“I’ve said it before, but I’ll repeat it as many times as necessary: I’m not going to hurt you, August Pfeiffer.” He looks me square in the eye, no blinking—but who knows how much practice he’s had over the years with lying. “For the record, though, I was sick of mind games even before I became a vampire. I prefer to say what I mean. And to flirt whenever possible.” His smirk returns, unnervingly sexy. “Besides, isn’t honesty the best policy?”

“No vampire is a hundred percent honest,” I reply in my courtroom lawyer voice.

“Neither is any human,” he counters. “You lied to me just now when you said you’d consumed holy water.”

“That’s different! That was self-defense.” My neck goes all hot and scratchy. How did he know that? “How did you know that? Were you spying on me?”

His answer turns out to be somehow even creepier. “I can hear your heart beating. When humans lie, their pulses accelerate. It’s the same operating principle as a polygraph machine, actually.” Nonchalant, he adds, “Also, the adrenaline levels in your blood increased when you said it, which is—”

“Excuse me, what? The what in my what?” I lean as far back as possible—as if the extra inches make a difference.

“I’m not trying to scare you, August.” Jude’s tone is measured and silky. “I’m answering your questions honestly. Yes, vampires are predators, and I can tell by your scent when your body secretes adrenaline.”

Startled, I shift in my chair, picking at the cardboard sleeve on my terrible mocha. I’ve been so focused on how much stronger Jude is than me, how much deadlier, that I haven’t even considered all the other ways in which I am totally outmatched. My head starts to spin again, my heart beating faster, even as I realize that he’s no doubt taking stock of these changes, too. How much adrenaline is in my system now? What does it taste like?

“August, listen to me,” Jude says, his tone forceful but controlled. “I know you’re scared right now, but what’s happening isn’t going to stop if you run away. You’re having the dreams, right? Which ones? A beheading in Scotland, a death by burning in France, a firing squad in Russia?”

My fingers go still around my mocha, and I stare at him, my dream coming back to me. The pillar of rough wood, the blistering fire—ugly words from an angry crowd imprinted on a borrowed memory: hérétique, sorcière, trompeur. Heretic, witch, deceiver.

I don’t even know French.