“Not scared, exactly. More apprehensive. Or…excited.”

“Excited, huh?” His mouth curves.

“Get over yourself, vampire.” I flounce off my stool, collecting my phone from the counter and slipping it into the back pocket of my shorts. “Let’s go see your dungeon.”

14

The dungeon is in the basement, because of course it is. Nobody ever sets up their dungeons in pool houses or second-floor bedrooms. Maybe in garages or attics, but the basement is the standard choice.

Jay goes through a series of codes and handprints and facial recognition crap before the door opens. He has to create a guest profile for me, too.

“So you really do keep people down here. Good thing someone has friends on the police force,” I say wryly.

“Only people who deserve it,” he says. “And yes, it helps to have people on the force who owe me for their immortality.”

“And you think that’s a good thing? Removing the fear of death for people who already have a disproportionate amount of power?”

He pulls the heavy door shut behind us, and my eyes follow the swell of his biceps through the motion.

“Are we going to argue this now?” he says. “I already told you, I turn other people, too. Doctors, nurses, terminal patients who are young or have families. I have to be careful who I propose the change to, though. Scientifically minded types tend to be less accepting of the whole vampire concept.”

“And the cops just swallow it whole?”

“Not at first. They usually need proof. But then they’re typically eager to accept my offer.”

“And in exchange they cover for you and your vampires whenever you need it.”

“There are rules every new vampire agrees to follow. They’re not exempt from regular human laws. If they make a mistake, sure, the police can help out a little so we’re not exposed. But the police only do that as long as we hold up our end of the bargain—no human deaths or serious injuries. If that happens, Cody and I take matters into our own hands. And that’s where the dungeon comes in.”

He yanks open another door, an elaborate barred monstrosity that looks like something from a medieval castle. I stare at it, and then at him.

He flushes in the foggy glare of the overhead light. “Yeah, I ordered this one from a castle in Normandy. So?”

“You wanted to look the part.” I smother a grin. “Dangerous vampire lord with a spooky dungeon.”

“What if I did?”

“Do you have a big, black trench coat too?”

“What if I do?”

“Oh my gosh, you do! I want to see it.”

He gazes at me with mock haughtiness. “I don’t wear it during the summer, Daisy.”

“You’ll put it on for me later. Just for a little bit.”

He shakes his head, laughing. “So demanding. Come on.”

A sharp bang from the dim hallway ahead startles the smile from my face. “What’s that?”

“A glutton.” Jay isn’t smiling now either. His fingers flex at his sides as we walk, and he cracks his neck briefly, as if he’s preparing for something.

“Does your dungeon have to be so dark?” I eye the dim bulbs overhead.

“Gluttons are extra sensitive to light. We deprive them of it so we can use it as a training tool later.”

“A training tool?” That sounds very not good.

Another loud bang and a moaning rattle.

“He can smell you,” Jay whispers. “Stay behind me.”

We continue along the hall to a row of reinforced doors. They’ve each got a vent-sized iron grate in the lower section, and latched panels in the upper section. I can’t tell exactly how many doors there are, because they sort of melt into the darkness as the hall marches on into the indefinite underground.

“I don’t like this place, Jay,” I whisper.

“Almost there,” he says reassuringly. “So, about gluttons… Cody and I teach our clients to drink only as much as they need to live, no more. But like anything else, the taste of blood can become addictive. When our tank is full, so to speak, we feel really good. Powerful, capable of anything. Pleasure is heightened. Some vampires start chasing that feeling of fullness and power, and they begin overindulging, taking too much blood. That puts our donors in danger, so it’s not allowed.”

“But how do you know if you’re drinking too much?”

“See this?” Jay holds up his arm, showing me the thick metal bracelet I’ve been so curious about. “Every new client gets one. It uses pulse and blood pressure sensors to gauge how much blood we have left and how much we need to consume.” He presses a fingertip to it, and a glowing bar shows up. “Mine is in the green right now. If it goes up to blue or purple, I’ve had too much blood. If it slides down to yellow, that’s a warning I need to drink. Orange means I’m dangerously low on blood, and red… Well, at that point I might as well be dead, because I’d probably be having seizures and couldn’t drink anyway.”

The mental image of Jay on the ground, eyes rolled up, limbs spasming and jerking, terrifies me to my core.

“But you’re good now,” I say, to reassure myself. “Green is good.”

“Yeah.”

The glowing bar disappears, and I tap the metal, trying to make it show up again.

“It’s coded to my fingerprint,” Jay says. “I’ll add yours too, if you want.”

“I do want. I want to be able to check on you if I need to.” I look up at him, and our gazes lock. In this corridor of rough concrete and shadows and cool stale air, we are the only warm, breathing, pulsing things, and the energy humming between us is vivid, magnetic. My thoughts swirl and refocus in a single refrain through my head, through every thump of my heart. I love you, I want you. I love you, I want you.

Another eardrum-shattering bang, and a loud roar rising to a shriek. The tension between Jay and me dissipates, and he hurries ahead. “Sorry about all the noise. This guy is fresh. I had to put him down here during the Met party. He hasn’t had time to relearn his manners yet.”

He stops in front of a heavy metal door and unlocks the cover on its window. “This glass is basically bulletproof, so don’t worry. Just keep an eye on the grate lower down. He likes to stick his claws through there and poke at people—don’t you, Slagle?” Jay sweeps his hand toward the window, dramatic as a circus showman. “This is what happens when someone can’t control their bloodlust. It gets worse the longer it goes unchecked.”

Cautiously I peer through the window, careful to keep my shins clear of the grate.

A face smashes against the glass—bloodshot eyes and stringy hair and slavering fangs. I yelp and jump back, slamming into Jay’s chest.

“He can’t get to you,” Jay assures me.

A voice moans from the cell. “I’m starving, I’m starving, Gatsby. Let me out, let me out!”

“You’re not starving, Slagle. You drank plenty the other night. Check your bracelet, and you’ll see that you’re fine.”