“That was you reaffirming your disapproval over my interest in magic.”

  “You can’t just chase us,” I say. “We’re not storms. Or stories. We’re people.”

  “I don’t chase people.”

  I clear my throat and raise my eyebrows.

  “I usually don’t chase people,” he says. “I just pursue … their acquaintance.”

  “And their secrets.”

  Shepard’s dumping ketchup on his potatoes. (They send up a tiny bottle of ketchup no matter what we order, and Shepard practically drinks it with a straw.) “People offer up their secrets,” he says. “You don’t have to chase them. There’s nothing people—and nixies and trolls and giants—would rather tell you than their secrets.”

  “Well, I don’t feel like telling you anything.”

  “You are exceptional.” He takes a bite. “This hash is also exceptional.”

  “Why would a magickal creature volunteer secrets to a Normal? The risk is absurd.”

  “They’re not telling ‘a Normal.’ They’re telling me—Shep! Their friend!”

  “But you’re preying on them! You’re only their friend because you want to pin them in your weird scrapbook!”

  He looks insulted. “I never take samples.”

  “Blechch. Listen to you!”

  He leans towards me, over his breakfast. “Yes, okay, I strategically seek out and befriend magickal beings. But my friendship is sincere!”

  “Sincerely manipulative.”

  “I object—”

  “I can’t decide if you’re more like a starfucker or more like a big-game hunter.”

  “Neither! I’m a scientist, like … an explorer.”

  “Oh, good, that always turns out well for the explored.”

  “What can I do to convince you that I don’t mean any harm?”

  “What can I do to show you that you do harm even if you don’t mean to? There isn’t a magickal being or creature who can trust Normals. We keep magic secret for a reason. Because Normals would grind us into sausage if they thought they could extract our magic that way. Normals have annihilated elephants and rhinoceroses because you believe they’re magic. They’re not, by the way. They’re just going extinct.” I’m getting more upset as I talk. I drop my fork on my plate with a loud clatter and hide my face in my hands.

  “Penelope,” Shepard says, “nobody’s going to grind your friend into sausage.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because,” he says, “that doesn’t work.”

  “I can’t believe we’re just sitting here, eating staggeringly expensive eggs, while Agatha is somewhere having the magic fracked out of her.”

  “Is there something else we could do to find her?”

  “I don’t know—there are spells. But we’d have to know where she is, generally speaking. And I’d need a lock of her hair. Or a photo. I didn’t exactly pack for a séance.”

  “I’m sure you have a photo of Agatha.”

  “I’m sure I don’t.”

  “On your phone.”

  I look up at him. “Merlin, you’re right!” I take out my phone and open Agatha’s Instagram account. “I have thousands of photos of her.…”

  Shepard scoots closer to me, still eating his eggs and hash browns. He looks at my phone. “She’s pretty.”

  “I know,” I say glumly. “That just makes me worry more about her. She stands out.”

  “What do we do next?” he asks.

  “Right,” I say. “We’ll need a candle.”

  “There’s one in the bathroom.”

  “And I’ll need your help.”

  “Me? I’m not even a lay-witch.”

  “As long as you have a soul, we’re fine.”

  He looks a bit worried.

  “Shepard, it’s fine—this isn’t dangerous.”

  He smiles. “My soul is at your disposal.”

  * * *

  We clear away the breakfast dishes and I sit back down on the bed, motioning for Shepard to sit across from me. I set the phone between us and take Shepard’s hands. He has objectively nice hands. I notice this because mine are objectively subpar. My palm-to-finger ratio is too high, and my fingers are chubby. There’s nothing for it. We had to have Grandmother’s ring enlarged to fit me.

  But Shepard’s hands are perfectly balanced with long, even fingers. He’d look dashing with a magic ring.

  We sit with our legs crossed, and I levitate the candle over my phone. I’ve pulled up a nice photo of Agatha, a selfie on the beach. She looks happy. (Happier than I ever saw her at Watford.)

  “Who are we contacting?” Shepard asks.

  “Any spirits who can help us.”

  He twists his mouth like he’s thinking. “Maybe we should specify ‘friendly’ spirits.”

  “Close your eyes,” I say. I close mine, too, and whisper the spell—“Kindred spirits!”

  49

  AGATHA

  “Agatha … heyyyy, good morning. There you are.… How’re you feeling?”

  “Aren’t you going to tape my mouth shut?”

  “That was actually a bio-glue. It’s taking the place of stitches in smaller surgeries. We’re really excited about it.…”

  “I want to leave.”

  “I was hoping we could talk.”

  “I don’t want to talk. I want to leave.”

  “Well. I can’t let you. I mean, you get that, right?”

  “No.”

  “What you have, Agatha … it’s more important than you, you know?”

  “What’s more important than you, Braden? Anything?”

  “I have a role to play. I’m a participant in history. I’ve known since I was a kid that I was born for big things. Some people just are. You are, in your way. I think you might be the one who unlocks it for us.”

  “I don’t consent to this, to any of it.”

  “Agatha, this is bigger than one person’s freedom. It’s like eminent domain.”

  “I. Am not. Eminent. Domain.”

  “Why are you fighting this? What are you fighting for? Do you even know?”

  50

  BAZ

  I almost called my father this morning.

  I woke up in the bath (Penny and Simon took the bed, Shepard slept on the sofa), thinking of the Normal from last night, and how close I came to biting him—probably killing him.

  I kill everything I drink.

  I always thought it was safer that way. If I let the animals live, they might end up like me. (Can a vampire Turn a rat? Or a deer? Or a dog? I’d rather not find out.)

  When I’m thirsty, this isn’t really a decision. I just drink till there’s no more to drink. I haven’t ever tried to stop.

  I’ve never tasted human blood before. I’ve had low-risk opportunities, of course; in football, there’s blood everywhere—plus, I smashed Simon’s nose with my forehead once, and he practically bled into my mouth.

  But I’ve never wanted to cross that threshold. Like, you can say you’ve never tasted human blood or you can say that you have. And once you have, what does it matter whether it’s one person or fifty?

  And what if one taste wasn’t enough? What if I couldn’t stop thinking about it? (I already never stop thinking about it.)

  What then? What options would that leave me? The way I understood it, mass murder or mass conversion.

  But maybe I haven’t understood anything.

  Vampires hate to Turn people, Shepard says. Vampires are capable of “sips.”

  I could call my father, I thought to myself, while I was lying there in the empty bath. And my father would pretend I’m not a vampire at all. And then I could pretend, too. And that would be such a relief.

  But then Bunce was at the door again. She came into the bath and made it rain magickally counterfeited hundred-dollar bills over my head. “Go buy something to wear on your vampire date,” she said. “Hurry. I have to pee.”

  So now I’m walking up the Strip, dipping in and out of casinos to see what’s on offer. There are luxury boutiques in nearly every one. I’m not sure who shops at these places—none of the tourists are wearing Gucci. Perhaps this whole street caters to vampires.…

  I buy myself a few more suits. Plus clothes for the drive. A few changes for Simon. I see a dress that would look lovely on Bunce, but they don’t carry her size. I buy it anyway. We can alter it with a spell.

  I’m stealing.

  We haven’t paid for anything in a real way since Omaha.

  Will the bills fade away in the register? Or on the way to the bank? Will this very nice shop assistant be fired? Will they trace any of it back to me, to us? Does it matter?

  My father would be so ashamed.

  Wouldn’t he? Or would he perhaps understand? What would he say if I called him right now? Would he swoop in to help us?

  No.

  He’d summon me home.

  “Let Agatha Wellbelove’s parents worry about whatever nonsense she’s got herself into. You can’t be tangled up in this sort of thing, Basilton—with these sort of people. You’re—well, you’re vulnerable. It’s bad enough that Nicodemus Ebb has shown his face again. We don’t need anyone asking questions about you.”

  Aunt Fiona might listen.…

  I call her instead, on impulse. Standing outside of a Prada. Standing next to a giant ornamental vase.

  She doesn’t pick up.

  It doesn’t matter. What could Fiona do? She couldn’t get here before 2 P.M.

  I walk back to the Katherine Hotel, laden with bags. A pale young man holds the door for me. I’m about to step in when I see something blue tumbling towards me on the wind—my mother’s scarf.

  I drop my bags to catch it.

  * * *

  When I get back to the room, Bunce and the Normal are having a séance. Holding hands on the bed, with a candle floating between them.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I say.

  Bunce falls back on the pillows, frustrated. Shepard catches the candle before it hits the bed.

  “It’s fine,” she says. “It’s not working. Wherever Agatha is, she’s too far away for my spells to snag.”

  Bunce doesn’t mention the other possibility, so I don’t either. “Where’s Snow?” I ask. He was still asleep when I left this morning.

  She picks up her mobile. “He said he needed some fresh air. I told him he’d have to leave the state to find some—”

  “You let him leave the room by himself?”

  “I’m not his keeper, Baz.”

  “You bloody well are! It’s your one job, Bunce.”

  “I couldn’t stop him!”

  “This city is literally crawling with vampires, Penelope. It’s not safe for anything that bleeds.”

  “Which is why I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in this hotel room. But you know Simon—he still acts like he’s got an A-bomb strapped to his chest.”

  “Next time, spell him to the bed. Use a ‘Stay put.’”

  “Keep your sexual habits to yourself, Basil.”

  The door to the hallway opens. I whip out my wand. Bunce holds up her fist.

  It’s Simon.

  He’s cut his hair.…

  He comes in, self-conscious, looking at the floor. His hair is cut short on the sides, the way he’s always worn it—but the stylist left most of his new length on top. It’s an extra generous spill of curls. More golden than ever from all these days in the sun.

  That haircut cost more than his entire wardrobe.

  “Look at you,” Bunce says. “You’re a brand-new man.”

  He shrugs. “Are we ready?” To me: “Is your phone charged?”

  * * *

  I take a cab to the restaurant, and they follow in Shepard’s truck. I don’t want to be seen driving up with anyone.

  I changed into one of my new suits before we left. Black this time, with a heather-and-gold flowered shirt. (I suppose Bunce isn’t the only one who can’t let go of Watford purple.) “You’re going to a strip mall,” Simon said. “Won’t you be overdressed?”

  “Good choice,” Shepard said, sizing me up.

  He’s right again: When I walk into the restaurant, Lamb is waiting in the lobby, wearing sunglasses and a three-piece suit. Tiffany blue. Which sounds vulgar, but very much isn’t. He looks trim and fresh.

  “There’s a wait,” Lamb says, “there’s always a wait.” He lifts his sunglasses. “Don’t you look rosy.…”

  I raise an eyebrow, which is my go-to move when I want to look cool but don’t have anything cool to say.

  Lamb’s wariness from last night is gone. He seems to have reset himself to the easy charm from when we first met. So I reset, too. (I can be droll, I can pretend that nothing matters—it’s practically my neutral state.)

  A hostess takes us to our table. The restaurant is as unassuming inside as out. “Let me order,” Lamb says, opening his menu. “The thum ka noon is superb.”

  He orders half a dozen things without bothering to translate for me. And then he sits back in his chair and smiles. Last night, I took that smile at face value.

  “So…” he says, “Baz.” He lets my name hang in the air. “What’s that short for?”

  “Barry,” I say. Which is true. For some people. (I promised Bunce I’d do my best to lie today.)

  “Baz suits you.” Lamb’s eyes are sparkling again; he must be able to turn it off and on. I can still feel it working on me. “Tell me why you want to know about the Next Blood, Baz.”

  “I told you—they have my friend.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “What do you know?” he asks. His sunglasses are pushed up above his forehead, and a lock of slippery hair falls into his eyes.

  “That she was on a retreat with the Next Blood. She didn’t know what they were. And then she disappeared.”

  “So you’re not looking for them because you’re interested in signing up.…”

  I sit back. I hadn’t realized I was leaning forward. “What? No.”

  “Because they are our enemy, Baz.” Lamb’s eyes are still smiling, but it’s a sad smile, pulled down at the corners.

  “Whose enemy?” I say. “The Vampires of Las Vegas?”

  He licks his bottom lip and winces. “Please stop using that word. And none of that nonsense about ‘reclaiming’ it—it draws attention.”

  “Whose enemy?” I ask again. More quietly.

  “Ours,” he says. “Our entire brotherhood, here and everywhere.”

  “Lamb. I don’t understand.…”

  He narrows his eyes. “I’m beginning to think you really don’t. You’re lying to me about—about nearly everything—but you really don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “Things are different in England, we’re cut off—I thought you understood.”

  “I do.”

  We’re interrupted then. A waiter has brought our first dish, some sort of crispy pork, still sizzling.

  It happens immediately, and I don’t know why I wasn’t expecting it (pork is the worst, sometimes I’d have to leave the Watford dining hall on days they served bacon)—my fangs slide down into place.

  Lamb is spooning some of the pork onto a dish for me. “The Next Blood,” he says. “They call themselves that, by the way—” He glances up at me and stops speaking. His face falls. “Baz.”

  He’s noticed, of course he’s noticed. I keep my mouth closed. (Haven’t his fangs popped? Are they about to?) He looks shocked. And concerned.

  “Take a deep breath,” he says softly.

  I do. That makes it worse. My sinuses are burning, and my mouth is full of saliva. It’s all I can do not to bare my teeth.

  Lamb moves the dish away from me, casually, like he’s making room between us.

  “Look at me.” His voice is low.

  I look at him. I lock my eyes on his.

  “Breathe,” he says.

  I do.

  “This is an animal response,” Lamb says. “And you are not an animal.”

  He hasn’t blinked. I nod.

  “You are a man, Baz. You are in control, not the thirst. You don’t just take what you want when you want it. I’ve seen that—you weren’t even tempted last night.”

  A waiter sets another dish between us. Chicken. Coconut milk. Curry.

  “How do you control yourself?” Lamb asks. “When you’re thirsty, and there’s a beating heart laid before you?”

  “I—”

  “Do not open your mouth.”

  I close my mouth tight.

  “Think about it.…” he says. “Think of that control.”

  I nod.

  “Now take control, Baz. You know how they feel when they break through your gums.”

  I nod again. I’m getting tearful.

  “Imagine pulling them back. Feel them pulling back.”

  I close my eyes and let my head drop forward. It’s hard to imagine my fangs retracting when they’re filling up my whole mouth. I’ve never once kept them from popping. Have I ever once tried? My usual strategy is subterfuge and avoidance: Don’t let anyone watch me eat. Ever.

  Lamb lays his cool hand over mine on the table. “Pull them back. Tuck them in. You can do this.”

  I try then, I really try. I inhale. I pull my tongue into my throat. I suck in my stomach and hollow my cheeks. I pull my fingers into fists.

  And then—my fangs jerk.

  I try again, and they hitch back into my gums. (I don’t know where they go; I’ll bet Lamb could tell me.) I look up at him. My eyes must be wild.

  He smiles at me, showing his perfectly normal—if a little too white—teeth.

  He pulls his hand away then, and resumes dishing up a plate for me. There are now three steaming platters on the table. “You can do this,” he says calmly, looking at the food instead of me.

  He sets the full plate in front of me. I take a deep breath, thinking, Stay, stay, stay. My fangs start to slide down, and I pull them back in.

  I keep doing it. I manage the whole meal. Chewing like I haven’t since I was a child, with nothing extra in my way. Nothing accidentally cutting the inside of my cheeks. My jaw is trembling from the effort.