“I’m sorry!” Her giggle fit, however, belies the words. “I was trying to make you feel better! I didn’t think you’d turn around again. And anyway, he’s not looking at you like he’s scared. More like you’re … interesting.”

“I don’t know what that means. Is it good?”

“It’s good,” she confirms. Then she nudges me. “So, what’s been going on with you, Auggie? You’ve been acting weird this past week—and you never got back to me about when to have dinner with my abuela. She’s thinking tomorrow night, if you’re free.”

Picking up my spoon, I poke at the marshmallow floating in my mocha like a bloated corpse. After I fled school last Wednesday, Adriana was the only person I wanted to tell about Jude and his cryptic warning. But by the time I got home, my chest heaving and my stomach all crampy, I couldn’t figure out how to raise the subject in a way that didn’t scare me to death. I wanted someone to tell me that the whole thing was preposterous, but … what if she didn’t? What if she took it seriously? What if I had to take it seriously?

Nightmares happen, right? I mean, last week wasn’t the first time I had dreams about death and stuff—but blinking and missing two whole hours of my life? That’s brain tumor shit, and just thinking about it makes my blood turn slushy. For five days I’ve reminded myself that vampires are known tricksters, that mesmerism is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to their machinations for luring humans to their doom. The earliest written accounts talk of the undead rising from the grave and returning to their former homes, preying on loved ones’ willingness to believe in miracles, for a quick bite.

This Jude dude could have drugged me, or hypnotized me somehow—stolen two hours of my life, so I’d be frightened and susceptible when he showed up three minutes later to tell me I’m Mr. Worst Possible Time—all with the goal of making me a more exciting meal than the usual bite-and-run. It was a ruse. He’s an immortal monster looking to amuse himself and fill his eternal hours of free time. That’s it.

For Adriana, I finally muster up an answer. “Dinner with your grandma sounds great. And sorry I’ve been weird. More vampire bullshit.”

She shakes her head in disgust. “I know the volunteer hunting squads were a total disaster, but it’s ridiculous that the city thinks a few patrol cars rolling around at night with sun lamps and holy-water squirt guns is actually doing anything!” Stirring what remains of the ice cream in her cup, she asks, “What was it this time? More dead animals?”