“It’s coming,” Roman whispers. And then his eyes widen as a woman buries her fangs in his neck. He twists, but her back is to me for only a split second. She lets go of Roman and shoves him away before spinning to face me.

My arm’s already pulled back, the magic called to my fingers, but then I doubt myself for a moment before I let the stake fly toward her chest. She looks like a soccer mom on vacation, wearing pink capris and a tie-dyed top, sloppy makeup, and a white baseball cap over her auburn hair. I think we’ve made a horrible mistake as my stake plants itself below her left shoulder. Too high to kill.

She lunges, a blur of bright colors. Her teeth snap together inches from my throat, but then Roman’s arm is in front of me. His stake in her heart. He pushes her back, pulling his stake free at the same time, and she crumbles. This time I can watch the red bloom on her chest. It spreads as her legs kick. Her arms flail, and her fingers scratch at the pavement as the hole in her chest starts to disintegrate. It’s like she’s turning to ash from the inside out. But I can’t look away. One minute she’s there, and the next she’s nothing but burned debris.

My stomach turns, but I hold down my cotton candy. I picture her killing my mom. She wanted to kill me.

I step forward and kick at the ash. One less monster. One less person hurt. One less family shattered.

But I don’t know if I feel better.

I just feel numb.

Maybe that’s better than anger.

Roman’s silent, but I feel him close, letting me have my moment.

When I finally turn to him, I scream his name.

Four people creep up behind him. No. Not people. There’s something in the way they crouch slightly that gives them away. The man in front can’t be more than twenty-five. He wears a blue plaid shirt and black skinny jeans. As soon as I scream, he straightens, hands raised. A disarming smile spreads across his face.

“Whoa, didn’t mean to startle you,” he says.

A man to his left straightens up too, pushing thick black glasses up his nose. He looks like he’s trying to smile, but it’s so strained that it makes my skin prickle with unease. A blond woman dressed in the same style as the one we just dusted leans against one of the light posts. And then there’s a goth girl who looks younger than me, with black-rimmed eyes to match her black leather skirt and crop top. She looks like the kind of girl who begged to become one of them, and she’s not even pretending. Her lip is curled back, and her fangs are showing.