But when I meet his golden gaze, my hands squeezing into fists, the air between us darkens and narrows. Again his eyes move without moving, and pressure builds in my head. He’s trying to mesmerize me, and only a slender membrane of resistance—maybe the vampire blood, maybe the Corrupter—is holding him back. Just like that, I know I’m not strong enough to fight him; I’m barely strong enough to fight this.

A window slams open somewhere nearby, a high, thin voice shouting, “Whatever’s happening out there, we’ve called the police, and they’re on their way!”

Rasputin glances sharply in the direction of the sound, and I spin on my heel, obeying Daphne’s final command: Go.

She was right about the extra juice—I’m moving like Mario with an invincibility star, trees blurring as I skid around a corner and sprint for my own neighborhood. It’s one mile, and with every foot of ground I cover, I expect Rasputin to drop on me out of nowhere. I expect him to materialize in front of me, to close in on me from behind, but both times I allow myself a glance over my shoulder, the streets are dark and empty.

I don’t understand it. I don’t understand anything. By the time my house comes into view, my chest is heaving, and not from the exertion. Daphne’s last moments hurl themselves constantly against my memory, a moth trapped in a jar, and the only thing holding me together is sheer, unbridled terror. I have to get inside.

But the night isn’t done with me yet.

My hands are shaking as I stumble up the front steps, my keys dancing as I struggle to find the right one. Only three vampires are watching my house tonight—but who do they work for? I don’t believe Rasputin would just let me escape like that, and I can’t accept that he did. He followed us from the rave and killed Daphne right in front of me—why am I not in a cage right now? What does he have planned?

Throwing open the storm door, I’m just about to jam my key in the lock … when, once again, I realize I’m not alone on the porch. Something moves in my peripheral vision, a shadow more solid than the rest. Whirling, I yank my crucifix free so fast the stitching of my pocket tears—but then: “Auggie?”

The voice is so familiar, yet unexpected, that I almost drop the cross. The darkness under the overhang is a black quicksand, swallowing everything, but the vampire blood lets me see her face anyway. “A-Adriana?”

“I didn’t think you were ever going to come home.” She shivers, her breath coming out in a machine-gun stream of ragged puffs, and worry is written in the set of her brow.