Grinning, he leans against the fireplace, Bellflower clutching tight to his shoulder, Vervain clutching tight to Bellflower, and Rowan clutching tight to herself, her eyes downcast. Jane cowers behind them, still not looking at Bee, standing back like a statue. Like a decoration.

I suddenly feel so very sorry for her. For all these girls. For what Rochester’s done to them and what he still plans to do.

But one thing he doesn’t understand: he might be a prophet in this house, but he’s no vampire. And he’s no Dracula.

I stare at him. “You really believe you can control him, don’t you?”

“I don’t want to control anyone,” Rochester says, and snaps his tongue. All his acolytes mimic the sound, the whole room clucking at me at once. “Besides, you’re the one who wants to control him.”

“That’s right,” Bellflower says, as she reaches out and caresses the urn. “And we’re going to help him. Then if we’re lucky, he’ll help us.”

My throat closes up as I see it there, the promise of eternal life flashing in her eyes like wildfire. It’s in all their eyes. This is what Rochester’s offering them, how he’s turned them pliant in his hands. They’re just like Daisy, like all the others back in the Haight, like everyone, really. They’re looking for something, and he’s pretending he can give it to them.

Rochester’s condemning all these girls to immortality, and he honestly thinks he’s doing them a favor.

A sharp fury rises within me. “Monster,” I say, and lunge toward him, but he’s all the way across the room, and he’s already expecting this.

He gives me that ugly smirk and passes the urn to Bellflower, letting her do the honors. She looks practically giddy about it, her delicate hand unscrewing the lid I so meticulously built all those years ago, not at all bothered as the hot clay burns away her flesh. With her gaze on me, she flips over the urn. Such a simple gesture, one that’s so quick. So irrevocable, too.

The ashes spill into the air, and when she’s sure it’s empty, she lifts the urn above her head and thrusts it down hard onto the stone floor. It breaks apart into nothing, into less than nothing. Into something I can never repair.

I part my lips to scream, but no sound comes out.