I look up at the attendant, and his eyes are on Bee, studying the places he likes on her body. He’s leaning too close again, one hand on the pump, the other in his pocket. I try to imagine what we’ll do if he keeps leaning in, if he just won’t stop. I could take care of this, of course, that uneven heartbeat in his chest more than eager to give out. I could leave him in a shallow grave or no grave at all. I could satisfy every urge brimming in my blood and not even break a sweat.

Except the last thing we need is to leave a body count up the coast of California. And the last thing I need is to give Dracula exactly what he wants. A killer made in his image.

With the trunk closed, I’m busy watching the attendant when something darts suddenly off the highway. A figure, thin and sprightly, moving past the open passenger door. Dark hair, turned-up nose, eyes that flash deviously in the moonlight.

Mina. I’m certain it’s her, come back to me.

But then a pair of dim headlights from the highway pass over the figure, her face shifting, and when I look again, she’s just a girl, some little flower child in a buckskin vest, a crocheted bag slung over her shoulder, her tangled hair in her eyes.

“Is this yours?” she asks, and there’s something in her hands.

An urn. One of my urns.

I lunge forward, my legs liquid, and snatch it away from her, clawing at her fingers, ready to shatter her bones to dust. But I don’t have to. With a wince, she gladly surrenders it.

“I’m not a thief,” she says, backing away from me.

I clutch the urn closer than a prized heirloom. “Where did you find it?”

“Right here.” She motions indignantly to the crumbling pavement next to the Buick. Next to where I left the passenger door open.

Bee braces against the steering wheel. “How did it move so fast?” she asks.

“He’s getting stronger,” I say, and it’s true. It used to take Dracula hours to budge a single inch. Now, with his ashes free and the urns gathered close together, he’s learning how to scurry quicker than a centipede.

I peer into the back seat at the other urn, the quiet urn. It’s still there, right where I left it. It’s the only one that doesn’t cause me grief. My arms crossed over the urn, I move toward the passenger door, past this little hippie girl.

“Who’s Renfield?” she chirps.

I turn back sharply. “How do you know that name?”

“From that bottle or whatever it is,” she says, pointing at the urn I’m holding. “It was whispering when I picked it up. Calling out for somebody named Renfield.”

My stomach heaves. “You can understand it?”