Clea found the path easily enough and followed it, fumbling with the night vision goggles Finn had given her. It wasn’t quite sunrise yet, but her mom got up at seven and left for work at eight, and if she waited until dawn to head out, she’d never get back in time. She’d just have to take the chance.

  Besides, the Cleveland weather had for once truly blessed her. Her mom said that it had snowed the week before, but it had all melted, and in true Ohio fashion, it was now above freezing, but still cold enough for Clea to wear a scarf. If she waited any longer, who knew what the weather would be like? The last thing she wanted to do was leave tracks in the snow.

  She veered off the path and crept through the woods until she spotted the back of the house: a large brownstone mansion, with ancient diamond-shaped glass panes. There were no lights on outside, but there was clearly activity inside; the outlines of people moved about, shadows against the curtains in almost every room. The back of the house had an enormous window, looking over the backyard, laden with heavy, closed curtains.

  Good.

  What was not good were the black-clad figures she saw circling the house. They looked normal enough in the low light—almost too normal—but Clea could see the guns in holsters at their belts and she swallowed heavily, making sure to keep to the shadows of the treeline where they couldn’t see her. They were circling the house at a leisurely pace, but there weren’t very many of them; it would be easy to get closer, but to get close enough to do what she had to do would be a little bit trickier.

  One step at a time, Clea, she told herself. One step at a time.

  She watched the guards, trying to pick up on some kind of pattern, some kind of opening. She counted one, two, three guards as they made their rounds, but that was it; whoever was inside clearly wasn’t too concerned about a threat tonight.

  Clea steeled herself and crouched down, unzipped her backpack, and took out its contents.

  Then she tightened the scarf around her face, stepped out of the safety of the woods, and crept forward. The yard was large, but it was interspersed with old pines and a hedge or two, so she used them for cover as she made her way closer to the house, timing her movements between small gaps in the guards’ rotation.

  A canister of gasoline in one hand. A box of matches in the other.

  The closer she got, the more she could hear. It sounded like the people inside were having a party of some sort. She could hear low music, voices talking and laughing, a few people moaning—though with pain or pleasure, Clea couldn’t tell.

  She took a shaking breath. It’s almost dawn. How are these people still partying? She hadn’t expected anyone to be awake at this hour, and she hadn’t expected there to be guards, either. This complicated things.

  Then the back doors opened, and Clea’s heart jumped into her throat. She ducked behind a hedge and froze as two figures emerged, each dragging a long black bag behind them.

  “These ones weren’t much fun,” one of the figures lamented, dropping his bag. He sounded drunk.

  “They never are when they’re willing,” the other said, sounding less than sober herself, and laughed. “Can’t believe they almost lasted until sunup, though.”

  “Hey,” one of the guards shouted. “Is it our turn to go inside yet?”

  “You guys have another hour,” came the reply.

  “It’s been an hour,” said another guard, poking her head around the corner of the house. “There’s nothing happening out here.”

  “Orders are orders.”

  Clea didn’t move a muscle for several long moments. She couldn’t look away from the body bags that had been dumped so unceremoniously outside.

  They’ve done worse to us than arson, Clea, Finn’s voice whispered in the back of her mind. Much worse.

  These words and the sight of the body bags strengthened her resolve—and plus, she noticed with a start, all three guards were now arguing with the other two who’d dragged the bags outside, and the coast was suddenly clear.

  This was her only chance.

  Clea dashed out from behind the hedge and around the corner of the house, her heart pounding in her chest. As she ran, she unscrewed the cap from the gas canister and began to circle the house with gasoline, her heart thumping so loudly and quickly that it felt she was about to burst with adrenaline.

  Fuck exercise and caffeine. This was the biggest rush she’d ever felt.

  When she was nearing the back of the house again—and the door where the five people had been arguing—she saw one of the guards start to round the corner and sprinted the other way, and ducked behind a hedge just before the guard passed her, muttering under his breath.

  Clea watched the rotation again from where she crouched, looking for an opening as she had last time. Her mouth was dry and her heart pounded in her ears as she observed.

  The wooden doors were closed again. They were down to two guards now, and Clea judged that at the pace they were walking, they were both on the sides of the house, leaving the front and back open.

  Now, to finish the job.

  She dumped out the rest of the canister by splattering it on the old wooden doors—the most likely place for the fire to catch—and set the canister itself right outside the door in the puddle of gasoline. Then, with shaking hands, she struck a match and tossed the entire box in the puddle before dropping the lit match beside it.

  The fire roared to life, and moments later, a cry of alarm went up inside the house.

  By that point, Clea had already dashed halfway across the yard, but something made her stop: sunrise. The beautiful sky in the east, the reds and oranges of daybreak over the treetops reflecting the fire at her back. It made Clea slow her pace, her breath fogging in front of her as she took it in. She had never seen anything more beautiful.

  Then she turned back toward the house.

  And the sunrise had nothing on what she saw now.

  Her plan had originally been to drop the match and then run as fast as she possibly could, but instead she ducked behind the nearest hedge and stared. Took in her work.

  The house was engulfed in flames by now. The gas canister had long melted, and the fire had even spread to the body bags outside the door. Inside, the screaming reached a fever pitch as people flung themselves out of windows and doors, clothes aflame, trying desperately to escape.

  Every part of her wanted to turn from the horror, but she found that she couldn’t look away. The people came out with their fancy, elegant, heavy clothing aflame, and they were burning up more quickly than she would’ve thought. And the instant they were caught in the first rays of sunlight, even the few who had escaped the actual flames started to burn where their skin was exposed, like the person who’d chased Clea down the sidewalk, their mouths open as they screamed, revealing—fangs.

  Clea’s breath caught. It was the same thing she’d seen on the street that day.

  I didn’t imagine it after all.

  Or did I? Some of the people—some of the guards, even the two who’d been outside when Clea had struck the match, who were desperately trying to put the others out—seemed like regular people, but they were burning, too.

  They didn’t notice her as she stepped out from behind the hedge and looked on, her hands balled into fists at her sides as the people—the creatures—burned around her, the fire roaring at their backs.

  I did this. I can’t believe I did this.

  She let out a hysterical giggle. Gasped in surprise and clapped her gloved hands over her mouth. But she couldn’t suppress another, and then she was laughing and she couldn’t stop, and before long she was doubled over and howling as the house and the creatures burned before her. She laughed until she started to hear sirens in the distance.

  And then finally she ran.

  She sprinted down the trail as fast as her legs could carry her. The cold-weather running gear was a great excuse in case she happened to be intercepted by rangers for using the park before sunup—she was just on her morning run, just back from college, wanted to go before her mom had to go to work because she didn’t have a car, nothing suspicious about that—but that wouldn’t help her if someone had followed.

  She didn’t stop running until she got to her mom’s car. She unlocked it, ducked inside, and drove out of the park, and she didn’t breathe until she was speeding away in the opposite direction, chest heaving, head spinning.

  Then she caught sight of the smoke and flames billowing into the sky in her rearview mirror, and Clea began to laugh again—slowly at first, and then more hysterically, until she found that once again she couldn’t stop.

  She wished she could’ve stayed to watch the house burn all the way down.

  By the time she started to see fire trucks and police cars speeding in the direction from which she’d come, sirens wailing, she’d already integrated into the usual morning traffic and was able to get home undetected.

  Which wasn’t to say that her heart didn’t stop every time she heard a siren. But when it passed and her heart started again, all she could do was laugh and laugh.

  By some miracle, she was home by the time her mom was up for work, and she slipped back inside unnoticed, replaced her mom’s keys right where she’d left them, and slunk back up to bed. Before collapsing into a deep sleep, she sent Finn a text:

  Done.

  Chapter Eight

  Clea slept for most of the day, physically and emotionally spent. She awoke close to dinnertime, and her entire body ached from her early morning sprint; she told her mom as much when she was called down for dinner as an excuse for having been in bed all day.

  When she checked her phone, she saw that Finn hadn’t texted her back. She tried not to let it worry her too much or make her feel bitter. She’d only just committed a felony for him, after all.

  She stared at her phone for longer than she was willing to admit, replaying the night before, trying not to dwell too much on the implications. So Finn had sent her after some—creatures. The same creatures that had chased her down after she’d tagged the art gallery. Finn was clearly fighting against them, that much was certain. But what did that have to do with the emails?

  She thought back to the monsters going up in flames. Then she thought of her drawing of Ingrid, and her brow furrowed. She hadn’t wanted to even think the word vampire, but there it was, suddenly stuck in her mind. Had she ever seen Ingrid during the day? Had she ever seen Finn during the day, for that matter?

  Fangs. Body bags. Burning up in the sun.

  Impossible.

  But at least she could rest easy knowing that she’d set a match to a den of monsters, although part of her wondered if she would’ve been capable of doing the same if she’d been certain that the people inside were human.

  Deep down, she really didn’t want to know.

  Because it had felt good and she’d do it again in a heartbeat.

  After a while, Clea decided to leave her phone upstairs so she wouldn’t be constantly checking it for a response. After dinner, she watched an old Western with her dad, and around ten at night, they both shuffled upstairs to go to bed. Her mom was already asleep.

  Clea certainly was still tired, despite having slept all day. But when she plopped down on her bed and picked up the phone from her nightstand, she saw she had a few texts from Jade, several missed calls, and a voice mail that had been left just five minutes earlier.

  Hey, sorry I didn’t reply. I’m still on campus if you’re still around; my flight home doesn’t leave until tomorrow.

  But I’ve been doing some digging after the thing with Brendan and I am like 1,000 percent convinced Finn and Ingrid aren’t who they say they are.

  Finn isn’t answering his phone, but I got ahold of Ingrid because she was in that group chat Finn made, so I’m gonna try to get some answers out of her.

  Hello?? I’m sorry I didn’t text you back.

  Oh my God, you’re not going to believe this.

  Clea? CLEA

  Clea hit play on the voice mail and raised the phone to her ear with shaking hands to listen. At first, there was only silence; then there was a sound like something sliding; and then she could hear Jade’s labored, ragged breathing.

  “Clea, oh my God,” Jade whispered, “oh my God, it’s working; my phone is working, oh my God. Please—please pick up—I shouldn’t have come here—I think she’s gonna kill me. I’m in the basement of the—of the place where we had the—” Her voice broke into a sob. “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to— Oh God, no! Get away from me—”

  The voice mail ended abruptly with the sound of glass crunching, as if the screen of Jade’s phone had been smashed beneath someone’s heel.

  By that time, Clea was already on her feet.

  She called Finn as she pulled on her coat. He didn’t pick up. She called him again and again as she put on her hat and boots and grabbed her mom’s keys for the second night in a row and started the car, not caring how much noise she made on the way out.

  She called him at least twenty more times as she made the long drive back down to Columbus, hands shaking on the wheel.

  Jade is in trouble and it’s all my fault.

  If I would’ve listened to her in the first place . . . if I would’ve told her what was going on after I did the graffiti . . . if I would’ve tried harder to get in touch with her before I left . . . if I’d warned her . . .

  She had just passed the first couple of exits for Columbus by the time Finn called her back. It was past midnight.

  “Where is she?” Clea demanded as soon as she picked up his call.

  “Clea, slow down,” Finn said calmly. “Where’s who?”

  “Jade!” Clea shrieked. Tears streamed down her face, but with one hand on the wheel and the other on her phone, she couldn’t wipe them away. “Why—why weren’t you picking up?”

  “I was busy. Why would I know where Jade is?”

  “Because Ingrid has her,” Clea sobbed.

  “And what makes you think Ingrid is so dangerous?” Finn’s tone was polite, but it had a slight edge.

  Clea thought frantically of the drawing and of the flashes of red that had followed her and the fangs and the fire and all of this tumbled together in her mind, but she couldn’t say the word out loud—just like the last night at the coffee shop, she couldn’t risk Finn thinking she was crazy. Not after what she’d just done.

  “I got this—I got this voice mail, and—she had tried to reach Ingrid,” Clea went on. “Jade thought she knew something about you guys, something important—I’m driving down now; I’m almost back—she’s in danger; I know she’s in danger—”

  “When did you get this voice mail?” Finn asked sharply, with a hint of worry.

  “Earlier tonight. Does the Community Space have a basement? Jade said she was in a basement.”

  “Well, yes, but— Clea, if you get there before me, don’t go in there. Wait for me outside; do you hear me?”

  A long pause ensued, in which Clea lowered her phone and wiped the tears from her eyes. When she put the phone back to her ear, she found Finn still waiting patiently for her answer.

  “Clea,” he said gently. “Please. It’s for your own safety. Promise me.”

  Clea took a deep, shuddering breath.

  “I promise,” she lied and hung up.

  Columbus had been hit with a minor snowstorm in the day or so since Clea had left. The side streets adjacent to High Street were blessedly empty—unlike when class was in session—so Clea found parking easily enough just a block away from the Community Space and made her way there. Her body was stiff, sore, and cold, but she pushed herself forward with determination.

  The front door to the Community Space was locked. So she ducked into an alley and went around to the back door, which was also locked. But the building was old and the back door had a glass panel on the top half, so Clea went back to the alley, grabbed a piece of cracked cement off the ground, and slammed it as hard as she could against the glass. It shattered easily, and she reached her gloved hand inside and unlocked the door.

  A month ago, she might’ve hovered outside the door, hemmed and hawed, and maybe actually waited for Finn to get there. But it occurred to her as she slipped inside that she’d smashed the window and hadn’t thought twice about any of it. Breaking and entering was nothing compared to last night—especially when her friend’s life was on the line.

  The vestibule of the building was dark when she entered, the only light coming from the dim streetlights shining in through the outside door, which she shut behind her. To her right, there were three steps leading up and a door that must’ve led into the Community Space. But directly in front of her was another door, which was unlocked; when she opened it, she saw stairs leading down, a flickering bulb at the landing. Then the stairs turned, and she didn’t see where they went.

  Great, so this is the part where I die, she thought, hesitating for a moment before starting toward the basement stairs. She couldn’t hear any sounds coming from below.

  She hoped that didn’t mean Jade was dead already.

  Every step creaked beneath her feet as Clea descended. The walls of the narrow stairwell made her claustrophobic; there was no railing, but she wouldn’t touch the sides, which were concrete and damp and looked slimy to the touch, making her feel like she was walking straight into the belly of some slavering beast that had burrowed deep into the cold ground beneath the street. Her heart hammered in her chest.

  It got even colder as she descended. When she reached the landing beneath the flickering light, she could see her breath fog in front of her. The stairwell ran straight into a brick wall at the bottom, but there was an opening to the left so one could enter the basement. There was no light coming from below.

  Clea broke out into a cold sweat beneath her coat and stepped off the landing. The stair beneath her foot creaked so loudly that she froze, expecting something to creep out of that darkness at the bottom of the stairs.

  Instead, she heard a low, pained whimper and the sound of something shifting.

  Clea’s breath caught. She pulled her phone out of her pocket with quivering hands and swiped the lock screen, her finger hovering over the flashlight button.

 

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