“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I offered. He was badly hurt.”

Michaelis pulls his fangs out of me. “I only took a little, Gatsby. Chill out, man.” He licks the punctures and pats my arm. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” I cup my fingers over the wound.

“How many did we lose?” Michaelis calls, rising. He sways and grips the island for support. Jordan hurries over and loops his arm over her shoulders, helping him stand.

“We lost two of ours,” another man answers. “And we got all of them, except that one.” He points to the vampire Jay and Keziah are holding down.

I stand shakily, scanning the bodies. One of the headless vampires is wearing scrubs. She wears a blood bracelet on her wrist.

I didn’t even know her, but tears prickle in my eyes.

“Who are you?” Jay growls at the captured vampire. “Who sent you to do this?”

“Meyer Wolfsheim,” the vampire answers. “And this is just the beginning, unless you bow to the Progenitor and follow the Codex. Those who follow will be blessed, and those who resist will be cut off and their blood will be spilled as a warning to all who practice impure transformation.”

“Wow,” says Michaelis slowly. “That is some serious cult talk right there.”

I pick up the machete—better safe than sorry—and sidle closer, until I’m within arm’s length of Jay. The vampire under him has hollow eyes and a shock of white hair. His fangs are receding gradually. Bloody spit flecks from his mouth with every panicked breath.

“What happens if I refuse?” says Jay.

The captured vampire looks confused. “Those who resist will be cut off and their blood—”

“I heard you the first time.” Jay’s clawed fingers tighten on the man’s throat. “What’s Wolfsheim’s next step? Tell me, and I’ll let you live—for now.”

The vampire hesitates, probably weighing his options, then says grudgingly, “Wolfsheim is coming here himself. To your house. Tomorrow.”

“That’ll be at night, right?” I say. “Because he’s too old to handle daylight well.”

“He can probably handle it for a few minutes at a time, but yes, I’d say night is a good guess.” Jay pushes himself off the vampire. “Let’s tie this one up and take him back to my place. It looks like we need to prepare for a few extra guests at tomorrow night’s party.”

“Jay, you can’t have the party,” I say. “Think of all those people.”

“Those people would show up even if I tried to cancel.” He scrubs at his bloodstained mouth with his even bloodier sleeve. “Honestly, they’re probably our best insurance against a big scene. Wolfsheim wants to keep vampirism a secret, remember? So they won’t come in and start killing humans right and left.”

“That would be a good way to ruin you,” I tell him. “Suppose they send someone in with a gun to shoot up the place? Then people wouldn’t come back to your parties, and your vampires wouldn’t get their blood supply.”

“But if that happened, we’d just find another way or another venue. No, Wolfsheim’s going after the source of the problem.”

“You and Cody.”

“Exactly. And they’re going to want—” He looks as if he’s about to say something else, but then he shakes his head. “With all this noise, it’s likely someone in the neighborhood will have called the police. Michaelis, I’ll stay here with you and talk to the cops. Everyone else, go on home. Wash up first if you need to. Jordan, would you take Daisy home for me?”

“No problem.”

“Good.” Jay points to the sergeant and Keziah. “You two tie up this guy and take him to my house. Henry will show you where the dungeon is.”

They obey him immediately, even though both of them are much older than he is. Do they know he’s only twenty-four? Or do they think he’s been around for decades, like Cody? Either way, Jay commands an astonishing level of respect. Maybe his post-battle appearance has something to do with it, too. His shirt is soaked with blood, his pants are spotted with it, and more blood drips from his hair and gloves his fingers. The entire lower half of his face is coated with red, like a half mask over his jaw and lips. I can barely look at him, but I force myself to. Anything less could hurt his feelings. After all, he was only protecting his people.

“Michaelis, I’ll have a cleaning crew come by tomorrow, and I’ll replace anything they can’t clean,” he says.

“Thanks, Gatsby.” Michaelis gives Jay a grin that would be pleasant if he didn’t also have fresh blood glistening all over his face and neck. “Hey, sorry about drinking from your girl.”

“She agreed to help you.” Jay’s eyes slide to mine. “Her choice. And I’m good with that.” He surveys me, and I’m suddenly conscious of how short my skirt is, and how much blood-spattered leg I’m showing off right now, and the fact that I’m still holding the machete. Tie my red-streaked hair into a couple of pigtails, and I’d be a distant cousin to Harley Quinn.

His gaze is still threaded with pain, but there’s pride in it, too, and relief.

“You did so good,” he says softly. “I’m glad you’re all right. Now go get some rest…and take care of that voice. We might need it.”

24

Jordan has a bag of spare clothes in her car, for when she gets her outfits dirty during video shoots. We scrunch into her back seat and change into them, then scuttle into a gas station bathroom to rinse the blood from our faces and arms—and legs, in my case.

It’s the same gas station we always seem to stop at, the one where Myrtle works. And when I come out of the bathroom and walk up to the counter to buy some chocolate—much deserved after the night I’ve had—there she is.

Her hair still has that crimped curl to it, but she’s not wearing her usual lip gloss or eyeshadow. And she looks so tired.

I almost run back outside to Jordan’s car, but Myrtle’s bone-weary expression draws me in. I’m not afraid of her, not here. I knew Jay couldn’t keep her in the hospital for long. The goal wasn’t to lock her away, after all, but to get her some help.

Maybe seeing my face is less than helpful, but it’s too late now. She has noticed me.

Slowly I approach the counter and lay down the candy bar. “Hey, Myrtle.”

She narrows her eyes. “What happened to your voice?”

“Um, laryngitis. Not contagious.”

“Hmm. Will that be all?”

“Actually…” I glance around to make sure no other customers are within earshot. “I was wondering… I wanted to know if you’re okay.”

“Okay?” She chuckles grimly. “Let’s see, my ex convinced me to kill someone, so I shot your boyfriend through the heart and he didn’t die, and then my ex came and smacked that information out of me. Oh, and my brother’s still dead. So there’s that.” She glares as she rings up the candy bar. “Will that be all?”

“You’re talking to someone, right?” I fish in my bag for my credit card. “Like, a therapist?”

“Yeah.” She sucks in her cheeks, like it’s a sour truth. “Gatsby is paying for it. He sent a bunch of money to my account, too, like he thinks he can pay for what happened to George. Or like he’s trying to shut me up.”

“If he wanted to shut you up, he’d go about it differently,” I tell her. “And what happened to George wasn’t his fault. I hope you’ll see that eventually. Jay really is trying to be nice to you. Sometimes he’s too generous—or generous at the wrong moments—but it comes from a good place.”

“I guess he does seem nice,” she admits. “He came to see me in the hospital.”

I didn’t know that. But it sounds like something he would do.

“Maybe I was wrong about him,” Myrtle says. “I still hate you, though.”

“Feel free.” I tuck my card back into my purse and grab the candy bar. “Just do yourself a favor and stay clear of Tom. He’s bad news. Twists you up inside until you’re not sure who you are anymore. And it hurts.”