“Great.” I start to slide off the bed to head for the bathroom but stop, an idea occurring to me. This journal is bonded to my family, and there’s only one thing everyone in my family shares. Hoping I’m not about to stain a thousand-year-old antique passed down through generations of my family, I press my bloody finger to the trinity knot embossed on the cover.

At first, nothing.

Then the blood seeps into the page, and something shifts like a mechanism. The connection between me and the journal springs back into place in a welcoming rush. My shoulders slump with relief and I flip through the pages, looking for clues about why it shut me out, but it looks the same as ever.

I focus on the feel of my Saint Knives in my free hand. They materialize, the metal cool to the touch. In one, the handle has a triangular chip, like a vampire’s fang. I run my finger over it. Did Fin wield these in battle? Did they sustain that mark defending him and his people?

It’s hard to imagine the warrior in my vision thoughtlessly killing people. There’d been something so regal about him, something that demanded respect. What had changed?

Drawing a fortifying breath, I shove the thoughts aside and stand. Whatever led Fin to become the monster he is now doesn’t matter—stopping him does.

I wrench open the door. The rain has quieted, a heavy fog seeping through the motel parking lot, patches illuminated bright orange and red by the flashing neon signs. My Saint Knives are comfortable in my hands as I step out, leaving behind the protection wards. The motel is quiet, the lights of the other rooms dim. There’s no sign of Roy.

If I wait long enough, Fin or his wraiths will find me.

Cold night air seeps through my jacket, and I take deep breaths to keep myself calm. I don’t know what to expect. The man in my vision had been strong, a warrior. Can I really stand up to someone that powerful?

The wind howls, rattling the VACANCY sign hanging overhead. Another sound scratches below it. I tighten my grip, listening harder, but the scream of the wind and scrape of the sign are too loud.

I feel the press of eyes at my back and turn but find only swirling mist.

A distant humming fills the air. I try to find the source, but the fog is so thick, and the light plays off it in strange ways. Then something moves in the darkness.

I have my knives raised before the shape solidifies into Alice, the motel clerk. She holds a pulsing purple crystal in one hand, her face serious.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she says.