When we come around the last corner, the tires squealing against concrete, I ease the car off the road, our figures bathed in shadows beneath the laurel trees. Then, together, Bee and I gaze up at Dahlia Hall.

Or what’s left of it.

Gone are the gleaming lights and the sweet music lilting up into the evening sky, an endless party, an endless good time. There’s nothing good about it now. The whole property is sullen and quiet as a grave. The sagging roof, the windows grimier than before, decay hanging from every shingle, thick as kudzu vines.

Bee climbs slowly out of the Buick. “What happened to this place?”

“Dracula,” I say.

This was Rochester’s new Thornfield, his pride and joy, his eager future. Now it’s on the verge of ruin. It took him years to find a place like this, and it only took Dracula overnight to spoil it.

But one thing hasn’t changed. The wolves are still standing guard around the house, a thick perimeter of glistening fangs and mangy pelts and ancient grudges I can’t even fathom. They lower their heads as we inch closer, up the driveway and across the lawn. Bee takes hold of my arm, maybe to steady herself or maybe to pull me back.

“It’s all right,” I whisper, and put one hand out to them. Their red eyes glare back through the gloom, and for an instant, they’re all I can see.

Then with a quiet snuff, they let us pass. For now, anyhow. They probably figure if they change their minds, our throats will be just as good for shredding when we’re on our way out.

Bee and I sneak around the side of the house, along the narrow stone walkway, dodging drooping tobacco brush and bitter cherry, all their leaves gone ragged and gray.

Around back, the decay is everywhere, shimmering in the dark, the pool veiled thick with algae. Something floats past in the water, but I won’t look close enough to find out what it is.

There are other things I won’t look at. Like the figures slumped over in lawn chairs. They haven’t budged since last night, and as we pass them, I realize why. There are no heartbeats on the patio anymore. No sluggish breath, no movement at all. Dracula’s taken what he wanted, leaving their bodies behind like empty cicada shells.

But there’s still one heartbeat nearby, its gentle rhythm calling out to me. I follow the sound through the shattered glass door. That’s where we find her.

Daisy, curled up in the same bed where the other girls went to die.

Her skin’s pale as clotted cream, her breath rasping from what he’s done to her. But she’s alive. That’s what matters.