All the while, the man from Sugar Mama’s hangs back and watches, like he was only sent to observe—or maybe to keep me from running. If I separate myself from Daphne, I won’t get far, and if they overpower her … well, I’m a goner either way.

Twice, Goth Guy lunges for me while Daphne is fighting Curly, and both times my erstwhile tutor deftly intercepts him. On his second attempt, though, she swings him around, driving her stake into his chest. He stumbles back, his body going stiff—and Daphne has already spun away again when his death catches up to him.

Here’s the thing: Vampire deaths are gross. Whoever this guy is, only the arcane magic of his blood has kept his body from deteriorating since the day he was Turned. Now, that magic dispelled by a stake to his heart, the forces of the natural world are making up for lost time. He rots in seconds, his flesh withering to the bone while his skin sloughs off in revolting clumps—and finally he collapses, his skeleton disjointing completely.

When he hits the ground, his head detaches and rolls right at me. I’m winding up for the loudest, shrillest screech I’ve ever let pass through my lips, when Daphne swoops in and grabs it. Hooking her fingers into the dead man’s now empty eye sockets, she whips around and flings the skull at Curly’s face. The undead girl parries with a hard block, shattering the missile entirely—just as Daphne lunges in for her second kill of the night.

There are still pieces of broken skull hitting the pavement when the girl vampire reels, clutching the hole in her chest. The glow in her eyes goes out—and then her eyeballs shrivel altogether, her lips peel away, and she gurgles as her throat and lungs desiccate. When her bones hit the ground, scattering like jackstraws, Daphne rounds on the man from Sugar Mama’s … but he’s already gone, leaping away into the night.

Frozen, waiting for the other shoe to drop, I manage, “Where is he—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Daphne answers blankly, her gaze skittering around the vast lot, her fingers turning the stake in an agitated revolution. We’re on the moonlit side of the building, and people are scattering across the lot in a witless panic. Their screaming fills the air—and above it, the wail of approaching sirens keens ominously. “Come on, we’re getting the hell out of here.”