For a long moment, the whole house trembles around us, the egg chair quivering in the corner, the chrome candleholder tumbling to the stone floor.

And then everything gives way.

Shrieking, the girls on the patio leap back, escaping the worst of it, but Rochester stays inside, pressed against the wall, trying to hold up the whole house, as if his sheer willpower can keep this place from disintegrating.

But the house keeps buckling around us, and Bee lets out a whooping cry of joy. This is like Thornfield all over again—only this time, she didn’t have to burn to see it crumble.

Dracula yanks a yelping Rochester onto the patio, the roof sloughing off around them. Our arms looped tighter around Daisy, Bee and I take off through the front door and across the lawn. At our backs, the wolves charge after us, baring their teeth, bearing down faster, but we tumble into the car, and Bee cranks the engine, twisting the Buick back toward the highway.

Chaos echoes into the night air, girls fleeing the wreckage in all directions, the men’s voices calling after them, their ire rising like smoke rings. But as the dark trees rush past, they feel a thousand miles away. With Daisy tucked in the back seat, Bee and I look to the road ahead, as the rest of Dahlia Hall turns to dust behind us.

sixteen

We’re already south of San Jose when I spot the first wolf.

He’s no more than a blot along the shoulder, something barely there, more phantom than fur, and I hardly see him in the dark. He shouldn’t be here at all. The Buick’s cruising at an even fifty down the 101, but somehow, the wolf’s still keeping pace with the car.

“They’re tracking us,” I whisper. “They’ll probably follow us all the way home.”

Bee scoffs. “Let’s see them try,” she says, and presses the gas pedal harder.

The eucalyptus trees smear past, but it’s another full mile before the wolf finally vanishes in the rearview mirror. Even then, I swear I still hear him howling.

The wolves aren’t the only ones following. Rochester and Dracula are on their way too, that cream Volkswagen somewhere on the highway behind us, the color so nondescript, so bland that it’s practically invisible. They could be right next to us before we’d even notice.

Shivering, I recline in the passenger seat as Bee fiddles with the radio, twisting the dial, anything to occupy her nervous hands.

“Do you think the urn’s still safe?” she asks, and I nod, my feet on the cracked dashboard.

“I’m sure Jane’s doing her best.”

Bee exhales a grunt. “That’d be a first.”

I don’t say anything, but my heavy silence is more than enough.