We’re past Santa Barbara when Bee flicks on the radio, her nervous hands searching for something to do.

“I’ve never been this far north of L.A.,” she says, the shadowy hills closing in around us.

“Me neither,” I say, my throat raw from smoke. I haven’t been much of anywhere, not in years. Neither has Bee. We abandoned London during the Blitz, practically crawled our way to Hollywood, and then never left. Until now, anyway.

In the back seat, the urns are still whispering, louder than before but still just as arcane. Dracula wants it this way. He likes it when I know he’s here, and he likes it even more when I can’t understand a word he’s saying. This is such fun for him, a bit of foreplay, a way to keep me guessing.

Gritting my teeth, I reach into the back and nudge the urns apart. I hate it when they’re this close. The way they’re always colluding with each other. The way they seem to enjoy themselves a little too much.

I settle down in my seat, but after another mile, I look again. They’ve skittered back together. I never see them move. That’s part of their game.

Three urns. That’s all I have left.

The quiet urn from the parlor.

The one from beneath the Hollywood sign.

And the worst urn, the one from the cellar, the rage in him as hot as a July boardwalk. I feel him behind me, slowly searing a hole straight through the upholstery, the stench of melting leather filling the air, even with the top down.

I look up at the sky, listening to the time on the radio. It’s midnight on Tuesday, and we’ve been on the road for two hours already. That should put us in San Francisco around five in the morning. Just in time for sunrise. I only hope we get there first.

“It’s such a big city,” Bee says, her eyes still on the road. “I don’t even know where to start once we get there.”

A long moment, the rush of the pavement beneath the wheels almost deafening in the dark. Then she asks the real question, the only thing that matters to her right now.

“How are we ever going to find Jane?” She looks at me, her face twisted, panic seeping in. “Or Rochester?”

Without a word, we both understand it, the hopelessness of this. It’s not like Jane left a forwarding address. She could be anywhere. So could he.

But I won’t say that. Instead, I reach across the seat and squeeze Bee’s hand. “We’ll figure it out,” I say, and hope I’m right.