A lonesome howl pierces the night, followed by another and another after that, right down the line, all of them serenading us. Michael’s heartbeat quickens, urgent and throbbing, and a flush of desire, of unrepentant hunger, surges through my body. In this moment, I can’t decide if I’m more afraid of the wolves or afraid of myself.

“Where are they coming from?” Michael asks, his breath ragged, but I already know.

Dracula. He always attracted wolves, whole packs of them, swarming around him like common houseflies. They were his harbingers, warning him of what was to come, protecting him from the world.

One by one, the wolves slip between the letters of the Hollywood sign, weaving in and out. I dart in front of Michael, worried they’ll go after him, that they’ll rip that beautiful body of his to pieces, but he hasn’t even caught their eye.

They’re only watching me.

Michael exhales an uneasy chuckle. “They sure seem to like you, Lucy.”

Of course they do. I’ve got what they want, the urn clutched to my chest.

The wolves advance another step, but I don’t flinch, my muscles going rigid as iron, my teeth elongating, until they sense it in me. Something primordial. Something powerful. My skin hums—everything about me is humming—and for the first time in years, I feel almost alive. And I don’t feel afraid.

“Go away,” I seethe, and the wolves apparently aren’t as brave as they look. A final mournful howl before they withdraw and skulk off into the night.

Michael’s heart slowly eases back to normal. “That’s strange,” he says. “I thought wolves were extinct in California.”

“They are,” I say, and my eyes are on him. “Come on. I’ll drive you home.”

It’s Friday night, the streets of Hollywood bursting to life, and I take the long way to the drive-in. Michael leans back in the passenger seat, the glow of neon lighting up his face. He tells me about himself, and I listen, even though I shouldn’t. After all, nobody goes into a five-star restaurant and asks the prime rib for its life story.

“I was discharged from the army four weeks ago,” he says. “Went back home to Ohio, but it didn’t work out. My mother told me I needed fresh air and sunshine. I told her I’d gotten plenty of that already. She bought me a ticket and put me on a plane anyhow.”

He hesitates before adding, “Nobody knows what to do with me anymore.”

His hands shaking, he cranks up the radio dial, as if to end the conversation he started. The speakers crackle with DJ Dave Diamond. KBLA in Burbank. It’s all Donovan and Dylan and the Doors, and though it isn’t my kind of music, I leave it on, as Michael reaches out and entwines his fingers with mine.