“Mr. Burke, sir,” Henry interrupted his rant. “I’ll ask that you don’t step any further into the house.”

He was in a precarious position. Henry was only a servant. As such, if Mr. Burke wanted to barge in, he’d be able to with neither of the Murphy brothers to stop him. The only people awake in the house were servants, and the last thing anyone needed was for a constable to be fetched if Mr. Neville Burke thought the servants were trying to keep him from his cousin.

“And who are you?” Burke asked.

“I’m Mr. Murphy’s valet, sir.”

“And where is your master, boy?”

“Grieving, sir. Mrs. Murphy died night before last.”

“Oh no.” Neville Burke did not look surprised. He climbed the stairs toward Henry. “My poor cousin. Take me to her. Let me pay my respects while I still can.”

“Mr. Burke—”

Neville Burke grabbed him by the collar. “Take me to her.”

Henry could see a stain of pink in the sky. Perhaps if he showed Mr. Burke the body, he would leave quickly. The longer it took to get him out of the house, the more dangerous things became.

“Of course, Mr. Burke.”

He shook his head at the panicked face of the guards on the second floor as he escorted Neville Burke to the mistress’s bedchamber. All the curtains had been drawn, and only the ghost of a fire had been lit. According to the master, she would wake after him, her younger vampire body needing more rest. Still, it wasn’t as if Henry was at ease around her. He’d been told since he was a boy how dangerous it was to be in a room with a newborn vampire. He kept the door to the hallway open, ready to run.

“Oh, my sweet cousin.”

Mr. Burke leaned over the bed, a bit too interested, by Henry’s reckoning. He was holding a hand over Mrs. Murphy’s face as if checking her breathing. She wouldn’t be. Vampires didn’t need to breathe unless they wanted to smell the air or speak.

“Now that you’ve paid your respects—”

“I’ll sit, boy.” He drew a chair to Mrs. Murphy’s bedside. “I’ve heard some interesting rumors about my dear cousin’s husband, and I’m keen to allay any suspicion he might be under.”

Henry’s heart began to race. “Mr. Burke, that isn’t a wise idea.”

“Why not?”

“Mr. Murphy… he wanted his solitude for sure. When he wakes—”

“Ah yes,” Mr. Burke said. “It will be interesting to see what happens when Mr. Murphy wakes.”

“I’m not sure interesting is the right word,” Henry muttered.

“What was that?”

Henry took a deep breath and hoped Mr. Tom would be waking soon. It was usually as soon as the sun fell below the horizon.

“I’ll just… watch the door, Mr. Burke.”

“Good lad,” Mr. Burke said. Then he sat back and waited.

Henry heard a thump down the hall and prayed it was Mr. Tom. If he would just get here…

“By God, she moved.”

It was only a whisper.

Henry’s heart pounded out of his chest. “A trick of the light, Mr. Burke. Come with me, please.”

“No, it was no trick. My God, Beecham was right. There’s some kind of black magic—”

“Mr. Burke!” Henry’s voice was panicked. He’d seen the twitch. The mistress was waking early. “Come with me. Come with me now if you want to live.”

“What is this sorcery?”

Henry could wait no longer. He ran to the bedside to grab Neville Burke, but by the time he reached him, Miss Josephine’s eyes were open and staring at her cousin.

She glanced at Henry for only a second, and she whispered, “Run.”

Henry ran.

JOSIE’S eyes took in everything. The dim light of the room was nothing to her. She saw every shadow flickering by the firelight and the unholy gleam in her cousin’s eyes. She smelled him too. Onions and roast beef. The musk of his sweat and the pungent scent of oil and gunpowder. He smelled disgusting. And appetizing.

“Hello, Neville.”

“What’s wrong with your voice? What are you?”

The burning was still there, but not like she’d dreamed. She was Carmilla, stealthy and secret.

“I’m dreaming,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “And I shall not wake again.”

“Jo?”

She could hear it thrumming, his heart, like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings. It called her. Her neck arched back when she felt the fangs she’d dreamed grow long in her mouth.

“Josephine? What the bloody—”

She was silent when she leapt on him, knocking him off the chair and backward toward the fire. She reared away. No fire. Fire was bad.

“Josephine!”

He was starting to scream, and that wasn’t good. She put a hand over his mouth as she dragged him away from the fire.

“Shhhh,” she whispered. What a repulsive creature he was. He’d broken her dolls’ faces when he was a child. Cut chunks out of her long hair. And look how weak he was! Josie was dragging Neville about the room as if he were her new doll.

He fumbled for something in his jacket, but Josie stopped and dropped him, transfixed by the dust motes dancing in the air. Everything moved as if underwater. Neville’s voice was murky as he pulled something out of his pocket.

It was a gun. Pointed at her.

She laughed because she heard the thundering steps coming down the hall.