I’m hoping for the late bus, but I find the turnaround deserted—save for a single, familiar car parked in the spreading glow of a streetlight, a familiar girl perched on the hood of the trunk. My steps falter when I see her.

“You two boys have a nice conversation?” Daphne asks, deadpan, and for just a moment I could swear she’s referencing my horny vision of the future.

“It wasn’t what it looked like.” This might be a lie.

Sliding off the back of her car, Daphne lets out a weary sigh. “Forget it. I’m not your mom, and you can talk to anyone you want. I just … I wish you’d listen to me, Auggie. You can’t afford to trust Jude Marlowe, even if you think he’s cute.”

“It’s not even…” Frustration robs me of my words. “Why does everyone act like I’m just some walking boner, and that all a guy has to do is smile and I’ll forget my life is in danger? For your information, I don’t trust him, and I told him so. I didn’t ask him to come here, by the way. He was waiting when I came out of the school.”

“He heard about your teacher?” Daphne’s guess, at least, tells me why she’s also shown up out of the blue. Her expression turns sober. “I’m sorry, by the way. I can’t believe … I didn’t mean to kill him. The stake must have punctured his axillary artery, or something, but I swear it was an accident.”

“He was trying to kill us,” I remind her. “It was self-defense.”

“Not what I mean.” She shakes her head with a glum smile. “I know he wasn’t just another teacher for you. You liked him, and he’s dead, and … well, it would be hard news to take even if the circumstances weren’t as completely fucked up as they are.”

“Thanks,” I manage, my eyes immediately filming over with more tears that I don’t want to shed. “It’s…” I have to wait it out for a moment. “It’s pretty fucked up, yeah.”

Sniffling, I try to wipe all the tears away before they can really get started, but Daphne crosses the space between us and puts her arms around me. So I cry for a little bit. She doesn’t say anything, and I finally realize that this is all I’ve wanted—just someone to sympathize without demanding that I promise to feel better.

When Daphne steps away again, she runs her fingers through my hair. “Get in. I’ll drive you home, okay?”

Once the car is moving and I’ve got my composure back, I exhale. “Jude … It wasn’t about Mr. Strauss. He wanted to warn me about some vampires—two groups that worship the Corrupter. They’re already in Fulton Heights, and he thought I should have details.”