“Of course he says that, they all say that!” She shoots a suspicious glare at Jude, who’s been watching us this whole time. Can he hear us over the music? Can he read our lips? “Look, Auggie, I know Fulton Heights has … limits, and I get it if you’re lonely, but this? Isn’t worth it. Human and vampire relationships don’t work out!”

“That’s not what’s happening,” I insist flatly—even though, if I’m being completely honest, I’ve spent plenty of private time this past week wondering if Jude really wants to suck more than my blood. If you know what I mean.

Daphne waits for more, but what can I tell her that she won’t feel compelled to share with my parents? So I just shake my head, and she frowns, disappointed; and then, abruptly, she spins around, marching straight back to the table where Jude waits. Pulling out a chair, she drops into it with the force of a comet crashing to Earth.

My anxiety climbing all the way up to my scalp, I hurry after her just as she snaps, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on, but I’m not leaving him alone with you.”

“Doesn’t he get to have a say in that?” Jude retorts. “We were having kind of a personal discussion.”

Triumphantly, she counters, “You’re not a person.”

“Well, fair point.” Jude grants her a polite smile. “But whoever you are, I assure you you’re overreacting. As I’ve told August—several times now, and I believe to his satisfaction—he’s in no danger from me.”

Daphne narrows her eyes, unimpressed. “I know how vampires like to trick people into thinking with the wrong body parts, so I intend to see that you keep your teeth and hands to yourself. All right?”

I’m burning alive again, but it’s not a dream; when I die and my life flashes before my eyes, I hope they let me fast-forward most of it.

Jude’s expression doesn’t change—but something predatory glitters in the look he gives her. “That’s very bold talk … Daphne, was it? But the fact is: I am a five-hundred-year-old vampire, and I could break this table in half with my bare hands. If I really meant to harm August, do you honestly think that you could stop me?”

“Yes,” Daphne returns immediately, her voice pitched low, so filled with icy conviction that I actually get chills, “I do.” She shakes the sleeve of her jacket, and a slim, wooden stake, whittled into a lethally sharp point, appears in her hand as if by magic. “Besides, you’re only four hundred and thirty years old at the absolute most, Jude Marlowe. Stop lying about your age.”

Jude’s eyes go as wide as mine feel, and I take my seat again, because what the fuck?