“All right, then.” Johnny turned the key in the ignition and kicked the bike into life, opening the throttle. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Mogwai crouching beneath the rhododendrons, his fur bristling, before we roared out of the alley.

It had been years since I’d ridden on the back of a motorcycle—since Mom’s old boyfriend Trey Summers, who had introduced me to the blues, had been killed. It was a car accident involving a drunk driver that took his life, but he’d had a motorcycle, too. Sometimes, with Mom’s permission, he’d take me for rides. I’d forgotten how exhilarating it could be. I leaned back against the upright sissy bar, away from Johnny, reaching behind me to take a tight grip on the bars.

The streets of downtown Pemkowet whizzed past us. We pulled out onto the highway, crossing the bridge.

The river sparkled brightly in the sunlight like a promise.

At East Pemkowet’s only stoplight, which unlike its sister stoplight in downtown Pemkowet doesn’t have a changing ceremony of its own, Johnny turned his head and shouted something incomprehensible to me, pointing in the direction of the lakeshore. All I caught was a few words about Stefan’s second lieutenant, Rafe, and reinforcements, but he’d mentioned it earlier.

I nodded. “Okay!”

We roared toward the lakeshore and along the bluff above Lake Michigan. Today it was windy and there were whitecaps, long, rolling breakers curling toward the shore. It would be a good day for bodysurfing. I felt a burst of nostalgia, yearning for the sun-kissed days of childhood, when Mom would take me to the beach on her day off and I’d spend the entire day building sandcastles and frolicking in the waves, my only concern making sure I kept my tail securely tucked in my bikini bottom. The arching canopies of the grand old trees lining Lakeshore Drive made it seem like we were driving through a green tunnel. Johnny drove with impressive competence, weaving around joggers and dog walkers. We passed Lurine’s gated driveway and kept going.

A half mile later, Johnny pulled into a long driveway leading to a McMansion nestled in the woods, parking alongside five or six additional motorcycles.

Call me dense, but that was about the time my tail started twitching with suspicion.

I scrambled off the back of the bike, unbuckled my helmet, and hung it on the sissy bar. “Awfully nice place Rafe has here.”

“You think a ghoul can’t have nice things?” Johnny asked in a mild tone, taking off his own helmet. “Can’t live in a nice house?”

I took a few wary steps backward. “Nooo . . .”

He beckoned. “Come on; it’ll just be a moment.”

Two things caught my eye. The first was the most beautiful motorcycle I’d ever seen, with a teardrop-shaped tank painted a deep, glossy red. Cody had identified it as a 1940s Indian Chief.