It’s strange up here in the Marin Headlands, so close to so-called civilization and a whole world away, too. I remember hearing about this place on the radio back in L.A. The land’s alive and wild now, but not for long. Gulf Oil is planning a development here. Marincello, they’ll call it. A new city next to the bay city, complete with skyscrapers and a mall and a mountain of concrete. A rich place for rich people, the kind who level everything that came before. Soon there will be no more untamed ridges or clusters of bishop pine trees or silver lupine wildflowers sprouting up between stones. That’s the way it goes. Nobody wants the old things anymore.

At last, we take a curve around the sinuous highway, and Daisy shudders.

“There it is,” she whispers, and a barb twists deep in my chest.

The house is like a phantom nestled back from the road. It’s made of glass, all the walls transparent, as if to say it’s got nothing to hide. From the driveway, there are cars snaking around in a long line, and a drone of music seeps out into the night.

I park the Buick off the side of the road, and we just sit here for a moment. I don’t want to go in, dread bunching up inside me for no good reason, but this is Bee’s choice. I won’t abandon her to do it alone.

Daisy, however, does the smart thing. She waits in the car. “Good luck,” she says, not looking at us.

At the front step, the door creaks open, another house where you need no invitation. I’ve never been in a city where I can walk around so freely, a vampire welcomed everywhere she goes. Bee and I slip inside, vanishing into the crowd. We look the same age as everyone else, even though we’re old enough to be their great-grandmothers. It’s a good disguise.

On the trip here, Daisy wouldn’t tell us why she’s afraid. “I just don’t like it there” was all she’d say, and now that we’re inside, I’m starting to understand why. All night, we’ve been in houses that made do with next to nothing, while this place can’t seem to get enough. Everything’s gleaming and polished, the colors bright, garish even, demanding your attention. Blaze-orange lamps and teal curtains and a chartreuse love seat, the stone floors painted a brilliant crimson.

The décor’s got a slapdash quality to it, modern and nostalgic in a jumble together—an egg chair next to an antique tapestry on the wall, a chrome end table topped with burnished candleholders—like someone trying to assemble a life in a hurry and not caring that nothing fits together.