The following day I sleep until late afternoon. I’m tired enough that I could go longer, but there’s something going on outside, on the usually calm lakeshore. It involves screaming laughter and charred smells, and I drag myself to the window to check it out, making sure to avoid the direct light still filtering in.

It’s a barbecue, or a potluck, or a cookout—I never quite got the difference, despite Serena’s explanations on the nuances of Human social get-togethers. Vampyres don’t really build community this way, by assembling without an agenda. Our friendships are alliances. I didn’t encounter the concept of hanging out, of spending time with someone for the sake of it, until my Collateral years.

But I can count over thirty Weres. Hanging around the lakefront, grilling, eating, swimming. Laughing. The loudest are the children: I spot several, Ana among them, having a rollicking good time.

I wonder whether I’m invited to partake. What the reaction would be if I made my way downstairs, waved at the guests. I could borrow a bikini from Juno. Pour myself some blood on the rocks, sit at a table in the shade, ask my dinner companions, “So, how about them football players?”

The idea has me chuckling. I settle on the windowsill, still in my pajama shorts and the worn tank I got from a team-building exercise at work two years ago, staring at the gathering. And at Lowe, who has returned home.

My eyes are immediately drawn to him. Maybe because he’s . . . well, big. Most Weres are tall, or athletic, or both, but Lowe takes it a notch further. Still, I’m not positive his looks are what center him so insistently.

He is . . . not charming, but magnetic. His full lips curve into a small smile while he chats with some pack members. His dark brows furrow as he listens to others. The corners of his eyes split into a web of crinkles when he plays with the children. He lets a young girl beat him at arm wrestling, gasps in mock pain when another pretends to punch him on his biceps, shoots a boy into the deep water to his unabashed delight.

He seems beloved. Accepted. Belonging, and I wonder what that feels like. I wonder if he misses his partner, or mate, or whatever. I wonder if he gets to draw much these days, or if the pretty houses mostly stay locked in his head.

He definitely does not look like he is just recovering from being ill, but what do I know? I’m no pulmonologist.

I’m about to push myself off the sill and start my night when I spot him.

Max.

He’s separate from the rest of the crowd, on the outskirts of the beach, where the sand first turns into shrubs, then thickens with forest trees. At first glance, I don’t think much of it: unlike most of the partygoers, he’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans, but hey. I’ve been a self-conscious teen before, trying to hide with clothes the way I’d shot up about six inches in three months. And melanoma is evil, according to Serena.

But then he goes on his knees. Begins to chat with someone much shorter than him. And my entire body stiffens.

I tell myself that there’s no reason to be scowling the way I am. Max and I may have had our differences (Difference. One, if major.), but he has every right to be interacting with Ana. For all I know, they’re related, and he’s been babysitting her since she was in diapers. Not my business, anyway. I’m a very unwanted guest here, and I have my daily hourlong bath to take.

Except. Something pulls me back to the window. I don’t like it. The way he’s talking to Ana, pointing at someplace I cannot see, someplace between the trees. Ana shakes her head—no. But he seems to insist, and . . .

Am I being paranoid? Probably. Ana’s literal brother is right there, a few dozen feet away, watching her.

But he isn’t. He’s playing something with the ginger best man—Cal, his name is Cal—and a few other people. Bocce, if I recognize the game from Serena’s bowling-variants period, and boy, do Weres and Humans have things in common. Father might be right to fear an alliance between them. Still, this doesn’t concern me, and—

Max’s hand takes Ana’s, pulling her toward the woods, and my brain short-circuits. Mick’s on duty, and I barge out of my room barefoot, meaning to warn him. But his chair is empty, save for a used plate with some traces of coleslaw on it.

He’s probably in the restroom, and I consider looking for him there. Then decide there’s no time. A couple of stray neural cells lurch awake to point out that this is the perfect time for me to break into Lowe’s office and search for intel on Serena. The remaining 99 percent of my brain, sadly, is focused on Ana.

God. I hate, hate, hate that I care.

I dash down the stairs, then outside via the kitchen. The heat crashes into me like a wave, slowing me down as the sunlight stabs my skin like a million little shark teeth. Fuck, it hurts. It’s way too bright for me to be out.

A couple of Weres see me, but no one notices me. Little jagged stones dig painfully into the soles of my feet, but I power through, heading for the forest. By the time I’ve reached the woods, my flesh is burning, I’m limping, and I’ve almost lost my balance twice, courtesy of a pile of sand buckets and an arm floatie.

But I see Ana’s bright blue swimsuit amid the green, the dark gray of Max’s shirt, and yell “Hey!” I wade through the thick of the trees. “Hey, stop!”

Max keeps on walking, but Ana turns, sees me, and grins, gap-toothed and delighted. Her heartbeat is sweet and happy. “Miresy!”

“Not my name, we’ve been over this. Yo, Max? Where are you taking her?”

He must recognize my voice, because he halts. And when he looks at me, his face is pure hatred. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” Fairly sure pine needles are burrowing inside my skin. Also, I might be in flames. “What are you doing with a six-year-old in the middle of the forest?”

“Seven.” Ana corrects me cheerfully, letting go of Max’s hand and holding up six fingers, and damn this child.

“Ana, come with me.” I offer her my hand, and she happily trots my way, arms open as though she means to hug me—yikes. My heart sinks when Max scoops her up and starts carrying her in the opposite direction. “What the hell are you—”

That’s when several things happen at once.

Ana thrashes around and screams.

I charge at Max, ready to free her, ready to tear him to shreds with my fangs.

And about a dozen Weres jump out of the trees surrounding us.

CHAPTER 8

It would be easier if he didn’t like her as a person.

Is it a Vampyre thing, shoving your pointy little fangs into other people’s business and ruining their plans? Or is it more of a Misery Lark passion project?”

I’ve been nursing my abused soles on the living room couch for less than five minutes, but it’s the third time a variation of this question has been asked of me. So I keep my head bent down and ignore Lowe’s second—the one who looks like a Ken doll—as I pluck an assortment of detritus from my toe. I need tweezers, but I didn’t bring any with me. Do Weres use them? As the original furries, do they find them morally repugnant? Maybe they hold body hair sacred, and any threat to its rightful dwelling on the flesh is considered blasphemous.