Meanwhile, there are three dead girls in the room with us, and neither of these men can be bothered to notice. Then again, why would they be bothered? They’ve each had more wives than any one man needs. We’re interchangeable to them, featureless as a fistful of clay, disposable as a leaky bag of garbage.

“The least you could do,” I growl, “is pay your respects to them.”

At once, the argument hangs limply in the air, as Dracula looks from me to the girls and back again. Then he rolls his eyes.

“Fine,” he says, and with a swift hand, he tucks their wilted bodies neatly beneath the sheet, as if he’s bidding them good night rather than bidding them goodbye. Their flaccid limbs slump together in a tangle, and I hate this, I hate the way death looks. So cruel. So casual.

I try to get to my feet, get to the door, but with Dracula turned away from us, Rochester takes his chance.

“I’ll just have to make do with you tonight,” he says, taking hold of me, my bones going soft in his hands. I slash at him, my fingernails sharper than I remember, and he cries out, a short little yelp like a wounded bird.

I’ve done it now. I’ve cut him open, a tiny gash near his wrist, but that’s more than enough. The substance, thick as oil, leaks out of his body and onto the floor. It swirls before us, quick as a silverfish, and I don’t stomp on it this time. I just stand back and watch as it moves toward the corner, toward a patch of cobwebs and darkness. As if it wants to merge with the decay. As if they’re one and the same.

But Rochester won’t let that happen. He shoves me away, bringing his foot down hard, crushing the gray tar into powder. Time twists sullenly in the room, as the three of us stare at the remnants of it, smeared across the floor.

Rochester grimaces. “Get her out of here,” he says, and before I can go at him again, Dracula grabs me by the waist and lifts me up like I’m nothing, like I’m air. He drags me across the room and out onto the patio, slamming the glass door after us, shattering it.

“How lovely,” Rochester mutters, and though we can’t see him behind us, I can still feel him rolling his eyes.

Out front, the wolves are restless, pacing back and forth, scratching furiously in the dirt, as Dracula wrestles me into the car, pinning me down in the front seat with one hand, twisting us back onto the highway with the other. I flail against him, my body feeling so small, so useless, and by the time I finally break free, the trees are smearing past us, and we’re going too fast to jump.