The house is nothing like I’m expecting. Everywhere I turn there are people, spilling out of rooms, pushed into corners, leaned up against windows. Hand-painted murals array every wall, not that it matters, since you can’t see them clearly. Only a petal of a flower here or the tuft of an acrylic cloud there, the rest of the images concealed behind figures moving in and out.

Daisy shows us into the living room, past a group of men sitting cross-legged in deep meditation, girls flung on couches, toddlers waddling around barefoot. The sunlight still boiling in me, I collapse in an old oak rocking chair in the corner.

“The urns,” I murmur.

“They’re fine,” Bee says, two of them clutched under her arm. The last one must still be in the trunk of the Buick. That’s good. Keep them apart for as long as we can.

Laughter rises and falls around us, smoke in the shape of mushroom clouds floating to the ceiling. The crowd of faces looms closer, their heartbeats overlapping.

“How many of you live here?” I ask, my mouth watering.

Daisy grins, blissfully oblivious. “Too many to count. The more the merrier, you know?” she says, and that’s when they descend on us. A whole gaggle of girls, all long hair and gauzy tops, their skin scented like peppermint and lavender.

“What are those things?” they ask, pointing at the urns in Bee’s arms. “And why are they chattering on like that?

“Isn’t it wild?” Daisy says, and my heart corkscrews in my chest. It’s not just her—they can all hear him. Dracula’s talking to every girl here but me. Pretty young things with rosy cheeks and heartbeats, the kind who could make him a nice dinner.

They all lean in and listen. “It’s talking about Lucy,” someone says. “Who’s that?”

My stomach jumps, and I raise a shaky hand, like a guilty schoolkid about to be scolded.

One of the girls giggles. “It’s claiming you’re not very nice,” she says. “Is that true?”

I think for a moment of tearing out her throat and wearing that sweet smile of hers for a necklace. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s true.”

Even though we’re inside now, the sun’s still pouring through all the open windows. My skin burning, I coil against the rocking chair, daylight streaking my body.

Daisy glances at me, her brow furrowed. “Come on,” she says, motioning Bee and me through a doorway draped in dark, iridescent beads. “I’ll show you where you can crash for a while.”

We follow her up a winding staircase and past a line of rooms, their splintered doors closed. We pass another stairwell too. It leads up to an attic, no doubt. A place we won’t go. A place Bee can’t go, not with the memories she has.