“I don’t know,” Hope repeats helplessly. “That part’s missing—which is weird, because magic-workers love to document a ritual.” Misreading my expression, she grimaces. “Ugh, I’m sorry. This is some billion-year-old witch myth, and he was a vampire … Who knows what he was talking about?”

“It’s okay.” I force a laugh. “Never a dull moment in Fulton Heights! I bet you don’t regret moving here at all.” After an awkward pause, I say, “Um, I appreciate you sending it, anyway. And don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

“Thanks, Auggie.” She smiles. “Have a nice day.”

“You, too,” I say, and it takes me four tries to close the app.

For a long while after we hang up, I can’t move, reexamining the woodcut over and over. The Rising of the Dark Star. The nature of the “arcane ritual” being depicted is too unclear to decipher; it looks like they’re zapping the unholy shit out of the poor bastard who was that century’s vessel, killing him before it was too late … But maybe what I’m really looking at is the Corrupter being directed into a vessel for the first time. Maybe this Bronze Age coven actually started the once-a-century nightmare I’m living today.

Instinctively, my fingers jump to the spot where Ximena Rosales pulled out my hair—for a protection spell she was planning before she knew I needed protecting. If vampires and monster hunters have passed down knowledge of the Corrupter by word of mouth for generations, why not witches, too? And if Adriana’s grandmother knows something, then I can’t be sure she’s not one more enemy to add to my growing list.

I sit for a while longer, coming up with bad ideas followed by worse ideas—realizing that if I really want answers, I need to look anywhere and everywhere I can, even if it’s reckless and stupid. I’m drowning, surrounded by nothing but bricks, and I have to grab onto something. If I do nothing, I’m dead, so I might as well die tilting at windmills.

Getting off the bed at last, I head for my closet, trying to figure out what the hell you wear to a vampire rave.

I know I’m dressed wrong the second I answer the door, and find Gunnar on the porch in a tank top and jogging shorts, with stripes of UV-reactive paint on his face. Even though he’s standing right in front of me, I still can’t sense him … but the muscles of his chest and arms make bells ring in my stomach. With some effort, I successfully wrestle my libido under control and arch a brow. “Is this party in Florida?”