“Yeah, of course.” Gunnar’s thumb grazes my lip, and I kind of want to jump his bones again, but I say good night and get out of the car. There are seven vampires watching my house tonight, each presence as tangible as a mosquito bite on my skin, and I shiver as I race up my front steps. But it isn’t until I’ve unlocked the door and am waving goodbye, watching Gunnar pull away from the curb, that it hits me. Seven vampires … but none of them are him.

I can’t sense Gunnar.

16

That night, I can’t sleep, trying to understand what it means that Gunnar doesn’t register on my radar—trying to figure out where I can turn for answers. I can’t ask Jude, because the Syndicate might expect some sort of cooperation in return, and I’m honestly not sure the Brotherhood is much better. Daphne I trust, but she’s promised to have her organization investigate a dozen different things for me, and so far they’ve come up with nothing.

I don’t understand how the sensor works, and I can’t even be sure it’s 100 percent effective, but I’m afraid the actual explanation has something to do with the fact that both of the undead cults gathering in Fulton Heights are led by known magic-workers. If anyone understands how this entity works, and how to successfully jam the radar I’ve developed because of it, it’s someone who’s spent lifetimes studying the Corrupter.

Pretending to be a cool-dude-necklace-wearing human might only be the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Gunnar’s deceptions.

With Jude and Daphne out, the only other person I know who really understands supernatural stuff is Ximena Rosales; but I tried her once, and all she did was steal my hair for a “protection spell.” If she knows something, she’s already lied about it. No matter what her reasons were, I can’t trust her to suddenly tell the truth now … and if she’s capable of magic beyond regular witchcraft, I can’t even be sure she’s using it in my favor.

My head is throbbing with questions by mid-afternoon the next day when I receive a text from an unfamiliar number: Hey, Auggie, it’s Hope. I know this sounds weird, but can I send you something?

Immediately, I’m intrigued—and also anxious, because I’m starting to realize just how much I hate surprises. I haven’t seen Hope since the day I drew a flaming corpse and our art teacher died trying to murder me, and I can’t imagine what she wants to talk about. Nervously, I send her a sure, and her reply is prompt.