As I work, the urn quivers on the earth next to me. The color of midnight, it’s not much bigger than a man’s fist. This isn’t the only urn of Dracula’s ashes, but right now, it’s the only one that matters. It’s the loudest of the bunch, that’s for sure. The others back at the house are usually content to keep quiet, murmuring no louder than common sleepwalkers, but not this one. It’s made up its mind to make my life hell. And I’ve made up my mind to do the same to him.

Another whisper from the urn, and I nudge it with my heel.

“Stop,” I say, my feet sinking in the mud. I hiked all the way here in my pilgrim pumps and satin dress, up the Santa Monica Mountains, even snagging my hem on a low-lying shrub. Dracula doesn’t care. He just keeps at it. He’s never been very good at keeping his mouth shut. Not that he’s really got a mouth, not now, not after I buried that stake in his cold, dead heart.

Anybody who knows the story—and let’s face it: these days, who doesn’t know the story?—will always wonder the same thing. He’s dead, right? Turned to dust decades ago? Shouldn’t everyone be safe now?

Please. As if men like him are ever that easy to vanquish. They always figure out the best way around the rules, bending the world in their favor. For most of us, death is the undeniable end. For him, it’s only a minor inconvenience.

A sharp breeze cuts through the dusk, rattling the letters in the sign like restless bones. The air harsh and sweet, I close my eyes, the buzz of the city fading away. That’s when I hear them. All the sweet heartbeats in Los Angeles, thrumming inside me at once. They waft up from the valley like steam, and my skin hums, my teeth sharpening, reminding me of what I am, what he’s done to me.

The sound of Dracula rises again, almost singing now, and even though I still can’t hear him clearly, I can guess what he’s saying.

“Take what belongs to you, Lucy,” he used to tell me. “Take anything you want.”

I do my best not to listen. My hands blistered, I keep digging, promising myself the same thing as always: that I won’t end up like him. I won’t become a monster. I’d rather waste away, which is exactly what I’m doing, hunger gnawing at me night after night, my stomach aching and cavernous and raw. It turns out a vampire can live a very long time without taking a drink. It just hurts like hell to do it.

I grimace, eager to get this over with, as a shadow passes over my face.