Dracula presses harder on the accelerator. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” he says, leaning back in the driver’s seat. It makes my guts burn, how cool he is, how comfortable behind the wheel of a car that isn’t his.

“You shouldn’t even know how to drive,” I seethe through clenched teeth.

He shrugs. “Why not? I’ve watched you do it plenty of times.”

He can’t help but grin, remembering how he’s invaded every corner of my life, and a deep vein of rage cuts through me.

My jaw set, I reach over toward him, slowly, as if I’m about to take his hand, and he must believe that’s what I’m doing, because he lets me get closer. Close enough to seize his arm and dig my fingers in, finding the soft places in his skin where he’s incomplete, where the ashes are still missing. I sink deeper into him than before, my nails dragging along the bone, scraping away pieces of him from within.

His face pinched in agony, he wrenches away from me, the Buick swerving into the other lane, car horns blaring at us, pale headlights dancing across our faces. I brace for it, the twist of metal, our bodies breaking, but he straightens the wheel in time, the tail end lurching. I don’t know if I’m disappointed or relieved. I sit back, expecting him to retaliate, to grab hold of me and not let go, but he just shakes his head and smiles.

“Good girl,” he says, and I hate him a little more.

We drive another mile, the Golden Gate Bridge emerging in the distance, before he finally speaks it aloud. The question he’s been dying to ask all night.

“Where’s the last urn, Lucy?”

I gnaw my bottom lip, not looking at him. “I don’t have it.”

“But you know where it is.”

I don’t answer. I don’t have to. We keep going, paying the toll, crossing the bridge, the Buick bucking beneath him.

“You’re pushing her too hard,” I say. “She’s going to die on you.”

He doesn’t say anything. When we reach the other side, he eases the car off the road into a narrow alcove, and I figure this is it, he’s kicking me out here. But he says something else instead, something worse.

“Walk with me awhile.”

My head snaps toward him. “Why would I do that?”

There’s that smile again. “Because you want to be alone with me,” he says. “You want another chance to kill me, don’t you?”

I always loathe it when he’s right. Besides, if nothing else, I want to get that key to the Buick. I want my car back.