve got not to jump between them. The guy is not short, but he’s shorter than me. He’s no one I’ve seen before, dark haired, dressed like any other rich kid at this school. Just looking at him is enough to make me want to beat him to a pulp, which I could, easily, if he were human. But of course he’s not. He’s all vamp, from his arrogant smile to his expensive shoes. “I’m sorry,” he says to Cicely, “Am I interrupting something?” Cicely glances at me. “No,” she says, “We’re done.” Her words hurt me almost as much as the pressure building in my chest and the little lightning bolts of pain tripping over the surface of my skin. If it weren’t for the new potion, I’d be wolfing out right now. If it weren’t for Cicely standing between me and the vamp, I would welcome it. “Good.” He smiles and I half expect to see fangs. But of course he won’t show those. Yet. He’s trying to be subtle: subtle clothes, subtle accent, subtle way he glances at me over Cicely’s shoulder, just to make sure I’m watching. I feel the hackles rising on my neck. A low growl starts in my throat. Emmie grips my shirt sleeve. As if she could hold me back. As if anyone could. “Cicely,” his voice is quiet. “You left class so quickly, I didn’t get a chance to ask. Would you do me the honor of being my date for the dance?”

Chapter 11: Cicely What am I supposed to say? Just a few minutes ago, I decided that Luke Marianez was arrogant and odd and probably trying to punk me. But he certainly doesn’t seem like he’s playing me now. His dark eyes meet mine, sincere and expectant. Behind me, Ander is watching. Luke glances at him over my shoulder. “Unless, of course, you already have a date.” I look back at Ander. I can’t stop myself. A big, stupid part of me still wants him to say— what? “I’ll dump my gorgeous, southern-bell cheerleader girlfriend and take you to the dance instead”? Of course he won’t say that. He doesn’t say anything. He just stands there, glaring at Luke, his new girlfriend clinging to his arm. Deliberately, I turn my back on the happy couple. I look Luke Marianez in the eye and speak a little more loudly than I need to. “I would love to go to the dance with you.” “No!” Ander’s voice carries in the empty hall. He sounds like he’s in pain. I have to force myself not to look at him, but I don’t turn around. I mean, if it hurts him so much to see me with someone else, why didn’t he just show for our date? “You can’t go with him, Cissa,” he says, “You can’t.” “And you can’t have it both ways,” I say, and I walk. I tell myself I am making an exit, making a point, but the truth is I have to get out of there before I cry. Because I’m walking out on him too late, because he already walked out on me. Under all the anger and betrayal, I feel disappointed in Ander. This seems so cliché for him. When I reach the end of the hall, I know I should just run but instead I turn around again to face Ander. He hasn’t moved. “You know,” I say, “I thought you were different.” “Yeah,” he says, “The trouble is, I am.” Then he’s gone. He turns around and pulls an Ander, running down the hall just as quickly as he ran on the track, leaving Emmie and Luke and I staring after him. “Mr. McNair, slow down this instant!” Mrs. Peachum’s voice cuts through the quiet. “There will be no running in the—oh!” She dodges out of Ander’s way, moving more quickly than I would have thought possible for such an old woman, but Ander blows by her so fast, she spins like a turnstile. By the time she has recovered her balance, Ander has disappeared around the corner and out of sight. Mrs. Peachum turns her attention on us. “Emmie Gardner and—” she glares at Luke. “Who are you?” “Luke Marianez, ma’am. I’m new here and I have become a little—what is the phrase?— turned around.” His smile is charming, his accent a little thicker than before. “Please can you tell me how to find the gymnasium?” Mrs. Peachum is flustered by his smile. She reaches up and smoothes her thinning hair. “Of course.” Luke glances at me and I know he is stalling for my sake. I nod a thank you in his direction and slip away down the hall as quietly as I can. I’m thrilled to have an excuse to leave. All I want is to reach the ladies room before the breakdown starts. And I do, but once the tears start I can’t stop. I cry for my mom in a hospital bed, and for my sixteenth birthday in the back of an ambulance. But mainly I cry because I feel so stupid not to

have seen this coming. Of course Ander is with beautiful, popular Emmie. Isn’t Ander goodlooking, funny, athletic? The big shock isn’t that he is with Emmie. The big shock is that he was ever with me. Which he wasn’t, really. We were always just friends. Ander made that perfectly clear in a million different ways. I was the one who refused to see it. Well, now I can’t help but see it. I stare at my face in the bathroom mirror. The thick black eyeliner I put on this morning is now streaked with tears. Dark tracks run down my cheeks. I squirt a handful of soft-soap from the dispenser beside the sink and scrub my face until the skin is pink and raw and my nose itches from the floral perfume. Then I scrub some more, rubbing away this whole crappy day. When I’m done, I splash my face with water so cold it makes my skin sting. My face in the mirror looks exposed, the rims of my eyes red, my lips swollen with crying. I look, in other words, like crap. I sigh and lean my forehead against the cool glass of the mirror, hoping it will do something to clear my mind. I reach into my pocket for a tissue and my hand hits something else, the bottle of herbal remedy Ander gave me for my mother. Now what was that all about, I wonder? Was Ander really trying to help me and my mom, or was he just trying to help himself feel better? Well, it doesn’t matter now. I don’t need his help and neither does she. I unscrew the cover quickly and dump the bottle into the sink. The liquid is thick as honey. It smells warm and spicy. It makes me think of Ander, of the sweet, spicy smell that lingers in his clothes. I want to take a deep lung-full of the scent, but instead I turn on the hot water and watch as the remedy mingles with the last of my black eye-makeup in a swirl of storm-cloud gray. In another instant it’s gone, just like everything else today. Down the drain.

Chapter 12: Ander As soon as I step out the back door of the school, the misty rain hits me, so cool I half expect my fevered skin to steam. The air feels good, but it’s not enough. My skin feels stretched thin, tight and itchy as a shrunken wool suit. Behind it the pressure is building. Every breath seems to push it a little further, every beat of my heart like the footstep of a monster stomping nearer. The playing fields in front of me seem to roll on forever, empty and flat and uncrossable as a desert. But beyond them, the woods are thick and dark and cool. Hiding. Inviting. If I can make it to the woods, I can make it. I can let myself turn. I don’t even dare run. If I run, I will turn. Instead I take one deliberate step, two, three. Instinctively I reach for my potion, but of course it’s not there. It’s in my backpack, in the school, and there’s no way I’m going back for it. Not with a vamp and a bunch of innocent people and Cicely— Cicely. Just the thought of her sends a hot spike of emotion through me. Cicely is in there with that vamp. Okay, Ander, eyes on the woods. Breathe. Five steps. Six. Seven. What’s the mantra? Human is as human— I hear the door open behind me. Fuck. A teacher? Cicely? The vamp? I risk a quick breath through my nose. The last effects of the potion have burned off with the rush of adrenaline and I can smell clearly now. Perfume—vanilla and strawberries, sticky sweet. Emmie. “Ander!” Her voice is full of worry. Her kitten heels click on the asphalt behind me. Don’t turn around, I coach myself. Then I round on her anyways. “You should have stayed out of it!” She stops short, her hazel eyes wide. “But Michael told me to say you were with me.” “Sure, if I needed an alibi! That’s always been the plan—you’re supposed to vouch for me if anything ever puts me at the scene of a crime. That doesn’t mean you should tell Cicely—” “Michael said to keep an eye on you today. He said the lycanthropy makes you impulsive and he didn’t trust you not to tell her. And that’s what you were gonna do, right? You were gonna tell her the truth.” “It’s none of your business!” The words are a roar. Emmie takes a step back, her eyes dewy with hurt. Well, good. Maybe now she’ll have the sense to run away, back into the school where it’s safe. But of course she doesn’t. Emmie’s not an ordinary human, I remind myself. She’s a thrall. They live to be bitten by vampires, for Christ’s sake. They don’t have the sense to be afraid. The normal human instincts have been bred right out of them. Why let a little thing like selfpreservation get in the way of the fun? And just because I’m not Emmie’s usual brand of monster, that doesn’t mean she’ll play it smart and run. Instead the sight of me in pain trips all her little codependent, care-takey thrall instincts. She takes a step closer—closer!—her face full of compassion, her hand outstretched like I’m a wounded stray puppy instead of a great big guy who’s about to exploded into a vicious beast. “Oh, Ander, I understand. I really do. It’s so hard keepin’ secrets all the time. I know why you

want to tell Cicely about—” she whispers it “—you know what.” Oh, yeah, do I know what. I’m painfully aware of what. Right now every cell in my body is threatening to turn itself inside out. My bones feel like rods of iron being super-heated on a forge so they can be twisted into red, hot pretzels. “So maybe I was going to tell her.” I growl, “So what. Moment of weakness. God!” I drop down to a crouch. I want to bang my head on the asphalt. “Everything’s a moment of weakness for me! I’m so strong I can snap a tree trunk, toss a motorcycle like a toy. How am I so damn weak?” “Shhh…it’s okay.” Emmie’s voice is soft. She shakes her head so her curls bounce sadly. “Tellin’ the truth is not a weakness. Not when you do it out of love. It’s just that you gotta time it right is all. To tell her now, with you all fixin’ to leave? Well, that’d just hurt her. But there’s gonna be a time for you two, I know it. Anyone who knows y’all can see you’re meant to be.” She smiles, dreamy. “It’s almost like you’re bonded.” “Enough!” That’s the last thing I need, having someone compare what I have with Cicely to how vampires bond with their willing little victims. Sure, what Michael and Danny have might be love, but that doesn’t mean all bonding is. It’s more like mutual addiction, symbiosis. Not so much a relationship as a canned hunt. I speak through clenched teeth. “Werewolves. Don’t. Bond.” “Oh, I know, honey.” Her gaze is full of misguided pity, “I just meant you and Cicely need each other. That you love her.” She smiles at me. “You do love her, right?” Do I love her? I love her so much my heart feels like a balloon inflated to bursting every time I’m near her. Of course I love her. But I’ve never told her that. I’ve never admitted it out loud to anyone. “Yes,” I say, “I love her.” Emmie beams. “And she loves you.” “Ha! You mean loved. She’s going to the dance with that—” “Deep breath, honey. In…and out. I don’t think she’s likely to fall for that boy.” She smiles slyly, “Although almost any other girl would. Lord, those eyes! And the way he speaks, all gentleman-like. And those lips! Oh, I swear if I ever saw him in fang—” I growl. She backpedals. “Oh, but Cicely won’t fall for all that. I don’t think he’s her type at all. Unless,” she adds, matter-of-fact, “She’s a thrall.” “What?!” I lunge forward without meaning to. Emmie takes three steps back, right out of one kitten heel. “Emmie, did you somehow miss the memo? Don’t piss me off.” “I wouldn’t. I won’t. I mean, I didn’t come out here to piss you off.” Finally, finally she’s scared. Maybe a little too late. “Then why?” I’m panting. My spine is a bow being drawn. I can feel the arrow point in my heart. “Why the hell are you here?” “I came to give you this.” She rummages around in her Hello Kitty backpack, tossing a pack of gum and some sunglasses and an extra pair of nylons on the ground in the process. Finally she grabs something out, triumphant. “I got it out of your locker. I thought you might want it.” The spicy smell fills my lungs. My brain sings a Hallelujah Chorus of relief. “My potion! Why didn’t you tell me you brought my potion in the first place?” Emmie still looks nervous. “That was the right thing to do, right?” “Give it to me.” She holds it out and I snatch it from her, nearly crushing it in the process. I have to force

myself to twist off the cap, bring it carefully to my lips before I chug a long, sweet sip. Only then can I manage a smile. “You done good, Emmie.” She smiles back, relieved. “Then you’ll come back inside?” I shake my head. “No. No way. Not with the vamp in there.” Even with the fresh dose of potion dousing the fire in my veins, there’s no guarantee I won’t turn. The potion does, however, make me feel safe enough to run. So that’s what I do. I give Emmie one last nod of thanks and take off across the playing fields, every pounding footstep putting a little more distance between me and Cicely and her date to the Fall Formal. I feel the full effect of the potion hit me in a rush just as I take that last leap into the comforting shadows of the woods. Only when I’m sure I’m completely hidden do I really let the whole day hit me. Then I throw back my head and howl. But I don’t turn. The potion doesn’t let me. All the way through the dark woods, I let myself wallow in the crap of my day. But when I can see the light up ahead—the end of the path, the place where the woods opens up into my own gravel driveway—a rush of irrational pride flows through me. Yes, things are for shit right now, maybe the worst they’ve ever been. Cicely’s mom is in the hospital and it’s my fault. Cicely hates me and she’s dating a vamp. And in just a few days the house at the end of this familiar path won’t be my home any more. But something perverse in me can’t help seeing the little victories: I went to school. I got Cicely to accept the potion for her mother. And, in spite of everything, I didn’t turn. Okay, so that has everything to do with the potion and jack to do with me, but I’m still stupidly proud of myself. Some days all you can ask is that you stay human. And even though I know Michael has every right to be ashamed of me forever for what I did to Mrs. Watson, I still can’t help hoping he’ll be proud of me for keeping it together. I pour on a little extra speed as the house comes into view. But I only get two crunching strides across the gravel drive before I stop dead in my tracks. The front door is wide open. It hangs on its hinges, slack as a dead man’s jaw. Michael would never leave the door like that. For a flash I think Michael and Danny have ditched, taken off without me. How could I blame them? I feel a stab of hurt at the thought, but no anger. Most people would have dumped me a long time ago. Michael and Danny did their best. And they still have each other. They’ll be okay. But a step closer and I can see the door is broken. My heart freezes. The locks are busted and there’s a splintered gash gouged out of the frame where someone went at it with a crow bar or something. Someone broke into the house and chances are they’re still there. The human side of me wants to be sick. The wolf side wants to spring. I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck rising like hackles as my shoulder muscles tense. I force myself to breathe like Michael taught me, knowing the things he taught me and the potion he made me are the only things keeping me from turning. I thank him mentally, praying I’ll get the chance to thank him in person. Because I don’t want to turn while there’s a chance Michael and Danny are still alive. If they aren’t…all bets are off. I risk a deep breath through my nose, hoping for some warning of what’s waiting for me inside, but the potion has muted my senses. It could be anything. Maybe Luke Marianez has vampire friends. Maybe Hunters have tracked us. Maybe the villagers have come with torches and pitchforks at last. Only one good way to find out. Michael would tell me to run far and fast.

He would never ask me to go in there. I crouch down low and head for the house. It’s hard for a guy my size to be subtle but I know every squeaky board on that porch by heart. I manage to slip through the broken door and into the kitchen. I want to just yell out for Michael and Danny, but of course I can’t. My plan—okay, I don’t have a plan, but I just want to search the house, find Michael and Danny, and get them out of there. I only get a few feet further because my little brother is standing on the stairs. If it weren’t for those big brown eyes, I’m not sure I would even recognize D.J. The strawblond hair I remember has darkened to reddish-brown and he’s a lot taller. Of course, he would have to be…the last time I saw him he was eight and now he must be—what? Fourteen? He’s still not big like me or Dad, but he’s wiry, athletic. I note all this in a half second. I’d like to notice more—he’s the first glimpse of home I’ve had in six years—but it’s hard to look past the gun he has pointed at my head. “I know that gun,” I say. “Well,” he says, “It’s mine now. You left it.” There’s a note of accusation in his voice. You left. I nod. I took Dad’s gun when I left because it was already loaded. It still is loaded, upstairs in Michael’s dresser, full of the same silver bullets that were in it when I took it. The bullets have to be silver. A lot of things can put a werewolf in a world of hurt, but only a few things can kill us and the surest way is a silver bullet to the heart—inherited silver, if you want to get the job done right. Things passed down have a special power. I never understood that as a kid, but now I do. Nothing hurts your heart like family. “Dad leave you those bullets?” I ask. D.J. nods once. “Yup.” “I was sorry to hear he passed,” I say. D.J. doesn’t say anything. He just gives me a guarded look, unsure if I’m being sincere. I don’t blame him, really. I’m not really sure how I feel about my dad being dead. Plus, the word “passed” is so stupidly euphemistic. We both know Hunters don’t just “pass.” We get killed by monsters. I don’t know the details of my dad’s death, but I know he would have been ashamed to go quietly in his sleep. I take a few experimental steps to my left. D.J.’s gun follows. Looking at it I can just imagine the words in Dad’s will: The silver bullets I leave to my son Damon James in case he has to shoot his brother Ander. I wonder what he melted down to make the bullets—the frame around my baby picture? The little spoon I got the day I was born? “Don’t come any closer.” “I’m not.” I hold my hands where he can see them. “I’m staying right here.” “Good.” He squints at me. “Why are you staring at me like that?” “Maybe because you have a gun pointed at my head.” “Besides that.” “Because I’m trying to figure out if you’re real,” I say. There’s some chance—okay, wishful thinking, but still—that this is all a truly fucked up side effect of the potion. Although the flashbacks I had before were just that, flashbacks, memories of life at Crosswood Gates when we were kids: my mother hosting luncheons on the veranda, my dad working on his motorcycle, my brothers and I riding horses or ATVs through the woods or playing football on the lawn with our cousins or testing our swordsmanship on the “practice vamps” we kept in the kennels. We would each take a turn at fighting them until they were so far gone, my father would order us to drag

them into the sun and let them ash. My father always watched the burnings with satisfaction. I had seen him tear up when he had to shoot an injured hunting dog, but he never spared any grief for monsters. “What are you thinking?” D.J. demands. I keep my voice calm. “I’m wondering how you knew I was here.” D.J. shrugs, but just his left shoulder, so as not to move the gun in his right hand. “We’ve figured you were here for a while.” That hurts, weirdly enough. I know I should just be happy my family didn’t come to kill me before this, but somehow it’s worse to think they knew I was here and didn’t care. “Jason’s had folks keep an eye on you,” D.J. says. “On you and your vamp buddy and his bonded.” D.J.’s voice is full of disgust. I feel my hopes fall another notch. I know D.J. would never hesitate to kill a vampire who wasn’t bonded, but I had hoped he might spare a bonded vampire out of pity for his thrall. Hunters aren’t supposed to do that, of course—we’re taught that bonded thralls are less than human, “monsters by association,” or that they are better off dead than being a vampire’s permanent meal. But there are always some Hunters who are oldfashioned and unwilling to take human life under any circumstances. I had hoped D.J. might come down on that side. After all, our mom was a thrall—a former thrall, that is, rehabbed. Our guest suites were always full of thralls she took in to get them out of the life, “off the bitten path,” as she sometimes liked to say. I remember the thin, pale, pretty girls, shaking from bonding withdrawal, the handsome young boys who would stick pins in their wrists, looking for the release of the bite. No, I think, D.J. probably wouldn’t spare a bonded thrall. Does that mean Michael and Danny are dead? I take a deep breath. I can’t lose it now. I have to concentrate or I will turn and this whole thing will be over and one of us will be dead. Or worse, I will infect D.J. There was a time when I wanted to, right after I was turned. I was eleven and scared shitless my dad would find out I was turning into a monster. I desperately wanted someone to come with me when I ran away. Someone who could be my pack. “I’m surprised you came alone,” I say. “Who says I did?” He glances ever so slightly upwards when he says it. So, the bad news is there are more Hunters in the house. The good news? There is something upstairs worth guarding. So maybe Michael and Danny are still alive. “Then why don’t you call them down here?” I ask. He looks me in the eye. “Because I can handle myself.” I shake my head sadly. “Voice of experience. Never face a lycanthrope alone.” He gestures with the gun. “You know what Dad would say. A gun is good company.” “But I don’t think you’ll shoot me.” I’m not at all sure that’s true. I just feel like, if I keep us both talking, I might be able to postpone the inevitable. “Why shouldn’t I?” he says, “Give me one good reason.” “You’re asking the wrong guy,” I say, and I mean it. All I can think of is ten good reasons why he should shoot me. I’ve screwed up so much. Maybe this is how it’s meant to go. Part of me feels like it would be a relief to just check out and never have to care what happens to Michael or Danny or Cicely’s mom. I’m not sure if there’s any life after this one. I kind of hope there isn’t, since I doubt werewolves’ souls go to heaven—if we have souls at all. So maybe when it’s over, it’s over. I bet if I take one step closer, he’ll shoot. But I can’t stop thinking of Cicely: her laugh, the way she ducks behind her hair when she’s

embarrassed, how she shuts her eyes when she plays the violin and her face is so peaceful and intense at the same time, I feel like I’m watching her dream. The thought of her anchors me to my spot. Cicely isn’t my girlfriend. She may not even be my friend any more. But she’s still my reason to live. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll give you a reason. I’m your brother.” “You were,” D.J. says, but his expression shifts, softens just a little. I see his throat move as he swallows. “Come on,” I say, “You know you used to follow me like a puppy. Even when Mom and Dad said you were too young, who taught you how to knock an arrow? Who let you canter his horse and loaned you his boots when you wanted to go out tromping around the woods? I showed you how to climb the trellis to the back balcony and how to find the sweet spot to stake a vamp. Heck, if it weren’t for me you probably wouldn’t know how to shoot that thing at all.” “I would have figured it out,” he says, but he lowers the muzzle of the gun just a bit, the tension gone out of his arm. “I’m not going to shoot you, but that’s not why. I’m not going to shoot you because we need you to do something.” “A favor?” I say. “A job.” He gestures towards the kitchen. “Back over there and sit down with your hands flat on the table.” I stay standing right where I am. So, they need me, at least a little bit. I decide to push it. “First I want to see Michael.” “Your vampire friend?” He says it like it makes him want to puke. “You know who I mean.” D.J. may have only been eight when I stole Michael from the kennels, but he damn well knows Michael’s name. Michael was as much a part of Crosswood Gates as the ivy on the trellis or the cracked stone lions by the gate. He had been living in his little cage in the kennels making potions for our father since before D.J. was born. “Bring him down or no deal.” “You’re not in much position to talk big,” he says. “And you don’t want to piss me off.” D.J. studies me for a moment, weighing his options. Then, without taking his eyes off me he calls up the stairs, “Russ! Bring it down!” Russell St. Marcel appears at the top of the stairs, holding Michael in front of him like a shield. Russ hasn’t changed much. He’s still the same ass who used to try to clothesline me when we played football in our back field when we were kids. He’s about my age, but huge, his cartoonish muscles stretching the seams of his white t-shirt and camo pants. His face is jowled like a mastiff and ruddy. There’s a gun and several stakes in the holster at his waist and at least one knife strapped to the side of his steel-toed boots. The top of his boots are fur and I can tell just by looking it’s not from an ordinary wolf. I force my focus away from him and onto the person that matters: Michael. His hands are cuffed behind him, his usually impeccable hair plastered in several directions at once, his pinstriped work shirt spattered with blood, probably from the cut under his right eye. It looks pretty deep and the eye is starting to swell, but beyond that, Michael is okay. At least physically. But mentally, I realize, he is not. He doesn’t resist as Russ half marches, half pushes him down the steep stairs. His head is bent, fangs in, shoulders slumped in defeat. Michael may be a Buddhist and a pacifist at heart, but he’s also a three-hundred-year old vampire, more than capable of beating a couple of teenage Hunters in his own home. If he thought there was a reason to try, and there’s only one reason he wouldn’t.

When he finally raises his eyes to meet mine I mouth just one word: “Danny?” His nod is barely perceptible, but I still feel it like a blow. Yes, they have Danny. I can hardly bring myself to mouth the next word. “Dead?” He shakes his head very slightly. No. But everything about him says not yet. I glance up at the ceiling to ask upstairs? Here? But I’m not surprised when he shakes his head no. If Danny was here, Michael would be fighting. They must be holding him somewhere else. It almost doesn’t matter where. If he dies there, Michael dies here. The bond between them is almost palpable now, like a thread stretched tight, like the one I sometimes imagine between Cicely and me. Russ reaches the bottom of the stairs and grins at me. He has a tooth missing, off to one side, and his nose is bent at an angle like it has been broken and healed a few times. I wish I’d been the one to break it. But then, I’d leave a lot more than bumps and bruises. “Wolf.” He nods at me in acknowledgement, like he’s cataloguing me for a study. I nod back. “Red-neck asshole.” His smile fades. He twists the cuffs behind Michael’s back, forcing him down to his knees. It’s standard procedure with vamps to force them as low as you can so they can’t easily go for the throat. I remember learning that move—on Michael, in fact, a few months before my “accident.” Michael didn’t fight me then and he doesn’t fight Russell now. He just sinks slowly to his knees like he’s about to pray. There’s another noise from the top of the stairs. So, it’s not just the two of them, I think, and brace myself for whatever comes next. My older brother Jason appears at the top of the stairs. He has changed, of course—he must be twenty now and he’s a lot taller than he was, the angular cut of his jaw sharper, his movements more sure. The longer hair and goatee make him look different, too, but anyone could still see he’s my brother: his red-blond hair is only a shade darker than D.J.’s, his eyes the same pale blue as mine. One of his hands is bandaged, so maybe Michael did get in a few good licks before they subdued him, but Jason doesn’t look that concerned about it. He looks me over and smiles. “Little brother. How are you?” “A werewolf, thanks. How are you?” Jason laughs. “Never one to beat around the bush, huh, Ander? Well then I’ll get right down to it. We want you to do a job.” “An easy one,” D.J. says. “Unless all vamps are your best buddies now.” Russell’s smile is pissing me off. “Hardly,” I say, “Spit it out.” Jason slips a stake out of the holster at his waist and twirls it idly between his fingers. “We need you to kill a vampire.” I actually laugh. “Our family must have changed since I left if you need my help with that.” “Ordinary vamps? We swat them like mosquitoes.” Russell palms the back of Michael’s head like it’s a basketball and shoves so it snaps forward and back again. It hurts just to watch but Michael doesn’t flinch. I let the growl rumble up from my chest. Russell’s too dumb to back down. “Oh,” he says, “I forgot this one was your pet.” “No,” I say, “You forgot I’m a giant wolf who can kick your ass.” “Guys,” says Jason, “Focus. I’m not talking about an ordinary vamp. There’s a prophecy, Ander. A sacrifice is going to be made and a new vampire power is going to rise—one who could undo the spell that made the vamps able to die. The Council thinks the prophecy is about

to be fulfilled, near here and soon.” I sigh. Witches and their prophecies. “So,” I say, “Lay it on me.” Jason nods at D.J. Never taking his eyes off me, D.J. slips a hand into his back pocket and slides out a folded piece of paper. He hands it to Jason, who hands it to me. I hate to take my eyes off them even for a second. It goes against instinct. But I look down long enough to read the lines written in thin, slanted script. Blood of the witch’s bloodline spilled Blood that brought death will bring them life Sacrifice killed and spell fulfilled Wake them again to ancient strife. All Hallows’ Eve, unhallowed halls Under the earth will hear her cries Death and rebirth! The human falls. Vampire to lead them all will rise. “Well,” I say, “Why doesn’t the Council do something about it? Why don’t you?” “We will if we have to,” Jason says. “But we’d rather not jump in too quick. If the vamps think they’re going to be immortal again, they’ve probably been preparing for a war, getting ready to take us on as soon as they know they can’t die. There have been a lot of disappearances around here lately, the bodies never found. Chances are some queen is making an undead army and if they know we’re on to them, they’re likely to launch a war.” “And you aren’t prepared.” It’s not like my family—not like Hunters in general—to ever shy away from a fight. Something really has changed. Jason chooses his words carefully. “We’ve been preparing for a while now. We always knew it would come down to another war. But we don’t want to fight it until we know we can win it and we’re still…building our arsenal. Our secret weapon, let’s say.” “And this is about me how?” I say. “You’re in a unique position, little bro. You’ve got the…” he gives Michael a disdainful look, “…connections in the vamp world to figure out who this new vampire power could be. And you’ve got the strength to kill a major vamp. And if you’re the one to do it, the vamps may just assume it’s a fluke thing, a rogue lycanthrope out to defend its territory. They won’t launch the war too soon because they won’t connect it to our family.” “Because I’m not a member of your family. That’s what you mean.” My skin is starting to itch. I feel a sudden rush of heat up my spine. The cheerful yellow of the kitchen walls starts to fade to gray. “Ander, no.” Michael’s voice is quiet but firm. “Don’t give them the satisfaction. Or the excuse.” “No one said you could talk.” Russ plants the sole of his boot on Michael’s back, pressing him forward until he is bent double, his forehead almost against the floor. I can feel the potion in my system burning away in the heat of my anger, like water sizzling on a skillet. My voice is a growl between clenched teeth. “What’s in this for me?” “The cure.” His words stop me in my tracks. “What?” “The cure, for your lycanthropy. You do want to be cured, right?” “There is no cure,” I say, but a dangerous hope is swelling inside me. Isn’t this what I’ve

been dreaming of, my family coming for me, bringing me a cure? Michael is looking up at me, just as stunned and confused as I feel. I wrestle the hope down, but it’s like wrestling the wolf. “There never has been a cure.” “How do you know?” Jason’s voice is calm. “You know Dad kept lycanthropes.” I nod. Of course I knew that. He kept them in the highest security cells, in the old stone stables on the other side of the estate. I used to hear them howling in the night. It was probably one of them that escaped and bit me—one of them, or one of their mates, come to find them. “Of course I know that. He was conducting experiments, learning how to kill them.” “Sure,” says Jason, “Learning how to kill them if we had to, but also looking for a cure.” Is that possible? I always assumed my family would kill me if they ever knew the truth about my lycanthropy. That’s why my only choice was to run away. Is there some chance I ran from my cure? “How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Jason shakes his head. “Ander, Ander, Ander. I thought you would be excited.” Just the thought of it—of never having to turn again—fills me with so much emotion that— well, I want to turn. Which pisses me off. “Proof,” I growl. Jason looks like he genuinely feels bad for me. “The last few years have done a number on you.” “You think?” He smiles sadly. “I do. I get it, actually, more than you know. You want proof, little brother? I’m proof.” He reaches up and pulls down the collar of his t-shirt and there it is, just below his collarbone, enmeshed in a web of scars: a mark like a black star. Just like mine. I take an involuntary step backwards. “You were bitten.” He nods. “I was bitten, by the same lycanthrope, right after you were. But Dad knew about me. I stayed and I was cured.” The rush of emotion is almost painful. My hand goes involuntarily to the nape of my neck where my own dark star marks the place where the werewolf first sunk its teeth into my flesh. The eleven-year old kid who was bit that night wants his family back. The wolf I am now wants a pack. “You mean you’re like me.” “No,” says Jason, “I was. But now I’m cured.” I shake my head. It’s too good to believe. “How do I know that?” “If I weren’t cured,” he says, “Could I stand here without turning?” “I am,” I say, although I can’t say how long that will be true. “Sure,” he says, “But look at the effort it’s taking you. Ander, I can see you shaking. I can see the sweat. I can see the look in your eyes. Now, look at me.” He spreads his arms wide. “Do I look like I have to fight to stay human?” I look at him. He has the calm of a trained Hunter. He’s on unknown territory with a vampire and a werewolf and he hasn’t so much as broken a sweat. “I’m staying human because I’m on a potion,” I point out, “You could be on something, too.” “Sure,” he says, “But that would have to be one hell of a potion, wouldn’t it? Listen, there’s no way for me to prove it for sure. You’re going to have to trust me.” “Trust you.” I look at Michael, hunched on the floor, Russ’ boot on his back. I think of Danny, God knows where, hurt and alone. How can I possibly trust anything Jason says? But how can I pass up the chance? “I do this for you and you give me the cure?” Jason nods. “And you come home again, rejoin the family. We want to have you back.” I look at D.J. Now that Jason has started talking cure, D.J.’s attitude has shifted. I can see the guarded hope in his eyes and it is contagious. I can imagine the whole scenario: Me, back home

at Crosswood Gates with my brothers and my mom and my cousins. Me, human and under control, beloved son of the world’s greatest hunting family. The kind of guy who could love Cicely without hurting her. The kind of guy worthy of being loved in return. I look at Michael. His voice is weak. “You know I want you to be cured, Ander, but I don’t think you should do this.” “Of course he doesn’t,” Russ says, “He’s on their side. He wants the vamps to break the curse so he can be immortal again.” Michael thinks a moment before he speaks. “For my bonded’s sake, yes. I would like to share immortality with him so I would never lose him.” His voice breaks a little. He takes a breath. “But for my own sake…I have lived a long life. I believe there is more beyond this world. Sometimes dying for the right reason means more than living forever.” “Glad you feel that way,” Russell says, “Because I’m about to take you out.” “No!” I want to rush at him and rip him to shreds. But if I loose it, I’ll rip Michael, too. “Okay, let’s make a deal.” “You don’t have to do this,” Michael says, “You aren’t their hired assassin.” From the look in his eyes I know what he’s thinking: I raised you better than that. And he did. Michael did raise me, at least for the last six years. But that’s exactly why I do have to do this. If there’s any chance he and Danny can get out of this alive…I know the chance is slim, but I have to take it. “You have to let the vampire go. I need him to make the potions so I won’t turn.” I look pointedly at Russ, “Because we don’t want that.” “No way are we freeing the vamp,” Russ says. “Well why not?” D.J. shrugs, the gun jumping with the motion. “We have its bonded thrall. The vamp knows we can kill the thrall if it tries anything.” Too true. Jason nods. “We free the vamp. We keep the thrall.” “And you let them both go when I kill this vampire for you,” I say. Russ makes a noise of disgust. “And you give me the cure,” I say. “And you come home.” D.J. smiles. “It’s a deal, right Jason?” Jason looks me in the eye. “I give you my word.” And I know that’s all I’m going to get. I don’t have much to bargain with here. But Jason’s word used to be worth something and maybe it still is. “Good,” I say. “And until then you have to get out of Monument. If there are a bunch of Hunters hanging around, you’ll scare off the vamp I’m supposed to kill. “We’ll go,” says Jason, “And you’ll stay, if you want your cure.” And if I want Danny. “Right.” “Okay then.” Jason smiles. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Russ, give him the vamp.” Russ grunts his unhappiness with the plan, but he hauls Michael up by the handcuffs and shoves him towards me. I catch him and steady him, wishing someone could steady me. My mind is whirring. Jason tosses me the handcuff keys but I let them drop to the floor. Instead I take hold of the handcuff chain in my fist and rip it, feeling the metal bend and tear. It feels good. Russ does his best to look unimpressed, but when he thinks I’m not looking, he takes a step back. Michael looks at me, a million different emotions playing in his dark eyes. He looks just as overwhelmed as I feel. But we have to go through with it. This could be my best chance to keep myself from harming anyone else. To maybe even undo the harm that was done to me.

And there’s another reason to take their deal, one I would never admit to Michael. I want to kill the vamp. “So,” Jason says, “Now all you have to do is find out who this vampire is.” I picture Luke Marianez, Cicely’s date for the dance. “I think I already know.”

Chapter 13: Luke “You went to class with her?” Marcus’ eyes are wide with horror. “Yes,” I say, “What of it?” “But, you shouldn’t even speak with her! We were only going to bring her to Queen Constanza in time for the ceremony—” “The ceremony is still days away. And it’s not as if I would attack her in the middle of British Literature. There were witnesses. And even if there weren’t,” I add, “I would never bite her. I know the risks.” “So you won’t speak with her again?” His voice is pleading. “Of course I will,” I say, “I will speak to her tomorrow in class.” Marcus swears in Spanish. His voice echoes off the stone walls of the empty church. “Please,” I say, “Your language!” He looks at me, surprised. “Since when do you care for the house of God?” I shrug. It isn’t the presence of God that makes this church sacred. It is the fact that this place hasn’t changed. It is the same as it was the last time I stood here, some hundred years ago. The high-backed pews stand in orderly rows. Along one wall the mahogany confessionals, dark and narrow as coffins, stand ready to hear our sins. Before me is the wide, white altar, and behind that, the huge stained-glass window that takes up most of the west wall. It is a scene of Eden, just before the fall. Eve holds the apple out to Adam, tempting. Above them, a small white dove spreads its forgiving wings. I take a deep breath of the incense-sweetened air. “It’s only that I would hate for someone to hear you and ask us to leave. It’s not yet sunset.” Marcus glances nervously at the door, pulling his black coat tighter around him at the thought of the sunlight. Of course there is no danger from the sun in here; the stained glass mutes the afternoon light to almost nothing. Only the candles on the altar keep us from darkness. “No one will hear us,” Marcus says, trying to reassure himself as much as me, but he keeps his voice quiet just the same. “The church is only used on Sundays and for school mass. You told me so yourself.” “So I did,” I say, “Which is why I want you to be able to hide in here again tomorrow when —” “You cannot go back tomorrow!” Marcus is up, pacing in front of the altar, fangs out. The candlelight throws the lines of his face in bass relief, stark as the carved gargoyles that peer at us from above the doorway. “Master, what if you were to lose control of yourself, even for an instant? One bite and you could kill the girl, and if she dies outside the ceremony, she’s useless to us and we have no hope of lifting the curse. She’s the last of her family line. If she dies there is no sacrifice.” “I won’t kill her until it’s time.” “Or worse, you might bond with her. Then, if Constanza chose to go through with the ceremony anyhow, you would loose your own life when the girl loses hers—” “I am well aware of how bonding works.” “Then you understand the more time you spend with her, the more you put her—and yourself

—in danger.” “I am the least of her worries,” I say. “I saw the lycanthrope again today.” Marcus’ hand flies to the open wound on his arm where the beast’s claw caught him during our merry chase. The gash is a good five inches long and almost down to the bone. I doubt it hurts him much. The risen dead feel little pain. But then, they don’t heal, either, not without special potions, so the cut—and the memory—lingers on. “Where? In the woods?” “In the school.” “In the school? How can they allow it?” “They are humans,” I say, “They are unaware. I saw it this time in human form, a boy Cicely’s age. A friend of hers, it seems.” “A friend.” Marcus is shaking his head slowly back and forth as if to clear it of the image of the wolf. “It’s a wonder it hasn’t killed her!” “Yes,” I say, “A wonder. Which is why I must stay near her until the ceremony to guard her.” “No! All the more reason for us to take her away from here, like we should have from the beginning! You are being unreasonable because the girl looks so much like Deirdre. Well, with all due respect, sir, Deirdre is dead.” The word is like a knife between my ribs but I keep my voice calm. “With all due respect,” I say, “So are you. You are an enluzante, Marcus, and you must not forget it. My mother killed you years ago and made you what you are. The fact that you walk and feed—the fact that you can speak, even so insolently as you do now—is only by the grace of my mother’s magic, and you know as well as I do that a well placed beam of sunlight would reduce you to ash. It is only because I kept you like a fungus in a cellar that you survive at all. And why have I bothered? Because you serve me. You serve me.” Marcus voice is so quiet even I can barely hear him. “I serve your house.” “Excuse me?” “I serve your family,” he says, a little louder, “I serve your mother.” My patience is fraying. “My mother is long dead. My family is dead. There are hardly any of us left.” “Which is why you must survive, why you must break the curse and become immortal again.” His voice is trembling. “For the sake of your family line I cannot let you—” “It is not yours to let me do anything.” “—squander your only chance at breaking the curse, just because this American girl looks like the human you loved—” “Enough!” My voice echoes in the empty church. Marcus winces like I’ve dealt him a blow. He is shaking all over now. If it weren’t for the sun still setting outside, I have no doubt he would bolt. As it is, he stands his ground. “I will go to Queen Constanza.” I grab hold of his arm so quickly he doesn’t have time to flinch, dragging him up the steps to the altar and behind it. He is protesting wildly, but I ignore it. His kind are meant to be stronger than mine, being made for work and war as they are, but Marcus is ancient for his kind and I can hold him easily. A huge Bible lies open on the altar, its gilt-edged pages yellow with age. I take his left hand firmly by the wrist and press it, palm up, against the black calligraphy of the scriptures. Then I turn to the stained glass window behind us. Marcus follows my gaze and his eyes go wide. “Master!” “Yes,” I say, “I am your master. You would do well to remember that.” I snatch up the brass candlestick from the altar behind me and, still pinning him down with my left hand, reach behind

me with my right. It takes only one quick tap of the candlestick to shatter the tiny white pane of glass at the heart of the stained glass dove. A few splinters of glass fall, tinkling like laughter on the hard stone floor, and a single spear of light stabs through the hole. It hits Marcus in the center of the palm and he screams. Weak though he is, it takes some effort for me to hold him still as the flesh begins to blacken—a small hole, like a cigarette burn, slowly widening to a dark stigmata in the center of his palm. A thin coil of black smoke rises from the altar like a burnt offering and my nostrils sting with the scent of long-dead flesh. “Will you tell Constanza?” I ask him calmly. His lips can’t form the word, but he shakes his head vehemently. “Say it.” He gasps. “No!” I let him go, suddenly, and he falls back onto the stone floor, clutching his still-smoking hand. If he could cry, he might, but his kind has no ability to form tears. Instead, he holds his hand up and stares at it. The hole is bigger than a bullet hole, charred black around the edges. I can see straight through it to the other side. Marcus stares at it, mesmerized. “Good,” I say. The sunlight falls harmlessly on the Bible now. I wipe at the black ash we’ve left behind, a dark smudge over the words “my Lord,” but the stain remains. I glance at the empty heart of the dove. “Now you will be able to see when the sun sets,” I say, although I know his kind can feel the sunset in their bones. “When it does, go out and feed. I have no need for you tonight.” I step from behind the altar and walk down the aisle. I open the heavy oak door of the church, letting in a slice of late afternoon light. Marcus shies away from it, although the entire sanctuary lies between him and the light. He scuttles backwards like a crab, his injured hand curled to his chest. He does not look at me. “Marcus,” I say gently, “No one cares about breaking the curse more than I do. No one. Cicely Watson will die in the ceremony, at the queen’s hand. And until then, I will make sure she stays alive.” But I will also make sure she lives. She has only a little while left to exist, why shouldn’t she enjoy it? Why shouldn’t I enjoy her? It will make my revenge that much sweeter when it comes. I open the door a little wider and step out into the cool evening air. This morning’s rain is past and the last light of the day tinges the sky with red. On the step I pause. “Oh, and Marcus?” I call into the dark behind me, “I will need a car on Saturday night. I am taking Cicely Watson to a dance.”

Chapter 14: Cicely “You are going to that dance!” Zoe takes her eyes off the road long enough to glare at me over the top of her cat-eye sunglasses. “Period. End of discussion.” “No,” I say, “I don’t believe this discussion will ever end.” It is Friday and Zoe and I have been having the same conversation since Wednesday, the day my life went completely south. I pick at the loose thread on the sleeve of my black sweater and watch another row unravel. “I am not going to Fall Formal with Luke Marianez. There is something off about that boy.” “Off? Have you gone psycho?” Zoe gestures so emphatically, she sets the purple fuzzy dice on her rearview mirror swinging. “Luke Marianez is the most on boy to ever walk the halls of St. Agnes. Pretty much every girl in the school would give her left lung to be in your place. I mean, have you heard that accent? Have you seen those eyes?” “Yes, I’ve seen his eyes.” I’ve also seen his lips, his arms, his run-your-fingers-through-it black curls. “I sit right beside him in English.” “So, you two are getting to know each other then, right?” “We’ve hardly talked since he asked me out.” Not that Luke hasn’t tried, but we watched the movie of Romeo and Juliet in class today, so it was pretty easy to avoid conversation. Instead he just sat beside me. In the dark. So close his arm almost touched mine. Not that I noticed. “Well, hey,” says Zoe, “I have a suggestion, why don’t you get to know him by, say, going to the dance with him?” “I told you, there’s something weird about him.” Zoe smiles. “This from the girl who called Ander mysterious. Maybe you think all boys are weird.” “Maybe they are. And Ander was being mysterious, for the record. He was secretly dating Emmie.” Zoe shakes her head. “No mystery there. The reason’s obvious.” She mimes Emmie’s generous C-cups with her hands. “Put your hands back on the wheel,” I say, “I don’t want to die because Emmie has big boobs. You know my family is only allowed one serious car accident per week.” “I’m not going to get in an accident,” she says, but she puts her hands back on the wheel anyway. “Besides, my dad gave me the Oldsmobile because it’s built like a tank.” She pats the dashboard affectionately, sending the plastic hula girl into a seizure. “This car could survive the apocalypse.” “It looks like it already has.” The Oldsmobile is roughly the size of an aircraft carrier, but Zoe has still managed to fill every square inch of it with stuff. The dashboard looks like the Land of Misfit Toys and there are so many crushed diet coke cans on the floor, getting in the car is like walking through dry leaves. “Well, if we’re all post-apocalyptic, maybe Luke really is the last guy on Earth and—” “Nice try.” I mess with Zoe’s radio, hoping something good will come on to distract her, but it’s all love songs so I shut it off. “You know I can’t go to a dance tomorrow anyway. My mom is still in the hospital.” “Seeing as I’m driving you to visit her, I’d say I’m aware. I’m also aware it was your mom’s

idea you go to the dance in the first place. Besides, I bet she’ll be out of the hospital by then. She is getting better.” “Well,” I say, “At least something is going right.” Zoe shoots me a sympathetic look. “Did you see Ander today?” I shake my head. Ander has pulled his disappearing act. He hasn’t been to classes at all since Wednesday, although I’ve caught glimpses of him once or twice, skulking around the edges of the woods. Probably waiting for Emmie. “So,” says Zoe carefully, “is that why you don’t want to go with Luke? Because of the Ander thing?” I want to protest that it isn’t an Ander “thing.” I love Ander—loved him—and I thought for a minute he felt the same. But there’s no way for Zoe to grasp that. As far as she’s concerned, Ander and I are friends having a tiff because I don’t like his new girlfriend. End of story. “Yeah, I guess it’s Ander. But it’s also Luke. He’s so…full of himself. It’s like school amuses him, like he’s outside of it all.” Zoe gives me a sideways smile. “Sounds like someone else I know.” “No it does not!” I glare at her. “I don’t walk around acting like Mr. European, like I’m way too good for Monument.” “You are too good for Monument. And Luke probably is, too. You said he was smart, right?” I shrug. “He’s in mostly AP classes. And, yeah, he knows his literature, and he’s obviously acing Spanish. Senora Johnson is beside herself. I wouldn’t exactly say modern American history is his forte, though. We had to put events on a timeline for Mr. Jacobs yesterday, and he had Watergate coming before the Great Depression.” “Well,” says Zoe, “Watergate was depressing. He probably only studied Spanish history or something where he went before. The point is, he’s not arrogant arrogant, he’s just ahead. You know, like you.” “He’s too rich to be like me. You know how that crowd is. He’s probably telling his preppy friends about the gullible, unpopular chick he asked to the—” “Whoa. A., his preppy friends? As far as I can tell, he has no friends, preppy or otherwise. Classic loner. And two, insecure much? Luke doesn’t think you’re a loser, Cicely, he asked you to the dance because he’s into you! Have you noticed the way he looks at you across the cafeteria? He looks at you like you’re tiramisu!” “Tiramisu?” “Or layer cake. Or mousse.” “Like I’m a moose?” “Cut it out! You know what I mean. He looks at you like you’re scrumptious.” She takes a swig of her Diet Coke. “God, I’m hungry.” “That’s because you had a Hoho and Coke for lunch,” I remind her. “It was a Ding-Dong and a Diet Coke. And Cheetos. I believe in a balanced meal. And don’t try to change the subject. I was telling you how awesome you are. For one thing, you’re scary smart. You’d probably be valedictorian if you weren’t flunking gym.” “And Home Ec.” I say. “And Home Ec. But you hate making speeches anyways, right? So who cares if you can’t serve a volleyball—” “Or a soufflé.” “Or a soufflé. My point is, you’re brilliant. And you are seriously one of the prettiest girls in school—”

I make a very unpretty face. “You are! And the fact that you don’t even know it is usually one of your good points. But just for today we’re going to get real. Ander didn’t see it? His loss. You are a goddess and Luke Marianez knows it. Say it.” I roll my eyes. “If I do, can we drop this?” “Say it!” “I am a goddess.” I say it, but quietly. It’s true Luke watches me from across the cafeteria. It’s true he whispers Romeo’s lines along with the movie, just loud enough for me to hear the way he rolls his r’s ever so slightly on his tongue. But I’m still not sure I can go out with him. Seeing Emmie hanging on Ander’s arm made me want to burn my eyes out, but it also made a cruel sort of sense. They went together the way jocks and cheerleaders have always gone together since the first caveman lobbed the first rock. But Luke and I—poor, geeky me and beautiful, rich Luke—we go together “like peanutbutter and Jell-o,” as my mother would say. “Louder!” says Zoe. “Can’t,” I whisper, “Hospital Zone.” Zoe is turning the Oldsmobile into the hospital parking lot. She cruises into a parking space, kills the motor, and turns to give me her stern face. “Your mother is waiting. So say it. Say you’re scrumptious.” “Fine,” I say, “I’m scrumptious.” Zoe smiles, victorious. “And Luke Marianez knows it. So we go cheer up your mom, then we take off.” “Hold on,” I say, “You lost me. Where?” “Well, if you’re going to a dance tomorrow, you’re going to need a dress,” she grins at me, eyes shining. “Shopportunity, baby.” A few hours later Zoe is wedging the Oldsmobile into a space marked “compact only” in the parking lot of the mall. Not just any mall—the Mall, the Mall of America in Bloomington, MN, the largest shopping mall in North America. “Zoe,” I say for the tenth time, “Can’t we just go to a human-scale mall? Or maybe a thrift store? You know how I feel about the MOA.” “And you know thrift stores are my natural habitat. But sometimes, for special occasions, you have to pull out the big guns, so—voila!” She spreads her arms wide to take in the big front entrance of the mega mall. I grimace, trying not to take offense at the fact that getting me ready for a dance requires “the big guns.” “It’s just that you know my theory.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “I know, there are mall people and there are library people and you are a library person.” “So are you,” I remind her. “Used to be. Now I owe them twenty bucks for novels I dropped in the bath. And besides, even library people need something to wear to a formal.” “Zoe,” I say, “I can’t afford to buy a dress.” “Covered. Completely.” She pats her wallet. “Working girl, remember? I’m paid. And you can pay me back by having fun. Besides,” she adds, “Bingham’s is having their Salvation Army sale. I overheard some girls at school talking about it. If you bring in clothes to donate to the Salvation Army, they’ll give you twenty percent off. And—” She pops the trunk of the

Oldsmobile and drags out her St. Agnes gym bag, stuffed full of clothes. “I come prepared.” “Amazing,” I agree, “So what you’re saying is you knew all along you would trap me into coming here.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “You’ve discovered my evil plot.” “And there’s no way to dissuade you.” “Nope.” She slams the trunk of the car. “Undissuadeable.” “In that case,” I say, “I guess it’s completely hopeless.” Zoe grins. “That’s the spirit!” She throws her gym bag over her shoulder and we join the tide of people streaming from the parking lot towards the main entrance of the mall. “This will be fun, you know, of the movie-makeover-montage variety. Photo booths. Matching sunglasses. Twirling out of dressing rooms to pop music.” “You scare me, you know that.” “Mission accomplished. But seriously, what’s so wrong with the mall?” “Nothing, I guess.” We are passing the big info kiosk just inside the front entrance. “Over Five Hundred Stores!” screams the sign above the desk. It seems like at least that many, everything from expensive designer boutiques to department stores to shops so specialized they only sell puzzles or dog accessories or remote control toys. But the stores aren’t the half of it. There’s Lego Land and the indoor mini golf course and a chapel for anyone who wants to get married in the church of consumerism. The entire basement floor is devoted to the Underwater World aquarium, and the heart of the whole mall monstrosity is a huge amusement park complete with three roller coasters and a Ferris wheel. “It’s just a little much.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “I swear you were Amish in a past life.” “Yeah?” I say, “Because I’m not sure the Amish reincarnate.” “Cicely!” She stares at me, wide-eyed, “Everyone reincarnates! You know what that psychic told me about being Marie Antoinette. Although if I was her in a past life, I’m not sure why I’m flunking French. Unless of course I blocked the French thing out, you know, because of trauma. And it does explain my love of fashion. And, you know, cake. What do you think? Cicely…? Are you listening to me?” I’m not listening. I’m not even walking. I am standing completely still in front of the display window of an expensive little boutique, staring at what has to be the most beautiful dress I’ve ever seen. Zoe lets out a low whistle. “Damn, that would look good on you.” “No way,” I say. But I know it would. Not that it’s anything like anything I have ever worn before. For one thing it’s white. Well, not white exactly, more like platinum; the satin has the faintest silver sheen, like moonlight. For another, the scooped neckline dips lower than anything I have ever worn in public and the satin bodice is fitted to the waist, where it flares gently into liquid folds. Perfectly simple and yet—well, simply perfect. “Oh my God, you have to try it on.” Zoe’s eyes are lit up. “With your dark hair…Cicely, you would look like a princess!” “Do you think they would even let us in the store? Zoe, that dress is hundreds of dollars, easy.” Zoe sighs. “You’re probably right. I mean, I’m paid, but…” I nod. “Yeah. We should go.” But I don’t seem to be going. I put my hand up to the boutique window as if I could stroke the smooth satin through the glass. It’s not like me to fall for a dress. I mean, it’s white, for God’s sake! But looking at this dress, I have a sudden image of myself standing beside Luke at the dance. He’s wearing a tux, his skin tan against the crisp white of his

shirt, his angular shoulders filling out the formal cut of the jacket perfectly. Beside him, in my long white dress, I look…right. The image is so strong I can almost see it reflected in the glass of the shop window and for a minute I feel like I did when I was watching Luke in the graveyard— suspended between my everyday life and something very different, as if two threads are pulling me in different directions, lifting my feet off the ground. “Cicely? Are you coming?” The threads go slack and I come back to myself with a start. Zoe smiles. “Daydream much?” I smile back. “I guess.” I want to tell her about the feeling, but Zoe would make too much of it, claim it was a past life memory or a mystic sign. I tear my eyes away from the dress and follow Zoe down another hall, up two escalators, and to another row of boutiques, these ones much cheaper. The windows of Bingham’s are crowded with dresses, but none of them compare to the silvery satin dress in the window. “Why don’t you look around?” Zoe says. “I’m going to drop off my clothes donation and get our twenty percent coupon! Then I have a little errand to run. But I’ll be right back.” “It’s a plan,” I say. Zoe hands me a little bundle of cash she made in tips at the café. “Don’t spend it all in one place,” she smiles. “I won’t.” I stuff it in the pocket of my bag, feeling like a little kid getting an allowance. Well, if I have to take Zoe’s money, I should at least try not to blow too much of it. As Zoe heads for the counter, I head for the rack marked “clearance” and start thumbing through the dresses. Most of them look like rejects from last prom season and nothing I would wear. The black dresses are all either one shouldered or cut very short and everything else is in shades of Easter egg pastels. I pull out one of the only exceptions, a particularly hideous specimen. It’s Pepto pink with sequins on the bodice and a ballerina poof of tulle for a skirt, like something a Disney princess would wear to work a corner in Vegas. Who would wear this? I wonder. But I know of course that I would, if I were going to the formal with Ander. I would wear this or something equally ironic, with my usual boots and a hoodie, and Ander would wear one of those t-shirts with the tux printed on it and his faded jeans and his ancient Chucks or maybe those bowling shoes he stole from Memory Lanes. We would rent a hearse or something and take it through the McDonalds drive-thru and show up at the dance eating French-fries and laughing. Or maybe Ander would finally talk me into riding on the back of that motorcycle of his and I would spend the ride pressed against his broad back, my arms around his chest, while the wind whipped through my tulle. And maybe we’d just skip the dance completely. Suddenly I miss Ander so bad it hurts. I want him to be here, laughing at this dress, drinking his Gatorade, and complaining about being dragged to the mall. But he isn’t. Zoe is, somewhere, and I am going on with my life. I grab the dress off the rack and march to the dressing rooms. Zoe will get a kick out of this, too. Or maybe it will make her see how silly it is to expect me to go to formal dance. Either way. I lock the door, take off my boots, and leave my clothes in a black pile on the floor. I look at myself in the full-length mirror. Standing there in my bra and undies, I look pale and exposed. I hurry to pull on the dress, fighting the tangle of tulle into place and smoothing the sequined bodice, then turning like a dog chasing its tail so I can struggle the zipper up. The dress fits, but that is about all I can say for it. The sequins are offensively sparkly under the florescent lights and the tulle wants to sproing up. It’s antigravity tulle. I smile in the mirror

in spite of myself. I should at least show Zoe. Maybe she would let me borrow her pink cowboy boots. That would really push this outfit over the edge. I peek out from under the dressing room door. Yes, Zoe must be back; I can see her St. Agnes duffle bag under the nearest rack of clothes. “Zoe,” I say, “This dress is craptastic. You have to take a look.” “Really?” Lyla Jansen’s voice carries from beyond the closed dressing room door. “I would love to.” Shit, shit, shit. What is she doing here? It is a ginormous mall in a ginormous world. But then, Lyla and her clique practically live at the mall. And Zoe did say she heard people at school talking about this sale. She just neglected to say which people. I have unintentionally wandered into enemy territory. “Is that really you, Cicely? We’re all dying to see what you are wearing to the dance with Luke.” The envy fairly drips from her voice. “Come out so we can see what he sees in you.” I pretzel myself, trying desperately to unzip the dress. I have to get back into my own clothes and get out of here, fast. I manage to tug the zipper down far enough to wriggle out of the dress and I am just reaching for my jeans when I see Lyla’s purple phone pop up above the door. “Smile,” Lyla says as the camera clicks. I make a grab for the phone—just as a second set of hands reaches in under the door and snatches up my little pile of clothes, along with the pink dress, dragging my boots out by the laces with them. I manage to snag one of my boots before it disappears under the door but all my clothes are gone. Crap. “Come on y’all.” Emmie Gardner’s drawl is unmistakable. “I wanna go on the rides.” She must already be bored with torturing me, but Lyla isn’t. “I want to get another shot of Cicely. I think Luke should see what a gem he chose.” I keep my voice low. I don’t need the whole store to hear. “Give me my clothes back.” “Are you sure you want them?” I can see Lyla through the crack in the dressing room door. She’s holding my ratty black sweater at arms length, her pert little nose wrinkled with distaste. “We may be doing you a favor, here, Cicely. Sort of an intervention.” Beside her Hannah nods in agreement. “You need an upgrade. Definitely.” “If she’s going to date someone like Luke, she does.” Lyla is picking disdainfully through my clothes. I am torn between wishing that Zoe would come back or a sales girl would intervene and mentally begging no one notices. If I stay calm will they lose interest, drop my things, and move on? Or am I thinking of bears or wild dogs? “Seriously, Cicely,” Hannah says, “These things should be burned.” “Or given to charity.” Lyla smiles wickedly and Hannah’s eyes light up. “Oh my God,” Hannah says, “If we get the twenty percent discount I can get that dress!” “You guys,” Emmie shifts uncomfortably behind them, “Let’s go. I want a latte.” It’s possible, I realize, that Emmie is trying to help me. Or maybe it’s just that her shoes hurt. “I think we will go,” says Lyla, “And just drop these things off at the counter. Consider it your good deed for the day, Cicely.” She leans in so close I can smell her lip gloss through the crack in the door. “You and Luke have so much in common. I hear he does charity work, too.” Then she turns and walks off, taking my clothes with her. Hannah is at her side like a heeling dog and Emmie is trailing behind. I watch, helpless, as Hannah takes a turquoise dress from the rack while Lyla hands my little bundle of clothes over to the woman behind the counter. She and the woman share a smile about the frayed edge of my sweater before the sales woman drops it in

the bin behind her. Lyla sets my boot on the counter and the sales woman laughs and waves it off; she can’t take just one. When Lyla hands it to Emmie and points at the garbage outside the door, I have to look away. I can’t watch her throw it out. Instead I crouch down low, trying hard not to be seen under the dressing room door. Lyla has left the Pepto princess dress in a sad little puddle on the floor half under the nearest rack. If I practically lie on the floor of the dressing room I can just snag the very edge of the tulle with my fingertips. I drag the dusty dress in under the door and struggle my way into it, inching the zipper up with shaking hands. I can’t believe she did that. The thought of losing my boots—my precious boots, the ones I’ve worn pretty much every day of my high school career—makes me feel almost lightheaded. Of course I could still get them back. All I have to do is walk across the crowded store, barefoot in the Disney hooker dress, and tell the well-dressed woman behind the counter that the clothes in the charity bin are mine and I want them back. Yeah. Right. My face burns at the thought. Lyla would, of course, love that. They are probably standing out there somewhere with Lyla’s camera-phone, waiting for me to do just that. Well fuck them. I shoulder my bag, glad I put Zoe’s money in there and not just in the pocket of my jeans. Then I put on my one remaining boot—it seems somehow less conspicuous than carrying it— and I clop through the crowded store. People turn to watch me as I pass. The woman behind the counter looks up from her register. “Can I help you?” “Yes,” I say, “I want to buy this dress.” She looks me up and down, from my tangled hair to my sequined and poofed body, all the way to my one bare foot. “Don’t you want the dress in a bag?” “No,” I say, “I want to wear it home.” “You want to wear it. Home.” She stares at me in total disbelief. “Do you know you only have one shoe?” “I can pay cash.” I yank the tag off the dress and hand it to her to scan. Then I rummage in my bag and bring out Zoe’s hard-earned wad of tips. I feel awful spending her money on this, but no way am I asking for my clothes back. Not when they could be watching. I count out the money as quickly as I can considering it’s all in ones, and stuff the remaining dollars in my bag. I’ll pay Zoe back some day. Or maybe I should have left the tags on so I could return the dress later. Stupid! Why do I always realize things too late? The baffled sales lady hands me my receipt. “Well…enjoy your purchase.” “Thank you.” I stand up as straight as I can, hold my head high, and limp out of the store. I step into the mall and let my breath out in a rush. I will not cry. I absolutely will not cry. The only saving grace is I don’t see Lyla and her minions anywhere. I do, however, see Zoe. And she sees me. She stops dead in her tracks. “Cicely? What are you wearing?” “My dress.” I force a smile. “I found a dress!” Part of me wants to tell her the truth, but I can’t bring myself to admit I let the bitchiest girls in school take my stuff. “But…” Zoe looks crestfallen. “I thought I was going to help you choose. It was going to be, you know, fun.” “Yeah, I know, I’m sorry. But I just saw this one and…” I let myself trail off. What else is there to say? “Yeah. Sure.” She’s staring at the hideous dress. I can tell she’s trying to figure out if I’m

serious. “It’s…something.” “I know, right?” I execute a little turn, swishing the tulle. “You know, like an anti-dress, a protest of the whole looking pretty thing.” “Yeah.” She nods, unconvinced. “Ironic. But why are you wearing it now?” I shrug. “Why not?” Zoe shakes her head in baffled admiration. “Wow. You have a lot more guts than I do.” Guts? I have no guts. If Zoe knew I had cowered in my undies while the head of the student council literally took the shirt off my back… “Well,” says Zoe, “I got you this.” She reaches into her shopping bag and pulls out a hoodie. It’s too new, of course, but the red is just right. She smiles. “The hoodie is dead. Long live the hoodie.” “Thanks, Zoe.” I take it from her and put it on quickly. It clashes like crazy with the dress, but at least it hides some of the sequins. “You know, you are the best friend ever,” I say, and I mean it. Zoe is eyeing me with concern. “Cicely, are you okay? You’re acting a little odd and… hey, where’s your other boot?” There’s a voice from behind us. “I believe you dropped this.” I turn to find myself once again staring into Luke Marianez’ deep brown eyes. “You have a tendency to sneak up on people,” I say. Luke smiles. “What is the phrase? My bad?” He holds out my missing boot. It is still flecked with dried mud from the day I watched him in the graveyard and a few specks of dirt have landed on his starched white sleeve. Otherwise, he looks as perfect as always, his dark curls slightly rumpled, his amused half-smile in place. He surveys my dress. “I must say, this is a different look for you.” I turn a shade somewhere between the pink of the dress and the red of the sweatshirt and try to snatch the boot out of his hand. He holds it just a little out of reach. “What are you doing here?” I demand. “Shopping, of course. I am a—como se dice?—a mall rat.” He smiles, pleased with himself. “Now, sit.” He points with the boot towards a set of benches a few feet away. “Why?” His shrug is a perfect imitation of the one I gave Zoe a moment ago. “Why not?” How long has he been watching? I sit down on the bench. To my surprise, Luke kneels down in front of me. Behind him, Zoe’s eyes are the size of hub caps. A pair of elderly women a few benches down begin tittering to each other, smiling at us. They probably think he’s going to propose. “Now,” he says, “Foot.” “No way,” I hiss at him, “Just give me my boot.” “I intend to,” he says, and then much more quietly, “A Marianez does not kneel, Miss Watson. I suggest you enjoy this while you can.” His smile is unchanged but something in his eyes tells me he is dead serious. Slowly, I extend my bare foot. His smile widens. “Yes, that is more like it.” He slips the boot onto my foot, carefully tightening the laces. “There,” he says satisfied, “A perfect fit.” “I should hope so,” I say, “It is my boot.” “I was referencing a fairy story. Perhaps they don’t tell it now.” “Here,” I correct him. “Yes,” he says, “Perhaps they don’t tell it here.” He rises from the floor, brushing the mall

dust from the knees of his black jeans, and holds out his hand for me. His skin is cool to the touch. I stifle the urge to tell him that they do indeed tell fairy tales around here. I know all about handsome princes—I just never believed they were real. I still don’t, I remind myself. “So, you just happened to be hanging out here, by the dress shop?” “No, in fact. I spotted you from across the mall and came over to say hello.” “You spotted me from across the mall?” His smile turns sly as his eyes run over my dress. “Is that so hard to believe? You must admit, you are difficult to miss.” I tug the red hoodie a little tighter. Zoe widens her eyes another notch to show me how impressed she is Luke would cross a crowded mall for me. “You know,” she says, “I have a yen for frozen yogurt. I think I’m gonna go get one.” I give her the don’t leave me look but she ignores it. “Be right back!” She grins at me and mouths play nice behind Luke’s back. Great. “Zoe.” Luke nods to her formally like he’s dismissing a servant, but he never takes his eyes off me. We are standing in the middle of a crowded mall, but I feel like we’re alone. “So,” I say, with all the dignity I can muster, “Can I ask where you got my boot?” “I saw Emmie Gardner. She asked me to give it to you.” My heart sinks. Well, if Luke is palling around with Emmie and her crowd, I want to know. I don’t want to be surprised again. “So, are you friends with them?” “With Lyla?” He looks annoyed. “Of course not.” “Did Emmie say anything? About the boot, I mean?” I don’t know how I feel about Luke, but I don’t want him to know what a dork I was in the dress shop. “No.” His expression is gentle. “She didn’t tell me anything.” I let my breath out in relief. “She didn’t have to, Cicely. I see how they treat you. I’m just sorry I wasn’t here sooner.” “Excuse me?” I say, “You’re sorry you weren’t here sooner? What is that supposed to mean?” It’s hard to look seriously indignant, considering how I’m dressed, but I do my best. People passing by keep staring at us and I’m aware that, next to Luke’s classic good looks, I must look even more outrageous. But I have bigger things to worry about. “Luke, are you following me?” He shrugs. “Evidently not well enough.” So there it is. He admits it. Luke has been following me, maybe since the night of my mom’s accident. I take a step away from him, unsure whether to be flattered or afraid. “What’s wrong?” He looks genuinely perplexed. “What’s wrong?” “You know,” he says, “You have a tendency to repeat what I say.” “What’s wrong is you’ve been watching me.” “Yes.” He nods reasonably, “And you have been watching me.” Okay, true, although I didn’t know he had noticed. “You were stalking me. You do have a concept of stalking where you come from, don’t you?” His smile is condescending. “Yes, I believe my people know what it is to stalk.” “Then you do understand that stalking is a no-no?” “A no-no,” he says, “Yes, yes.” I glare at him. “You’re the only one who thinks you’re funny.”

“And you’re the only one who thinks you’re not.” He sighs. “I did follow you, yes, but only because you need looking after.” “Alright,” I say, “Game over,” and I start to walk away. Luke follows me. Again. “I followed you to protect you.” “Thanks,” I say, “But I don’t need your protection.” Luke laughs, but gently. “Cicely Watson, I have never met anyone more in need of protection than you.” “Oh,” I say, “And you’re the man for the job?” He doesn’t say anything to this, so I wheel on him, fists on my poofy tulle hips. “Do you realize what century you’re in? Women can protect themselves.” “I am extremely aware of what century I’m in!” He flings his arms wide to take in the mall around us. “Where else could this be but twenty-first century America? What I meant is you have a gift for spending time with people who could hurt you.” “I didn’t exactly phone up Lyla and ask her to meet me at the mall.” I whirl and start walking again, mainly to avoid the stares of people around us—or at least give them a moving target. “In fact, I wasn’t even on Lyla’s radar until you came around.” “On her what?” “I mean, I was avoiding her.” “I wasn’t referring to Lyla and her friends.” Luke takes hold of my arm and turns me to face him. We are in front of an electronics store where a bank of TVs is playing the preview of some horror flick. A dark figure moves in the shadows behind the pretty blond on the screen, but she’s oblivious the way they always are in those movies. “Then who were you talking about?” Luke doesn’t answer. His eyes shift to the screen beside me, avoiding my gaze. But he doesn’t have to say anything. I know who he means. Well, I might be pissed at Ander but that doesn’t mean Luke can put him down. “Ander wasn’t trying to hurt me. Ander is a decent human being.” Luke nods thoughtfully, still watching the screen. “I’m sure he is. Or was. But the thing is, Cicely,” he looks at me, “Some people change.” Behind the girl on the screen, the monster steps out of the shadows, but the girl is still brushing her long blond hair. Any second she’ll see it behind her in the mirror. I know people change. I’ve thought as much myself. But Luke has no right. “Like you’re so perfect?” He shakes his head slowly, seeming suddenly much older than he is. “Not perfect. No. But I think you will find I change very little.” Luke shifts and I can see his reflection in the store window beside us, superimposed on the banks of TV screens. His eyes meet mine in the reflection, so dark and beautiful it makes me catch my breath. I look away quickly, and catch sight of my own reflection beside his. My hair is wild from having clothes dragged over it in a hurry. My hoodie clashes crazily with my dress. One of my boots is only half laced. “Forget it,” I grumble, “You are perfect. A lot more perfect than me.” He turns towards me and I am suddenly aware of how close we are standing. “I have weaknesses like anyone else.” Weaknesses? From where I am standing, Luke seems all strength, from the intensity in his eyes to the sharp line of his jaw. “What are your weaknesses?” “You.” His eyes meet mine. Beside us, the monster on the screen pounces, but now it’s me who’s oblivious, lost in Luke’s gaze. He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes.

“You, Cicely, are my weakness.” He shifts a fraction closer and for a heartbeat, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then, abruptly, he pulls back. “I have to go.” “What?” The connection between us breaks and I feel limp, like a puppet when the strings are cut. “I mean, why?” God, listen to me! I sound so disappointed! “Your friend is waiting for you.” He nods towards Zoe. I hadn’t even noticed her standing a few yards away, watching us with wide eyes. My frozen yogurt is melting, dripping a puddle at her feet, but she doesn’t even care. “Right,” I say, “Zoe. Right.” “And I have…something to attend to.” His expression has darkened again. His jaw clenches. I try to hide my disappointment. “Some other girl to stalk?” “Yes, something like that.” He smiles again, eyes softening. “Until tomorrow, Cicely.” Then he turns and strides into the crowd. Beside me on a dozen screens the beautiful, dumb girl screams. But there’s a wall of glass between her and me and I don’t hear a thing.

Chapter 15: Cicely Saturday goes by too quickly. I spend the morning doing my best to clean our messy trailer, then pick my mom up at the hospital. It takes a while to check out, schedule her follow-up appointments, and get each doctor’s parting words. By the time Zoe picks us up, it’s nearly dinner time and we have to drop her off at the café anyhow, so Mom and I decide to pick up our usual: fish sandwich and fries for me, and a chef salad for Mom. Salad doesn’t seem like much of a dinner for someone who’s been living on hospital food for the past few days, but it’s the only vegetarian thing on the menu. But when we get there, Zoe’s bearded bear of a dad meets me at the door with our order— and a huge pot of chili. “It’s vegetarian,” he says proudly, “I made it special.” “Wow,” I say, “Thanks Mr. Zumbroski, but I thought you were opposed to tofu.” He shrugs his big shoulders. “What can I say? People change.” He gives me a sheepish little smile. “You tell your mom we’re glad we didn’t lose her, all right?” “All right.” I smile back and haul the pot of chili out to the Oldsmobile. Zoe is just getting out of the car. “Well,” she says, “I guess this is my stop.” “Yeah,” I say, “But are you sure you’re okay with lending us the car?” She laughs. “Like I’m going anywhere! My indentured servitude lies here.” I scuff the gravel with my boot. “I wish you were going to the dance.” “Yeah, like that’s going to happen. Just because my dad discovered the wonders of bean curd , that doesn’t mean he’s had a total personality transplant. And he needs me to work tonight. You know how many people come here after football games. Everyone who’s not at the Formal will be right here sucking down shakes, so…” she shrugs. “Besides, I don’t want to be a third wheel.” She grins and drops her voice to a whisper. “I saw you and Luke at the mall. You two need your alone time.” “Zoe!” I roll my eyes at her. “We do not—” “You’re on your own for this one, kiddo.” She hip-bumps me, laughing, and signs “call me.” Then she trots off into the café. So Mom and I set off, too. People change, I think, as we drive down County Road 13, Zoe’s car filling slowly with the scent of chili powder and fries. Wasn’t that what Luke said about Ander? I feel like everything is changing, and way too fast. It is almost a relief to get back to what doesn’t change. The parking lot of St. Agnes School is full of cars gathered for the football game. For once, traffic is thick and we pass the school at a crawl. There is always a pep rally the day of the Fall Formal, and I can imagine just how it went: Lyla made an impassioned speech on behalf of the student council. Hannah was in her usual spot at the bottom of the cheerleaders’ pyramid. Emmie was on top, shaking her pom-poms. And was Ander there? I look out over the fields as we pass, hoping for a glimpse of him, but all I can see is the smoke rising from the pep club’s annual bonfire down near the woods. On the field the football players are bashing into each other, two immovable forces, like re-enactors of some ancient battle. I wonder if Ander will join them next year, now that he seems to have found his inner popular-boy and is no longer slumming with me.

My mom sees the look of melancholy on my face and misinterprets it completely. “Oh, honey, am I keeping you from your friends? If you want you can just drop me off and come back —” “No, that’s okay.” Just looking at the school is making me feel nervous. I’m sure the student council has been in the gym all morning, decorating for the dance. Well, they may be ready, but I’m not. I try to focus on the Church of St. Agnes and the graveyard beyond it—the things that truly don’t change. But even that reminds me of Ander. And Luke. “No,” I say again, “I just want to go home.” “Of course,” says my mom, “You probably want to start getting ready for the dance. I still haven’t seen your dress!” And you’re not going to, I think. The pink monstrosity is currently shoved in the back of my closet and it’s going to stay there. Heck, I’d drop it in the pep rally bonfire if I could. Which means I have nothing to wear. Which means I really should call Luke and beg off going, tell him I’m sick. That’s almost not a lie, considering the fact that just thinking about the dance makes me feel like my french fries won’t stay down. Yes, calling in sick is definitely my best option. Except I have no idea how to call Luke. Or email him. Or text him. I don’t even know where he lives. I honestly don’t know anything about the boy except for the fact that just being near him makes my temperature go up about ten degrees and his smug, condescending little smile makes me want to slap him or kiss him or both. Oh, that and the fact that he’s stalking me, which should be reason enough not to date him. I should leave a note on my door saying “Sorry. Got mono,” and go spend the night at the library like any sensible girl would. But of course I don’t. I push my fries around my plate while my mom eats her chili. Then I send my mom to her room to rest while I turn my closet upside down looking for something to wear that might pass as “formal.” An hour later, the contents of my closet are all over my bed, but I am no closer to being dressed for the dance. The closest I can come is one of my long, black skirts paired with a black t-shirt rescued from the hamper. But since I have nothing for my feet besides boots and Converse, I don’t look any more formal than usual. I stare in the mirror and try to picture standing dressed like this amongst the Lylas and Hannahs of the world. I can pretend I’m being a rebel, sticking it to their silly formal rules, but I know the truth—and frankly, so do they. They know what happened at the mall. They know I haven’t got the cash for a dress, a fact that will be even more obvious when I’m standing next to Luke. I’m willing to bet the boy owns his own tux. But the pink dress is out of the question. Lyla and her friends would know where it came from. And calling Zoe is equally out. I’m sure she would have something in her stuffed closet that could pass as formal, but to get it I would have to admit I blew a chunk of her hard-earned change on a dress I hate. I strip off my boots and skirt, put on my rattiest pair of jeans, and tug my new red sweatshirt on over the black t-shirt. The hoodie is still so new it’s stiff. It smells like the Gap. I flop down on my cluttered bed and try not to cry. The doorbell rings. I jump off the bed, swabbing at my eyes. That can’t be Luke, can it? It’s way too early. But maybe he’s still on European time. Maybe he thought we were going out to dinner before the dance. Maybe he’s changed his mind about going with me at all and he’s come by to tell me his grandmother died or possibly to laugh in my face. I peer out my bedroom window, but the only car in the driveway is the Oldsmobile. Should I pretend I’m not home? The doorbell rings again.

“Cicely? Can you get that?” My mother’s voice is groggy. Crap, the bell woke her up. “Got it!” Barefoot, I trot through the living room, take a deep breath, and open the front door. No one. There is no one standing on the front steps, no unfamiliar car in the driveway, no sound of footsteps in the woods. There is only a box sitting on the front steps, a long, white box bound diagonally with a silver satin ribbon. Beside it lies a bouquet of white roses. Stunned, I reach down and pick up the roses. Immediately I am surrounded by their sweet scent. It reminds me of the day—was it really only a few days ago?—when I first saw Luke in the graveyard, his arms full of roses. But these are white, not red. A simple white card is tucked between the blossoms. I open it with trembling hands. “Cicely,” The handwriting looks extremely neat to someone used to Ander’s chickenscratches. “I hope you will accept this gift. I could not pass up the opportunity to see you in it, although you would look lovely in anything. Until this evening, Luke.” I can hardly stand to set the roses down, but I have to pick up the package. Even the box is beautiful. It smells like lavender. I slip the silver ribbon off and wrap it carefully around my wrist for safe keeping. Then I open the box. My breath catches in a little gasp. I can tell at one glance what it is: the dress from the boutique at the mall. Nothing else would be quite that color—not silver, not white, but something in-between. I shut the box quickly. How did he know how much I wanted this? But of course he knew. He was watching us at the mall, just like he was watching me the night of my mother’s accident. Just like he might be watching me now. I peer into the woods. The sky is getting dark and the shadows between the trees are like black velvet. I strain my eyes, but if Luke is out there, I can’t see him. Still, I feel suddenly exposed. I scoop up the roses, laying them carefully on top of the dress box, and hurry to my room. My mother sticks her head out of her bedroom as I pass. “Who was that?” “No one,” I say, “Delivery.” I duck into my room and shut the door behind me. Laying the flowers on my clothes-strewn bed, I slide the dress out of its box. It is even prettier up close than it was in the store window. The fabric seems to flow like mercury. Moving like someone in a dream, I take off my clothes and slip into the dress. The material is cool and softer than rose petals. It fits as if it were made for me, skimming my body gracefully and falling in soft folds around my ankles. In the box, wrapped in tissue paper, I find a pair of simple heels dyed a shade darker than the dress, a smoky pewter to its platinum. I step into them. It’s a perfect fit. “Oh, Cicely, you look beautiful!” My mother is standing in the doorway, her hands clasped over her heart. “You said you had found a dress, but I had no idea! And are these from Luke?” She picks up the bouquet of roses and breathes in a lungful of their sweetness. “It’s just all so— Oh! Wait! One more thing!” She sets the roses down on the bed and disappears into the hall. “Mom? Where are you going?” “Just a second!” I can hear her rummaging around in her bedroom. Then she reappears in the doorway with a box in her hand. It’s about the size of an eyeglass case and covered in red velvet. She holds it out with a smile. “What is this?” “Your birthday present! I planned to give it to you on Tuesday when we were supposed to have our little girls’ night out, but then the accident…well, better late than never, right?” Her smile is a little misty. “Here. Happy sweet sixteen.” “Mom,” I say, “You shouldn’t have.” And I mean it. Getting presents from Luke is overwhelming enough, and Luke can actually afford them. We can’t.

“I didn’t. Buy you anything, I mean. Not exactly. You’ll see. Go on, open it!” I open the tiny hinges with a snap. Inside, coiled on the satin lining, is a necklace. I slide it out and hold it up to the light: one perfect crimson stone, set in etched antique silver and cut like a single tear. The silver around the stone has darkened with age, the intricate Celtic knot-work is almost black. “Mom,” I breathe, “It’s amazing!” She watches me nervously. “You really like it?” “Are you kidding? I love it!” My mother beams and I feel like I’ve gotten another gift. “I hoped you would! Do you recognize it?” I turn the necklace over in my hand. “There is something familiar about it.” She nods. “It belonged to your birth-mom. She told me it was handed down through her family for generations.” Now I remember. “She’s wearing it in that college picture. I didn’t recognize the stone because the photo is black and white.” “She often wore it, for good luck, she said.” My mother glances away. “She was wearing it that night.” She doesn’t have to say which night. “Oh, Cicely!” she bites her lower lip nervously. “That’s why I didn’t give it to you before. I wasn’t sure how you would feel about it, whether it would bring up bad memories. But now you’re getting older, and it being a family heirloom…I just thought you might want to have something of hers. I hope it was the right thing to do.” The stone is only as big as my fingertip but it feels heavy in my hand. My birth-mother was wearing this the night she was killed. It feels strange to hold it. But how can it bring back bad memories? I have no memory of her at all. But my mother does. She and my birth-mom were best friends. Right now, as I watch her remember, I can tell my mother carries scars far deeper than the claw-marks on her face. I give her my most reassuring smile. “It was the perfect thing to do.” She smiles back at me, relieved. “I’m glad you like it. Now, go ahead, put it on!” I do, my fingers trembling a little as I fasten the clasp. The stone fits perfectly in the hollow of my throat. I can feel my pulse beating fast against its cool weight. The chain around my throat feels like a link to the mother I never knew. But there’s something even deeper than that, too. Something I can’t express. “Here,” says my mother, “Let me do your hair.” She steps behind me and scoops up my hair, expertly twisting it in on itself so only a few tendrils curl against my neck. She secures it with some bobby pins from my desk, then, unlooping the satin ribbon from my wrist, she ties my hair into place. “There!” She takes a step back to admire her work. Satisfied, she takes me by the shoulders and turns me around toward the mirror with a flourish. “Voila!” My breath catches. The room behind me looks the same—same cluttered bed, same cinderblock shelves, same walls crowded with picture—but I look completely different. The dress adds curves where I am used to lines. The heels give an illusion of grace. My pale skin looks right against the silver sheen of the satin and even the escaped tendrils of hair seem to echo the scrolled knot-work of the necklace. I barely recognize the girl in the mirror. I look like someone else. But I feel more like myself than I have in days. My mother nods approvingly. “I can’t wait to meet this Luke. You two are going to look perfect together.” An hour ago, I would have argued. I never thought Luke and I would look anything together. But now…after the week I’ve had, don’t I deserve to go to a dance with a handsome boy, to look

pretty for a night? My fingers move instinctively to the cool red stone snuggled against my neck. Would it kill me to have a little fun? The doorbell rings as if on cue. “That’s him!” I look at my mother, wide-eyed. “I’ll get it!” She turns to go. “No, I’ll get it.” I’m feeling much more confident now. Gathering my dress I hurry down the hall, the satin shushing around my ankles, and eagerly open the door. “Luke!” But it isn’t Luke. “Ander,” I say, “What are you doing here?”

Chapter 16: Ander What am I doing here? I swear I knew a second ago. I had a whole plan: bring Cicely’s mom the sedative to knock her out in case she turns, then get back out by the road in time to ambush Luke Marianez on his way in to pick up Cicely. That was the plan. But now the plan has gone out of my head completely and it’s not just the impending full moon that has scrambled my brain. It’s the fact that Cicely is standing in the doorway of her trailer looking…whoa. She’s wearing a dress that makes it look like she’s about to walk the red carpet, with a neckline much lower than I’ve ever seen her wear and her hair piled up on her head in that way that looks dressed up and messy at the same time. The whole effect is…wow. “Ander? Is something wrong?” “No. Yes. It’s just, you look…good.” “As opposed to…?” She raises her eyebrows at me, hands on hips. “I mean,” I say quickly, “You always look good but…” I shake my head, completely at a loss for words. She blushes. It makes her look even prettier. “Thanks,” she says, “And you look…” She really looks at me and her expression shifts to concern. I know why. I look like hell. “Ander, why aren’t you dressed for the dance? Did you and Emmie decide not to go?” I can hear the hope in her voice. “No, we’re definitely still going,” I say. Gotta stick to my story if Emmie is gonna be my alibi later. “Oh.” She looks down at the ground. “Well then, shouldn’t you be off getting ready?” “Yeah,” I say, “I guess I’m running late.” Really, really late. I glance up at the sky. It’s getting darker. Soon the full moon will rise. I can feel it pulling at me, softening me like clay, getting ready to reshape me. “I just came to give you this.” I dig the vial of potion out of my pocket. “More healing stuff, huh?” She looks at it doubtfully. “My uncle said it’s important she take it right away.” “Okay, I’ll give it to her.” She reaches for the vial. I hold it back. “I’d love to say hey to your mom. You know, see how she’s doing.” Cicely glances back towards her mom’s room, then out towards the road where Luke will be arriving soon. “I don’t know, Ander. It’s getting pretty late…” Damn right it’s getting late and I have a vamp to kill. I hate to see Cicely get stood up twice, but I still have to make sure Luke Marianez won’t make it here tonight. “I’ll only be a second.” I push past Cicely. I know I’m acting like an ass but I don’t have time to wait. I have to see Cicely’s mom—no, weird though it sounds, I have to smell her. If I can, I think I’ll be able to tell if she’s infected. “Fine,” says Cicely, “But only for a second. I don’t want you to wear her out.” “Honestly, Cicely, I’m not ninety.” Her mom’s voice comes from inside. “Mom,” Cicely groans, “Have you been eavesdropping?” “Not at all! Ander, come in!” Ms. Watson walks out of the little kitchen, drying her hands on her jeans. One whole side of her face is puckered with stitches but that doesn’t keep her from

beaming at me. I’m sure that smile hurts her. It sure as hell hurts me. Just looking at her, all I can think is I did that. It’s my fault. Just a few millimeters to the right and I would have gotten her eye. A few inches down and I would have hit an artery. So close. If that vamp wasn’t there to distract me, Cicely’s mom would be dead. Of course, if that vamp hadn’t been there, none of this would have happened in the first place. “Ander,” Cicely hisses under her breath, “You’re staring!” “Sorry,” I say, “It’s just that you look better than I expected, Ms. Watson. How are you feeling?” “Much better now that I’m home. I think I’m going to be fine.” But is she? I sniff the air, searching for the scent of wolf, but all I can smell is the yeasty scent of baking that always lingers in Cicely’s house. I force myself to look past the scars, to search for any tell-tale signs that Cicely’s mom is infected. She looks tired, certainly, but anyone would after a few days in the hospital. There are shadows under her eyes, but the eyes themselves are normal—no glitter of adrenaline, no dilated pupils. She isn’t sweating and her hands don’t shake as she picks up her mug of tea and sits at the kitchen table. “Really,” she says, “I’m just relieved to get back to normal.” “Normal is good,” I say. I can feel the tension draining from my body. The days leading up to my first change are still fresh in my mind, like a nightmare that never fades: the sweats, the fever, the way my muscles ached and burned. I paced for hours, angry and volatile and scared. There was no way I could have sat around drinking tea the night of my first full moon. For the first time in days I feel like something is going right. I’m pretty sure Cicely’s mom doesn’t have lycanthropy. But just to be on the safe side… “Here,” I say, “I brought you something.” I hold out the little vial. “Oh,” says Ms. Watson, “What’s this?” “A remedy my uncle made. Traditional Indian medicine to help healing, keep the scarring down, guard against infection, all that. You know, like the other one I gave you.” “The other one?” She looks confused. “But there was no—” “Ander,” says Cicely, “Don’t you have to go change?” Oh, I have to change, alright. More than you know. I force myself to take a deep breath, the mantra playing in my head. Human is as human does. So, Cicely never gave her mom the forget potion. I can tell by the way she avoids my eyes. I can’t help being angry with her—after all, she promised. Now there’s no way to know what her mom remembers. Now, even if her mom isn’t infected, we could still be busted. But being angry on the full moon is a sure way to lose it, so I try to concentrate on the positive. Like how pretty Cicely looks. Which really isn’t much better. “I really have to go,” I say, “But my uncle said you had to take it right away.” Ms. Watson nods knowingly. “Timing can be very important with these things.” She smiles, “Tonight is the full moon, you know!” “Oh, yeah,” I say, “I know.” “Well,” she unscrews the cover of the vial, “Down the hatch!” “Wait!” Cicely reaches out to stop her, “Are there any side-effects?” “He said it might make you a little drowsy.” Considering the fact that it’s a sedative made strong enough for a werewolf. “Well,” says Ms. Watson, “No harm in a good night’s sleep! As long as you wake me when

you get home, Cicely. I want to hear all about the dance.” she turns to me, “And you’re going, too, Ander?” “Yes,” says Cicely, “With Emmie Gardner.” Her tone is laced with hurt. Her mom doesn’t catch it. “Well, you two should double date!” Cicely looks horrified. “No!” I say. “I mean, Emmie and I are going late. My uncle is making us dinner.” I really wish it were true. I’d give anything to have Michael fine-chopping onions to the tune of opera on public radio. The truth is, he’s doubled over in bed, shaking so hard his teeth chatter, burning to the touch and babbling about Danny. Bonding withdrawal is a bitch—something like having your heart stomped while going cold turkey off meth, as Emmie would say. Michael isn’t in any shape to go anywhere tonight. This is why I’m here when, in a slightly better world, I would be safely chained up in my room. In a better world Ms. Watson would be chained somewhere, too, at least until we were sure she wasn’t going to change. She would have Michael watching over her and Danny waiting in the kitchen with the chicken soup. But we don’t have the luxury of any of that right now. There are no good options, no safe options, only bad options and worse, and me being here on the full moon—well, it’s bad. Really bad. And I’m afraid it’s about to get worse. A car turns onto Cicely’s dirt road. She hears it a second after I do. We both look at each other. “Luke!” she says, “He’s early!” Shit. I’ve missed my chance. “Ander,” says Cicely, “You have to get out of here!” Oh, you don’t know the half of it. In a minute the vampire will be here to pick up the girl I love and the full moon will rise and this night will go very, very wrong. “Yeah, I’m going. Goodbye Ms. Watson.” Cicely’s mom gives me a sleepy wave. Maybe the potion is already starting to work. I can’t stay and find out. I’m already headed for the door. Cicely follows me, her dress rustling. I stop on the front steps. Outside it’s getting colder. A breeze rushes through the trees, making them howl. The vamp has stopped his car at the entrance to the driveway so I guess he knows I’m here. Maybe he’s trying to give us a moment. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to die. Cicely glances over at him. She looks a good kind of nervous when she should look a bad kind of scared. I should really go but I can’t stand to leave her with the vamp. It goes against every Hunter instinct I’ve got. I scan the tree line, although I know the moon can’t be up. Not yet. “Ander,” says Cicely, “You keep looking at the sky.” “Do I?” I try hard to stop looking for the moon or glancing at my watch, but that means I have to look at Cicely—at the way her dark hair looks against that silvery dress and how her lipstick makes her lips sort of shine. It hurts to see her looking so beautiful and know it’s for someone else. For the vamp. “Seriously,” says Cicely, “Are you all right? Because you just made sort of a noise.” “Yes. No. I mean, no I’m not okay. I’m not okay with you going to the dance with that Luke guy. Cissa,” I say, “The guy’s not right for you.” “Oh, really?” Cicely crosses her arms over the satin of her dress, distracting me completely. “And you know this how? You’ve only met him once.” “Yeah,” I say, “But I know his type.” I just don’t say that his type is deadly bloodsucker or that my entire childhood was devoted to learning how to spot and kill them.

“And his type isn’t my type?” Cicely narrows her eyes at me, tapping her fancy shoe in irritation. “No,” I say, “He’s not.” “And what exactly is my type?” She’s really annoyed now. Well, so be it. This is my only chance to say something. “Your type is…” What can I say? Human? Sure as hell rules me out, and I still wish I wasn’t ruled out. I just can’t let go of four years of dreaming about Cicely, especially not now when she’s standing right in front of me looking more like a dream than I’ve ever seen her. The clock is ticking. I should be leaving right now. But what I want to do is take Cicely in my arms and press her up against me hard enough to crush that pretty dress and kiss her hard enough to make her not care that I’m messing up her lipstick. I want to pick her up and carry her back through that doorway. We’re only a few strides from the couch, only one rip away from ruining that expensive fabric, the dress she must have bought to wear for him— “Ander,” says Cicely, “You’re scaring me.” “What? I’m fine.” Deep breath. The moon is going to rise. I can feel it. Doesn’t the moon move the whole damn ocean, every time the tides rise and fall? What the hell kind of chance do I stand? “Your hands,” she says, “They’re shaking.” She reaches out and touches me before I have the chance to pull away. Her hands are so small next to mine, and so cool on my fevered skin. Her eyes have softened, the anger replaced with worry…and something else. Maybe she could feel me thinking about kissing her. She’s psychic like that sometimes. That and I’m not subtle. “Well,” she says, “I mean, if you know someone who’s more my type…” There it is, that look of cautious hope in her eyes. Here she is, all dressed up to go out with someone else, and she would drop him to be with me. It makes me feel great. Great and like crap, because any guy with any kind of integrity would have squashed that hope completely before now. A good guy would have been more of a bastard to her, hurt her to avoid hurting her worse. I just can’t bring myself to do it. Down the road I hear a rumble, the sound of his engine starting again. Crap. I’m close to losing it as it is. If I have to see that pretentious bloodsucker—if I have to smell him— “I gotta go.” I turn to leave but Cicely grabs my arm and turns me to face her. I can see in her eyes she’s pissed—pissed I showed up here, pissed I got her hopes up, pissed I let her think I might have changed my mind. Her voice is low but fierce. “You think I can’t pull it off, don’t you? You think I’ll look stupid next to someone like Luke. You think he’s too good for me.” This is my chance. I should say yes and make her hate me, kill her last bit of hope. Easy. Like staking a vamp. “I think you’ll look beautiful.” I turn away. “No one’s too good for you. No one’s good enough.” “Then why—?” I stomp towards Michael’s van, my work boots sinking in the muddy ground. I nearly rip the door off, yanking it open. Get inside. Slam the door. Lock it. Roll the windows up, rev the motor, crank the music until the bass matches the pounding in my temples. My skin feels like it’s being shrink wrapped to my bones, my muscles are expanding. The Gatorade bottle rattles in my hand as I bring it to my lips. Not too much. Gotta conserve. Michael is in no space to make more. I know I shouldn’t turn to look at Cicely, no matter how much I want to. So I don’t. But I can’t stop myself from looking in the rearview mirror, as if looking at her indirectly will help

somehow, like looking at an eclipse. Cicely is still standing in the doorway of the trailer, as beautiful and as out of place as if she has come from another time. She’s lived in that trailer for as long as I’ve known her. It belongs to her, but tonight I can see she doesn’t belong to it. She doesn’t belong to this little town or to St. Agnes School…or me. A car turns onto the dirt road. It’s big and black and vintage, just short of a limo. It’s the sort of car a prince would ride in and, standing there in her long white dress, Cicely looks every bit a princess. A horrible sinking feeling spreads through me and, in spite of all I was raised to believe, for a minute I can’t help wondering if I’ve got it wrong. Cicely certainly deserves more than this town has to offer and Luke Marianez has more than enough to give. Yes, he’s a vampire, but so is Michael. They’re predatory animals, but they can be good to their thralls. Maybe they really could live happily ever after. Except, of course, for the fact that I’m going to kill him. I told Jason I would. I have to if I want Michael and Danny to live—and if I ever want to have a life. If I want to have my old life back. Kill Luke Marianez and there’s hope I could someday go back to being human again. Not just human, a member of one of the most powerful Hunting families in the world. I glance in the mirror at Cicely, standing there in her dress the color of moonlight. Kill Luke Marianez and I get to be the prince.

Chapter 17: Cicely I watch Ander’s big old van pull out of my driveway and feel my spirits deflate. I was just starting to feel good about going to the dance—the dress had given me the boost of confidence I needed—then Ander came along and knocked me off balance again. It’s like he’s a different person every time I see him; I never know which version of Ander will show up at my doorstep. A line from Thursday’s homework comes to my mind: “Swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon…” That’s Ander. Inconstant. Unreliable. Impossible to understand. The very last thing I need in my already unbalanced life. But I still can’t help watching his car crawl down the rutted dirt road. The next time I see him will be at the dance. Just the thought of him dressed up with Emmie Gardner on his arm is enough to make me burn with jealousy. Well, I’m not the only one with reason to be jealous. I watch as Luke’s car cruises slowly towards me. It’s big and black and antique with high, rolling fenders, like something from a presidential motorcade circa World War II. Its domed top is polished like a beetle’s back, so clean it makes Ander’s van look more rust than paint. The two cars slide past each other slowly, like sharks passing in the water, sizing each other up. Then Ander turns his van onto County Road 13 and I hear him peel out, tires squealing, as if he can’t get away from here fast enough. I want to yell at him to slow down, but I’m not sure I could yell if I tried. I feel speechless as the big black car glides to a stop right in front of me and Luke Marianez steps out. He’s dressed in a classic black tux and a crisp white shirt, his dark curls in intentional disarray. He looks supremely confident, somehow more comfortable in a tux than most guys are in jeans and a t-shirt, as if he’s done this a thousand times before. But then he spots me standing in the doorway and he freezes. An expression I can’t interpret crosses his perfect face—pain and longing and nostalgia all rolled into one. Is he somehow disappointed? I take a step back into the doorway. “Is everything okay?” His smile is genuine. “Yes. Yes, of course. It’s only that you look so beautiful.” His eyes travel over my dress with obvious approval. I feel my cheeks get hot. “Thank you.” No one makes me blush like Luke. It’s as if all the blood in my body comes rushing to my cheeks as soon as I see him. “Thank you for the compliment, I mean, and for the dress.” He waves that off. “That dress was made for you. I was only the messenger, making sure it got to its rightful place.” “But still,” I say, “It’s too much! The dress and the flowers…” His face lights up. “Did you like the flowers? I debated about the color, but I thought you might be bored with red, that I might be the first to give you white.” He looks embarrassed. It’s an expression I haven’t seen on him before and it makes him look vulnerable. “That’s silly, isn’t it?” “No,” I say, “it’s very sweet. And you’re the first person to give me any roses.” He looks honestly surprised. “Really?” “Sure,” I say. “I mean, my mom gave me flowers for violin recitals back in junior high, but she mostly likes bright colors—daisies and carnations and stuff.” I didn’t mention that she

couldn’t afford a dozen roses. Maybe that went without saying. “Ah, yes!” he says, “Your violin! You play very well, you know.” “Thank—wait. When have you…?” I glare at him. He smiles serenely. “Last night. In my defense, you play quite loudly. It’s difficult not to overhear.” “If you happen to be standing in my yard.” His smile widens. “The best seat in the house.” I groan. “Did you learn nothing from our stalking conversation at the mall?” “My compliment stands. You’re very good.” “I’m not,” I say, to disagree with him, but it’s actually true. Years of almost friend-free living has given me plenty of time to practice. Unpopularity has its perks. “You’re brilliant.” An awkward silence falls and I realize we are still standing on the front steps. I need to get my purse before we can actually leave. Is it rude to leave Luke standing out here? Should I invite him in? The thought of Luke Marianez in my shabby living room sends a wave of embarrassment through me, but I fight it down. I have nothing to be ashamed of. “Come on in,” I say, “I just have to grab my purse.” Luke follows me into the living room and looks around. I check his expression for disdain but he just seems to be taking it in, memorizing it. I look around, too, nervously, hoping Luke won’t choose to sit on the sagging couch. I cleaned just this morning, in preparation for my mother coming home, but the place still looks a mess. I pick up a cake-decorating magazine and set it on top of the salad bowl full of bills to hide the final notice on the top. Luckily Luke isn’t watching. He has picked up one of my mother’s romance novels from the coffee table and is smiling wryly at the picture on the cover, a shirtless muscle man holding a corseted redhead who looks about ready to swoon. “Yours, I presume?” “What? No!” I snatch the book out of his hand. “They’re my mother’s.” “Good.” He nods approvingly. “I thought you were far too sensible to care about…” He takes the book back and scans the back cover, “‘…Raoul, the pirate captain who has kidnapped the fiery Angelique.’” I laugh, embarrassed. “I don’t know where she finds them. Yard sales, mostly.” “Yard sales?” I wonder if he doesn’t know the English term, or if he’s just so rich he’s never been to a yard sale. “You know,” I say, “Second hand?” “Really?” Luke feigns surprise, “It’s hard to picture someone parting with Raoul and Angelique. And yet—” He surveys the novels scattered around the room, “There seems to be no shortage. Has your mother read all these?” “Well,” I say, “I’m not really sure she reads the whole book. She may just read the good parts.” Luke’s eyebrows rise a notch. “Pray tell, what are the good parts?” I think my blush is permanent now. “I should go get my purse. Aren’t we going to be late?” “Nonsense. The night is young. And this is so educational.” He does sit down, right in the middle of our sway-backed couch, looking supremely out of place in his tuxedo, and makes a show of putting his polished black shoes up on the coffee table as if settling in for a stay. He picks up another of my mother’s novels. This one has a handsome vampire about to sink his fangs into the exposed white neck of a buxom blond. “You were saying? About the good parts?” “I was saying we should go.” But I’m actually not in that much of a hurry. It feels good to

flirt like this—not relaxed, exactly, but nice. Luke is clearly enjoying himself, too. “Perhaps I will find the good parts myself.” He opens the book at random and reads, “Her heart beat like a captive bird within her heaving bosom…” “You’re making that up.” “I am.” “Get up off that couch.” I snatch the book out of his hand and pretend to try to pull him to his feet. His hand is cool—or maybe mine is hot. I feel flushed. There’s no way I am going to move him. Luke may not be as big as Ander but he is as solid as a sculpture. He lets me pull at him futilely for a moment. Then, with an effortless tug, he spins me around and pulls me down onto the couch beside him. I land in a poof of dress, so close to him we’re touching. Luke laughs. “I thought we were leaving now.” “We are,” I say, but I don’t move. Our charged moment at the mall comes rushing back to me and I am suddenly very aware I have a strange boy on my couch and my mother is nowhere in sight. While I’m trying to decide how I feel about that, Luke turns and looks me in the eye. The black of his tux makes his eyes look darker, his teeth whiter. “And you, Cicely,” he says, “Are you a romantic like your mother?” “I…I don’t know.” I think about the wedding cake growing stale in our fridge and my birthday wish—eternal love. But so much has changed since then. I don’t know what to think of love any more. “Well,” he says, “Let me know when you decide.” Then he is up and off the couch in one fluid motion—remarkable considering no one gets up off our couch gracefully. He turns and offers a gentlemanly hand to help me to my feet, which is good really because I feel embarrassingly unsteady. Is this what a few seconds next to a goodlooking guy does to me? I feel like an amateur, way out of my league. “I’ll be right back.” I bolt for my room, hoping he won’t follow. I need a second to breathe. Besides, Luke sitting on my couch is one thing. Luke in my bedroom? That’s something completely different. I glance around, from my unmade bed covered in clothes to my paper-collaged walls. More than ever, my room seems decorated in Early Ander and I can’t stand the thought of Luke seeing it. I snatch the purse off my bed and notice that my mother must have tucked a few dollars into it when I wasn’t looking. I know she can’t afford to give me cash but I’m still thankful she did. Things are going well with Luke right now, but he is still, well, Luke, the boy in the graveyard, the one who has been following me. Now that I’m away from his charming smile, intuition pricks at the back of my mind again. I am starting to like Luke, but I’m not sure I’m starting to trust him, and I want to be able to leave the dance if things get strange. I shove the money into my purse, then toss in my iPod, too, just in case I have to walk home. When I turn around, Luke is standing in the doorway. I jump a mile. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you not to sneak up on people?” He grins at me. “I just wanted to see where Monument’s most accomplished violinist—” He stops mid-sentence, his gaze landing on my neck. “That necklace. Where did you get it?” “This?” My fingers fly to the red stone. “My mom just gave it to me for my birthday. Why?” He doesn’t answer. Instead he crosses my little room in two purposeful strides, standing suddenly too close. His cool fingers brush my throat as he touches the stone. “May I see this?” “Yes, of course.” I know he doesn’t expect me to take it off, but the brush of his fingers, the

faint scent of his cologne is too intimate. I fumble the clasp and slide the necklace off, handing it to him. He looks surprised, but takes it, holding the chain up so the stone dangles in the light. He watches the pendant sway, lost in his thoughts. The expression isn’t the usual polite admiration. It’s something far more intense. “You don’t like it?” I ask. He suddenly remembers I am there. “Yes, of course I like it.” He smiles. “It’s just…it reminded me of something I saw before, that’s all.” “So you don’t think it’s, you know, too much?” What do I know about dressing for a dance? “No, not too much. Just perfect. Now, may I?” He takes me by the shoulders and gently turns me to face the mirror. His fingers send a chill along my neck as he drapes the necklace in place, the deep red stone once again tucked into the hollow of my throat. He fastens the clasp with a look of satisfaction. “There.” But he does not step away. Instead he lays his hands on my shoulders and looks at us in the mirror. The sight seems to please him and make him sad all at once. I take a deep breath, feeling the stone rise and fall. It is almost a relief to have it there, as if it is something I’ve worn a million times before. There is a rightness to it I can’t explain. And there’s a rightness to the image in the mirror, too: Luke, slim and dark in his suit, me, pale as moonlit water in this dress…I remember my daydream at the mall when I first saw this dress, how I had pictured us together like this. Had I somehow seen this coming? Impossible, of course. And that moment felt more like a memory than a premonition. I can feel the same sensation coming over me now, a feeling deeper than déjà vu, as if this time and place are being tugged gently out from under me, the way sands slips from under your toes when the current takes it. My violin stand, the pictures of Ander, the cracks in the corner of the mirror, all seem to fade like a photo background out of focus until there is only me and Luke. I shake my head it clear it. What is going on with me lately? I glance at Luke. Did he feel it? If he did, he doesn’t let on. He smiles at me in the mirror instead, offers me his arm. “Shall we go?” “Sure,” I say, “As soon as I check on my mom.” “Of course,” he says. “You can just hang out in the living room if you want,” I say, but Luke shakes his head. “I would love to meet your mother,” he says. “I have been concerned for her. I would like to see how she’s doing. I mean, if that’s not too forward of me.” When is Luke anything but forward? “Okay,” I say, “I mean, I’m sure she wants to meet you, too.” Of course, my mom would probably kill me if she didn’t get to see Luke and I dressed for the dance. I rap on her bedroom door, praying she isn’t already in her ratty sleep-sweats. But my mother looks sleepy but presentable, a Mexican poncho thrown on over the t-shirt and jeans she wore home from the hospital. Maybe she hasn’t been sleeping. Maybe she has just been trying to stay out of our way. She certainly looks awake when she sees Luke. She stares at him, wide-eyed. “Mom,” I say, “This is Luke Marianez. We just wanted to say goodbye before we head for the dance.” “Yes,” my mother says, “Good boy. I mean goodbye!” She reaches up to smooth her frizzy curls, completely flustered by Luke’s smile. But Luke must be used to it. He holds out a gracious hand. “Mrs. Watson, I must thank you for allowing me to accompany Cicely to the dance.”

My mother laughs. “Listen to you! So polite! Well, of course you can take Cicely to the dance. I’m sure the pleasure is all hers.” She grins at me. “Mom…” I give her a you’re embarrassing me look. She shoots back a you didn’t warn me he was so cute look. “And Mrs. Watson, may I ask how you are feeling?” Luke is watching my mother intently, studying her. “Much better, thank you. The doctors were just holding me for observation, because I was confused after the accident. I thought…” She pauses, looking at Luke again, as if something has just occurred to her. “You look familiar. Have I seen you somewhere before?” She remembers, I think. She remembers Luke from the night of the accident. But if Luke knows what she’s talking about, he doesn’t let on. Instead, he does something strange. He shuts his eyes for a half second. His nostrils flare like an animal sniffing the air. My mother doesn’t catch it, but I do. “Luke, what are you doing?” “Nothing.” But he seems reassured somehow. “I was just wondering what scent you are wearing, Mrs. Watson.” “Probably patchouli,” I say. “My mom’s a hippie.” “Hey!” says my mother, “There’s something to this hippie stuff, you know. That remedy has me feeling better already.” “Ander brought over a healing remedy his uncle made,” I say, grateful for the excuse to explain why Ander was here. Not that Luke asked. Not that it’s any of his business, anyway. “Ah,” Luke says, “I wondered why he was here. Tonight of all nights.” Is Luke jealous Ander was here the night of the dance? Hard to picture Luke being jealous of Ander for any reason. But there is an edge to his words. “It had to be tonight,” my mother says quickly, “The remedy is dependent on the moon phase. It’s full moon tonight, you know.” “Ah, yes,” Luke says, “We are very aware.” My mother smiles at him. “A romantic, I see! Well, Cicely’s a practical one. She could use a little bit of that.” She yawns. “Excuse me! The herbs are making me sleepy.” I decide to take that as my cue, before my mother says anything more to embarrass me. “We have to get going, Mom. Come on, Luke.” “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Watson.” Luke gives her a little half bow that sends her into another fit of nervous giggles, so I grab him by the arm and start for the door. “Wait,” my mother says, “Wait!” She rushes into the kitchen and fishes her old camera out of the drawer. “I need a picture of the two of you!” I start to protest, but Luke is more than happy to oblige. He puts his arm around me, as smoothly and naturally as if he’s done it a million times. “Smile!” my mother says, and Luke does the dazzling smile. I’m sure my expression is more stunned than smiling, but I try my best to look natural as she snaps a few shots. After all, I may need evidence some day. Otherwise, even I might not believe Luke really asked me out. We say our goodbyes and walk together to the car, me stepping carefully in my heels on the pitted road. Up close, the car is even cooler, its fenders like broad shoulders, its paint so shiny I can see our reflections. Luke opens the door for me. I check the gesture for irony, but there is none. Where he comes from, people must be very formal, I guess. The attitude seems out of place in a seventeen-year old guy but it goes perfectly with the car. I settle my satin on the dark leather seat and admire the car’s perfectly restored interior—gleaming metal instruments, a dashboard of polished wood, everything smelling sweetly like leather and pipe smoke. This car is

undeniably smooth. The driver, however, is not. It takes Luke five tries to start the car without stalling. He swears softly to himself in Spanish and looks deeply relieved when the motor finally catches and the engine settles into a deep tiger purr. “I’m sorry,” he says, “This car, it is newer than I’m used to.” “Older,” I say. “Yes, por supuesto. My English.” He eases the big car down our dirt drive and out onto County 13. Luke is not what you’d call a confident driver. In fact, he drives like someone’s grandpa. “Luke,” I say, “You have done this before, right? I mean, you do drive?” “Of course I drive!” He shoots me an indignant glare. “It’s just that I learned in England. I’m used to driving on the other side of the road.” “You pretty much are on the other side of the road.” I gently take hold of the wheel and guide the big car back into the right lane. Luckily there aren’t many cars out this time of night. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?” “Certainly not!” Luke takes the wheel back so emphatically the car swerves. I’ve clearly hurt his feelings. “It’s a great car,” I say, to try to smooth things over. “Thank you,” he says stiffly, “Marcus found it.” “And Marcus is…?” “My driver.” I can’t help it. I laugh. And although I know Luke is trying not to, I catch a little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Luke,” I say, “Tell the truth. Are you used to being driven everywhere?” He thinks about it for a moment. “Yes,” he says, “I suppose I am. But it’s only because I don’t like cars.” “Holy crap,” I say, “Did I just hear a guy say ‘I don’t like cars’?” “Did I just hear a young lady say ‘holy crap’?” I laugh. “I never claimed to be a young lady.” “And I never claimed to be some guy.” He glances up into the rearview mirror and I catch the reflection of his eyes. Yes, I think, you can say that again. “I prefer horses,” he says. “A horse has a brain. It would never run headlong into something. Much safer.” We aren’t far from the scene of my mother’s accident now. Outside the shadowy trees flash by. “I love horses,” I say, “I took riding lessons when I was a kid. I read every horse book in the library.” “Yes,” says, “I noticed the pictures in your room.” He smiles at me. “Such beautiful animals.” Great. I wonder what else he noticed in my room. But I still smile back. Luke Marianez and I have something in common! “I love to ride.” “Why did you stop taking lessons?” He asks. I shrug. “It was quit that or violin lessons. We couldn’t afford both. I already owned a violin, and I knew I wasn’t ever going to get that pony, so…” I shrug again. Luke probably loves horses because his family owns a whole herd of them. My recent horse experience is limited to ogling them at the county fair. It is just impossible to picture what it must be like to grow up with that kind of money. We drive for a minute in silence, me trying to imagine what it’s like to be rich, Luke trying to remember how to drive. I assume he’s concentrating on the road. Then he says, “Was that

actually true? About the flowers?” “Was what true?” “That no one has ever brought you roses.” I laugh. “Is it so hard to believe?” “Not even that Ander?” That Ander. It’s strange, hearing him say his name. I keep my voice carefully neutral. “Ander doesn’t believe in flowers.” “He what?” “Keep your eyes on the road! He’s not in favor of cut flowers. He says it’s depressing, to give someone a gift that’s just going to die. What’s the point of something that isn’t going to last?” “The point,” says Luke, “Is they are beautiful.” We are by the school now. I can see the silver lights shimmering in the windows of the gym. Luke manages to guide the big car into the parking lot. He stalls the motor across two parking spaces and turns to look at me. “Sometimes,” he says, “It is the things that will be gone tomorrow that one appreciates the most.” His voice is tender, gentle. Are we still talking about flowers? Or is this his way of telling me that this thing with us is only for tonight? “What exactly does that mean?” “It means,” he says, “I believe you should live—really live—in the time you have.” His gaze is so intense I have to look away. “You mean like seize the day?” “Yes.” He smiles. “Though I prefer to seize the night.” He steps out of the car and strides over to my side, opening my door for me before I have a chance to lift the latch. “Cicely.” He holds out his arm for me to take. I want to laugh at the oldfashioned gesture but again, there’s no irony in it, and I’m actually glad to have him to lean on, considering I am not used to these shoes. I take a few baby-fawn steps before I get my balance. Luke, on the other hand, has no awkwardness at all. He crosses the parking lot with easy grace, like a seasoned actor walking the red carpet, sweeping me along beside him. He is not the least bit self conscious—in spite of the fact that, all over the parking lot, heads are turning our way. Couples stop kissing against cars. The tiny light of a joint is stubbed out mid-pass. A pair of girls stepping out of a sedan pause to whisper behind their hands, their eyes never leaving us. “They’re trying to figure out what you’re doing with me.” I may as well put it out there. Maybe Luke will shed some light on the question that has been bugging me for days. But Luke just laughs. “I think they’re just trying to figure out who you are. You look so different tonight. Not,” he adds, “that you don’t always look lovely, but tonight…well let’s just say you don’t quite look like yourself.” He smiles as if this pleases him. “Well,” I say, “I don’t quite feel like myself.” I am glad the darkness is there to hide the fact that I am blushing yet again. I try to ignore the looks from the people we pass by, focusing on everything else. It’s a beautiful night, chilly and clear. The remains of the pep rally bonfire are still smoldering just beyond the cemetery, under the watchful eye of some student council volunteer, no doubt. I can just make out the outlines of the handful of kids who have gathered near the fire to watch the full moon rise above the woods. All around I can hear the bass beat of the music from the dance inside, steady as a giant heartbeat. My own heart is pounding at least twice as fast with nervous excitement as we step through the curtain of blue and silver streamers and into the hallway of St. Agnes. With me still holding Luke’s arm, we make our way to the folding table where someone’s mother from the PTA is vetting people into the dance. She smiles when she sees us. “Well, don’t you two look lovely! May I see your student IDs please?”

Luke produces his freshly minted ID from some inner pocket of his jacket. I note that he even looks good in his ID photo, which seems completely unfair. I take my ID out of my purse and hand it to the woman, who studies it a little longer than necessary, looking doubtfully back and forth between me and the red-hooded, tangle-haired girl in the photo. Finally she decides we are, in fact, the same person and hands it back, waving us through with a cheerful “Have fun!” “Thank you,” says Luke, “We will.” He smiles at me and I realize I’m starting to believe it’s true: we might actually have a good time tonight. But Luke’s calm smile disappears as soon as we step into the gym. The music hits us like a pulsing wall of sound. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see the gym is packed with St. Agnes students sweating in their suits and dresses. The student council folks have outdone themselves on the decorations. The room sparkles with silver and blue streamers and metallic silver balloons, and a giant harvest moon made of cardboard and silver sequins hangs suspended from the ceiling. The DJ booth is draped in banners declaring victory for our football team, the St. Agnes Rams, and everyone is pumped up on football. Beside us, a knot of freshman guys have taken their jackets off and loosened their ties and are trying to out-do each other’s moves while their dates look embarrassed. To our other side, a flock of cheerleaders are shouting above the music. Two of them do some hip-shaking cheer move in time with the beat while a boy takes a picture on his phone. Beside them a couple, locked at the lips, sways in slow circles, oblivious to the music. In the folding chairs by the wall, a group of sophomore girls watch wistfully. “Well,” I say, “Let’s go.” I take a deep breath and prepare to jump into the fray. But Luke grabs my hand. I turn to see a look of pure horror on his face. “This,” he says, “is a dance?” “You were expecting what?” I say. “Why are they not dancing?” I look around the gym again. “Well, most people are dancing.” I nod at the freshman boys, who have resorted to doing the robot. “They’re dancing.” Luke looks completely unconvinced. “And the music,” he says, “Is it always this… loud?” I laugh. “You sound like you’re forty. You have been to a dance before, right?” Luke looks offended. “Yes. Of course. But it was more…” he surveys the gyrating bodies around us “…civilized than this.” He turns to me, accusatory. “And you. Have you been to a dance?” “No,” I admit, “I mean, I’m not a crowd person, but…” I shrug. Luke still looks stricken. “Maybe we should get some punch?” “Yes,” he says emphatically, “A drink.” He looks like he could use something stronger than punch. He puts his arm protectively around me, takes a deep breath, and we plunge into the tide of bodies just as the DJ shifts to a fist-pumping pop-punk track. The crowd screams in recognition and the dance floor seems to shrink as half the people standing by the walls rush into the fray. I’m busy scanning the crowd for Emmie and Ander. They shouldn’t be hard to find. Ander’s blond head is usually visible above any crowd and Emmie has the ability to part people like the red sea. So why can’t I see them anywhere? Relief and disappointment make a mosh pit in my stomach. I’m glad to not see them, I remind myself. If I saw Emmie being her Southern bombshell self, I would probably have to kill her. And if I saw Ander in a tux, I might have to kill myself. The thought of watching them dance together…I take the Dixie cup of punch from Luke’s hand almost before he’s done ladling it out and slam it like a shot. Not seeing them sucks, too, of course. Are they just late? Ander certainly wasn’t ready for a formal dance when I saw him earlier. So maybe they aren’t coming after all. Maybe they’re at Ander’s house right now.

Maybe they’re down by the bonfire, making out. Or maybe Ander has pulled an Ander and blown off Emmie completely. I try to let the thought make me feel better, but it doesn’t, mostly because I’m pretty sure they are “pulling an Ander” together. And maybe that’s how it has always been. Maybe Ander was always sneaking off with Emmie whenever he disappeared. “Who are you looking for?” Luke shouts above the music. “Lyla Jansen,” I lie. Luke nods. “You’re right to keep an eye on that one. But somehow I don’t think she’ll be joining us tonight.” “Why?” I say, “How do you know?” But my voice is swallowed by a new song, louder than the last. It’s hard to picture Lyla not showing, considering the fact that the homecoming court will be announced during the dance. But, scanning the crowd, I have to admit Luke is right. Lyla is nowhere to be seen—although I do spot her shadow, Hannah, standing alone by the DJ, texting. She looks small and lonely without the rest of her clique and for a minute I feel almost sorry for her. I know what it feels like to be stood up. But then I notice what she’s wearing—a turquoise lace dress I recognize from our trip to the mall—and I remember she probably got it at a discount because of my “clothing contribution.” My sympathy vanishes. I have a sudden urge for revenge, and dancing with a hot guy is as close as I’m going to get. I take Luke by the hand. “Let’s dance.” I start off towards the DJ booth. Luke hangs back. “But it’s louder over there.” “What?” I yell, “I can’t hear you because it’s so much louder over here.” I shoot him a sly grin and he smiles back in spite of himself. “All right,” he says, allowing himself to be led, “But only for a moment.” It is definitely louder over here. The oversized speakers vibrate with the noise. Luke lets go of my hand and I think for a minute he’s going to retreat. Instead he walks up to the DJ, who pries off one headphone long enough for Luke to shout in his ear. The DJ shakes his head “no.” I watch as Luke reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and takes out what must be a folded bill, sliding it discretely into the DJ’s hand. The pounding music cuts off mid-beat. It’s replaced by a song I don’t know—a love song, maybe from the eighties, slow and sweet. The volume is noticeably lower. Luke returns, a self-satisfied expression on his face. He sighs. “Much better.” He holds out his hand for me and half bows. “Miss Watson, may I have this dance?” As usual, I’m not entirely sure if he’s joking, but I decide to go with it. I take hold of the satin skirt of my dress and curtsey deeply before taking his hand. “I would be honored.” People are watching us again. The crowd parts for us as Luke leads me to an empty space, beneath the twinkling lights of the cardboard moon. Hannah has stopped texting and is busy snapping pictures on her phone instead. Let her, I think. I hope she shows every one of them to Lyla. I hope she shows them to Emmie. I even hope she shows them to Ander. Luke takes one of my hands in his. He moves my other hand to his shoulder. Then, very gently, he lays his palm against the small of my back, drawing me so close that, if I breathe too deeply, the satin of my dress will brush the starched white of his shirt. So I don’t breathe. I don’t move. Luke leans in close, his lips by my ear. “Relax,” he whispers, “I won’t bite.” His smile is brilliant, even in the half-dark of the gym. I breathe in carefully, taking in the warm scent of his cologne, feeling the cool of his hand on mine. Above us, the moon spins slowly, its hundreds of sequins catching the DJ’s lights, dappling the floor around us like moonlight through leaves.

We are turning, too, in sure, smooth circles. At first I hesitate, but after a few steps I let Luke guide me, surrendering to the firm pressure of his hand against my back. Around us, other couples are dancing—if you want to call it that. I can see now why Luke didn’t consider their grinding and groping real dancing. In spite of the formality between us, our dancing seems more intimate. My head is starting to spin and it has nothing to do with our slow turning. It has everything to do with Luke’s breath against my neck and the funny feeling that we have done this before. It’s like the feeling I had when I first saw this dress, the feeling I had when Luke fastened the necklace, like the truth is a word on the tip of my tongue, the quicksand feeling of trying to remember a dream… Then suddenly we are somewhere else. The Fall Formal seems to dissolve from the edges in, like melting film. The pounding music fades and is replaced by the trill of flutes, the vibrato of a violin. I can still feel Luke’s arms around me, confident and sure, and yet I am above us, too, watching the dizzying swirl of our dance from somewhere outside myself. The music is getting faster and faster. We seem to fly in time, my long dress—bright scarlet, not white—streaming out behind us. I throw back my head and laugh, my face flushed with happiness. But it isn’t my face, not exactly. Her lips are fuller, her face longer, her hair, like mine in so many ways, but flowing all the way down to her waist. I see the flash of a jewel at her throat, deep red like my necklace. Everything the same, but different. Luke looks different, too. His hair is a bit longer, his gray suit just as formal but in a different way, and more worn, too, as if he wears it all the time. But his face is exactly the same. The only difference is the expression. As he looks into her—into my—eyes, his face is alive with joy. He looks…like he loves me. I pull him closer. “Please,” I hear myself say. “Just once.” I know I am not talking about another dance. But what am I talking about? “No,” he says, “You know I can’t. My mother would be furious.” But he nuzzles my neck as he says it, his breath hot against my collarbone. “Let her be furious. Please.” He pulls away. “You know I can’t.” “You don’t trust me.” I can see my own hurt echoed in his eyes, see the pain my pain causes him. I catch his hand in mine. “Love and trust go hand in hand, you know. Do you not love me?” Luke’s face softens. He lets me pull him closer, drawing him back in. “Yes,” he says, “Of course I love you,” and the look in his eyes makes me believe him completely. So much that all I want is for him to look at me like that forever. “Luke,” I whisper. He smiles down at me. “Deirdre.” Deirdre, Deirdre. The whole room swoops. The music comes crashing back—techno, so loud it rattles my teeth. My legs buckle under me. If Luke’s arms weren’t around me, I would fall. His face is close to mine, full of—not love. Alarm. “Cicely?” he says, “Cicely?” Yes. I nod, unable to speak. Yes, that sounds right. Cicely. “We have to get you out of here. It’s entirely too loud. You need air.” Luke loops an arm around my waist and sweeps me off the dance floor. Hannah’s camera is clicking. Girls snicker behind their hands as we rush past. Somewhere behind us, someone is making an announcement about homecoming court above music that throbs like a toothache. But none of that matters. All that matters is getting out the door, to somewhere I can breathe. To somewhere I can be alone with Luke.

Chapter 18: Luke “Are you all right?” I ask. Cicely takes a long, shuddering breath. “Yeah. I’m fine.” She doesn’t exactly look fine. Her face is paler than usual, her expression disoriented. Well, who can blame her after spending time in the cacophony of that so-called dance? I take a deep breath to cleanse myself of the overwhelming scent of sweat and hormonal excitement. Out here in the parking lot there is only the smell of the dying bonfire and damp fall leaves—and Cicely, of course. I take another deep breath, drinking her in the only way I can. “Much better outside, yes?” She nods. “Quieter.” The “music” (her word, not mine) is still pounding behind us, but now it is muted by the concrete walls of the school. If I listen hard, I can just make out the sound of Cicely’s heart racing ahead of the beat. Beside me, she shivers. “Cold?” Or can she sense me listening? My Deirdre was intensely gifted, of course. Perhaps some little touch of psychic ability survives in her family line. “A little cold,” Cicely admits, folding her bare arms tight over her chest, her purse in her hand. She is trembling. I slip off my suit jacket and drape it over her shoulders. It dwarfs her slim frame, but she slides it on nonetheless, rolling up the sleeves. “Thank you.” “De nada. Of course.” I nod towards the fire smoldering near the little graveyard behind the church. “I think there is a little bonfire left,” I say, “Perhaps that would warm you?” She nods again, silent. Now that we are alone she seems shy, but I catch her glancing at me from time to time as we walk through the parking lot and down the grassy slope. Is it my imagination, or has something shifted in the way she looks at me? She seems less wary, more curious since our dance. Well, that is what I wished, right? For her to look on me with interest so I might betray her trust the way Deirdre betrayed mine? I offer her my arm, but only to be polite. The walking is actually quite easy here because the moon is bright. It hangs heavy above the dark shadows of the woods, a true harvest moon, redtinged and swollen. I can’t help thinking of the lycanthrope, somewhere out there in the night. “What are you thinking about?” Cicely studies me shyly through lowered lashes. “I was thinking the bonfire looks like a reflection of the moon.” We are almost there now. The fire burns low, not much more than glowing coals. A slim coil of smoke rises towards the moon like a burnt offering. It makes me think of Marcus’ burnt hand. Marcus is out there in the woods somewhere, too, trailing the lycanthrope from afar, ready to warn us if it comes too near. He has promised to call me on the portable telephone he acquired for me. But there is no sign of the lycanthrope now—no sign of anyone, in fact. The others have abandoned the bonfire, no doubt to find out who will be named Home Team Queen or whatever the title might be. Cicely and I are alone. I smile at her. “At last it is quiet enough to talk.” She smiles back. “What do you want to talk about?” “You,” I say. It’s almost true. God, in that dress, in this moonlight, she could almost be Deirdre. Almost.

Cicely laughs uncomfortably. “There’s honestly not much to say.” “Nonsense. Start at the beginning. Have you lived in Monument all your life?” She nods. “My birth mom was from here.” “Birth mother? You’re adopted?” I pretend to sound surprised. “My mother died when I was little and her best friend adopted me. We stayed here in Monument because she wanted to keep me close to my roots. My birth mom’s family had been here for generations. It’s our ancestral home.” Her tone pokes fun at the words. “I have ancestors buried right there.” She nods towards the iron fence of the graveyard. Beyond it, the wings of the marble angel are almost pink in the moonlight. Cicely studies me. “But then,” she says, “You knew that, didn’t you?” I keep my expression carefully neutral. “No,” I say, “Interesting.” I pick up a stick and begin to poke at the remains of the fire, coaxing the dead embers back to life. “And your father?” “I never knew him. He took off on my mother when she found out she was expecting me.” Her laugh is tinged with bitterness. “I’m making us sound great, very functional, right? Let’s talk about you. Why did you move here?” “I believe you already asked me that, in English class.” “And I don’t believe you ever really answered.” She sits down on a log that has been left near the fire. I fear for her white dress—it’s bound to get dirty—but she has forgotten it. I have her full attention. I shrug. “I have some family business in the area. We are only here temporarily.” “Oh.” She stares into the fire. “Of course.” Her voice is full of disappointment. My heart leaps. She cares how long I will be here! Although why I care is a mystery to me. After all, she will be gone before I am. “Family business?” she says, “But you said your parents—” “Are deceased, yes. I mean extended family of a sort.” “What kind of business do they do?” she asks. I should simply lie. Instead I say, “It’s not so much what they do as who they are.” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “What are you, royalty?” I shrug. “Something like that.” Her eyes widen. “Seriously?” “Yes, seriously. But it’s not something I can talk about.” She stares at me, like she’s seeing me for the first time. “I actually thought it might be something like that.” We fall into an awkward silence. I’ve clearly intimidated her and I’m sorry. I try to start again. “And what does your mother do?” It is the wrong question. “She’s a baker.” She glances away, ashamed. “I don’t suppose that sounds like much to you.” “Everything has to eat,” I say, “Feeding someone else is a high purpose.” Her shoulders relax. “That’s what she says. Sort of Zen. Bread is life and all that. Although actually lately she mainly bakes cakes.” “Well, everyone needs a little frivolity, too.” I’m relieved when she returns my smile. “Can’t live on bread alone.” “I know I can’t.” I turn over a charred log with my stick and watch as a flurry of sparks drift up and float back down, like burning snow. The fire snaps and sizzles. “My turn to ask a question.” “Fine,” she says, “But then I get one.”

“All right. What kind of music do you like?” I poke the charred stick in the direction of the school where that noise is still thunking away like a sluggish pulse. “Not that, I hope.” “That’s my favorite song!” It takes me an appalled second to realize she is kidding. She grins at me. “Here.” She reaches into her little purse and pulls out what must pass as her phonograph. She hands it to me, along with the wire that dangles from it. “Go ahead,” she says, “Scroll through.” I look at the little box in my hand. It is about half the size of a playing card with a dial and buttons, unlabeled. I’m not sure what to do. She watches me for an uncomfortable second and the flush rises in her cheeks. “It’s old, I know. Yours is probably much newer.” She snatches the music player from my hand and starts to stash it away in her purse. I’ve hurt her feelings somehow. “Please.” I sit on the log beside her. “Show me.” She hesitates, the music player half concealed. Then slowly she takes it out again and leans back towards me, a lock of her dark brown hair falling forward across her cheek. I want to reach up and brush it away, but I don’t wish to upset her again so I remain very still. Cicely thumbs the tiny dial expertly and a list of what must be song titles rolls down the tiny screen. I try to look appropriately interested and approving, although none of these songs mean anything to me. Then a title leaps out from the list: In the Silence of the Secret Night. “Rachmaninov?” She ducks her head. “I told you. Orchestra geek. I know most people aren’t into classical, but —” “I love that piece.” She looks up, surprised. “You know it?” “I’ve heard it performed.” I don’t bother to add I heard Rachmaninov perform the piece himself, at a house salon back when he toured the United States in 1910. It was one of the last things I did before I went into torpor. “My cousin Constanza lived in Russia for a time to train as an actress. She taught me my Russian masters. She was enamored of Rachmaninov.” “Did you just say ‘enamored’?” “That depends,” I say, “Is that your question?” “No! I’m still thinking of my question.” She fiddles with the dial of her music player, but comes back to the Rachmaninov. “He wrote that when he was our age, you know.” I nod. “Yes. For a girl he wasn’t allowed to date.” I give in to the temptation to brush that errant lock off of her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “He called her his ‘little psychopath,’” I add, “Or so I heard.” She chuckles nervously. “Maybe she stalked him.” I smile at her. “Maybe she did.” Cicely’s expression shifts. She raises serious eyes to meet mine. “Why did you follow me, Luke? What were you doing in the graveyard the day we met? Why did you ask me here tonight?” “That’s three questions,” I say. “Give me a break,” she says, “I know something’s going on here and I want to know what it is.” Those big, dark eyes are so like Deirdre. “I followed you because I’m drawn to you.” I lay my hand over hers. “I’m sorry if I scared you.” “You didn’t scare me,” she says, but she pulls her hand away quickly. I’m almost scaring her

now. “And I told you what I was doing in the graveyard. I was taking a walk.” “And crying,” she adds. “Well,” I say, “Graveyards are sad places.” She thinks about this. I like the fact that she thinks. The human face is so legible that it sometimes seems possible to watch their thoughts, the way you can see fish moving in a lake by the little ripples they make on the surface. “You know,” she says, “I never thought of it like that—as sad or scary or anything. My mother always brought me there to see the statues and when I got older I would go there with… friends.” Oh yes, I think, your lycanthrope friend, but what I say is, “You see, a very normal place for a walk.” She is looking past me, to the graveyard. “We always visited the angel.” I smile at her. “You like her?” “Well,” she says quickly, “Not like I’m the angel type or anything. But yes, she’s beautiful.” I had that carved, I want to tell her. I had that stone shipped from Italy—had the entire chapel shipped here, in fact, stone by stone, as a monument to Deirdre. It was a stupid thing to do, after the way Deirdre betrayed me. I should have hated her—and I did, I truly did, but I just couldn’t put her out of my mind. Maybe I thought all that stone would weigh her memory down, sink it into the past. Maybe I thought if I marked her grave properly, her memory would stop haunting my mind. “What about the angel draws you?” I ask. It is as close as I can come to talking about Deirdre, and I am desperate to talk about her. “Her expression,” Cicely says without hesitation. “She looks so sad.” I nod. The sculptor based her face on the only photograph I had of Deirdre, taken a few days before she betrayed me. She knew even then what she intended to do. You can see it in her eyes. The sculptor worked for weeks, trying to get her expression exactly right, grinding away tiny splinters of stone the way each second away from Deirdre seemed to chip another fragment from my heart. She’s an angel of death, I want to say. She’s the one who made my family able to die. “Maybe that’s why I…appeared emotional that day. Because of the look on her face.” Cicely smiles at me sympathetically. I gave thousands of lira to the finest sculptor in Italy and he still had not been able to capture Deirdre’s eyes the way Cicely does without even trying. Another way in which blood is powerful, I suppose. “You haven’t answered my third question,” Cicely says. “Which was? I have forgotten.” “Why you asked me here tonight.” Her eyes search mine. She is too intuitive to believe this is just a simple teenage flirtation. I keep my voice light. “Why does any man ask a woman to a dance?” She ducks her head. I cannot tell in the fire light, but I suspect her blush is back. “I’m not the answer girl when it comes to why boys do what they do.” “He asks her because he wants to dance with her.” I stand and take her hand, drawing her up off the log. “Our dance was cut short inside. Shall we?” She laughs nervously. “Seriously?” She glances around her, at the fire, now glowing brightly, then back at the dark woods. “Out here?” “Why not?” I say, although I can think of one excellent reason. Can I be so close to her, out here, alone, and not give in to the temptation of her scent? I feel giddy with my own daring. “We

have moonlight. We have music.” I take one end of the music player’s chord and tuck it in my ear, the way I saw Cicely wear it the first day I saw her. I hold the other end out to her. “I feel silly,” she says. But she places the chord in her ear. We are connected by it now, a tenuous line between us, meeting in a point like the bottom of a Valentine heart. I push a button on the music player. It must be the right one, because the Rachmaninoff floods me. “Please,” I say. Cicely hesitates one more moment. Then she places her hand on my shoulder in the formal position I showed her indoors. But I am done with formality. I put my arms around her and pull her close, the way the other couples did at the dance. Cicely looks surprised, but she allows me to draw her in until she is pressed against me, the soft floral scent of her hair against my cheek, the smooth curve of her back beneath my fingers. I take a deep breath and smell something more than flowers—the warm, salty tang of human skin. I suddenly feel the need to speak, if only to keep my mouth from doing other things. “Another question,” I say. “Yes?” Her voice is quiet. I can barely hear it over the music. I whisper into her free ear. “Do you speak Russian?” She laughs. “Random.” “No,” I say, “I mean, do you understand the words to the song?” She shakes her head, her hair brushing my face. We turn slowly. This isn’t dance music, but it hardly matters. The tenor is singing, the Russian guttural and passionate. I whisper the translation into Cicely’s ear. “I will wake the darkness of the night with your sacred name. Long will I recall your sacred name in the silence of the secret night and wake the darkness of the night.” I feel a shiver slide down her spine. “That’s beautiful.” Her closeness is too much for me. I draw back, but only enough to look at her. The clouds above us shift. In the moonlight, her face looks so much like the marble statue of Deirdre. But this isn’t stone under my hand. It is flesh, soft and warm. This isn’t a monument to the dead. It is life, hot and liquid, pulsing just beneath the surface of her skin. Cicely draws me close to her again, the sweet scent of her soap masking something much more primal. Fear. Excitement. Longing. She takes a deep breath, leans her head against my shoulder, exposing the white curve of her neck to the cool light of the moon. When did the music end? All I can hear is the drum beat of her pulse. I press my lips to the curve of her neck, just to prove I am strong, just to prove I can do it. But I can’t. I’m going to bite her.

Chapter 19: Cicely He’s going to kiss me. “Cicely.” Luke’s voice is thick with longing. His fingertips brush against my neck, tracing the line of my necklace. His touch is cool but it sends a rush of heat through me that has nothing to do with the bonfire beside us. In my ear, the music starts again—a cello solo, vibrating low and sweet. It’s joined by another sound, the quiet buzzing of Luke’s phone in the pocket of my borrowed suit jacket. I reach in and click it off. I don’t think Luke will mind me holding his calls; he didn’t even hear it ring. He is lost in the music, and in me. Did I ever say “music is math”? This isn’t—not unless it’s the simple arithmetic of one boy plus one girl, but even then, that should be two and I feel like we are one, part of the same thing, as his fingers slide into my hair, gripping it gently to tip my head back, exposing the length of my throat. I shut my eyes. I can already picture him kissing my neck, working his way up to my lips. Is this how they kiss in Spain, I wonder? Is this really how my first kiss will be? Will it really not be with Ander? I force the thought out of my head. “Yes?” Luke whispers into my neck. I take a deep breath. “Seize the night.” In the woods behind us, something screams. I spin, Luke’s arms still around me. The ear bud of my iPod jerks free and the music goes suddenly dead. “What was that?” The woods are black. I can’t see anything, But Luke can. His eyes are huge. The color drains from his face. “Run!” he yells, “Run!” I run. I bolt for the school just as the noise comes again—half scream, half howl. It rips through me, drenching me in a cold sweat, like my body knows exactly what it is even though my mind can’t imagine. I yell to Luke, “Come on!” But he’s not right behind me. He’s back by the fire. I turn just in time to see him reach into the flames and pull out a burning branch. Sparks spray around him. The branch leaves a fiery trail in the dark as he hefts it like a sword. “Luke, what are you—” Something erupts from the woods with the force of a speeding truck. My mind says wolf, but it has to be a bear. No, bigger than a bear. Much, much bigger, but running, hunched over like a bear, every stride a ground-devouring leap, a hulking black mass descending on Luke like a boot about to crush a match. I scream. The creature leaps. Luke dodges, swinging and missing in an explosion of sparks. Is it a trick of the light, or is Luke moving inhumanly fast? But it doesn’t matter because the creature is even faster. Claws the size of knives flash in the moonlight and it’s only a matter of time before they will connect with Luke’s head and I can’t just watch it happen. Without a plan I start running again, this time back into the fray. Luke swings again and now the stick connects. The animal bellows with rage as the air fills with the stink of burning fur. Now it’s really pissed. It rises up on its hind legs. God, it’s huge. For a second it looms silhouetted in front of the full moon. Then its paw is coming down straight at Luke’s head.

“Luke!” I yell without meaning to. Luke turns, a look is horror on his face. “Cicely, go!” I’ve distracted him at a crucial second. The massive paw hits him with the force of a swung bat, sending him flying. He lands face down and still. The burning branch skitters out of his hands and lies smoking in the grass. The animal drops back on all fours, its snout lowered to the ground. Its lips curl back over curved fangs as it stalks towards Luke’s unmoving body. I dash for the stick. It’s heavier than I expected. How could Luke lift it so easily? Black smoke curls from its tip, but there is still some life in the flame. Please let there be life in Luke. I can’t bear to look at him. Instead I focus all my attention on the back of the creature’s head as I heft the branch and swing. I may be stronger than I think I am. Either that, or I’m experiencing one of those adrenaline rushes that let mothers lift cars off of babies, because the stick hits the back of the monster’s head with a resounding crack. It rounds on me, furious I have distracted it from its prey, and for the first time I get a good look at it: a face like a giant wolf, but uglier, its snout blunter, its fangs longer, its head ringed with a ruff of fur like a lion’s mane. But its eyes…there’s something about its pale blue eyes… It lunges towards me and I have no more time to think. I jab the hot tip of the branch into its face, catching it across the base of its snout, leaving a long bloody burn. It yelps like a dog. I throw the branch at it and run. It’s like running in a nightmare. The heels of my stupid shoes sink into the soft ground with every step and I can’t shake them. My dress tangles around my knees and I’m falling. I catch myself, hard, just before my face hits dirt and I hear a snap. My wrist? No, the heel of my shoe. I wrench free of it and scramble to my feet, kicking the other shoe off as I run, hiking my dress up to my thighs. I scream for help, but the sound is swallowed by the pounding beat of the music in the gym. The thing is getting closer. The school is too far away. I swerve to the left and race for the graveyard. The doggy door. If I can make it to the opening in the fence…there’s no way this thing will fit through and there’s a chance it won’t be able to jump it…My nyloned feet skid on the damp grass, but I don’t look back. I know it’s right behind me. I can hear its pounding paws, almost feel its wet breath. I reach the doggy door just as a claw snags the back of my dress, ripping the satin. I fling myself against the wrought iron fence. It gives, just enough, and I fall to my knees, wriggling through the tight opening on my belly, white satin on mud. Luke’s jacket catches on the edge of the fence. I hear it rip just as the skin of my leg rips, too: the monster’s claw has snagged the back of my left calf. I scream as my skin tears, thrashing my way out of Luke’s jacket and flinging it behind me, remembering the cell phone in the pocket too late. I’m just trying to get free enough to crawl forward, out of the creature’s reach. But the monster isn’t letting go. I am stuck, half in and half out of the graveyard, and I know I am going to die. The monster changes its grip on my leg, but it doesn’t let go. I can’t rip free. The best I can do is shift, rolling on my back so I can look up at my attacker. If this is the end, I want to see it coming. I force myself to look between the wrought iron bars, to look the creature in the face, to look directly into those pale blue eyes. I brace myself for the bite. But as soon as our gazes lock, something shifts. The rage in the monster’s eyes seems to

dissolve and it’s replaced by…Horror? Shame? Sadness? I swear a human expression crosses its animal face. It staggers a step back—and lets me go. For a full second I’m too stunned to move. Then I realize this is my chance. Scrambling backwards like a crab, I pull my bleeding leg out of the creature’s reach and, forcing myself to my knees, I shove the doggy door shut. I hold my breath. Will it try to jump the fence? Will the iron spikes be enough to keep it out? We are frozen, the monster and I, on either side of the bars. I’m free of its claws now, but I can’t get free of those eyes, so blue, so full of pain… Then I hear a noise, somewhere in the woods behind us. A voice. Is it Luke? My pounding heart leaps. But it’s not Luke. It’s someone calling Luke’s name—or at least I think that’s what he’s saying. It sounds like “Master Luke.” Do we have help, then? I can just make out someone in the shadows of the woods. He doesn’t look like a police officer—more like a guy my age. I yell to him, “Run!”—and he does, but not in the opposite direction. He runs straight towards us without hesitation. I start to yell again, but my words are swallowed by the creature’s howl, like the baying of a hunting dog. The sorrow in its eyes evaporates so completely, I’m sure it was never there. It’s replaced by a wild hunger. The monster wheels around and leaps towards the boy, who finally turns and runs the other way, disappearing into the blackness, leading the creature away from me. “Who…?” My voice barely carries beyond the fence. The blood is leaking out of my torn leg, and all my courage is going with it. I feel weak and dizzy. I know I should go help Luke, go get help, but it’s all I can do to drag myself to my feet and stumble through the graveyard, holding on to the tombstones for support. I want to be away from the fence if the thing comes back, so I don’t stop until I reach the shadow of the angel. She looks beautiful in the moonlight. Shimmering. Either that or my vision is starting to blur. I take hold of her cold marble hand and lower myself to the ground at her feet. A new little drop of pain joins the tide of hurt flowing through my body. I look and see that I have set my hand down on something. A flower—one of Luke’s roses, the ones he shredded here only a few days ago. They must have thorns because I’ve pricked my finger. I laugh, suddenly giddy. If I’m in pain, I must be alive! I push the rose aside. It is wilted, the petals curled, and I remember Luke’s words in the car, about how flowers are to be enjoyed now, how it’s the fact that they die that makes them beautiful. Well, I hope Luke feels like he has seized life because he might well be dying out there. I don’t know what that thing is, or why it came after us, but I know it might have killed Luke—it might still kill me. I put my finger in my mouth automatically and taste the salty tang of blood. If Luke dies, it will be because he was trying to help me. For all his strangeness, for all my doubts about him, Luke turned out to be a good person and if we see each other again I swear I will give him every chance. But as I lean back against the cool marble of the statue, it’s not just Luke I’m thinking of. If that creature were to jump the fence right now, I would never see Ander again. The thought hurts worse than the pain in my leg. If I die tonight, Ander’s last memory of me will always be our argument. If I die tonight, he will never know I loved him. That thought is enough to shake me into action. I have to get out of here and go for help. But first I have to do something about my leg. Carefully, I peel off my bloodied nylons. It feels like peeling off a layer of skin. I use the nylons to swab at the wound until I can see it clearly in the moonlight. It’s long, stretching the whole back of my left calf, but not as deep as I feared. I wad the nylons up against it, then tear off a long strip of my torn dress and wrap it tightly like a

bandage. That will have to do. With any luck, it will only have to last until I get to the school and help. I take hold of the angel’s outstretched hand and pull myself up to my feet. My hand leaves the marble palm slick with blood. Impulsively, I wipe my hand on my dress, adding a long streak of blood to the graveyard dirt already caked there. My poor dress. Even someone acing home-ec probably couldn’t save it now. I try to put it out of my mind and focus on my goal. The lights are still flashing in the windows of the gym. The music is still thumping. If I can just make it that far, there will be chaperones and security guards and cell phones. Just sneak from the graveyard to the school, I tell myself, you’ve done it a million times. Leaning on headstones for support, I work my way back the way I came. Crawling through the doggie door feels like being born. On the other side I stop and listen, but all I can hear is music from the dance. They must be announcing the homecoming court because I hear a muffled cheer rise from the crowd. Otherwise the woods are quiet. Is the creature gone? Has that boy, the one who called Luke’s name, led it away? Or is he dead now? And where is Luke? I scan the field for him. He isn’t lying where I left him. Does that mean he was able to get up and make it to safety? Or did the creature drag him away? I find the jacket Luke lent me, right where I threw it, but the cell phone is gone. It must have fallen out of the pocket. I curse myself for not keeping it and consider searching for it in the undergrowth, but I don’t dare stay here too long. Instead I limp along the wrought iron fence, feeling exposed in the moonlight. If only it wasn’t the full moon! It’s a relief to reach the shadow of the church. The carved saints stare down at me, impassive. The gargoyles seem to be all mouth tonight, their stone teeth glinting hungrily from the shadows. I am almost parallel to the back door of the school. I fix my eyes on it, waiting for a cloud to drift across the moon, shrouding me in temporary darkness. Then I make a run for it. The roaring comes out of nowhere, so loud it makes the ground under me shake. Something dark is racing across the playing field, hurtling straight at me. I scream and throw myself at the door of the school, but the handle won’t turn. Locked. I pound on it, frantic, but there’s no way anyone can hear me above the music, no way anyone could reach me in time even if they did. This is it. The cloud drifts off the moon, leaving me in sudden light. I turn, braced to see the monster coming straight for me. But it’s not the monster at all. It’s a motorcycle—Ander’s motorcycle, the one I will never hate again. Relief sweeps through me. “Ander!” The motorcycle skids to a stop beside me sending up a spray of damp black dirt, and I know immediately that, although this is Ander’s bike, the person on it is not Ander. The rider is way too small. I can’t see her face through the helmet but the voice is definitely female. She revs the bike once. “Get on.” I do as I’m told, clamoring clumsily onto the seat behind her, my injured leg screaming, my ruined dress bunched around my thighs. She barely waits for me to get on before the bike lunges forward, almost dumping me off the back. I have to grip the shoulders of her leather jacket hard to keep from being thrown. Then we are roaring across the grass, towards the school parking lot way faster than we should. “We have to go back!” I yell over the growl of the bike, “Luke is—” “He’ll be all right.” She sounds so sure. “Just go around to the front door!” I yell. The girl laughs bitterly. “I think we’ll have to go a little farther than that.”

She jerks her helmeted head towards the darkness behind us and when I turn I can see the creature step out of the woods. “Go!” I yell, “Go before it catches us!” She laughs. “I’d like to see him try.” The motor revs. We hit the edge of the paved school parking lot so hard we actually get air. I feel the jolt all the way through my injured leg as our wheels hit asphalt again. Then we are flying past Luke’s beautiful car, past the side door of the school, and turning with a screech of rubber onto County 13 and into the moonlit night.

Chapter 20: Cicely It seems like we drive forever. I would give anything for a helmet right now—and my boots! My wounded leg burns with the effort of holding my bare feet on the footrests as the pavement streaks by beneath us. The wind cuts through my thin dress, whipping my hair to a froth until I can barely see and all I can do is bury my face in the back of this girl’s leather jacket—no easy task, considering her jacket is done up old-school punk style with lots of studs and safety pins. There are a million questions I want to ask her: Who is she? What is she doing on Ander’s bike? Where are we going? And what the hell was that? But there’s no way she could hear me above the roar of the bike, even if I could speak. So all I can do is wait and see where we will stop. Is she looking for a police station? Maybe she thinks I need a hospital. And maybe I do. I feel dizzy and strange. I just keep hoping that eventually we’ll get pulled over by a cop. The back of a nice, warm squad car with tightly locked doors sounds so inviting, and I desperately need to send someone to help Luke. But there’s almost no one on this silent stretch of two-lane highway and when we finally do stop it’s not at a police station. It’s in the parking lot of a building the size of a warehouse. The windows are boarded over. It’s clearly abandoned. I have a very bad feeling in the pit of my stomach. “I don’t think they’re going to have a phone,” I say. If the girl hears me, she ignores me. My bad feeling is getting rapidly worse, but maybe that’s because things haven’t exactly gone smoothly tonight. Breathe, I remind myself, breathe. The girl swings the bike slowly around the building and pulls into the back parking lot. I’m surprised to see the lot is full of cars. These windows are boarded over, too, but I can see light leaking from around the edges. There’s a red neon sign above the back door. It says, simply, Nightlife. The girl parks the bike and suddenly I don’t care where we are or why, I’m just so happy to get off the motorcycle. Not that it doesn’t hurt. My legs are cramped in a million different ways and my left calf is throbbing. I stumble a few steps, my bare feet cold on the asphalt. The girl has her back to me, messing with something on the bike. The studs and spikes on the back of her jacket shine red in the neon glow. “Where are we?” I ask. “Nightlife,” she says. No explanation. She turns towards me and takes off her helmet and hangs it on the bike. I’m not sure what I expected my rescuer to look like, but this isn’t it. The girl is tiny, a good inch shorter than me, even with her in her motorcycle boots and me in my bare feet. She is Japanese, but her short, spiked hair is bleached platinum blond and her pixyish face is pierced almost as many times as her jacket. Her nose, lips, and eyebrows all glint with silver as she smiles. “You okay? Didn’t bite you, did it?” I shake my head numbly. “Scratched me,” I say, although right now “scratch” doesn’t seem to cover it. “What the hell was that?” “Werewolf.” Okay, this girl isn’t big on words, but the ones she chooses are doozies. “Excuse me?”

“Lycanthrope. Wolf man. Loup de garou” She points up at the night sky. “Full moon, if you hadn’t noticed.” I had noticed, actually. My mind is full of the memory of the creature, rearing up in front of the full moon. Werewolf. Of course that’s what it was. It’s like I knew it all along, but just wouldn’t let myself think the word. Now it’s all I can think. Werewolf, werewolf, werewolf. My knees feel like they are dissolving. Stalkers, car crashes, vivid memories of things I’ve never done—all that I can handle. But this? “There’s no such thing as werewolves.” The girl laughs. “Your kind are all alike. Wouldn’t know reality if it…” She grins, fox-like, “If it bit you.” What does she mean, my “kind”? Maybe she thinks I’m one of the regular St. Agnes girls, preppy and rich. Well, I don’t need any of this. “Listen,” I say, “Whatever that was, we have to call the police. And an ambulance. And—Animal Control or something—” She laughs. “I’m serious! Luke is hurt—badly hurt, maybe even…” I can’t say it, “Hurt, and there was another guy in the woods. He led it away from me. We have to—” “Easy, princess. Breathe.” She slides a pack of cigarette’s out of the pocket of her leather jacket, taps one loose from the pack—one handed—and holds the pack out to me. I shake my head. She shrugs in a suit yourself way and does a smooth little slight of hand, tucking the pack away and trading it for a lighter. She perches the cigarette on her lips and studies me, head cocked to one side, one hand on the hip of her worn jeans. “So,” she says, “You’re Ander’s friend.” “Yes,” I say. Even though I feel like more than that. Or possibly less. “Cicely,” she says. “He told you about me?” I say it without meaning to, without thinking how desperate it sounds. I mean, what does that matter right now? “He must have, right?” The cigarette bobs as she smiles a little wider. “I mean, it’s not like I’m psychic.” “Right,” I say, “But if there’s a werewolf in the woods, shouldn’t we, I don’t know, do something?” She lights the cigarette, takes a drag, and lets it dangle there, like a female James Dean. Then she says, “Nope.” “No?” I am seriously going to lose it. “No?” “Best to just steer clear and let the big guy calm down. Your friends seemed like they could handle themselves. They’ll be alright.” She takes another long drag and lets the smoke snake out again. “Or they won’t. Nothing we can do about that now.” I’m so mad I’m shaking. How can this chick be so fucking calm? “Who are you?” She raises her fist and I flinch before I realize she’s just pushing up her sleeve. There’s a tattoo on her wrist, a big black number five, and it’s spelled out on her knuckles just for emphasis: F-I-V-E. “Five?” I say. I can’t do enigmatic right now. “That’s my name.” “And you know Ander how?” Her smile reminds me of Luke somehow and I get that same feeling there’s a joke I’m not in on. “Ander and me go way back.” My jealousy is completely irrational. I have much bigger problems right now, like saving Luke. But I can’t help feeling a surge of envy. Yet another girl in Ander’s life I didn’t know

about? Maybe Five is psychic after all because she seems to guess what I’m thinking. “Oh, hell no.” She looks amused. “Ander’s not my type in ten different ways. He and I are…let’s say childhood friends. That sounds good.” What it sounds like is a lie. Ander only moved here when he was twelve. I’m his oldest friend in Monument. I am starting to think Five is not exactly a font of truth. I guess the werewolf thing should have tipped me off because even though I know that’s what it looked like —that’s exactly what it looked like—it can’t have been. It just can’t. “Excuse me,” I say, “But I’m going to find a phone.” I turn and start to limp for the door marked “Nightlife.” I don’t know what that is, but it’s the only choice I’ve got. “Hang on there.” She grabs me by the arm and spins me around to face her, “Aren’t we forgetting something?” Her cigarette is only a few inches from my face. I feel like I’ll choke on the smoke. “What?” “If I hadn’t showed back there, your ass would be toast.” She plucks the butt of her cigarette with her free hand and flicks it to the ground, crushing it under the heel of her boot. There’s smoke in her exhale. “Toast.” Well, I’m not going to be intimidated. Not by this little punk. I keep my voice even. “Those things’ll kill you.” There’s a bitter edge to her laugh. “Yeah?” she says, “Too late.” This girl is stronger than she looks and she shows no sign of letting go. Her hand is like a cold vice on my arm. “Listen,” I say, “Don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful to you for saving me—” “I don’t want your words.” Her gaze travels to my neck. She must be looking at the necklace. Well, she can’t have it. “I don’t have any money, if that’s what you think. I didn’t buy this dress and my purse— Well, I don’t know where my purse is, but—” “And I don’t need your cash.” All the smug amusement is gone from her eyes. In the red light of the neon sign above us, the girl’s face looks hard and sinister. “I was thinking of something a little more…personal.” In one quick move she pushes me up against the brick wall. I yelp and try to shove her away but one of her cold hands is over my mouth and the other is still gripping my arm. Almost faster than I can register, Five swoops in and I feel a sudden needle stab of pain in my neck. She is biting me. This girl is biting my neck. All at once the word that has been chanting itself in the back of my mind—werewolf, werewolf, werewolf—is replaced by another word. Vampire. Then, as suddenly as she bit me, Five lets me go. I grab my chance, plant my hands on her chest, ready to shove. But she shoves me away first. Hard. The back of my head cracks against the brick wall of the building, so hard that colors spark in front of my eyes. Five is staring at me, her eyes huge. “You’re her,” she says, “You’re the one.” Then everything goes black. I wake up with my cheek sweat-stuck to the seat of a red vinyl couch. The vinyl is cracked. It smells like smoke. There’s music coming from somewhere, a jazz beat, and my head is throbbing

in time. For a long, painful moment I can’t begin to imagine where I am. Then it all comes swimming back. I sit up so fast the room pirouettes and I have to reach out and steady myself on the coffee table. The werewolf. And Luke. And that girl, Five, who— My hand flies to my neck. It’s tender to the touch but my fingers come back clean. No blood. What does that mean? It’s tempting, so tempting, to decide this was all a nightmare. I shut my eyes tight and wish that when I open them I will be back in my own cluttered bedroom. Instead, I am still on the ancient couch in what looks like the break room of a restaurant, or maybe the backstage of a theater. An industrial-sized fridge hums beside a microwave and sink in a little kitchenette in one corner. A bank of lockers fills the other side of the room, along with a vanity with a lighted mirror and a bulletin board crowded with work schedules. All this seems normal enough but there are other details that strike me as strange: The bulletin board is also full of “missing persons” fliers. Pictures of pretty young women smile out from the photocopied sheets along-side promises of rewards for any info that leads to their return. One of the fliers has even been taped to the mirror of the vanity above what looks like an improvised memorial shrine. A white votive candle burns beside a pink teddy bear and someone has written “miss ya” on the flier above a smeared lipstick kiss. On the other side of the bulletin board is a framed list labeled, simply, “The Rules.” But either I have a head injury or the rules don’t make any sense. They include “No Cooking, No Catting, No Bonding Behavior, No Seeing Customers Outside of Work!!” Below that, someone has written in pen, “The first rule of bite club is there is no bite club” with a great big smiley face. Since I can’t make sense of the list I decide to take inventory of myself. Luckily I don’t seem that much worse for wear. There’s a lump on the back of my head the size of a superball and my neck aches when I touch it, but my leg is feeling much better. I pull up my ruined dress to examine my calf and find the claw wound has been expertly bandaged with clean, white gauze. Whoever did the bandaging must also have left the flowered thermos on the coffee table beside me. The yellow post-it note stuck to the top says “Drink Me.” I smile wryly. Drink me. Isn’t that from Alice in Wonderland? I think it’s written on the potion that makes her tall or small or something. Well nothing could make this night any stranger. Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would say. I pick up the thermos and unscrew the cap. Not that I’m intending to drink it—I don’t even know what it is or who put it there—but as soon as I sniff it, my mouth begins to water. The smell is cloyingly sweet and fruity. The liquid is as thick as a milkshake and a bright, cheerful yellow. Maybe it’s some sort of smoothie? I don’t know—and I don’t really care because I’m suddenly aware of the fact that my throat is sand-paper dry. I barely ate any dinner and that was hours ago. Without thinking, I take a sip of the sweet, cold drink. One swallow and a rush of energy surges through me. Two and I’m buzzing like I downed one of Zoe’s espresso shots. I have to force myself to set the drink down or I’d probably drink it all. Instead I stand, testing my injured leg. It’s surprisingly steady. I cross to the vanity and peer into the dressing room mirror. Frankly, I look like hell. My hair is in a state of chaos brought on by my helmetless motorcycle ride. Last night’s carefully applied makeup is raccooning around my eyes. But it doesn’t matter how bad I look. At least I can see myself. I mean, of course I can see myself! What did I expect? That some freakish punk girl bit me

and now I wouldn’t show up in mirrors any more? There is no such thing as vampires, I tell myself firmly. But as I turn away from the mirror, something stops me in my tracks: there on my neck, twin puncture marks. They are almost healed—only tiny red dots now, really—but they are still unmistakable. Bite marks. The kind human teeth could never make. I can’t stand still. I pace the length of the room and back, my hurt leg protesting at every step. At the sink in the kitchenette I stop and turn on the water, ice cold, full force. I scrub my face until it burns, scouring off a layer of makeup and road dirt and blood and drying my eyes on a wad of paper towel. Then I comb wet fingers through my tangled hair until it lies flat, and rub at the blood on the front of my dress until I have to admit it’s futile. Then I cross to the vanity mirror. I look cleaner and ten times more awake, but I can still see the bite marks on my neck and I really can’t deny it. Somehow my life and reality are no longer on speaking terms. I have to get out of this room. I’ll find a phone, I tell myself. I’ll call the police. I’ll call home. My mother must be freaking out wondering where I am. I’ll call her and she’ll come get me and we’ll find Luke and this whole nightmarish experience will be over. I limp for the door, relieved when it opens. At least it isn’t locked. The sound of music and laughter is louder out here. I follow it down a narrow hallway and push open the heavy gray door at the end. The space on the other side was probably a warehouse once-upon-a-time but it’s now clearly a nightclub. A really popular nightclub. Even in the half-dark I can see the place is packed, from the bar at one end of the dance floor to the stage at the other. Even the balcony that rings the twostory high space is crowded with people. Beautiful, strangely dressed people. For a minute I’m afraid I’m back in one of those waking dreams like the one I had when Luke and I were dancing, because the first people I see are dressed like something from another time. Men in coat and tails stand smoking by the door. A woman in an iridescent confection of a dress swishes by me, her petticoats rustling. But there are jeans and t-shirts in this crowd, too, and everything in-between. Well, it is almost Halloween, after all. Maybe I’ve found myself in the middle of a masquerade ball? Whatever the party is, it’s well catered. Women I take to be cocktail waitresses circulate the crowd. Some, in solid jewel-toned dresses, seem to be there as hostesses, smilingly working the crowd empty handed. Others, in chic black dresses, balance trays of drinks. When one of them sashays by me I catch a strong whiff of sweetness I recognize at once as the “drink me” juice. The scent makes my mouth water. But I don’t have time for refreshments. Trying not to feel self-conscious in my ruined dress and bare feet, I push my way into the milling crowd, headed for the bar at the far end and, I hope, a phone. But I’m only half way there when the music shifts. The lights around me dim and the animated chatter of the crowd dies down to a whisper as all eyes turn towards the stage. A piano trills and the crowd breaks into a smattering of anticipatory applause as a single spotlight shines down and a girl steps into it. A girl I recognize. Her copper curls are slicked back like an old-school Hollywood starlet. She’s wearing a dress in deep emerald green that hugs her bombshell curves. But even without the Hello Kitty, there’s no mistaking who it is. Emmie Gardner smiles at the crowd. Then the music swells and she begins to sing.

Her voice is gorgeous, a clear, ringing soprano. The song is a classic in keeping with her dress: “Someone to Watch Over Me.” I recognize it from a Gershwin album my mother used to play and I know the words by heart: I’m a little lamb who’s lost in the wood, I hope I could find someone good… The lyrics are simple but she sings them from the heart and I have to admit she is good. I have to admit it’s good to see her, too—not like Emmie Gardner and I are friends, but after all that has happened, just the sight of someone familiar makes me feel weak with relief. Maybe I have found someone who will help me get back to school. Automatically I wind my way through the crowd of people standing on the dance floor, past the groupings of café tables and plush couches, until I’m right at the foot of the stage. Most of the crowd around me is raptly watching Emmie, although every once in a while one of the hostesses will glide by me. At least I assume they are hostesses. Or maybe they are part of the show somehow. They are so beautiful in their jewel-toned dresses, visions in ruby and sapphire and amber. Near me a tiny red-headed girl in a peridot dress comes to light, delicate and shimmering as a dragonfly. She reaches up to whisper something in the ear of the well-dressed businessman beside her. He smiles, his teeth white in the reflection of the spotlight. She touches him flirtatiously on the arm as she leans in to whisper again. So maybe she doesn’t work here. Maybe they’re friends. Or maybe they’re more than friends. The guy twines his fingers in her red hair. The gesture seems somehow too intimate even for a club, and I start to turn away. But then I can’t turn away because the girl tips her head back, exposing the white underside of her throat, a little smile of anticipation playing on her lips. Then the man smiles, too, and I catch a flash of white fangs as he plunges them into the girl’s arched neck. She lets out a little gasp of pleasure. I let out a scream, just as the song ends. The businessman jumps and releases the girl, who stumbles back, her hand on her neck. A thin thread of blood leaks between her fingers. She’s pissed, but not at him. She glares at me. “What the hell?” The crowd around us is staring. One of the big burley bouncers is striding towards us. Thank goodness. “Him!” I say pointing at the vampire, “He—he bit her!” “That’s enough of that,” the bouncer says, but he’s not talking to the vampire. “Come on.” He reaches for my arm. “Cicely? Cicely Watson?” Emmie speaks my name into the microphone and it booms out over the crowd. She looks every bit as surprised to see me as I am to see her. She kicks off her dark green pumps and jumps down off the stage, amazingly agile for someone in a skin-tight dress. The crowd parts for her here just like it does at school and she’s by my side before the bouncer has a chance to lead me even one step. “It’s all right, Sid, I got it.” Emmie’s smile is brighter than the spotlight. “Cicely’s a friend of mine.” She turns the smile on me and there’s no irony in it. Emmie Gardner seems genuinely pleased to see me. The bouncer just looks doubtful. “Well, if you’re sure, Miss Emerald.” “Thanks so much for comin’ to the rescue.” She bats her eyes at the big man. “But everything’s all right here. I’ll just take Cicely backstage. Come on now, hon.” She links her arm through mine like we’re BFFs and whisks me through the crowd. I have to half-trot to keep up with Emmie’s leggy stride, but I still catch a few details as they flash by: more beautiful girls (and the occasional beautiful guy) work the room, flirting with the customers. I watch as a handsome dark-haired boy in a t-shirt the color of citrine holds his wrist

to the lips of an artsy-looking woman with short, white hair. A Latina girl dressed all in deep amethyst lifts her waterfall of straight black hair and holds it aside as a red-headed woman sucks eagerly on her neck. A tiny blond girl dressed entirely in white giggles playfully as she leads a boy about my age behind a folding screen marked “privacy.” And then we are passing the bar itself—like any other bar, I imagine, with its polished wood and mirrors and bar stools. But there are no drink specials advertised on the chalk board above the bar, only lists of colors that could be names: Miss Amber, Mr. Gray, Ruby Scarlet, Sky Blue. I spot what I assume is Emmie’s “name,” Emerald Green, next to a sign that says “featured performer.” Beside that a sign declares “Now serving Sucker Punch (Blood and Rum).” I do spot a few rum bottles behind the bar but there is no other liquor on the shelves, only glass after glass of the fruity “drink me” drink. I watch one of the black-clad cocktail waitresses refill her tray with glasses of the stuff before she sets off into the crowd. It’s clear now that the drinks aren’t for the customers. They’re for the workers. She offers one to Emmie as she passes and Emmie accepts it, downing it with a smile and dropping her empty cup on the next tray that passes. It’s obvious Emmie is at least as popular here as she is at school. Everyone we pass smiles at her and waves, calling her Emerald. More than once we have to pause for air kisses. Emmie looks delighted to see each and every one of them but as soon as we’re out of earshot she smiles at me apologetically. “Let’s walk under the balcony. Less crowd.” I nod and follow her. There are more couches set in the shadows here against the walls and I catch glimpses of people on them, all tangled limbs and sensual movements. Noises come from the darkness, mingling with the music from the stage. Sucking noises. Little gasps. I try not to look at the couples we pass. Instead I focus on the decor: vintage posters for vampire movies, gothie-looking paintings, shadow-boxes of lacey costumes, ancient weapons, even a set of fake fangs. A signed photo of Bela Lugosi dressed as Dracula flashes by me, dramatic in his long black cape. Emmie catches me looking and grins. “Vamp camp,” she drawls, “No one’s as nostalgic as vampires and they love their pop culture. Come on, this way.” We’ve come back to the door I came in. But just when we’re about to open it, a man steps out of the crowd. He’s either prematurely gray or he has a fantastic plastic surgeon; though his hair is silver, his face doesn’t look any older than my mom’s. He’s wearing a tailored black suit and, although it is simple and unadorned, I get the impression it’s worth a lot of money. “Emerald!” He beams at Emmie. “Mr. Belden!” Emmie’s smile back seems genuine, “How are you?” “Please, Emerald. Call me Brace. You and I are friends.” He doesn’t make any attempt to hide the fangs when he smiles. “And I will be quite well if you say you are joining us for the Hunting Party. You are, aren’t you?” “Wouldn’t be Halloween without it, Mr. Belden.” “Wonderful. I think this year we will out do ourselves.” He looks away from Emmie long enough to notice me and his eyes light with interest. “Oh, forgive me! You have a friend. And you are?” “Cicely,” I say. His hand is cool on mine. He looks me over in a way that makes me feel exposed. “Cicely? No stage name?” “Cicely’s only visiting,” Emmie says. Brace Belden looks disappointed. “Oh, that is a shame. Then you won’t be bringing her to

the party?” “Well, not unless she wants to come.” Emmie smiles encouragingly at me. “It’s at the Mall of America this year!” “My favorite place,” I say. “I know, right?” says Emmie. “October twenty-ninth. Just a few more days to wait!” “You’re more than welcome, Cicely.” Brace Belden gives me the slightest bow. “Mr. Belden supplies the bar with all the ingredients we use in the Juice. He supplies a lot of bars.” She gives me a knowing look, like I should be impressed, so I say “Wow.” “Yes, well, it does pay the bills, doesn’t it?” Brace smiles modestly. Emmie opens her eyes wide and nods at me to make sure I know Brace Belden is rich. As if I couldn’t tell that just by looking at him. “But speaking of the bills,” Brace says, “I should let you lovely ladies get back to work. Save me a moment just before close, won’t you Emerald? I would like to end the night right.” “Sure will, Mr. Belden. I’ll find you.” “Very good.” He nods at both of us. “Until then.” He turns and rejoins the crowd. Emmie grins at me. “Hot damn, a tipper! I can sure use the cash.” She turns and starts off through the crowd again, a new bounce in her step. I turn to follow her—and practically run into someone standing in my path. I nearly scream again. The guy is monstrous: bald and very pale, his skin almost translucent except for the thick pink scar that stripes his cheek. One of his ears is deformed, or maybe part of it is missing. The edges are black like burnt paper. He’s huge and muscled but he moves awkwardly, one leg dragging as he steps out of my way. I rush past him, eager to be away from him, but his eyes follow me through the crowd. I can feel them on me long after I turn my back. It’s a relief to catch up with Emmie. She opens the door and leads me back down the narrow hallway. When the break room door shuts behind us Emmie turns to face me. “So,” she says, “What are you doin’ here?” “I could ask you the same thing,” I say, “Why weren’t you at the dance?” I know it’s not high on the priority list right now, but I can’t stop myself. “The dance?” She looks confused for a moment, “At school? Was that tonight?” She starts tugging bobby pins out of her hair, letting each coppery coil sproing free until they frame her kewpie doll face. “I forgot all about that.” She forgot all about it. I would have died to go out with Ander and she has absent-mindedly blown him off completely. I know there’s a certain poetic justice in that, but I can’t feel happy. “What do you mean you forgot?” Emmie plumps her hair like she’s fluffing a pillow. “You went with Luke, right? I thought he must have brought you here. Where is he?” “The last time I saw him, we were down by the woods behind the school. Emmie, we were attacked by a werewolf.” Emmie freezes mid-plump, a look of complete horror on her face. “Oh Lord! Oh, horse shit!” She races for one of the lockers over by the vanity and whips out her Hello Kitty backpack. In an instant she’s punching numbers into a sparkly little phone, chanting shit under her breath like it’s a mantra. “Pick up, damn it! No one’s picking up!” “Who are you calling? The police?” Emmie looks even more appalled. “No! Of course not. I’m—” She shakes her head, curls bouncing. “Never you mind. It’s not mine to tell. Wait here.” She snaps the phone shut and sprints out of the room. I can hear her yelling down the hall, calling out for Sid the bouncer and

someone named Lenny. I try to catch anything else she’s saying but it’s lost in the music and laughter of the club. I’m not sure what to do. On the one hand, I’m thrilled someone is finally doing something, that I can hand the reins of the problem over to someone else. But now, alone in this room, there is no avoiding the fact that I have other problems to think about. Like the fact that I have been clawed by a werewolf and bitten by a vampire and—almost as weird—seemingly befriended by Emmie Gardner. Like the fact that I’m currently at a club full of vampires in God-knows-where with no way to get home. Like the fact that everything I thought was carved in stone is actually written in quicksand. It is a miracle I am not rocking in a corner somewhere. But I’m not, because I can’t be. I have to keep myself together, at least until I get home. At least until I get help to Luke. Emmie is back a few minutes later, smiling apologetically. “It’s gonna be all right. They’ve got it all under control. Sid and the boys are going back there now. They’ll—” “I’m going with them.” Emmie looks alarmed. “Oh hell no, honey—pardon my French, but we’ve got to stay right where we are. They’ll handle everything. They know what they’re doin’.” “But I know where Luke was. I was the last one to see him. And don’t they want to talk to me? Don’t they want to know exactly what happened?” “They don’t have time to talk, honey. And they do know. They know enough.” “Then this has happened before?” Emmie walks to the refrigerator. When she opens it, I catch a glimpse inside. It’s completely stocked with bottles of the smiley-face-yellow, drink-me juice. Emmie takes one out and grabs two coffee mugs from on top of the microwave. She pours one for herself and offers one to me. “What is it?” She looks surprised. “Juice!” “Yeah,” I say, “But what kind of juice?” “Juice with a capital J. But of course you wouldn’t know Juice, would you?” She smiles. “Not unless you’re a thrall.” “A what?” “Oh, I figured you probably weren’t, but I wasn’t sure. I mean what with you dating Luke Marianez…” “Hang on,” I say, “What has Luke got to do with this?” A fresh round of applause erupts from the club, clapping mixed with wolf whistles and shouts. Emmie glances nervously over her shoulder. “They’ll be done with the show soon. I’ll have to go back to work in a minute—” “No way,” I say, “Not until you fill me in. What about Luke?” But I almost don’t have to ask because the wheels in my head are already spinning as fast as the wheels on Ander’s bike. Beautiful, mysterious Luke. Luke who, just a few hours ago, seemed too good to be true. No, not too good to be true. Too good to be human. “Emmie,” I say slowly, “Are you saying Luke is a vampire?” “Oh crap. Oh crappity crap. I didn’t mean to out anybody! I thought you knew!” Emmie is chewing the baby-pink polish off her thumbnail. “I mean, you know, how could you not guess?” How could I not guess Luke was a vampire? Well, maybe because vampires don’t exist—or at least they didn’t, not in my life, not until tonight. I sit down heavily on the red vinyl couch. But then, in another sense, Emmie is right. How could I not know? I had known there was

something different about Luke: His model good looks. His formal way of speaking. His impeccable manners, his sophisticated tastes, his tendency to under-share in the information department. I had known he wasn’t your typical teenage boy. I just hadn’t known he was a monster. “Cicely, honey, are you okay?” Emmie perches on the couch beside me. “They say you should be real careful how you tell normal folks stuff like this. It’s like waking a sleep walker. Do you want more Juice?” “No, I don’t want juice!” My voice comes out louder and harsher than I mean it to. “I want answers! I want someone to tell me what the hell is going on!” I jump up off the couch, forgetting my wounded leg. A shock of pain rips through it and I wobble but manage to stay standing. “Okay, okay! Sit down!” Emmie’s big eyes are full of hurt. I feel like I’ve just kicked a bunny. “I should really get back to work…” She glances between me and the door, torn. “But then, you’re in a bad way and I did sorta drop a bomb…” She smiles at me sympathetically.“What kind of a friend would I be if I didn’t stay?” I wasn’t aware that Emmie Gardner and I were friends, but evidently we are in her mind. She pats the spot beside her on the couch and I sit. “Well,” she says, “Where do you want to start?” “Vampires are real,” I say. She grins. “Oh thank God, yes.” “And this place is a…?” “The Nightlife is a blood bar. A vampire bar. You know, where the waitresses are the drinks.” No, I don’t know, but I nod. “So, you let vampires bite you?” “Of course! I’m a thrall!” She must see the blank look on my face. “A thrall is somebody who likes to get bit by vampires. Some of us do it, you know, socially and some of us,” she smiles proudly, “Some of us do it professionally.” “You get bitten for a living?” Emmie winks. “Sugar, I get bitten for a life.” “My God, Emmie,” I say, “Isn’t that dangerous?” I expect her to protest but she just keeps smiling. “Of course it’s dangerous. But it’s a lot safer to be a bar thrall than it is to be a freebie just hooking up with someone out there in the world. Here at the bar we have bouncers. We have Juice. We have rules.” She gestures to the “Rules” list on the wall. “Any vamp who comes in here knows they are being watched, that they can only take so much. If they go overboard or if they start to frenzy—” “Frenzy?” “Go animal. Lose their good manners. Give in to blood lust. Have more than one vamp on a thrall. Then the bouncer boys will kick them out. The customers know they have to play by the rules.” “And they do?” I can’t help sounding doubtful. The hard look on Five’s face just before she bit me is still fresh in my mind. “Well…” Her glance strays involuntarily to the missing persons posters on the bulletin board, “Every job has its problem customers, am I right?” She pushes a curl out of her eyes and shrugs like she’s talking about someone trying to return a sweater without the tags or complaining their latte is too cold. “But most vampires would never hurt a thrall. They’ve been raised to respect us. We aren’t prey. It’s like my Mama used to say, ‘You could eat the burgers but then you can’t milk the cow.’ It’s a sympathetic—a symphonic—”

“Symbiotic.” I say, “It’s a symbiotic relationship. You need them and they need you.” Emmie looks pleased. “So you understand.” I’m not sure I understand anything. “I get why they need you. But why do you need them?” She laughs. “To get bit, silly!” “So you like to get bitten?” She takes a thoughtful sip of Juice. “Thralls aren’t like other people, Cicely. Most humans, they’re afraid to be bit. They have natural instincts against it. But we don’t have that instinct. For some of us, it’s been bred out of our families. Powerful vampire clans arranged marriages for centuries to create the best thralls—pretty, talented, nurturing, unafraid. And of course, they bred for taste. The vampire sense of taste is so sensitive! Some of them, they’re like folks who collect fine wine. They can taste every little difference. Not to toot my own horn, but my Mama’s line was specially bred.” She pulls herself up proudly, clearly waiting for my reaction to that. All I can manage is a “Wow.” The thought of people being bred for taste makes my stomach turn. But I can’t say that. I want Emmie to keep talking. I need all the information I can get. “Go on.” “And then of course, there’s folks who are just natural thralls. They may not come from thrall families, but they just know somehow that they want to get bit. So they find themselves a vampire, or a vampire finds them, just by instinct, you know? And once they’ve felt that first bite…” A little shiver of pleasure passes through her, making her curls quiver. “Some folks say it’s an addiction, that somethin’ in the vampires spit is just happy-juice to us and we come to need it. But I don’t care if it is. Being bit is the best feeling on earth. Like getting kissed and shooting up and making chicken soup for someone you love, all at the same time.” She gives me a dreamy smile. “Besides, working at the bar is fun and the pay’s decent. And the job satisfaction, well you can’t beat that!” She raises her coffee mug in a toast. I raise mine back, half-heartedly, but I don’t drink. “And Juice is…?” She shrugs. “It’s a potion. Magic. Our head bartender, Michael, he makes it. It helps us heal, keeps our energy up, gives back whatever we’ve lost from the bite. Otherwise we’d be out of the game too quick, pass out from blood loss after just a few customers. With Juice, I’m the energizer bunny!” “You sound like a commercial,” I say. “Well it keeps me peppy. ‘Til it wears off, that is. I can barely keep from yawning my fool head off at school. But,” she shrugs, “Not like I’m going to college. Not when I could be here.” “So you’re going to do this forever?” She looks wistful. “Nobody does this forever. You either get too old or—” She glances at the little memorial shrine on the vanity, “Or you don’t.” She downs the rest of her mug. “Can I get you some more?” “Still working on this one.” Emmie goes back to the fridge for another cup. I’m thinking about the moment Five bit me. It was far from euphoric. But I can’t help thinking about Luke. What would it be like if it was Luke doing the biting? I shake the thought from my head. “Okay, I’m still not clear though. If I was bitten by a vampire—if you get bitten by them all the time—then why haven’t we turned into vampires?” Emmie laughs out loud, then realizes I’m really concerned. “Oh, hon, we really have to start at the start, don’t we?” She settles herself back in on the couch beside me, tucking her long legs up under her emerald dress. “Okay. Here we go. The vampire four-one-one.” More like the vampire nine-one-one, as far as I’m concerned, but I nod. “Go on.”

Emmie may not exactly be honor roll material, but when it comes to vampires, she’s an expert. “See,” she says, “There are two types of vamps: Those who are born vampires, and those who are made vampires. To be born a vampire, it has to be in your family line. Until about a hundred years ago, folks who were born vampires were immortal, but—” “Hang on. Immortal? You mean they couldn’t be killed?” “Not by normal, non-magical stuff, and hardly by any magical stuff, either. People who are born vampires can’t get sick. If they get hurt, they heal really fast, as long as they can feed. They don’t die of old age—once they start drinking blood, like around twelve or thirteen years old, they age really slowly so they pretty much all look young. Young and, you know,” she giggles, “Hot. Most vamps are really good looking. It’s part of how they draw humans to them.” I’m still a few sentences back. “They were seriously immortal.” “They could be killed by some other magical creatures. A werewolf could kill them.” I think of Luke being attacked by the huge, brutal beast on the playing fields last night and feel sick. “I think a werewolf could kill anything.” “But the vamps hunted them almost to extinction, so there wasn’t much that could take a vamp out. The Hunters could hurt them and trap them and force them into torpor, but they couldn’t kill them. But then the fucking Hunters—pardon my French again—struck up a treaty with the witches—” “Hang on, the who?” “The Hunters. You know, families who hunt monsters. They used to hunt the witches, too, but then the Hunters agreed to stop killing the witches if the witches would help them find a way to make the vampires mortal, which they did. So now the vampires can be killed, just like a human can. I mean vamps are still faster and stronger than we are and they still heal super fast if they feed, but now the Hunters can kill them.” “How?” I can’t help wanting to know, considering I’m in a warehouse full of them and I just learned the meaning of the word “frenzy.” “Guns, bombs, knives—” “Crosses?” I ask, “Holy water?” Emmie shakes her head so her curls bounce. “No. The Hunters have cursed individual vampire lines with phobias of holy water and crosses—that used to be a big deal, back when the church was the center of everything, you know?—and you’ll occasionally meet somebody from a line that can’t see themselves in mirrors or needs to be specifically invited into your house before they can come in, but for the most part that’s Hollywood stuff.” “Do they turn into bats?” I ask. Emmie makes a face. “You think I’d let them touch me if they did? Oh, lord no!” “What about garlic?” “Strong sense of smell. All their senses are a lot more sensitive than humans’. She smiles at the thought. “Gotta love a sensitive guy.” “Not one who can smell your blood.” Faster and stronger, sharper senses. That explains how Luke was able to keep up with the werewolf. But I’m still on the subject of how to kill a vampire. “What about a stake through the heart?” “What about it?” Emmie draws herself back from wherever her mind has gone. “Oh, to kill a vampire? That’s something Hunters used to do to hurt a vampire and keep her down for the count. Now they use it to make sure a vampire is dead. You know, because they torpor.” “They what?” Emmie sighs patiently. “I forget you’re a newbie. All right, torpor is like what animals do

when they hibernate. Their hearts go real slow and it looks like they’re dead, so the Hunters drive the stake through their hearts just to be sure, you know?” “Okay,” I say, “So vampires do get staked. What about sunlight—” “Oh, now wait,” says Emmie, “Sunlight. That’s a special case.” “Wait,” I say, “You aren’t going to tell me they turn to ash in sunlight because I’ve seen Luke—” “No, no, no. Remember I said there are two kinds of vampires? There’s the ones who were born vamps. They’re living creatures and they don’t ash in sunlight, thank goodness. I mean, their bodies turn to ash in the sunlight after they’re dead, but not while they’re alive, right? But there’s the other kind, the undead.” The word makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. “Undead?” “Made vampires. Enluzantes, the Spanish folks call them. The Hunters call them fryers, dusters, whatever. They used to be human but then they were killed and ritually brought back to life as vampires by a vampire queen.” “A vampire queen?” I say, “Since when do vampires have queens?” “Since always,” says Emmie. She rummages in her Hello Kitty bag and fishes out a half eaten candy necklace. She stretches it wide over her hair and lets it snap into place at her throat. “Now a days, vampires can’t exactly hunt in the streets. The Hunters would get them, right? So they just lead normal lives and pass as human and only feed here at the bar or from their own thralls or what have you. But back in the day most vampires lived in colonies, ancient vampire families. Each colony had a queen and a court and a whole hierarchy of vampires to serve her.” “Huh,” I say, “Sounds like high school.” Emmie crunches a bite of candy necklace. “I know, right?” She stretches the necklace out to me. “Would you like some?” “Pass,” I say. She shrugs. “Only queens can make vampires. A queen will pick a human because he’s beautiful or strong or smart or talented—or just because she wants to. Then she’ll drain him to death in a special ceremony and feed him her own blood to bring him back to life as a vampire.” Emmie shivers again, whether with fear or pleasure I can’t tell. “Then he’s not human any more, he’s a vamp, but not like the ones who were born vamps. The undead don’t have heartbeats, they don’t have a pulse. Like I said, some of the queens have been cursed so the vamps they make can’t cross running water or see themselves in mirrors—Lord, wouldn’t that be a drag? And they can’t do normal stuff like cry. And of course the poor things burn in the sunlight. And I don’t mean SPF burn. I mean if the sun touches them for even a few seconds their skin turns black and blisters and falls off—which is serious, because they can’t heal themselves from any kind of hurt, not without special potions.” “And if the sunlight touches them for longer?” I ask. She crunches another candy bead. “Nothing left but ashes.” “But why would a vampire queen bother to make vampires that can’t even go out in the sun? I mean, what would be in it for her?” Emmie leans in like she’s sharing a secret. “Disposable vamps, that’s what! Say you’re going to war with another colony over hunting turf, or you’re building a new castle in Transylvania or you’re having a big party and you need more musicians or servants or guests. You need worker bees, right, to keep the colony going. But you don’t want to keep them around forever. You want them to go out and hunt the food, but not to stick around and eat it. So you make vampires with a time limit, one’s that can disappear without a trace.”

“Just use them and kill them,” I say. “Well,” says Emmie, “Technically they’re already dead. I mean, them bein’ undead and all.” “But I mean, to the queen, their weakness can be an advantage,” I say. “Yeah,” says Emmie, “But their strength is an advantage, too. Newly made vampires are crazy strong—even stronger than regular vamps—and crazy fast, too. Not only that, but they have a psychic link to their queen and to each other, so they kind of go with the queen’s vibe. If she’s pissed off in a battle, they’re all pissed, and she can command them without saying a word. And if they’re hunting together—it’s like a pride of lions. Perfectly synchronized. And they feed like mad! Mainly they hunt, but sometimes they come in here, the ones that remember how to use money and all. It’s all over the map with the undead, you know. Some of them remember their human lives really well and they act pretty normal. Others of them are more like animals— they don’t talk or nothin’. And some look more dead than others, too—or they start out looking pretty okay, but look deader and deader as they go. I mean, it’s not like they rot or anything, but if they get cut up or something it can’t heal, so…” “The guy,” I say, “The one who were standing by us when you were talking to Mr. Belden. I almost ran into him when I was following you. He was undead, wasn’t he?” “Oh, you noticed him? Well, how could you not. Yeah, he’s undead.” She makes a face. “We can’t choose our customers, but let me tell you I don’t love to see one of those guys comin’ my way. Just the look in their eyes. Well, they say they don’t have souls, you know? And a lot of them don’t tip.” She takes another sip of Juice. “Made vampires are where that zombie myth comes from.” “Zombies are a myth?” I feel relieved. She laughs. “Of course they are, silly!” “But there are still vampire queens in the world, making vampires? The Hunters didn’t kill them all?” “They tried, but the queens are ancient and tough and they have vamps to protect them. Some family lines were wiped out, of course, but some queens survived.” I shake my head. It feels heavy, weighed down with too much information. “I just can’t believe that. I mean, if vampires were hunting in the streets of Minneapolis, wouldn’t people know about it? Wouldn’t it be on the news?” “It is,” says Emmie, “You should watch it some time. People disappear every day.” “And the authorities? They don’t know the truth?” Emmie sips her juice, unconcerned. “The ones in the know leave the vampire hunting to the Hunters. The rest wouldn’t believe you if you told them.” She looks me in the eye. “And you’re not going to tell them, are you?” “They’d think I was crazy.” Maybe I am. Or maybe I’m going to be, after everything that’s happened tonight. My brain is a saturated sponge. But I still have questions to ask, and now I want to change the subject. “So, this isn’t the only blood bar?” “Oh heck no!” Emmie looks appalled at the thought. “When the Hunters and the witches made the vamps mortal, the vampires knew they were in real danger of being wiped out, so they agreed to a treaty with the Hunters. They started the bars and promised only to feed in them, not to hunt. Any vamp caught hunting can be killed by the Hunters, but the Hunters don’t much bother the bars.” “But why sign a treaty? Why not wipe the vamps out?” I ask. “Just because vampires are mortal doesn’t mean they’re easy to beat.” There’s pride in Emmie’s voice. “The Hunters took their share of casualties. They wanted the war over, too. And

besides,” she added, “They’d never admit it, but some of the Hunter families invested in the bars or took protection money from them. They had plenty to gain. So after the treaty, blood bars started springing up all over. The Nightlife’s one of the best, but it isn’t the only. There’s maybe forty or so in the U.S., maybe more. My mom worked at a bunch of them. She headlined shows. And last summer, me and Violet, this girl who works here, we took a road trip and sort of worked our way through a few states. I’ve been to The Blood Shed in Austin, Pulse in Seattle, Vain in New Orleans, American Gothic in Manhattan—oh my God that place is so rich, the costumes look couture! And next summer I’m tripping to Maine. Twice Shy—that’s my brother’s band. He’s on tour right now—they’re supposed to play at the Red Tide. And then maybe we’ll go down to Florida. There’s got to be two or three bars there. Cuba’s crawling with vampires so the Florida bars have a Latin flavor, very romantic…” I’m only half listening. My brain can’t take any more in. I’m on weirdness overload. About a zillion questions hum in my head like bees. Is Luke alive? Emmie seemed to think it was possible, but only because Luke is a vampire. Luke is a vampire. But what does that mean? He said his family was royalty. Did he mean he was related to a vampire queen? And is he one of the dangerous vampires, the ones who hunt humans? Part of me can easily believe it. Didn’t Luke stalk me? Hasn’t he been evasive and strange since the moment we met? But if he is a predator, why am I still alive? Luke has had a million chances to bite me—alone in my living room, in the woods behind the school—he could have bitten me in the graveyard the first day I saw him and no one would ever been the wiser. The thought of me lying drained, there on the graves of my ancestors, makes me shiver. But Luke didn’t kill me. In fact, he threw himself in front of a raging werewolf to save me. What does that mean? Was he only defending his meal? I find that hard to believe. In spite of all my doubts about Luke, there is no denying the connection between us in the moment when we were about to kiss. And then there are the visions, for lack of a better word. Seeing myself with him in those strange moments of déjà vu, seeing us dancing together in some era long ago…. Maybe I have begun to believe in all Zoe’s talk about reincarnation—why not, with everything else turning out to be true? I can’t help feeling Luke and I have some sort of destiny. But what about Ander? Well, what about him? Here I am, chatting with his girlfriend as if we’re friends, and I still have no idea where Ander fits into any of this. “Does Ander know?” “What?” Emmie looks startled. I’ve interrupted her completely. “Ander. Your boyfriend. Does he know about your job? About the bar? About vampires?” Her look is so sympathetic it borders on pity. “Honey, that’s not my tale to tell. You’ll have to ask him yourself.” I have a sinking feeling in my stomach. “Ander…he isn’t a vampire, is he?” She actually laughs. “No, he most certainly is not. That much I can say. But anything else you’ll have to ask yourself.” “But—” “But nothing. Do you think I got this job by talking out of turn? In this work, you have to know when to shut your mouth or have it shut for you.” She lays one delicate hand over mine. “But you ask him, all right?” “Oh, I will.” It’s no use badgering Emmie. Her pink lip-glossed pout is clearly sealed. But it’s also clear Ander’s involved in this somehow and I’m going to find out how. Emmie downs another swallow of Juice and crosses to the TV monitor mounted by the door. She turns up the sound and I can hear the music and laughter of the club. Lost in thought, I stare

at the screen. It’s like staring at a tank of exotic tropical fish. I can pick out the thralls in their jewel-toned costumes, swirling through the crowd, taking customers by the hand, leading them confidently to the privacy booths or the couches. The monitor flashes through images, showing the views from a half-dozen security cameras all over the club. Another show is on stage, a retro burlesque act set to jazz music, but I can hardly watch it. I am too busy staring at the show going on off stage. There does not seem to be a pattern to it—men bite men, women bite women, sometimes on the neck, sometimes on the wrist. Large amounts of cash changes hands. Sometimes a bite goes on too long and a bouncer appears from out of nowhere to intervene. Other times a bite became more than a bite and the couple begins to kiss—but the bouncers interrupt this, too. It strikes me as strange that, in a club where it’s okay to draw blood, a kiss could be taboo. Emmie wags a scolding finger at the screen. “No Catting, Scarlet!” “Catting?” I remember seeing it on the list of rules by the vanity. “Playing with your food.” She paws the air suggestively. “No Cookin,’ either.” She swivels her hips. “You know, heatin’ it up before you eat it?” “Okay,” I say, “Sorry I asked.” Emmie laughs. “TMI, right? We can’t get frisky because it’s bonding behavior.” “Bonding? Emmie, I feel like I need a glossary.” “Oh my gosh, I forgot to tell you about bonding! Why, that’s the most important thing!” Emmie rushes back to sit on the couch beside me, her long legs origamied under her. She takes both my hands in hers, like she’s about to impart the most important knowledge there is. “Okay, sometimes when a vampire and a thrall have a special connection—” I giggle nervously. “I feel like we’re about to have The Talk.” “Shush! This is serious! When a vampire bites a thrall and they have a special connection, sometimes they bond. Bonding means you are connected to each other forever. The vampire can’t live without your blood. He could feed as much as he wanted from every other thrall in the world and he would still starve if he couldn’t bite you. And you can’t live without his bite. It’s like you’re addicted to it. Nothing else will do. In the olden days, when vampires were immortal, if a vamp bonded with you, you got to be immortal, too. You can only bond with one person, of course, but each vamp could choose one human to be her special thrall and give him the gift of eternal life. Of course, not all of them chose to bond—some vamps don’t believe in bonding. Some don’t believe in biting thralls at all, they think vampires should only hunt. But lots of vampires did bond, back then. But of course the Hunters had to come along and muck it all up by making vampires mortal. Now lots of folks don’t want to bond any more because if one half of a bonded pair dies, the other dies too. Sometimes right away, like there’s a string connecting the two hearts and it just gets snipped. Sometimes it takes a while—the vamp dies of starvation, or the thrall dies of withdrawal. But the point is you just can’t live without each other.” She sighs. “It’s just the most beautiful thing.” I look up at the screen. There are probably ten couples locked in feeding embraces right now. “So, how do you keep from having couples bond all the time here?” “Well, usually it’s not bond-at-first-bite. That mainly happens in extreme circumstances, like when the vampire and the thrall are in some kind of danger, under a lot of stress. Most of the time it takes being bitten by the same person over a long time, so we just have to mix it up, make sure we are never with the same customer twice in a week, say. Three bites in a week is the very max. Third times a charm, like they say, and lots of people bond on that third bite. After that, you’re in the danger zone for sure. But you can usually feel a bond coming on. You start to crave

that person. You dream about her. Then you know it’s time to back off, cross her off your client list. It happened to my friend Amber and, oh, the poor thing! Withdrawal from bonding is a bitch —fever, pain, the shakes. It’s like getting’ your heart stomped and goin’ off drugs all on the same day. But if you catch it quick enough, you get through it without bonding.” “Because you don’t want to bond,” I say, just to be sure. “Oh, I do! I do! Just not like that, not to just anybody here at the bar. To somebody special.” Her big hazel eyes are dreamy. “My mom and dad were bonded. I want what they had, you know? To be happy.” “Were bonded,” I say, “Then they are…?” Her big eyes fill with tears. “My mother was killed by a vampire a few years back. That’s why my brother and I moved here.” She gets up and goes to her locker, fishes in her Hello Kitty bag and brings out a photo. “Here. This is them.” I study it. The woman, Emmie’s mother, is gorgeous; blond and blue-eyed and smiling like a pageant winner. The man is equally stunning, with deep brown skin and dark, intelligent eyes, so dignified that he could be a diplomat or a king if it weren’t for the fangs. “So your father died too? Emmie, that doesn’t seem fair, for you to lose them both at once.” “It was more fair to them that way. They wouldn’t want to live without each other.” She sniffs as she takes the photo back. “I wouldn’t want them to.” I think of my mother in the hospital bed, how I felt when I thought I would lose her. “It just seems so vulnerable. So fragile.” Emmie chews thoughtfully on a green candy bead. “In a way, sure. But thralls get some advantage, too, even if we don’t get to be immortal any more. Once you’re bonded you can’t get sick any more. Vamps don’t catch human diseases and you get their immunity when you bond. And there’s something to be said for having a vampire at your side, always protecting you, always taking care of you. Plus, you age at the same rate they do. Why, if I bonded tonight I could be seventeen for years!” That doesn’t exactly sound like an incentive to me, but I let it slide. “So it’s like a chemical thing?” “Chemical, magical—who knows? Who cares? The point is you never have to be alone. You always have someone who needs you.” Emmie has gone dewy-eyed. “I just think it’s the most beautiful thing.” I’m not sure I agree with that, but it does make a certain amount of sense. Why wouldn’t humans evolve some way to share the vampire’s advantage but make it impossible for the vampire to kill them? “And I guess it would be to the vampire’s advantage, too,” I say, “To have prey that would come to them willingly, humans they didn’t have to hunt?” There was a naturespecial logic to it all. “If you want to look at it like that, sure. But it’s more than that. Some folks say vampires don’t have souls, that when we bond they get to share ours.” “Soul mates,” I say, “Literally.” There is a certain poetry in that. “But to be that dependent on someone, to give them that much power…” She pulls her notebook out of her backpack and points to a quote written in big, loopy handwriting, in bright pink pen. “ ‘Everyone’s going to hurt you,’” I read, “’You’ve just got to find the ones worth suffering for.’ Did a thrall say that?” She shakes her head. “Bob Marley. We have reggae nights once a month.” I watch her tuck the photo carefully back in her bag. “But to be so tied to somebody else, to

be so dependent…” “Sugar,” says Emmie, “We’re all dependent on each other.” “But literally dying to be with someone—” She raises her last sip of Juice in a toast. “Is better than dying alone.”

Chapter 21: Luke The men arrive just as I’m sure the lycanthrope will batter down the door of the mausoleum. The door is already weakened by my forced entry and the casket I have pushed in front of it certainly won’t hold the monster for long. I can hear the beast roaring outside. It reminds me of the sound of a storm at sea—perhaps because, to my perception, the entire mausoleum is rocking and pitching like a boat. I think I may have taken one too many blows to the head. And I have a feeling I am destined for a few more before this evening is through. The creature’s claws scrape the metal door. I am actually surprised the door has held it off so long— but then, the lycanthrope has received a few good blows to the head, too. I hear it step back, then fling itself at the door, hard. The metal buckles, denting in. Oh, such a shame mausoleums don’t have locks on the inside! That door is going to give. Then I hear a voice outside. Marcus? I’m fairly sure it cannot be. He may well be dead by now. The voice comes again, shouting. Another voice shouts back. Male voices, thank God; I do not detect Cicely’s voice among them. Hopefully she is far from here by now. “He’s in there!” The voice comes from near by. The lycanthrope hears it, too. It stops its assault on the door and I hear it lope a few steps towards the gate. Leaning over the dusty casket, I peer through the crack in the door. Four men are crossing the school parking lot. Big men, darkly dressed. One holds a large box. Another holds a gun. The hair rises on the back of my neck. Are these Hunters? If they are, the lycanthrope and I are about to have a common enemy. But as they draw closer, I can see that, big and strong though they are, they are too imperfect to be Hunters. Their scent is ordinary human, laced with fear. My throat aches with thirst at the smell. The claw marks across my ribs are deep but one feeding of human blood would go so far towards healing me. The lycanthrope catches the scent, too, rising up on its hind legs to sniff the air. “Now!” yells one of the men. The man holding the box rushes the cemetery fence. In the moonlight I can see the words on his jacket: Nightlife Security. He heaves the box up and over the fence, then turns and runs. The box lands with a crash against a tall headstone, bursting open like an over-ripe fruit. A new scent joins the rest: blood. But not human. Bovine. The box is full of steaks. The werewolf doesn’t hesitate. It pounces on the box and tears it open, shaking the bloodied cardboard like a dog breaking a rabbit’s neck. Then it rips into the meat. I can hear the bones crunch. Although I’m sure the box was full, the feast is over in a matter of seconds. Soon all that is left is shredded cardboard and the watery pink blood speckled on the white marble headstones. I feel profoundly grateful it isn’t my flesh the monster is chewing. I feel even more grateful when the werewolf stops in its tracks and keels over. The force of its fall shakes the ground. Were the steaks laced with poison, then? Even that wouldn’t be enough to kill the thing, of course. No, not poison. More likely sleeping potion. The creature doesn’t twitch and foam like a poisoned thing. Its hairy flank rises and falls in deep, even

breaths. Bravo, humans. It seems they have done this before. “Get the truck,” someone shouts and one of the men disappears into the night. The other three approach the fence, cautiously, as if they fear the beast will leap up at any second. It doesn’t. It is, in the parlance of the pugilist, “down for the count.” “Should I?” The youngest of the men looks doubtfully at the other two. The one in the Nightlife Security jacket nods. “Just one.” A shot rings out. The werewolf’s body jerks. It’s a clean shot to the flank. Do they have silver bullets, then? It seems highly unlikely, given that they are not Hunters. No, I can see the dart sticking out of the animal’s side—a sleeping potion dart, the type they use to fell charging elephants in Africa. They are simply giving him an extra dose of sedative for good measure. The three men seem to relax. I can hear the motor of the truck as it crawls down the side driveway of the school, its headlights out. Nightlife Security scrubs his bald head with a big, square hand. “Gonna be a bitch to move him.” The shorter man shrugs. “He’ll turn human once he relaxes a bit.” “Even so. The kid’s not small and he’s a dead weight.” The shorter man sighs. “Poor bastard.” The youngest man is studying the gate. “I could break this lock. Get him out this way.” “Hell of a lot easier than over the fence,” says Nightlife Security. “The crowbar’s in the truck. We’ll have to do it quick, though. Dance can’t last much longer. They see us out here, we’ll be arrested for breaking in there.” The shorter man is still staring at the lycanthrope. “If the police come, arrested will be the least of our problems.” Two of the men and the truck driver fall to work, fetching the crow bar, breaking the lock on the gate. They move quietly for humans, but I imagine that they are still grateful for the constant noise of the dance “music.” The youngest man squints into the darkness of the graveyard. “You don’t think he was after somebody in there?” The truck driver smiles wryly as the lock on the gate breaks with a snap. “Why don’t you go on in and find out?” The boy looks back and forth between the unconscious werewolf and the tombstones, as if unsure which one to fear more. “Hell no.” “As soon as we get him out of there,” Nightlife Security says, “We’ll clean up and look for survivors.” The middle man kicks at a piece of steak-soaked cardboard. “More likely for remains.” Well, I’m not going to wait around for them to find me. As the men wait to hoist the sleeping werewolf into the back of the pickup truck, I push aside the casket, open the dented mausoleum door, and slip out into the night. The men are too involved in their work to see me creep through the shadows to the opposite end of the cemetery, force open the broken panel of fence, and step into the sheltering darkness of the woods. First to find my servant Marcus. I know the men are right—there is a good chance I will only find his remains, but I can’t help hoping I will find him alive. Well, as “alive” as his kind ever are, considering the fact that they are only animated remains as it is. Tough remains. Marcus is old for his kind and weakened by his time in torpor, but he may still have had one battle left in him. Enluzantes like Marcus were created for battles like this.

And they were also created to serve us, I remind myself. That was all Marcus was doing when he lead the werewolf away from me and Cicely. He was doing his duty, no more, no less. But I can’t help thinking about how I burned his hand in the church. True, Marcus defied me. True, he threatened to go over my head to Queen Constanza. But was I a bit too hard on him? No, I tell myself. It had to be done. Sometimes I fear my older brother was right: I am shamefully sentimental. I force myself to walk deeper into the woods, although my body protests in a thousand different ways. Worst are my ribs; the creatures claws caught me hard against my left side. From the amount of blood staining my white shirt I imagine the wounds are deep. A human would likely die from wounds like these. He certainly could not walk. I will heal, but only if I can feed. I reach up and snap off a branch, ostensibly to use it as a walking stick but really because it feels good to break something. If only I could feed. Of course, the thought reminds me of Cicely, and as soon as I think of her I can think of nothing else. Where is she now? I am certain she got on the motorcycle with the young vampire girl, which means she is safe from the lycanthrope. But can I be sure she is safe from the vampire girl herself? I have no idea who that vampire is. I had never seen her before she came roaring up on that contraption, and I only had a few seconds to threaten her and make it clear Cicely is under my protection. Will that be enough to keep the girl’s fangs off Cicely? I cannot imagine anyone would be foolish enough to risk the wrath of a member of the Marianez clan, but can I be sure? With each painful step I feel the unfamiliar stab of doubt. Was Marcus right? Have I foolishly squandered my family’s only chance at becoming immortal again? Marcus said I should have captured the girl the moment I saw her and kept her safe in a cage until we could kill her properly in the ceremony that would reverse the curse. Instead I decided to risk everything so I could break Cicely Watson’s heart the way that Deirdre broke mine. No, that isn’t true. If I am honest with myself, spending time with Cicely isn’t about revenge. It isn’t even really about me living forever. It is about Deirdre living one more time. I took Cicely to the dance because she reminds me of Deirdre and if Cicely Watson is dead, I have traded my eternal future for one last dance with my past. And I don’t regret it nearly as much as I should. Because as I stumble through the dark woods alone, my fevered thoughts aren’t really on my family. For the first time in a century, they aren’t even really on my Deirdre. They are too busy replaying every detail of my date with Cicely. How she laughed at my ability with a motorcar. How she scowled at her heeled shoes. How the firelight brought out the warm mahogany of her hair. Did she smile when I called her my little psychopath? “In the Silence of the Secret Night” plays in my head and the trees around me seem to sway to the music. It is possible I have lost more blood than I thought. My hand slips on my improvised walking stick and I slide to my knees. The damp leaves of the forest floor feel warm to my touch, which means I am very cold. My joints are stiff and I can feel sleep coming on like a pillow pressed to my face—the familiar feeling of torpor. I have allowed myself to lose too much blood and soon I will be unconscious and vulnerable here in the woods where anyone and anything might find me. I try my damndest to pull myself to my feet but my arms, strong enough to fight the werewolf only an hour ago, are too weak to lift my weight. The air around me presses on me like water. My eyelids are heavy. They shut against my will. “Stay awake!” The voice comes from nearby.

“Cicely?” My own voice sounds distant. “No, Master Luke, it is I.” I force my eyes open again. Marcus is leaning over me, his expression that of a concerned nurse—which is foolish because even in my weakened state, I can tell that he is in far worse shape than I. He looks every bit the reanimated corpse that he is. A bone juts from his arm at an alarming angle. There is a chunk of flesh missing from his cheek. The muscles beneath it squirm when he frowns. “Master, you are badly hurt. We must warm you and bring you somewhere safe.” He sets about the task with single-minded purpose, propping me against the nearest tree, then stripping off his blue sweater and tugging it painfully over my head, forcing my arms into the sleeves the way he did when I was a child. Then he sets about shredding his shirt—shredding it further, I should say, as it is already quite badly torn—and winding it around my ribcage. It hurts, certainly, but not as much as it should. I feel as if I am witnessing his ministrations from a distance, watching each strip wind around. The cloth is dirty but not bloody. The undead barely bleed. I wish I could say as much for myself. The improvised bandage is quickly darkened, but my near-torpor has slowed the flow as my circulation grows sluggish. If I could safely allow myself to torpor completely I might yet survive. Marcus must read my mind. Or perhaps I’ve spoken out loud, I can’t be sure. “Sleep, Master,” He says, “I will guard you.” I look up at the sky. The full moon looks down on us, impassive, but the sun will rise soon. Even here in the middle of the woods there are plenty of chinks in the armor of trees, plenty of places where the sunlight will stab through. “There isn’t enough cover for you here. Moving slowly as you are, you should go now to find shelter or you will be caught in the sun.” “You are too weak to move, master. I will stay and guard you. Then at least you can have a few hours of torpor to recover yourself.” “And you—” “I will have done my duty,” he says. So, he intends to stay with me, even if it means burning with the first light. And I know I should let him. After all, Marcus is already dead. He died years ago at my mother’s hand and was brought back for one purpose: To serve. He reaches out a hand to smooth the hair from my fevered brow the way he did when I was young. In the center of his palm I see the charred mark where the sunlight in the church pierced him. “You saved my life tonight. More importantly, you saved Cicely’s. Go.” He shakes his head. “No.” “Marcus, you serve me. I command you to go!” “I serve your family,” he says, “It is my duty to stay.” I take a deep breath. “Then I release you from your duty.” It hurts to say the words, hurts with a pain deeper than the cut in my side. “Marcus, I set you free.” His eyes open wide. I can see the joy and relief in his face. How long has he wanted me to say those words? I have never even thought about it before. Well, now he can leave. But he doesn’t. Instead he settles in beside me, his expression full of quiet resolve. “Did you not hear me? You are free to go!” “Yes,” he says, “And I freely choose to stay.” I am becoming frustrated. “You will die.” He nods. “But I will die free, and for that I thank you.” I can’t understand it. I have not treated Marcus well. If I were in his place, I would be long

gone by now. I want to argue more, but I am too tired to form the words. I rest my head against the soft leaves and allow my heavy eyes to close as the undertow of torpor takes me. “Why?” His smile is sympathetic. “I don’t know, Master. As you would say, perhaps I am sentimental.”

Chapter 22: Cicely “Oh, Lord, it’s almost my cue,” Emmie jumps up and rushes to her locker, grabbing what I assume must be her costume, although it looks about the size of a bikini bottom and mainly made of green sequins. On the monitor, a tattooed girl in a burlesque costume is belting out another old standard: “I don’t care if the sun don’t shine, I get my loving in the evening time when I’m with my baby. I don’t care if the sun’s around, cuz I get going when the sun goes down...” Emmie kicks off her emerald pumps and snatches up a pair of platform boots before she rushes to the door. Then in the doorway, she stops, remembering me. “You gonna be alright?” I fake a reassuring smile. “I’ll be fine.” Why wouldn’t I be? Reality as I know it just imploded like a black hole. Emmie looks unconvinced by my smile, so I add “I’ve got plenty of Juice.” This seems to reassure her. She nods approvingly. “And you’ll stay put, right? Just hang out here in the dressing room till I come back?” “Why would I leave?” I say. “There are vampires out there.” Emmie laughs. “Ander was right, you are funny. See you soon!” She flips the sequined scrap at me in goodbye and disappears out the door like a rabbit down a hole. “I’ll be here,” I call after her. I give her to the count of ten to make sure she’s really gone. Then I make my escape. First I pick up Emmie’s Hello Kitty bag, which she has left lying by the couch. I feel bad taking anything from her, considering the fact that she is being helpful now, but then I remind myself she has taken things from me—namely Ander. Besides, I really need it and I’ll return everything tomorrow at school. I find a roll of ones stuffed in an inner pocket of the bag, then rummage through the locker marked “Emerald,” looking for a change of clothes. Most of what’s in there is costume—there are enough green sequins to outfit a leprechaun cabaret—but eventually I find some street clothes I can use. I strip off my ruined dress and stuff it in an empty locker. It looks sad and abandoned, balled up in a corner like that, and it’s hard to believe it is the same beautiful dress that seemed to transform me just a few hours ago. Now all of its magic is gone—but everything else has become magical, instead. Strangely magical. I am buzzing from Juice and adrenaline and world-rocking information. I pull on Emmie’s clothes, careful not to touch my injured leg. Emmie’s things are big on me—the jeans need to be cuffed and the t-shirt and sweater hang loose where Emmie’s curves would fill them—but the pearl-grey sweater is soft and comforting and warm. A moment of searching the other lockers turns up a real score: a pair of black motorcycle boots I would have killed for back when I was on an actual motorcycle. They are probably part of a costume and they are a bit too big for me, sockless as I am, but it still feels good to tug them on. Being back in proper shit-kicking boots makes me feel much more confident. I’m about to leave when I remember Emmie’s flowered thermos. I fill it with Juice from the fridge—just in case I need it—and toss it in Emmie’s bag. Then I check the monitor. Emmie is still on stage with a bunch of other girls. The audience seems engrossed. If I stick to the edges, I’m sure I can slip out unnoticed.

I open the door and peek into the hall. No one. I slide out, moving as quickly and quietly as I can, considering I am limping in giant boots, and head for the club entrance. The “vamp camp” on the walls flashes by me, a blur of fanged faces. I can see the exit up ahead. There is one bouncer at the door. I’m sure Emmie didn’t have time to tell him to keep me here, and even if she did, he would probably be looking for a girl in a formal dress. But just to be safe, I let my hair swing forward like a curtain to hide my face and walk by at what I hope is a casual pace. I’m almost past him when he speaks. “Hey.” Do I bolt? I don’t think my injured leg will allow it. I’ll just have to act casual. “Yeah?” “You need your hand stamped?” He holds out the rubber stamp. I let out my breath. “No. I’m not coming back.” Ever. He shrugs. “Have a nice night, then.” Too late, I think. I turn and walk out the door, only the pain in my leg keeping me from running. The door shuts behind me, muffling the music of the club, and I look around the parking lot for Five. Luckily she’s nowhere to be seen, but there are plenty of other people here now, some of them just arriving. Evidently vampires are late-night people. Go figure. I spot Ander’s motorcycle parked where Five left it, but it doesn’t do me any good because it’s not like I can drive it. Now that I’m out here, I’m realizing I don’t have a plan. I still wish I had a phone, but who would I call? Zoe? My mom? How do I explain that I don’t even know where I am? I am starting to panic a little when I spot a gypsy cab trolling the lot. It’s a gray sedan big enough to take Zoe’s Oldsmobile in a fight, and with the scars to prove it. There’s a hand-written “Taxi” sign taped in the window. This could be some kind of vampire trap, but what other choice do I have? Luckily the guy behind the wheel looks reassuringly human in his Twins cap. He rolls down his window. “Where to?” “Monument,” I say. He lets out a low whistle. “I don’t know. That’s a ways.” I pull the roll of cash out of Emmie’s bag, hoping it looks like enough to cover the trip. “I’ve got cash. I can pay.” The guy grins. “Monument or bust.” One speed-limit-defying ride later, we pull into the dark parking lot of St. Agnes School. “You sure you want to get out here?” The cab driver’s eyes flick up to meet mine in the rearview mirror. I don’t blame him for looking confused. St. Agnes school looks abandoned, the dance long over. Luke’s beautiful car sits alone in the parking lot. My stomach sinks when I see it. So he didn’t come back to it. He didn’t drive it home. Which doesn’t mean he’s dead, I tell myself. Luke is a vampire. Emmie said they are very hard to kill. Unlike us fragile humans. “Yeah.” I tell the driver, “I’ll be fine.” I pay him and he smiles at me. “You have a good night. Or day, almost, now.” He gestures to the east where the sky is just starting to blush deep red. “You too,” I say. I just hope today won’t be my last. I climb out of the car and watch as it turns and drives away. Then I start towards the graveyard. By the side door of the school, I spot my little wooden cross, lying where I dropped it. I almost leave it there. After all, what good would it really be against the monster in the woods? But it feels better to have something in my hand, so I pick it

up and keep walking, past the church. In the pre-dawn shadows, the carvings on St. Agnes church should look more menacing than ever. Instead I find that the gaping gargoyle mouths and the stern eyes of the saints seem tame now that I have some basis of comparison. Even the school seems a little smaller this morning, deflated like the blue and silver balloons tied to its doors. The playing fields don’t look like the sight of epic battles. Instead the whole place seems unreal, like the set of a movie I saw once, not like a place I come to every day. Outgrown in a matter of hours. The graveyard still seems real enough, though. I pass the main gate, headed for the doggy door—and stop. The main gate is open, the padlock and chair hanging limp. Did the monster snap the chain? Of course it could, but it hadn’t occurred to me that it would. I push the gate open just enough to slide through and shut it behind me. It feels strange to be walking in upright, through the front door, for the first time. I take a few steps, and see I am not the first person who has. The soft earth here is pitted with footprints, the deep treads of heavy work boots mixed with the paw prints of the werewolf. Some of the paw prints look as if they have been hastily scrubbed away, but one is still perfectly intact. I kneel and press my palm into the mark, watching how the paw print dwarfs my hand. My splayed fingers look thin and white against the dark dirt, like a little girl’s hand. I pull it back quickly and force myself to keep walking. The prints beyond here have been wiped out where something heavy was dragged past. Was it a body? Whose? A scrap of wet cardboard dangles from a headstone. Are the stains on it blood? My heart clenches like a fist with every beat. I force myself to breathe. Emmie said the bouncers from the bar were coming to “take care of” the monster. Hopefully they’ve had a chance to find it by now. Unless it found them first. Either way, it clearly isn’t here. And neither, it seems, is Luke. I walk the familiar maze of headstones to the doggy door at the back and shimmy through. Three steps on the other side the steel toe of my borrowed boots kicks something silver. I reach down and pick it up. Luke’s cell phone, the one I lost escaping from the werewolf. Miraculously it wasn’t smashed. I slide it open and start flipping through it. It’s a top-of the line model with all the perks, but it seems unused: no apps, no pictures, only one number in the contacts. The number is not labeled—why should it be when it’s the only one? Unsure what I will say if someone answers, I hit talk anyhow. Somewhere in the woods, Carmina Burana begins to play. The phone I’m calling is ringing. My feet are in motion almost before I’ve pieced it together: The number must belong to the boy, of course, the one who lured the werewolf away from me and probably saved my life. He and Luke knew each other—I heard him call Luke’s name—and if I find him, I may find Luke, too. I move through the forest by feel, hitting the talk button again, then letting the tinny notes draw me through the dark trees. It’s inexact. The music is quiet and hard to follow and more than once I find I have gotten turned around. But gradually the ring tone gets louder and I know I’m getting close. But the closer I get the slower I move because there’s no avoiding one obvious fact: No one is answering the phone. Maybe the phone was just knocked out of the guy’s hand, in which case all I’ll find at the end of this chase is a cell phone. Part of me wishes that would be the case, because what will I do if I find the owner of the phone badly wounded? What if I find him dead?

What if I find him alive—and find that’s he is a vampire, too? Maybe that’s why I don’t just yell for him. I want to see what I’m trailing before it sees me. Not that a vampire wouldn’t hear me from a mile away. Didn’t Emmie say their senses are heightened? The crunch of my boots on the dead leaves clashes with the music. It’s very close. I push past a patch of wild roses and I see it: a figure stretched out on the forest floor. I can’t see his face. He’s turned away from me and half-hidden by the dry leaves. But from his blue sweater I can tell this is the boy who saved me. Now the question is, did he die doing it? I creep closer, inch-by-inch, first quietly, then intentionally loudly, making each step crackle in the silent woods, trying to provoke him to stir. He doesn’t. I wipe one sweating palm on my borrowed jeans. The other hand still holds the phone—the phone I could use to call 9-1-1 right now. And say what? The truth is out of the question. Like Emmie said, who would believe me? I could lie and say I was walking and just stumbled on him in the woods. Or I could turn back now and let someone else find him—God knows who. God knows when. But I probably owe this boy my life. I have to at least know if he is dead. I take a deep breath and with the toe of my boot I brush the leaves away from his hand. The skin is gray. I nudge him very gently with my toe. The arm is stiff. I have to know. Before I can lose my nerve, I step over the boy’s still body and kneel to look at his face. A strange, strangled sound escapes me. Because it isn’t some anonymous dead boy I’m looking at. It’s Luke. It seems wrong to say that someone dead is beautiful, but Luke is. His skin is cold, his lips blue-gray, his eyes closed so I can see each long lash. There are leaves in his thick brown curls and a circle of blood has soaked through the wool of his sweater but in spite of that he looks peaceful. Lying there against the backdrop of thorns, Luke could be a picture from some reverse fairy tale in which it’s the handsome prince who falls asleep for a hundred years. Except I am not a princess and I have missed any chance I ever had of kissing Luke Marianez. And even if I could, no one wakes from this sleep. At least, no one human. Emmie’s words are coming back to me quickly now. What did she call it? “Torpor”? “The sleep of the dead”? She said it resembled death so closely even vampire hunters were fooled. Does that mean there is some tiny chance Luke is still alive? It seems like too much to hope for. His chest is still. I clamp his cold wrist between my fingers the way I’ve seen nurses do on medical dramas, but if there is any pulse there, it is too weak to feel above the pounding of my own. I don’t believe he is alive. But there’s only one way to know for sure and it’s a little more intimate than a fairy tale kiss —and a lot more dangerous. Because what did Emmie tell me? Vampires can recover from things that would kill a human. But only if they can feed. My hand shakes as I reach for the wild rose bush, but I grab it anyway, quickly, pricking my finger on the thorn just as I did a few hours ago in the graveyard. Only this time it is intentional. I make sure the blood is flowing, milking my finger until a red bead rises on my finger tip. Just one tiny drop. It can’t be enough. But I lean over Luke’s still form, so close my hair brushes his ashy cheek. “Wake up,” I whisper, “Please wake up.” I touch my bleeding finger to his cold lips. For an instant the blood drop hangs there, a single dot of color on a black-and-white photo. I am as still as he is, holding my breath. Then Luke moves.

He’s like a sprung trap. He grasps my wrists so fast I have no time to react, no time to even yelp. His icy hands grip me, pulling me down on top of him, then flipping me over so hard my back slaps the dry leaves. His still-stiff body layers over mine. He pins my throbbing hand above my head. I gasp as his fangs pierce the pulse spot of my wrist, but I can’t pull away. I can feel his lips drag against me, sucking hungrily, drinking me in. I feel like I am giving him my warmth. Gradually Luke seems to melt against me, his body becoming pliant, moldings itself to mine, while the cold of the ground under me seems to seep into my bones. Luke is leeching my warmth, drinking it in with my blood, and I feel lightheaded, as if my blood is the only thing weighing me down and the more he takes, the more unmoored I feel, like I might float away in spite of the weight of his body pressing against me. It feels frightening. And good. Frighteningly good. “Stop…” My voice is just a whisper. I try again. “Luke, stop!” He releases me suddenly and pulls back. He doesn’t look like the Luke I know at all—not the boy from my English class with the smooth radio voice, not the boy from the dance with his perfectly tailored suit and his classical music and his enigmatic words. Now Luke’s fangs are out. His lips are stained with blood—my blood—and his wild hair is flecked with leaves. His eyes are wild, too, his pupils huge like a cat in the night. He stares at me, disoriented, like I’ve woken him from a dream. Then as I watch recognition dawns and a look of complete horror crosses his face. “Cicely!” “Luke…” My voice sounds sleepy, slurred. “You’re alive!” “Yes,” he says, “And it’s a wonder that you are. Sit up! Put your hand above your head!” He moves to take my hand, then pulls away uncertainly, as if he doesn’t trust himself to even touch me. “Are you faint? Have I hurt you?” He swears in Spanish, raking his fingers through his already disheveled curls, leaving them damp with blood. “How could I let myself…” “Luke, it’s okay.” I reach for Emmie’s backpack and the thermos of juice inside. Luke hurries to get it for me. “It’s not okay, Cicely. I bit you!” “You had to,” I say, “I wanted you to. I was afraid you were dead so I pricked my finger and I—” “You what?” Luke wheels on me. “You enticed me to bite you on purpose? What would possess you—how did you even know—” “That you’re a vampire?” It still feels strange to say the word, even when the truth is staring me in the face. “Emmie told me. She said you need to feed to heal yourself so when I saw you lying there—” “Cicely, I could have killed you! We could have bonded!” “Which would have been what? Worse?” But I shouldn’t even have to ask. His tone has made it perfectly clear he thinks bonding with me is every bit as bad as killing me, every bit as bad as dying himself. “Cicely, you don’t understand. This is exactly the sort of situation in which such things happen. The higher the emotions, the greater the likelihood.” He makes it sound like an equation, but the formality of his words is at odds with the wildness of his looks. More than that, his words are at odds with Emmie’s star-struck longing. She made bonding sound like a blessing. Luke makes it sound like a curse. Or at least that’s how he feels about bonding with me. “Well,” I shout, “That wasn’t exactly on my agenda, either! And we didn’t bond—” “You don’t know that!” he shoots back, “Only time will tell us that! And it doesn’t matter what you were trying—” “I was trying to save your life!”

“You were being foolish!” “Well,” I say, “For once we agree on something!” I’m so angry my face is burning. I want to throw Emmie’s flowered thermos at his vampire head. “Maybe it was foolish to save you. It was definitely foolish of me to think last night meant anything at all to you. So what, I’m good enough to ‘seize the night’ with, but not good enough for forever?” I am fighting tears, every bit as hard as I fought the werewolf. “I thought you said you didn’t want to bond!” He looks as confused as I feel. “I don’t!” But I want him to want to. At least I don’t want him to not want to. He sighs. It makes him sound old. “Cicely, you are being unreasonable.” “Luke, you are being ungrateful.” “Now wait,” he says, “Because you saved my life? Because I saved your life first! I tried to send you away to safety and what did you do? You rushed right back into the fray! I hardly call that grateful!” “Okay, first of all, you didn’t send me to safety. You sent me to a bar full of vampires.” This stops him in his tracks. “She took you there?” I nod. His eyes narrow. “I will have to have a word with that vampire.” I have a feeling they will have more than words and I’m glad. I wouldn’t want to be Five right now. But then, I’m not so psyched about being me, either. Although when he looks at me again Luke’s eyes have softened. “They didn’t hurt you?” “I’m not hurt,” I say, even though ten places in my body say otherwise. “Not by the werewolf, either?” I sniff. “I wasn’t bitten. I won’t go sprouting fur if that’s what you want to know.” “Oh, I would likely smell it if you had been infected.” Great. How reassuring. “But you are otherwise alright? You smell like blood.” “I’m fine,” I say. But he takes me by the shoulders and looks me up and down anyway, as if he’s inspecting an expensive vase for cracks. His hands are warmer now. His face has gone back to looking human —or some very beautiful version of human. Even his frown is handsome. “You don’t look fine.” “Flattery will get you nowhere,” I say, “I can handle myself.” Last night I would have given anything for Luke’s protective arms and the concerned crease of his brow. But now I can see the condescending little smile that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You’re sure about that?” I pull away. “Listen, I have been through Hell in the last few hours. I have been chased and clawed and bitten by vampires—twice! One of them being you!—and my leg is torn and my mind is blown and I’m wearing somebody else’s pants! I need to sleep, I need to eat, I need to wear my own damn clothes, and what I don’t need is for some vampire to smile at me all amused like I’m the wife in a fifties sitcom!” He stares at me, taken aback. “I—I don’t know what that means.” “It means I’m going home!” I wheel around, stomp three confident steps—and trip over something buried under the leaves. My hurt leg buckles and I fall flat on my face. The tears that have been threatening start to fall. I glare at Luke. “Don’t you smile.” But he isn’t smiling. Luke’s beautiful face is grave, and when I follow his gaze I can see why: I haven’t tripped over something. I’ve tripped over someone.

Chapter 23: Luke Cicely stares, horrified. “Oh my God, is he—” “Dead,” I say, “Yes.” She pulls her legs up under her, as far as she can from Marcus’ body. “Are you sure? Are you sure he’s not just in torpor?” “I am sure.” To me, it is quite obvious Marcus is gone. He has been undead for centuries, magically preserved and unchanging for much longer than his kind typically lasts, and now it seems as if his body has been waiting eagerly for the chance to finally fail. His graying skin has begun to wither, drying and shrinking to the bone, as if he would become one with the dead leaves that surround him. Cicely’s voice is hushed. “Did you bury him under the leaves?” “No. He must have done that himself. They have an instinct to stay out of the sun any way they can. He just used what was at hand.” Much of Marcus is still buried, but I can see his face. I think he looks peaceful. It’s Cicely who looks pained. “Are you crying?” I ask. She glares at me with red-rimmed eyes. “Of course I’m crying. He’s dead.” “But why cry? You didn’t know him.” “You did,” she says, “Why aren’t you crying? I know vampires can cry. I’ve seen you.” “The undead like Marcus cannot. My kind can, but I seldom do.” “But,” she said, “You did know him.” I nod. “For most of my life. Almost two centuries.” I speak without thinking. My words seem to shock her out of her tears. “Two centuries?” “Yes,” I say, “Give or take. My kind live a very long time, entiendes? That is not very long to us.” She looks pityingly at Marcus. “Then he was young? He looks young.” “No, no. You misunderstand. He wasn’t one of my kind, born a vampire. He was a human once.” “An enluzante,” she says. I look at her, surprised. “Where did you hear that word?” “Emmie,” she says. I wonder what else this Emmie told her, but now does not seem the time to ask. “An enluzante, si. ‘One who was once in light.’ If you know that, you must also know his kind were not made to last. His human life was over long ago. His vampire life was only meant to last as long as he was useful. He had served his purpose.” “Disposable people.” There is reproach in her voice. “Did you kill him?” “What?” I say, “Just now? The werewolf killed him. He died of his wounds.” “No, I mean the first time he died.” “Ah. His human death. No, I was only a child, not yet old enough to feed. My mother made him to be my servant and help take care of me.” “So he was just a regular human and your mother up and murdered him. Just ended his life.”

She is glaring at me accusingly, her arms crossed over her chest. “She extended his life. Some people consider it an honor to be granted undeath, to serve a great vampire clan. It gives them a purpose.” “Because humans don’t have a purpose?” Humans have a perfectly good purpose, I think. They are here to be prey. And Cicely has an even higher purpose to fulfill at the ceremony. But of course I can’t say that. “I don’t expect you to understand.” “Good,” she says, “Because I don’t.” She reaches out one tentative hand and touches the papery skin of Marcus’ cheek. “He saved us last night.” I walk carefully around Marcus’ corpse and crouch down beside her, put my arm around her. I expect her to reject it, but she doesn’t. “He did save us.” She draws her hand back. “So what are we going to do?” “Do? I say, “What do you mean?” “I mean do! Shouldn’t we, you know, call someone?” I laugh, but gently. “Who, cariña? He has no family. Should we call the police? The murder, as you call it, was long ago. And we have no need for an undertaker.” Under my arm her narrow shoulders sag, defeated. “Well, then, that’s it? There’s nothing we can do?” She turns to me, wide eyes beseeching. She looks like a little child, with her tearstained cheeks and her ill-fitting clothes. I squeeze her shoulder tight. “What happened to the Cicely Watson I spoke to in the car? The one who isn’t afraid of graveyards, who isn’t afraid of death?” She turns back to Marcus. “I’ve never seen anyone dead.” “Really?” “Really.” It is unthinkable, and yet I suppose it must be true. I remind myself Cicely has only been alive for sixteen years. When would she have seen anyone die? I think of all the dead I’ve seen— human prey, slain Hunters, vampires defeated in battle. It’s hard to picture a single death affecting me any more than a drop of rain affects a stone. And yet, as soon as I think that, I know it’s not true. Because in a few days, Cicely will die, and I know, looking at her tired, sorrowful face, it will affect me. I pull away from her, suddenly eager to put distance between us, and stand, brushing the leaves from my clothes. “We should go,” I say, “The lycanthrope may return.” I don’t really believe it; by now the lycanthrope is probably back in human form, hiding somewhere. But I am still eager to be away from here. The forest feels tainted with death. I hold my hand out to Cicely and she takes it, allowing me to draw her reluctantly to her feet, but her eyes are still on the body. “We can’t just leave him here.” She’s right about that. The body must be disposed of. “Let me handle it.” She nods and—for once!—does what I say, retrieving her little flowered cask of Juice, then coming to stand beside me as I lift Marcus’ body. It feels light. Either Cicely’s blood has empowered me more than I knew, or the body has already begun to dwindle. Marcus is curled in on himself like a child. Carrying him, I cannot help but think of the many times Marcus carried me. So it is with some tenderness that I lay his body in the perfect patch of early morning light. Cicely gasps. Whatever that Emmie told her about the enluzantes, it hasn’t prepared her for this. She grips my arm as Marcus’ body begins to smoke, the flesh browning and curling like parchment, the bones collapsing in on themselves like the sticks of a fire that has burnt itself out. In a matter of minutes there is nothing left but the smoldering embers, and then even that

dissolves into a pile of ash. “There,” I say, “He’s gone.” I turn to walk away. But Cicely tugs at my arm. “Shouldn’t we say something, you know, funeral-like?” I sigh. “Cinerers cineribus, pulverem pulveri. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.” She looks at me doubtfully. “Is that all?” I clear my throat. “He served well.” She still looks unsatisfied. “Can’t you think of something more personal?” I search my brain for anything that would sound like a decent eulogy, but nothing comes. I never gave much thought to Marcus. He was simply there. Cicely is staring at me expectantly. Finally I remember the song Marcus was humming last night. Most of the words escape me, but I sing the few lines I remember. “Hay un lugar de amor y paz, lejos de la oscuridad, Donde vivimos en la luz, Siempre en la seguridad...” She rewards me with a watery smile. “That was beautiful. What does it mean?” “It’s about finding a place of peace.” Her dark eyes are intent. “And you believe that? That he has found peace?” She is asking the wrong man. Our kind have no souls—unless we share a human soul when we bond, as some say. If Marcus ever had a soul, I’m sure he lost it when he died a human death long ago, but I cannot bring myself to say that to her. She is watching me as if my answer matters deeply, so intense that I begin to worry she has inherited some spark of Deirdre’s psychic ability. Does she sense her own end is coming soon? No, I assure myself. She is only being human. Their lives are short and fragile. They must constantly anticipate the inevitable. What was it Cicely said the first time we spoke? “I am in mourning for my life”? I know the feeling too well, now. I can still remember the moment I became mortal, the awful realization that I would someday die—no, worse, that I was dying already, constantly, my cells endlessly snuffing themselves all around me. A hopeless feeling, like being trapped in a prison of meat. “Yes,” I lie, “I believe.” She smiles at me, grateful. Then she seems to remember something. She walks a few feet away, then picks something up: a small cross made of white-washed wood, the sort one sees in graveyards. Carefully she goes and kneels beside Marcus’ ashes and plants the cross in the dirt. Satisfied, she stands. “I should go home. My mother will be frantic.” “I’ll go with you,” I say. She shakes her head. “No offense, but it’s been a hell of a night. I really just need to be alone.” I won’t allow that, of course. Cicely Watson has a gift for trouble and I don’t intend to let her out of my sight. “As you wish.” She smiles. “Thanks.” She shoulders the cat bag and starts to walk away. “Cicely,” I say. She turns. “What?” A Marianez does not apologize. But there is no one else left to hear me. For the next few days it is only Cicely and I. “I’m sorry I yelled at you for letting me bite you. It’s just that I was angry with myself. If something happened to you…” “It would kill you,” she says, “I know.” She means it as a figure of speech, of course, but of course I know it’s true. If anything does happen to Cicely before the ceremony, my fate will be sealed. With no one from her family line to break the curse, I will some day die. And if biting Cicely today has bonded us, then my “some day” will come soon.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you, too, Luke.” She sighs. “We’re just both really tired. But, just for the record—” She smiles weakly, “I had a really nice time at the dance. You know, before the werewolf attacked.” I smile back at her. “For the record, I did, too.” “And for the record,” she says, “I’m really glad you’re alive.” “I am, too,” I say. She cocks her head to the side. “Glad that you’re alive? Or that I am?” “Both,” I say. She smiles. “Thanks.” Then she turns and walks into the growing light of day. I make myself wait until she’s out of sight and then I follow behind her.

Chapter 24: Cicely Standing outside my front door, I brace myself. My mom is going to be pissed. And honestly, I can’t blame her. After all, I disappeared all night without so much as a call. For all she knows, Luke and I eloped or were axe murdered or crashed his fancy car. Of course, what really happened is much stranger than all of that, but it’s not like I can tell my mom the truth. I mean, I could. My mom might actually believe me, considering she hit the werewolf with her car. But I keep thinking about the look on Emmie’s face when she told me not to tell. Bringing someone in on a secret like this—well, it’s dicey stuff. You could very easily blow their mind. I should know. And my poor mom has been through a lot this week. Just thinking about it makes me feel awful. Mom is still recovering from some pretty major trauma. What if she really needed me here in the night? What if I’ve stressed her out so bad she winds up in the hospital again? I mean, not that it’s my fault I was attacked by a werewolf and saved-slash-abducted by a vampire punk on her way to a bar where people drink blood… I take a deep breath. I can’t think about it any more. Time to face the music with my mom, and if she grounds me—well, a few days holed up in my nice, safe bedroom sounds pretty good right now. I spend a minute at the outdoor spigot, rinsing the blood and dirt from my hands, then splash the freezing water on my face, too. When I can’t stall any longer, I go inside. “Mom? I’m home.” There’s no answer. I glance around the living room. The place looks exactly as Luke and I left it, right down to the romance novel on the coffee table. In the kitchen, there are no breakfast dishes in the sink. A knot is growing in my stomach. It’s almost as if my mother hasn’t been here. Is she out looking for me? Or has something happened to her? After all I’ve seen in the last twelve hours, I feel like anything is possible. Vampires. Werewolves… Werewolves! For the first time a terrible thought strikes me. The wounds on my mom’s face were made by a werewolf. What if that means my mother is a werewolf now? I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before! In all my long conversation with Emmie Gardner I somehow failed to ask how a person becomes a monster in the first place, and now for all I know, my mother didn’t get up and make coffee because she jumped out her bedroom window to bay at the full moon instead. The thought makes me feel like I’ve swallowed a lump of ice. That couldn’t have been her who chased us last night. I’m sure of it. But what if she’s out there somewhere? What if she’s in here somewhere? I grab the big cake knife from the counter. Not like I’d use it on my mom even if she were a monster, but somehow just holding it makes me feel a little stronger. “Mom?” I call tentatively, and then a little louder, “Mom!” “Cicely?” My mom’s voice comes from her bedroom. She sounds weak and hoarse. “Is that you?” I rush to the bedroom, half expecting to find her somewhere between wolf and human. Instead I find her sitting up in bed, her quilt snuggled around her, her frizzy curls flattened on one side and sticking straight out on the other. She blinks in the early morning sunlight and gives

me a sleepy smile. “Hey! Is it morning? I thought I told you to wake me when you got home!” “Oh. Right. I was going to, but…you looked like you were having such a good sleep.” Her smile is dreamy. “I was. God, I can’t remember the last time I slept that well! I was out like a log.” I smile back at her. “You mean you were out like a light. You slept like a log.” “Exactly!” She pats the bed beside her. “So? How was the dance?” I perch on the edge of the bed. The covers are warm and smell like Mom’s herbal shampoo. There’s a patch of golden sunlight slanting through the window and I am suddenly very aware of how tired I am. I could crawl under this quilt right now and be out like a log myself. “The dance was…interesting.” She looks disappointed. “Just interesting?” Shocking? Romantic? Very nearly deadly? “How about ‘magical.’” Her smile widens. “That’s more like it! I want to hear everything, starting with—” her gaze falls on the knife in my hand, “—starting with why you are holding a knife.” “Oh, this?” I had forgotten all about it. “I was, you know, making breakfast.” She looks doubtful. “All you ever make is toast.” “I was getting ready to butter it.” “With that?” My mother looks skeptically at the big blade. “Okay, overkill, I know. Do you want to hear about the dance or what?” “Yes! Tell me. Did he drive safely?” “Extremely.” “And did he behave like a gentleman?” I think of Luke opening my car door, offering me his arm as we walked into school. “A perfect gentleman.” She nods approvingly. “And the music? Was it good?” In the Silence of the Secret Night plays in my mind. What were the words? I will wake the darkness of the night with your sacred name… “Yes,” I say, “The music was perfect.” “So I assume he asked you to dance.” She gives me a knowing smile. I duck my head and hide behind my hair. “We danced, yes.” She leans forward eagerly. “And then?” And then the werewolf attacked. And then the vampire bit me. And then we found the dead boy in the woods. I shrug. “You know. The usual. There’s not much to tell.” Mom groans. “You mean there’s not much to tell your mom.” She reaches out and rumples my hair. “You teenagers and your secrets. Well, did he at least kiss you good night?” The memory of Luke’s lips against my neck as we swayed by the bonfire makes me blush behind my hair. “Almost.” She nods. “Almost is okay. A perfect gentleman, like you said.” She gives me a playful little nudge. “And that leaves something for next time.” Next time. Will there ever be a next time for Luke and me? Do I want there to be, now that I know the truth? “Maybe,” I say. “And what about Ander?” she says. I jump at the sound of his name. “What about him?” “Did you see him at the dance? Did he have a good time?” “I didn’t see him,” I answer honestly. “We’re moving in different circles right now, Mom.” She looks pained. “Cicely, I don’t know what’s going on with you and Ander lately, but I do

know you two have always been close and that’s not something to just throw away. I really think you should talk to him.” I don’t know what’s going on with us, either, and as far as I’m concerned, I’m not the one throwing anything away. But one thing is certain: Ander and I are long overdue for a talk. “You know,” I say, “I was planning to go over there this morning.” My mom looks relieved. “Whatever it is, you’ll get through it,” she says. “I know it.” I hope she’s right. But I’m not going to get through anything without sleep. Still dressed in Emmie’s clothes, I collapse on top of the covers on my bed, ready to fall into oblivion. But oblivion doesn’t come. My mind is jittery, my sleep restless, my dreams haunted by wolves. I’m awake again after just a few short hours, dying to talk to Ander. Emmie said that Ander knew about the vampires, too. Did she tell him when they started dating? Or had he known all along? Was this the reason Ander was so evasive—he was trying to keep Emmie’s secrets? I rush through my morning routine, eating two big bowls of cereal in record time. A hot shower later, I have changed into my own jeans and t-shirt, pulled on my red hoodie (for luck) and tied on my own beloved boots. I have re-bandaged the cut on my leg, too, but it’s doing surprisingly well, considering. I’m guessing that’s thanks to the miracle of Juice, so I down a few more swallows and save the rest for later, just in case. I examine my other wounds, too: the puncture marks on my neck are essentially invisible now, but the ones on my wrist are still red, a vivid reminder of Luke’s fangs on my skin. I pull my sleeve down over my wrist, hoping out of sight is out of mind. Then I look in the mirror. I look tired, but otherwise normal. A normal teenage girl going on a normal walk in the woods to visit her normal best friend. Physically, I’m ready to go. Emotionally, not so much. Just looking at the woods makes me feel nervous. My familiar forest seems alien to me now that I know what the shadows might hold. It’s almost enough to make me wish I hadn’t sent Luke away. My vampire stalker-slash-bodyguard might come in handy in the woods. But Luke isn’t here, so I decide a weapon is the next best thing. I cast around for anything dangerous but our peacenik household doesn’t even have pepper spray. Couldn’t we at least be sports fans? A baseball bat might make me feel better. But in the end I settle on the cake knife again. I doubt it would do much against a super-sized wolf, but I guess it’s better than nothing. Grabbing it from the counter, I call goodbye to my mom, flip up my hood like a protective shield, and set off down the path. It’s turning into a beautiful fall day. The sun is bright now and a breeze is blowing. All around me, leaves the color of flames come spiraling slowly down. A lone crow calls in the upper branches. Somewhere someone is burning leaves. It’s the sort of day when I usually like to linger along the path, breathe in the crisp scent of fall. But today I jump at every snapping twig. It’s actually a relief when the woods begin to thin and I see the gravel of Ander’s driveway up ahead. Soon things will be out in the open. Ander will know that I know, and maybe that will bring down the wall he has built up between us. Maybe if he knows we share a secret we can at least be friends. I can’t help but hope. But as I step out of the shadow of the trees, the hope dies and a terrible feeling of dread blooms in its place. The door to Ander’s house is broken. It hangs limp on its hinges and I can only think of one reason why: the werewolf must have broken in. Nightmare images flash through my mind. There I was, assuming Ander was safe, talking with Emmie, worrying about Luke, when all along the lycanthrope was killing the person I care about most.

Well maybe it’s not too late. Gripping the cake knife, I run for the house. I have to run before I lose my nerve. I dash up the sagging porch steps, tear open the broken door, and burst across the welcome mat into the house I have always wanted to visit, the one I’ve never been invited to before. Inside, things look surprisingly normal. The small yellow kitchen is empty. The counter is crowded with canning jars and there are pots on the stove and the whole place is full of the spicy scent that always makes me think of Ander, but there’s no sign of a struggle. I peek into the living room. It’s floor to ceiling books, a few worn and squashy chairs, and what looks like a little alter draped in red cloth. A few thick candles sit unlit, a vase of flowers is slowly withering. There’s a framed picture of Ander as a kid, grinning beside his uncle and a handsome young African American guy with long dreadlocks and a stunning smile. Beside the picture is a moonphases calendar, its days carefully marked off in red. The sort of thing my mother would have. I head up the stairs. “Ander?” My voice sounds small in the big, quiet house. “Ander, are you here?” Somewhere up above me, something stirs. Something big. I stop half way up the stairs, the knife trembling in my hand. “Ander?” The only answer is a sort of whine, like an injured dog. Could that be Ander? Or is it the wolf? The sound makes me want to turn and run down the stairs, but I can’t, because what if Ander is up there, injured and crying, unable to even speak? Of course, if he is up there, there’s a chance the wolf is, too. I could run. Try to find Luke, come back with help. But by then it might be too late. Carefully I creep up the stairs. At the top, I crouch down, listening. At first I can’t hear anything above my own heart, but then it comes to me: the sound of breathing. Heavy. Labored. It’s coming from behind the door at the end of the hall and I know in my heart the beast must be in there because it’s the same panting breaths I heard last night when it had me cornered by the graveyard. The werewolf is in that room. And Ander is in there, too. I know, because the strangled whine of pain comes again and this time, it turns into a very human groan. “Ander?” I call out without thinking. His voice calls back to me, faint, from the other side of the door. “Cissa? Is that you?” Relief washes through me. Ander isn’t dead. But of course he will be soon, because the wolf has him trapped. Knife in hand, I rush for the door. And stop dead in my tracks. Because the door is locked. A long line of bolts and chains hold it closed from the outside. Ander is locked in the room. What. The. Hell. A million explanations race through my mind. Maybe someone locked him in to keep him safe. Maybe his uncle is the werewolf, holding him captive. Maybe…but I can’t think of any more, because the truth is pressing in on me, seeping in through the cracks in the wall of secrets Ander has built between us, banging on the locked door of my mind. The truth, which I should have guessed when my mother saw the wolf on my birthday. The truth, which I should have known when I saw the pale blue eyes of the wolf staring into mine. Emmie’s voice comes back to me, It’s not my story to tell. Well, no one has to tell me because I’m finally starting to understand what has been right in front of me all along. If I open this door, I know what I will see. But I still have to see it for myself. “Ander, I’m coming in.”

“No!” His voice is desperate. It sounds like it’s being dragged over gravel, rough and dry. “Please, Cissa, don’t come in!” I slide the locks, each one clicking into place like the pieces of the puzzle in my mind. First the bolt scrapes open, then the chain… The last bolt sticks. I have to pull against the door and push the lock hard. On the other side of the door, I can hear Ander pleading with me, begging me to go home. But by the time the last bolt scrapes into place, even Ander has gone quiet. All I can hear is his ragged breathing. I turn the knob and open the door. The room is dim and empty. The only light slants in through the iron bars on the windows. A torn mattress lies on the floor. In the shadows opposite it, something stirs. “Ander?” “Don’t look at me.” It’s Ander’s voice, but it isn’t Ander. It isn’t, but it is. The creature, chained to the wall by one thick arm, is too human to be the monster that attacked us last night but too monstrous to be Ander. It is bigger than a man and more muscular, too, it’s face human and wolf at the same time. Its teeth are all wolf. Its claws are, too. Its bare torso is covered in fur. But the torn sweatpants are Ander’s, the anguished voice is Ander’s, and those eyes, those pale blue eyes… He looks at me pleadingly, then ducks away. “I told you not to come in.” “I had to find you,” I say weakly, “I…I thought the wolf was holding you captive.” His laugh is bitter. “Yeah. For the last six years.” My head spins. Six years. This has been going on for six years, since before we even met, and there was no way I could have guessed. Or maybe there was. After all, looking back now, everything makes sense. All the times Ander disappeared, all the times he ran away, are as clear now as the red marks on the moon calendar downstairs. The truth is bizarre but I can’t help feeling, on some level, I knew—or I didn’t know because I didn’t want to know. Well, I want to know everything now. I step into the room. “Please,” I say, “Tell me the truth.”

Chapter 25: Ander Cicely sits cross-legged on the floor, watching me intently. She looks like a little kid getting ready for story time. I mean except for the fact that she’s holding a big knife. I nod at it. “We having cake?” She looks down at the knife like she forgot about it. “Sorry.” She starts to set it aside. “No,” I say, “Keep it.” Not like it would do much good, but it’s something at least. “And move back. You’re too close.” She scootches back. “More.” She is probably far enough, but I’m not taking any chances. This talk is bound to get emotional and, well, I don’t do emotional well. I watch Cicely move back another few inches. She seems reluctant to put even that much distance between us, which makes me feel good and scared at the same time. Good for me, scared for her. “You’re not afraid enough,” I say. She laughs nervously. “Trust me, I am.” “Not enough. You should be halfway down the street by now, Cissa. I’m dangerous.” She studies me. “You’re chained up.” “Half chained up.” I hold out my free hand. I have no idea why it’s free. I vaguely remember the guys from the bar bringing me here. Maybe they did a crappy job securing me. Probably they were in a big hurry to get out of here before I woke up all the way. Michael would have made sure it was done right. But who knows how Michael is, or where. Well, at least the guys from the bar found me pants. Being naked is about the only thing that could make this moment more awkward. Cicely is watching me thoughtfully. “I still don’t think you would hurt me.” “I wouldn’t want to,” I say, “But it’s out of my control.” “Because of the full moon,” she says, “That’s why you attacked us last night.” I nod. “I tried to get back here and get chained up and sedated and everything in time. I tried. But there wasn’t anyone to help me and I was too late and once I turn…” “It’s out of your control,” she says. I want to be completely clear. “I want to kill something. Someone.” Her eyes widen and she goes a shade paler, but she doesn’t run. “Anyone?” “Anyone.” “But,” she says quickly, “You didn’t kill me when you had the chance. You hesitated. I saw you.” I shake my head. “I don’t remember. I can almost never remember what happens when I’m a wolf—or if I do, it’s like remembering a dream. It’s like I sort of black out, or like I can see what’s going on but I can’t change it, like I’m a passenger in my body. I can’t stop myself.” “When it’s the full moon,” she says, “But the full moon is over.” “For now, sure. But the funny thing about full moon is it just keeps happening, and when it does, nothing can keep me from turning. And if that was the only time I turned, I could actually cope with it. I’d know it was coming. I could be ready. But the thing is, I could turn any time stuff gets to be too much for me, whether it’s full moon or not. If I get too angry, too

frustrated…” I can’t say “too turned on.” Not to Cicely. I’m almost glad the hair on my face hides my blush. But I’m pretty sure Cicely gets it. “But, you know, everyone loses it. I mean, you’re only human—” I laugh bitterly. “—so how do you not turn like ten times a day?” “Michael,” I say. “He’s a potioner. He makes potions to keep me calm. But I have to take them basically all the time.” A look of understanding crosses her face. “Gatorade.” “Secret of my success. Otherwise I couldn’t go to school and I’d miss out on all that fun U.S. history and advanced algebra and you know…” I let my eyes meet hers for just a second, “Chemistry.” “Right.” She smiles and looks away. “Chemistry. I’m glad you don’t miss that. But I’m sort of surprised you try to go at all.” I nod. “Most murderous monsters are home-schooled, right? And we tried it that way at first, but the thing is, the more I was away from people, the more animal I felt and the more often I changed. So when Michael improved the potions enough, he decided I should go to school. It’s a big risk, but Michael and Danny really want me to have a life. Well, as much as I can.” “Who’s Danny?” she asks, “Is he a werewolf? Is Michael?” “No.” I hesitate. It doesn’t feel right to tell her, but she already knows too much. “Michael is a vampire.” Cicely seems to take this in stride. “And Danny?” “Danny is his boyfriend. He’s human.” “Are they bonded?” “Hang on,” I say, “How do you know about that? Did Luke tell you all this?” “I’m not revealing my source,” she says, “Because it’s still my turn to ask the questions.” “Fine,” I say, “Ask.” She sits silent for a minute, thinking. I watch her. It’s nice to just watch her. Finally she says, “I want to know what it feels like. You know, to turn.” I’ve never tried to describe it to anyone before. I’m not sure words could express it. Of all the people in my life, Cicely comes closest to actually getting me and if anyone was going to understand, it would be her. But I’m not sure I want her to understand that, so I choose my words carefully. “In the old days, back in medieval times, they used to flay people like me—skin them —because they thought the wolf fur was on the inside of our skin. They thought we changed by turning ourselves inside-out.” I take a deep breath. “It feels like that.” Cicely looks horrified. “Like being turned inside out?” she says, “Or like being flayed?” “Yes,” I say. She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “Whoa.” “Yeah,” I say, “Whoa.” We sit quiet for a minute. I sort of wouldn’t mind if we were quiet all day. This stuff is hard to say—and not just because my throat feels like I just did a fire-eating act. But at the same time, talking about it feels good—bad-good, or maybe good-bad, like throwing up when you are really sick. It’s bad in but a little better out. “What else?” I say, “Ask.” She looks like it’s almost as hard for her to ask as it is for me to answer. “My mom,” she says quietly, “She’s not—” “No!” I jerk the chain without meaning to. It clatters and Cicely jumps. “No,” I say more

quietly. “She’s not infected. I was afraid she might be because I didn’t know if I bit her or not. That’s why I brought her the sedative last night, to try to knock her out just in case she was going to turn. But when I saw her acting so normal, I knew she probably wouldn’t turn.” “She didn’t,” Cicely says, “She just slept.” “Which means she’s not infected,” I say. “If she was, she would have had to turn.” “But she didn’t, because you didn’t bite her, you just clawed her.” “Don’t say ‘just,’” I say, “Claw wounds are bad enough.” Cicely’s hand moves involuntarily to her leg and a memory tugs at the edge of my mind, like a magician about to pull the tablecloth out from under the dishes. “I hurt you,” I say, “Didn’t I.” She lays a hand protectively over her leg like she wants to hide it from me. “Not bad.” Great. Now Cicely is trying to protect me—me, the person who deserves it least. “What else did I do? Your friend Luke, is he…” “No. Luke’s not dead. He’s okay.” Damn. If I had at least offed the vamp, then something good could have come out of this mess. I try to hide my disappointment but it’s hard. Everything feels so exposed when I’ve just turned. “What else did I do?” She picks at the floorboards with the tip of her knife. “Nothing.” I growl without meaning to. “Tell me!” “Fine,” she says, “Luke’s friend Marcus. He didn’t make it.” I take a deep breath. “Human?” “Enluzante,” she says, “Undead.” I let my breath out. Cicely’s eyes narrow. “Why do you look relieved? Just because he was a vampire—” “Right. Right,” I say quickly. My mind goes to Michael, kneeling on the floor with Russell’s boot in his back. Where the hell is Michael now? Why isn’t he here? But that’s a danger zone. My mind is a mine field. I have to stay away from that thought if I want to stay human for the rest of this chat. Or as close to human as I am. I try to do like Michael would tell me to when he was teaching me how to meditate. “Let the thought rise up like a wave on the ocean,” he would say, “But then let it sink back down.” It’s not easy. It’s easier to hear Cicely’s voice. “What else?” I say, “Ask!” “Okay,” she says, “You have to be bitten, and then you’re infected with the disease—” “Curse,” I say, “It’s magical.” She sighs. “Of course. Everything is this week. Okay, the curse. So you were bitten how? How does an ordinary guy in the modern world manage to get bitten by a werewolf?” “Well,” I say, “First of all, I wasn’t an ordinary guy.” She’s staring at me intensely. “Go on.” “Are you sure?” I squirm in my chains. “It’s a long story.” She smiles. “Ander, I don’t think you’re going anywhere, and neither am I.” “Okay.” I take a deep breath. “It’s just that I never told anyone this. I don’t know where to start.” “Start at the start,” she says. “You said you used to be human. Start there.”

Chapter 26: Cicely “Okay.” Ander adjusts his position, twisting in his manacle, obviously trying to settle in for the duration. “Do you know what a Hunter is?” “Well,” I say, “I’m guessing we’re not talking duck blinds and camo.” “No, thankfully. I mean a monster hunter. Since forever there have been families whose only purpose in life is to hunt monsters—werewolves, vampires, witches, dragons—” “Hang on,” I say, “There are dragons?” “There were dragons. No such thing as a protected species to us Hunters. If it’s a threat to humans and it’s supernatural, we take it out. St. George is in my family tree. The guy who inspired Van Helsing is, too. The LaCroix family is probably one of the most respected hunting families in the world.” “Wait,” I say, “LaCroix?” “Ander William LaCroix the third,” he says, “Nice to meet you.” His smile is sad and I know why. It’s a little pathetic to just be getting to the introductions four years into being best friends. But better late than never. “I like it, but what about McNair?” “Michael’s name—or, one of the ones he’s gone by. The guy’s about three centuries old, so he’s been through a few aliases in his time. I just took McNair when—” He shakes his head. “Wait, we’re totally getting ahead of ourselves. So, okay. I was raised as a Hunter.” I nod. “Swords and stakes and monster slaying.” He laughs. “It’s actually pretty state of the art now. Guns. Locator devices. And, yeah, swords too. And magic.” Magic. Am I ever going to get used to that word? “Go on.” “My dad was one of the best. A legend. My older brother Jason was almost as good. Everyone expected I would follow in their footsteps. Then, when I was eleven, I followed along on a hunt when I wasn’t supposed to. Ordinarily my dad let me come when he hunted, but this time he told me no and he wouldn’t say why, wouldn’t even say what they were hunting. But I could see it was serious. My brother left a few days before he did, so I guessed there must be more than one hunting party, and they weren’t going far from home, just into the forest that bordered our property. My uncles were going with him and my cousins. No way was I staying home with my mom and the kids. So…” He takes a deep breath. “So I snuck out, climbed down the trellis-work outside my window. My little brother—” “You have a little brother?” Ander laughs. “Cicely, that is definitely not the most surprising thing about this story.” “I know,” I say, embarrassed, “But it’s just—mom, dad, older brother, little brother…you’re changing my whole image of you. You’re a family guy.” He nods. “I have a little brother, D.J.—Damon James. He was eight then. He covered for me while I snuck out and trailed them. I was a good tracker even then.” There’s a little hint of pride in his voice. “Trouble is, I was paying attention to where my dad was, not to the quarry. The werewolf came up behind me.” A chill slides down my spine at the thought of Ander as a kid turning to see that beast. He’s

clearly reliving it in his mind as we speak. I can almost see the scene play in his eyes, as if I can look inside the creature in front of me and see the kid he was. “I turned around, and— ” He shakes his big, hairy head. “You can’t even imagine.” “Actually,” I said, “I can.” The memory of the werewolf chasing me across the playing fields will be burned into my brain forever. Ander looks suddenly tired. “Right,” he says, “Of course you can now.” I meant my words as a show of understanding, a way of letting him off the hook so he didn’t have to go through reliving that moment again. But my words had the wrong effect. Ander hangs his head with such shame, I want to reach out and comfort him, but of course he won’t want me to touch him so I keep my hands to myself. “What did you do?” “I tried to fight it.” He smiles weakly. “Stupid, I know.” “I think it was brave.” “Yeah, the two things aren’t mutually exclusive. It was stupid and brave. I just didn’t know what else to do.” “You were eleven,” I say, “I can’t imagine someone that young trying to fight that—” I was going to say that thing from last night, but then I remember I am talking to that thing from last night and I shut up. Luckily Ander didn’t hear me. The memory has overtaken him. “I had been training to fight monsters my whole life and I knew I couldn’t out run it, so I had to fight. But I also knew I couldn’t kill it. All I had with me was my sword. No gun. No silver bullets.” “Silver bullets?” I say, “That’s real?” Ander nods. “Yup, that’s what does it. A speeding train, jumping off a tall building, getting hit by your mom’s car—all major setbacks. Might take hours or days or weeks to recover, and I might have to stay in wolf form the whole time to regenerate from something that big, but I would recover eventually. Silver, however, is the real kryptonite.” He shakes the chains. “Theses babies are silver plated. It saps my strength. Plugged with a silver bullet to the heart and I’m a goner. Regular silver might do the trick with a perfect shot, but to be really sure, the bullets have to be made with inherited silver, silver passed down through a family, preferably a Hunter family.” “Why?” I ask, “What difference does it make?” He shrugs his huge shoulders, making the chain clang. “Family is powerful. Tradition is powerful. Things like that have energy, memory. I’m no witch, but I’m guessing that why it works.” “So,” I say, “before there were guns and bullets, werewolves didn’t die? I mean, even if they were…” I can make myself say flayed alive. The image is just too horrible. “The Hunters might have used silver knives, or the lycanthropes might have had some other weakness then. The curse is always mutating. It’s smart that way.” I know I should find that frightening, but I feel relieved. I don’t want Ander to be easy to kill. “So, if that’s the only thing that can kill you then you’re…” I feel a little silly saying the word, “Immortal?” Why have I never noticed how much Ander’s laugh sounds like a bark? “Immortal means you can’t die, Cissa. I can die. Just not everything that kills you kills me. Really, nothing is immortal. Not any more.” We are quiet for a minute. Then I say, “You were telling me how it happened.” “I know,” he says, “But I thought you were going to let me off the hook.” “You had to fight it,” I prompt, “But you knew you couldn’t kill it…”

“So the best I could do was disable it and run for help. I started going for its limbs to slow it down. By some sort of miracle, I got a clear shot at its front paw. Cut it clean off. The thing was as stunned as I was and I got a split second opening while its guard was down. I could have given it a good one to the skull, knocked it out of commission enough to at least get a head start. I might have even gotten away.” “But you didn’t.” “I was about to. I raised my sword. But then I saw the paw I had cut off, lying there on the ground—except it wasn’t a paw any more. I watched it turn back into someone’s hand.” The thought of it makes me feel sick. Ander looks sick, too, but I’m not sure if it’s for the same reasons. “I flinched, Cissa. Hesitated. Lost my nerve for just that second. I knew, of course, lycanthropes are humans—or they used to be, before they got the curse—but knowing it in my head was different from seeing it. I’d never killed a human before. I just—caved.” He looks away from me, his blue eyes full of disgust for the kid he was. It’s like he’s apologizing, like he wants me to forgive him for being weak. But I can’t see any weakness, only strength. “You were trying to be compassionate.” It’s the wrong thing to say. “The compassionate thing would be to kill it!” Ander’s voice is a roar, “The compassionate thing would be to put it out of its misery!” The pain makes his face look wild. I can see the curve of his canines. The chain strains against the wall and my heart pounds but I force myself to stay put. “You don’t believe that, Ander. You wouldn’t want someone to kill you.” “You don’t know that.” His voice is quiet again. He shrinks back against the wall. “I’ve tried, a million times. But the wolf’s survival instinct is too strong. It always kicks in, just when I’m about to…” “Then I love the wolf!” My voice is stronger than I thought it could be, “If it kept you alive, I owe it!” He shuts his eyes, shakes his head. “You don’t understand.” “I do! And you need to understand you are never, never ever to try to kill yourself again!” I’m shaking. The thought of it scares me more than the ‘monster’ in front of me. A world without Ander is a thousand times worse than a world full of werewolves. He smiles at me weakly. The smile looks different on this beastly face, but it’s still Ander’s smile. I still recognize it, like reading a favorite poem in translation. “Okay.” He holds up his free hand in surrender. “I hear you. And I haven’t tried, not for a long time.” He pauses. “Not since I met you.” The significance of his words hangs between us. Neither of us speaks. “It’s just,” he says, “I felt I should have died that night. When I saw the hand, I lost my second of advantage. When I tried to turn and run, it was too late. It caught me, here.” He reaches up with his free hand to grip the base of his neck, where a single marbled scar marks his skin. In the center is the black mark, like a five-pointed star. I had always thought it was a birth mark. Now I know that it’s a mark of almost-death. “It picked me up like a dog scruffs a puppy,” he says, “If it had shook me, I’d be dead. But it wasn’t trying to kill me.” “You mean,” I say, “You think it was trying to infect you?” “Who knows. Was it out of control? Did it know what it was doing? I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the ceiling trying to think it out and I’ll never know. But I do know that whole ‘lone wolf’ shtick is a load of crap. Wolves are group animals. We all want pack.” There’s so much longing in his voice I can hardly stand it. These four years I’ve always

thought Ander was okay with being an outsider, that he liked to be alone. I always thought he ran away from me and Zoe because we were too much for him. Now I’m starting to think we were never enough. “So your family,” I say quietly, “They drove you away?” “I was a monster. I thought they would kill me if they knew. So I kept it a secret.” “But they must have seen the bite!” I remember the crushing jaws of the werewolf coming at me last night. What eleven-year old could hide a wound like that? “It isn’t like that. Claw wounds from a werewolf take time to heal, but a real infecting bite heals instantly. It’s the curse’s way of keeping the venom in and keeping the infection a secret so the lycanthrope won’t be detected, so he’ll live to bite someone else. I told you, the curse has gotten efficient. It wants to spread.” “It wants pack,” I say. “Exactly. I tried to hide the symptoms, but it wasn’t easy. The days after a bite are hell—the fevers and mood swings and insane thoughts. And the dreams! My heart kept going crazy, racing like a rabbit’s, then going real slow like it was pumping tree sap. I didn’t know what was going to happen to me. There was no guide book, no one I could ask. I knew I was going to hurt someone. I felt like I was boiling over. I knew I had to run away. I should have, right off, but I was freaking out and frankly—God, you’re going to think I’m a wuss—” “You wanted your mother.” I think of my own mom and how close I came to losing her. “I wanted my mother.” He says it really quietly. “I wanted my dad and my brother Jason, who were still out hunting the monster. I wanted little D.J. and my house and my dogs. I wanted my life.” I’m trying not to cry. My breath comes out as a little choke. Ander reaches a hand towards me, slowly, like he’s afraid he might spook me, but really all I want is the warmth of his touch. And I don’t get it. He reached with the wrong hand. The chain jerks his motion short just a few inches from my hand and he pulls away. “How did you deal?” I ask, “How could you possibly make it through?” “Well,” he smiles a wolfish smile. “I figured if I was going to kill somebody, it might as well be a vampire.” “Ander!” “So I spent all my time down by the building we called the kennels. You would probably call it a dungeon or something. It’s where we kept the vamps.” “Kept them? I thought you killed them.” “Mostly, yes. But we kept a few. Ones with special talents we wanted to use, ones my dad wanted to experiment on or test new weapons on or use for us kids to practice fighting. We kept them in cages.” The image of Luke trapped in a cage flashes through my head, but I don’t interrupt. “I would go down there and just kick some vampire ass for hours a day. It felt like the only thing keeping me sane—although it actually might have been making me crazier, smelling all that vamp. I couldn’t actually turn—when you’re bitten by a lycanthrope, you don’t actually turn for the first time until the full moon. That’s when the mark shows up and the curse gets contagious—but I felt like I was going to turn all the time. My mom thought I was just coming into my own as a Hunter. She was actually proud I was down at the kennels working out. So I’d thrash some vamp, and then when I was really feeling crazy, I would just shut myself up in one of the extra cages and curl up in the straw and bawl.” “And no one caught on?”

“Michael did. He was one of the vamps in the kennels. My dad had owned him since before I was born. Kept him around to make potions for us. Michael was one of the vamps I beat on, too, but he wasn’t that satisfying because he never fought back. Just studied me. Then one day he said ‘Three days before the full moon. What are we going to do?’ Not ‘What are you going to do?’ He said ‘we.’ So I packed a few things and I stole the keys to the cages and that night, I went and let Michael out and we got Five—” “Wait,” I say, “You know Five?” “What,” he says, “Do you?” “Emmie told me about her.” It’s a lie, but I don’t think this is the time to rat Five out for biting me. Ander sighs. “Emmie is just a font of information lately, isn’t she? Yes, Five had been in the kennels for a while. She’s undead. Her parents were witches and when Five got vamped, she kept some of her psychic powers, namely she can see the future of the people she bites.” I thought of Five’s strange reaction when she bit me. She had looked horrified. My hand goes involuntarily to my neck. Is my future that awful? “I knew I needed Michael because he was a potioner. I thought maybe he could make me a cure. And Michael insisted we bring Five because she might be able to predict what was coming. She didn’t want to come with us—she said Michael was stupid to hang out with a Hunterlycanthrope—but in the end she decided being eaten by a werewolf was better than living as a lab rat, so she came. We stole one of my dad’s big vans because it had chains bolted in the back for transporting vamps. We stole his motorcycle, too, so Michael and Five could use it if they had to get away and leave me chained in the van. We took a bunch of chains from the kennels, too. That first full moon, Michael parked us in the woods and chained me down and just let me howl it out.” He pauses, thinking about it. “He could have left me then, easy. I’m sure Five wanted to. But when I came to, Michael was sitting there waiting for me. I thought he must have had too many blows to the head, not leaving when he had the chance. He said I’d understand some day what it meant to be responsible for someone else.” “And Five? Why did she stay?” I can’t picture the punk girl I met last night feeling responsible for anyone. Ander rolls his eyes. “You’d have to ask her. Five is a mystery. She’s more than a little crazy.” “And you had to go through that every full moon?” “I had to go through it every other day, it felt like. Try going through puberty as a lycanthrope. It’s not pretty.” Ander smiles wryly. His smile looks more normal now, I notice. His face is slowly becoming more human as we talk. “But Michael taught me to meditate and the changes got less frequent as time went on, and Michael’s potions got better. Eventually we felt like we could stop moving all the time. Michael wanted me to have a more normal life. Five said we should come here—there was a blood bar nearby and the woods to mask my noise. Michael met Danny and they bonded and we moved into Danny’s house and…” He raises his free arm to gesture to the house around us, “The rest is history.” “Is that why Five told you to come here?” I ask, “So Michael could meet Danny?” “Or so I could meet you.” I can tell he didn’t mean to say it. He looks as surprised by his words as I am. But now that he’s said it, he’s going to keep going. “Cissa, I didn’t get to your place on your birthday because I smelled your vamp friend in the woods and it made me change. When I realized how close I was to your house, I tried to throw myself in front of a car to take myself out so—”

“You threw yourself in front of a car on purpose?!” “But with my luck it was your mom’s car. And I’m sorry, Cicely.” His eyes meet mine. Funny how his eyes don’t change. “I’m deeply sorry that I hurt your mom. But I have to say, if it had been you…” A shudder goes through his whole body, so strong it makes the chain clang again. “I couldn’t live with myself if I hurt you.” So, he wanted to be with me that night. It’s ridiculous how good that makes me feel. I’ve just found out Ander is a werewolf, but the thing that matters to me most is that he wanted to keep our date. I smile at him. “I forgive you.” “Are you sure?” he says, “Because I’m screwing up your life.” He’s finally being honest with me, so I may as well be honest with him, too. “Ander, you are my life.” He looks away. “Don’t say it. No matter how bad I want to hear it, don’t say it.” “I just wish you would have told me. I might have been able to help.” He smiles sadly. “I’m beyond help.” “I could have listened, at least. Brought you your potions. Covered for you at school.” “Lied for me? Cleaned up my messes? Helped to chain me down?” His jaw tenses. “No. I never wanted you to see me like that—like this. I wanted to stay normal in your eyes.” I laugh. “I wouldn’t say any of us are normal.” “Weird in a good way, then.” His pale blue eyes look up at me from under his mussed blond hair. “I wanted you to think I was good.” “You are good.” I reach out and lay my hand deliberately over his. He winces, but he doesn’t pull away. His hands aren’t paws any more. The nails are still claws, but the fur is starting to thin. His face is almost human again beneath the coating of fur, his canines have begun to recede. But his breathing is still rough. I watch his bare chest rise and fall, struggling with my closeness. I give him time. “So,” I say, “You and Emmie…” “Were never going out. It was a cover.” He smiles. “Emmie Gardner’s not exactly my type.” Who is? I want to ask. I know the answer, but it still feels too good to be true. My voice is almost a whisper. “So the fact that you and I aren’t going out, that’s not because you don’t like me?” He gives a nervous laugh. “I like you. A lot.” “I like you, too.” In a love sort of way. I take a deep breath. “But you won’t kiss me, right?” “Not won’t,” he says hoarsely, “Can’t.” He sounds like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me. I inch a little closer. “But what if I kissed you?” “Cicely…” My name is a plea, but whether he’s begging me to kiss him or not to, I don’t know. I’m not sure he knows. All I know is Ander wants to be with me. He sits, frozen in place, every muscle tense. I lean in closer until my lips almost touch his, until I can feel his ragged breath against my face, see the beads of sweat on his brow, feel the way his hand shakes when, at the last second, he pulls it away from mine. Reluctantly I sit back. “No?” “Chain my other hand first. I don’t want to hurt you.” He slips his free hand into the manacle behind him and waits, eyes shut, as I click the lock into place. Kneeling, both arms chained behind him, he looks so vulnerable, so unlike the monster he was last night. I lean in again and brush my lips softly against the stubbled line of his jaw, first one cheek, then the other, watching for reactions. Ander holds perfectly still, afraid even to breathe. I take a deep breath myself and

press my lips against his. At first it’s like kissing warm stone. Then Ander seems to melt under my touch, his lips parting as a tremor moves through his body. And then he is kissing me, really kissing me, with intensity. I can taste the salt of his lips, smell the spice of the potion on his breath, feel the tension in his arms as he strains against the chains to press himself against me. My fingers trace the knotted muscles of his shoulders, find the ridge of scar at the base of his neck, climb through his sweat dampened hair. I can feel his heat filling me, spreading through every cell of my body until I feel liquid and dizzy with wanting him. Ander groans with frustration, twisting against the chains to strain another fraction of an inch closer, and I more than meet him half way. His breath is husky, panting. I can feel each breath against my chest. I reach up to his hand, chained behind his head, and press the palm of my hand against his, the way I pressed my hand into the paw print of the wolf in the graveyard just last night. His palm is big and warm and rough against mine. Our fingers interlace and he holds on tight, his curved nails biting into the back of my hand as he turns his head to nuzzle my fingers. When he groans again, it is an animal noise, half growl. He kisses my fingers, my wrist. I press the tender skin against his strong lips, eager just to make contact with him any way I can. Then suddenly, he pulls away. It’s like someone has opened a door, like a draft of cold rushes in. The sudden inches of space between us feels like miles and I’m abandoned. “What?” I say, “What is it?”

Chapter 27: Ander Cicely stares at me, wide-eyed. “Ander, what’s wrong?” She looks so beautiful, sitting there on my bedroom floor, her dark hair crazy, her cheeks flushed, her breath still coming hard. But now all I can do is stare at her wrist, where two clear puncture wounds stare back. “Cicely,” I say, “Did he bite you?” It takes her a second to register what I’m asking. Her mind must still be in the land of us kissing—where I wish my mind was. Where my body still very much is. “Oh, this?” She tugs the sleeve of her hoodie down over her wrist to hide the bite marks, blushing, embarrassed, like it’s nothing more than a hickey. “I’m okay, really. And it isn’t what it—” “When? What happened?” The passion I felt a second ago turns to anger, like boiling water to steam. Memories start to surface in my mind: Luke and Cicely swaying by the bonfire last night, his lips against her neck. “What did he do?” “It was my idea,” she says firmly, “Luke was in torpor. He was hurt. I made him bite me so he could heal. Otherwise he would have died.” Died. From the wounds I inflicted. If he had, I could be claiming my cure right now. Danny and Michael could be free. Cicely would be safe. And the kiss she and I just shared could be more than just a one-time thing, more than just a kiss goodbye. “You should have let him die!” My voice echoes in the empty room, “You should never have let him bite you!” “Well, I wouldn’t have had to if you didn’t hurt him so bad!” She’s up on her feet now, her hands balled into fists. “I mean, I know you didn’t mean to hurt him, but—” “No,” I say, “I meant to kill him!” The words are out of me before I can stop them. Cicely freezes. “What?” My spine is a seam about to split. My chest is heaving with the effort of breathing. But I can’t turn. I have to explain. “I swore I would kill him because he plans to kill you!” “You’re only saying that because he’s a vampire!” Her eyes are fierce. It kills me to see her defend him. “But it isn’t like that! Luke doesn’t want to hurt me. He was furious with himself for even biting me!” “Because he doesn’t want to bond!” I yell, “He knows he is going to kill you and he doesn’t want to die with you!” I’ve struck a nerve. I can see the war in Cicely’s eyes—the part of her that wants to believe Luke fighting the part of her that knows I’m right. “No,” she says, but there’s a question in her voice. “Yes,” I say, as gently as I can manage. She looks so betrayed, it makes me wonder if he means more to her than I think. But I can’t think about that or I will turn. “I should have told you.” “Tell me now.” She sits back down on the floor, warily now, a ways away. “Just tell me.” So I do. I tell her about my brothers coming here and taking Danny. I tell her about the prophecy and the vampire leader who is destined to rise and the girl who has to die for him to do it. I tell her all of it, quickly, trying to spit out the words before words abandon me again. And Cicely sits there like she’s listening to a lecture in a very hard class, her face focused and intense,

her lips pressed into a straight line, the wheels turning behind her deep brown eyes. I can tell she doesn’t want to hear this but she’s forcing herself to listen anyhow, so I force myself to tell all of it. Well, almost all of it. I don’t tell her my family offered me a cure because, frankly, what does it matter now? When I finish, we sit in silence, Cicely biting her lower lip in thought, her right hand clamped over the bite marks on her left wrist as if she’s trying to stop a wound from bleeding. Finally she says, “So you said you would kill Luke Marianez to save your uncle and his bonded from the Hunters and to save me from the vampires.” “That’s it in a nut shell,” I say. The wolf has gone out of me. I feel deflated again. As deflated as Cicely looks. “And now,” she says, “You’re afraid Luke and I are bonded, that killing him will kill me, too.” “That’s right,” I say, although “right” hardly seems to fit when everything about this seems wrong. She takes her hand away from her wrist and turns it over slowly, examining the twin puncture wounds underneath as if she’s trying to decide how to feel. The bite has nearly healed by now. It’s just two dark pink dots. Not the sort of thing that should mess up a decent plan. Not the sort of thing that should make a guy stay a monster forever. Not the sort of thing that should make a guy choose between his adopted family and the life of the girl he loves. But that’s exactly what I have to do. “So.” She looks me in the eye. “Are you still going to kill him?” It hurts me she would even ask. “Of course I can’t.” “But you don’t know that we are bonded.” “Yeah,” I say, “And we don’t know you’re not, either.” I almost don’t ask, but then I have to know, so I say “If we knew you weren’t bonded, then would you want me to kill him?” “No!” The thought clearly sickens her, and that fact sickens me. Does she have a thing for him, then? The memory of Luke and Cicely dancing by the fire comes back to me again, rising in my mind like bile. They certainly looked like a couple in love. But then, she may just be protective of him because she’s feeling the bond forming. My God, I think, am I actually hoping they are bonding because her being in love with him would be worse? “I’m not going to kill him,” I say. She looks relieved, then guilty for feeling it. “But, you’re uncle…” I shake my head. “I can’t kill Luke if it’s going to kill you. Period.” “But aren’t I going to die anyways?” There’s an edge of panic in her voice, “Isn’t that what you are telling me with this prophecy stuff? Aren’t I destined to die no matter what—and now Michael and Danny and maybe Luke are, too?” She’s up and walking to the window, like she’s instinctively looking for an escape. But standing there in front of the iron bars she looks how I feel: trapped. “There has to be some way.” “I’ll figure it out.” Somehow. I have no idea how. “Oh no you don’t!” She turns to face me. “That doesn’t work any more, that whole running off and dealing with things by yourself. I know your secrets now and you said it yourself—the whole lone wolf thing is bullshit!” “This is my problem,” I say, “And I will—” “It’s my problem, too! Or haven’t you noticed I’m the one who has an ancient vampire clan that wants her dead?” She turns back to the window bars, grabs them, and shakes them with

frustration. They don’t budge an inch. “Can’t we, you know, fight them?” “Cicely, I’m a werewolf and a Hunter. Nobody wants to take on a big pack of vampires more than I do. But there could be hundred of them and my family has made it clear they aren’t going to help. We can’t fight them.” “So we, what? Hide? Run?” “I’m the king of running. But running won’t help right now.” “But if I’m going to stay away from Luke—” I take a deep breath. “I don’t want you to stay away from Luke.” It nearly kills me to say it. “I want you to go to him.” “Wait,” she says, “What?” “If a bond has already started between you, there’s no way to undo that. But you can make it stronger. Take it all the way. Get him to bite you two more times—three times is usually the charm. Maybe if you’re bonded, the vampires won’t kill you because they won’t want to kill Luke, too.” She looks at me, skeptical. “Do you think that will work?” “I’ve seen it work the other way,” I say, “Vamps who bond with a human to use her as a kind of human shield, to try to get us Hunters to not kill them.” I don’t mention that sometimes we kill them anyhow. But then, sometimes we don’t. “I think it’s our only chance.” “But,” she says, “What about you?” Her eyes say what about us? What about us? When we kissed, it felt so possible. Chains or no chains, I felt free. But how can we have a future together now? I’m not sure either one of us has a future at all. And even if we did, I can’t say that to her now. Loving me would only be a distraction. If she’s going to bond with Luke she has to focus on him completely. “Forget about me,” I say, “Just go to him.” “But how can I, knowing he was going to kill me? I can’t be with him now!” “If the bond has already started, you’ll have no choice. You’ll start to crave him soon.” “But he isn’t going to want me to. He was furious with himself for biting me.” Well, that makes two of us who are furious with Luke Marianez. “You have to make him want to.” Her face, so flushed with excitement just a few minutes ago, is completely pale. Her voice is quiet. “What if I can’t?” It takes all the strength I have to force myself to say it. “Cissa, your life depends on it. Promise me you’ll try.”

Chapter 28: Luke I can hear Constanza before I see her and it reminds me of the first time we met, long before she was queen. It was in England. Her family had a huge old house there on a rolling country estate and, as I was her distant cousin, I had been sent there to visit. When I arrived I was shown into the drawing room and told to wait while Miss Constanza finished her singing lesson. I could hear her rich soprano even through the thick oak door. She was singing an exercise in pronunciation, the same tongue-twister phrase over and over again: brutally beautiful, brutally beautiful, brutally beautiful. When she stepped out of the room at last—blond curls shining, eyes bright with feline curiosity—and fixed me with a sharp-fanged smile, I could not help but think the phrase described her completely. “Brutally beautiful” indeed. She is singing now, too. Her voice echoes through the narrow sandstone tunnels, drawing me around each snaking turn. She is singing, but it is not the same controlled voice I heard the day we met. Her voice sounds like a little child’s now, thin and lilting. At first I think I can’t make out the words, but as I grow closer, I suspect there are no words—none that make sense to anyone but her. My mind has begun to play its own tongue-twister phrase now: mortal madness, mortal madness, mortal madness. That’s what we came to call it when newly mortal vampires lost their minds. Constanza lost hers when her mate Javier was killed by the Hunters, but she might have lost it even if he had lived. The creeping erosion of mortality, the minutes like maggots eating away at you, all day, all night…add to it the years we had spent in torpor, like dying but with dreams. It was a wonder we hadn’t all gone mad. I round the final corner to where the tunnel suddenly opens wide like a snake unhinging its jaw and I find myself in the throne room, a cavern as big as a cathedral. It is dimly lit by torches sunk into the soft sandstone walls. The firelight licks over symbols and drawings etched into the surface of the cave like scars, and casts a flickering light on Queen Constanza, seated on her big black throne. In front of her is the wide slab of stone that serves as the sacrificial altar and all around it, crouched in clumps of five or six, are the enluzantes. They are feeding. The stale air is thick with the smell of blood, each huddle of undead intent on its kill. But they all look up when I enter, suddenly vigilant. Constanza has made them from a random assortment of humanity. Her madness has left her indiscriminate, making vampires of the young and old, male and female, beautiful and ugly. Physically all they have in common are the black clothes she has given them, so they are better able to blend in to the night. Beyond that, they share nothing. But because the queen’s mind is linked to each of them, they move in eerie unison, raising their heads to stare at me warily, then, at Constanza’s nod, turning back to their feed in one seamless motion. “Luke, come in!” Constanza smiles at me and I try to smile back, although the sight of her makes me want to cringe. The torpor has made her thin. Her gown hangs where her plush curves once filled it. A hundred years ago, the dress was peacock blue, but now it has faded to gray, caked with the dust of these tunnels, the only color on it the fresh spray of blood that dots her bodice. There is dust in her hair, too. The once gilded locks hang in thick, matted ropes. She has taken to decorating them with bits of things: dried roses and scraps of string and clumps of candle wax. On the crown of her head a moth the color of moonlight is tangled in her hair. It beats its wings, helpless.

“I knew you would come when I felt Marcus die,” she says, “I was afraid you had died, too! How did he go?” “Believe it or not, your majesty, there is a lycanthrope.” She sucks in her breath. “So it’s true! Some of my enluzantes said there were rumors of a wolf! But the girl, Deirdre’s descendant—” “Is safe at home,” I say, praying she actually is. “Good. And you have killed the werewolf?” “Not yet, your majesty.” She stands. She is only my age but she is weak and standing is an effort. The enluzantes rush to help her but she waves them off and they retreat, silent as the tide. Instead she pulls herself up on a staff she has made from a gnarled stick. On the top of it she has stuck the bald, plastic head of a baby doll. One of its eyes rolls up into its head but the other fixes me with a glassy stare. That look makes me want to change the subject. “So,” I say, “Did you get the girl I sent you?” “Yes, of course,” she says, “That was thoughtful of you.” “Then she pleased you?” “She did, yes, and she pleases me still.” She points the doll’s head at the nearest knot of enluzantes where the girl I gave her is crouched. I recognize her from our English class at school, and from the mall where she and her friends tormented Cicely, although now her smug smile is gone. “Lyla Jansen,” I say. At the sound of her name the girl drops the limp arm she had been sucking and looks up at me. Her eyes register a faint ghost of recognition, but she doesn’t speak. “She hasn’t remembered herself much yet.” Constanza crooks a finger at the girl, who trots obediently to us and kneels at the Queen’s feet. Newly made enluzantes are always shell shocked, but it seems to me this girl is more disoriented than most. What, I wonder, must it be like to be tethered to the mind of a mad woman? “I didn’t think you were going to keep her.” “I wasn’t.” Constanza reaches down and pats the girl like she is a spaniel. Lyla looks up at her adoringly. “But she is pretty, don’t you think?” I shrug. “Pretty enough.” I suppose some might consider the girl beautiful, but she has none of Cicely’s fire. Constanza narrows her eyes at me as if she can read my mind. “But this isn’t the girl you came to talk about, is it?” She dismisses Lyla with a wave and the girl trots back to her feed. “Why haven’t you brought me Deirdre’s descendant?” She taps her staff impatiently, making the doll’s eyelids flutter. “I am regretting letting you fetch her for me. Do I need to go get her myself?” “No!” I say, too quickly. “You said I could have my fun, Constanza.” “I said you could if it didn’t interfere with our plans for the sacrifice. But if the girl may get killed by some lycanthrope first—” “She won’t! I won’t let it happen!” Constanza smiles at the fervor in my voice. “Good. For a minute I was afraid you had forgotten what this girl means to us.” “Cicely means everything,” I say, and as soon as I say it I am surprised by the truth in my words. Cicely means everything. Constanza studies me, suspicious. “You aren’t becoming attached to her, are you?” “No,” I say, “Of course not. I’m not a fool.”

“You were a fool for Deirdre.” She states it as a simple fact. “We all told you not to trust a witch. We told you her kind had joined up with the Hunters, that they had become our enemies. But you insisted your Deirdre was different. You had to carry on with her in secret, had to lie with her, had to bite her. And what did it get us? Death. She betrayed you and infected you with the curse of mortality, and it spread through our family and—” “I remember what happened!” The enluzantes startle at the sound of my voice. “Do you?” Constanza’s voice is quiet. “I can smell the girl on you. She smells like Deirdre, doesn’t she?” I try to keep my voice controlled. “I have paid for my mistake, your majesty.” “We have all paid for your mistake.” She growls the words between clenched fangs. All around us the undead pick up the growl and echo it until the cavern is full of the sound. I force an apologetic smile. “Then you cannot blame me for wanting to extract a little extra punishment from Deirdre’s descendant? For wanting to misuse her like she misused me?” She arches an eyebrow at me. “You don’t think her death is revenge enough?” I give her what I hope is a sly smile. “Death alone would be far too kind.” She studies me for a moment more. Then she brings the staff down on the stone like a judge banging a gavel, so hard the doll’s head squeaks. “Very well! You may have your time, cousin. But remember in a few days it will be All Hallows Eve and the girl’s time will be up.” She grins at me. It makes her face look like a skull. “Because time, you know, is of the essence.” She pushes up the sleeve of her dress and I can see the source of the ticking sound: Her thin arm is ringed with watches, each set to a different time. They tick in wild cacophony, like the buzz of a swarm of locusts. “Where did you get them all?” I ask. She spreads her arms to the enluzantes. “They were theirs, of course!” “Of course.” It strikes me as strange that the watches keep ticking after their owners hearts have stopped, steadily keeping time for those whose time has run out. Constanza stretches her arm out to admire the watches. “It was always you who kept the little trinkets and trophies from your kills, Luke, and now, see, you have me doing it, too.” She shakes her head. The ropes of hair sway like snakes. “But mementos are so silly.” “We can’t live in the past,” I agree. “Not so!” she smiles, “In the past, we lived forever!” Well, I don’t want to live in the past. Not any more. Constanza is wrong; I’m not becoming attached to Cicely because I want to go back to the past. I want to live in the future. I want to live right now. Seize the night. “And we will live forever again,” Constanza says. “And when the ceremony is done and we are immortal again, you be forgiven and the Hunters will be punished. But now, you may go.” She has lost interest in me suddenly, and it’s just as well. She turns away from me, her petticoats rustling like dry leaves. The enluzantes stir uneasily, tossed on the restless currents of Constanza’s mind. Lyla Jansen looks up at me again and a ghost of her old smile crosses her lips before the dark waters of the group mind pull her under. “I will see myself out,” I say, but the queen is no longer listening. She has gone back to her wordless singing, a cross between a child’s nursery song and a requiem for the dead. Behind her music, the watches keep a million different beats. She thumps the staff in time, too, and the doll’s head mews softly with each beat, until she abandons the staff, letting it roll across the slab of stone. It lands, glass eye staring, on the spot where Cicely will lie.

I need to get out of here. I turn and stride for the tunnel, the dead parting to let me pass. On my way I snatch a burning torch from its hole in the wall. I don’t need it to see—my eyes are accustomed to the dark—but I crave its light, its warmth. It makes me think of Cicely. Everything does. Is this what bonding feels like? I should know—I started to bond with Deirdre, once upon a time. I craved her. But somehow it wasn’t like this. And yet this must be bonding because when I think of Cicely dying I feel like I want to die, too. Which is, of course, silly. Her death doesn’t mean my death, I remind myself. If I can just keep myself from bonding with her, then her death will mean my life. If she dies in the ceremony, I will live forever. I’m just not sure I will want to. I round the last dark curve in the tunnel and step out into the light. I am standing on a cliff. Below me, the Mississippi River hisses past. Above me, the sky is wide and blue. The sun blazes down and my torch blazes back and a spark in my chest blazes, too. I drink in a lung-full of crisp October air. It is an intensely beautiful world. More and more, I think of it as Cicely’s world. More and more I wish it were my world, too. A minute ago, I hoped I wasn’t bonding, but now I almost hope I am. Because it’s either that or I’m falling in love.

Chapter 29: Cicely When I get home, I’m relieved to find the note from my mom telling me she’s gone to work. Alone time is what I need, alone time to try to process everything that has happened in the last few days. But honestly, I can’t even bend my mind around the last few hours. My massive sleepdebt is quickly catching up with me and I feel like I’m about to crash. I am half-way through a bowl of frosted flakes and considering a nap when I hear the knock at the door. A week ago, a knock on the door would just have been a knock on the door. Now my whole body tenses at the sound. It could be anyone—anything. “Who is it?” “It’s me! Work was slowish so dad let me bail.” Zoe. I let out the breath I didn’t know I was holding and go to open the door. Zoe is standing there smiling. Her red pigtails are crushed from her work hairnet and she smells like a hashbrown. In other words, perfectly normal. “Well?” she says, “Are you going to let me in?” “Come on in.” Zoe walks in and flops down at our kitchen table, fishing a Diet Coke, a Ho-Ho, and a takeout order of fries out of her bag. She opens the fries and dumps half of them into my empty cereal bowl. “So dish.” “Dish what?” I ask. She rolls her eyes. “The dance! What else?” What else? Everything else. The dance feels like ancient history. So much has happened since. And yet parts of the dance are permanently burned into my brain. And not just the deadly parts. Without meaning to, I remember Luke’s hand on the small of my back as we danced, the way he whispered the words of that song into my ear…but Luke is the villain, I remind myself. Luke wants me dead. Zoe waves a hand in front of my face. “Hello? Cicely? Are you in there?” “The dance was good. Great. Fine.” She pinches a french fry out of my bowl and lobs it at my head. “No withholding! Spill! Was there snogging or not?” “There was…semi-snogging. A near kiss.” Zoe nods professionally. “Kissus interuptus. Common on the first date. That’s fine. It means he wants to kiss you, right? So on your second date—” “I don’t know if there’s going to be a second date.” Zoe aspirates Ho-Ho. “What do you mean, you don’t know? What did you do? Is it irredeemable? Did you spaz?” “No. There was no spazzing. It’s just—” “Then was it something he did?” Zoe’s eyes narrow. “Did that boy act the fool with you? Because if he did—” “No, Zoe, he was fine.” I sigh. “A gentleman.” “Good!” She bangs her Diet Coke can down for emphasis. “Because boys can be beasts.” Um, yeah. “I just meant he hasn’t asked me on a second date.”

“But you will be seeing him again, right?” The thought makes my stomach twist. Of course I have to see Luke again. I have to somehow seduce him into biting me again, and then I have to be with him. Forever. On the surface, what could be more of a dream than a lifetime with cultured, handsome Luke Marianez? But knowing he plans to kill me, knowing that being with him means leaving Ander…what could be more of a nightmare? “Cicely?” Zoe chews on one of my french fries, her face full of concern. “Is everything okay? You seem…off.” “Everything is fine,” I say, “Everything is perfectly normal.” There is another knock at the door. I jump about six inches. “Who is it?” “Hey, y’all! It’s just me!” Zoe’s eyebrows shoot up. She whispers, “Emmie Gardner? What is she doing here?” I give an exaggerated shrug and go to answer the door. Emmie is wearing a pink, fake-fur jacket over a t-shirt of the Count from Sesame Street, a pair of skin-tight jeans, and cowboy boots. There is a sparkly pink scarf wrapped strategically around her neck and she’s carrying a big pan of Rice Crispy treats. “Cicely!” She thrusts the pan into my hands and air-kisses each of my cheeks. “I’m just so glad you’re home!” “Emmie,” I say, “What are you doing here?” “Well you just rushed off so quick last night we barely got to finish our chat. Plus I think I left my bag with you.” She steps into the room and notices Zoe, who is sitting there with her mouth hanging so far open I can see her last bite of fries. Emmie beams at her like they’re old friends. “Oh, hey, Chloe!” “Zoe,” I correct her. “Zoe. My bad.” She knocks her forehead with the heel of her hand “I swear my brain doesn’t work before three p.m.” She comes to settle herself across from Zoe, folding her coltish legs under our little kitchen table and looking around. “What a sweet little place y’all have!” I check her voice for sarcasm or condescension, but there isn’t any. Emmie seems perfectly happy to settle into my kitchen for the duration. But I’m pretty sure Zoe doesn’t want her to. She keeps looking back and forth between Emmie and me with an expression of total disbelief. It reminds me of the way I looked at Emmie and Ander when I first heard they were going out. Which they aren’t, I remind myself. Just knowing that makes Emmie much, much easier to take. But I still can’t handle anything more today, and I can’t picture Emmie coming by for reasons that aren’t overwhelming and disturbing and paranormal. “I’ll go grab your bag,” I say, and trot off towards my room to fetch it, half hoping if I do, Emmie will take it and go. When I come back, however, Emmie has served herself a Rice Krispy bar and is nibbling away. I hand her the bag. “I rinsed the thermos. It’s inside.” “Thanks, hon.” She takes the bag. “But of course that’s not the whole reason I’m here. I talked to Ander just now—I was so worried, I just had to know you were okay!—and he gave me the whole two scoops on your chat and this whole thing with Luke.” She gives me a sympathetic look. “I mostly came by because I figured you might want to, you know, process. And that you might want a little advice about talkin’ Luke into doin’ you-know-what.” She grins. “Since that’s kinda my area of expertise!” “Listen,” I say, “I’d like to talk.” And I really would. Seeing the kind concern on Emmie’s face makes me want to confide in her. After all, Emmie is the only one who knows Ander’s

secret and the only person I know who could give me advice on how to get a vampire to bite me and bond with me. Emmie is probably the only person I know who would really understand. “But maybe later? I mean…” I glance at Zoe. Her eyes are narrowed to slits, her cheeks two blotches of angry color. “Oh, don’t postpone girl-talk on my account. I was just leaving.” She grabs her bag and her jacket and heads for the door. I follow her. “You don’t have to go,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing. Zoe turns to me halfway out the door, her voice low and fierce. “What was that back there? That ‘not in front of the kids’ look you gave her?” “Zoe,” I sigh, “It’s not personal! It’s just there’s some stuff…you wouldn’t get it.” “You know, I think I do get it. I think you’re looking for a friend upgrade, am I right? Now that you’re dating a popular guy? Well, let me tell you right now, Emmie is only hanging out with you because you’re going out with Luke.” “Excuse me?” I have to work to keep my voice down. I have been through so much lately, the last thing I need is Zoe doing drama. “You don’t know the first thing about Emmie. There’s a lot more there than meets the eye.” ‘Really?” says Zoe, loud enough I’m sure Emmie can hear her, “Because I’m pretty sure yesterday you hated her.” “Well, people change,” I say. “Yeah.” Zoe is looking at me like she’s seeing me for the first time. “But not always for the better.” She yanks her jacket on and steps out the door. “Zoe, wait!” I can’t stand to lose anyone right now. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing!” “Nothing?” She turns back to face me again. “It sounded back there like Emmie was offering to give you advice on how to get Luke to sleep with you, after you told me you weren’t even sure you’d have a second date.” “That isn’t it!” I say. “Then what?” she says. “You wouldn’t get it!” I say. “Try me!” We stand there, glaring at each other. Zoe’s expression is full of hurt and betrayal and confusion. I can tell just by looking at her that her intuition is screaming something is wrong and it’s killing her not to know what. I can tell because I know exactly how she feels. I have been in this position a thousand times before, begging Ander to tell me, to trust me, feeling like the girl in the dark. It sucks. Emmie has come up behind me, standing uncertainly in the living room. I turn to her. “I want to tell Zoe.” I expect her to stop me. In fact, I hope she will. I know telling her could put Zoe in danger, and that’s the last thing I want to do. But I’ve been kept out of the loop for years now “for my own protection” and I know there are risks to not knowing, too. And frankly, I want Zoe to know. Maybe it’s selfish, but I could die in all of this and I want Zoe to understand why. I don’t want this fight to be the last words we say to each other. “I really need a friend right now.” Emmie smiles understandingly. “It’s your story to tell, hon. You’re as much a part of this world now as I am. And I know what it’s like to want a friend who knows.” I laugh. “Emmie, you have a whole bar full of friends who know!” She shrugs. “I mean a real friend.”

It takes me a second to realize she means me. I smile at her and she smiles back. Then I turn back to Zoe. Her expression has shifted. She is looking at us, apprehensive. “Tell me what?” she says, “What’s going on?” “Zoe,” I say, “Can you keep a secret?” A few hours later we are still at my kitchen table and the Rice Krispy bars are gone—all except the one in front of Zoe, which she hasn’t touched. She has been too busy gaping at me as I told her everything. When I finally reach the end, Zoe shakes her head in amazement. “I knew it,” she says, “I knew it was all true! Vampires, witches, werewolves…” “You have every right to an ‘I-told-you-so’ on this one,” I say. “The world turns out to be a more interesting place than I thought.” “Aliens?” says Zoe, “Are there aliens?” “Zoe,” I say, “Focus.” “But it’s not fair!” she glares at me. “Why do you get to be the psychic?” “I never said I was psychic,” I say. “But you had visions or flash-backs or something,” Zoe says. “And why do you get the prince in love with you?” “The vampire prince,” I say. “Did you miss the part about him wanting to drink my blood?” “No,” Emmie purrs dreamily, “But if you want you can tell it again.” “What I mean is you guys shouldn’t envy me. Luke is a vampire prince, but he doesn’t love me. He just pretended to because he wants to make me some human sacrifice so he can rise up and be some vampire messiah or something.” “Oh!” says Zoe, “That reminds me, that angel stuff is crap, right?” “I don’t know,” says Emmie sadly, “But we could use some divine intervention right now.” “I don’t think we can afford to count on it,” I say. “I think we need to focus on a plan.” “How about get the hell out of Dodge?” says Zoe, “How’s that for a plan? Ditch on Luke’s vampire family and road trip. Head for Canada or Mexico or somewhere.” “Oh!” Emmie brightens, “Can we go to Cancun? La Sangre is supposed to be a great bar. Mords-moi. That’s bite me in Spanish.” “Emmie,” I say, “That’s French.” “Oh.” Her brow puckers in thought. “Well then, let’s go to Paris!” “I don’t want to go to Paris!” I am starting to lose patience with both of them. “You guys, this isn’t a game! This is life or death for me—for a bunch of people—and there’s no way to know how any of it is going to end!” “Maybe there is a way,” Zoe chews thoughtfully on a wad of marshmallow. “Maybe if we could see what was going to happen in the future, you would know how to make Luke bond with you, or if that’s even the right thing to do. I mean, you should be able to see it. You’re the psychic.” “I’m not—” “Good idea!” Emmie smiles. “But you guys,” I say, “It doesn’t work that way. I’ve only seen what I guess is the past— Luke’s past—and I’ve only seen it by mistake. I’ve never tried to see anything. And I’ve certainly never seen the future.” “That,” says Zoe, “Is because you’ve never had my help.” In no time Zoe has gathered every candle in the house and my bedroom is lit only by their

flickering light. The shade is drawn, the door is shut, and we are sitting cross-legged on the floor, a big old Christmas candle between us. Emmie takes a deep breath. “This room smells like a candy cane!” “And I feel like a fruit cake. Guys, I’m not the magic eight ball and no amount of—” “Cissa, shush!” Zoe takes my hand firmly on one side and Emmie’s on the other. She gestures for me to take Emmie’s other hand, closing the circle. “Good.” She nods approvingly. “Now shut your eyes and breathe. Relax.” I shut my eyes. I can breathe—thankfully—but relaxing is way beyond me. I’m not at all sure this will help. I’m half afraid it won’t and half afraid it will. But I do my best to fake relaxation as Zoe starts in with a chant that must be from one of her teen witch books, calling on powers from each direction in a hushed and reverent tone. I can feel Emmie’s hand relaxing in mine and I steal a glance at her. She sits, eyes shut, head bowed, her curls like coils of copper wire in the candle light. I can’t help envying her a little. Emmie has no trouble giving over to something more powerful than herself. Is it a thrall thing to be made of trust? Zoe finishes her chant. “The circle is cast. We are between the worlds and in all the worlds. Blessed be!” Beside me, Emmie murmurs an “Amen.” “Now, Cicely,” Zoe whispers, “Concentrate. What do you want to see?” Immediately an image of Ander springs to mind—Ander, not as I saw him last, half man-half beast, but my usual Ander, his blond hair in haystack disarray, his blue eyes the color of his faded jeans. That’s who I want to see, now and always. But that’s not who I’m supposed to be looking at. I try to conjure Luke in my mind—his black curls, his sharp jaw, the brooding expression in his dark eyes—but it’s as if something else is pulling at me. I keep thinking about Ander, about the feeling I had when he told me his family had promised to let Danny and Michael go if Ander killed Luke. I had the feeling Ander was leaving something out. “What?” Zoe whispers, “Are you getting something?” I press my eyes shut tight and shake my head. “No. Not what I’m supposed to be getting.” “Then accept whatever you are getting,” she whispers, “Don’t fight it! Try to open yourself to the universe. Let it show you what it wants you to see.” Open myself to the universe. I take a deep breath. “Zoe, this isn’t going to—” Reality shifts. It rolls like the tumblers of a picked lock and clicks itself into place. I have the sudden feeling the room is tipping and I’m about to slide off the edge. I grip Zoe and Emmie’s hands, desperate to stay upright, but it’s too late. The room pitches like a ship in a storm and I’m falling down, down, down. Images flash by me like movies projected on the black walls of a cave—places and people I’ve never seen before, but I still recognize them right away. I know the huge house with a wide white porch and the ivy-covered pillars must be Ander’s family home. I recognize Ander as a kid—his straw-blond hair and blue eyes haven’t changed—and his dad, so much like Ander but even bigger, his own blond hair squared off into a buzz cut. The other boy must be Ander’s older brother. I watch him teach a five- or six-year old Ander to shoot a bow, watch Ander, a little older now, hike through a marsh with a younger boy trailing behind him, watch Ander—older still—locked in combat with a vampire woman in a chain-link pen, his father barking orders like a coach on the sidelines of a football game. Ander grapples with the vampire, but they’re evenly matched. I see the sweat slide down his neck as she pushes him back one step, two… Then the vampire missteps, just a half step, but it’s enough. Ander wrenches free of her

grasp, shoves her to the ground as he brings the stake down in one swift motion. Crunch. I hear the sickening sound of breaking bone. The vampire must die instantly because she explodes into a cloud of ash, sparking in the sun. Ander’s father pumps his fist in the air and I see Ander’s relieved smile as the vision explodes, too— We are in a very different house: Ander’s house, the one he lives in now. Disjointed images rush past, day-to-day life in fast-forward: Michael cooking dinner. A handsome young black man who must be Danny stringing Christmas lights. Ander listening to music with the bass up loud. Then Danny outside Ander’s bedroom door. From the other side of the door I can hear roaring, so loud the door shakes, and Danny is shaking, too. He’s on his cell phone saying “Michael, we need you.” “Hang tight,” the voice says from the other end, “Almost there. Almost there…” I feel like I’ve hit ground. I’m back in Ander’s kitchen, but everything feels different. Danny isn’t there. Michael is kneeling on the floor and there’s a huge guy holding his arms behind his back, his boot on Michael’s spine. Ander is there, looking like he is about to lose it. His eyes are wild. His hands shake. Across the room is a younger boy. It takes me a minute to realize it’s an older version of the little boy who was trailing after Ander in the marsh. D.J., I’m guessing, Ander’s little brother. He’s a teenager now and he looks different—maybe because he’s holding a gun. Ander’s older brother is there, too, looking confident in spite of a bandaged arm. I recognize what I’m seeing: this is a few days ago, when Ander’s Hunter family came and struck their deal with Ander, the deal he no longer intends to keep. But why am I seeing it now? This isn’t the future I asked for. Ander’s older brother nods. “We free the vamp. We keep the thrall.” They must mean Michael and Danny. “And you let them both go when I kill the vampire prince,” Ander says. The big guy holding Michael gives a little snort of disgust. Ander glares at him. “And you give me the cure.” Wait, I think, what? Ander never said anything about a cure. In the vision, Ander’s little brother is smiling at him. “And you come home,” he says, “It’s a deal, right Jason?” Ander’s older brother smiles at him. “I give you my word.” Ander’s kitchen seems to swoop and my room comes crashing back, the scent of peppermint candle rushing me, making me choke. The vision dissolves, crackling off the way a radio signal fades to static when you drive out of range. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve heard all I needed to hear, and now I know why I had the feeling Ander was withholding something—because he was leaving something out, namely the very crucial fact that his family offered him a cure. They offered him a chance to be human again and to be one of them again, and Ander was prepared to take it. How could he not? I think of the longing in his eyes when he talked about wanting a pack, the pain when he talked about turning into the wolf. Watching him then, I felt like I would do anything to spare him that pain. Now, because of something I did, Ander is going to miss out on his one chance to be happy. Zoe and Emmie are on me, tugging my hands, pulling me up to sitting position. Zoe is staring at me, wide-eyed. “Breathe,” Emmie whispers. She rubs my arm like she is trying to scrub the warmth back into it. “You’re all right. You’re going to be all right.” But I’m not. I know I’m not. Because as long as there’s a chance Luke and I are bonded, Ander will never kill him.

Which is why I have to. Not with a stake to the heart. I would never have it in me to do that. But there are other ways to get at someone’s heart. If I can only get Luke to bite me two more times, we will be bonded. Then I won’t have to kill him. I can simply kill myself. It seems horrifyingly obvious. I swore to Ander that I would bond with Luke, and I will—but not to save my life, to end it. Aren’t I destined to die either way? Shouldn’t I? Because if I live, Danny and Michael die. Because if I live, Ander will never be cured. Because if I live, Luke lives, but if I die…an image forms in my head: Juliet in the movie version we watched at school, kneeling in the tomb with the knife in her hand, trying to decide whether to take her own life. “Is this a dagger I see before me…” “Cicely?” Zoe stares at me, her face taut with concern. “Cicely, are you okay?” “Fine,” I lie. Emmie looks at me eagerly. “So, what did you see?” “Nothing,” I say, “It…it didn’t work.” Emmie looks disappointed. “Darn it all!” She sighs. “No future?” Tomorrow I will get him to bite me, the beginning of the end. “No,” I say, “No future at all.”

Chapter 30: Cicely Where is he? I stare at Luke’s empty seat. How dumb of me to think he would just show up at school today. If he doesn’t want to bond with me, of course he’s going to avoid me. And why would he come to school and pretend to be an ordinary teenage boy now that I know he’s not? I shouldn’t have bothered to look for him here. But where else would I look? The plan that seemed so straight forward last night—just get Luke to bite me—feels like it is falling apart already. After all, if Luke had started to bond with me, wouldn’t he feel compelled to be near me? Does the fact that he’s not here mean the bond didn’t even start? And where does that leave me? I stare out the window of the English classroom. The day is gray, misting rain again. The church looks dark, the gravestones behind it slick with rain. I scan the parking lot below for Luke’s car. It reminds me of the million times I’ve looked for Ander this way. Of course, Ander isn’t here today either—and he shouldn’t be. He has more important things to deal with. But knowing he isn’t here…the familiar, sinking disappointment clogs my chest. I just wish I could see him, especially now that our time together is so short. Well, it’s easier this way. There’s no way I’ll be able to get Luke to bond with me if Ander’s around, and that is still the plan. If Luke shows. Mrs. Demasseter is at the front of the class, writing away on the board. All around me, people are taking their seats until there are only two empty chairs: Luke’s and Lyla Jansen’s. I hear Lyla’s name come up over and over in the whispered conversations around me. It’s all anyone is talking about. Lyla never showed up at the dance. She’s still missing and I suspect Luke may have something to do with it. The police are investigating and the halls are papered with missing person flyers featuring Lyla’s smiling picture, the same one she used to run for student council. Every time I pass one I wonder, is that Luke’s plan for me, too? Will he just swoop in and take me when the time for the sacrifice is right, leave a smiling flyer in my place? Beside me, Lyla’s friend Hannah catches me staring at Lyla’s vacant desk. I look away quickly, expecting Hannah to say something mean. Instead she gives me a sad smile. “Weird, isn’t it? Not having her here?” I nod. “Very weird.” “It’s like there’s this hole in the classroom.” I nod again, not sure what to say. It isn’t like Hannah to talk to me, but maybe Emmie told her to be nice to me. Or maybe she’s just deeply lonely. She looks me up and down, but not in a mean way. “You look good.” Self-consciously I smooth the front of my dress. It’s deep garnet, a little too formal for school, but the neckline shows the curve of my throat to advantage and it has the right vintage feel. It also has a little pocket for the penknife. “Thanks,” I say, “I borrowed it from Zoe.” Hannah smiles knowingly. “Dressing for the new boyfriend, huh?” “You could say that.” She nods approvingly. “Definitely better. It’s just…you don’t quite look like yourself.” I smile at her. “I know.” I know who I look like, too: the girl from my visions, the girl Luke loved. I was hoping the clothes would help to lure him in. Although really, I was hoping Luke wouldn’t be looking at the clothes at all. I was hoping he would be looking at my neck, which

feels bare and exposed with my hair pulled up, just the way Emmie showed me. Not that it matters, now that Luke isn’t here. “Oh!” Hannah says, “Speak of the devil!” I turn and follow her gaze just in time to see Luke’s big black car slide into the parking lot. My heart stumbles. In the gray rain, the car looks more like a hearse than ever. I watch it stall to a stop across two parking spaces. Luke Marianez steps out. “Yup,” I say, “He’s the devil alright.” “Well then, color me tempted.” Hannah grins. “Just kidding. I know he’s all yours.” “I hope he is,” I say under my breath. And I hope Luke is the one who feels tempted. But as I watch his black-clad form cross the wet parking lot, I am acutely aware that bonding goes both ways. Just seeing him makes my skin feel hot. “Look at you,” says Hannah, “All starry-eyed! He must really be Mr. Right.” “Sure,” I mumble, “Or Mr. Very, Very Wrong.” Almost to the door, Luke pauses and shields his eyes against the rain, looking up at the window of our English classroom like my own personal Romeo in a twisted balcony scene. There’s no question who he’s looking for. Hannah giggles. “Mr. Wrong in all the right ways.” But Luke really does look like something is wrong when he steps into the classroom. His black curls are damp and wild, his eyes tired, his face drawn. He looks like he hasn’t slept all night. But in spite of all that, he still looks so good it hurts. For one thing, he seems to have given up the pretense of dressing like a normal teenage boy. His black shirt and slacks are too formal, almost anachronistic. It makes him look even more like the Luke I saw in my visions. I can’t help staring. And the feeling seems to be mutual. As soon as Luke spots me, he stops in his tracks, his dark eyes traveling over my upswept hair, my deep red dress. It is obvious my plan to evoke the girl in the visions has worked—maybe a little two well. I suddenly remember the first time Luke and I met, here in this classroom, how he told me I looked as if I had seen a ghost. Well, now it’s Luke who looks haunted. He glances quickly at the door behind him, his expression like a trapped animal, and for a second I think he might bolt. “Mr. Marianez!” Mrs. Demasseter raps her pointer on the chalkboard, “How very nice of you to join us. Please, take a seat. Now.” Luke hesitates a second longer, then crosses to slip into the empty seat behind me. I don’t turn to look at him, but I feel like every cell in me is profoundly aware he is there. I want to turn towards him, like a plant bends towards the light. But Luke isn’t light, I remind myself. He plans to kill me for his own power. He’s a murderer, a blood sucker, prince of an ancient vampire clan. Luke is as dark as they come. “Well, now that we are all present—” Mrs. Demasseter arches one penciled brow at Luke “—we can begin! We must get down to work at once, as our time together will be cut short today by the assembly.” “Assembly?” I whisper. “Mass,” Hannah hisses back. Of course, our monthly school church service. This one would be in anticipation of All Souls Day and All Saints Day. Ordinarily we would have it at the end of the week, closer to Halloween, but they probably bumped it earlier so we could all pray for Lyla’s safe return.

“Which means,” Mrs. Demasseter says, “We will have to work quickly.” We certainly will, I think. I can feel Luke’s gaze, warm on the back of my neck. “So,” she continues, “I would like you to pair up quickly and choose a scene—any scene— from the play. We will begin rehearsing them today and be ready to present them to the class starting next Monday.” If I am around next Monday, I think. Then I turn to face Luke. “Let’s work in the hall,” I say. I half expect him to protest, but he simply nods stiffly and follows me out the door. The hallway is empty. That fact makes me feel relieved and nervous all at once. Getting Luke alone is part of the plan, but now that I’ve got him, I don’t know what to say. Luckily Luke speaks first. “Listen, Cicely, I wanted to say I am sorry I yelled at you in the woods.” He lowers his voice almost to a whisper, “You know, for getting me to bite you.” “You apologized already,” I say, “I understand why you were upset.” In fact, now I really understand. Luke was upset because he didn’t want to bond with me because he knows he is planning to kill me. I have to remember that. “Still,” he says, “It was wrong of me to raise my voice at you, to speak to you that way. I hope you can forgive me.” His words are formal, his manners stiff, but I can tell that he truly is sorry. I can see the affection in his eyes when he looks at me. Well, it’s only because I look like her, I remind myself. Whoever she may be. “Consider it forgotten,” I say, but it isn’t. Nothing about that scene is. I can feel my wrist throbbing with the memory of the bite right now. Knowing now that Luke is the bad guy, I’m amazed at how strongly the memory still makes me want more. Luke smiles, clearly relieved. “You look lovely today, by the way.” “Why thank you.” I give a little mock curtsy. I watch his eyes as he watches me. He looks hungry. Good. “Well, let’s get down to it,” I say. I open my book at random. “How about this one? ‘Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. It was the nightingale and not the lark…’” My mind isn’t on the words. It is on the little penknife in the pocket of my dress. As we read, I reach for it, carefully flipping it open. I know that I should wait for more privacy, that I shouldn’t be so obvious, but it’s like I can’t quite stop myself. Now that I am actually here, alone with Luke, all I can think about is how badly I want him to bite me again. The memory of his fangs piercing my wrist makes my blood pound eagerly at my pulse-points, like it’s dying to be free. I press the tip of my index finger against the point of the knife and feel the tiny stab of release as the blade cuts me. Luke freezes, mid-line. “What did you just do?” I quickly pull my hand out of my pocket and put it on my book, leaving a little dot of blood on Romeo’s line. “Paper cut.” “You just did that on purpose.” His body is tense, like an animal that has just scented danger. “It was an accident, I swear.” His voice is fierce. “You’re a bad liar, Cicely, do you know that? You always blush when you lie.” “Do I?” I take a step closer. He takes a step back, like we’re waltzing, although there’s still a few feet of space between us. “Yes,” he says, “Your cheeks are red.” But he isn’t looking at my cheeks. He’s staring at my hand. Deliberately, I bring my finger to my lips and suck on it, like I’m trying to make it feel better.

I taste the salty tang of blood. Luke swallows hard. “And how are we doing out here?” Mrs. Demasseter appears suddenly in the doorway. Luke and I both jump, like we’ve been caught doing something wrong. “Oh, I see.” The teacher purses her red painted lips and arches one exaggerated brow. “Well, unless you can chitchat in iambic pentameter, I highly suggest you get back to work! We don’t have much class time left.” “Yes, ma’am,” Luke and I mumble in unison. She nods curtly. “Carry on.” “Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder East…’” Luke leaps back into the text at random, glad for the distraction. “‘I must be gone and live or stay and die.’” He glances up to make sure the teacher is gone, then whispers, “I know what you’re doing.” “I’m not—” “And trust me, I want to.” He rakes his fingers nervously through his curls. “I really, really want to, but considering the emotional nature of our…first experience together, there’s just too great a risk. We could bond.” “Then let’s bond,” I say, “Why shouldn’t we?” “Trust me,” he tears his gaze away from my neck, “I want to, more than you know. But it’s… complicated.” I’ll bet it is. And no way am I going to trust him. Although he does look genuinely pained, so maybe the magical, chemical mystery of the bond has already started with him. Who can tell anything with him? He seemed to be genuinely into me at the dance, too, I remind myself, and all the time he was plotting my demise. Unlike me, Luke seems to have no trouble lying. “And even if I could…” A little doubt has crept into his voice. He looks like he’s trying to talk himself out of it. “Even if I could, this is certainly not the time or the place…” “Then let’s find some other place! Let’s go!” I reach out and impulsively grab his hand. His skin is cool on mine. He tugs his hand away. “You’re not acting like yourself.” “Do I look like myself?” His dark eyes flicker over me. I can see him starting to weaken. Mrs. Demasseter’s footsteps pass the door. “‘Let me be taken, let me be put to death,’” Luke reads at random, a little too loud. “Just once,” I whisper, “Just one more time. Emmie said it usually takes three bites to bond. Once more is still safe. Once more and never again.” I press my finger against the little blade again, calling up a fresh sting, a new red thread of blood. It’s too much for Luke. His fangs flash into place and I am startled by my own power. And by my own weakness. We have to go somewhere else. “Miss Watson? Mr. Marianez?” Mrs. Demasseter’s voice is sharp from the doorway. “Where is the Shakespeare out here? Where is the immortal bard?” She strides towards us, heels clicking. Luke clamps his hand over his mouth. Above it, his eyes plead with me. The teacher snatches the book out of my hand. “Begin here.” She stabs the page with a bright red nail. “‘Oh, now, be gone!’” I cry, my voice pitched high with anxiety, “‘More light and light it grows!’” “Good!” Mrs. Demasseter booms, “I feel your fear of being caught! Now, Mr. Marianez!” “‘More light and light,’” Luke mumbles into his hand, “‘More dark and dark our woes.’”

Mrs. Demasseter stomps one high-heeled shoe. “Mr. Marianez, Shakespeare must be spoken aloud with confidence! Like so!” She snatches my book again. “‘Then window let day in and let life out!’ Now, try it again from Romeo’s exit, ‘Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu! Adieu!’ With vigor!” “‘Dry sorrow drinks our…’” Luke’s voice falters. The teacher’s eyebrows V with concern. “Mr. Marianez? Are you alright?” “He looks sick,” I say quickly, “He looks pale.” He does. The warm tan of his skin is ashen with the effort of not biting me. “Oh! Goodness!” Mrs. Demasseter takes a step back, as if she’s afraid Luke will throw up on her ugly shoes. “Do you need to go to the nurse?” “I do,” Luke mumbles, “Yes!” “Then by all means, go!” That’s all Luke needs. He bolts. “Wait,” I call after him, “I’ll go with you!” But Luke is long gone, and with him my best chance at saving Ander. So, I think, that went well.

Chapter 31: Cicely By the time our class reaches the chapel, I am feeling the need to pray. Luke is nowhere to be seen and I am starting to worry that I have blown it, pushed Luke so hard that I have pushed him away. Maybe he’ll stay away from me now, rather than risk bonding with me. Maybe he’ll just come and take me when it’s time for the sacrifice. The thought has me freaked out, but I try to let the chapel calm me. It’s warm inside the little church, the air thick with incense. Heavy velvet curtains block out most of the light and muffle the scuff of shoes on the stone floors and the scrape of kneelers being folded up as students take their seats. I glance around for Emmie. It would be nice to have someone to sit with. But Emmie is already seated up front with Hannah and Lyla’s other close friends. This isn’t an official memorial service for Lyla—officially she is still “missing”—but people are treating it as a memorial anyhow. I can hear Lyla’s name in the whispered conversations all around me. For most of them, Lyla’s disappearance is drama and distraction. For a few, it’s an opportunity—a vacancy in the prom court they could fill. For a few outsiders like me, it’s a relief. But a few people are actually feeling it. Up in the front pew, Hannah looks lost and I feel suddenly sorry for her. I know how she feels. I feel it every time Ander goes AWOL—that empty feeling of “who am I without you?” I think about bonding, about Ander’s longing for pack, about the enluzantes and their “colony mind.” Are humans really any different from werewolves and vampires? But Emmie certainly doesn’t seem lost or in mourning. She’s wearing a Care Bears t-shirt and there’s a candy necklace wrapped around her wrist. She gnaws on it occasionally, offering a bite to one of the letter-jacketed boys behind her, and smiling at something he says, seemingly unfazed Lyla isn’t there. I think about all the missing persons fliers hanging in the break room of the Nightlife. Death is just another job hazard to Emmie. She catches me looking at her and gives me a little wave. Then she pushes two pink-painted nails against her neck to pantomime did he bite you? I shake my head no and Emmie pouts her lower lip in disappointment, then mouths something that could be soon. I nod and she gives me a reassuring smile before she turns back to face Father Dominic, who is stepping up to the altar, a somber expression on his bearded face. Behind him, the light filters in through the stained glass windows, the only windows not covered by the heavy curtains. I notice one panel of the stained glass is broken: the chest of the white dove. A cross of duct tape covers the hole, an inadequate little patch. The priest spreads his arms wide, the loose sleeves of his cassock like wings. “Peace be with you.” “And also with you” we intone, but there is no peace with me. As the mass drones on, my mind tumbles through all the things that have happened in the last few days, my body on automatic pilot as I sit, stand, and kneel in unison with the people around me. A nervous freshman boy stutters his way through the prayers for intercession. When he reaches the final request—“God help us to find Lyla Jansen and bring her safely home”—I do not bother to join in the “Lord hear our prayer.” It doesn’t take a psychic to understand it is probably too late for that. And getting later every second. Where is Luke now? I don’t see him anywhere, but

sometimes when I bow my head I have the familiar prickling feeling of being watched. But when I look up, the only eyes on me are those of the statues: St. Agnes and her sacrificial lamb, the mighty archangel Michael with his wings spread, sword in hand, ready to cast Lucifer out of heaven. “Lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil,” the students mumble around me. I recite the words along with them, then join the end of the line of students shuffling up to the altar to receive the communion wafer. Then I follow the slow procession to Father Dominic. “Blood of Christ,” the priest whispers as he holds the communion chalice to my lips. “Amen,” I say and take my ritual sip. The wine is warm and spicy on my tongue. It makes me flush. Blood rituals, I think. Is there anything else in life? I follow the others down the side aisle, past the row of confessionals, head bowed, eyes half shut. I am the last in my line so no one notices when someone grabs my arm. I am yanked sideways, into the confessional booth. I hear the door snap shut behind me as a hand clamps over my mouth, smothering my scream. “Cicely, it’s me!” “Luke?” I mumble into his palm, but I know it’s him. I can feel the starched crispness of his shirt against my dress. The confessional is a narrow closet, dark and tight as a coffin. It is clearly not built for two. “Promise me you won’t scream.” I nod once. Luke slides his hand away from my lips, but every other part of us is still touching, his chest pressed so close against mine I’m sure he can feel every thud of my heart, every rise and fall of my breath. I keep my voice to a whisper. “I thought you ran away because of the—” Fangs. Which are still very present. Now that my eyes are adjusting to the dark, I can see them clearly, sharp and white. I can also see the wild look in Luke’s eye. “I promised myself I wouldn’t bite you.” His voice is low and husky. “I told myself I would resist. But ever since you let me taste you…” He swallows hard. “Hay de mi, muñeca, you have me so turned around. I thought I knew what I wanted, now all I want is—” “You,” I say, “All I want is you.” And it feels true when I say it. But isn’t Luke the villain? Aren’t I doing this for Ander? My plan feels a million miles away. I freeze, afraid that if I move, he’ll bite me. Afraid that if I move, he won’t. “Just once.” He is talking to himself, not me. “Just a taste.” He lowers his head so his lips barely graze my shoulder. I can feel the heat of his breath, the cool of his skin. He inhales deeply, halfway between an animal sniffing its food and a wine-taster testing a bouquet. He shuts his eyes, overcome by the scent. “I won’t hurt you. I won’t hurt you.” I can barely hear him. He’s reminding himself, not me. I feel his hand brush against the satin of my dress as he reaches for the buttons, undoing one, then two, pushing my collar aside to reveal my clavicle, the hollow at the base of my throat. His cool touch raises goosebumps on my skin. My eager blood rushes to meet his fingers, prickling on the surface of my flesh. I feel like I will burst. I shift an impatient fraction of an inch closer to his touch. It’s all the cue he needs. Luke’s lips are on my throat with super-human speed. I gasp as his fangs puncture me and I feel the sudden sweet rush of my blood filling his mouth. My blood rises like a current, carrying away my fear, my whirring mental machine drowned out by the thrum of my pulse against his lips. I murmur wordlessly and Luke answers with a muffled animal noise of his own, a possessive half growl, half groan. He can’t seem to get close enough to me. He presses me between the length of his body and the polished mahogany of the wall behind me until I feel crushed and preserved like a flower in a book—and still he presses deeper, every part of him drinking in every part of me, absorbing me through his pores.

And I want him to. I really want him to. It has nothing to do with strategies and plans. Our first bite, in the woods, was an act of desperation. Pained, unthinking, Luke didn’t even know who I was. But this bite feels deliberate, that raw hunger reined in just enough. Luke’s tongue laps against my neck as he sucks, speeding and slowing the flow with instinctive expertise, sending electric pulses down my spine. He nuzzles my throat and I shift to close the last fraction of gap between our bodies until I can’t tell where he ends and I begin. I don’t want to miss even a second, but I can already feel my consciousness draining away. Somewhere I can still hear the priest offering communion, “Blood of Christ, Blood of Christ, Blood of Christ” like a mantra, but it seems far away. The solid world slips out from beneath me, sand sucked from under my toes by the greedy tide. Luke releases me. His mouth abandons my neck, leaving it vulnerable and cold. He pulls back as far as he can in the tight space. “Are you okay?” “Yes.” Okay doesn’t begin to cover it. My body is awake, every nerve stirring like wind chimes in a storm, but my mind feels packed in velvet. Soft. The confessional seems to shift. I would stumble, but there’s no room. Luke grips me by the shoulders. “I took too much.” I shake my head, even though it makes the darkness swirl like champagne in a glass. “You didn’t.” “I did! I shouldn’t have bitten you at all. I could have hurt you. We could have—” Bonded. Yes, that was the point. I remember now. I am supposed to be bonding with Luke so I can kill us both. The thought seems completely ridiculous now with life humming through my veins, but I know that was the plan. Is the plan. And that was only our second bite. I try to shift closer to him again. But the moment is evaporating like sweat off skin. Luke looks away, but I still can’t let him go. I take his chin in my hand, turning him to face me, and kiss him full on the lips. It feels redundant somehow, almost chaste after our bite, but still good. His mouth is salty with my blood. His lips are warm with my heat. For an instant he melts into the kiss. Then he pulls away. Fangs retracted, eyes full of confusion, Luke looks painfully human. I can tell the kiss has done more to undo him than any bite ever could. “I have to leave.” Before I can try to stop him, Luke slips out of the confessional and is gone. I stand there for long minutes, leaning against the wall for support. I listen as the priest leads the final prayers. Lead us not into temptation. I listen to the scrape of the kneelers being folded back into place and the shuffle of feet passing, just inches away, as the recessional music plays. I wait until the last footsteps fade and the heavy door shuts behind them before I peek out into the dark. No one. I slip out of the confessional and steal my way back to the world.

Chapter 32: Cicely Tap tap tap. A sharp rapping on my window wakes me from my restless sleep. I sit up, my legs tangled in my covers, my mind still tangled in my dream. I was dreaming about…my fingers jump to my neck, where the fang marks are still tender. So, the bite wasn’t just a dream. I feel relieved and horrified all at the same time. The bite was real. And the noise is real, too. It comes again, tap, tap, tap, too deliberate to be a tree branch in the wind. For a full second, I sit frozen in my bed, staring at the blackness beyond my window, afraid there may be a monster in the woods. Then I wake up enough to realize it may be the monster I want. I am up and out of bed in a heartbeat, wrapping my quilt over my nightgown, my bare feet cold on the thin carpet. I pad to the window but it’s too dark out to see much. I put my face up to the pane— And jump back. Luke is only inches away, right on the other side of the glass, looking right at me. I can’t hear him speak but I can read his lips: Let me in. I click the lock and force open the window, letting in the loamy smell of the woods and a chilly blast of fall air. It makes me shiver. Or maybe he makes me shiver. Luke is through the open window in a single, catlike motion, so silent and graceful I can’t help but remember the obvious: Luke Marianez is not human. He is not even pretending to be. He is something other, something I can’t understand. And yet, at the same time, something so like me it’s scary—the way your image in a mirror is the opposite and yet identical, all at the same time. His disheveled curls, his fevered eyes, the sheen of sweat on his skin—he looks exactly like I feel: Intense. Strung out. Hungry. But when he smiles, there’s something cavalier about it, like he has nothing left to lose. “That climbing in the window thing? It’s a bit more romantic when you aren’t on the first floor.” “Luke,” I say, “Why are you here?” His face sobers. “We need to talk.” “Oh,” I say, “Is that what we need to do?” He smiles again. “We need to talk first.” A little shiver of excitement flows through me. So, he does intend to bite me again. “Okay,” I say, “Talk.” He shakes his head. “Not here. Somewhere more private.” His eyes meet mine. “Will you go with me?” I hesitate. Should I go? My goal was to get him to bite me one more time, the magical third time that would likely seal our bond—and our fate. But there’s a chance this is a trick, that Luke intends to kill me early to avoid bonding with me. There’s just no way to know. “Where are we going?” His smile widens. “It’s a surprise.” “I don’t like surprises.” He laughs. “Why am I not surprised?” “Do you blame me? Considering the fact that we both nearly died on our first date, I’m not that eager to see what happens on our second.”

He arches one eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you? And who said this is a date?” I can tell I’m blushing, just by his victorious smile. “Ah ha!” he says, “What is it you kids say now-a-days? ‘Busted?’” He grins. “In any event, I promise you, this time there will be no interruptions.” No interruptions. I can’t decide if it’s a promise or a threat. All I know is Luke seems happy. It’s a manic, reckless kind of happy, playful like a cat is playful with a mouse, but I still melt at that smile. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll go.” “I knew you would. Get dressed. Something warm.” He turns his back to me. “Wait,” I say, “You aren’t going to leave so I can change?” “How could I stand to be so far away?” He says it lightly, but I know there is truth in his words. Now that Luke is here, the energy of the bond is almost physical. I doubt either of us could make ourselves leave. And if I could, he’d be right here to run me down. Or I’d be right here to catch him. I can’t remember who is stalking who. So I rummage through my drawers and come up with a pair of jeans, a long sleeve shirt, and my red hoodie, for luck. I change as fast as I can, extremely aware I am stripping down to my underwear with Luke just a few feet away. He must guess my thoughts. “Don’t worry,” he says, “In my day, men were gentlemen. I have no intention of peeking.” “I can hear the smirk in your voice,” I say with my head still inside my shirt. He laughs. “Hurry up and go leave a note for your mother.” “What should I say?” Abducted by vampire, please send werewolf? Gone vampire hunting, be back never? “Tell her I invited you to come watch the sunrise,” he says. “Is that what we’re doing?” I ask. “Just go!” he says, “Or we’ll miss it!” I almost remind him that we have already seen the sunrise together once before—but of course I wasn’t looking at the sky then. I was too busy watching the dead enluzante turn to ash. So I don’t say anything. Instead I tiptoe to the kitchen and leave a post-it in the middle of the table where my mom is sure to see. It simply says I’ve gone to watch the sunrise with Luke, but I sign it with a “love,” just in case I don’t come back. A few minutes later Luke and I are hurrying down my driveway. It’s still dark, but the birds have begun to sing so dawn can’t be too far off. At the end of the drive I can just make out Luke’s big car, a shiny black shadow against the matte black sky. Luke reaches it first and opens the door for me. “After you.” “Thank you.” I say. I climb into the car—and sit on something furry. I leap back out. “What the—” Luke laughs. “Jumpy, aren’t we?” “Can you blame me?” “Relax, muñeca, it’s a fur-lined cape. I brought it along in case you got cold.” I push the cape aside. “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass on the fur.” “Ah, yes,” he says, “Your mother would not approve.” “There are a lot of things my mother wouldn’t approve of in this scenario,” I say, “You probably killed something cute for that pelt.” His handsome face stays completely straight. “It’s werewolf.” I slap his arm. It’s like slapping granite. “Not funny!”

“Easy!” he smiles, “You’ll hurt yourself! Of course it’s not werewolf, querida. Do you take me for a Hunter? Has anyone ever told you that for someone so smart, you are extremely gullible?” “And has anyone ever told you that for someone so charming you are extremely mean?” “Yes.” His smile is sly. “I get that all the time.” He starts the car and we drive in silence for a while. Luke’s driving has gotten better—or at least faster—and soon we are outside of Monument, traveling the two-lane country highway that slashes through the vast, flat fields. In this part of Minnesota it’s easy to remember Halloween started as a harvest festival; the fields are freshly shorn, the remaining plants quickly withering on the windswept stalks. They make me think of the dead boy, Marcus, and the papery feel of his skin. Suddenly the silence bothers me. I flip on the radio. Not surprisingly, Luke has it set on an oldies station that goes with his grandpa car. A woman’s voice croons “I don’t like you, but I love you. Seems that I’m always thinkin’ of you…” “Where are we going?” I ask again. Luke’s eyes are on the road. “You’ll see.” But when? The longer we drive, the more certain I am Luke is taking me to the other vampires, that he has decided to perform the sacrifice early. Or has he truly brought me here so we can be alone? Will I get my chance to tempt him into a bond? I think of the words of the song on the radio: “I don’t want you, but I need you…” The very thought of bonding makes my skin feel hot, makes the space between Luke and I seem too close, makes my pulse flutter in a way that makes me wish this were an actual date. But it’s not, I remind myself. What did Ander call bonding? “A canned hunt”? Well, that’s what this is. Luke and I are not falling in love, we are mutually hunting each other. Bonding is nothing more than a sort of Stockholm syndrome. It’s one creature using another to survive. Or, in my case, to die so Ander can survive. Because Ander is the one I love. I have to remember that. But Ander is far away. There’s no way anyone could follow us here. The flat fields offer no cover, the margin of woods is distant. The houses are few and far between now. Long minutes passes without seeing another car. I feel shivery, but I’ll be damned if I’ll put on that fur cape. “Seriously,” I say, “I really need to know where you are taking me.” Luke sighs. “Simultaneously gullible and completely untrusting. You really are a woman of contradictions, aren’t you, Miss Watson?” “Well,” I say, “Some people would say I am a bit too trusting, hanging out with dangerous monsters.” He frowns. “Ah, yes. Ander. It always comes back to him, doesn’t it?” “I was actually talking about you,” I say, “But yes, a lot comes back to Ander. We’re close.” He nods. “Dangerously close.” “Ander and I have been best friends for four years, ever since we met—” “Ah, yes,” he says, “The old story: ‘Boy eats girl.’” There’s an edge of jealousy in his voice. “Ander wouldn’t hurt me,” I say. “Not if he can help it,” he says, “but he can’t.” Can you, I wonder? And then Luke says, “We’re here.” We turn down a rough dirt road, barely wide enough for Luke’s car. On one side of us is the forest. On the other, a white clapboard fence marks a large pasture. A matching white farmhouse and barn stand at the end of the road. Luke coasts the car to a stop in front of the red double doors of the barn. The doors are open a crack; a warm light glows inside. It certainly doesn’t

seem like the place for a vampire sacrifice. Luke comes around to open my door. “After you.” He gestures to the barn. There’s a secret in his smile. I step out of the car and cautiously push open the heavy barn door, unsure of what to expect. The barn is big and old. It smells sweet, like leather and hay. A boy around twelve or thirteen is standing in the center aisle, smiling so widely his braces shine. He is holding the reins of two of the most beautiful horses I have ever seen. I gasp. The horse on his right turns to look at me, her tiny ears swiveling at the sound, her wide nostrils flaring. She is bone-china white and delicate, her dished-in face perfectly sculpted. “Arabian,” I say, “Right? And—” “Friesian,” Luke finishes, smiling with pride at the horse on the boy’s left. This horse was clearly chosen to contrast with the first. He is black and huge, maybe sixteen hands high, his thick legs feathered like a draft horse. His muscles ripple as he shifts his weight, tossing his long mane impatiently. This horse wants to go and it doesn’t look like he’ll have long to wait; both horses are already decked out in matching tack, the black leather freshly polished. I try not to look too impressed. I fail miserably. Luke is watching me closely. “You like them?” “Are you kidding?” I hold one hand out to the pale pink nose of the Arabian. She wuffles me with interest, the velvet of her lips tickling my palm. “Luke, I love them!” “Good!” He looks deeply pleased. “She’s yours, of course.” Something about the way he says it makes me think he doesn’t mean “yours to ride for the hour.” “Wait,” I say, “You mean—?” “I bought them yesterday.” My jaw drops nearly to the barn floor. “You—you bought me horses?” “Don’t be silly,” he says, “I bought you a horse. This one’s mine.” He reaches out and strokes the Friesian’s neck admiringly. The horse looks wary, but it doesn’t balk. “Well that’s obvious,” I say, “You might as well mark them “His” and “Hers” like towels.” I look pointedly back and forth between the black horse and Luke’s broad-shouldered black car, still visible through the open bar door. “Plus, you have a type.” “Yes,” he says, “I suppose I do.” But he’s looking only at me. He smiles, satisfied. “The mare suits you.” “Thank you.” I’m not sure what else to say. “But I can’t actually accept—” “Nonsense! You said you’ve always wanted a horse. Well, so have I. And now that we have them, we should enjoy them.” I search for the hidden meaning in his words. Does he mean “enjoy it while you can?” Is this like one of those Make-A-Wish deals, where you get to go to Disney World before you die? Luke takes the reins of the black horse and tosses the boy the car keys. “Boy! Go fetch the lady her riding things from the trunk. And bring the cape from the front seat, too.” “Sure thing,” The kid says and trots off. In a minute he’s back with a new set of riding boots and a helmet. I trade my scuffed combat boots for these polished ones and strap on my helmet. Luke drapes the cape over my shoulders like a mantel of royalty and fastens the heavy silver clasp at my throat. His fingers brush my neck and I shiver. “There,” he says, “Much better.” And I have to admit he’s right. I want to protest the fur, but it feels so warmly comforting on my shoulders.

“What about you?” I ask. He is wearing a black wool pea coat but nothing on his head. “No helmet?” “I have no intention of falling off. You, however…” “I’ll have you know I’m a pretty good rider.” “Por supuesto. But still.” He raps on my helmet with his knuckles. “We can’t be too careful with you, now, can we? Now up you go.” “Honestly,” I say, “I’m not ten!” But actually, I feel like I am a kid, being back in a stable for the first time in forever. I take the reins of the white horse and mount, happy I don’t look too awkward doing it. The boy is still watching us shyly. “That will be all,” Luke tells him and hands him a bill that makes the kid’s eyes go wide. The boy flashes a metallic smile. “Whoa! Thanks!” “Just be ready to put them up when we get back.” The kid nods eagerly and ducks out of the barn as Luke swings confidently into the saddle. I have to admit, he looks perfect there. In his formal black clothes, he could be a picture from another time. He eases the Friesian out of the barn and I follow, watching as Luke nudges the horse almost imperceptibly into a smooth, collected trot. “You know,” I say, “You ride better than you drive.” “Well, I’ve been at it a bit longer, haven’t I? Although I’ll admit,” he adds, “It has been a few years since I’ve ridden.” You wouldn’t know it to look at him. “How many is a few?” “A few.” “Well, me too. Although I think my few is a few fewer than yours.” But I’m relieved to feel it all coming back to me. I urge my little mare up beside Luke’s horse as we cross the field behind the barn. We are headed for the woods, but they look too dense to ride through. “How are we going to get in there?” “There’s a trail.” Luke pulls a bit ahead of me and leads the way to a path almost completely hidden by the thick trees. “Wait,” I say, “How did you know this was here?” “The boy must have walked it earlier today. I’m following his scent.” He says it casually enough, but it brings me back to the reality of my situation. Luke is a vampire, capable of following a human scent through the undergrowth. A natural hunter. It’s a chilling thought, but it’s hard to hold onto it for long because in so many ways, the scene is ideal. The first light of day is filtering through the fall leaves, dappling the ground below us. Luke seems happier and more relaxed than I have seen him and, in spite of everything, I feel myself relaxing into the easy rhythm of the ride. Luke asks his horse for a smooth canter and I follow along. The horses are excited by the crisp fall air—or maybe the Friesian senses there is a predator on his back. Either way they are eager to go. Soon we are racing, trading off the lead—first him chasing me, then me chasing him, just like in real life. He tries to pull ahead again but I press my little mare for a burst of speed and we fly by Luke, the Arabian’s tail streaming like a banner. I hear Luke laughing behind me. “Hold up!” he shouts. I would have stopped anyhow, the clearing is so pretty—a wide grassy space bordered on one side by a tumbled stone wall and on the other by a trickling stream. “Are you hungry?” I must jump because Luke laughs again. “I didn’t say I was, I was asking you!” He gestures to the far end of the clearing where a large flat stone makes a natural table. On the rock is a

picnic—not the kind my mom and I have, with peanut butter and jelly in saran wrap. A real picnic, like in the movies, with a red and white checkered table cloth and a wicker picnic basket big enough to hold a feast. “I had the boy bring it here earlier. Shall we?” Just thinking about food is enough to make my stomach mutter. Of course Luke can hear it. “I’ll take that as your very ladylike yes.” He swings smoothly off his horse and I follow, untacking the horses and letting them graze while Luke unpacks the picnic. It seems like a role reversal for him—he looks too domestic, neatly setting out the food— but I suppose he wants to surprise me. I watch him in silence, pulling the fur cape tighter around me. The sun isn’t fully up and it’s October. Not exactly picnic weather. Ordinarily I might want to wait for summer. But we won’t have another summer. And other than the cold, everything is just right. Luke has thought of everything, from the candles and the food and the antique silverware, right down to the little silver salt and pepper shakers. “You certainly know how to pack!” “Well,” he says, “These things must be done right.” “What things?” I ask. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he ducks his head, uncharacteristically embarrassed. “Truthfully, I wasn’t sure what you would like, so I brought a little of everything. It has been quite a while since I have fed a human. If it isn’t to your liking…” “It’s perfect,” I say quickly, “It’s just that I don’t know where to start.” “I would say a glass of champagne starts the day right.” He gestures to a bottle, still dusty from someone’s wine cellar, standing by a pair of crystal champagne flutes. “Champagne? Are we celebrating something?” He doesn’t meet my eye. “I guess that remains to be seen.” He picks up the bottle and uncorks it in one practiced motion. “Cicely, sit down.” I sit, cautiously, on the other side of the rock, watching him as he pours two glasses and passes one to me. I take it, but I don’t drink. “What’s all this about?” He sits across from me, studying the drink in his hand so he doesn’t have to meet my eye. “You want to know why I brought you out here.” “The question had crossed my mind, yes. But I figured it was probably to buy me horses or feed me caviar. Or, you know, to kill me.” He looks up, surprised. “Kill you? No. And in the future I would say if you suspect someone wants to kill you, you shouldn’t follow him into the woods.” “Sage advice. I’ll keep that in mind. But if that’s not why we’re here…” “We’re here because there are things I haven’t told you. I have a confession to make.” “Darn!” I say, “And us without a confessional!” I’m trying to sound light, but the time for joking is over. Luke looks dead serious now. He raises his eyes to meet mine. “Cicely,” he says, “I am not the prince.”

Chapter 33: Cicely “What?” I’m confused. “Ander said you were the prince of your vampire clan. Aren’t you?” “I am,” he says, “That isn’t what I mean. I mean that, at the mall, when I returned your boot, I asked you if you knew fairy tales. And then I took you to the dance, and with all that passed between us in the confessional…I think I gave you the impression I was the prince, your fairy tale prince.” “And you’re not.” My own disappointment surprises me. I feel more confused than ever. Did he bring me all the way out here to tell me he won’t bond with me? To break up with me, even though we were never really going out? Sadness rises in my chest—which is silly, I remind myself. It’s only the bonding that makes me feel that way. I’m only disappointed because it will make it that much harder to get Luke to bond with me. “Well,” I say, “whisking me away on horseback seems like a strange way to tell me you aren’t a fairy tale fantasy. But, go on. If you aren’t the prince, what are you?” I expect him to say “The villain. The monster.” Maybe he’s going to tell me the truth and then kill me. Instead he says, “The huntsman.” “What?” I stare at him, confused. “I know what a Hunter is and I know you aren’t one of them.” “No,” he says, “The huntsman. Do you know the story of Snow White?” I nod. “The Disney movie. With Dopey.” Now Luke looks confused. “Sometimes I don’t understand a word you say.” I sigh. “I feel the same way about you.” He shakes his head and starts again, patiently. “In the story of Snow White, the evil queen sends her huntsman to kill the beautiful, innocent girl and to bring back her heart as a trophy.” “But he doesn’t,” I say. Luke’s eyes are full of sadness. “He can’t. He warns her instead.” “Why?” I am watching Luke so closely now I almost forget to breathe. “Why can’t he kill her?” The look in his eyes—it’s the same pure adoration I saw in his eyes in the vision I had at the dance. “I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe he loves her.” Maybe he loves her. My breath catches in my throat. Maybe he really does. Or maybe this is another trick. Or maybe it’s the bonding talking. And what does it matter? I love Ander, and Luke and Ander can’t both make it out of this alive. One gets a happy ending, the other just comes to an end. And I’ve made my decision, haven’t I? Luke may love me, but it doesn’t matter—or if it matters, it’s only because it will make it easier to kill us both and save Ander. “Cicely,” he says, “Hear me out. Emmie told you vampires were once immortal?” “Until the witches sided with the Hunters to curse the vampires with mortality.” He nods. “Yes. Cursed us, one family line at a time. This is the witch who cast the curse on my line.” He slips something out of the pocket of his coat and hands it to me. It’s a sepia photograph, soft and faded with age, but I still recognize her immediately. From her long dark

hair to the necklace at her throat, she is clearly the woman in my vision, the one Luke loved. The one who looked so much like me. “Her name was Deirdre.” The name sounds heavy on his lips. “Deirdre Falls.” “From the grave,” I say. He looks at me, confused. “I mean, I know the name. It’s on the stone by the angel statue in the graveyard at school.” It’s starting to make sense, why Luke was at her grave the first time I saw him at school. “But she was—” “Your great-great-great-great-grandmother. Yes. And one of the most powerful witches in a long line of powerful witches.” I stare at him. “My ancestress was a witch?” “All the women in your family are.” He says it like it’s a simple fact. I shake my head. “But I’m not.” “Aren’t you?” He is watching me closely. “Haven’t you ever had a premonition? Made something happen just by thinking about it? ” My mind skims over the visions I’ve had over the past few days. Of course I suspected they were magic, but a witch…? “I don’t believe in witches.” He laughs, but sadly. “Even after all you’ve seen? To quote Mrs. Demasseter’s beloved Shakespeare, ‘there are things in heaven and earth which are not dreamt of in your philosophy.’” “Okay,” I say, “I know that now. But I…I’m the normal one.” He smiles at me understandingly. “I know it’s a lot to accept, but you must have had some suspicion. You must have known you were special.” “Not until you came.” I say it without thinking, but as soon as I say it, I know it’s true. He lays one hand over mine. “Funny, I was going to say the same thing.” He draws his hand away again. “But I have to finish my tale. Deirdre cursed our family—” “But how?” I interrupt, “Isn’t your family very powerful?” “I told you, she had a gift.” He sighs deeply. “And she also had an in, a weakness in my family’s armor: Me. I fell in love with her. I knew she was a witch, but she told me she hated the Hunters and wanted nothing to do with them. She had been betrothed to marry a Hunter as a token of the new alliance between her family and his, but she asked me to help her escape it. My older brother Sal and my cousin Constanza and I spirited her away, and in the process, I fell for her completely.” “And you didn’t suspect?” “I was blinded by her. We were starting to bond, and I was obsessed with her. She was the center of my world. My brother became suspicious but I convinced him Deirdre was on our side, a much-needed magical advantage in this new war with the Hunters. Eventually it was Constanza who told my mother, the vampire queen, about Deirdre and I, and my mother tried to put an end to it. She forbade me to see Deirdre again but I defied her. I went to Deirdre and bit her, hoping to seal the bond between us and make her part of my life forever, hoping to share my immortality to protect her. My brother Sal found us and we fought, but he was stronger. He killed Deirdre.” His eyes are on the faded photo in my hand. “It was too late, of course. That final bite hadn’t bonded us, but it had infected me with the curse of mortality. I meant to give my life to her, and instead she gave me death. Mortality spread through my family line like a disease and when the Hunters came for us, we were able to die. We were able to, and we did, in droves. My brother and my mother were killed. My cousin Constanza became queen, but there were very few of us left to rule over. I ran away. I was in mourning, not only for my family but for my heart. I was in

withdrawal from having come so close to bonding and still under the illusion that I loved her. I went back to Monument, where she was buried and I commissioned that a church from my hometown be moved there, stone by stone. I had a statue built to her—” “St. Agnes Church. The angel statue.” I can hardly believe it. I had felt like those things had always been there, like they were artifacts of ancient history, but the hurt in Luke’s eyes is fresh. “It was foolish of me to build monuments to her.” His voice is laced with bitterness. “Why should I immortalize her when she took immortality from me? But at least stone was fitting. Hard. Cold. I realized that eventually. I came to my senses and recovered from my withdrawal and understood I had been tricked and betrayed. And then the full weight of it hit me. It was my fault my family was dead. I went to them—the few who were left—and turned myself in.” “And they didn’t kill you? The little I know about your family, they don’t seem like the forgiving type.” “I was every bit as surprised as you are. They had every right to kill me. But Constanza and I had been close and she needed all the allies she could get. By then, too, they had determined Deirdre had a child back in Ireland—” “I guess she must have,” I say, “Or how could I be here?” “Precisely. Just one of the many things I hadn’t known about her. But it turned out to be a blessing. So I spent close to a century in torpor, rising only once in a rare while to feed. Hunting like I was in a lucid dream. Otherwise I slept the sleep of death, waiting for my chance.” “Your chance to what?” I ask, afraid to hear the answer. He lifts his eyes from the photograph. His gaze meets mine. “My chance to kill you.” The words hang in the crisp fall air between us. Even the birds in the woods are still. I had known he meant to kill me, but hearing him say it is different. “Deirdre’s blood brought the curse of death to our family,” he says, “but Deirdre’s blood can undo it, too. We have our own psychics, you know, our own practitioners of magic, and they believe if a powerful witch of Deirdre’s line was sacrificed in the proper ceremony, the curse would be broken and our family line would be immortal again. They believe when the last of the witch’s line dies, a powerful new leader will rise and we will restart our war with the Hunters and finally have our revenge. It’s my only chance to undo the horrible pain I’ve caused.” The prophecy, just like Ander told me: “The human falls. Vampire to lead them all will rise.” My heart is pounding. I feel freezing cold in spite of the heavy cape. “But,” I say, “Why now? Why me?” “Our psychics say you are the one, the witch whose blood is powerful enough to break the curse. I wasn’t sure of it myself, but then I tasted your blood…” His voice drifts off as his fangs shift into place at the memory. “And I have to say, I agree.” I force myself to ask it. “Then what are you going to do?” “I was supposed to bring you to the queen. I was supposed to help her kill you in the ceremony on All Hallows Eve.” “Why you?” I ask, “Why are you the one to do it?” “I asked to be the one. I volunteered. I thought there would be some poetic justice to the symmetry of it. I wanted to prove my loyalty.” “You wanted to prove to them that you were over her,” I say. “I wanted to prove it to myself.” I don’t want to ask, but I have to ask anyhow. “And? Are you over her?” He swishes the untouched champagne in his glass, like some answer might be at the bottom of his cup. “I wasn’t.”

I nod. I knew that, of course. I remember Luke in the graveyard the first day we met, laying the roses on Deirdre’s grave, then smashing them to bits. He didn’t look like a guy who was healed and ready to move on. The feeling of disappointment that started when Luke said he wasn’t my prince is slowly growing, making me feel heavy. I have the sudden urge to tear up the faded picture in my hand. “Then, asking me out, and the dress, and dancing with me…that was never about me, was it? That was because I reminded you of her.” He still doesn’t meet my eye. “It was about her—yes, at first. You have to understand that Deirdre didn’t just infect me with the ability to die. She killed me. In every way that truly matters, she killed me. This may sound strange to you, coming from one of my kind, but the woman broke my heart. So I never thought killing you would be enough. I wanted to break your heart, too.” “Which meant,” I say, “You had to make me love you.” The horrible truth is dawning on me. I was right from the start. I have been punked, tricked by a player. All that romance was a trap. None of it was real. It shouldn’t surprise me. What surprises me is how much I care. He nods, slowly. “I had to make you love me.” His dark eyes meet mine. “What I didn’t count on is falling in love with you.” My heart skips like a stone on the surface of a lake—then sinks. I can’t believe him. What if he’s still playing me? But just looking in his eyes, I know he is telling the truth. Only love could cause so much pain and hope at the same time. “I thought you were Deirdre,” he says, “But then you risked your life to heal me. You wept for Marcus, who had been dead for centuries. You tried to bond with me in the church and I realized you aren’t Deirdre. She would never have cared for another the way you do.” He reaches out one hand and lays it on my cheek, gently. He is looking at me with such tenderness. “I understand if you can’t love me, after what I intended to do. But if you can…I wasn’t ready before, but I am now. Cicely, I want to bond with you.” “What?” I pull back. “I know,” he says quickly, “It isn’t much of a gift. I don’t have eternity to give you any more, and now I never will. In fact, I’ll be honest, when my family finds out I have betrayed them again…” He smiles ruefully. “Well, my life may be very short, indeed. And it’s selfish of me to ask you to share that, I know, but I would gladly trade eternity for a few more days with you. And I suspect—” he laces his fingers through mine, “I suspect you feel the same way about me. At least, I hope you do.” Luke leans in close. His fangs have shifted into place. They shine white in the early morning sun. “Cicely Watson, will you link your life with mine?” My pulse beats yes! Everything in me wants to give myself over to this burning need. Just one bite and it would be done, I know it. I want it. And I should. This was my plan all along, wasn’t it? To get Luke to bond with me? To kill us both? This is my chance. “Yes.” Luke pounces, pushing aside the silver platters of food between us. They skid off the rock with a crash. The faded picture flutters from my hand, forgotten, as Luke takes me in his arms. I can feel the feel the sharp press of his fangs against my skin. “Wait! Stop!” I cry. It must take everything Luke has not to bite me. I know it takes all my strength not to let him. He pulls away, his body trembling like the string of a bow the second before the arrow is let

loose. He’s panting, hard. “What is it?” A dark look crosses his face. “It’s Ander, isn’t it? This is about him.” Is it? I haven’t thought about Ander nearly as much as I should. Just hearing his name makes me feel guilty. “It is and it isn’t. You told me the truth. I have to tell you the truth.” He shrinks back another inch, his expression wary. “What is it? Tell me.” So I do. I tell him about the deal Ander made with his family. I tell him my plan to bond with him and kill us both to save Ander. I tell him everything, even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I know I am giving away the only hope I have. Even though I know I am alone in the woods with a vampire who may now want me dead after all. When I am done, Luke sits in silence. The tension has gone out of his body and he looks weary. I can’t read the expression on his face. At last he says, “Why did you stop me? Why not just go through with your plan?” I shake my head. “I just couldn’t do it. After all you had said about me being different from Deirdre…I couldn’t betray you.” “Because you love me.” I shake my head. “I never said that.” “Then say it now.” He sits up straight, takes me by the shoulders, and turns me to face him. “Do you love me?” “I love Ander.” “That wasn’t the question,” he says. “Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me. If you can look me in the eye and tell me, honestly, that you don’t love me I will believe you. Tell me.” I look him in the eye. But I can’t say it. I look away. Luke smiles. “You see, you can’t. And as long as you can’t, I have no intention of giving up on us being together.” The spark is back in his eye. “I have a history of getting what I want, Miss Watson. Deirdre was the only exception. I have no intention of giving up hope.” “Really?” I say, “Because giving up hope seems like the only logical thing to do—not just for us but for Ander, for Michael, for Danny. Now that I can’t kill you, I have no plan.” “Well,” he says, “If it makes you feel any better, even if you had bonded with me, I doubt you could have killed me. The bonding would have been too strong. In fact, I doubt you could harm me now, as close to bonded as we are.” He reaches over and smoothes a lock of hair off of my cheek, tucks it neatly behind my ear. “I know I couldn’t harm you.” “So you’re saying I never had a plan, that this whole thing was doomed from the start.” I say. “Great. So now what do we do?” He looks at me sadly. “All I know is I would die for you.” So, I think, is that all there is left to do? Die? Luke, me, Michael, Danny—probably even Ander, when all is said and done. It’s not a fairy tale with a happy ending after all. It’s a tragedy, like… “Romeo and Juliet,” I say out loud. “Cicely?” Luke studies me warily. “I am beginning to recognize that expression on your face and it makes me nervous. What is it?” “A thought. Maybe a plan. A way for us to get away from the Hunters and the vampires.” Luke sighs and lays a hand over mine. “Ojala que si, querida. If only. But you don’t know them. The Hunters and the enluzantes share one purpose: to kill. None of them will rest until

they see you in your grave.” I smile. “I know,” I say, “I’m counting on that.”

Chapter 34: Ander “Wait,” I say, “Let me get this straight. You called us all together to tell us you want to fake your own death?” Cicely nods decisively. “Like in Romeo and Juliet.” “Sure,” I say, “Because it worked out so awesome for them.” Cicely smacks me in the arm, then shakes out her hand like it hurt. “Stop looking at me like I’m crazy.” “Okay then, I’ll say it out loud: You’re crazy!” “But it can be done, can’t it?” Cicely turns to Michael. “There are potions to put people into torpor, right?” Michael rubs his temples like his head hurts and I’m suddenly sorry we are asking anything of him at all. He clearly isn’t in a position to give. His usually neat hair hangs lank. His white dress shirt is spattered with potion—most of the kitchen is, in fact. Every inch of counter space is crowded with canning jars and pop bottles and milk jugs full of my potion. All Michael’s pots— even the good ones—have been pressed into service and the three working burners on our old gas stove are all bubbling at once. The familiar spicy smell fills the air. It’s the smell of Michael’s desperate attempt to provide for me in a future he may not live to see. “Listen, Michael, if we should just drop this —” I start. “No, no. Let me think.” He turns to Cicely, focuses on her with effort. “There are potions to put vampires in torpor, true. Torpor is a natural state for us. But humans are very different. It’s much more complicated.” “But not impossible.” The look of fierce determination in Cicely’s eyes is almost scaring me. “It could be done.” “Impossible? No. But advisable…?” He shakes his head. “Wait here.” He fogs off to the living room and comes back with one of his many books. This one looks extremely old. Its leather cover is lined like the back of an old man’s hand and its pages are onion-skin thin. Michael lays it open on the kitchen table next to Emmie, who is fast asleep on a pillow of her own hair. There are potion splotches on her Red Cross Blood Drive t-shirt and a mixing spoon in her hand. Michael thumbs through the pages. “Ah, yes. Here.” He pushes the book towards me and Cicely. Luke comes a step closer, too. A step too close, if you ask me, but then having him anywhere near my house is too close for me. He wouldn’t be here at all if Cicely hadn’t insisted it was necessary for the plan. One of the dozen reasons I hate the plan. “Michael,” I say, “I don’t speak Latin, remember? You always say I barely speak English.” Luke gives a muffled little snort. “It says it is a spell for false death, that it slows the heart rate to where it is barely perceptible.” Michael looks at Luke approvingly. Great. Show-off. “Barely perceptible to humans may still be heard by vampires,” I remind them. Michael nods. “We would have to make the potion very strong. There could be

complications. There’s a chance you’re heart might stop completely.” “Cicely could die?” Luke says it before I can. “Dying may be the least of her worries,” Michael says. I sigh. Why am I not surprised? “The spell can only be removed by an antidote, which must be administered by the stroke of midnight the day the spell is cast.” “The stroke of midnight?” I say, “This is starting to sound like a fairy tale.” Luke and Cicely exchange one of those knowing looks they keep exchanging lately and I feel my imaginary hackles rise. Even in a room full of potion, I could turn. How ironic would that be? “And if I get the antidote in time?” Cicely says. “You would wake,” Michael say, “You would be groggy—this particular magic lingers in the bloodstream for quite some time—but you would survive.” “And if she doesn’t receive the antidote on time?” Luke looks as worried as I feel. Even though he has no right to worry about Cicely. “Then Cicely would die?” “Worse, I’m afraid.” Michael looks every one of his three hundred years. “Her body would die, slowly, but her mind would remain conscious, trapped inside it, aware of everything as the body rotted around it.” I shudder. “What kind of a spell is that?” “A witch spell,” Luke says, “They can be extremely cruel to their enemies.” He turns sadly to Cicely, “Querida, the risk is too great.” “For once,” I say, “Fang and I agree.” “Well I don’t agree,” Cicely says, “I think we should do it.” “Cissa—” I start. She turns to me, pleadingly. “Do you have a better plan?” I wish to God I did. Just looking at Cicely standing there, desperately trying to save us, makes me love her more than ever. I would do anything to have the chance to show it. “Even if we were willing to take the risk, we would need to find the ingredients.” Michael is studying the list of Latin terms that run down the weathered page. “The herbs are obscure: crow’s foot, brackenroot, vertalis…but I think I have enough of those. It’s this one—” He stabs a single word on the page. “That one is so rare I’m afraid we’ll never find it in time.” “Is it a matter of money?” Cicely bangs her fist on the kitchen table so hard that Emmie wakes up with a start. “Why does it always come down to that?” I know how she feels. I look around the kitchen at the pots and pans full of potion. Any little wealth we had has been literally liquidated. “Money is not an issue,” Luke says. As if it was possible for me to hate him more. “The issue,” he finishes, “is keeping Cicely safe.” Okay, now I have to hate him and agree with him, too. “It’s not a matter of money,” Michael says patiently. “It’s a matter of being able to find it.” Emmie yawns. “Find what?” “A rare herb,” Michael says. “Heartsbane.” “Oh, an herb?” Emmie flutters her hands like she’s shooing a fly. “That’s no trouble at all.” “Emmie,” I say, “Are you saying you have a stockpile of heartsbane?” “No,” she says, “But I bet I know who does.” She grins. “And I know how we can get it from him, too.”

Chapter 35: Cicely “You nervous?” Emmie takes her eyes off the road long enough to flash me a grin. “Why should I be nervous?” I say, “I’m just going to run around the world’s largest shopping mall being chased by vampires, that’s all.” “I know!” she squeals, “Isn’t it excitin’? And here we are!” Emmie pilots Zoe’s big boat of a car into the parking garage of the Mall of America. It’s the same mall it was last Friday, when Zoe and I came here hunting for a dress, but it doesn’t look the same at all. It’s well past midnight and the mall is closed, the parking ramp dark and deserted. Of course, that doesn’t faze Emmie. “Lord, I look forward to this all year long!” She bounds out of the car, her short green skirt swinging, and does a quick cheerleading warm-up stretch. “Cicely? You comin’?” I am still sitting in the car. Emmie bounces around to my side, opens my door, and sighs. “It’s natural to be a little nervous at your first hunt—” “Um, a little nervous?” “—but you gotta keep your eyes on the prize! Brace Belden promised if you win, he’ll give you the heartsbane you need to make your playin’ possum potion.” “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t just let Luke buy it from him.” Emmie shakes her curls. “Now you know Mr. Belden doesn’t need money. He’s got all the money he can handle. What he needs is somethin’ fresh and interesting. In fact, just between you and me, I think he was pretty thrilled you decided to play.” She gives me a sly smile. “I think Mr. Belden really likes you!” “Lucky me.” Sarcasm is lost on Emmie. “I know, right? And he’s probably waiting for us right now. So, let’s go!” She grabs my arm and pulls. “You want to make that potion, don’t you?” I’d say “want” is a pretty strong word. “Need” is a lot more like it. I need to win this hunt, or we have no heartsbane. No heartsbane means no torpor potion. No torpor potion means I can’t fake death. Which means I really die. Of course, I might die anyway. “Hey,” I say, climbing out of the car, “It’s only twenty vampires. What could go wrong?” “That’s the spirit!” Emmie links her arm through mine like we’re about to skip down the Yellow Brick Road and we set off to the main entrance, where a dark-suited security guard stands waiting. We flash him our school IDs and he checks our names against a list before flashing us a fanged smile in return. “Go right ahead, ladies.” “Why, thank you!” Emmie sashays through. I follow her, feeling weird in my sneakers. I wanted to wear my boots—anything to feel more confident—but if escaping a lycanthrope has taught me anything, it’s the importance of sensible footwear. The lycanthrope. My lycanthrope. Where is Ander right now? Probably chained up in his room. I imagine he can’t exactly relax enough to stay human—not when he’s worried about Michael and Danny—and, of course, worried about me. Emmie has told him a million times the

hunt isn’t real, that it’s just an elaborate game, “No more dangerous than a night at the bar” but evidently that’s dangerous enough for Ander, at least where I’m concerned. I follow Emmie to the information desk where a small group of people stands chatting, cocktails in hand. I can tell right away they are vampires. Their movements are a little too graceful, their looks a little too perfect, as if they have been airbrushed. The most perfect among them is our host. Brace Belden is dressed upscale-casual in a black t-shirt, jeans, and expensive looking sneakers, his silver hair neatly combed. The men and women chatting with him are all dressed in a similar vein—their clothes expensive but relaxed, made to move in. With their slim, athletic looks they could be in a ballet company unwinding after a show, a rich group of skiers at the chalet. They all look up from their drinks as we walk in, watching us like a pride of lions watches a gazelle. Brace politely disengages himself from the conversation and strides toward us, his bright white smile in place. “Welcome! Welcome!” He air-kisses Emmie. “So good to see you! And you!” He turns to me, eyes shining. “I am so very glad you came. I hope your first hunt will be enjoyable.” Emmie beams at me. “Cicely’s in it to win it, Mr. Belden.” Brace’s chuckle is deep. “Yes, yes of course. But—” He leans closer, lowering his voice to a whisper, “This is a game in which it may be more fun to lose, yes?” I force a smile. “Sure.” “Good!” He claps me on the shoulder. “Then I will see you in the hunt! Yvonne is waiting for you down the hall.” He gestures us toward a door behind the info booth. “Great! Thank you!” Emmie twiddles her pink painted nails at him and bounds off toward the hall, beaming at the vampire welcoming committee as we pass. I follow her down the hall to what must be an employee lounge. The room is full, every chair and couch taken up with young, beautiful people, some chatting, some nervously examining maps of the mall, some eating snacks from a long low table weighed down with cookies and cupcakes and fruit. A cut crystal punchbowl of Juice sits on one end. I can tell it’s Juice because the whole room smells like it, cotton candy sweet. It’s all I can smell, but I imagine to a vampire the room might smell like other things, too: fear, excitement. Thrall. There must be twenty-five or so of us, mainly girls with a few boys thrown in. A few of them look up as we come in, assessing the competition just like I am. Two of the girls wave at Emmie and she waves back. “Do you know most of the people here?” I ask. She scans the room. “Some,” she says. “She’s worked the bar, and he has, too, and those two—” She nods her head at two girls across the room from us, standing by the buffet table, shoveling down little pink cupcakes, and downing cups of Juice like shots. She lowers her voice, “They’re street thralls.” “Street thralls? You mean they don’t work at the bar?” “Oh, no!” Emmie shakes her head so hard her curls bounce. “They work for themselves, maybe for a handler who finds them customers and takes a cut.” “Super.” I say, “Vampire pimps. But why would someone hire them? Why not just go to the bar?” Emmie shrugs. “Not everybody likes the bar, you know. Maybe they want it in their own home. Maybe they like the fun of finding them out on the street. But most likely the vamps want a second-hand high. We Nightlife girls have to stay clean and sober. Come in a teeny bit tipsy and you’re fired. But those girls will take anything—drugs, potions—and the vamps get high while they feed.” I nod. I can believe those girls do drugs. They’re both stray-cat thin. The crystal ladle rattles

as one girl pours herself more Juice with shaking hands. “But does that really work?” I ask, “I mean, do the vampires really get high?” Emmie’s eyes go wide. “Oh, you’d be amazed what stays in the blood stream! And with their senses heightened like they are, a vamp can be affected long after the stuff stops affecting us. We Nightlife girls have to be careful. Vampires are sensitive creatures.” Yeah. Sensitive. She says that like the vampires are the ones who need protecting. “Isn’t that dangerous? Working on the street?” “Oh, heck yes. The pay is amazing if you get the right clients, but their handlers take a lot of it, or they make ‘em pay for their own drugs. And most street thralls just don’t make it for long. You don’t want to be half drugged out while somebody’s draining a vein, and the vamps who look for it on the street don’t play nice. At the bar we’re safe. Well,” she smiles, “Safer.” One of the street thralls look up from her slice of cake and catches me staring. I look away fast, but not before she flips me the bird. Okay, so not all thralls need protecting, either. And I’m starting to get the impression some of the competition may be pretty tough. But the fact that Emmie knows a lot of them from the bar—well, that could be good and bad. Bad because it means most everyone here is more vampire savvy than I am. Good because it means these people are all thralls. Which means— prizes or no—deep down they want to get caught. And I don’t. My biggest—my only—advantage is I don’t want to get bitten. At least not by Brace Belden and his friends. My mind shifts back to the confessional, to the moment when Luke’s fangs pierced my skin. A hot flush creeps up my neck and I’m glad the contest hasn’t started yet. If I keep thinking like that, the vampires will be able to track me by the beating of my heart alone. I walk over to the table full of catered treats, pour myself a cup of Juice, and down it, letting the thick, cold sweetness of it erase the memory of Luke. I can’t afford to be distracted. It’s almost time to begin. A tall blond woman glides into the room, graceful as a swan on a still lake. “Brace’s wife, Yvonne,” Emmie whispers, her eyes full of admiration. “Lord, who wouldn’t want to get bit by her?” I watch as the woman steps to the front of the room, smiling warmly. “Good evening, everyone.” Her voice is touched by the slightest French accent, “We are so very pleased you are here. The hunt will begin in just a moment, but first, for the benefit of those who are new to our game—” Her blue eyes flick to me,”—a quick review of our rules. It is all very simple. The mall is closed; we are the only ones here. Once we begin, no one may leave or enter the building. You will each receive a map with three places marked. You must go to each of those places and collect a trinket with your name on it which you will find hanging from the shop door. Anyone who tampers with another’s trinket will be disqualified.” She shoots a meaningful glance at one of the street thralls, who is obviously trying to look innocent. “The trinkets exist to keep you circulating, yes? This is a game of chase, after all, and not of hide-and-seek.” A few people chuckle. “If you are the first to collect all three of your trinkets without being bitten, you win the thousand dollar prize. Unless, of course, other arrangements have been made.” Yvonne smiles at me. So, Brace must have told her about the heartsbane. A few of the other thralls glance my way, too, obviously wondering what I could possibly want more than a thousand dollars. I concentrate on my cup of Juice until they look away. “If you are bitten, however,” Yvonne’s fangs shift smoothly into place, “You are out of the game. We vampires, for our part, pledge to abide by standard blood-bar rules: only one vampire

may bite a thrall at a time and thralls will be left conscious. Juice stations have been set up at intervals and are marked on your map, but we have been forbidden to—how is it said?—“stake them out.” If you have need of anything at all, simply call out. We have control of the mall’s security systems and our guards will be watching you on the monitors to make sure there is no trouble. In fact,” she adds with a mischievous smile, “We have control of all the malls systems, which I think should prove to be quite entertaining.” “What does that mean?” I whisper to Emmie. She shrugs. “Beats me, but I guess we’ll find out!” “That doesn’t exactly reassure me.” Emmie pats my arm kindly. “There’s nothin’ to worry about. Like Miss Yvonne said, if you have any trouble, you just holler and they’ll come running.” I glance doubtfully at the big map of the mall. “How do we know they’ll reach us in time?” She smiles brightly. “Sugar, vampires are fast!” Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. “Are there any questions?” Yvonne scans the room, but no one says anything. She smiles, satisfied. “In that case, I will hand out your maps in random order.” She picks up a clip-board from the table and starts reading off names. One by one we go to claim our maps. As I take mine, the paper rattles. Yvonne smiles down at me sympathetically. “Don’t be afraid.” But I can’t help noticing the four or five times when she calls a name and no one comes forward. Was that the name of a street thrall who didn’t survive long enough to join us? Or just someone who chickened out at the last minute? And did she know something I don’t know? “Less competition for us!” Emmie grins. I smile back, but I’m secretly wishing for the millionth time that I could psychically see my own future, not just someone else’s past. I unfold my map. Even the map itself seems huge, never mind the acres of stores it represents. The three red X’s that mark my trinkets seem extremely far flung, one on the second floor East, another on the forth floor West, and one right in the center of the first floor in what must be the amusement park. “Quarry!” cries Yvonne, “It is time!” All around me, the other “quarry” gather their maps, check their shoelaces, gulp down their last drops of Juice. I steal a glance at one of the street thralls. She stands relaxed and confident, like this is something she does every day of her life. But when she thinks no one is looking, she slips a little silver knife from the buffet table into the back pocket of her jeans, just in case. Emmie and I join the crowd headed back down the hall. Yvonne follows us like a shepherd trailing sheep. Or like a wolf trailing sheep. I’m not sure which. We step out into the mall. It looks even bigger than I remember it, closed and dark as it is. Ahead of us the stores open into the huge glass atrium where the amusement park rides sit, massive and silent like dinosaur bones in a museum. A few of the thralls are quiet, nervous, but many of them are chatting. The closer we get to the hunt, the higher their spirits rise. The trio in front of me have obviously done this before. They’re comparing notes about last year’s hunt—who won, who cheated, who let herself get caught first so she could hang out drinking cocktails with the vampires all night. One of them, a blond boy, sighs wistfully. “The only thing that would make this better is if the stores were open.” One of the girls laughs. “You’re broke, remember?” “Yeah,” he says, “But tomorrow I’m a thousand bucks flush.”

“You mean I am,” the girl says. The other girl shoves her playfully. “You’ll stand still for the first vamp you see.” She shakes her ponytail. “Not tonight. Tonight I’m going to win.” I can feel my spirits sinking. What made me think I could win? They’ve all done this before. One of them is going to take home their thousand bucks and blow it on shoes and never know that, for me, it was a matter of life and death. Emmie chews on one pink-painted nail. “What’s the matter, hon’?” “Oh, you mean besides…everything?” She puts an arm around my shoulders. “It’s boy trouble, isn’t it?” I shrug. “I thought it was the fact that I’m about to get chased by vampires so I can afford to be buried alive.” She laughs. “I mean besides that. You don’t know which one of those boys you like.” “Not true,” I say, “I like Ander. I can’t even trust Luke.” “But Ander can’t trust himself, so I’d say that puts them about even. And you can’t deny there’s something between you and Luke.” She gives me a sympathetic squeeze. “Between the two of them, they’d be enough to get any girl turned around. But you’re just gonna have to relax and see where this thing leads. You know what my mama would say: ‘Love’s a darkride.’” “A dark ride?” I say, “As opposed to a light one?” “No, you know, a darkride. One of those old fashioned rides where you’re just swept along on a track and things pop out at you as you go. The haunted house is one. Tunnel of love is, too. You just never know if you’re gonna be struck by Cupid’s arrow or bit by a vampire’s fangs.” She grins. “Or, if you’re lucky, both! The point is, we can’t control the ride. All we gotta do is enjoy it. It’s the ride that’s the fun.” There’s a pause. “Emmie,” I say, “Wasn’t your mom killed by vampires?” Emmie shrugs. “I said it was fun, not safe. Now, come on! I think we’re about to start!” Yvonne has stepped in front of the group again. The other vampires are gathering around the edges, eyeing us the way a human might eye a dessert cart. Some of the thralls make a show of getting ready, stretching and jogging in place. One girl slowly winds her hair into a bun, always keeping one eye on the vamps. Yvonne smiles like a hostess. “As you know, we give our thralls the traditional five minute head start. All right. On your marks. Get set…” She flings her arms wide and gives us a full-fanged smile. “Go!” We scatter like birds, sprinting in every direction. Emmie and I dash past a group of vampires. They raise their drinks to us and cheer as we pass. Emmie waves back like a pop star flirting with her fans but most of the other thralls are moving fast, some flying for the escalators and elevators, some searching for trinkets on the first floor. There’s no way I’m going for my first floor trinket, considering it’s in the middle of the dark amusement park and this floor is about to be crawling with vamps. I decide to try to distance myself from the pack as much as possible and hope the vamps go for the easy prey first. “Good luck!” Emmie flashes me a thumbs up as the doors of her elevator shush closed. “You too!” I call. Then I duck down one of the many side streets of the mall’s giant maze. And suddenly I’m alone. There are even fewer lights down this particular retail alley. It’s evening-level dark and I wish it would work to my advantage but I know vampires can see better in the dark than I can. I’ve dressed in black and gray but I still feel conspicuous. Do my sneakers squeak? Can they hear me breathing? I stay close to the wall as I jog, trying to stay in the shadows, but the stores I pass only make me feel jumpier. The metal grids they use to lock the stores after hours make them look like cages. The mannequins look waxy and pale in the half-

light. They peer out through the bars, seem to stretch their skinny fingers and crane their long necks to watch me as I pass. A lot of the stores are decorated for Halloween. Some of the kiosks in the center aisle have been taken over by costume shops and rubber masks stretched out of shape watch me with empty eyes. Someone left the music on in Hot Topic and the pulsing punk beat keeps time with my heart as I pass, masking the sound of my feet. A strategy is forming in my head. I will take the far escalators up to the third floor and cut through the food court, hoping the smell of french fries and pizza will mask my scent, then on up to the fourth floor to retrieve my trinket, back down to the second and finally to the first. It’s not much as plans go, but at least it gives me some direction, something to run towards rather than just something to run away from. Even in the empty mall it takes a long time just to get up to the third floor, stopping to duck into side corridors to check for anyone following me and doubling back twice—once on purpose to confuse my trail and once completely by mistake. In all that time I hear people only once: screaming somewhere behind me that dissolves into laughter. So far, so good. The escalators to the food court are working. I run up the “down” escalator in a feeble attempt to confuse anyone who might follow my trail later, then dash through the empty tables of the food court and past another block of stores. I don’t know the mall well, but this is starting to look familiar. I stop and realize I am in front of Bingham’s, where Lyla and her minions took my clothes. There is the bench where Luke knelt to return my boot. God, it feels like forever ago! Like a different lifetime, when my biggest enemies were popular girls at school and all I had to lose was a boot and my dignity. A life without witches and werewolves, Hunters and psychic powers. A life without vampires. “So,” says a voice behind me, “We meet again.” I spin and find myself face-to-face with Brace Belden. No, actually, face-to-face to face-toface—I am staring at Brace’s image on a whole bank of TVs in the window of the electronics store. There’s a deep laugh and the real Brace Belden grabs me from behind, pinning my arms tight. “We told you we have control over all the malls systems.” He chuckles. “I was so pleased when you decided to join us, Cicely.” I can feel his warm breath against my neck as he whispers. “I knew I would be the one to catch you. I wanted you since the moment I saw you that night at the bar.” He sniffs my hair. “There’s something different about you, isn’t there? Something I can’t quite put my finger on.” He runs the tip of one cool finger along the curve of my neck and I shudder. “Or perhaps it’s only that you are nearly a virgin bite. Your fear is real and that is so… refreshing. It makes me almost sorry the hunt is over for you. I had half hoped you would win.” “I still might.” I stomp down hard on his foot and duck out of him arms. He lets me go. I’m sure he could stop me if he wanted to, but he doesn’t try. After all, if he simply wanted blood, he could go to the bar. We are here for the thrill of the chase and I’m being paid to play hard to get. So that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I make a dash for the elevators, jabbing the button frantically and praying no one has shut the elevators off. The doors whoosh open and I jump inside, punching the “close door” button just in time for it to shut on Brace’s hand. He tugs it out at the last second and I hear him laugh. The chase is on. I punch the second floor button but the elevator is, evidently, under someone else’s control. It skips the second floor completely and stops on the first. I flatten myself against the elevator wall as the doors slide open. Then, cautiously, I peek around the corner. No one. Not yet.

Across from the elevator I can see the carousel of the amusement park. Well, what better place to get lost? I run for it, through the archway, and into the three-story atrium. I can see the dark night sky through the glass ceiling above me. The carnival rides stand motionless. If I can get past the creepiness of it, it will work to my advantage. There are a million places to hide. I crouch low and skirt the edge of the carousel, pausing in the shadow of a wild-eyed, wooden bronco to get my bearings, then ducking and sprinting across the open walkway. I dive behind a cotton candy booth— And almost directly into a female vampire crouched over one of the other thralls. I yelp. The vampire pulls herself away from the girl’s neck and smiles at me with red-stained fangs. “This spot’s taken, honey.” The thrall gives a pleading little groan and pulls her captor back to her neck. I back up a few rapid steps—and into an ice cream cart. Something rattles loudly. “Ah, there you are!” At least he thought to announce himself. Brace really is trying to give me a sporting chance. No need to waste it. I bolt back towards the carousel. I can stay under cover of horses and off on the other side, then back out into the mall itself— But the second I set foot on the carousel it comes to life. Lights burst on and calliope music blares. The ground shifts under my feet as the whole thing lurches into motion way faster than it should. I stumble hard and grab the pole of a big white rabbit to keep from falling. Then, clutching at saddles and stirrups as I go, I try to work my way around to the other side. It’s spinning so fast it makes me dizzy. The ground is a blur. From the lights flashing past me it seems the whole amusement park is awake. I take a deep breath and jump. I try to land running, but I’m too dizzy. The park seems to pitch. I stumble. Someone catches me and steadies me from behind. I look up into Brace Belden’s fanged smile. “Allow me.” “No!” I try to wrench out of his grip again, but this time Brace holds me tight. “The chase is lovely, but it’s making me thirsty.” His tongue plays over his fangs. A sick feeling spreads through me and it has nothing to do with the spinning rides. I am about to be bitten by a stranger. I am about to loose my only chance at making the potion that could save us all. But the more I struggle, the tighter he holds, turning me around and pressing me up against the wall of the bumper car rink beside us. I can feel the fence biting into my chest as I prepare to feel Brace’s fangs puncturing my neck. “Relax,” he whispers in my ear, “It’s only a game.” “I win.” A deep voice comes from behind us, thick and slow. Brace lets go of me suddenly and I spin around to see Brace get picked up off his feet and flung. He lands a good ten feet away and I am left staring at a vampire who looks horribly familiar. He’s huge and bald. His skin is bluish white, except for one ear which is just a blackened stump and a red scar the size of an earthworm that runs down one cheek. I know instantly this isn’t one of Brace’s genteel friends. This is the enluzante who was eyeing Emmie and me that night at the Nightlife. From the blood on his fangs and spattered across his torn t-shirt, I have a horrible feeling this party has been crashed. I stand frozen, staring at the undead vampire. Behind him, Brace staggers to his feet. The throw seems to have knocked the sense out of him because he stalks angrily towards the big enluzante, shaking a finger like he’s scolding a child. “Now you see here, sir, the rules clearly state—” The enluzante turns and I see the recognition dawn on Brace’s face a moment before the huge undead starts swinging. I bolt. “Security!” I’m praying someone is watching. I’m praying Brace can hold his own.

But when I look back, I know he can’t. The vampires are moving so fast, the fight is mostly a blur, but I can still tell who is winning and it’s not Brace. The enluzante grabs him in a rage and throws him over the barrier into the bumper car rink. Then he leaps the barrier himself and grabs Brace again, hoisting him over his head and pressing Braces’ back against the chain link grid that lines the ceiling of the ride. Immediately a thousand blue bolts of lightning ripple across the surface of the grid, converging on Brace like piranhas swarming to a kill. Brace screams as the electric current hits him. His body convulses, vibrating with the force of the shock. The air is full of the smell of burning. “Stop!” I scream. I grab the nearest thing I can reach—a bright pink teddy bear hanging from the prize rack of a carnival game. I whip it at the monster’s head. It hits him and bounces harmlessly to the floor. But it gets his attention. The enluzante turns and stares at me, unblinking. He lets go of Brace, who hits the ground in a heap. Then he comes at me. I run, screaming for help, but there’s no sign of security. Where are they? I dash past the spinning rides and into the mall, but there’s no one in sight and I’m completely turned around. Where is the exit? Where are Emmie and the others? I can hear the heavy breathing of the vampire behind me. He moves with a limping, shambling gate, but he’s still too fast. I duck down a darkened corridor— And find myself staring at an archway of plastic coral, the entrance to Underwater World, the giant aquarium attraction that takes up the basement level of the mall. Hoping for someplace to hide, I throw myself down the steps and into the darkness below. It’s almost eerily quiet. Huge walls of aquarium on either side of me muffle the sound. In front of me, a two-way moving sidewalk with a handrail in between shushes away, ready to carry tourists past the schools of neon fish that flash by on either side of me—and even above me, since the aquarium arches overhead in a tunnel of glass. Dark fish glide over my head like bats. Pale jellyfish ghost past. A recording of a cultured woman’s voice drones on about the species but I can’t stop to listen. I know the aquarium stretches the length of the mall. If I can come out the other end of this tunnel, maybe I can escape. I leap onto the moving sidewalk and run, the ground blurring under my feet as the conveyor belt throws me forward at twice my usual speed. Exhibits flash past me—sunken ships, drowned cities, places where tourists could step off the moving walkway to admire the stingrays and the eels. The woman’s recorded voice drones on calmly above the frantic pounding of my heart. I risk a glance behind me but nothing but fish move in the shadows. Have I lost him somehow? The recorded voice is warning that the moving sidewalk is coming to an end. I can see the exit in front of me, shaped like a giant shark’s mouth, teeth as big as stalactites in a cave. I pour on a last burst of speed. A dark figure steps in front of the exit, silhouetted in the shark’s jaws. I swear. He must have been running above me at vampire speed, ready to ambush me when I came out the other side. There’s no getting out here. Instinctively I turn and run but I’m running against the moving sidewalk, running on a treadmill. It’s like being in a nightmare, my feet spinning under me, getting nowhere. The vampire pounces onto the walk. I feel his hand brush the back of my shirt as I vault the handrail and land on the other side of the moving sidewalk. I land, stumble. My ankle wrenches under me with a spike of pain, but the ground is moving with me now. I pitch forward and grab the handrail as the sidewalk takes me like a current. The vampire leaps the handrail, too, but looses his balance, giving me a second to lengthen

my lead. I’m entering a dark section of the tunnel, where neon fish from the deepest part of the ocean flash by like fireflies. Just beyond it, the tunnel widens into exhibit space on either side of the moving sidewalk. I duck off the sidewalk, into the nearest exhibit, praying the vampire might somehow pass me by. In the center of the exhibit is a brick pool about three-feet deep, like the bottom of a park fountain. On three sides of it are huge tanks. I back up against the side of a tank and let myself slide down to the floor, hoping the side of the pool will shield me from view. There’s nowhere else to hide and it’s getting harder to run every second. I prod my swelling ankle and feel a stab of pain in return. I wince hard. When I open my eyes again, I am staring into a mouth full of fangs. I have to clamp my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. But it’s not a vampire, it’s a huge shark, gliding silently past, just inches from my face. A few yards away, at the entrance to the exhibit, the vampire glides past, too. He is standing still on the moving sidewalk, listening for me. He raises his nose and sniffs the air. Above me, the recorded woman’s voice drones on “… nature’s perfect predator, capable of scenting the blood of their prey…” Great. My blood is pounding in my veins. Think, Cicely, think. There has to be a way out of this. “At the other end of the food chain,” the woman continues, “tide pools are homes to starfish, crabs, and…” The tide pool. Quickly, before the vampire comes back, I take a deep breath and slide in. The water is stinging cold. The salt makes every scrape on my body burn, but the water soothes my swollen ankle. I let myself slip deeper, my soaked clothes clinging to me. I take a huge lung-full of air, ducking my head under the water just as the enluzante shambles into the exhibit. Did he see me? I don’t thinks so, but I don’t know for sure. From where I lie, flat on my back in the shallow water, it is impossible to see much of anything. My hair fans around my head like seaweed. The water stings my eyes, but I force myself to keep them open so I can watch the fish in the big tanks above me. They are my only clue as to where the enluzante is. I see them dart, first to one side, then to the other, almost as if they understand the monster is something to be feared. Then the fish are still. Is he gone? Or is he just standing still, waiting for me to move? In a second I will have to move. My lungs burn with the need to breathe. Something living brushes against my leg and I stifle the urge to bat it away. This is the tide pool tank, right? Full of harmless animals for little kids to touch? Nothing can hurt me here. Beside my cheek a red sea anemone opens and closes like a beating heart, its graceful fronds tangling in my hair. Once… twice… I have to breathe. I sit up and take in a gasp of air. No one. The exhibit is empty. The vampire is gone. Quickly I pull myself out of the pool. Hiding in there may have saved my life for now, but it may cost me my life in the long run because it has made it impossible to be subtle. My heavy clothes drip water, leaving a thick, wet trail. My soaked sneakers squelch with every painful step. Even the chattering of my teeth must be audible. I crouch behind the tide pool, feeling the cold sink into my bones, expecting that any minute the enluzante might return. But he doesn’t come. Praying he has given up or gotten distracted, I squish my way to the exhibit entrance and peer out. The vampire is nowhere to be seen. I struggle onto the moving

sidewalk, headed for the shark’s mouth exit. This time no one steps to block it. I can see the stores beyond it, beckoning me forward. I step off the people-mover and creep the last few steps, peering out of the giant plastic jaws into the dim light. No one is there. I breathe a huge sigh of relief. From here I can see the big glass exit doors of the mall. Beyond them, Brace Belden’s limo sits waiting under a street lamp in the parking lot. As I get closer I can see it is surrounded by people—thralls and vampires, but the party-guest kind. In their expensive clothes they look positively tame compared to the enluzante. I scan the crowd for Emmie. I can’t see her, but there are a few people in the car; maybe she’s one of them. I can see Yvonne, moving from one person to another, tending to her guests. Brace himself sits in the open doorway of the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, his head in his hands. He looks like he’s in shock but I’m just glad to see him alive. I’m just glad to see anyone. Limping and dripping, I head for the big glass doors. Behind me, someone screams.

Chapter 36: Cicely Emmie! I recognize her scream. If I run out to the parking lot I might be able to get help. But will I be able to find Emmie if I don’t follow her now? And will she still be alive when I find her? Turning away from the safety of the limo, I run back into the darkened mall, praying all the while that Emmie has just been caught by one of the party-goers. Maybe the scream is just her playing along. But when the scream comes again, I know it’s real. There’s an edge of panic in Emmie’s voice that raises the hairs on my neck. The scream came from the amusement park, I’m sure. I run, my wet sneakers slipping on the polished floor. The park is still activated, the empty rides spinning, colored lights flashing. I scan the place but I can’t see Emmie. I listen, but I can’t hear anything above the whirr of the rollercoaster and the tinny calliope of the carousel. I don’t dare call out for her—the element of surprise may be all I’ve got. But I was sure the scream came from here. I climb up on a park bench, then up on an ice cream cart, but I’m still not high enough to get a decent view and every second counts. Searching the park on foot is out of the question. What if I choose the wrong direction? I need something higher, a way to see the whole park. A few yards away, the empty Ferris wheel churns, lights twinkling. There’s no way to stop it—it’s on auto pilot—but if I get on I can see the whole place. I run through the turnstile and stand as close as I dare to the moving cars. One passes by… two…on the third I force myself to jump, grabbing the closed safety bar and clamoring over it, my wet feet struggling to get a grip on the sleek metal sides, making the car rock like a boat in a storm. I’m barely able to fall into the seat before the car swoops upwards, soaring over the park. With the car still pitching, I can barely stand to look down, but if I don’t, I’ll never find Emmie. The Tilt-A-Whirl cars look like tops, the roller coaster like a kid’s toy. Looking at them makes me dizzy. Where is Emmie? A thousand things in motion, but nothing—no one—living. Please please please please please please…. Tears threaten but I blink them away. I have to be able to see her. The car reaches the top and hangs suspended. It’s just starting down again when I hear it: a thin cry for help, barely audible over the cacophony of the rides. It’s coming from across the park. If I lean forward so far that the car tips, I can just make them out: It’s the same enluzante who chased me, his beefy arm wrapped around Emmie’s neck. She’s struggling like crazy but she can’t get free. He’s dragging her backwards, like a shark taking down a swimmer, and now I can see where they’re going: The haunted house. I have to get to Emmie. My Ferris wheel car is still too high, but in a minute it will be close enough to the ground. I stand up part way, gripping the safety bar, ready to jump when it’s time. That’s when the lights go out. The Ferris wheel stops short, setting my car rocking again. All around me I can hear the hiss and squeal of rides dying. No no no! I lean over the edge of my swinging car. The sky through the glass ceiling of the atrium is lighter than before, but still not light enough. I can barely see the ground below me but I know it’s still a long way off. My ankle throbs. There’s no way I can jump it.

And there’s no way I can’t. Gripping the safety rail, I swing one leg over so I’m straddling it. Then, slowly, I bring the other leg over. I am sitting on the rail, swaying in the dark, high above the ground. In the sudden silence I can hear the drip drip drip of water from my wet shoes hitting the ground below. Don’t think about it. I take a deep breath and jump. The floor comes out of nowhere. I can’t see it, so there’s no way to brace myself for landing. Instead my feet just slam into the ground. My hurt ankle buckles as pain shoots up my leg. I stumble forward and land on my hands and knees, my palms on the rough gravel of the landscaping that surrounds the Ferris wheel. My right palm stings. Instinctively I bring it to my mouth. It smells like fish and tastes like salt-water and something else. Blood. I curse under my breath. That’s it. I’m bleeding. No way I can sneak up on a vampire now. If the fish smell doesn’t tell him I’m coming, the blood smell certainly will. I’m shaking with cold and fear and pain. I wish more than anything Ander was here. He would take out the enluzante without even trying. Or maybe Luke, with that impressive vampire speed and his endless cool under pressure. But all I have is me—Cicely Watson, who is now going to die in a canned hunt trying to win what she needed to pretend to die. It’s a stupid way to go. I don’t want it to end this way. Not for me, and not for Emmie. I’m limping but I’m still running. The clouds must have shifted above the glass ceiling of the atrium because it’s getting easier to see. Ahead of me is the haunted house, a string of cars standing in front of it like the vertebrae of a dead snake. They are made to look like little wooden boats and they run on a track in a channel of murky water—a sign with dripping, blood-red letters declares it “The River Styx.” All around them, the mannequins stand frozen where they were when the power died. Tattered cloth ghosts and plastic skeletons that would look hokey in motion look genuinely eerie hanging suspended. Nothing stirs. Most of the rides at the mall are state-of-the-art, but on this one they clearly chose to go retro. The cars are wooden and touched with rust. The water is dark. There’s no way I can climb over the stalled cars, so I step into the water again. At least I’m already wet, and this water only comes to my knees. There’s no danger of my fish-smell being detected here—the whole ride smells musty. I sweep my scraped hand through the dirty water to wash off the last of the blood as I forge my way forward, pressing between the frozen ride cars on my left and the “stone” wall on my right, into the dark tunnel. Fake spider-webs cling to my wet clothes. The plastic hand of a skeleton catches my hair. I wade on, past a series of freaky mannequin tableaus—a hand reaching out of a coffin, a man kneeling at the guillotine, a zombie rising from the grave. But none of that is anywhere near as scary as the whimpering, pleading sound coming from the tunnel ahead. Emmie! At least she’s still alive. I take another step forward and something leaps out of the shadows. I scream, but the sound is covered by a million other screams and a long, eerie howl. Beside me the ride cars lurch to life so fast, I have to plaster myself against the wall to keep from being run over. The power has come back on, that’s all. My heart is pounding in my throat. The screams are only recordings, the thing that jumped at me a mechanical Grim Reaper. Its red eyes flash at me under its black hood. “Mortal,” the recorded voice intones, “Prepare to DIE!” “Not today,” I whisper and wrench the scythe out of its plastic hand. Holding it like a baseball bat, I creep towards the last tableau. Carefully, I peer around the corner—and almost scream again. There’s a woman lying broken on the floor, her arms at jagged angles. Am I too late?

But no, it’s not Emmie. It’s a mannequin the monster has tossed aside, and now I see why. The tableau is a dungeon scene and the mannequin used to hang from chains on the wall—where Emmie is hanging now. Her arms are chained above her head. Her bright green skirt is torn, her feet bare. There is a long cut running down the side of her face and blood spattering the front of her t-shirt. Emmie looks like hell. But the enluzante doesn’t look so great either. He’s limping even harder than before as he paces in front of her, and he cradles one arm to his chest. Emmie must have given him some of that bar girl hospitality. I smile in spite of myself. But Emmie is in no position to fight now. Which is why I better hope I am. The huge vampire has stopped his caged-animal pacing. He is facing away from me, his eyes focused on the blood that trickles down Emmie’s cheek. He reaches up and runs one thick finger along the cut. She winces away, shutting her eyes tight, as the vampire slowly licks the blood from his hand. He gives a deep moan of satisfaction. “You taste good.” I take one cautious step closer. Emmie opens her eyes again. She sees me over the vampire’s shoulder, but she doesn’t let it register on her face. Instead she starts to struggle hard. “Well,” she shouts, “I hope you liked that little taste because that’s all you’re gonna get!” “The hell it is!” He lunges for her neck. I swing the scythe hard. It connects with the side of the vampire’s head with a loud crack, snapping the plastic blade off the wooden handle and throwing the vampire off balance. He stumbles sideways and falls off the edge of the tableau, face first into the murky water, just as another row of cars comes racing down the canal. The crunch of the cars hitting the enluzante echoes through the haunted house. He is big enough to stop them in their tracks; they pile up behind him, unable to go any further. The vampire isn’t moving, either. I stare at him, lying face down in the water, one side half under the first car. “Is he…is he dead?” “Honey,” says Emmie, “He was dead when we started! Now get me the hell off this wall!” I wedge the broken handle of the scythe into the manacles and pop them open. Emmie slides to the floor, rubbing her wrists. “I’ve never been so glad to see anybody as I am to see you!” There’s a gurgling sound from the water. “How is he not drowned?” “Enluzante,” says Emmie, “They don’t have to breathe.” “Super,” I say, “Now run!” We plunge back into the water and slosh past the frozen cars, fighting back the way I came. But as soon as we’re past the cars they jump back to life. “Nothing’s blocking them,” I shout, “Which means—” “He’s up!” Emmie hisses, “Go!” Running in knee-deep water is nearly impossible, especially when we have to keep pressing ourselves against the fake stone walls every time another set of cars comes barreling past. They are on hyper-speed now—everything is. The mechanical bats flutter frantically. The guillotine chops in staccato. Behind us the enluzante’s bellows rise above the moans and howls. Everything is moving fast but us. “The entrance,” Emmie pants, “It’s too far.” She’s right. He’ll catch us before we get there. A new set of cars is charging towards us. I look Emmie in the eye. “On the count of three. One…two…three—jump!”

We throw ourselves into the first of the speeding cars, Emmie struggling to pull her long legs in on time. I just manage to right myself seconds before we reach the vampire. “Brace yourself!” I grip the broken handle of the scythe like a lance and plant my feet for impact. I catch a flash of the vampires shocked face. There’s a horrible, wet, ripping noise as the jagged end of the handle punches through dead flesh, the force of the speeding cars driving it so deep that the splintered wood pokes out the other side and the vampire is dragged along with us. A spray of blood and water hits me as the car surges on. On all sides mechanical monsters grab for us and the enluzante looks like one of them, his eyes rolling in his head, his mouth foaming blood. “Let go!” Emmie yells “Let go!” I do, but too late. The enluzante grabs me, his cold, beefy hand closing around my throat. I choke and flail, clawing at his fist. Emmie is trying to pry him off but he’s too strong. Blackness constricts my vision like the tunnel is closing in around us. Going, going… The car bursts out of the tunnel and into the light. “Dawn!” Emmie cries, and I see it: the first red rays of sun are shining through the glass ceiling of the atrium. The hand around my throat begins to smoke. My nostrils sting with the smell of burning flesh. Then all at once the vampire explodes into a cloud of dust and ash. “Hallelujah!” Emmie shouts. I gasp, taking in a great lungful of smoky air and start coughing uncontrollably. But at least I can breathe! Emmie is laughing hysterically. “We did it! We made it!” Overhead a recorded woman’s voice says “Your ride is slowly coming to an end…” Not yet, I think, not yet. I manage to smile at Emmie through my tears. “Come on,” I say, “Let’s go.” We make it to the exit in record time, considering the fact that we are wet and in pain and, in Emmie’s case, barefoot. Not that any of that seems to bother Emmie. She is giddy with relief, bouncing around me. “You did it! You saved me!” I am starting to think all thralls are adrenaline junkies. “Yup,” I say, “We did it,” but I don’t even begin to relax until we have pushed through the big glass exit doors and spotted Brace Belden’s limo. He is still sitting in the passenger seat, Yvonne and a few of the other party guests hovering nearby. When he spots us, he looks extremely surprised. “Girls! You made it!” Emmie grins, “We sure did! Cicely dusted that fryer!” “Really?” Brace looks impressed. “I’m sorry to say not all the thralls were as fortunate. Three were killed before two of our men took out the other two undead.” He shudders. “Nasty business, really. Our security is sweeping the premises now to make sure there are no more party crashers. The other thralls are all accounted for and the rest of the guests have gone home.” He smiles sadly. “That’s the end of our little game, I suppose.” The end of our game? It was the end of three people’s lives. It could have been the end of Emmie’s life—or mine. And it might still be the end of my life, I realize. In all the excitement of escaping the enluzante, I had almost forgotten about winning the heartsbane, but now the reality comes crashing back: if there’s no game, there’s no winner, and if I don’t win I can’t get the missing ingredient, and no ingredient means no potion, which means the end of the only plan we’ve got. A tear slips down my already wet cheek. I wipe it with the back of my equally wet sleeve, but only succeed in smearing black vampire ash everywhere. Sure, Emmie and I survived, but

only just barely, only for now. Only against one vampire. What will we do if we have to face an army of them? “I feel like I need to sit down.” I open the back door of the limo and start to slide in, eager to get away from Brace and Emmie before I lose it. Brace puts a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “Cicely?” He turns me to face him. “I saw what you did back there, throwing something at that creature to distract him from me. If you hadn’t—who knows what would have happened? The undead are strong. I could have died.” I look away, unsure of what to say. “I think anyone would have tried to help you.” He shakes his head. “None of us went back in for you, did we?” He does have a point. “You see,” he says, “My kind tends to believe we are superior to yours—and in many ways, we are. But the human ability to risk all to help another…” He shakes his head, as if it baffles him. “Well, it’s truly unique.” He reaches into the front seat of the limo, pops open the glove compartment, and takes out a small package wrapped in brown paper. “Here.” He holds it out to me. “I brought this for you.” “Is this…” I’m afraid to even hope. “The heartsbane.” He smiles. “I was rather hoping you might win.” I sit down hard on the seat of the limo, suddenly light-headed with relief. “You’re giving this to me?” He nods. “Use it in good health.” Emmie bounces up and down, clapping her hands with glee. “Hot damn!” She beams. “We’re in business!”

Chapter 37: Ander “Here.” Michael holds the cup out to Cicely. “It isn’t much, but it should be enough.” She is sitting on the edge of Michael and Danny’s big bed. She takes the cup from him carefully. “It’s in a Dixie cup.” “You expected perhaps a smoking chalice?” Michael smiles at her, but weakly. “Yeah,” she admits, “Something a little more…sinister.” She swirls the liquid gently in the paper cup, careful not to slosh. It’s clear, only a little thicker than water, and smells very faintly like fresh cut grass. “Looks can be deceiving,” Michael says. “This is extremely potent stuff and once you take it, there’s no going back.” He looks her in the eye. “Miss Watson, are you sure you want to do this?” Cicely’s face is pale. I can smell the fear on her skin. “You made the antidote, right?” “Have it right here.” I hold up the little blue vial. She laughs nervously. “You let Ander hold it? You know how many dishes he has broken?” But she slips her hand into mine. I give it a cautious squeeze. “You told your mom?” She tries to smile. “About the broken dishes?” I roll my eyes at her. “You know what I mean.” She nods, serious. “I told her everything.” “And how did she take it?” Cicely sighs. “As well as anyone could, I guess, considering. It’s hard to hear that your little girl is going to die, even if it’s not the permanent kind of dead.” We hope, I think, but I don’t say it. “I still can’t believe we had to tell her,” I say. “All the years I worked so hard to keep everything from you guys.” I shake my head. “I mean, your mom can’t even keep your Christmas presents a secret.” “She understands,” Cicely says quickly. “Not everything—I tried to keep it as simple as I could—but she gets that this is, you know…” “Life or death,” I say. “Yeah, life or death.” Cicely looks away, but I’m pretty sure there are tears in her eyes. “I wish we didn’t have to tell her. But then, how could I let her think I was really dead?” “There was no choice.” Michael’s voice is firm. “She had to know, if only for practical reasons. Otherwise, how could we have talked her into such a quick funeral, no embalming—” “No cremation.” Cicely gives a wry laugh but she looks scared. It’s painful to see her look so afraid. It makes me want to just take this from her somehow, but there’s no way. Cicely has to go down into that grave alone. All I can do is get her out again. “It’s getting late.” Michael’s voice is gentle. “Cicely, we need to get started.” I look at the clock. After midnight. This time last night, Cicely was being hunted by vampires at the mall while I howled in my room. This time tomorrow night—Halloween—with any luck I will have dug her back out of her grave and this whole thing will be over. But there’s a lot between now and then. She nods silently, staring at the potion.

Michael goes to her and puts his arm around her shoulder and gives it one squeeze. How can he manage to look so reassuring, when I know he is hurting so bad? But somehow he does, and it’s such a fatherly gesture that for a second, I feel like I can glimpse another reality, one in which Michael is really a father to me, and Cicely and I are really together. “You are very strong,” he says quietly, “You can do this.” He looks up at me and I know even though he’s talking to Cissa, his words are meant for me, too. He’s trying to reassure me that I will get by without him. He’s trying to reassure himself. I swallow the lump forming in my throat, wash it down with a swig of potion. Michael gives me a long, assessing look. I know he is doing what he always does: listening to my heartbeat, smelling my fear, using three centuries worth of fine-tuned vampire instincts— but not to hunt me or to fight me, not to take me down, just to figure out if I’m okay, just to keep me from hurting myself or anyone else. I pull myself up straighter and try to look like I’ve got it together. I know I fail, but Michael takes pity on me. “I’ll give you two a minute alone,” he says. His expression says I won’t go far. And then he steps out the door and it’s just me and Cissa and the cup full of potion. There’s too much I want to say, so I don’t say any of it. We’re just quiet. Then I say, “I’ll be there, you know. I won’t be at the funeral because Michael thinks it would be too much for me, but I won’t be far away. And I’ll be there when it’s all over.” I want her to remember that there will be a time after the funeral, that life will go on. “We’ll get you out of this, and then I might have to go home for a while to get my cure, but after that I’m all yours. You know, if you want me to be.” I’m rambling. I know getting me probably isn’t very reassuring. I’m a consolation prize at best. But it seems to make Cicely feel better. She sits up a little straighter, squares her shoulders. “That’s what this is all about,” she says, “Getting you home.” I am home, I want to say, if I’m with you I’m home. But if I say it, I’ll break down. It’s hard to hear her talk about me going home because I know Cicely won’t be able to go back to her home again. If this plan goes right, Cicely will live but it won’t be here in Monument. I don’t know where it will be. She must be thinking the same thing because she says “And I’ll be in the vampire-witness protection program or whatever.” “Yup,” I say, “That’s me: The biter-bait protection program.” I glance at the clock. “It’s after midnight,” I say, “It’s time.” Cicely holds out the Dixie cup. “Cheers.” Her hand is shaking. “Bottoms up,” I say. She downs it fast and makes a face. “Worse than when my mom made the wheat-grass smoothies.” “That’s saying a lot.” I watch her closely. Michael said the potion might take effect quickly. “You should lie back.” I plump the pillows behind her and smooth the worn comforter over her legs. She already looks colder. Or maybe it’s the fear that is making her shake. “Distract me,” she says. For a second my mind snaps back to our kiss. I would give anything to be able to distract Cicely properly. But I force the thought out of my mind. “How?” I ask, “Michael doesn’t believe in TV. I could run downstairs for my music—” “No!” She tightens her grip on my hand. “Don’t go! Just…I don’t know. Tell me a story.” “What kind of a story? Like a fairy tale?” I glance at the shelves of books that line Michael’s walls. They are big, intimidating volumes. They don’t look like bedtime material. “Most of those

aren’t even in English.” “I’ve had enough of fairy tales for now. Tell me…” Her eyes scan the room. “Tell me why I’m lying under an umbrella.” For a second I think she is babbling, that the potion has already begun to take effect. Then I glance up and remember the neatly closed black umbrella. It’s just an ordinary umbrella, but it’s enshrined in a glass and mahogany case above the bed. It is such a fixture I had forgotten it was even there. “Oh, that. Well, okay.” I perch awkwardly on the edge of the bed. It’s a big bed, but I don’t want to get too close. “You okay?” I ask. “I’m cold,” she says. The potion is clearly starting to work. Her cheeks are pale. The skin around her eyes has taken on a bluish tone, the color of the clouds before snow. “Does it hurt?” She shakes her head slowly. “I feel heavy. Stiff.” I tuck the blankets around her a little more tightly but it reminds me of wrapping a mummy. The coldness seems to seep through the blankets. In contrast, I feel flushed, the potion burning in my chest, holding the wolf at bay like one of those lines of flame the firefighters use to hold the big forest fires back. It feels stingy to keep my warmth to myself while Cicely’s fingers tremble in mine but I don’t dare get any closer. Sure, I’m on as much potion as I can handle and Michael is just in the other room, but could Michael actually do anything if I changed, considering how weak he is now? Could Cicely even escape, with the potion weighing her down? I force myself to keep my distance. After all, I tell myself, if everything goes right there will be a lifetime for that later, when I’m human. But no matter how hard I try to focus on that, I can’t shake the fear that this may be the last time I see Cicely alive. So I decide to risk it, just a little. I shift closer to her, close enough to put my arm around her shivering shoulders. She smiles up at me gratefully “Okay,” I say, “The umbrella. It’s Michael’s. When we first moved to this area, we were staying near Minneapolis. One day he was taking the bus somewhere and it was pouring rain, so he brought that umbrella. So the bus stops and this young guy gets on and he’s dripping wet and he’s holding a magazine over his head to try to keep dry but it’s pretty much soaked through and the guy looks like he’s going to cry.” “Danny,” Cicely says dreamily. “Danny.” I nod. “Michael said a wind blew in behind him and Michael could smell right away that he was a thrall…” I pause, remembering how that part of the story used to disgust me when I was a kid. When had it stopped bothering me? “Did Michael bite him?” Cicely asks sleepily. “What? No! Not there on the bus!” I blush at the thought of it. “No, they just talked for a few minutes. Michael asked him where he was going and why he was upset. Danny told him he was a dancer on his way to an important audition and he was worried he would blow getting the part if he got there soaking wet. So, when Danny was on his way back out the door, Michael handed him his umbrella.” “Not his number?” Cicely’s voice sounds distant, her words slurred. “Not even his name. We were trying to lay low, remember?” “So how did…” She can’t finish, but I know what she means. “They found each other again because Danny stalked him.” Her smile is lopsided. “Shouldn’t…be…” “The other way around?” I smile. “Sure. But Danny rode that route every day for a week with the umbrella and a bouquet of flowers, trying to find Michael to thank him. He had to keep

buying new bouquets because they would wilt—he threw out like four things of flowers—and he was ready to throw out the fifth bunch and just give up when Michael got back on the bus. And this time they got off the bus together and went to get coffee and Danny told him he had gotten the audition and they started seeing each other and Michael eventually decided we could trust him and he told him about me and when Danny didn’t run screaming…” I shrug. “Danny’s show eventually ended and he went back to working at the Nightlife and he got Michael a job there, potioning the Juice and stuff, and we moved into this house where Danny grew up…” “And hung up your…” She angles her chin ever so slightly to indicate the umbrella. Her lips are dusky. “There used to be a sword in that case, but I think Michael sold it. He decided the umbrella was more important.” Her lips move very slightly. No actual words come out, but I can tell she agrees. She approves. I have told her the right story. Her body relaxes and a shudder runs through her, making her hand twitch in mine. “I…” She takes a deep breath— And doesn’t take another. Her chest is still. Her eyes, staring at the ceiling, are clouded, like a veil has come down over them. It’s an illusion, I tell myself. I should be glad it looks so real. If it can fool my heightened sense, it can fool anyone, right? I hope so, because if this were real I don’t think I could survive. With trembling fingers I reach over and stroke her cold cheek. Then gently, gently, I close her eyes. “I know,” I say. “I love you, too.”

Chapter 38: Ander I walk out of Michael and Danny’s room in a daze. I need to process, to sit still, to let the spicy taste of my potion wash away the memory of Cicely’s vacant stare. I need to see Michael and be reassured by his quiet confidence. But Michael isn’t waiting outside the room any more, and when I do find him, he doesn’t look confident. He is standing at the stove, his back to me. He is wearing a long, black coat but evidently it isn’t helping to keep him warm. I can see him shivering in spite of the fact that the room is humid and stuffy from too many boiling potions. He is hunched over a steaming pot like it’s the last warmth in the world, stirring methodically with a wooden spoon. “Michael?” He jumps. I can’t remember the last time I surprised him, but he was so lost in thought he must not have heard me and the smell of the potion he’s making must have masked my scent. I take a whiff. It’s not the familiar spicy smell of my own potion. This is a sharp, bitter scent that makes my nostrils curl. “New formula?” I ask. The thought fills me with a mix of hope and dread. There is always a chance that a new potion will help, but usually the side effects aren’t worth it. Michael shakes his head. “No, not this time. Ander, sit down.” I don’t sit. “What is it?” He pushes a canning jar of my usual potion towards me. “Have a little more first.” This can’t be a good sign. “I’ve had enough. What is it?” Michael studies me for a moment. He looks so tired. There are deep shadows under his eyes. His fangs are out, but not as a show of strength, more because he’s just too weak to hold them in, too tired to hide. He gives me that look I know so well, like he’s running a diagnostic. He must find something wanting because he hesitates and I think for a minute he’s going to say he needs to chain me up. But he doesn’t. “Sit down,” he says again and this time I do, flipping the chair around to straddle it. I’m really getting nervous. “What gives?” I ask. “How is Cicely?” It’s a dodge, but he does actually look concerned. I smile wanly. “Good as can be expected considering she’s gone into torpor, which humans aren’t supposed to be able to do.” Michael nods. “It has been done before—in my memory, but hopefully not in our hunters’.” He looks me in the eye. “She will wake up again, as long as you give her the antidote in time. You believe that, don’t you?” I nod. “You know what you’re doing, Michael. I believe it will work.” I’m surprised to see tears shine in his eyes. “Thank you for your faith in me.” “Sure,” I say, and then I ask again, “Are you making a new potion for me?” “No,” he says, “This one is for me.” For a stupid second hope rises in my chest. Maybe Michael has found some way to lessen the bonding effect, to strengthen himself, to save himself and Danny. One look at him tells me I couldn’t be more wrong.

“It’s poison, Ander,” he says. His words punch me in the gut. He can’t be serious. “What about Danny?” His look holds something like pity. “Danny is gone.” He says it gently, clearly, like he’s telling a kid there is no Santa. “Danny is dead.” I am up and out of the chair so fast I knock it over. Michael has to reach out and steady the rows of potion jars that rattle with the force of my movement, but I don’t care. “When? Since when?” His sigh is like wind through something empty. “Since the day the Hunters came. I felt it right away.” “Then why didn’t you tell me?” I don’t mean to yell at him but I can’t stop. “Ander, breathe. Drink.” I push the potion away. I feel like I’m drowning in it already. Or maybe that’s just the lump thickening in my throat. I yell around it. “They lied! They said they would let him go!” “They are Hunters,” he says quietly. “I’m a Hunter!” Or I was. I will be. “They’re my family.” He looks at me—really looks at me, hard enough to stop my pacing in its tracks. He doesn’t say anything, but his look says everything: Michael is my family. Danny was my family. Danny. My chest constricts at the thought of him. Danny planting forget-me-nots in the window boxes, harmonizing to the radio, doing dance stretches at the kitchen counter while he made us lunch. Danny teasing me about my bed-head, crying over “It’s a Wonderful Life,” planning imaginary family trips to Greece and Paris and London, trips he knew we’d never take. “Fuck the Hunters.” I am halfway to the door in two big strides. In spite of the potion swimming in my veins, I can feel the wolf rising and I’m not going to stop it. I’m just going to find the Hunters first. “Ander, stop!” It takes my full effort, but I stop. I just don’t turn around. I can’t bear to look at him. I can’t bear to have him look at me. “Why didn’t you tell me you were dying?” “Because I knew you would feel like this. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay human and Cicely needed you. I needed you.” His voice is very quiet. “I still do.” I force myself to face him. He is leaning on the counter as if he needs it for support. His eyes plead with me. “Please, Ander, don’t hold this against me.” “You need me?” I say, “Well, I need you, too! How can you stand there making poison!” “I’m going to die. You know that. A vampire cannot live without his bonded. That’s the way of life.” “But—” I sound desperate, “But you’ve made it this long without him—” “Because I had to make you enough potion to last. Because I had Cicely to take care of—” “Why not try to hang on longer, just until Cicely wakes up again, just until we get out of here? And who knows, maybe you’re wrong! Maybe Danny isn’t dead, or maybe you could somehow live without him—” I’m lying to myself. Michael would know if Danny was alive. He would feel it. And there’s no way he could ever live without him. I’ve seen a lot of vampires die of bonding—I’ve helped kill some of them myself—and there has never been an exception. Michael is just looking at me. His eyes are full of pain, but it’s pain for me, not for himself. “I’ve made all the potion I can make. I’ll help you pack the van. There isn’t much of value left in the house but take anything—” “I don’t want things! I don’t want potions!” I can’t let myself say I want you alive, but Michael knows what I mean. I’m a kid again, crying in the back of a stolen van as it pulls away

from the only home I’ve ever known. Except this time it’s my home that’s leaving. It’s me being left behind. “Please. Just a little longer.” “Ander,” he says, “I would. Believe me, I would. But the Hunters are going to need proof Luke is dead. They may not believe Luke and Cicely were bonded. They may not buy Luke is dead just because Cicely is. They are going to need every scrap of evidence they can get.” “Yes,” I say, “But what has that got to do with—” “If they find a vampire’s ashes in the woods with Luke’s things, they will be more likely to believe you killed him.” Oh. Now I understand—and I recognize the scent on the black coat. It’s Luke’s. “So you plan to die now so they think you’re him.” He turns back to the stove and begins to stir the potion again, the weathered wooden spoon drawing spirals in the dark liquid. “The Hunters won’t be looking for proof of my death. They killed my bonded themselves. But they’ll need every reason to believe Luke is dead. Otherwise all this is for nothing.” “All this is for nothing!” I’m shouting again. “I did this to save you and Danny! If I had known I never would have—” “Exactly why I didn’t tell you. If you had known it was too late for us you wouldn’t have tried. You would have missed your opportunity to get back in with your family.” “Screw the opportunity! They killed you, Michael! I don’t need them, I don’t need their family—” “You need their cure!” He spins to face me, the spoon still in his hand. The poison drips black drops on the white linoleum floor. They hiss and steam where they fall. “If there is even a chance they have a cure, you have to get it. Nothing else would make this worth it. You owe it to yourself—and to Cicely.” “I thought you didn’t want me with Cicely.” “Not so!” He bangs the spoon emphatically on the rim of the pot. “I was afraid for her, and for you. But if you were cured…I’ve seen the risks that girl has taken for you, Ander, and I believe she truly loves you. Cicely would die for you.” “I don’t want her to die for me. I don’t want anyone to.” I feel sick. “I want someone to live for me, someone I can live for.” “Good,” he says, “Good boy. Then you have to make sure you get that chance. You have to get that cure, no matter what. Promise me.” What can I say? Now the thought of dealing with Jason makes me sick, but how can I deny Michael anything? And what other choice do I have? “I promise.” He smiles at me, relieved, and I’m glad I said it. I can’t let him be afraid. Michael puts a funnel into a bottle and pours the black potion in, careful not to spill one drop. Carefully he washes out the sauce pan, rinses the spoon—and throws them both away. Then he washes the rest of the dishes and stacks them carefully by the sink—even though Danny isn’t coming home. Even though Michael won’t be coming home. Even though, soon, I won’t be coming home either. In silence we put the jars of my potion into cardboard boxes and load them into our van. It takes the rest of the night. There must be a six-month supply here; even though Michael says he believes there is a cure, he’s clearly prepared for everything. I haul the rest of the boxes while Michael goes to check on Cicely. When he comes back, he forces a reassuring smile. “She is fine. I locked the door.” He hands me a last box. This box is smaller and it isn’t full of potion bottles. It’s full of miscellaneous things like the cash box, the first aid kit, and a few mementos.

The picture on the top stops me short. It’s the three of us together. I must have been thirteen or so and we are on our only “family” trip. We’re standing on the shore of Lake Superior because Danny had his heart set on us having a picnic there. We look completely goofy: Michael and Danny are newly in love, freshly bonded, and they can’t even take their eyes off each other long enough to look at the camera. I am totally oblivious to them, just hopped up on the whole idea of being out somewhere. We all look ridiculously proud of ourselves for being so normal. Even though my smile is way too wolfy. Even though Michael’s grip on my shoulder is too tight. Even though, if you look very closely, you can see the puncture wounds in Danny’s neck. I slip the picture back into the box. Then I see it: sticking half-way out of the box, carefully wrapped in the red silk cloth from Michael’s altar, is the umbrella. I push the whole box into the van. It’s too much. The world is shifting to black and white, the color bleeding out of the red silk cloth and the orange fall leaves until everything is the gray of an old photograph, my color vision dialing down as my other senses dial up. I want to just let the change come. But there is Michael, standing in the doorway with his bottle full of poison and I know I have to be human for his sake. Not just human but a man. Human is as human does… Human is as human does… I think the mantra to myself as we walk into the woods. We walk until we come to a clearing where the first morning light is turning the dry grass to gold. There is a dark pile of clothing lying in the shade of an oak tree. The smell of it is enough to make the hair on the back of my neck rise. I growl deep in my throat. “Oh! I’m so sorry I forgot to warn you. I told Luke to leave that here.” Michael hurries to move the clothes down wind. “They are clothes of his for you to shred, to make it look as if there was a fight.” “Clothes with his blood on them, from the smell of it.” His smile is apologetic. “I didn’t know he was going to do that.” “I guess he’s going for realism,” I say. There is a long and awkward pause. How can there be any silence at all? There are so many things left to say. But nothing is going to be enough and I know my voice will betray me if I talk. Finally I manage two words. “Thank you.” He gives me back three. “I love you.” So like Michael to give me a little more than I gave him. I want to say it back but my voice won’t function. I nod, my vision blurring, but not from the change this time. Just from ordinary human tears. We sit down in the morning sun. He uncorks the bottle. We could be people on a picnic, a guy and his son, except that the liquid is too black. Except that he makes a terrible face when he drinks it. Except that my hand is shaking like the leaves on the trees all around us. His eyes go into soft focus almost as soon as he drinks it and I know he made the poison strong for my sake. “This will be fast,” he says. His body is trembling. “In the old days,” he says, “They said we shared our bonded’s soul.” He smiles a private smile and I know he’s thinking of Danny. He lies back on the golden grass. “Three hundred years and my only regret was that I never had a son.” Then he says, “I have no regrets.” “Michael!” But I’m an instant too late. He’s gone. The sun takes him almost the moment he dies. One second I am looking at his still form, peaceful on the grass. The next moment there is a light so bright, I have to wince away, so hot his hand burns in mine. And then he is gone. There is just ash slipping through my fingers,

darkness mingling with the dry leaves. I keep it together long enough to dig a hole. I keep it together long enough to bury the bottle so no one will ever find it. I keep it together that long—and then I lose it completely.

Chapter 39: Luke From my perch high in the oak tree I watch him shred my clothes. He falls on them like they are a living thing he has to kill, his hackles bristling, his teeth bared. He shreds them until there are only little scraps left, caught on the briars, until my blood and Michael’s ashes have mingled completely and I can’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that, like it or not, this werewolf’s destiny has become tangled with my own. I could not separate our fates now any more than I could sort the blood from the ash. We are tied together by our love of the same girl. He is done shredding my clothes, but the werewolf still can’t stop. He tears around the clearing, ripping up bushes by the roots, snapping branches like bones. I expect he will bolt into the woods but it’s like he is tethered to this spot. He can only go so far, around and around until finally he collapses in exhaustion, the giant beast lying stretched beside the pile of ash like a dog lying at the door, waiting for his master to return. His howl seems to shake the branches of my tree. More than that, it seems to shake my soul. Looking down at the battered clearing, I know the Hunters will believe I am dead. The problem is, I half believe it myself. My life as I’ve known it is over. I chose to surrender it when I chose to help Cicely escape. All that’s left of it is tatters in the trees, black ash sparkling on the stones.

Chapter 40: Cicely When I was in junior high I used to imagine my own funeral. I pictured myself in an open casket, dressed in dramatic black, my favorite song on repeat, a crowd of kids from my school tearfully wishing they had been kinder to me in life. I imagined that the boy I had a crush on would somberly approach my coffin to whisper that he had always secretly loved me, too, but had never had the nerve to tell me. It was a comforting fantasy. The reality is the same and different all at once. Yes, my casket is open—we need as many people as possible to witness I am dead. Yes, I am in it, completely still and unbreathing, but I am surprisingly aware. Although my eyes are closed, my other senses seem to be trying to compensate and I can hear every whisper in the crowd, smell the floral incense in the air. There is no dramatic black dress in the reality. I am wearing the same clothes I had on when I drank the potion, my usual t-shirt, hoodie, and jeans, because they will be the easiest things to run in if we have to run once Ander digs me up. Ander suggested I should wear sneakers, too, but since my only pair was destroyed at the Mall of America I insisted on wearing my boots. (“Hey,” he said, “It’s your funeral.” I conveniently forgot to laugh.) There is sort of a favorite song on repeat —“In the Silence of the Secret Night” has been playing over and over, the tenor singing mournfully above the scrape of feet as everyone takes their places in the pews. Luke must have told my mother to play it, a sort of funeral gift to me, a reminder of our night together at the dance. It makes me wish Luke was here, but of course he can’t be; as far as the vampires and the Hunters are concerned, Luke is dead. Ander could technically be here, but I know he won’t be. He can’t take the risk of turning. He needs to be in his right mind to dig me up on time. Just thinking about it makes me feel cold. I want more than ever to be able to see my future, but I can’t even see the room around me. All I can see is darkness. Or maybe the darkness is my future. The thought would make my heart pound if it still could. As it is, my heart barely beats, and when it does it’s like a bellows pumping mud. But even without the racing pulse I feel terrified. After all, if anything goes wrong—if the vampires become suspicious, if my friends somehow fail to get me the antidote—this sluggish heartbeat will gutter out completely. I can’t let myself think about it too much. Instead I listen to the sounds of my funeral. It seems well-attended, considering the fact that it was put together on a moment’s notice. I’m not sure what excuse they gave for having the funeral so quickly, but whatever it was, Michael was as good as his word and now the church is full of people from school. I can hear the beep of cell phones being shut off and snatches of whispered speculation. Hannah must be sitting in the front because I can hear her carrying on about how “close” we were, trying to grab some of the spotlight. But I don’t care about her fake tears. My mother’s real tears are the only thing I can hear. Somehow her sadness was never part of my seventh grade funeral fantasy. The sound makes me want to leap up and run to her and remind her this isn’t real, that I’m not dead. But she knows as well as I do I could be soon. And even if I survive, I won’t be coming home. The thought makes me want to cry along with her, but of course I can’t. I can’t do anything. Only my mind is awake, my restless consciousness flashing like a bright fish under the frozen

surface of my body. I try to use my new-found psychic powers to see what’s going on around me, but no matter how I try, my mind can’t slip the knot of my own still form. Instead I have to settle for listening to snatches of the funeral mass going on around me—the drone of the prayers, the hollow echo of the call and response. It should be a holy moment but the truth is it makes me think of Luke and our stolen time in the confessional. I try to shut that line of thinking down, irrationally afraid the memory will raise my temperature enough to thaw my frozen body. Besides, shouldn’t I be thinking of Ander? Shouldn’t I be praying for us all? The priest reads from the Bible. The words from the Easter resurrection story seem oddly out of place now, in October, but at the same time, strangely right. It’s the story of the women who go to the graveyard to mourn Jesus and find an empty grave. “Look for him not,” the angel says, “He is not here.” It feels almost too close to the truth. The eulogy, however, doesn’t sound so true. I feel like the priest is talking about someone else. The details are right: National Honor Society, merit scholarship recipient, “promising musician,” “beloved daughter,” but it doesn’t seem to add up to me. So much has happened in the past few days, all that seems like the details of another life. People change, I think. Even me. The priest invites members of the congregation to come up and speak. For a minute I’m afraid no one will—then I’m even more afraid my mom will speak. I’m not sure I could take that. I’m relieved when it’s Zoe’s voice that comes crackling over the mic. “Cicely was my best friend.” She sounds so tearful, I wonder if she has forgotten that this is all fake. Or maybe she’s having doubts about the plan. Or maybe she’s just realizing that, wherever I’m going from here, she won’t be able to follow. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without her. Cicely, if you’re listening—” At that, I would smile if I could. “—I just want you to know that I love you and I’m going to take care of things here for you the way you would want, and I know we will see each other again some day—you know,” she adds belatedly, “In heaven, or wherever.” I’m not sure the priest appreciates the “wherever,” but I do. Even frozen as I am I can feel my throat constrict with unshed tears. What am I going to do without Zoe? “Peace out, Cissa.” Her voice breaks. I hear her platform shoes clomp as she hurries down from the podium. There is silence and for a minute I think no one else is going to speak. Is Zoe really my only friend at this school? Then I hear a murmur of whispers, a jangle of bracelets, and the click of high heels. Emmie’s warm honey voice flows over the microphone. “I just wanna say Cicely Watson was a brave, brave girl who would have done almost anything to help somebody she loved. She didn’t doubt. She didn’t give up. And I, for one, wish I would have known her better because I believe she was the sort of girl who could have done anything she set her mind to. Anything.” Emmie sounds so confident, she almost makes me feel confident, too. A few weeks ago, I couldn’t imagine even talking to someone like Emmie Gardner. Now it’s hard to imagine a time when she and I weren’t friends. I hear Emmie’s heels click again as she steps down from the podium, but she doesn’t go all the way back to her seat. Instead she comes and stands beside my casket, close enough that I can smell the vanilla perfume and Juice that sweetens the air around her. It’s comforting somehow. I expect the priest will resume the service, but Emmie’s kind words have opened a floodgate of testimonials. Kids I sort of liked, kids who really hated me, even kids I never spoke to get up and talk about how nice I was, how I always smiled at them in the halls, how we were friends back in junior high. I know it’s not me they are mourning. They don’t know me. But then, I don’t

know them, either. Just like I didn’t know Emmie a week ago. And I feel for them because I know deep down they are mourning for themselves. I had never seen someone dead before I saw Marcus in the woods, but for me, death has always been present because for as long as I can remember, I’ve known my mother died. But for some of them, seeing me lying here is the closest they have come to death. And if someone like me can die— someone their age, at their own school—then they can too. They are like vampires becoming mortal for the first time. And maybe they really should be worried. After all, if the vampires kill me and become immortal again, they will restart their war against the Hunters. Who knows where that could lead or who will be caught in the middle? The priest is breaking in, trying to get back to the mass. “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for so if you will please—” “I have something to say.” It’s a woman’s voice, coming from the back of the church, but loud enough to cut through the murmur of the congregation. Who is that? I wish I could see. I can only hear the confident steps on the cold stone floor, the hushed swish of fabric. I can only feel Emmie stiffen beside me. An instant before the steps reach me, I know why. “Oh my God,” Emmie whispers, “It’s the queen.” The vampire Queen Constanza. My blood turns to ice in my veins. Everything in me wants to run, but of course I can’t. The spell holds me like a butterfly on a pin. I can’t even open my eyes. Not that I would if I could—if I give myself away, I am dead. All I can do is endure her touch. Her fingertips trail down my cheek, even colder than my own cold skin. The church is silent, as if no one can breathe, as if everyone is under a spell like mine. “Such a loss,” she says, “Such a profound loss for all of us.” I can hear the bitterness in her voice. She isn’t mourning me, of course. She’s mourning her own chances at immortality. “No one can doubt this little flower was stolen from us too soon. Yes, we have been truly robbed.” The edge of anger in her voice is like a knife point wrapped in velvet. “Excuse me,” A faint little voice comes from the crowd. My mother. “But who are you?” No, Mom! Don’t draw her attention to you! The thought of the vampire queen even looking at my mother is enough to make me panic. “Who am I?” The queen sounds offended to be asked. But then her voice softens. “I am a friend of Luke. I wanted to pay my respects. I have heard so much about Cicely and was deeply disappointed we never got the chance to meet.” Her finger tips slide lower, to my neck. They feel like a drip of ice water on my skin. Is she looking for a spot to bite, so as not to let my precious blood go to waste? Would she dare do that here, in front of all these people? Is she planning to kill the witnesses? But it’s her fingers and not her fangs that I feel pressing against my throat and I understand: the vampire queen is searching for a pulse. I would hold my breath if I had any breath to hold. I feel as if my pulse is pounding in spite of the potion. But she can’t feel it, can she? Her fingers only rest on my neck for an instant but it feels like an eternity. “Luke loved you,” she says to me. “You take him to the grave with you. Here, in your heart.” She lays her palm down flat over my heart like the lid on a coffin. Luke. The thought of him has always made my pulse race, and this time is no different. In an instant, my stupid heart betrays me. It beats only once—one decisive thud—but it is enough. No human senses could detect it, but Queen Constanza is not human.

I hear a note of satisfaction in her voice as she draws her hand away. “I, for one, believe you and Luke Marianez will see each other again. In Heaven, or…wherever.” She knows. I know she knows. I hear the queen turn on her heels and stride back down the aisle. The church door opens and closes and she is gone. Beside me, Emmie lets out a relieved sigh. “We did it,” she whispers, “She believed you.” But I know she didn’t. The vampire queen is on to us and there’s no way I can warn my friends. I feel the panic rising through my body as the priest says the final prayer and I hear the sound no one should ever have to hear: the thud of the casket lid closing. I will get out of here, I tell myself. Someone will dig me up. But will it be the werewolf who loves me? Or the vampires who want me dead?

Chapter 41: Ander “I can’t believe we’re doing this!” Zoe stares out the front window of the van at the dark graveyard in front of us. “Ander, we’re grave robbers!” “You look more like a cat-robber,” I say. Zoe has dressed the part in black sweats and black boots. “You could at least take the ski mask off. It makes you look psycho.” “We are psycho! We’re robbing a grave on Halloween night!” “Listen,” I say, “We are not robbing a grave with an actual dead person in it. Cicely is still alive.” And she’ll stay alive—but only if we get the antidote to her by midnight. I reach into the pocket of my jacket and feel the reassuring little vial. How can this be grave robbing? It isn’t robbing if you are taking something that is already yours. But is Cicely truly mine? In my heart she is, but what about in hers? Shake it off, Ander. Her heart can only love you if it’s beating. It’s almost midnight. I climb out of the van and go around to the back to unload the shovels from among the boxes of potion. My senses are on edge, alert to any sign of the vampires, any sign our plan is going south. I have to keep reminding myself that technically we are pulling this off. The Hunters are buying it; my brother inspected the remains in the woods and seemed to believe they belonged to Luke. The message he left on my phone sounded nothing but pleased, and he promised to give me the cure first thing tomorrow morning. The vampires are buying it; Emmie said the vampire queen herself came to the funeral to inspect Cicely, but there was nothing to give her away. All we have to do is dig Cicely up, give her the antidote, and send her away with Luke. With any luck I’ll have my cure tomorrow, find Cicely, and… “Deep breath, Ander,” Zoe says, “Deep breath.” She’s right, of course. I take a swig of my potion. Every sip makes me think of Michael. These bottles of potion are all that’s left of him in this world. As long as there’s some left, he’s still with me, but once it’s gone, so is he. And so am I, essentially, unless my brother comes through with a cure. Which means we really can’t blow this. I grab my shovel and head down the hill. No need to use the doggie door tonight; the lock on the main gate of the graveyard is broken. It creaks open at my touch. We stride silently towards Cicely’s freshly dug grave. A car motor sounds on the other side of the parking lot. “Who’s that?” Zoe spins to face it, gripping her shovel like she means to use it. “Shit!” I have never seen my brother’s car, but I know this must be it because it’s completely his style: an oversized luxury SUV, the windows tinted dark. He slides it into a parking space and cuts the motor. “They know!” Zoe sounds panicked. “Maybe they do, maybe they don’t. Quick, go hide in the back of the van. They may not have spotted you yet.” “But—” “Go!” I bark, “And lock yourself in!” I thrust my shovel into her hand. No need to advertise why we’re here, on the very off chance my brother doesn’t know. Although, why else would he

be here? “Don’t come out no matter what!” Zoe nods, her eyes huge, and backs away from me fast. She dashes for the back of the van. I hear the door shut behind her. Then I watch as Jason’s big frame unfolds from the driver’s side of the SUV. His arm is still bandaged, but otherwise he looks just fine—confident. Cool. D.J. hops out of the passenger side and follows him, trotting a little to keep up. Even in the dim light I can see the revolver in D.J.’s hand. “Ander!” Jason flashes me a smile. “Had a feeling we’d find you here.” “Yeah?” I say, “How did you know?” “Lucky guess,” Jason says, at the same time that D.J. says, “We tracked you!” My little brother sounds pleased with himself. “Great,” I say, “Why?” “I could ask you the same thing.” Jason’s sharp eyes scan the shadowy parking lot, the dark church, then linger on the graveyard beyond. “Strange place to hang out on Halloween, and so close to the witching hour, too.” The witching hour. My arm muscles twitch, eager to dig. Or maybe eager to hit Jason. Just looking at his smug smile makes me feel like the wolf is rising in my spine like mercury in a thermometer. But I can’t turn now. “I figure we’re leaving tomorrow. Can’t a guy come say goodbye to his school? Say goodbye to a…friend?” I glance at Cicely’s grave. “I knew her, you know, and it’s not like I could go to her funeral. I had to come pay my respects.” “In the middle of the night?” D.J. says. “I didn’t want there to be anyone here,” I say, “In case I turned.” “In case you got emotional.” Jason’s smile is condescending. “That’s sweet. We know you had a thing for the girl, Ander, and we appreciate what you did—you know, taking one for the team.” He looks like he might give me a friendly punch in the arm, but the expression on my face makes him think better of it. “I really wasn’t sure you had it in you, but you did it.” “Yeah, I did it. I killed the vampire and his bonded died. I kept my side of the bargain and now you keep yours.” His smile widens. “That’s why we’re here, to give you the cure. We figured, why wait until morning?” “Why wait at all?” I say, “Fork it over.” “What, just like that?” He looks shocked. “No ceremony? No celebration? Ander, what’s your rush?” “What’s my rush?” I’m sure he can hear the growl in my voice as well as I can. My rush is that the girl I love is going to be trapped alive inside her dead body if I don’t dig her up now. “Maybe I’m in a hurry to get human so nobody gets hurt.” Jason’s eyes narrow. “Is that some kind of threat? Because I thought you and I were on the same side. I mean, that’s the whole point, isn’t it? That you want to be back in the family?” You killed my family. But I don’t say it. For one thing, D.J. is looking at me so eagerly. I can’t stand to crush the hope in his eyes. And for another thing, I really need to shut up and get the cure. “Just spill,” I say. Words or blood, your choice. “Easy now,” he says, “I said I’d give it to you, didn’t I?” “You also said you wouldn’t kill Danny.” The words are out before I can stop them. “The thrall?” Jason looks surprised. “What’s the difference? You didn’t need his vamp for the potions any more. Not with us here to help you.” He never intended to let Danny live. He was only using Danny to leverage me into doing

what he wanted. But Jason knew he really didn’t need Danny even for that. He had all the leverage he needed as soon as he said the word “cure.” For a second I hate myself for even being here, for dealing with them at all. But what choice do I have? The minutes are ticking away. “You know what Dad always said about bonded thralls,” D.J. looks serious. “They’re not quite human any more. It’s merciful to kill them. We did the right thing, and so did you.” He glances at Cicely’s grave. “It’s better to die than to be some vamp’s meal forever, right Jason?” Jason claps D.J. on the shoulder. “I think Ander has forgotten a few things about being a Hunter.” “And I think you have forgotten why we’re here,” I say. “Tell me how to cure this. The truth this time.” “The truth?” Jason looks me in the eye. “The truth is there is no cure.” Blood rushes in my ears. The world shifts into black and white, darkness and moonlight. “Then I am going to kill you.” “Yeah?” Jason smiles. “Try it.” And then he turns into a werewolf. It’s not like when I turn, the ripping explosion, the wolf that seems to force itself out of me. Jason’s wolf seems to ripple through him like a shock-wave, graceful and powerful. The monster it leaves in his place is every bit as horrible as mine but completely controlled. Dead calm. Not the panting, slobbering animal I become but a flint-eyed, fine-tuned instrument of destruction. My destruction. Seeing him turn like that—for a second it knocks the wolf right out of me. “You… You’re… You’re a —” “Wolf.” He smiles, “Like you. Yes.” “No,” I say, “Nothing like me.” I mean he is a thousand times worse than I am, but Jason takes it as a compliment. His massive chest swells with pride. “You’re right. I’m not exactly like you, am I? Because I have control.” Incredible control. My mind is reeling. How did he not turn when they invaded my territory? With Michael right there? With me snarling at them? How is he standing there calmly, right now? I am going to lose it. I can feel my humanity slipping away—not just for now but for always. If there is no cure, there is no hope. If there is no cure then all of this—all of it—has been for nothing. I stare at him, stupidly. “There really is no cure.” “There isn’t,” Jason says, “Because there shouldn’t be. We need the wolf. You may have killed the vampire prince, kept them from becoming immortal again this time, but don’t kid yourself. The vamps aren’t down for good. It’s always been only a matter of time before they rise up again—that’s just what vampires do—and we can’t rely on the witches forever. When the big war hits, we’ve got to be ready to take the vamps and maybe the witches, too. The wolf is our new secret weapon, Ander. We’re fighting fire with fire now.” “So, what?” I say, “If you can’t beat them, join them?” He shakes his huge head. “No, have them join you. Add their strength to ours, their heightened senses, their power. It was the only way to stay competitive.” “Stay competitive!” My voice echoes off the grave stones. “We’re not talking about taking steroids here, Jason! We’re not inventing Hunter 2.0! You’re saying you became a monster on purpose! Jesus, what would Dad say?” His laugh is all bark. “It was Dad’s idea,” he says, “Who do you think turned me?” “No.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight like it will keep his words out. My dad was a lot of things,

but he wouldn’t do that. “Dad hated the monsters.” “That’s why he did it. He hated them and he knew they were going to win if we didn’t claim the advantage. What did you think Dad was doing all that time with the lycanthropes down in the lab?” “He was studying the curse to cure it.” Jason looks at me pityingly. “He was studying the curse to perfect it.” I feel sick. “So he could give it to you.” His canines flash when he smiles. “And so I could give it to you.” He slaps something on the ground with his paw. It comes skidding towards me, and for a minute I’m confused because it looks like a severed hand wrapped in bandages. Then I realize it is plastic, a prosthetic meant to take the place of the hand I cut off the werewolf the night I was bitten so many years ago. I look and see one of Jason’s front legs ends in an awkward stump. The paw is gone. “It was you,” I say. He nods. “I was always supposed to be the one to infect you. It just wasn’t supposed to be that night. Dad wanted to wait until you were bigger, stronger, but I wasn’t in control yet then. I lost it a little and bit you anyhow.” “That’s why you didn’t tell Dad?” I say, “Because you went against orders?” “I didn’t tell Dad because you were weak—not just physically, but as a man. You let me go that night. You gave up your advantage and backed off from a kill. And then, when you freed those vampires and took them with you…” He shakes his head at the shame of it. “I didn’t want that in our pack. I thought you might pass the weakness on to anyone you infected. I figured I’d let you go with the vamps and time would tell—either they’d off you or you’d off them. Survival of the fittest. I thought you wouldn’t make it. But now—” He tosses his head in the direction of Cicely’s grave. “Now I see you weren’t as weak as I thought, that you may still be one of us.” D.J. beams at me. “That’s why you get to make me!” “What?” I gape at him, “Are you kidding me?” “The vamps will rise,” Jason says, “We need all the help we can get. D.J. is ready.” “D.J. is not going to be a werewolf!” I roar. Jason barely flinches. “See, that’s not your choice to make. That’s a decision for the alpha wolf in this pack and that’s me.” I seethe at him. “You think you’re in charge?” “I’ve been the alpha ever since Dad died. I should say, ever since I killed him.” He’s trying to bait me into changing, I know it. But one look at him tells me he’s also telling the truth. I try to say something but words have abandoned me. “I had to do it,” he says, but not defensively, just as if it’s a fact. “Dad understood. He was getting older and weaker and it’s important only the strongest of us survive to pass on the curse so the wolves will be as strong as they can be. Besides,” he adds, “Being alpha has its privileges. Dad knew we’d be no good as a fighting force if we were out of control, so he engineered the curse so the alpha of the pack has the ability to change at will. I can be in human form or wolf form whenever I choose. No losing it when the pressure gets too bad. No going crazy on the full moon. No pain in the transformation.” He shifts to demonstrate, his wolf body morphing smoothly back into his human body for an instant, then flowing back into the smiling wolf. I try not to look as envious as I feel. “I can control myself so I can control my pack,” he says, “I protect them and in return they are compelled to do as I say. And right now, I’m telling D.J. it’s time for him to get his wolf.” “D.J. can make his own choice,” I say. “He isn’t part of your pack.”

“Not yet,” Jason says, “But he wants to be, don’t you D.J.?” D.J. looks up at me, excited. “It will be like it used to be, Ander! You and me in the same pack!” My heart is breaking for the kid because I know the longing in his eyes. He wants to belong, and I do, too. But not like this. “I’m not in the pack and neither is D.J.” “Yeah,” says Jason, “Maybe not yet, but I tend to get what I want. I am the alpha, after all. Unless…” his gray eyes glint, “Unless you’re challenging me, little brother. Kill me and you get to be alpha yourself. You can change at will. You get to call the shots.” “Don’t tempt me,” I say. But honestly, I am tempted. Right now I can’t see any other way I’ll ever be in control of myself. “Why would you want me to challenge you?” “Because if you win, I die. But if I win, you have to be part of my pack, under my rule.” His hackles rise. “And I will win.” “I’m not going to fight you,” I say. “Because you don’t want to lose?” His lips curl back to show his teeth. “Because I don’t want to win. Not like that.” Jason pulls himself up to full height. “You sure about that? Because this may be your only chance. Unless you take me out you’re going to be a monster forever.” “A monster is someone who would do something to a kid just because somebody did it to him,” I say, “A monster is someone who would kill just to feel in control. But the curse stops here, Jason. I’m not a monster.” “Well,” he says, “You sure as hell aren’t human.” I take a long swig of potion and imagine Michael is beside me. “Human is as human does.” Jason laughs. “You don’t seem to get it. You want to be able to stay human, you don’t have a lot of choices.” “Oh, I have plenty of choices. Maybe not about what happened to me—you didn’t give me any choice about that. But I have every choice about what I do with it. Michael could have been a monster. He chose not to.” I hear a low growl in Jason’s throat. “Back to the vamp again? Are you choosing to side with them?” “I’m choosing to do what’s right.” Jason shakes his head. “Ander, Ander, Ander. Little brother. I would say you’ll live to regret that choice, but if you’re not with us, I really can’t let you live at all. D.J.,” he says, “Shoot him.”

Chapter 42: Ander “What?” D.J. looks up at him, shocked “You heard what I said. Shoot!” My mind is spinning. I feel like the wolf is trying to burn its way out of my chest. I could let it, fight Jason, maybe die but take the awful responsibility off of my little brother. But if I die, who will dig up Cicely? If I change, I won’t even remember I’m supposed to save her. The clock is ticking as we speak. Zoe will never be able to do it in time, not all alone. I swallow potion like I’m trying to douse a fire. “D.J.,” I say, “You don’t have to do this.” “You do if you want to be in the pack,” Jason says. “You want that, don’t you? You don’t want to be alone like Ander.” I think about Danny and Michael, Cicely and Emmie and Zoe. “We choose our pack,” I say. “I’ve never been alone.” “But you want to be a wolf, right D.J.? You want to be strong, right?” I try hard to keep my voice calm, like Michael trying to talk me down from a change. “There are different types of strong.” “There’s only one way to fight the monsters,” Jason says, “You know that.” “You become a monster inside and the monsters win, no matter how many you kill.” D.J. is looking back and forth between us, his eyes full of confusion. The antique gun trembles in his hand. Jason is losing patience. “D.J.! What would Dad tell you to do?” I look him in the eye. “What are you telling you to do?” I talk to him like it’s just us here. “D.J, you can kill me if you want, but I hope you don’t because there’s someone depending on me right now. Someone I really love.” I see the look in his eyes soften. He lowers the gun just a fraction of an inch. Jason sees it, too. “Alright, then, I’ll kill him myself.” He leaps. But I don’t turn into the wolf. It takes everything I’ve got, but if I’m dying I’m going out human. A gun shot cracks. The sound echoes off the tombstones and the brick walls of the school. Cissa, I think, I’m sorry. I brace myself, ready for the bullet to rip me. But it never does. The silver bullet catches Jason in midair, a perfect shot to the heart that sends him flying backwards. I gape at D.J. Did he shoot Jason? But D.J. is staring at the gun in his hand like he’s never seen it before. “I didn’t shoot him, I swear.” “I did.” I turn to see Luke Marianez standing above us on the hill, holding my father’s gun. “I believe this is yours,” he says. “Where the hell did you get that?” “From the back of your van,” he says calmly. “I thought it might come in handy, and frankly, you were taking too long.”

“Well drop it!” I yell at him. “I will when the child does,” he says. I turn to D.J. He has his gun trained on Luke, a fierce expression in his eyes. “Out of the way, Ander.” “D.J.” I say evenly, “Drop the gun.” “Like hell!” His voice breaks. “He’s a vamp.” “The vamp is a friend.” I’m not entirely sure it’s true, but there’s still a chance Luke and Cicely are bonded. And he did just save my life. D.J. can’t keep the tears out of his voice. “That vamp killed Jason.” “Not yet he didn’t,” Jason says. I turn and stare at my brother. He has managed to claw his way back to his feet and stands swaying on his three paws. The fur of his chest is black with blood and his eyes are wild. Luke pivots, aiming at him, and pulls the trigger again. The gun gives a hollow click. No more silver bullets. I step in front of Luke, ready for Jason to attack. But he doesn’t attack us. He attacks D.J. In a split second, the giant animal throws himself at my little brother, knocking D.J. backwards and pinning him to the ground. “I die,” he growls, “But the pack lives.” He sinks his teeth deep into D.J.’s shoulder. My little brother screams. I scream, too—a scream that starts as words and ends in a tortured howl as my body bursts at the seams. I wolf in midair, leaping on Jason, knocking him off of D.J. and rolling him over and over in a mass of fur and blood until we hit something solid—the base of the angel statue. There is a mighty cracking noise and I look up in time to see the marble statue plunging straight for my head. I leap back but Jason isn’t as quick. The statue knocks him to the ground. There is a second crack as the heavy marble snaps his back. He lets out a pitiful yelp, his front legs swiveling wildly, his back legs lying limp. Ordinarily Jason could probably throw the statue off him like he’s shrugging off a coat. Any werewolf could. Ordinarily his reflexes would have kept him out of the way or his body could heal his wounds. But right now that silver bullet is lodged deep in his chest, sapping his strength. Blood froths from his mouth. His sides heave with the effort of breathing. When his eyes meet mine, the light in them is already almost gone, but I can still see what he’s thinking, what he wants but is too proud to say: End it. The wolf in me wants to shred his throat and glory in my victory, but I force myself to be gentle and swift. A third crack and Jason is gone. A wave of emotion crashes over me at the sight of his broken body. His wolf form is already melting into his human form. His expensive clothes are gone. He lies motionless in a widening pool of blood. I’ve reined the wolf in all I can for one night and I can’t rein it in any more. A scent assaults me: vampire. I reel around to face Luke. With my last scrap of human awareness I wish that he would run, although I can’t remember why. Run, I think, run! But he doesn’t run. He yells something at me. “Dig!” Dig? It almost makes sense. There’s something I want, under the ground. I remember that much—want it, but not nearly as much as I want to tear into the vamp stupidly standing too close. Just one leap— “Cicely!” he screams. That one word hits me like a silver bullet. Cicely. The part of me that can still think

remembers suddenly what I am supposed to do. I fling myself on her grave. The ground is stiff with frost, winter setting in like rigor mortis, but my claws rip into it easily, gouging it up in clumps and sending it flying behind me. It feels good to dig. My heart pounds with the effort, every beat echoing the tick tick tick of the clock in the church tower. Two feet down, three…I feel a rush of hope. I’m doing it. Every inch takes me closer to her— But further from myself. I let the wolf take me. I need its strength, its speed. But the deeper I sink into the grave, the deeper I sink into the wolf until the walls of dirt around me are like rising water closing over my head and I am drowning in the wolf. There is only the burning of my muscles, the rush of destruction. My claws strike wood but I can’t remember what it is. I only know something on the other side smells like human and death. The wood splinters. I smash it like a bear smashes a clam shell to get to the succulent meat inside. I only want to tear and taste, to see the flesh— “Ander! Help!” My little brother’s voice comes from somewhere above me, shrill with panic. Ripping myself away from the prey in the box I leap out of the hole. The metallic smell hits me again. Vampire. Why didn’t I kill it before? I sure as hell will now. The vampire has D.J. in a headlock. The boy is struggling, but he’s too hurt to win. The shoulder of his jacket is torn wide open where the wolf bit him. His face is pale with pain. He smells like fear—and wolf. “I thought this might get your attention,” the vamp says. I launch myself at them, tear D.J. from the vampires grasp, and shove him aside. Then I go for the vampire’s heart. He twists away but I catch hold of his shirt, my jaws clamping down on the fabric just above his heart. Or maybe I have gotten more than his shirt because I hear a cracking noise and the vampire screams. My mouth is filled with a rush of liquid and my mind is filled with a rush of victory. But a second later my mouth is shot through with pain and I know it wasn’t the vampire’s bones I snapped. It was glass. A glass bottle in the pocket of his shirt. The blood I taste is my own, mixed with another taste, the bitter sting of potion. Not my potion, something else. The vampire keeps moaning a word—“antidote, antidote”—and something else, too. A name. Cicely. That one word breaks the dam. Ander comes flooding back in and I remember why I’m here. But I don’t want to remember. Not now that I’ve ruined everything. Luke must have picked up the vial of antidote I dropped when I turned. I broke the antidote vial. “Turn human!” The vampire shouts at me. I don’t want to. I want to run. I want to stay a wolf forever and never have to think, never have to face the fact that I have just ruined everything. I turn to the woods and I run. “Turn human!” Luke shouts after me, “You are the alpha of your pack now. You can change!” I would want to laugh if I didn’t want to cry. Jason may be dead but I’m not the alpha of anything. I couldn’t take care of anyone—I can barely take care of myself. I’ve failed everyone I cared about—Michael, Danny, and now Cissa. I told D.J. I had never been alone, but I have never felt as alone as I do right now. I have no pack. There’s only me. I feel every bit as alone as I did when I was a kid who had just been turned into a monster.

Like D.J. I stop, on the edge of the woods and look back. I can see him leaning against a tree, his injured arm clutched to his side. He looks as defeated as I feel, as defeated as I felt when I had first been bitten. Except it’s worse for him, I think. I had Michael. D.J. has no one. No one but me. Something inside me is shifting. It’s small, but I can feel it. I have failed Cicely. I can’t fail D.J., too. I don’t know what I have to offer the kid—nothing, maybe—and the last thing I want is to go back there, but no one abandoned me when I was hurting. I have to try to be what he needs. If that’s an alpha, so be it. I turn around and go back. The feeling that comes over me when I step out of the woods is hard to explain. It’s like a weight settles on my shoulders, but it isn’t a burden, more like a strong hand, and at the same time a much, much greater weight is lifted. I feel suddenly lighter, stronger, clearer. And then, in between one step and the next, it happens. I turn human. It doesn’t hurt. There’s none of the ripping horror that turning used to be. This is a subtle origami of the flesh, my wolf form morphing seamlessly into my human form like water changes shape when it’s poured from a bowl into a vase. Nothing more. It’s not just painless. It almost feels good. For a split second my heart swells and I want to run and howl and leap around, just for the pure relief of it. Then I remember I have no one to share it with. Cicely is gone. But Luke hasn’t realized that yet. He must not have because he is down in the grave now and I can hear the crack of wood as he peels away the shattered cover of the coffin, hear him whispering urgently in Spanish—“Por favor, vive,” please live. But of course it’s too late. Zoe understands. I can see it on her face as she runs down the hill towards us. Her eyes are red from crying and I know she must have been watching because she tosses me a pair of my old jeans from the boxes in the back of the van. It hadn’t even occurred to me I don’t have anything on, but now that I realize it, I pull the jeans on in a hurry. But of course Zoe isn’t paying any attention to me. She stares in horror at Jason’s broken form, lying pinned under the angel. Then she turns to the open grave. “It’s too late, isn’t it?” Her voice is barely a whisper. I can’t even manage that much voice so I just nod. Zoe starts crying again. “But can’t you do something? Anything?” I should say that there’s nothing to do, but I can’t make my mouth form the words. “Yes,” Luke says, climbing up out of the grave, “Yes, we are going to try.” Why is he leading her on like this? Why would he put us through this? I broke the antidote. But the vampire’s jaw is set in determination. “Ander,” he says, “Come here.” I can’t make myself do it. Zoe looks up at me. “I’ll go with you,” she says. But I don’t want her to see Cicely in the shattered box. Let her keep the memories she has. I shake my head. “I need you to take D.J. to the van. There’s a first aid kit in the box with the umbrella.” “I don’t need first aid,” D.J. says quickly, “It’s already healing.” It’s true; through the rip in his shirt I can see the flesh has sealed but I know it’s not true healing. It’s only the curses’ way of keeping the venom of the bite in. The mark has already started to form like a bruise under his skin. “Besides,” he says, “I want to stay with you.” I could just order him to go. I’m the alpha. But instead I walk over beside him. “I really need

you to take Zoe to the van,” I say. He looks at me skeptically. “Why?” “Because I need you to protect her.” That changes things. D.J. straightens and squares his shoulders, only wincing a little at the pain. “I can do that.” He turns to Zoe. “Come on.” She shrinks back, “Didn’t he get bitten?” “He won’t turn until full moon.” The thought makes me feel sick. I lower my voice so D.J. won’t hear. “Until then he’s just a scared kid.” Zoe eyes him warily, but she follows him anyhow. After all, there’s nothing more to do here. “Ander, now!” Luke is lifting Cicely out of the grave, fragile and stiff in his arms. He lays her like a doll on the cold ground. Her eyes are shut, her lips blue, her arms stiff by her sides. For a second I am grateful my claws didn’t touch her. Then I remember it doesn’t matter. Above us the church bell tolls. Midnight has come. The antidote is gone. There is no bringing her back. I feel like something has sucked the air out of my chest. Everything for nothing. We gambled and we lost, all because of me. I want to hate the vampire for touching Cicely, for looking at her so tenderly, but I can’t even do that. I don’t have any right. I’m the one who killed her, after all. It was stupid of me to think it could be any other way. Luke turns to me. His eyes are rimmed with red but full of fierce determination. He’s going to kill me now, I think. I really want to let him. He looks me in the eye. “Kiss her.” “What?” “Damn it, I said kiss her! You said the antidote was potent. It might only take a little to wake her. There may be enough left on your lips.” “It will never work,” I say, but I’m already crossing to Cicely’s side. I kneel beside her and slip my hand behind her head. Her skin is ice cold to my fevered touch. Even to my heightened senses, there is no sign of life. But I have to try. I have to kiss her, if only to kiss her goodbye. My heart is beating hard enough for both of us. “Cicely,” I whisper, “I’m sorry.” Then I press my lips to hers. At first, it’s like kissing ice—no yielding warmth, no answering breath, just a deep cold that seeps into my bones. But then I feel something start to shift. At first it’s so subtle I think it’s just wishful thinking. Then it grows until I can’t deny it. She is warming under my touch like frozen ground thawing in the sun. Her lips soften against mine and part. Her chest rises in one big gasp of breath and I hear her heart begin to beat just as the twelfth bell chimes. It’s like the whole frozen world swings back into motion. I’m grinning and crying at the same time. Cicely’s eyes flutter open and she gives me a slow, dreamy smile. “Ander?” she mumbles, “Am I alive?” “Yeah,” I say, “You’re alive. Everything is going to be all right.” But as I watch, her expression shifts. Her eyes fill with fear, like she’s remembering some horrible dream. “No,” she whispers, “The vampires…they know…”

My whole body freezes. “You think the vampires are coming.” Luke’s voice comes from behind me. “I think they’re already here.”

Chapter 43: Luke Ander lifts his nose to the wind. I see him grimace as he catches the vampires’ scent. “We have to get out of here now!” “She’s too weak to walk,” I say. Cicely can barely sit up. “Michael said the potion could linger in her blood for hours.” “Then I’ll carry her.” The lycanthrope stands and takes Cicely in his arms. She curls into a fetal ball, her face against his bare chest. “Why not let me take her?” I say quickly. “Alpha wolf, remember? I’m in control of myself now. I’m not going to turn on her.” “That isn’t why I offered.” It hurts me to see her in another man’s embrace, almost as much as it hurt to watch him kiss her, but it would hurt far more to see her die, because this time her death would be no parlor trick. “Get her to your car.” Ander shakes his head. “Not mine. My brother and Zoe are in there. We can’t lead the vampires right to them. They would never survive a fight. We have to take your car.” “It’s far from here! I had to hide it so the Hunters wouldn’t see it and suspect I was alive.” “Yeah,” he says, “Speaking of that, you took a big, stupid risk in coming here. You could have screwed up everything!” “Si,” I say, “And here you were doing a fine job screwing things up all by yourself! I came because I had to make sure Cicely was all right.” I can’t admit that I wasn’t all right, that it was literally causing me pain to be so far away from her. “I’ll warn Zoe and your brother to leave.” “No, D.J. won’t listen to you. I’ll go.” Cradling Cicely to his chest, the lycanthrope sprints up the hill. I had thought he might set Cicely down, but evidently he has as much trouble doing that as I do. I sniff the air. The scent of the enluzantes hangs in the night like ozone after a storm. Except in this case, the storm has yet to come. I know I should run now, leave Cicely, try to lure the vampires away, try to fight them to buy her time. She and I are nearly bonded, but not completely. One more bite and our lives would be inseparable; that much I know in my bones. But right now my life could still be traded for hers. If only I could make myself go. But I can’t. I hesitate a second longer and hear the sound of the van pulling out of the parking lot above us. The lycanthrope lopes back down the hill, carrying Cicely like a child. The relief I feel at seeing her again is almost physical. “They’re gone,” Ander says. “They didn’t want to leave, but Zoe was just so relieved to see Cissa alive again that she finally did what I said.” “Good,” I say, “follow me.” I turn and slip through the graveyard gate. The werewolf follows, glancing back only once at the body of his brother, trapped beneath the likeness of my Deirdre. What is the line from the Bible, “Let the dead bury their dead”? I doubt it was meant like this. I lead them into the woods. It is cold here in the dark and the lycanthrope’s humid breath ghosts in front of him in little puffs as we run. Cicely trembles in his arms, whether from cold or fear I can’t say. I only know it makes me tremble, too, like a tuning fork trained to her vibration. This was how it felt with Deirdre when the bond began to form, as if I were an echo of her, a shadow cast in her light. The lycanthrope is on edge, tightening his grip on Cicely with every snapping twig. I try to

train my senses to the woods as well, but all I can feel is Cicely. I am aware of every twitch, every tremble, every beat of her newly restarted heart. The sound is precious to me. It keeps time to the muffled thud of our footsteps on the dead leaves as we slip through the woods. We are moving fast. Soon I can hear the distant growl of cars on the county road, see the blur of their lights flashing between the trees. In a moment we will reach the spot where I abandoned my car. But suddenly Ander stops short. He raises his nose to the breeze and his nostrils flare. A low growl escapes him. “Give me the girl,” I say. “The girl can stand on her own,” Cicely says. Her voice is weak but determined. “Put me down.” Ander ignores us both. He’s concentrating on the scent. I take a deep breath and I can smell it, too: the enluzantes, and living vampires, too. My own kind. Ordinarily the scent of them might calm me but this Halloween night I understand what humans must feel when they hear the word. Vampires. “They’re close,” Ander whispers. I nod. “But which direction?” He turns in a slow circle, still scenting the air. “Everywhere.” “Run!” Cicely screams. But it’s too late. The undead descend on us from all directions, sliding between the trees as swiftly and silently as a knife between ribs, their pale skin shining in the darkness, fangs bared, cold eyes trained on us. They are dressed all in black like animate shadows and they move so fast they blur. “Ander, run!” Cicely yells, “It’s us they want! Run!” But the werewolf shows no sign of leaving. “Get behind me!” He sets Cicely on her feet. She stumbles and I catch her just as Ander turns, exploding outward and upward with a roar of anger as his body becomes the monster. He launches himself at the vampires, but they are on us just as fast, their grip like steel, impossible to fight. I shake one off and another takes its place, relentless, emotionless, the grinding cogs of some dark machine directed by a single mind, their thoughts all linked to the vampire queen. I fight them with everything I have, but it’s all I can do just to keep Cicely from being dragged down into the churning darkness. She is fighting, too, but the potion is still thick in her veins and she can’t move fast enough. Ander is faring better. He rips the enluzantes from the frenzy, one after another, like a gardener pulling weeds. Then he snaps their necks like rabbits and tosses them aside, his claws shredding anything that comes within his reach. But the swarm of undead only thickens around him, clotting like blood, until he can barely move and the sheer mass of them drags him under, like a man being sucked into a dark tide. Cicely screams again, the horror in her voice even worse than physical pain. “Don’t hurt him,” she pleads, “Don’t kill him.” I can’t see her face through the chaos so I pretend she is looking at me, but I know it’s Ander she is worried about and for a second knowing that hurts even worse than the fangs that stab my flesh. But it doesn’t matter which one of us she loves. We’re both going to die. I reach for Cicely’s hand. The very tips of her fingers brush mine as the darkness drags me down. “Stop!” The vampire queen’s voice is barely audible above the chaos, but the enluzantes don’t need to hear her, she has a direct line to their thoughts. Instantly the vampires freeze. Through them I

can just make out Ander’s still form lying on the ground, half transformed, his body suspended somewhere between beast and man. As one, the enluzantes turn to face the deep woods. Queen Constanza steps out of the shadows. Her black Victorian gown is tattered as cobwebs. Her tangled ropes of golden hair are piled on her head. She carries the same stick staff she had before but the broken doll’s head is gone. In its place is the skull of an animal. Its jaw clacks open and shut, snapping at air as she bangs the stick on the ground. “Don’t kill them.” A hiss of disappointment ripples through the crowd but no one moves. “This lycanthrope Hunter is a curiosity to me, one I would study further.” She prods Ander’s rear paw with her staff. He growls, but he’s too pinned down to move. “And the traitor—”Constanza’s eyes find mine. “The traitor I will deal with myself.” “What about the girl?” one of the enluzantes asks. Constanza’s fanged smile echoes the skull on her staff. “The girl,” she says, “Is the key to it all. I need her alive…for now.”

Chapter 44: Cicely We are sitting on the floor in the back of a big van going somewhere fast. Honestly, that’s all I know. I keep drifting. The death potion is still in my system and I feel like my veins are full of slush. Reality is like a radio signal, and my mind keeps driving in and out of range with long bursts of static in between. I know Ander is here; I catch glimpses of him whenever I open my eyes. His battered face is tense with pain and there are thick silver chains wound around his neck and wrists. I can’t see Luke from where I am but I know he is here, too, because I can hear his whispered words of encouragement in the darkness, the English and the Spanish blurring together until all I can understand is the fear. I drift into feverish nightmares and wake to a reality that is even worse because I know wherever we’re going, we will get there eventually. Time is running out. The van slows and turns from the smooth road onto something much bumpier. For a minute we are tossed around like a boat on choppy waves, then the van lurches to a stop. I feel Luke’s hand reach to steady me—then his hand is knocked away and replaced with two sets of rough hands that haul me to my feet and thrust me through the open back door of the van. I hear Luke’s protesting words and Ander’s growls as they are both pushed out behind me and the three of us are marched down a narrow, inclined path. I pry open my bleary eyes and try to let them adjust to the dark. We are walking on a sandstone cliff. To one side the edge of the cliff drops off into blackness. Somewhere far below us I can hear the steady rush of water. To the other side, a steep embankment rises. I can just make out the domed roof of what must be the St. Paul Cathedral above the edge of the hill. The tiny cross on the top looks fragile against the wide, dark sky. For half a second I have the urge to just run off the edge of the cliff, throw myself into the river below us, rather than face whatever comes next. But I couldn’t even if I wanted to; I am surrounded by enluzantes on all sides. So I let them press me further down the path and around a bend until it looks like we are about to walk directly into the side of the cliff. But the enluzantes ahead of us know what they are doing. They push aside the bushes and we can see an opening in the cliff face about the size of a door—the entrance to a cave. “The St. Paul caves,” I whisper, and hear Luke’s murmured agreement behind me. I’ve heard about the caves before, of course. Gangsters dug them out during prohibition, and people are always talking about kids who used to throw parties in the caves and kids who went urban exploring in them and never came back. Supposedly they go on for miles under the city. I had always assumed the caves were long gone, that the city had filled them in, if they ever existed at all. I never believed the caves were real. But then, there are a lot of things I never believed. “In there,” grunts the enluzante behind me, pushing me into the mouth of the cave. I step through, expecting pitch blackness, but I’m surprised to find that the whole length of the narrow tunnel in front of me is lit by candles. There are no sconces; the candles are simply pressed into the soft sandstone walls. There are things carved into the walls, too—human things, at first, swears and initials and graffiti tags—but as we get deeper the symbols get stranger. The only

words are in languages I don’t speak, the only pictures feel much older than I am, older even than these caves. Dead languages. They mean nothing to me but they must mean something to my captors. Either that or the vampires have these twisting tunnels memorized because they move with complete confidence through the maze, the enluzantes around me following the queen far ahead of us, their feet in perfect unison like puppets being pulled by the same strings. Luke is the only vampire near me who doesn’t walk in step with them. I can hear his footfalls, perfectly timed with mine. I can hear Ander behind me, too, growling and cursing under his breath, the clank of his chains in sync with his shuffling feet. How is he staying human with so many vampires nearby? Is it the silver chains around his neck and wrists and ankles sapping his strength? Or is his potion somehow better than I thought? Once or twice I risk a glance over my shoulder and see him struggling to edge his big frame through the claustrophobic space. The sight of him bound like that, his bare chest striped with cuts, his face swollen and bruised, is enough to make me cry. But Ander isn’t concerned about his own injuries. He’s only worried about me. When the tunnel widens, he manages to maneuver his way up behind me. “Are you hurt?” he whispers. I nod. “A little.” The truth is, everything hurts. I feel stiff and cold and shaky from my time in the grave. Every step is painful, like walking on frostbitten feet. But that isn’t why I’m limping. The limp is my lame attempt to leave a trail we could follow back out again. With all the vampires marching behind us the chances of the marks lasting are almost nothing. But the chances of us escaping are almost nothing, too, so what does it really matter? Besides, Ander is probably leaving enough marks for both of us. With every heavy step he takes a little bit of the wall crumbles, and a little bit of my hope crumbles with it because every step brings us a little bit closer to the end. Just when it seems like the tunnel might go on forever, it widens and we find ourselves standing in the arched doorway of a cavernous room carved in the stone. It’s the size of a cathedral, the ceiling sweeping into darkness high above us, and the place is teeming with the undead, all dressed in black for the occasion. They part like a curtain to let us through. The queen walks a few yards ahead of us and they hurry to show their deference, kneeling and bowing as she passes, but their hungry eyes never leave me. I can hear them hiss as Ander passes but they don’t dare attack him. Not until the queen gives the word. At the front of the room stands a much smaller group. They are not dressed in black like the others. Their clothes are formal and beautiful, like something from another time: rich velvets and silks and brocades, the men in suits and the women in gowns. Their faces are beautiful, too, and in some cases very familiar. There is no mistaking those dark curls, those intense brown eyes. This is the remnant of Luke’s family. They are the ones who stand to become immortal again tonight. The enluzantes behind them were never immortal and they never will be. They have nothing to really gain from tonight except perhaps a taste of my blood. But evidently that is enough. They press forward eagerly until we are in front of the queen. She is standing on a raised platform. Behind her is an ornately carved black throne. To one side of it there stands a black iron cage. To the other is a table roughly carved of gray stone. The queen raises her hands and the crowd is instantly silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, I know you are all eager to begin. But first we must all be in our proper places. Cage the beast.” The enluzantes fall on Ander like a flock of crows grabbing at carrion. They grip him on all sides and rip him from the crowd. “No!” I scream, but two of the enluzantes grab me and hold me back. Ander is fighting them, but he is weak from the silver chains and they are able to wrestle him into the cage, locking the door behind him.

The queen smiles. “Better. But I am sorry to say we have a second monster in our midst this evening.” She turns her eyes to Luke. “Luke Marianez, stand before me.” “Luke,” I whisper, “Don’t!” Luke steps forward. Two big enluzantes flank him. “Constanza.” Her eyes narrow. “Bow in the presence of your queen.” If anything, Luke straightens. “I prefer to stand.” The movement is so swift I can barely see it. One of the enluzantes hits him in the back of the knees, making them buckle. The other grasps him by the back of the neck, forcing him down to the ground. The queen smiles. “Much better, cousin. You of all people should know to respect a queen. Now Luke, once before you ignored the good counsel of your queen, did you not? You went against the word of you mother and consorted with a witch, and through you, she brought ruin on this family. Through you she gave us death.” There is a hissing from the crowd like the sound of a storm building. The queen nods understandingly to the vampires. “Yes, many of you wanted this man dead back then, and with good reason. But I am the queen. The decision lies with me and I decided to spare him—not only that, I gave him a chance to redeem himself. I entrusted him with an important job: To find our sacrifice and bring her here so the prophecy could be fulfilled and we could regain our immortality.” I can feel the vampires’ excitement build. All eyes are on the queen. “Is that true, cousin?” Luke speaks through gritted fangs. “That is true.” “And did you fulfill that mission?” Luke glances at me over his shoulder. “I did not.” She bangs her staff on the stone floor. “You. Did. Not. Instead, you betrayed your family again by attempting to save this human girl. Now, the question is, how far has your betrayal gone? Luke Marianez, are you bonded to this witch?” My pulse quickens at the thought of bonding. Luke’s voice is quiet. “I don’t know.” The queen’s smile is cruel. “You don’t know.” She turns to the crowd. “He doesn’t know. Well, let’s find out, shall we? Luke Marianez, I have decided—although you hardly deserve the honor—you shall be the one to kill our sacrifice tonight. If you have bonded with her, you will die with her as you deserve. If you have not bonded, then you will receive your immortality as payment for your obedience, grudging though that obedience may be.” Luke does not hesitate. “And if I refuse to kill her?” The queen doesn’t react at all but the hand of the big enluzante comes down hard across the back of Luke’s head. I see Luke wince in pain. “If you refuse to kill her,” the queen says quietly, “I will kill you myself and I will throw the girl to the crowd. It only matters that she dies in the ceremony. It does not matter how.” There is a rustle of excitement from the crowd. They clearly like that idea. My entire body recoils at the thought—but maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe I should rush into the crowd right now. Wouldn’t that buy Luke his immortality? Then I would at least know Luke lived. Maybe he could even find some way to save Ander. And isn’t this inevitable? Doesn’t the prophecy say I will die and Luke will rise? What use is it to fight it any more? Luke speaks above the eager hiss of the crowd. “I need a moment to make my decision.” The queen’s voice is sugar sweet. “Of course. We have only been waiting a century, what is a moment more? But choose wisely, cousin.” She reaches out her staff and strokes the muzzle of the animal skull along the tight line of Luke’s jaw. “I have always been strangely fond of you.”

She lets the staff drop. “Let him up!” The enluzantes yank Luke to his feet. He wrenches free of them and crosses to me. “Cicely.” I keep my voice to a whisper. “You can’t be the one to kill me. That would be the third bite. It would bond us! Then you would die when I do. Let the queen kill me some other way!” “And live forever knowing I let you suffer?” His voice is fierce, “Never! If there is no way to get out of this alive, then…” I can see the pain in his eyes, “Then I have to be the one to take you. To know it was gentle.” I shake my head. “I won’t let you die with me.” His smile is sad. “You still don’t understand, do you querida? I don’t want to live without you. I have a century’s experience living with a broken heart. I can’t live that way any more.” “But I need you to live.” I’m talking to Luke, but I can’t help looking at Ander. He stands gripping the bars of his cage, his face full of pain. Luke follows my gaze and his smile turns bitter. “Ah, I see. You don’t want me to live for me. You want me to live to save him, am I right?” I look away. “That isn’t it. It’s…it’s much more complicated than that.” Luke takes my chin in his hand and lifts it gently until my eyes meet his. “I know it is. I know you love your wolf, but I believe, deep down, you have feelings for me, too, and if we had the chance…” He shakes his head. “But that chance is gone. I cannot live with you, and I will not live without you.” His strong hands grip my shoulders, pulling me closer. “I’m sorry, muñeca, but dying with you is the only choice left.” I feel the brush of his fangs as he nuzzles my neck. “It will all be over soon.” I should fight him. I should insist on dying some other way. But I can’t. Even though I know it will kill me, my body longs for the bite that would bond us, my blood hums with the thought of it. I turn my head in spite of myself, offering my neck to his ready fangs. A hush has fallen over the room. I catch a glimpse of the queen, watching us curiously, and beyond her Ander, his expression stricken, helpless. Oh, Ander, if there were any other way, if I could think of any other plan— A thought strikes me like lightning. I push Luke away just as I feel the prick of his fangs against my skin. “Stop!” I cry, “I want to be a vampire!” “What?” Luke pulls away, eyes wide. “Querida, what are you talking about?” I turn to the queen. “You said it doesn’t matter how I die? Well, I want you to make me a vampire.” “Have you gone insane?” Luke hisses at the same time Ander starts to protest from his cage. I ignore them both and turn back to the queen. “Only a queen can make a vampire, right? You would need to drain me completely and feed me some of your blood to bring me back.” “What a smart little girl you are. Yes.” “So, will you do it?” She eyes me with interest. “You understand you will never be a vampire like your Luke. You would be one of the undead.” “I understand,” I say. “I only care that you are the one to do it.” She smiles at me. “How clever of you, trying to spare your love the horror of taking your life. How very noble.” “It isn’t noble,” Luke hisses, “It’s foolish.” “It’s our only way of getting out of here alive.” “But you won’t be alive!” His whisper is fierce. “The enluzantes may walk and talk but make no mistake, they are dead! Worse than dead. They are made to be slaves.”

“They are made to be fighters,” I whisper back, “You said newly made vampires are insanely strong. Maybe— ” He groans. “That’s why you want to do this? Because you think you will be strong enough to fight them?” “Yes.” That, and other reasons, reasons that are almost too much to hope for, reasons I don’t dare even whisper. “Enluzantes are made for the fight. You said so.” “Enluzantes are made to defend their queen. She’ll control you, Cicely. She can make you serve her forever or kill you all over again with a single beam of light. You’ll forget who you are —” “Maybe. You said some don’t.” “Most do.” His expression is pained. “I will have lost you, Cicely. I couldn’t stand it.” The queen is smiling delightedly now. “What a drama we have playing here today! And I must say, it has me convinced. I have decided there is a certain poetic justice in making you a vampire, Miss Watson. We still get our immortality and—if you and my dear cousin are bonded —he still gets the death he deserves. If not, then he lives to see his love become my slave. If,” she adds quickly, “If he would still consider you his love then. After all, the enluzantes are beneath us. Could one of us ever truly love one of their kind?” Could he, I wonder? I have heard the way Luke talks about the undead vampires, as if they are worthless, disposable. Could he still love me if I were one of them? Do I want him to? Could Ander love me, for that matter, if I became the thing he was raised to hate the most? Had Michael and Danny changed his mind enough? Or were the undead a different issue? As a werewolf, as a Hunter, everything in him would be hardwired to hate me. And would I still love either of them? I think of the enluzante who tried to kill Emmie and me at the mall: monstrous, vacant, blood-thirsty. Would there be enough of the real Cicely left to feel love for anyone? I have agonized over who I love, Ander or Luke. Now I am poised to lose them both in a single stroke. But maybe to save them, too. If this plan works. If. The queen smiles. “Kill you outright and you die but your love lives on. Make you a vampire and I have the pleasure of watching your love die, too.” She turns to the waiting crowd. “My decision is made! Cicely Watson becomes a vampire tonight!”

Chapter 45: Cicely There is no way to describe what it feels like to die. I can hear the ceremony going on around me in a language I don’t understand, feel the strong hands of the enluzantes holding me down against the cold stone of the table, hear the eager voices of the crowd and Ander’s heartbroken howling, a tiny silver fish of noise against the current of the chant. I feel the queen’s teeth pierce my skin and the sudden, traitorous rush of my blood abandoning my body too fast. For a moment I feel Luke’s touch—not physically, but in a way that is somehow even more real. I feel the near-bond between us, stretched like a lifeline about to break. There’s a ticking sound coming from somewhere nearby and I can see his face in my mind, his eyes locked with mine, and it’s as if I’m being sucked down under dark waters and his hand is the only thing keeping me from being dragged under completely. Then my fingers slip through his grip and the bond snaps and the undertow takes me and everything feels distant and unimportant compared to the spectacular chain reaction going on inside my skin. My organs collapse like card houses, implode like dwarf stars. My nerves short-circuit like wires, sending static pulses of pain. My lungs collapse like burst balloons, like a burning house when the roof falls in, and all over my body cells snuff themselves, tiny lights winking out one by one. But the light doesn’t go out completely. I never lose consciousness, never slip into the comforting blackness that hovers on the edge of my mind. Instead I feel an overwhelming affection for every cell. I’m struck by how amazing it all is, even—and maybe especially—in death. I never really appreciated the self-contained miniature universe that is me. I fall in love with my breathing too late, fall in love with it just in time to lose it, walk into the show just in time for the fireworks grand finale. Fireworks. Fireflies. Final birthday candle. Blow out the candle, Cicely. Make a wish. I wish for eternal love.

Chapter 46: Ander I have never wanted the wolf so bad. As I watch the vampire queen kill the girl I love, all I can do is pray for the rage to come. I want the pain. I want the fury. I want the blade that will clear-cut my mind and leave me with no memory of this. I want the wolf to rescue me from feeling this human pain. Anything would be better than the emptiness of standing here helpless, chained and caged. But the wolf doesn’t come and mercifully snap my bones. It doesn’t rebuild me into something that doesn’t care. Instead I am aware of everything: The way the vampire queen’s throat works as she drinks; the thin thread of blood that unravels from Cicely’s neck and drips down the side of the stone table; the eager, hungry look in the eyes of the undead who hold her down, like dogs waiting for scraps. I am aware of the blank expression on Luke’s perfect vampire face as he stands there and lets it happen. I am aware of all of this because I am in human form. I am in human form because I am “in control.” I am in control of myself at last, but not of anything else. I am able to stand here and fail because I am the alpha. I am the alpha because I took responsibility for D.J., my pack, the brother I will probably never see again. I have my magic “cure”—or as close as I’m ever going to get—but I’m still failing everyone I love. Not that I don’t try. I try desperately to shift. I try to wrench the chains off of my neck. I bang my shoulder into the bars over and over until it bleeds. But this voluntary turning is still too new. I’m exhausted and potioned-up and the silver has sapped my strength. The best I can manage is a partial change. I stand half-way between man and monster, my jeans hanging off me in tatters, my voice ragged from howling. I try until I can’t try any more. And then I try again. But I know there’s no use. I can see Cicely, drained and broken. The undead don’t bother to hold her down now because there isn’t any need. I can see the vampire queen’s smile, red with Cicely’s blood, as she scrapes her own wrist with her fang and lets a single drop of her blood fall on Cicely’s gray lips. My stomach turns. I know what happens next and I almost wish she wouldn’t wake up— not like this. I almost want her to stay dead. Almost, but not quite. A real man would want Cicely to be at peace but I’m not that selfless. I can’t stand the thought of living without her. Not that I’m going to live. I look out over the black sea of the undead. Even if I could get out of this cage, out of these chains, what are the chances I would even make it across the room, as weak as I am? But at least I would have the pleasure of taking a few of these fryers out with me. The fryers. The undead. Cicely is going to be one of them now. I can’t bear to watch but I can’t make myself look away, either, as Cicely latches on to the queen’s wrist, drinking her blood in eager mouthfuls. Physically she is coming back to life but I know mentally she could be gone. Some people survive their own death better than others. Cicely could be mentally empty. She could forget her life completely. Or she could be very much herself—except, of course, not herself at all, because she will be a vampire. I honestly don’t know which way to hope. Part of me wants her to just be gone, for her

sake—and maybe for mine. A bigger part wants her to hold on to every little scrap of memory of everything we’ve shared and tack it up in her mind like she tacks those pictures on her bedroom walls. But I know, either way, Cicely will be at the whimsy of the queen. Her mind could be taken over by the group mind of the undead at any moment. Right now she is sitting up, gripping the queen’s wrist with the freakish strength of the undead, but I know not to kid myself. She’s not making it out of this alive and neither am I. The only one making it out of this alive is Luke Marianez. And he’s going to live forever. I slam my shoulder into the bars of the cage so hard it’s a wonder the bones don’t crack. Is that why you did this, Cicely? So Luke could live forever? I can’t stand the thought of her dying for him. But the thought of her dying for me…I don’t think I can live with that, either. Not even for the minutes we have left—and that’s all we have, unless there’s some kind of miracle. I can hear the drip drip drip like the ticking of a clock as the queen’s blood mingles with Cicely’s in a pool on the stone. Other than that, the room is dead silent. And then I hear a thud. I turn and see that one of the undead in the crowd has fallen. The others ignore it, stepping around its crumpled body, their eyes still locked on the queen. But then another falls, folding to the ground like she has fainted. And another. And another. A rustle of confusion sweeps through the crowd. I see the living vampires, Luke’s family, exchange questioning looks. Every eye turns to their queen for answers, and I turn, too. Just in time to see the queen slump forward, her forehead hitting the stone table with a dull crack. Cicely still holds the queen’s limp wrist. Her blood stained face is full of disappointment, like a kid who dropped her ice cream cone. But Luke gets it. He looks up at me, his eyes wide with wonder and panic and I know something has gone horribly wrong. In the best possible way.

Chapter 47: Cicely Humans don’t know silence. From the second we’re conceived we spend every minute bathed in the whoosh of life. The thrum of our blood, the sigh of our breath, the bass-beat of our hearts—our consciousness stops dancing long before this music ends. Humans don’t know silence. But I do. Because I’m not human any more. Because my body is dead. I have no idea how long the silence lasts. It feels like forever. No noise, no pain, but no comfort, either. I am still tied to my body, but the frantic ant-farm of life inside me is over and nothing outside me exists. And then everything is concentrated into one hot dot, and that dot is placed on my tongue like a communion wafer, and the instant it touches me I know what it is: one drop of the vampire queen’s blood. Everything balances on the pin point of that drop. Every molecule of me wants to rush to it like a million flashing minnows frantic for food. But I can’t move. I have to lie passive like dirt while the rain falls and just try to soak it all in. Then my muscles remember how to shift just enough to turn my head towards the salty heat of her blood like a plant turns towards the sun. Soon I can lap at it like a kitten, root for it like an infant, reach out and grab the queen’s wrist and pull it closer, sucking in mouthfuls of slick, red life. The metallic tang of it fills my nose. The taste of it—like thick tears—fills every inch of my empty body. Life rushes back in and sound comes with it. Ticking first, then the queen’s laughter. “You are coming back to us now, Cicely.” She sounds mildly amused by my death and by my intense, embarrassing hunger. “You are coming back…” Her voice is strange, I think, slow and foggy. But probably I’m the one who’s strange. My body moves on its own. I feel so cold, like my pilot light has gone out and I can’t make heat, like the only heat in the world is in the queen’s blood and I need it inside me or I’ll freeze. Her skin —so much colder than human skin—is still so much warmer than mine. Every drop of her blood in my mouth blooms into a little explosion of warmth and life. My mind blooms, too, opening like a flower to the minds of the all the others in the room. I am suddenly aware of all the minds gathered here, as if someone is slowly dialing up the volume on a show I had been watching on mute. It’s not quite high enough yet—I cannot quite make out the murmur of the thoughts around me, but I know any minute now, I will be linked in to them all through the queen. I want to be hers like they are hers. My connection with Luke is broken and I feel desperate to replace it. I hunger for it like blood as I clutch the queen’s wrist, pressing it tight, feeling the beat of her pulse against my lips. But something isn’t right. Her pulse stutters and slows. Her wrist wilts in my hands. There’s a thunking noise. I open my eyes to see that the queen is face down on the table beside me. I moan in frustration. I want more. I shake her arm to wake her, shake it like you shake the glass of water

over your open mouth to get the last sweet drops. All around me, chaos is breaking lose but I don’t really care. All I care about is this. I lower my mouth to the queen’s wrist, ready to bite her again, but something inside me is telling me to stop. No, something outside me is telling me to stop. A hand grips my shoulder, tugging me backwards. Someone is saying my name. The voice is familiar, I can almost place it, but then the memory is overwhelmed by the scent. It’s cool, metallic, like the smell of a storm, and I know by instinct it’s the smell of vampire. A vampire trying to come between me and the blood. My mouth is lit with sudden pain. There’s a burning pressure in my gums. With a vicious hiss, I turn to the vampire and bare my newborn fangs.

Chapter 48: Luke “Cicely! It’s me!” She stares at me blankly, her fangs still extended. “Luke?” Relief floods through me. She knows me. “Yes, it’s Luke.” She looks around in confusion. “What…what’s going on?” What’s going on is chaos. All around us the enluzantes are swaying, swooning, falling to the ground. The floor of the cavernous hall is littered with unconscious vampires, some sprawled on top of each other, some curled in on themselves like sleeping children, all deathly still. The few still upright are disoriented, panicked. Near us one sways dizzily, a cut tree about to fall. I would say it was a miracle, if God cared about our kind. “I don’t know what happened to them.” “I did,” Cicely says. Understanding is returning to her eyes. “I happened to them. The death potion in my blood. It put the queen in torpor.” It’s starting to make sense to me now. “Her mind is linked to the enluzantes, so when she fell unconscious—” “It actually worked!” Cicely looks stunned. “You mean you knew this would happen?” “No,” she says, “I didn’t know. I hoped.” She slides down from the table and stares around us at the still forms. “I can’t believe they’re all asleep!” “Not all of them. Only the undead. The living vampires aren’t psychically linked to the queen so we weren’t affected.” I glance over to where the last remaining members of my family stood only moments ago, but they are gone. Perhaps they have decided to take their immortality and run. Perhaps loyalty to Constanza doesn’t run as deep as I had thought. But they may not have gone far. “Cicely, we need to leave. Now.” I tug her towards the entrance to the tunnel, praying she will come with me. If she doesn’t, I’m not sure I can make her. She is probably much stronger than I am right now, newly made as she is and high on Constanza’s blood. But Cicely is still disoriented. She just smiles at me. Even with the fangs, her smile disarms me. “I’m just happy you’re okay.” Am I okay? I can’t begin to say. My mind is churning like the chaos around us. In a sense I have never been worse. I just watched Cicely die. The near-bond between us has been severed. I can feel it pulsing like a phantom limb but I know it will never be the same. I will never bite her again, never complete the connection that might have been. If I survive this, I will have painful withdrawal to look forward to. I am not okay. But at the same time, I feel better than I have in a century. It is as if Cicely and I are two sides of an hourglass; as the life poured out of her, it poured in to me. Her death broke the curse on my family and made me immortal again. For the first time in a hundred years I cannot feel my body degrading around me. Emotionally I feel like I am dying. In reality, I never will. But Cicely could. Again. “Yes,” I say, “I’m fine but we have to leave now!” She nods, satisfied. “Okay.” She casts one last, longing glance at the puddle of Constanza’s blood pooling on the stone, then she wrenches herself away from it and leaps into the crowd.

Going the wrong direction. “Cicely!” I cry “The door is this way!” “I need to get Ander!” Of course. I sigh and chase after her. She dodges gracefully through the crowd, leaping the still forms that block her path, her new vampire agility making it seem effortless. A big enluzante reaches out to grab her as she passes. “What did you do to the queen?” Cicely doesn’t hesitate. There’s a sharp crack of snapping bone as she twists the vampire’s arm full circle. He bellows in pain and tries to strike back at her, but his half-torpored reflexes are too slow. She slips lightly out of his way, leaving him moaning on the ground and me marveling at the paradox of the undead: so strong they can shatter bone, so fragile they can be destroyed by a ray of light. But Cicely doesn’t seem fragile now. She covers the distance between us and the werewolf’s cage in a matter of seconds. “Ander!” He is standing there, stunned, his body frozen half-way between man and wolf, his expression half-way between relief and horror. For a moment I try to see her as he must, her face pale as death, her fangs out, dark blood streaking the front of her sweatshirt and matted in her hair. For a second I want to tell him I’m horrified, too. But the truth hasn’t struck Cicely yet. She is just happy to be alive—or at least not dead. And she is clearly thrilled to see Ander. I fight back my jealousy. She has given me eternal life. It may be too much to ask for her love as well. So I must tolerate her love for him. If her love for him survives. If it didn’t die with her human senses. A few feet away from the cage she freezes. Her nose wrinkles in disgust and her lips curl back from her fangs. “What is that smell?” I suppress a smile. “That would be the werewolf.” I say, “You may get used to it… eventually.” Ander glares at me. “Just get me out of here before the vampire minions rise from the dead.” “How?” I ask. “Let me try.” Cicely takes a deep breath, as if she intends to hold her breath rather than breathe in his scent. I almost tell her she doesn’t have to breathe at all—enluzantes sometimes do, but they have no real need. But that seems like it may be a little much to take in and time is of the essence, so I let her hold her breath as she launches herself at the bars of the cage. She grasps them in her fists and tugs—and jumps back in surprise when they actually bend. It’s just a little, not nearly enough, but it’s enough to give Ander hope. “All three of us,” he says and grips the bars. Cicely takes hold of them again, too, though she’s careful not to let her hands touch his. I take hold, too, threading my arm in to grasp the bars between her hand and his. “On my count,” Ander says, “One, two…three!” We pull until our muscles strain. The bars bend and bow, creaking as we force them apart. It’s still not quite wide enough for Ander’s partially transformed body to squeeze through, but he shifts easily back to his less-bulky human form and angles his way through the tight opening. Cicely stares at him, wide-eyed. “How are you able to…” “Shift? Long story. We don’t have time.” He doesn’t look at her when he speaks. He’s pretending to keep an eye on the unconscious vampires, but I can tell he’s just trying to avoid seeing her fangs, the pallor of her skin, the marks on her neck. I’m fairly certain Cicely can tell, too. She looks at the ground and I imagine for an instant her eyes might fill with tears, but then I remember that the enluzantes cannot cry. “Let’s go,” she says, and turns towards the entrance to the tunnels. I get the feeling it’s as

much about getting away from Ander as it is about fleeing the vampires, but I don’t care as long as we are leaving. “I can’t run with these chains,” Ander says. Wordlessly, Cicely turns back. She takes hold of the chain that encircles Ander’s neck. I see him stiffen at her touch, his nose wrinkled at the scent, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead he takes hold of the chain, too, and together they tug until it snaps. Then they do the same for the chains on his wrists and ankles. The effort hardly seems to bother Cicely and I can see the grudging admiration in Ander’s eyes. Her strength will fade a bit with time—if we have time—but for now she is likely stronger than either of us, and probably faster, too. She strikes out towards the entry to the tunnels and there is nothing we can do but follow. Ander turns into the werewolf at once and I hear Cicely growl involuntarily and glance over her shoulder as she picks up the pace. I take a quick survey of the room. Most of my distant family has gone. Perhaps one hundred years of mortality has taught us cowardice, or perhaps they are being generous to me, I don’t know, but the few who remain are huddled at the far end of the room, warily watching us go, unwilling to lose their new lives as quickly as they found them. The lycanthrope could still kill them, of course. They know as well as I do that our invulnerability doesn’t extend to other supernatural beings. I must remember to thank the werewolf if we live. Constanza is still unconscious, lying slumped across the table in a puddle of blood, her ropes of hair like a nest of golden snakes. A knot of enluzantes has gathered around her to try to rouse her, but they are lost and disoriented. A few have collapsed at her feet. One young girl sits with her arms around her knees, rocking silently, her eyes staring at the floor. She looks nearly catatonic but she is better off than most. The enluzantes look dead even when they are up and moving like the living. Now, with their puppet-strings cut, there is nothing to suggest they are not simply dead. A few dark figures still move, clawing along on hands and knees like they are trying to cross a desert. One or two are still on their feet, stumbling like sleep-walkers. But for the most part anyone arriving on the scene would assume there had been a massacre. The whole thing reminds me of some artist’s vision of hell. Except, of course, that it is heaven for us. We may still be able to escape, if only they would stay dead. Which, of course, they don’t. We have only made it about half way through the tunnels when I hear movement behind us. “They’re waking up!” I call to Ander, who is running ahead of me. He stops in his tracks and spins to face me, his muzzle raised to scent the air. The light of the candles makes his wolf-face look like a monstrous mask. He swears fiercely under his breath. Cicely stops, too, and turns to us, eyes wide. “Don’t they need the antidote to wake up?” I shake my head. “They aren’t human. Torpor is a natural state for them, and they’re only in it because the queen is.” “You mean was.” Ander’s expression is dark. “If they’re awake, it must be because she is.” “If she can control them like that, why can’t she control me?” I can tell by the tone of Cicely’s voice that the thought terrifies her. And it should. “You probably weren’t linked in to her little psychic friends’ network before she fell asleep.” There’s a growl in Ander’s words. “But now…” “Maybe if we get far away from Constanza she won’t be able to affect Cicely.” I’m not sure even I believe that, but I have to give Cicely hope. We’ve come too far to lose her now. “No.” Ander’s voice is firm. “We have to kill the queen.” “What?” I stare at him in the half-light. “We can’t!”

His glare is menacing. “We can’t, or you won’t?” Would I? A memory of Constanza flashes through my mind, not as the mad queen she is now, but as the laughing, golden-haired girl she was. Could I kill her, for Cicely’s freedom? “She’s Cicely’s maker.” I say. “We don’t know how it could affect Cicely.” “Well,” he says, “we’re about to find out.” “Ander, no!” Cicely grabs his arm. “She’ll kill you!” He freezes at her touch, every muscle tense, but he keeps his voice soft. “Cissa, I have to.” I should be thrilled at the thought of the werewolf going—the chances of him getting killed are high—but the look on Cicely’s face is so full of pain at the prospect of losing him, I can hardly stand it. “I’ll go,” I say. I’m gratified to see the horror on Cicely’s face. “You can’t!” “That’s right,” Ander says, “You can’t because you won’t actually be able to kill her.” “No one is going back!” Cicely’s fangs flash. “I can hear them coming. We have to run—all of us!” Ander turns to her and his features seem to melt back into his human form. “I’ll catch up with you. I promise.” For a second he looks like a human boy, looking at a human girl. “Don’t worry. I’m a Hunter. This is what we do.” But he isn’t a Hunter. Not any more. No Hunter could look at a vampire with that much tenderness. Jealousy stabs me. Ander pulls himself away and takes off down the tunnel the way we came. “Luke,” he calls over his shoulder, “Get her out of here!”

Chapter 49: Ander It feels good to get away from Cicely. Good in a bad way. Okay, I don’t know how it feels. I mean, on the one hand I want to forget the vampire behind me is Cicely, and on the other hand, if I do forget, I’ll kill her. Because frankly, alpha-wolf control or not, I want to kill something. I want to make something else feel as shredded as I feel. So I run towards something that I can kill—and I don’t have long to wait. I round the next bend and find myself face to face with four fryers running right towards me. To be fair, they might not have been sent to hunt us down. They might just be trying to escape. Or maybe they are so disoriented they don’t know what they are doing, but either way I’m not letting them past me. I choose to let go of my new found self control completely to welcome the wolf, and this time it comes. The tunnel shifts into high contrast black and white, the vampires’ shocked faces standing out like newspaper photos of the victims of some natural disaster—and I guess that’s how I feel: Hurricane Ander, taking out everything in its path. I let my fury take me, unleashing all the hurt of watching Cicely die. On an ordinary day, four undead might be able to take me, but today is not an ordinary day. The vampires’ reflexes are still slow with the after-effects of the torpor and I feel like I’m high on my own pain. The whole thing is over almost too soon. The vamps are broken, scattered around the tunnel like dolls, and if I’m hurt, I don’t feel it yet. The only pain I feel isn’t physical. It’s the pain of having failed the ones I love and it hurts like a stake through the heart. The only thing that’s going to drown it out is another fight and luckily that’s what I’m headed for. I race as fast as I can through the tight tunnels, my claws leaving welts in the soft stone, the damp smell of earth and the reek of the vampires burning in my nose. There’s no use trying to be subtle; I’ve blown my cover already. Besides, a distraction is good if it lets Cicely escape. I burst out of the tunnel, a snarling mass of fur and fangs, ready for the vamps. And they are ready for me. I don’t see the queen at first but I know she’s awake because the vampires are moving with purpose now, their actions carefully choreographed by an outside hand. They rush me like maggots swarming the dead, but I stand my ground. I barely register the pain of their bites. All that exists for me is taking them out, one after another, until it’s just down to the two that matter: me and the vampire queen. She stands on the raised platform like an actress on a stage, holding her skull-topped staff in one hand and a curved silver knife in the other. The color is seeping back into my vision and I can see her blond dreadlocks are streaked with blood and there is blood—Cicely’s blood—on her lips like dark lipstick that makes her fangs shine white in contrast. She smiles at me. “I don’t mind.” She says, sweeping her skull staff over the carnage in the room. “I can make more.” She draws the back of her hand slowly across her mouth, leaving a thick streak of blood on her pale skin. Then she licks the blood off carefully, like a cat licking its paw, her eyes never leaving mine. “Vampires are easy to make.” I want to go ballistic. Every nerve in my body is a lit fuse. But I can’t just pounce. I have to do this right because I’m only going to get one shot.

“You won’t be making any more vampires,” I say. “But you see, I must,” she says, “To replace the ones who get destroyed, like your friend, Cicely Watson.” “Cicely hasn’t been destroyed,” I say, although maybe I should let the queen think she has been. She arches one eyebrow at me. “Are you sure?” Am I? To me it feels like she has been. It feels like she is dead. But she’s still Cicely, right? It’s not about whether her heart beats, it’s just about whether it loves and there is still some chance that she loves me, still the core fact that I love her in spite of myself. I stand my ground. “I’m sure.” “What’s to say I haven’t destroyed her already?” she says, and I have no answer. If Cicely is under the queen’s control, she could have made her do anything. But she may not be under the queen’s control. “You’re just messing with my head.” Her smile widens. “No,” she says, “I’m messing with her head, right now.”

Chapter 50: Cicely “Please, querida, come with me.” Luke is holding both my wrists tight, but I could pull away if I wanted to. I’m stronger than he is now and I know it. I can tell by the desperation in his voice he knows it, too. “I can’t let Ander fight the queen alone,” I say, “You know I have to help him.” “He wouldn’t want you to.” A burning starts behind my eyes, like I want to cry, but no tears come. “You think he doesn’t want me near him.” “No!” Luke pulls me closer. “That isn’t what I meant. I meant he doesn’t want to see you hurt. He’s seen enough of that for a lifetime, querida. We both have.” The pain in his voice is real. It makes me want to just follow him out of these tunnels and away from this nightmare place. But how can I leave Ander behind? “I know you can’t stop me if I want to go back.” “Yes,” he says, “I will have to go with you.” I pull away. “You can’t!” He smiles sadly. “What other choice would I have?” “Every choice in the world,” I say, “I died so we wouldn’t bond, Luke. Not because I don’t–” I can’t bring myself to say “love you,” no matter how true it might be. “I died so you would have a choice and not just have to share my fate.” “Then I choose to go with you,” he says simply. “There are many kinds of bonds.” I know it’s true. Luke and I may not have bonded as vampire and thrall, but there is still something between us. I can feel it tugging me out of the tunnel, even while my love for Ander draws me back in. I feel like I will split like a wishbone, but who will get their wish? I need to go help Ander—now that I am finally strong enough to actually be a help. Now when I am dead and I have nothing left to lose. But of course there’s always something more to lose, isn’t there? I can’t lead Luke back into the hands of his worst enemy. I can’t let Luke die for me. Not when I might lose Ander, too. Not when I gave my own life to ransom Luke. If Luke dies, I died for nothing, and that I really can’t take. “Okay,” I say, “I’ll go with you.” I feel the tension drain from Luke’s hands as he lets me go. “Gracias, corazon. I know Ander will find us.” Worry gnaws at me from the inside. “What makes you so sure?” He shrugs and smiles. “When have I ever been lucky enough to lose him? Now come, quickly, we must get you out of here and some place safe before we are stranded by the dawn.” Dawn. Just the word makes my stomach twist like a dish rag. As soon as he says it, it’s like I can feel the sunlight threatening even through the thick walls of the cave. It makes me want to hide here in the dark forever, but I know that’s not an option. Luke is right. We have to get out of these caves in time to find somewhere safer to hide before the dawn hits, or the sunlight will trap us here with the queen and her army of undead. “Come on,” I say, “Let’s go.” But as I take my first step towards the entrance of the cave, I feel something shift, like the

lock of my mind has been picked. Suddenly all I know is I need to go to the queen. It’s like the tunnel is a river and the current has reversed so it’s headed right towards me, sweeping me back to Queen Constanza and Ander and the horrible room where I died, and I am too weak to go against that current. My body feels stronger than it ever has but my mind is powerless to resist. I know I have to turn around, and I have to take Luke with me. I grab his hand, my fingers tight around his wrist. “Come on. We’re going back.” He stares at me, shocked. “I thought you just agreed to leave.” “Well,” I say, “I’ve changed my mind.” But I know it isn’t true. I haven’t changed my mind. My mind has been changed for me.

Chapter 51: Ander “For all you know,” Queen Constanza says, “I could be making her step into the light right now.” Sunlight? Is it day already? I glance involuntarily at the ceiling of the room, as if that will give me some clue, and the vampire queen laughs. “You have no idea what time it is, do you?” She pushes up the sleeve of her back dress. About a dozen watches circle her thin arm. “Time is ticking, my wolf friend. For all you know the first rays of light are destroying your girlfriend as we speak. Or maybe,” she adds, “Maybe I will have the pleasure of doing that.” As if on cue, I hear them in the tunnels: Cicely’s voice determined, Luke’s protesting. I can’t make out what they are saying—they sound like they are still a long ways off—but they are getting closer with every tick of the watch. “Good,” I say, “Here come my reinforcements.” The queen doesn’t flinch. She knows I’m trying to bluff. Which means Cicely isn’t just coming back here on her own to help me. She truly is under the queen’s control. So that leaves me just two choices: I run and stop Cicely before she gets here, try to escape with her, and hope the distance weakens the queen’s control over her mind. Or I can cut the signal off at the source. For a split second I crouch. Then I go for the throat. The queen screams a shrill, inhuman battle cry as my massive body catches her at full force, sending both of us crashing backwards into the stone table behind her. I hear her head crack on the stone but it doesn’t begin to stop her. She comes back at me, fangs and knife flashing. I throw myself back a step to dodge her teeth at my throat but out of the corner of my eye I catch the flash of silver as the knife arcs down to stab me just below my left hip. A howl rips through me as the blade bites to the bone, the silver sucking at my strength. I wrench back but the knife stays lodged in my thigh, torn out of the vampire’s hand. I swipe at it, trying to dislodge it. My paw comes back soaked with blood but the knife comes free, skittering across the stone floor of the chamber and landing in the dust a few yards away. The queen’s knife is gone but she’s far from helpless. My father’s lesson rings in my head: the only disarmed vampire is a dead vampire. I have to force her down to the floor, where her fangs can’t reach my throat. The queen hisses, open-mouthed like a cat, and comes at me again with super-human speed. But this time I’m faster. I grab her around the neck with one thick paw, crushing her throat as I press her to her knees. Her nails claw at my paw, leaving long stripes of blood in my fur, but I don’t let go. I can see her wide eyes begin to glass over, feel her body begin to go limp. For a second I savor the feeling of her windpipe, brittle in my fist. One good twist and her neck will snap. I take her head in my other hand. “This,” I say, “is for killing the girl I love.” Something hits me hard from the side. I lose my grip on the queen’s neck and she tears herself out of my grasp, scuttling backwards away from me. I spin to face my new attacker, ready to kill. Cicely crouches, poised to spring again. Her body is taught with fury, her fangs bared. I

recognize the wild look in her eyes. She is ready to kill, too, or to die defending her queen. “Cicely, no!” Luke yells, and I’m thinking the same thing, but there’s no stopping her. She is completely under the queen’s control. She comes at me low, her shoulder colliding with my wounded hip like a stone hitting glass, sending a hot shard of pain shooting all the way up my spine. I bellow with rage, stumbling backwards. Everything in me wants to shred the undead creature in front of me and leave it in a pile on the ground. A day ago I wouldn’t have been able to stop myself. But this is the new me. I am in control. I wrestle my anger, resist the urge to rake my claws down her chest as she comes at me again. But with all my energy going to fight my inner beast, there’s nothing left to fight Cicely. Her new found strength pushes me backwards and I don’t dare resist. I hear the vampire queen’s rasping laugh behind me as Cicely’s fangs find my neck and my nose fills with the smell of dead flesh. Every instinct screams I should kill it. No, I think, I won’t kill Cicely. But she may well kill me.

Chapter 52: Luke For a second I just stare at them, Cicely and Ander, locked in some sick parody of an embrace. I think, she’s going to kill him, and for the space of a heartbeat I think I could let her. I could let her kill him and he would be gone and maybe she would love me. But then I come to my senses and realize she would never let herself live. And if she didn’t kill herself, Constanza would kill her. Which means there’s only one way to win this fight. I make a dash for the knife, lying abandoned on the floor. Its silver blade is curved like a single canine tooth. Its smooth hilt feels right in my hand. I race to where Cicely has the werewolf pinned to the floor. He lies unmoving, the blood seeping from his leg as Cicely’s fangs sink deep into his neck in a deadly kiss, and I know he is resisting the urge to resist. He sees the knife in my hand and for a second his eyes meet mine in an unspoken question: whose side are you on? I raise the knife. A few feet away, I see Constanza smile a victorious smile. “I’ll help you, Cicely,” I say. And then I do.

Chapter 53: Ander For a second I think Luke is going to kill me right now while Cicely holds me down, and I almost wish he would. Anything to end the shame of being bitten by a vampire, the horrible feeling of my life being sucked out of me drop by drop. Just end it, I think. Just get it over with. Luke draws back the knife. The wicked curve of its blade hovers like a snake about to strike. I brace myself for the sting of the silver cutting into my chest. But it doesn’t come. At the last second, Luke turns and leaps at the queen, so fast the motion blurs. I see the knife flash, catch the perfect look of shock on the queen’s face as the knife buries itself hilt-deep in the bodice of her black dress as smoothly as a sliver of moon slipping behind the clouds. It’s so easy that for a second, I think he’s missed somehow, but then the vampire queen crumples and falls. Cicely releases me and sits up sharply, watching wide-eyed as the queen lands on the stone floor in a pool of black dress, her blue eyes staring, her blond dreadlocks spread around her head like the halo of some sinister angel. Luke stands looking down at her, his mouth pressed in a tight line. He says two words, “Brutally beautiful,” and I don’t know what that means but I can tell they cut him at least as deep as the knife cut her. But I don’t have time to worry about Luke. I’m too busy worrying about Cicely. She is still kneeling over me, her face frozen in shock. A noise escapes her, a high and thin keening like a cat in pain. Slowly she starts to rock, her eyes still locked on the dead vampire. “Get her out of here,” I say. My voice sounds tattered. Luke snaps out of his own shock and turns to Cicely, pulling her to her feet and folding her into his arms. “She’s lost it.” “We killed her maker when they were psychically linked,” I say, “It’s going to take time to recover.” Inside I’m just praying that Cicely recovers at all. What more could she possibly go through? “Right now you just have to get her out.” “What about you?” he says, “Can you walk?” It seems like a generous thing somehow, him asking about me at all under the circumstances. It makes me think about how he could easily have killed me just now and he didn’t, the way I spared my brother the night he bit me. “I’ll make it,” I say. He nods once, pulls Cicely to her feet and starts to turn away, one arm around Cicely, holding her up. Then he stops and turns back and holds the other hand out to me. Wordlessly I take his hand. It’s freezing, of course, and shaking a little, too, I think, although his face looks vampire calm. I let him help me to my feet. Then I say, “Take her ahead. I’ll catch up.” He nods again, maybe a little relieved, and heads for the door as quickly as he can manage with Cicely still under his arm. I hope they move fast; there are a hell of a lot of vampires still unaccounted for and I can only guess some of them are hiding in the vast maze of tunnels. I hope the other undead are just as out of it as Cicely is right now, but they could just as easily be out to avenge their queen. We need to be out of this place and safely somewhere else before the sun comes up or Cicely will be trapped in these tunnels until the sun goes down again, and we will be trapped in here with her—and with God knows what else.

That thought alone is enough to motivate me to stumble the first few steps to the door, even though walking is the last thing I want to do. I’ve lost a lot of blood. My head feels floaty, like it might drift off my body if it weren’t tied here by the electric shock of pain that shoots through my injured leg with every step I take. My body will heal quickly, of course, but for now I have to walk very slowly through the tunnels and I’m lightheaded enough that it takes a while for me to realize I have somehow wandered off the main path. Crap. I stop and listen for Cicely and Luke, but I can’t hear them. Either I am further off the path than I thought or the two of them are long gone. I feel momentarily thankful for Cicely’s disorientation; if it weren’t for that, she would probably insist on coming back for me. As it is, Luke might stand a chance of getting her out of here in time. I, on the other hand, won’t be getting out of here any time soon if I can’t find their trail. I start the painful process of retracing my steps, trying all the while to catch their scent, but too many vampires have come and gone here. Luke’s scent—and now Cicely’s—blend in with the general stench. The smell is making me anxious—the smell, and the fact that I don’t know where the hell I’m going—when I catch a whiff of something familiar. It smells faintly of bread and shampoo and humanity. Cicely! Not the trail she left just now on her way out, but the one she left on her way in. I shut my eyes and inhale the dust-choked air and I can almost see it: a warm golden thread of human scent. It’s like it turns a key in my brain, unlocking a rush of memories: Cicely, eyes shut, stroking the bow across her violin as she tunes it. Cicely pushing her hair out of her face as she frowns down at her textbook. Cicely smiling at me over the top of her malt as we sit at the Heyday Café—a warm, fangless smile that doesn’t exist any more, her hair glossy in the sunlight she will never see again. I am tracking a memory, following a ghost. But that’s all I have, so I follow it, back to the main tunnel. My leg is already starting to heal so I push myself a little harder, my heavy steps sending little sprays of sandstone rolling down the walls like tears. It’s clear I’m not the only one who has been this way fast; the walls are pock marked where sections have crumbled down and sometimes I have to scramble over piles of loose rock. The thought of a tunnel cave-in makes my nerves jangle—that and the fact that I can hear noises in the tunnels around me, vampires scrabbling like rats in the walls. I don’t run into any of them, but whether that’s by their choice or chance, I can’t be sure. Which is why I’m relieved when the graffiti shifts from the weird petroglyphs of the inner tunnels to the normal human stuff and I know the entrance must be right around the corner. I ignore the pain and put on a burst of speed. They always say there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. What they don’t tell you is that it could turn the girl you love to ash. That’s what I’m thinking as I round the bend and see the faint rosy glow that edges the sky beyond the tunnel entrance. Damn. Dawn. The sun is still below the horizon, but the sunlight is spreading like a stain. Would that be enough to ash a vampire? Probably not, but I’m still afraid to look outside. I creep the last few feet towards the entrance. “Cicely?” “Here.” Her voice comes from a deep pocket of shadow just inside the door. If squint into it I can just make them out: Cicely, crouched and shaking, Luke hovering over her protectively. “She insisted we wait for you,” he says. There’s more than a little accusation in his tone. I almost smile. Damn, Cicely is stubborn!

“Well, I’m here now,” I say. “Any chance we can still make it?” Luke pulls away from Cicely and comes over to the entrance to peer out into the pre-dawn light. “It’s still pretty dark,” I say, “There’s no direct light.” “Not at the moment,” Luke says, “But soon…” “I can feel it.” Cicely rises from her hiding spot and follows us, but she doesn’t dare come that close to the door. She just stares past us, wide-eyed. Her fangs are out but she still looks helpless, like a little kid who just woke up from a nightmare. Or woke up to one. “I can feel it coming.” “We can’t take her out,” Luke says. “Well, we sure as hell can’t stay here.” There’s a noise from the tunnel behind us, the animal sound of vamps fighting amongst themselves somewhere back in the tunnels. I can hear them above the rushing of the Mississippi. I look around for something to throw over Cicely, but my shirt is long gone and there’s barely enough of my pants left to cover me. “Take your shirt off,” I snap at Luke. He arches one eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “To help cover her! Every bit counts!” “Oh,” he says, “Right.” He slips his dress-shirt off quickly and throws it to Cicely, who holds it over her head like a black awning. But even with that I know she won’t come willingly. Well, so be it. “Okay,” I say, “Let’s go.” “Wait!” Cicely says. “If we wait the sun will be up. We need to leave now.” I grab one of Cicely’s arms and motion for Luke to grab the other. He does, but reluctantly. Together we drag Cicely out of the cave, ready to turn right back around if she starts to burn. Which she doesn’t. I breathe an inner sigh of relief. The dim half-light is not enough to hurt her. It is enough for me to see we have nowhere to go. We are on the edge of a cliff. The only cover around us is scrubby bushes that cling for dear life to the sandy soil. Below us the Mississippi roars. Above us the ground slopes up sharply. I can hear the hum of the highway in the distance, see the lit spire of the Cathedral above the lip of the incline. Luke follows my gaze. “How far to the cathedral?” “Doesn’t matter,” I say, “There could be people there already. It’s All Saints Day. They could have a mass at dawn—” “Good,” he says, “She needs to feed.” I glare at him. “Are you insane?” He shrugs. “See how she shakes? She needs blood. The transformation—” I clap my palm to my neck. “She has had plenty of blood!” “Not enough and not human.” He turns to her. “Tienes sed, querida? Are you thirsty?” “Yes, but that’s not why I’m shaking. That is why I’m shaking.” She points a trembling finger at the cross on the spire of the cathedral. Damn it, damn it, damn it. She got the curse of being afraid of crosses, probably a curse my own family put on the queen’s line centuries ago. I had forgotten about it because some undead get it and some don’t, like a trait on a recessive gene. Evidently Cicely go it. Which means the cathedral is out. “We could commandeer a motorcar,” Luke says.

“Too far,” I say, “Even if I could go for a vampire carjacking, we’d never make it there in time.” I cross quickly to the edge of the cliff and look down at the white-capped rushes below. My dad told stories about vampires who had escaped the sun by hiding, unbreathing, under the water for hours. But the cliff drops away just beneath us. There’s no way to walk down there and it’s way too far to jump. Still, if we had to… “Cicely,” I say, “Do you think you could—” But Cicely isn’t listening to me. She’s listening to something else, her head cocked, expression alert. “Vampires?” I ask, but she isn’t looking at the cave. She’s looking towards the highway. I listen and I hear it, too, faint but growing louder fast, above the shush of the distant cars and the growl of the river below us: a motor. One I would know anywhere. “Look out!” I yell, just as my own motorcycle leaps the incline above us and skids to a stop that sends a spray of sand flying over the cliff. The rider is wearing a white sequined angel costume complete with little wings. There’s a Hello Kitty backpack strapped to the back of the bike. When she takes off her helmet, her copper curls sproing into place. Emmie smiles. “There y’all are!”

Chapter 54: Ander “Cicely, no!” I yell. But of course it’s too late. Cicely is dead now, and the dead move fast. She leaps on Emmie so hard she knocks her down into the dust. I make a grab for her to pull her off, but Luke grabs me first. “Don’t stop her! She needs to feed!” “Yeah,” I say, “But not on Emmie!” Emmie gives a surprised little gasp as Cicely’s fangs pierce her flesh. “Emmie, stop her!” But Emmie is a thrall, so of course she won’t stop her, and there’s no way Cicely is stopping on her own. She sucks greedily, her lips pressed tight to Emmie’s neck. She would stay there until Emmie’s dead. She would stay there until they are both dead—I mean deader. She would stay until the sun comes up and not even notice until it was too late. “Help me get her off!” I say. Luke has turned to face the tunnel behind us. “I think we have bigger problems.” Then I hear it: The rush of feet heading our way. “I thought they would stay in the tunnels to avoid the light!” “Si,” he says, “but that was before they smelled the thrall.” At that second, a vampire bursts out of the tunnel, eyes wild, fangs out. “Oh shit,” I say. He’s a big guy, square and solid as a mausoleum. Ignoring the pain in my leg, I rush him, head down, and hit him low, knocking his legs out from under him. He buckles and staggers to the side, swinging and missing as he goes. Taking advantage of his imbalance, I give him a shove in the back and send him stumbling over the edge of the cliff. He goes down like a boulder and the river swallows him whole. But he’s far from our only worry. I turn to see Luke grappling with another big male. A smaller female darts past them, chestnut hair flying, and leaps for Cicely and Emmie. If she gets her fangs into Emmie, my friend is a goner. She had probably lost a lot of blood at the bar before she even got here, and now Cicely has taken even more. There’s no way Emmie will survive a frenzy. I make a grab for the female vamp, snatching her in midair. She struggles, hissing wildly, but she’s a lot smaller than I am. I pin her down with all my weight, hands on either side of her head, ready to snap her neck. That’s when I get a look at her face. Her skin is pale, her long hair mussed. Her only makeup is a smear of old blood streaked across her cheek. But there’s still no mistaking the most popular girl at St. Agnes. I pull back in shock. “Lyla Jansen?” Her eyes spark with recognition. “Ander?” A day ago I would have killed her. I couldn’t have stopped myself. Even a few hours ago the choice would have been easy. Killing off fryers was merciful, right? Better off dead than undead. No one would want to live that so-called life. But now that Cissa is one of them… I stare at Lyla Jansen for a long second.

It’s a second that could cost Emmie her life. I turn to see her arm go limp in Cicely’s grip. Much longer and Emmie may not be living at all—and Cicely will have to live with that for the rest of her life, however long that might be. It’s a horrible feeling, knowing you’ve hurt your friends, and no one knows that better than I do, but I can’t stop Cicely without letting Lyla join the frenzy. I couldn’t save Cicely from dying and I can’t save her from killing, either. “Luke!” I yell, but of course he’s no help. He’s busy grappling with his own vamp over by the mouth of the cave. And even if he could come, could I trust Luke not to join the frenzy himself? I stretch and make a desperate grab for Cicely’s boot, the only part I can reach, but I shift my weight too far and Lyla twists out from under me and throws herself towards Emmie and Cicely. Things are about to get worse. Or possibly better. Cicely rises up, bloody fangs bared, ready to defend her prey. She meets Lyla head-on and they are a blur, a rolling ball of fangs, hissing like cats. In a second they are half-way across the cliff and Emmie is alone. I scoop her up in my arms. Her white angel costume is blood spattered and her curls are full of sand. “Emmie! Are you okay?” She opens her eyes and gives me a sleepy smile. “Cicely looks different. Did she change her hair?” I hug her. I can’t help it. Thank God, Emmie doesn’t seem much more dazed than usual. A streak of black flashes past me—Lyla, beating a retreat to the cave. That’s good, but while she’s running in, any number of vampires could be preparing to run out. That will only be a problem for a moment, until the dawn comes and takes them, but that moment is crucial. I need to put distance between us and them. I grab Emmie’s arm and haul her to her feet. “How did you know where to find us?” “Five told me. I’ll call Zoe. She’s on her way here with the van.” Emmie grabs her backpack off the back of my motorcycle, yanks it open, and fishes out her phone. Then she tosses the bag at me. “Juice!” I fumble around in the bag and come up with a thermos of Juice. I take a slug of the thick sweetness, then toss the thermos to Emmie. I’m amazed Emmie is even standing, never mind able to punch numbers into her phone, but thralls are tougher than they look. I hear her shout out landmarks and directions to Zoe on the other end of the line, but I’m not listening. I’m watching Cicely, who is sitting on the ground, one hand clamped over her mouth, a stricken expression on her face. I rush to kneel beside her. “Cissa? You alright?” Her eyes are huge with horror. “Ander, I bit Emmie!” I sigh. This is the way it is with the newly undead. Their human conscience comes and goes, like the sun sliding out from behind the clouds. “Emmie’s okay,” I say firmly, “Look, you see? She’s standing up.” Cicely looks relieved at that and, no matter how much it goes against my nature to make a vampire feel good about biting somebody, I’m glad. I know how scary it is to feel out of control, to be afraid you’re going to hurt someone. “We’re going to get you out of here,” I say. “Right now.” I put an arm around her and help her to her feet, all the while ready to restrain her if she jumps for Emmie again. But Cicely’s not jumping anywhere. She leans on me heavily, limping. Maybe Lyla hurt her. “The van’s on the frontage road,” Emmie calls. “Zoe can’t get it any closer. She tried to off-

road it to us but it got stuck so she had to back out.” Great. How far is it to the frontage road? Five minutes? Fifteen? How fast can Cicely walk? The obvious answer is to put the girls on the bike and send them to meet the van, but I can’t trust Cicely with Emmie. I could take Cicely myself, but I can hear the vampires rustling in the tunnels and I have a feeling they’re only staying in there because they don’t want to take me on. If I go, they may well rush Emmie, and only Luke would be here to protect her. I glance at Luke. The vamp he was fighting with is dead, but frankly Luke doesn’t look good. Someone killed the girl he was almost bonded with and the bonding withdrawal is starting to set in. Sweat shines on his forehead, mingling with the blood from a long gash on his cheek. He is shaking. Even if I trusted a wounded vampire to defend a bleeding thrall—and I don’t—he’s clearly not up to the job. I’d send him with Cicely, but neither of them knows how to drive a damn motorcycle. Leave now and Cicely has time to get to safety before the dawn comes—but the vampires also have time to attack before the sunlight takes them out. Wait any longer and it will be too light for the undead to descend on us, but it will also be too late for Cicely to survive. And if she does survive the day, what’s to stop the enluzantes from hunting us down tonight? And what about the living vamps? What’s to stop them from getting revenge on Cicely—and on Luke, too, for that matter? Not like I care about him. Think, Ander. I look around desperately. My gaze lands on my bike and suddenly I understand. I run for the motorcycle and grab it, throwing it upright and slinging my leg over it in one quick twist. I give the throttle a turn and the engine growls to life. Luke’s eyes are full of accusation. “What? You’re leaving us?” “No,” I say, “I’m saving you!” I gun the engine and ride the motorcycle straight at the tunnel, turning the bike at the last minute to wedge it sideways across the opening of the cave like a stick in the mouth of a snake. I unscrew the gas tank and toss the cap aside. I scan the inside of the cave for candles but all I see is dark. “Emmie, I need a match!” I see the realization dawn on Cicely’s face. She looks at me, shocked. “But you love that bike! Your father gave it to you!” “I stole it from my father,” I say, the same way I stole Michael and Five—and myself. “All he ever gave me was a curse.” “Ander, no!” But Emmie is already rummaging in her backpack. She comes up with a book of matches, tosses them to me and runs. “Luke,” I call, “Help Cissa!” He stumbles to her and pulls her up, tugging his shirt tight around her as they scramble up the embankment. For a split second I register the words written on the box of matches—“Nightlife: Feed the Hand that Bites You”—as I strike one on the box and flick it hard at the open gas tank of the bike. I turn and run so fast I don’t even see the match go in, but a second later I know it has because there’s a boom so loud the ground shakes under my feet, followed by the massive thud of the soft sandstone tunnel collapsing in on itself completely. Sand is everywhere—in my eyes, in my mouth, biting into my bare skin. The air is so choked with dust I can’t see a thing but I can feel the heat of the fire behind me, burning against my back. I run, blind, and realize a second too late that the sound of the river is too loud below me. I have run the wrong way and now I am getting close to the edge of the cliff. And the edge of the cliff is getting closer to me. The dust settles just enough for me to watch the cliff crumble away under my feet, great chunks of rock cartwheeling into nothingness. For a

second I feel suspended in air. And then I’m falling, too.

Chapter 55: Cicely “Ander!” I wheel around and start running towards the blast, even though all I want to do is run away. My ears are so sensitive now; the sound of the explosion hurts me, but it’s nothing compared to what the blast may have done to Ander. Luke catches hold of my arm, spinning me around. “Leave him!” “I can’t! I have to—” “What you have to do is get to cover!” Luke’s voice is fierce. “The sun is rising!” He doesn’t have to tell me. I can feel the dawn, hotter even than the fire from the explosion below us. Even through the haze of dust and smoke I can feel it. The spider-legs of light are creeping over the horizon and as they rise my panic rises, too. Every cell in me is screaming for darkness. “The highway isn’t far,” Luke says “Ander will find us.” I have no idea how far the highway is. I can hear the cars and they sound nearby but that could be a trick of my new hearing. The sound calls me, promising me dark car interiors and something equally tempting: humans. Emmie ran on ahead of us but I can still smell her, the scent of her vanilla perfume mixed with the smell of blood. I could let myself follow her scent. Blood and darkness tug at me, tempting. But the pull to see Ander is stronger. Twisting away from Luke, I turn and run. I ignore the pain in my ankle, keeping a length ahead of him as I crest the embankment. But what I see there makes me stop in my tracks. The entrance of the cave has collapsed. Where it was is now just a pile of sand and stone. The back half of the motorcycle is sticking out of the rubble, burnt and crushed, like the skeleton of some giant bug smashed under a massive boot. The air is choked with dust and the chemical stench of burning plastic. But that isn’t the worst of it. The worst part is that the edge of the cliff is gone. It’s as if a monster has taken a bite out of it, leaving just a thin crust of earth. Someone is lying on the cliff edge, motionless. For a second I think it’s Ander, but then I realize I’m being stupid. The man looks nothing like Ander. It’s one of the enluzantes, and I wonder who killed him. Luke? Ander? It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is Ander isn’t here. Luke crests the embankment behind me. With his face streaked with dirt and his hair gray with ash, he looks every bit as old as he really is. He tries to lay a comforting hand on my shoulder but I’m not ready for comfort. I push him way and run to the edge of the cliff, scanning the water below me for any sign of Ander. Nothing. Can I possibly have been through all this just to lose Ander in the end? The thought makes me want to fling myself off the edge, into the churning water below us. But I don’t even have to. I can stand right here and let death come to me. Above the trees on the opposite shore the sky is the color of sunburn. It’s as if I can feel it, even under Luke’s black shirt. I slip the shirt off and let it fall behind me like a shed skin as I watch the first rays of light claw their way above the horizon… Just as Ander claws his way over the edge of the cliff. “Ander!” I run to him, grab him by the hand and haul him up over the jagged lip of stone. He’s human, surprisingly, but he looks like some sort of sand monster, covered in dust and

scrapes. “You didn’t die!” “Nope,” he says, “I pretty much leave that to you.” His little half smile is so much like the Ander I know and love that for a minute it makes me feel like the Cicely I used to be. But then he glances at the sky and I see his expression shift to fear and I remember. “What are you doing here? I told you to run!” “I tried to stop her,” Luke says with a resentful glance at me. “Yeah?” says Ander, “Next time try harder.” But there won’t be a next time. Not unless we run right now. So I do. I turn and run through the pain in my ankle and up the jagged edge of the hill, the boys just a step behind me. But before we even reach the top of the embankment I can smell it: burning flesh. I glance over my shoulder and wish that I hadn’t. The dead body of the enluzante lying on the ground behind us is starting to smoke, the way Marcus’ body did when Luke set it in the light. The way my body will any second now. I freak out. I pour on speed I didn’t know I had. I can see the van parked on the edge of the highway but it seems like it’s an eternity away and there’s nothing but an open field of crab grass between here and there—no shelter. We run, side by side, and we are fast, but not faster than light. Halfway across the field I feel the first ray of sun hit me like a lit cigarette pressed at the base of my neck. A second later it’s like my whole arm is on fire. I actually have to look at it to assure myself it hasn’t gone up in flames. It hasn’t, but it will. I know that beyond any doubt and there’s nothing I can do about it because the pain is so bad it makes me fall to my knees on the rough grass, so bad that I curl into a ball on the ground. Everything goes dark when Luke throws himself over me as a shield, wrapping me again in the dusty shirt, and I feel an instant of relief, like someone has pressed a cool cloth to my fevered skin, but it does nothing to stop the fear spreading through me like wildfire. Every instinct in me is screaming that I need to get to shelter, but I can’t make myself move. All I can do is scrabble at the earth with my fingernails, as if I can dig myself a grave, burrow down into the dark where I belong. “Stay with her!” I hear Ander shout. “Wait!” Luke says, “Where are you going?” Going? Ander is going? The fear spikes like a fever. He can’t go! Don’t you know I’m dying? I want to scream at him, but all that comes out is a whimper. It takes all my courage to raise my face off of the ground and peer out from under the black shroud of Luke’s shirt. I can just see Ander. He has partially transformed himself again, the powerful muscles of the wolf flexing as he runs. As he runs. Away from me. Again. I want to cry, but I can’t. If I could, the tears would steam. Trust him, I tell myself. There was a time when Ander would have run away, but everything has changed. Hasn’t it? “No te preocupes, Cicely. It’s going to be okay.” Luke layers his body over mine, curling himself around me, his voice crooning gently. I can smell his cool, sweet scent, feel his hand stroking my hair through the fabric of his shirt. Is this the same boy who called the enluzantes disposable? He doesn’t seem the same. “Preciosa,” he whispers. Precious. I hear footsteps on the hard earth—not the two beats of human running. More like a galloping horse. Ander? I force myself to peer out from under the edge of Luke’s shirt and I see him: Ander,

still in a form somewhere between human and wolf, only his near-shredded jeans and the worry in his eyes marking him as human. That and the big black umbrella he carries in his mouth, like a loyal dog with a stick. The same umbrella that used to hang above Michael and Danny’s bed. The one that brought them together. He trots the last few steps and lays the umbrella beside me like an offering. Then, shifting smoothly to human form, he picks it up and opens it over my head. Instantly I feel the cool relief of shadow, and something more. A feeling that someone is looking over us. That, as much as anything, is what makes me struggle to my feet and walk, Ander on one side and Luke on the other, Luke’s shirt over my head like a cowl, Ander’s umbrella open above us all, until we reach the open door of the van where Emmie is standing, smiling. “You made it,” she says, as I crawl into the dark interior of the van like I’m crawling back into the womb. I look up at her and give her a fanged smile back. “Yes,” I say, “We did.”

Chapter 56: Cicely “Why can’t I go with you?” Zoe gives me a pleading look from her perch in the passenger seat. We are sitting on the side of the road near Zoe’s house, but she shows no sign of getting out. Ander laughs. “Do you really have to ask?” He turns around in the driver’s seat and gestures to the rest of the van. They’ve filled me in on all that happened while I was buried in my grave and I now know we are probably the strangest assortment of people ever to share a car: Ander and Zoe up front, Emmie and D.J. on the one worn bench seat, Luke and I crouched among the boxes on the floor of the way back where the other two bench seats were removed long ago to make room for the silver chains that held Ander when he was a kid—the same ones I’m guessing will hold D.J. when the full moon rolls around again. The van is huge—as big as a small bus— but it’s still nowhere near big enough to give a thrall, two vampires, and a pair of Hunterwerewolves the space to stay out of each other’s way. Never mind adding a human. Zoe pouts her lip. “Emmie is going.” “Emmie is a thrall,” Ander says, “She knows how to handle herself with vamps.” Emmie throws him a sleepy smile. “Thanks, hon.” “Besides,” Luke adds, “We may need the thrall if we wish to feed discretely on our journey. Vampires can not subsist on the quick-food.” “It’s fast food,” I say. “And who is this ‘we?’” Ander says, “As far as I’m concerned the only vampire we’re bringing with us is Cicely. “And I should do what, exactly?” Luke says, “Wait here for the colony to organize itself and hunt us down? We killed a queen, perro. There will be repercussions.” “All the more reason for us to split up,” Ander says. “Divide and conquer them.” “Fine,” says Luke, “Cicely and I will go our way and—” “Hold up!” Ander says, “If you think I’m letting Cicely leave with a guy who nearly used her as a human sacrifice—” “And if you think I am about to let her stay with a werewolf who hunts vampires for sport—” “No one is letting me do anything!” My voice comes out stronger than I expect. “You’re talking about me like I can’t even hear you! I’m not—” I almost say dead, but I catch myself. I take a deep, fake breath. “I mean that, because I’m the one who has had the worst day, I think I should get to be the one to choose, and I say we all stick together.” Emmie nods. “Cissa’s right. We split up and we’re the one’s bein’ divided and conquered. We just gotta get along. Ander and D.J. aren’t straight-up Hunters any more and you know it.” D.J. shoots Luke a look that says he still considers himself a Hunter, but Emmie ignores him. “And Ander, it seems from what y’all said that Luke nearly died because he betrayed his family trying to help Cicely. Why, if he and Cissa had already been bonded…” she gazes dreamily at Luke, “Oh, it’s just so romantic I can hardly stand it!” “Emmie,” says Ander, “The guy just pretty much just called you a Happy Meal.” “Yeah?” says Emmie, “And I’m gonna be a sad little meal if both of you boys don’t stay in this van because if Cicely decides to drain me dry it’s gonna take the two of you to pull her off.”

“She has a point,” Luke says. Ander looks at me. “You sure about this?” There’s so much love and worry in his eyes that at the moment, I wish it was just Ander and me in the van. Is it my heightened vampire senses, or have Ander’s eyes always been that blue? They remind me of the sky on a hot summer day, and that’s something I’ll never see again. I want to hold on to that little bit of sky. I want to hold on to the hope that things could still work out between Ander and me, no matter how unlikely it may seem. Right now, in his worn gray tshirt, with his rumpled blond hair and the little lines of worry on his brow, Ander doesn’t look like my natural enemy. He looks like the same guy he’s always been, even if that’s not completely true. Even if I’m not the same girl. “Pack, right?” I say, “Everybody needs pack.” I know I’ve said the right thing because Ander smiles. He glances at D.J. and I understand he may need me as much as I need him. “Okay,” he says, “We stick together.” “Yay!” Zoe says. “Now, I’ll have to get my clothes, maybe some tunes for the road, we can pick up some food at the café—” “Zoe,” I say, “You can’t come.” She looks at me, stunned. “But you just said—” “I’m sorry.” I swallow hard. “I just can’t. Not yet.” Even across the van, even above the stench of wolf and the sweet smell of Emmie’s perfume, I can smell Zoe’s excitement and it smells way too good. “Vamp’s right,” D.J. says, “It’s much too dangerous here.” I can tell by the look on his face he’s not just talking about me. He hugs his arms around himself like he’s holding something in. For the first time, Zoe looks wary, but she still turns back to me. “You’re my best friend, Cicely. If you’re on the run, I should be, too—not holed up in this boring little town worrying about you.” “I need you in this boring little town.” I glance in the direction of our trailer, my home. “I need you to look after my mom. What would she do if you disappeared so soon after I…” I still can’t quite say died. Zoe nods slowly. I can’t help watching her throat move as she swallows back her tears. “I guess you guys don’t exactly need to have me along when my dad puts out an Amber Alert, huh?” She gives me a watery smile. “How come you always have to be so smart?” She starts to get up out of her seat. I can tell she means to come hug me, but Ander grabs her arm. “It’s sort of a long distance goodbye, Zoe. For now.” She nods, biting her lower lip to keep from crying, and hugs Ander instead. Then she surprises me by hugging Emmie, too. “Be careful out there,” she says. Then she turns to me. “Bye, Cissa.” I give her a lame little wave. “Goodbye.” Then she opens the door and steps out into the sunlit world. I can’t even watch her go. The sun is so bright it makes my eyes burn—burn with tears I can’t cry, burn almost as bad as my throat, which aches with thirst. Ander’s voice is thick with emotion but he doesn’t cry. “Well,” he says, “I guess that’s it.” “No,” I say, “One more thing.” “You sure you want to do this?” Ander asks for the billionth time as the van pulls into the shadows in front of my house. “I have to see her one more time,” I say. “But, Cissa,” he says, “It isn’t safe.”

Luke looks out the window of the van. “I think the shadow cover of the trees should be enough if she takes the umbrella.” “I meant not safe for her mom. Cicely, you can’t control your urges right now. You won’t be able to talk to her or—” “I understand.” I say quickly. The last thing I want to do is hurt my mom, but I just can’t stand to leave without seeing her. Ander still looks doubtful. “I don’t know, Cicely…” “It’s okay if the mother stays in the house,” D.J. says. “We studied this queen’s line. If Cicely got the fear of crosses, she probably also can’t go into private homes without an invitation.” “What?” I say, “It’s my home!” “Not any more,” he says. Ander nods. “Fine. In that case. But just for a minute, right Cicely? We’ve got to get the hell out of Dodge.” I nod. “One minute.” I’m already putting up the hood of my sweatshirt and opening the umbrella. Ander climbs out of the van and comes around to open the side door for me. Even with the thick shadows of the trees, I have to force myself to step out of the van. The light is like a physical weight pressing me down. We walk to the window of my mother’s room. I think Luke might follow us, but I guess he doesn’t want to move. The bonding withdrawal is starting to hit him hard. Even Ander hangs back a little as we get to the window, though I know it must be hard for him to not step between me and a vulnerable human. I give him a thankful look. Then I look in the window. My mom is there like I thought she’s be, still asleep on the bed, her hair a frizzy cloud under her head. There’s a half-eaten bowl of Halloween candy on the nightstand and the wrappers mix with the wadded up Kleenex that cover her quilt. She looks so exhausted, so sad it makes me want to rap on the window and wake her, talk to her one more time. But I know it would be mean. I couldn’t be with her. I couldn’t stay. D.J. is right. I can’t go back in if I try. But I also can’t just leave her. “What if the vampires come for her, to punish us for killing the queen?” I can tell by the pained look on Ander’s face he has thought of this, too. “I know it’s hard, Cissa, but leaving is probably the kindest thing we can do. If you try to stay and protect her, you’ll just wind up drawing them to her. It’s us they want.” I nod. He’s right. But I still can’t help thinking how fragile my mother looks, how deeply human. Ander can see the pain on my face. “This was a bad idea,” he says. He has come up beside me, worried. He leans to look in the window, his warm breath making a circle of fog on the glass where my non-existent breath left nothing. I shake my head. “No, it’s good.” I reach out one finger and draw a heart in the circle of fog. Then, without looking back, I turn and walk away. A minute later we are pulling on to County Road 13 and I notice someone has taped a Halloween decoration to the mail box at the end of our drive. It’s a little paper vampire in a long black cape, its smiling triangle fangs tipped with red. It flutters a little in the crisp fall breeze as if it’s waving goodbye.

Chapter 57: Luke I watch Cicely sleep. It isn’t the sleep of humans, so restless it can hardly be considered sleep at all. This is the deep sleep of the dead, the sleep that makes “rest in peace” make sudden sense. Leaned against me amidst the boxes in the back of the van, tucked beneath my coat, she moves only once in the first hours of our drive, sliding her fingers to the fang marks on her throat. Is she dreaming of her death, I wonder? Or searching for a pulse that doesn’t beat? In a sense, I am doing the same—checking my love for her for signs of life. By all rights my love should have died when she did. Who can love an enluzante? And it would be easier if I did not love her. Any sane person would cut ties with this little group of monsters at the first chance. But cutting ties, I’ve found, is not as easy as it seems. The bond between Cicely and me refuses to die completely, like a cut wire that continues to pulse and spark. I wipe at the sheen of sweat that slicks my forehead and feel the unnatural heat of my brow. I tremble like an opium addict deprived of his drug—except my drug is much harder to quit, and even when withdrawal is over, I know the cravings will go on. Yes, I am addicted to the girl. I am finally immortal again but I feel more vulnerable than ever, as if I carry my heart outside my chest. I would die for her, if dying were still an option. But since I cannot give my life, I must live it, and I will not live it anywhere but with her. Even though I know she loves Ander. And she does love him—for now. But if there is anything I have learned these past few days, it is this: People change.

Chapter 58: Ander We should be riding into the sunset, right? Because we’ve had enough of sunrise for a lifetime. We should be riding into the sunset the way the good guy and his girl do at the end of any movie worth watching. Except I’m not sure we are the good guys—or the bad guys, for that matter. The whole good-bad thing gets grayer for me every day. We aren’t riding into the sunset because we are headed east so the sun sets behind us, and when it does, I’m not sure how to feel. Night and the moon have been my enemies for so long. Now the sun is our enemy, too—our enemy and our ally, too, if it keeps the vengeful vampires from hunting us down. The sun is all I love and hate rolled into one. But isn’t that always the way in life? The good and the bad all tangled? So we just keep going, Emmie and me switching off driving and sleeping, Cicely dead to the world in the back, D.J. exhausted but too on edge to sleep, Luke lost in his withdrawal. I try to keep my eyes on the road ahead, try not to think about what we’re leaving. There was a time when I was used to running. Monument’s not the first home I’ve left. Michael and Danny aren’t the first family I’ve lost. But I’m determined they will be the last. Cicely is right, pack is everything. D.J. is my pack now, and Cicely, too, even if every instinct in us wants us to run or fight. Well, hate is strong but there is something stronger and that’s what I have to rely on. Still, I almost have to laugh when I see the hitchhiker trying to flag us down. It’s just past sunset and Cicely is just starting to stir. No matter how much I love Cicely, I can’t trust her right now and I wouldn’t want to be any hitchhiker we pick up tonight. I’m about to pass the girl by when the headlights sweep over her and I nearly slam on the brakes. And then I nearly step on the gas. Which is what I should do. That or run her down. Instead I pull over and open the front door. Emmie has gone to sleep on the bench seat by D.J. and I’m alone here in the cockpit. That is, until Five climbs in. “Hey,” she says, “Thanks for the lift.” “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask. She grins, her fangs and her lip piercings glinting. “Looking for you, of course, handsome.” “How did you know we’d be here?” She taps her temple. “Psychic, right? Duh.” Duh. Five settles into the passenger seat like a cat settles onto the book you’re trying to read. “So, where we going?” “You’re the psychic,” I say. She runs her hand through her bleach blond hair, making the gelled spikes quiver. “I’d say… Maine, right? Someplace that has to do with boats and courage?” A little shiver runs down my spine. Five actually does know where we’re going, which is amazing because I haven’t told anyone about the note. I found it when I was putting Michael’s umbrella back in its box: a red envelope marked “for emergencies only” in Michael’s careful script. Inside was an address in Brave Boat Harbor, Maine. Under it was a name, Naomi Faire, and the single line, “Involve her only if you must.”

Well, as far as I’m concerned, we’re in an emergency right now and we need all the allies we can get. I mean, as long as they can be trusted. Five grins wider. “I know I’m right. I bit your little gal pal Emmie, remember? So I could see where you were and send in the cavalry. For which you owe me, just b-t-dubs. Which means you’re gonna have to take me along for the ride, Hunter boy, just to make sure I don’t spill to anyone else. I mean,” she examines her black-painted nails, “Unless you have a fall back plan.” I sigh. She knows I don’t. “Why do you want to come along, anyhow?” She shrugs, the spikes on her jacket clinking like armor. “Maybe because I like you, did you ever think of that? Maybe because I can see your future and it looks like a rush.” She looks out the window into the night. “Maybe for my own reasons.” I shake my head. “Fine,” I say. After all, Five and I have run together before, and a vampire who can see the future of the people she bites…well that can come in handy. “But you should know, things are pretty bad.” “Well,” she says, “You know what they say, it’s always darkest before the dawn.” “I guess that’s what I’m counting on,” I say. It’s going to be a long, dark ride.

About the Author Laura Bradley Rede is the oldest of nine kids. She grew up in a small town in Maine and now lives in a little hippie-punk neighborhood of Minneapolis with her wonderful partner Marcy, their three amazing children, one Great Dane, one dachshund, and four city chickens. She is a winner of the Writers of the Future Award for fantasy and science fiction and links to her published short stories can be found at www.laurabradleyrede.com. She often quotes Bela Lugosi, the original Dracula, who said “I have never met a vampire personally, but I don’t know what might happen tomorrow.” (A girl can hope, right?) Darkride is her first novel.

Acknowledgements I want to say thank you from the bottom of my heart to all the people who have helped bring Darkride to light. First, love and thanks to my “bonded”, Marcy Rede, for the endless hours she has spent supporting my crazy dream. Marcy, they say you write what you know and I can only write about love because I know you! Thanks to my snuggle-monkey kids, Shanika, Harrison and Miranda, for being patient when the cookies were burnt and the dishes weren’t done because Mama’s mind was on the book. Thanks to author Jessica Park for generously mentoring me through the self-publishing process: you are the best Fairy Godmother a novel ever had! Thanks to photographer Rhonda Kist for the beautiful cover photos and to model Sage Aurora Magee for bringing Cicely to life, even in the middle of a graveyard. Thanks to my critique group, the Glitter Glam Rainbow Bunny Death Pixies—Sarah Matanah, Heather R. Johnson, Norma Boe and Robert J. Knutson—for making me a better writer and for being such loving friends. Thanks to my mentor, author Kelly McCullough, for level-headed advice and kind words when I needed them most. Thanks to author Steven Savile for encouraging me to take the plunge, and to my fearless copy editor Jennifer Meegan for trying to make me look good doing it. Thanks to Catherine McDonnell-Forney for sharing your design expertise, and special thanks to the friends who read this book in bits and pieces and in many forms: Katie Pierson, Carrie Mesrobian, Jenna Tousignant, and Michelle and Jesse Case-Allen. Your enthusiasm made all the difference! And last, but far from least, thanks to you, the readers of this book. You are the true Darkriders and I hope that the people in your life support your dream the way you have supported mine! The story will continue in Crossfire, book two of the Darkride Chronicles! Until then, you can find Cicely, Ander and Luke at www.darkridethenovel.com and you can find me at www.laurabradleyrede.com. And don’t forget to “like” Darkride on Facebook for the latest updates. Now go out and seize the night!