Another laugh, as lovely and unnerving as a church bell at midnight, and it sets my skin buzzing. The girls say something else, all of them speaking at once, their lips barely moving, but a motorcycle blares past, a thick stench of exhaust and old leather, and their words dissolve in the air like dishwater bubbles. I only hear the last word they say.

“Lucy.”

I stare at them, part of me convinced I misheard. “How do you know my name?”

The girl with the freckles smiles. “From Edward,” she says, like there could be no other answer. “He knows everything about you. All your secrets.”

“I feel sorry for him then.” After all, even I don’t want to know my secrets.

The girls are leaning over the edge of the topless car now, their bodies nearly melting into the Buick, their thin fingers pressing into every corner of the torn upholstery. They reach around me and past me and even under me, and though they don’t say it, I know what they’re looking for. Who they’re looking for.

They shouldn’t even know about him. No one should. But maybe they’re right. Maybe Rochester really can see things nobody else can. In that way, he and Dracula aren’t so different. A couple of Peeping Toms who are always so impressed with themselves about all the places they keep peeping. As if their lack of dignity is a badge of honor.

The girls keep moving, keep searching, which means they’ll find it soon. The last urn. Once they realize there’s nowhere else to look, they’ll figure out where I’m hiding him.

I squirm in the passenger seat. It’s too late to run, even if I wanted to. Even if I could. My vision fades in and out, and for a moment, all I can hear are heartbeats I can’t have.

“So you know me,” I say. “But what about you? What are your names?”

At this, they seize up, their faces pinched, their shoulders rigid, each of them measuring me, what I’m up to. My chest constricts, and I wonder if this was the wrong thing to say, if they’re liable to stake me too, the same as Renfield, sending my body back into oblivion before I’ve even had a chance to heal. But then all at once, they’re smiling again. The kind of smile that seems to be laughing at you, even if you don’t know why.

“I’m Bellflower,” says the one with the freckled face, the one who must be the leader since the other two girls keep hanging on her every poisoned word. “And these are Vervain and Rowan.”