Without looking at him, I set it down and move on, gripping the edge of the end table. It’s got a wood grain on the top of it. I could break it into pieces. I could use this on him.

But Dracula just snaps his tongue. “Nope,” he says. “Formica.”

My throat tightens, because once again, he’s right. Worse than that, he knows what I’m doing. He should be afraid or at least a little angry, but of course, he’s not, because this is all foreplay to him. I’m trying to kill him, and it’s his idea of a perfect date.

He leans against the dividing wall, his fingers slowly tracing the seams in the paneling. “Veneer,” he says. “It’s got a few wood fragments in it, but probably not enough to do me in.”

“How can you be sure?” I twist toward him, my teeth lengthening. “Maybe it’s the ideal way to finish you. Death by tacky wood paneling.”

“I’d love to see you try, Lucy,” he whispers, and we waver here, our eyes on each other, the heartbeats in the house thrumming faster. My skin hums in refrain, and I think how it’s only been an hour since I last ate, but I could do it again. I could draw any of these girls closer to me. He and I could do it together.

“Go on,” Dracula says, and glances around the room. “They’ll give themselves to you freely. We both know they want it.”

“No,” I say, “they don’t.”

And with that, I turn away from him, sliding open the back door and slipping outside.

The patio’s no better than the rest of the house. A skim of algae has bloomed in the pool overnight, cracks opening in the concrete. All the wrought iron furniture, once gleaming white, is starting to oxidize, bits of rust trimming the edges.

The moonlight shifts, refracting off the dingy pool, and I realize for the first time I’m not alone out here. Rochester’s followers are everywhere, slumped over in plastic lawn chairs, their heartbeats sluggish in their chests, red welts swelling on their necks. Dracula’s been greedy. There are so many here, and he’s been feeding off each of them. They don’t notice me in their midst—they don’t notice much of anything—so I keep creeping forward.

Something moves behind me, something tall and heaving. Rochester, his dark hair mussed, crescent moons the color of bruises beneath both eyes.

I motion to the rot brimming all around us. “I love what you’ve done with the place.”