“It’s bad enough having someone in the house,” I say, the urn resting in my lap. “But why is she here? And why now?”

I stare down at what’s left of Dracula. He’s watching me. He’s always watching, those invisible eyes peering into places I’ve never been able to go.

“Is there something you see that I don’t?” The words nearly catch in my throat. “Why is she running?”

I wait a long, empty moment, but there’s no answer. I don’t know why I’d expect anything different. Dracula never told me the truth before. Why start now?

With my head heavy, I wish for this night to be over, but the night’s not done with me. A rustle in the nearby sagebrush, and I’m suddenly not alone.

“Hello, Lucy.”

Michael, standing in the dark, his soft heartbeat threading through me.

“What are you doing?” I gape at him. “Did you walk here?”

A sheepish shrug. “It’s not too far,” he says, but that’s a lie. It’s at least five miles, up a dusty highway and over rocky terrain. He must have started more than an hour ago, as soon as he realized I wasn’t coming to the drive-in.

As soon as I called out from the car, luring him to me.

He’s here because he’s the only thing I’m hungry for tonight.

Dracula stirs within me, his words from years ago echoing through my mind again. Take what belongs to you, Lucy.

Michael edges a step closer. “What is that thing?” he asks, nodding at the urn.

My hands tighten around it protectively. “Ashes.”

A small scowl twitches across his face. “From a person?”

“Not exactly.”

With the urn under my arm, I brush the dirt from my dress and start to stand, and Michael reaches out to help me up. But the moment he touches me, he recoils.

“You’re so cold,” he whispers.

Humiliation bubbles up in me. “That’s what happens when you’re dead.”

He exhales a sharp laugh. “That sounds like a terrible problem to have.”

He probably doesn’t believe me. And why should he? Here in the California moonlight, I just look like an ordinary girl. Not a monster, not his would-be murderer.

But maybe I’m not the only monster in town tonight. There’s a smear of movement behind the sign, and Michael jolts toward it, his eyes wide.

“What was that?” he asks, and I stare into the darkness, at the shape drifting there.

An animal. The same one that was below my window.

Except this isn’t a coyote at all. Not a stray dog, either. It’s a wolf, his eyes glowing red, his fur the color of shadows. And he’s not alone.

In a flash, they’re everywhere. A dozen of them, their bodies a blur of teeth and tails and gnarled claws.