Though there were plenty of weapons at my disposal, I took a stake, the smallest and easiest to conceal of the bunch. Besides, I knew what to do with a stake. The spiky-ball-on-a-stick thing looked considerably more complicated to operate. Of course, a stake wouldn’t protect me from Dahlia, if she was still waiting for me. But Nathan was a vampire hunter, not a witch hunter. I suppose I could douse her with water and melt her like in The Wizard of Oz, if it came to that.

I almost left a note for Nathan but decided against it. I realized there was nothing I could write that wouldn’t seem like I’d turned my back on all of his help. There was no way to soften the truth.

As helpful and considerate as he’d been, there were some questions Nathan couldn’t answer. For those, I’d have to face my fear the way I had that night in the morgue.

I had to meet my sire.

Six

John Doe

The day obviously hadn’t been a warm one. The twilight air was cold enough to steal the breath from my lungs.

I’d found my wool coat hanging over the towel rack in the bathroom. It appeared Nathan had spot-cleaned the blood from it. But it didn’t keep me warm as I walked the miles from Nathan’s apartment to the address on the paper. Being dead had some serious disadvantages, like constantly assuming room temperature, no matter what that temperature might be.

While my car still sat at the curb outside the bookshop, the keys were probably still on the ground outside the donor house. There was no way I’d go back there. I preferred walking.

I was familiar with the posh neighborhood. When I’d been new to the city, I’d often drive through the winding streets and marvel at the modern mansions and fairy-tale châteaus. They looked completely out of place in the sparsely wooded area. Tall brick walls and elaborate gates wrapped around the lots. Some had privacy hedges with formidable-looking security cameras that glared at passersby with cold, glassy eyes. From the shelter of my car, I’d daydreamed about the people living in these houses and imagined living in one myself ten years down the road. The fantasies had always featured a handsome yet oddly faceless husband and our adorable, ambiguous children. Only one house had ever been the feature of a horror story in my mind.

That one turned out to be Cyrus’s.

A severe Edwardian manor, it sat far back on a lawn surrounded by a stone wall. The wrought-iron gate at the drive looked as though it hadn’t been opened in centuries. There was no intercom or bell. I gripped the iron bars and gave a push. The hinges didn’t creak, and the gate swung open to admit me.

I’d never felt so exposed in my entire life as I walked toward the house. The driveway cut a paved swath through the lawn, which glowed an eerie green in the moonlight. Any moment, they’d release the dogs, I was sure. And I hated dogs.