“Damn the bracelet!” shrieks Slagle. “It’s broken, I’m telling you. Malfunctioned. I need more, Gatsby. I’m dying in here, dying!” The man presses his face to the window again, fixing his eyes on me. Dried black blood cakes the corners of his mouth. “You, girl—you look too sweet to let a man die right in front of you. I need blood. This creep”—he points to Jay—“is trying to starve me. I feel sick!”

“That’s because you filled both your stomachs with blood, Slagle,” Jay explains patiently. “You broke the rules. And now we have to see if you can be rehabilitated.”

“And if not?” growls the man.

“You know what happens. You agreed to it when Cody changed you,” Jay says. “We can’t have vampires running around ripping humans apart. Lucky for you, you haven’t actually killed anyone yet, or I’d have finished you off already.”

He says it so calmly that I cast a sharp glance at his profile. His face is as calm as his voice. He’s done this before. He’s had to kill people he or Cody turned, people who went wrong. How did he do it? Rip their heads off? Did it even bother him, or was it just another necessary step toward his goals?

I thought I had I settled into acceptance, but this revelation shakes me. How well do I really know this new Jay?

Slagle shudders and moans, his claws screeching down the glass.

“A glutton can’t control his appearance like a regular vampire can,” Jay says. “He’s stuck in feeding mode.”

“And you can control your fangs and everything?”

“Sometimes it’s harder than others, depending on my blood level and the strength of the stimulation. But usually I can. Watch.”

His upper lip rises, and his canines elongate, slipping from their hidden sheaths in his gums. The lower canines grow too, though they’re not nearly as long as the upper ones. Jay’s brown irises swirl cloudy white, and when he lifts his hand, claws emerge from above his fingernails. They’re pointed at the tips, their shafts curved to match the arc of his nails. Like a second set of fingernails on top of the first one.

“They don’t look that strong,” I say, touching one of the claws lightly. “Do they ever break?”

“Sometimes, but they grow back. And they’re stronger than they look.” He scrapes them over the concrete wall and slashes them through the air.

The monstrosity of his appearance strikes me in the gut. The difference between him and the glutton in the cell is so thin, separated by a mere sliver of choice and opportunity.

“So who deals with you if you turn gluttonous?”

“Cody,” he says, pronouncing the name carefully through the fangs. “And I would do the same for him.”

“And if both of you turn glutton at the same time?”

“Then the staff know who to call at the police station, and they would come. A good shotgun blast to the brain or a swift beheading would do it.”

“So all your staff are in on it?”

“Yes, and I pay them well for their service and silence. A few of them provide blood from time to time, in exchange for the promise that I’ll turn them eventually if they request it.”

The man in the cell speaks again, a guttural snarl. “You’re torturing me. She smells so meaty, so savory. I can taste the salt of her blood. Let me have a little, please. Just a nibble.”

“Eww. I’m not a piece of meat,” I tell him.

“Yes, you are. The best kind of meat. Fresh, firm flesh. Leg and thigh, neck and breast, best places to sink my teeth—sweetness and salt, lick you clean afterward, I promise, I promise!” He ends with a shrill whine, crashing against the door again.

“All right, time’s up.” Jay slams the window cover shut and snaps the padlock in place. “That’s all the exposure therapy he can handle today.”

“Wait—you were using me as part of his treatment?”

“You wanted to know about gluttons. I killed two birds with one stone.”

“Not sure if I like being that guy’s bait.”

“But you did so great.” Jay winks at me.

I elbow him in return. “Does he have a family?”

“Yeah, a wife and a couple of teen kids. They think he’s at a rehab facility, which he sort of is. When you’re telling people lies, it’s best to stick as close to the truth as possible.”

“Wisdom from the great Jay Gatsby,” I say dryly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Coming out of the dungeon feels like turning off the TV after watching a horror movie. The disconnect between the rabid man downstairs and the quiet, pristine rooms of the house is so startling I almost feel sick for a second. Or maybe I feel sick because of what the guy said to me. I stand in the first-floor hallway, watching specks of dust drift through a streak of sunlight from the window. The rays shimmer like a golden veil, so touchable that I trail my fingers through the light, half expecting to feel it. But there’s only a faint warmth, nothing tangible. The illusion only exists as long as I don’t try to grasp it.

“So…um…” Jay stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I’m going to grab a shower. Do you want to shower too? I mean, not with me, but in your own shower in one of the guest rooms. Not that you need to shower—you don’t smell bad—no, I meant… Oh hell…”

I turn and walk him backward to the wall, pressing him against it with my body and drawing his flushed face down to mine. His breath is faintly metallic, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the enchantment I feel right now. All I want is this, the sensation of his mouth quivering against mine, the pressure of teeth through lips as I kiss him harder, as his hand creeps around the back of my neck and his fingers spiral through my hair, cupping the back of my skull with rigid eagerness. When his fingertips brush the sore lump on my head where Myrtle struck me, I flinch, and he quickly shifts his hand lower.

When we break apart to breathe, he studies me, his thumb stroking my cheek. “You’re so beautiful,” he says. “You were always beautiful, but you’ve gotten even more gorgeous. It’s hard for me to process sometimes.”

I still have some body insecurities—thanks, Tom—and I don’t want to shave and soap down in front of Jay just yet. I accept the compliment with a smile and another quick kiss. “After showers—separate showers—could we try to investigate my voice power? Like we were planning to do yesterday?”

“Yes!” His eyes light up, and he pulls me toward the stairs. “I’m very curious.”

“Doesn’t it worry you, though? I mean, I could make you do anything I wanted, whenever I wanted.” A lot of possibilities there—very dangerous and seductive ones. “I promised I wouldn’t control you, but how would you know if I did?”

“I trust you to keep that promise. But even if you did command me, it makes no difference.” He bounds up the stairs with an energy I can’t muster without coffee.

“Why doesn’t it matter?” I climb slowly to the second-floor landing.

“Because I would do anything for you anyway, even without being compelled.” He flashes me a grin, then continues up the stairs to the third floor. “Hestia, unlock the Lavender Room.” The door clicks, and he throws it wide. “You can use the bathroom in here. It’s got a big rain shower and lots of towels. There are probably some clothes that’ll fit you in the dresser if you want to change. We keep spares around in case someone gets blood on their outfit.”

He’s gone again before I can thank him.

Hot water is a blessing I will never take for granted. It washes away the phantom roughness of the gag, the scrape of Myrtle’s fingernails on my wrists, the film of panicked sweat when I thought Jay was dead, that he would never come out of that pool again. It cleanses me of the glutton’s avaricious gaze, and the grungy feeling of sleeping in my clothes on the couch.

I massage fragrant shampoo gently over the sore spot under my hair, and I use one of the disposable razors in the little basket on the shower shelf. There are some sample packets of makeup by the sink, so I help myself. From the closet I select a breezy, floor-length maxi dress with skinny straps and just enough bust coverage. Without my usual products, my hair is going to be all wild, bouncy, untamed curls today, and the dress fits the mood. Since my sandals are still downstairs, I pad into the hallway barefoot and cross to the door that I know is Jay’s. It’s standing ajar, like he wants me to come in. He must not mind if I wander in and poke around his things. If he’s hiding anything else mysterious or incriminating, it’s probably in some secret office behind a bookshelf. As a kid he was always hiding his special possessions in random unexpected places except for his money. He usually gave that to me to keep it safe for him so his mom couldn’t find it.

When he was twelve, he made a list of resolutions. Things like “No drinking, drugs, or smoking. Work out every day. Save five hundred dollars. Try to be vegetarian.” He’d eventually crossed that last one out as an unachievable goal. He’d also adjusted his financial goal to “Save one hundred dollars.”

What would preteen Gatsby think of what he has become? If he and I met for the first time now, without any previous history, would I still love him? I hope I would. I want to believe that there’s a mystical tie between us, deeper than our years of playgrounds and homework and shared meals.

My mother always says that falling in love is part coincidence, part familiarity, and part sexual attraction. I’m not sure she’s right about all of that. My friend Hannah is ace and totally in love with her partner, though she couldn’t care less about the sex aspect of relationships. Besides, I feel like there’s something missing from Mom’s definition. An affinity or a connection that can’t be explained just by familiarity, or attraction, or chance.

When I enter Jay’s room, the bathroom door is open, spilling warm light and steam into the bedroom.

Maybe he was hoping I’d come in and share the shower with him after all. My cheeks warm at the idea.

And then he walks out, dressed in a pair of boxers and nothing else, his skin still damp and glowing, tendrils of wet, wavy hair dripping water onto his broad shoulders.