“There’s no such thing as a good vampire, August.” The blunt candor of his reply actually surprises me. “Just like there’s no such thing as a good person. All of us are capable of violence and selfishness under the right circumstances.”

“You eat people,” I remind him, perhaps stupidly. “We’re your food, not your friends. Why should I believe that you don’t want to hurt me?”

“Because you and I need to have a conversation about something very important.” His impish demeanor is gone, and now his tone is all business. It sends a chill clear down to my toes. “Something very bad and very dangerous is happening, August Pfeiffer, and it directly concerns you.”

“That’s ridiculous.” I back away from the ring of sincerity in his voice. If he’s bullshitting me, he’s spent a lot of time practicing his delivery, because he sure sounds convincing. “I’ve heard enough, so—”

“You haven’t heard anything.” Jude steps forward, right to the very edge of the shadow that protects him. “The reason I came to Fulton Heights was to find you and warn you. Darkness is coming, August. The world as you know it, as we all know it, could be coming to an end. And you might be the only one who can stop that from happening.”

Another church giggle bursts out of me, because this speech is not only grandiose, but absurd—the oldest and corniest trick in the book. I can’t even factor a polynomial, but I’m the key to saving the universe? “Oh, right, sure! Evil forces more powerful than I could possibly imagine, time running out, blah blah blah, and one gullible kid in a shithole suburb of Chicago is the Chosen One who will save mankind. Obviously. When do we get started?”

Jude shakes his head, his expression somber. “Not chosen, August. No one gets chosen for this. You’re just in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.”

The shadows are even longer now, the sun a broken flare barely cresting the treetops, and soon the daylight will vanish altogether. I back away farther, quick steps toward the bike rack. “Well, look, this has been super fun, but—”

“What do you dream about at night?” Jude demands, not moving a muscle. “Death? People from historical periods you don’t recognize?” I freeze, and he must see that he’s hit a nerve, because he presses ahead. “Have you experienced unfamiliar memories or lost time? Have you noticed any changes in your body?”

“We’re done,” I declare, my voice thin and trembling. How could he possibly know about my nightmares and my disappearing two hours? “Okay? This is over. Just … stay away from me.”