Violet’s eyes adjust to the gloom far quicker than mine, or at least I assume so because she’s running down the hallway while I’m still clutching at the wall. “I am going to hide in the cupboard,” she says excitedly before dashing into what must be the aforementioned study.

Dust pervades the air, and I try not to cough as I grasp the handle of the door closest to me. Apart from a few scattered drop sheets that lie wadded in the corners, the first room is empty. The second turns up more dust bunnies, and the third is filled with a collection of tattered couches and armchairs that were most likely granted a last-minute reprieve from the garbage truck. They are arranged in a cheery circle, almost as if the vampires spent their evenings in discussion. An old TV is pushed to one side, and beneath it are stacks of DVDs. Unable to resist, I sort through them to find that Vlad has amassed every high school comedy imaginable, from John Hughes to 10 Things I Hate About You and beyond. This is what he was using as research to infiltrate our high school? That almost frightens me as much as anything else.

It strikes me that I haven’t come across any beds, and I don’t find any in the fourth and fifth rooms either, although clothing hangs in the closets: velvet for Violet, knee-length skirts for Marisabel, and a row of white shirts for Neville. I realize that I never asked James if he sleeps. I hope so; the image of him sitting alone in his old bedroom, awake, all night every night, makes my throat constrict. No wonder he didn’t want to go home that night, I think, and I feel a rush of overdue guilt.

Now there’s only one room left, and I begin to lose faith that my brilliant hide-and-seek spying technique will turn up useful information. When the last door swings open to reveal one lonely rocking chair, my heart sinks. I do a loop around the room anyway, hoping that the thump of music downstairs is loud enough to cover the creak of floorboards. The chair is positioned to face the window, and the high vantage point of the house means that the sitter has a vaulted view of the neighborhood down below, with its slanted roofs and twinkling house lights. It’s as majestic a view as you’re likely to find in suburbia.

I wander to the far wall and slide open the closet door, pushing when it sticks. There is clothing here, as well, but while the other closets were a jumble of styles and owners, this is organized to the level of neatness normally associated with former military men, serial killers, and Marcie. To the right are shirts and jackets, all covered in plastic and arranged by color. I recognize the black jacket that Vlad wore on the first day of school, and look down to find the pair of pointed boots from that afternoon in the woods gleaming up at me in the dark. An unbidden shiver shoots through my body, and it takes a moment to regain my composure.

His jeans hang on the left side, and while they aren’t covered in plastic, they each have an individual hanger, back pockets facing outward. This proves that old maxim that people who hang their jeans up are to be feared, even if I just made that maxim up.

I start to push the door closed, thinking that I would have learned more hiding in the cupboard with Violet, when a bulge in the back pocket of the outermost pair catches my eye. At first I don’t believe what I’m seeing. But no—Vlad’s journal is still there, stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. He left his plans for vampire domination in his other pants.

I pull it out so forcefully that the jeans fall off the hanger. I rearrange them, heart pounding, and then open the pages with trembling fingers. Vlad’s cramped, flowery handwriting covers every bit of paper, with lines squeezed into the margins or running up the spine and dead-ending in the corners. I go to the rocker and let the small bit of light from outside pour down over the yellowed pages.

The first few pages are just a list of names and dates, beginning with “Anton and Evangelique Mervaux (d. 1815, burned)” and ending with “Christiana Jones (d. 1999—killed).” Beneath that Vlad has written question marks of all sizes, some scored so deeply that he’s torn through the page. If what Marisabel told me was right, this must be the list of the girl’s descendants that he’s been piecing together through the years—but if he knows where it ends, why is he here?

Next comes a series of journal entries, the first of which dates from 1966. They are terse reports of research, mentions of lost children, dreams of what life will be like once he is Danae and can get revenge on all the vampires who have snubbed him, and complaints about being Unnamed. There are years of time in between entries, years, and a small part of me can’t help but admire Vlad’s tenacity; the longest I ever pursued a story was one month.

I stop at an entry of unusual length.

The next few entries outline his theory. Christiana stayed in Michigan because she had fallen in love and become pregnant. What’s more, he thought that she had given birth to a child, the next descendent of this family tree that everyone thought had died out a long time ago. But soon after arriving here, she adopted an alias that he has still not been able to discover, although her child would have to be anywhere from fifteen to seventeen.

The following entries all detail his preparations to bring the group here, which included glamouring people out of their money and possessions and being blood-drive bandits. My heart skips a little when James’s name first appears.

I frown, wondering exactly what “particularly clever thinking” and that quote are supposed to mean—it can’t be anything good. Maybe I should show it to him in yet another attempt to lure him over to my side, or at least give him a heads-up—I shake my head, realizing this is just another example of Distraction via James. No. Girl. Danae. Moving on.

We’ve reached Vlad’s first day at Thomas Jeff.

I let out a loud snort and then turn the page quickly, feeling guilty at being amused by Vlad’s ramblings. Thankfully, the following entries putter out into endless rants about how the other vampires aren’t helping and he doesn’t even know where James is. I move past a number of blank pages to the next section, which is a listing of girls he’s rejected. Caroline sits proudly at the top, followed by approximately thirty other girls that I’ll cross-reference with my own list later. When I turn the next page, I swear that my eyes start to tingle. This. This is what I’ve been looking for.

Vlad has made a rough sketch of Neville’s tattoo, large enough that the star’s four main points touch the edges of the page. By each tip he’s written a name—last names from the look of it, unless there’s some poor soul wandering around with the name “Vandervelde.” I squint and look closer. Instead of a “D” in the center, Vlad’s written “Mervaux,” the big, bad, human-baby-having vamp family itself, and I would guess that these others are vampire families as well.

Excited, I move on to what appears to be a timeline. Some dates are far apart and others are crammed together, and they’re all in different colors of ink, like this is something that he’s been adding to for a long time.

I turn back to the beginning of the journal—Vlad’s first entry is dated in 1966. Victor’s “novel” obviously converted Vlad enough that he’s spent the last half a century searching for her. I read over the timeline again, doing my best to make sense of the rush of dates and bite-sized history. The Danae isn’t just looking for the girl because of her supposed powers; they’re looking for her because she and her line are their crown jewel. Or at least she was until she vanished.

When I flip to the next page, I find more cramped writing and the header “Collected Myths and Legends.” Before I can start to read, however, the door creaks behind me. I whirl around to find Neal standing in the entranceway, staring at me with surprise. Guess what? His neon swim trunks glow in the dark.

“Found you!” he says before his face wrinkles in confusion. “Why are you standing in the middle of the room? You’re worse than Violet.” His eyes fall to the book in my hand. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I say, annoyed at the interruption until I realize that I’m lucky it’s just Neal. Vlad might be hunting for this, which means that I should save a more thorough read for later. I attempt to shove it in my pocket, but girl pants are not as accommodating as boy pants. Left with little other option, I lift my T-shirt and wiggle it into the space between my back and the waistband of my jeans; at least if Vlad tries to take it back it will be covered in girl cooties. Holding up my hands, I say, “You got me!” just as Violet’s blond head appears behind his shoulder. She tickles his sides, and he jumps.

“Too long again,” she says, but she is smiling. “Let’s go downstairs. I am tired of the cupboard.”

I let them walk in front of me, head still pounding with new information until the way Violet loops her arm through Neal’s and he bends down to whisper something in her ear makes me think this might not be a problem that can be moved to the back burner. This is not good, I think as her giggle bounces up the stairway. This is not good at all.

When we get to the bottom of the stairs I grab Violet’s free arm. “I need to talk to Violet for a second,” I tell Neal. “Go have another ranchy cheese puff. I hear they’re magically delicious.”

“But—”

“We’ll find you,” I say and pull Violet into the next room: the kitchen.

A thick layer of dust coats the new appliances. The sink’s faucet is a dull green, and the only light still working is the one hanging over the oven. Cobwebs cling to every corner, including the slatted pantry door. The most neglected room in the house, it’s been left mostly empty by the other partygoers.

Mostly. A girl I recognize from the soccer team and her friend stumble in, gossiping about how so-and-so just threw herself at Vlad for the third time, energetically enough that her top slipped down and exposed her man entrancers to the world. “And he just studied them for a few seconds,” she says, “then pulled up her top and said, ‘Thank you, that was an immense help.’ Sometimes he’s so weird.”

Her friend nods enthusiastically and then points to her throat. “I’m thirsty,” she mouths and goes to the fridge, which I assume is filled with items that are more frightening than mystery mold.

“There’s punch in the living room,” I tell her, blocking the handle. “It’s rude to poke around in people’s refrigerators.” As I jerk my head to point out the right direction, I do a quick skin sweep. She has a small birthmark on her hip, although it would be the most circular star ever made. I ask for her name anyway. I’ll admit that it comes out a little boot-camp.

“Uh, Grace,” she says, eyeing me like I might order her to drop and give me twenty at any second. “And we’ll leave the fridge alone, okay? You don’t have to freak out,” she says and drags her friend toward the living room. “Who’s that?” I hear her ask before they disappear into the hallway. “Oh you know, that girl.”

Fantastic.

“There’s nothing in there, you know,” Violet says from behind me. I twirl around to find that she’s hopped onto the counter, dust be damned. She swings her crossed ankles back and forth, not minding when they bang against the lower cabinet. “You really should give us some credit,” she continues. “We may be a little behind the times, but we are not naive enough to leave blood lying around for just anyone to find.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, trying to look fluffy-bunny innocent despite her doubtful look.

“Marisabel told me about your conversation in the ladies’ room. I never had the courage to tell her myself, but I agree that they should call it off. Seventeen would deem it a verbally abusive relationship.”

“Who else knows?”

“Just us!” Violet says, but I still feel a little sick to my stomach. Violet must see my unease, because she adds, “I would not worry about it if I were you. Well, unless you’re in front of Vlad. Then I might worry about it.”

That’s quite the disclaimer. “Why?”

“He has been snapping at all of us lately. Neville came home yesterday with the announcement that he won the lead in the school play, and Vlad nearly staked him on the spot. I really wish he would find the girl he wants so we can all forget this nonsense and start to concentrate on what really matters. Like Neal!” She claps excitedly. “Oh, Sophie, he is fantastic! I hardly even think of James anymore.”

“You mean you want to stay here?” I ask with obvious disbelief. “Even if Vlad finds the girl?”

She either misses my tone or chooses to ignore it. “Of course. This is much more fun than that dusty old farmhouse! Why? You don’t want James to stay?”

If that isn’t the million-dollar question. It’s not something I want to contemplate, so I try to change the subject. “Violet, about Neal—”

“I am aware that he is a little strange,” she interrupts, “but I firmly believe I can get him to stop carrying that rodent around in his pocket.”

“It’s not that,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “In the past, you may have been a little hasty with your . . . gentlemen friends.”

“What do you mean?” she asks, starting to frown as her swinging feet go still. Ominously still.

“I mean, well . . . you like Neal a lot, right?” I ask, plunging ahead despite my better judgment.

“Oodles.”

“Then perhaps you should try something different this time,” I say.

“And what do you mean by that?”

I check to make sure that the coast is clear before I delve into the Monster Mash portion of this conversation. When I’ve confirmed that it’s just us here in this kitchen—a kitchen that is feeling more and more claustrophobic by the second, I might add—I say, “I know that in the past you have turned your boyfriends into vampires, and I am wondering if maybe you should try not to do that with Neal.”

She gives a dainty sniff. “You don’t have to say it like it’s a dirty word.”

“What? Neal?”

“No,” she corrects. “Vampire! There are quite a few people who might like to be one of us. I think they are called Erica,” she adds, naming our school’s resident Goth. “And besides, I cannot make him unless he agrees.”

“Really?”

“Well, that is the common practice. But sometimes I do cheat a little and ask vague questions. Like ‘If you were accidentally stabbed in the stomach several times, would you want to live?’ And if they say yes, then I can reasonably assume that they would like to be a vampire, because we are the only beings who would survive that. See?”

Her logic leaves me speechless. She takes the silence as my assent.

“Lovely, it is settled. I am going to find Neal now.” She hops off the counter, but her tone still makes it sound like a threat. Before I can tell her to wait, she knocks into my shoulder as she brushes by me, hard enough to knock me into the refrigerator door. This is swiftly spiraling out of control.

“What would Seventeen say?” I call out, desperate to regain some leverage.

She stops. “What do you mean?”

“I read an article once about how you shouldn’t try to, er, change your boyfriends?” I try. At this point I am just treading water, but Violet seems to be considering it.

“I may have read this article,” she says finally. “There was a story about a girl named Amy whose boyfriend was some sort of athletics person but she wanted him to like jazz.”

“And?”

“And ultimately it tore them apart. It was very tragic.”

“See?”

“Perhaps,” Violet says, trying to be arch and coy, but I can tell that for now, at least, I’ve managed to save Holland with my thumb.

“Promise me that you won’t turn Neal,” I say.

“But what if—”

“If you don’t,” I say, “I’m going to have to warn him. And I really don’t want to have that conversation. I’m getting enough of a name for myself as it is.”

Her face falls as she bites her lip. “I like him, Sophie.”

“Then promise,” I insist.

There is a brief pause, and I fear that I have pressed my luck too far. But then Violet flounces over to stand by my side, pulling up her toga when it threatens to slide off her shoulders.

“Very well!” she says, perky once again. “What do I have to sign?”

“No contract necessary. Just your word,” I say. I would do a blood pact if I didn’t think it would be an invitation to snack.

“You have my word,” she parrots gravely, and then leaps toward me for a hug. “Oh, I am so glad we are friends now!” she exclaims and then pushes me back to stare into my eyes. “Please endeavor not to steal Neal.”

“No worries there, I promise you.”

“This is going to be so fun! Do you want to come over for tea tomorrow? I mean, I cannot have any, but I’ll make some for you!”

“Let’s take it one day at a ti—,” I begin, but stop when Violet’s fingers dig into my shoulders.

“Go to the pantry,” she says, urgent all of a sudden.

“Huh? Why?”

“Vlad is on his way over here,” she hisses, “and he suspects that you know more than you should.” Her eyes widen as she takes in my outfit. “You are also improperly attired for his party.”

She pushes me toward the slatted doors and opens them with a free hand. The odor emanating from the pantry is foul.

“But—”

“In,” she insists. “I will come retrieve you when it is safe. You may thank me later,” she whispers, and then, with one swift shove, closes me in the pantry. The inside is just as rank as you’d imagine a small, unused, and unwashed room to be. The empty shelves stack all the way up to the ceiling, and in the weak light that squeezes through the slats, they look vaguely skeletal. A mildewed mop stands forlornly in the corner behind me like a vengeful ghost from a Japanese thriller. This better save me from certain death; otherwise I’m stuffing Violet in the oven as payback.

I peer through the gaps just in time to see James enter the kitchen from the other door and tap Violet on the shoulder. She yelps. It takes two seconds for her flustered expression to turn flirtatious as she looks down at the floral tent she’s wearing and asks him if he likes it.

“It’s lovely,” he says. “Have you seen Sophie?”

“Yes!”

“Good. Where?”

“Have you met my boyfriend?” Violet asks, apropos of nothing. “I am speaking of my new boyfriend, of course. He should be by the refreshment table. Eating cheese doilies.”

“I’d love to meet him—later. Right now I’m looking for Sophie,” he says, stretching out my name until it sounds like two distinct words. “Where is she?”

Holding a finger to her lips, she points to the pantry.

“Why is she in the pantry?” James asks before his expression melts into horror. “Violet, what did you do?”

“Nothing! I am trying to help her. Quick! Vlad is coming.”

James’s eyes widen, and he jogs toward the door. Before I can fashion a NO BOYS ALLOWED sign, he’s opened it, closed it, and is standing in front of me. His body blocks most of the light, so I can’t see the expression on his face, but I can feel him looking at me, even though he doesn’t say anything. I try to think of a joke to cut the tension, but the only things that come are of the knock-knock variety. (“Knock knock.” “Who’s there?” “A steadily shrinking pantry!” “A steadily shrinking pantry who?” “Get out, please.”)

The silence ticks on; all I can hear are the sounds of my own breathing and the thrum of tropical music leaking through the walls. The thin bars of light squeezing through the slats make him look like a trendy tiger. Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“This is an abnormally small pantry. I’m going to write a letter,” I say, leaving off the part about his shoulders seeming abnormally large. I’m thinking that I’m going to write a letter about that too when James suddenly blurts that he wants to apologize.

“Really?” I ask, surprised.

“Yeah. I think it’s brave what you’re doing. And I’ve tried to stop hoping that there’s some way to change this, I have. Because I hate the way that it makes you look at me, like I’m some kind of criminal.”

“That’s not what I think,” I say, and it’s true. I open my mouth to tell him this, but the particles of dust stirred up by his entrance tickle my nose. I cover my mouth and sneeze as quietly as possible. It still sounds like a chipmunk that’s recently had a sex change operation.

“That’s not exactly the pledge of understanding that I was hoping for,” James says, “but I’ll take it.”

The dark is making his voice lower, warmer, and more rumbly. His shoulder is level with my ears. I don’t know if it’s a trick of the light or what, but at the moment it looks very comfortable. Distraction, I try to remind myself, but my brain doesn’t care. It would be so easy to just sort of rest my head on it for a few to see if it’s as comfortable as it looks. . . .

“You can if you want,” James says.

I will be so glad when James is finally done with vampire puberty. “You have to stop doing that.”

“I can’t help it. Your thoughts are very strong,” he says. “It’s another reason I would like to not be . . . this . . . anymore. Mind reading is fun until you find out that your chemistry teacher dreamed he was a transvestite the night before.”

“Mr. George?” I ask, suddenly beset by an image that is both hilarious and terrifying.

“Mr. George,” James confirms. “The thoughts of yours I catch are at least amusing.”

Is it wrong to be flattered by that? Because I am. Until I am struck by a very important distinction.

“Amusing ha-ha or amusing he-he?” I ask.

“I have no idea what the difference is.”

I give him a withering look that is unfortunately wasted in the dark. “Amusing ha-ha is funny. Amusing he-he implies snickering. Obviously.”

“Got it,” he says, and then makes me wait for the answer. “Amusing ha-ha.”

Okay, I am flattered. It nudges me to suggest something that has been rattling around in the back of my mind for these past few weeks. “What if, when I find her, we talk to her. Explain things to her. Then if she wants to help you, if she chooses to help you . . .” I trail off, but the meaning is clear. “We could work together.”

“Together,” James says as he steps closer, only the way he says it makes it sound about thirty times sexier.

“Together,” I repeat, starting to ramble in an effort to cover up the fact that my heart is pounding so loud that I imagine my other organs might complain. “It wouldn’t be that different from asking someone to donate blood. I mean, I’m not all that sure about the particulars. Like do you have to actually drink it from her neck?” I ask. “Or maybe we don’t have to tell her. Can we say it’s for needy children and then, I don’t know, put it in a thermos? I’m not sure about that from an ethical standpoint, but we should discuss.” I stop when I realize that he’s gone still, most likely out of disgust. “It was the thermos bit that took it over the edge, wasn’t it?” There’s still no answer. “James?”

I barely have time to register his head swooping down in the dark, and then he’s kissing me and even though this is a distraction, I want this. His lips are firm but cool, and I grab the side shelving to keep my balance. At first I’m too stunned to do anything normal like close my eyes, and I’m thankful that he has his closed so he doesn’t see me staring at his cheekbones like some sort of goggle-eyed amphibian. I lower my lids and concentrate on kissing him back, offering up a fervent prayer that my repeated viewings of the last five minutes of Grease in the fifth grade will finally pay off. Because he’s definitely improved since the hammock.

He smiles against my lips, and I realize that he must have heard that, but for once I don’t care. His hands slide to my waist, and I lean forward to wrap my arms around his neck. He tugs me forward against his chest, his palms brushing against my sides as his hands slide upward. I’m standing up on tiptoes to move closer when suddenly he pulls back. Even in the dark I can tell that he’s puzzled.

“Are you wearing a battery pack?” he asks.

His fingers have found the hard edge of Vlad’s book. Evidence of my snooping will bring a swift end to the kissing truce, and I was just getting the hang of it.

“Oh, well, funny story . . . ,” I start to say as his fingers continue to explore upward. When they reach the bare skin of my back, I jump. “Your hands are cold!”

That was the wrong thing to say. James backs away.

“Not bad cold,” I say hastily. “Cold like eggs! Like eggs when you take them out of the refrigerator.”

He makes a sound that’s half laugh, half choke.

“And eggs are, um, full of protein.” Shut up, Sophie. Shut up.

James doesn’t agree or disagree with my nutritional claims. Instead he peers out into the kitchen. “I should go,” he says, and I can tell that I’ve ruined the moment. “There’s no sign of Vlad. You should go too.”

I suddenly feel a little guilty for hiding in a closet kissing people when Vlad is out there stalking the girls I supposedly came here to protect. “I’m not finished at the party yet,” I say, just when a familiar voice echoes from the room beyond.

“What is it, Marisabel?” Vlad says, annoyed. “There are girls with skin to check. And have you seen my journal? I was sure that it would be upstairs.”

James looks at me, his eyes narrowing. “Sophie—”

“It’s fine,” I hiss, rushing to the door to peer through the slats. Vlad is leaning against the oven while Marisabel faces him. Violet has cleared out, and from the way Vlad is scowling, I would say that was a smart move. His right hand flexes with impatience. When Marisabel doesn’t respond, he clangs it down on the front burner.

“What is it?” he snaps again.

“Just hold on a second, would you?” Marisabel says, and then closes her eyes as she massages her temples. “This is hard for me.”

“Thinking? I know.”

Marisabel’s eyes snap open. “That.”

“That what?”

“That attitude, that tone, is why I’m doing this. You don’t give me the respect I deserve,” she says heatedly, and if noiselessness weren’t vital to my well-being, I would clap.

Vlad, however, doesn’t applaud; he rolls his eyes. “Really, Marisabel. Do we have to do this now?”

“Don’t act like we’ve done this before. I’ve kept my mouth shut for sixty years. I’ve done everything for you. I hand-wrote one hundred invitations to this stupid party just so you could find your precious girl, and I didn’t even get a thank-you.”

He sniffs in disbelief, but it only makes her speak more loudly.

“I hunt for you when you’re lazy,” she continues, “and I clean for you when you’re disgusting. And I’m done. We’re done, Vlad.”

The pronouncement hangs in the air. I can tell that Marisabel’s waiting eagerly for his reaction. One of the only joys in ending a bad relationship, I imagine, is seeing if you can make him cry. But if that’s what she wants, she doesn’t get it. Vlad does look shocked—after sixty years of getting away with snide comments, this speech must come as a surprise. He doesn’t, however, get down on his knees and beg.

“I think it’s for the best,” he says calmly. If he looks anything, it’s relieved.

Marisabel’s confidence wilts. “I don’t understand,” she says, her voice thick with emotion. “Don’t you care?”

“It was going to end soon anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think that it is better this way,” Vlad non-answers. “To make a clean break.”

Marisabel turns and stares intently at a far corner of the room, biting her bottom lip as though struggling not to cry while Vlad looks like he could whistle.

“Something’s not right here,” James murmurs from beside me, and I jump at the reminder of how close he’s standing.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve never seen Vlad give up something this easily,” he says.

“Why did he drag her all the way out here, then? I mean, if he doesn’t care . . .”

“I don’t know.”

I open my mouth to ask another question, but end up sucking in a lungful of dust, sparking a coughing fit. Alarmed, James claps his hands over my mouth, but it’s too late. Vlad’s head snaps toward the pantry, and before I can blink, the door flies open.

Fingers clench around my bicep, and I’m dragged out into the dim light, disoriented and still hacking. Vlad’s hands press down on my shoulders. I try to tear them off, but it only causes him to dig his fingers deeper into the tender flesh of my neck.

“You!” Vlad snaps, angrier now than when he was being broken up with. “Always you! Asking questions, meddling . . . I could go on,” he says coldly and drags me up until my toes strain to stay on the ground. “Who invited her?” he growls, and then looks to where Marisabel is hovering. “Did you invite her?”

“Maybe I did,” she says with a shaky bravado as her hand curls around the handle of the refrigerator like a vine. “But who cares? I don’t have to listen to you anymore.”

“I will deal with you later,” Vlad says, not bothering to hide the undercurrent of menace. We have drawn a crowd. Violet stands, saucer-eyed, at the front of the pack, and Neville’s disapproving head towers over the rest of my hushed classmates. For a second Vlad looks shamed. I see him try to shake himself back into the role of benevolent host. His grip on me sags as he adopts a tight smile. “This is a private matter,” he says, and a handful of people actually turn around and start to head back to the living room. Relieved, Vlad reminds them cheerily to try the cheese puffs. But then James’s voice calls out from behind us, and curiosity draws them back.

“I don’t know about that, Vlad. Seems like something’s going on. Why don’t you just let her go and we can talk about this?” he suggests, nodding to the audience before stepping forward with a hand out, as though he can gently nudge the irate vampire away from me.

Vlad explodes, removing one hand from my neck to shove him back into the counter.

“You stay out of this!” he hisses as I scramble to keep at least one foot on the ground. “You are as bad as she is! Always lurking about—it’s like you forget what you’re here for!” When James says nothing, he turns back to me. “Tell me why you were in that pantry.”

“I was . . . talking with James,” I say weakly. Technically it’s not a lie.

“Wrong,” Vlad says. “Try again.”

I can’t think of a good excuse. “I was talking with James,” I repeat.

“Lies!” he snaps, and drops me so fast that I fall to my knees and heave toward the tiled floor. I fully expect a swift kick to the stomach or a karate chop to the back. I don’t expect to feel the back hem of my T-shirt being dragged over my shoulders and torn away while Vlad yells, “And the invitation clearly dictated bathing suits only!”

The shirt catches around my neck and ears, and for a second I am smothered in cotton. When it is finally free and I am allowed to fall back forward, the rush of air feels like the breeze before the storm. I should look at Vlad’s face, prepare myself for the coming violence, but any willpower I might have possessed has abandoned ship. I wait for him to strike. If I contract every muscle in my body it will make my skin into a fortress! I think wildly, but the truth is that I will be lucky to escape this without something breaking. Still, he can’t kill me in front of all these people. He’ll kick me out for spying, but he doesn’t know how much I know. Right? Right. No need to panic.

And then I realize that the warm, flat weight on my back is Vlad’s book, tucked into the waistband of my jeans.

“Vlad,” James says, his voice urgent, panicked, but Vlad cuts him off.

“So,” Vlad says from above me, “a thief and a spy. Read anything interesting?”

I feel the cool scrabble of fingers on my back as he slides the journal out, not bothering to keep his nails from scraping my spine. The pain is just the shock I need to scramble to my feet and charge toward the door.

“Let me through!” I yell when I hit the wall of chests and elbows that clutter up the main hallway, and to its credit, the front line tries to part. But the crowd is too deep, there’s nowhere for them to go. Whirling around, I see that James is blocking Vlad, arms outstretched. But Vlad is not trying to move forward, and the expression overtaking his face is not one that I’ve seen before. It’s not angry, it’s not even jaded or cynical. Instead, Vlad is blinking in amazement.

“Turn around,” he says suddenly.

“What?” I ask, confused. If Vlad thinks that I am going to do the hokey-pokey before he kills me, he is sadly mistaken.

“Turn around!” Vlad roars. “Show me your back.”

“No!” I yell out of habit, and regret it immediately. Perhaps I should do what the angry vampire says. My eyes search out James’s, hoping for some hint of encouragement, but he looks just as confused as I feel. I swing my questioning gaze to Violet, who stands at the front of the crowd.

“Well, there are quite a few freckles on your back,” Violet says as though breaking bad news, “but I think Vlad is overreacting. It does not look so horrible.”

Vlad turns to address the clutch of students still huddling by the door. “I sincerely thank you all for coming. Do show yourselves out, and feel free to take a carrot for the road.” When they make no move to go, he crowds them back through the door. “Really, if you do not move your foot I will have to kick you,” he tells some unfortunate student. “Thank you.”

He thinks it’s me. He thinks it’s me because I have freckles on my back. This entire time I’ve been assuming that Vlad’s plan had some basis in reality merely because he had followed it so diligently, but now I see that he is crazy on top of crazy on top of crazy. The realization cuts through the fog of shock and confusion that has been keeping me immobile. I make a break for the side hallway only to skid to a stop when a large form swims out of the darkness.

“Ah, Devon, you are here. Tell Ashley to make sure all of our guests have vacated the premises and then guard the front door,” Vlad orders before turning around and starting to walk toward me with a smile that’s wide enough to show his incisors. “Now, let me see your back.”

“They’re freckles,” I say and then turn around. “Not a birthmark. Freckles.”

Jabbing a finger against the base of my spine, he starts to count. “One, two, three,” he says, growing more excited with every number. “Four, five, six, seven, eight. I admit, it is not what I expected, but it is a star. It was said to appear differently every time.”

James steps between us and points at what I assume are different freckles. “Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. I could make anything. I could make the Big Dipper.”

“It is true,” Violet says solemnly. “I see a heart. And a pineapple.”

Vlad levels her with a dark glance and then reaches out to grab my arm. James knocks it away.

“Don’t touch her,” he says, all traces of diplomacy gone as he steps between us once again.

“This is getting tiresome,” Vlad says. “Do you think you can keep her for yourself? Because you did not provide much help. But I will make a deal—move away and I will—” He stops abruptly, his eyes trailing over James’s shoulder, to where I am doing my best to blend in with the counter. “Why does she not appear more confused?” he asks and then looks back at him with a chilling anger. “You told me she had forgotten.”

“Guess I lied,” James says, and though it comes out laconic, I feel his muscles tense in preparation for Vlad’s next move. The other vampires are sharing nervous looks; Neville, especially, seems like he is about to be sick. But even his expression changes to shock when Vlad starts to laugh.

“I suppose it is only fair,” he says when it’s faded to an intermittent chuckle.

“How is it fair?” James snaps.

“I lied to you,” Vlad says. “That nonsense about her blood being able to restore your humanity? I made it up so that you would come here and help search.”

“No. I don’t believe you,” James says, but I remember his note.

Vlad chuckles again. “Ask Neville if you do not believe me. No one knows more about the girl than the Danae.”

If possible, Neville’s face has gone whiter. “I have never heard that particular myth, no,” he says. “But I should say something—”

“See!” Vlad says to James. “There is no reason to guard her anymore. Step aside.”

But James just backs closer to me, close enough that I could reach out and grip his back. I’m sorry, I think, hoping that for once he will hear it. I can’t see his face. I wish I could see his face.

Vlad’s eyebrows dart up. “You are making a dangerous choice,” he says. “Even if you survive this, which is highly doubtful, you will have to—Violet, please get out of the way, I am trying to threaten him.”

Violet is standing by James’s elbow, tugging up the arm of her sagging costume with purpose. “I do not think that it is Sophie. And even if it were, I think I have changed my mind about helping.”

“Me too,” Marisabel says defiantly, pushing away from the refrigerator to flank James’s other side. “I think it would be for the best if you left.”

Vlad’s lips curl in disbelief before he lets out a bark of laughter. “Neville, help me.”

But Neville doesn’t move; he begins to ramble. “I think you have been under a lot of pressure. I know I myself am crippled by the number of take-home essays that dragon who teaches German has been assigning. Perhaps you should rest awhile, and then if you still think that she exists, we will—”

“If she exists?” he roars. “If she exists? You are Danae! She is the reason you exist! Your entire organization began as a pact between families to protect her.”

“About that, yes, well, you see, I didn’t really think that it would come to this, but I suppose . . .” He pushes his shoulders back, gathering courage. “I have a confession to make. I am not in the Danae.”

“Not Danae?” Vlad asks. “But you know everything about them. Your knowledge surpasses mine, even after decades of research.” Striding across the room, he grabs Neville’s arm and pushes up his sleeve. “You have the mark!”

“Let me rephrase,” he says, extracting his hand. “I was in the Danae, but I was expelled for reasons that I would rather not go into.”

“I knew it!” Marisabel says. “I told you he was fishy, I told you!”

“I am indeed fishy,” Neville says sadly. “But you have to understand—being expelled from the Danae is a death sentence. I barely escaped execution. And I thought, what better place to hide than with a family of Unnamed?”

He is cut off by Vlad’s hands wrapping around his throat and slamming him into a cupboard. “You will take me to them,” he orders with murderous softness, “and you will tell them that I have found her, like we planned. I do not care if they kill you.”

“Even if I take you to them,” Neville rasps, “they will not care!”

“What?”

“They do not believe the child exists,” he says. “I am sorry. I should not have encouraged your wild goose chase, but I thought I would be even safer in a human high school. No one expects to find vampires in high school,” he says, attempting an apologetic smile.

Vlad throws him back against the cupboard hard enough that it cracks. He points at me, his finger trembling. “She exists,” he seethes.

Neville shakes his head. “They performed extensive research in the nineteenth century; the Mervaux line is dead. It’s true that every so often people show up claiming otherwise, but we—they—laugh them off as kooks. And that’s when they want to be reminded at all.”

“Kooks?” Vlad echoes.

“Yes. Like that man who wrote that book? What was it? The Lost Daughter? Or one of those humans who believe in Largefoot.” He chuckles nervously. “I mean, you have to admit, it all sounds a bit unbelievable, all these long-lost human vampire children running around with star birthmarks. And besides,” Neville continues, “the Danae would never let in an Unnamed. They only select their members from the original nine families.”

For a moment there is complete silence. Then Vlad rips the microwave off the wall and hurls it at Neville, who barely has time to duck before Vlad advances, roaring death threats about how he will twist Neville’s head from his neck using his bare hands. James nudges me toward the kitchen’s side exit.

“He’s distracted,” James says, taking my hand and pulling me through the dark hallway. When we reach the end, he peeks around the corner. “Devon and Ashley are still at the front, but there’s a back door through that room. Try to avoid them on your way to the car.”

His face is turned away, all I can see is the tic of his jaw working. “But—”

“Sophie, it’s too dangerous for you to be here.”

“I can’t just leave!”

“Yes, you can.”

“But what if—” There’s a loud crack as Vlad tears the pantry door off its hinges. After smashing it against the floor and picking up one of the fragments, he chases Neville into the living room. Violet and Marisabel follow, yelling at him to drop it. Three years of karate or not, vampire fights are probably out of my league.

“They are,” James says and then looks at me with a new intensity. “I’m asking you to go. Please. We’re working together now, right? I can’t do this if I’m worried about you.”

With a sinking feeling, I realize that I have no other choice. When I say okay, I’m met with James’s overwhelming relief. Before I can regret it, I grab his cheeks and kiss him on the mouth, hard. “It’s the adrenaline,” I blurt, and then leave him to fight alone.