The parking lot was colder than the ocean.

  Asphalt bit at Frankie's bare soles. Gritty. Freezing. Salt and diesel fumes whipped through the open trunk of Ted’s beach van.

  "Stupid rocks," she muttered.

  She hopped on one foot, brushing gravel from her skin before shoving her feet into orange flip-flops. She snatched her towel. Wrapped it tight. The cold air nipped at her damp shoulders.

  Gooseflesh rose.

  "Hey." Ted wrestled his board into the rack. "Tacos? I feel like I earned tacos. Or maybe just a gallon of coffee."

  "Coffee," Damon said.

  He leaned against the van, effortless in gray sweatpants and a hoodie. Warm. Frankie rubbed her arms. Friction. A desperate attempt at heat.

  "I can't," she said. A dry, dusty thrumming started in her throat. She needed iron. "Mom wants me home for breakfast. Valentine’s tradition. And I need to sip a... smoothie."

  "Right," Ted said. "The 'Rivera Feast.' Blood edition. I’m still jealous."

  "You can come," Frankie said. She forced a lightness she didn't feel. “I’ll keep the blood away from you.”

  "And risk your mom's interrogation about my future?" Ted shuddered. "Pass. Drive-thru for me."

  Frankie looked toward the tailgate.

  Dee Dee hadn't moved. She sat on the bumper in her dripping wetsuit, the black book splayed open on her knees. Moisture fogged her lenses.

  Gravel crunched under Frankie’s flip-flops as she approached.

  "Dee."

  No response. Dee Dee’s finger traced a line of jagged symbols.

  "It’s not a story," Dee Dee whispered. Her voice was tight. [cite_start]Strained.

  "We gotta go, Dee." Frankie reached out and tapped the cover.

  The leather felt greasy. Cold. Like old meat.

  "Put it away."

  "Wait. Listen." Dee Dee cleared her throat, her eyes wide behind the condensation. "The syntax is weird. It’s Sumerian, but... shifted. Like a dialect for something that isn't human."

  She read aloud: "When the sky bleeds, the Old Ones wake. They are the stars that fell. They did not die. They only sleep."

  Dee Dee looked up. "Frankie. 'The stars that fell.' That sounds like aliens. Or interdimensional beings."

  Frankie crossed her arms. She scanned the parking lot. A seagull picked at a wrapper. A station wagon puffed white exhaust. [cite_start]Normal things.

  "It's mythology, Dee. Every culture has a 'sky falling' story."

  "But I can read it," Dee Dee insisted. "Why can I read it?"

  "Because you're a genius," Damon said.

  He stepped up beside Frankie, resting a warm, solid hand on her shoulder. Dee Dee slammed the book shut. [cite_start]Dust motes danced in the gray light.

  "It feels real," she said.

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  "So did my nightmares about the chainsaw clown," Ted called from the driver's seat. "Let it go, Dee. Tacos and love. That’s the holiday."

  [cite_start]Frankie forced a smile, but her stomach flipped. The words The Dead Can Wake rattled in her skull.

  "Pack it up, Dee. Seriously. No monsters today. That’s the rule."

  *****

  The house smelled of garlic and frying spam.

  Frankie kicked off her flip-flops. The warmth of the kitchen hit her like a physical weight.

  "Mom?"

  "Kitchen!"

  Maka "Leilani" Rivera stood at the stove. She wore a diner apron over flannel, her dark braid reaching her waist.

  "You're late," Leilani said without turning.

  "Waves were good." Frankie sat. Eggs, rice, and spam waited on her plate. Comfort food.

  In her bedroom, two blood packs waited in the mini-fridge. The hollow ache in her gut intensified, but she picked up her fork.

  Leilani turned. She eyed Frankie’s face. "You're blue."

  "I'm fine."

  "You're freezing." Leilani pressed her rough, hot hand against Frankie’s cheek. "Go shower. Eat later."

  "I'm hungry now."

  Leilani sighed. She set a mug of fresh coffee on the table. Frankie wrapped her hands around the ceramic, letting the heat seep into her palms.

  "So," Leilani said. "Valentine's Day. Damon taking you somewhere nice?"

  "The Gilded Anchor."

  "Fancy." Leilani sat opposite her. "He treats you right. Better than the frat boys I dated. Drunk with mommy issues.”

  Frankie giggled. [cite_start]They ate in silence—the scrape of forks and the rattle of the windowpane filling the room.

  Then Frankie saw the envelope. Ripped open.

  "Mom? What’s that?"

  Leilani stopped chewing. "It came yesterday."

  [cite_start]Frankie’s hand trembled as she pulled the heavy paper closer.

  University of Hawaii at Manoa. Congratulations.

  It felt like a bomb.

  "I got in," she whispered.

  "Full scholarship," Leilani said. Her eyes were shining. "Everything covered."

  Frankie slumped back. “But how?”

  “I borrowed from my retirement,” Leilani said. Her voice was steady. "To boost your chances."

  Hawaii. Sun. Normalcy.

  "It's far," Frankie said.

  "That's the point. This town is a trap." [cite_start]Leilani reached across the table, her grip iron. "I see you, Frankie. Watching the shadows. Checking the exits. Coming back with bruises you hide with makeup."

  Frankie pulled her hand away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Bullshit." Leilani snapped. "You're fighting something. Why do you look like a soldier in a seventeen-year-old's body?"

  Frankie looked at the cold rice. Mom, I'm a monster. Mom, I kill things.

  "I just worry," Frankie said.

  "That's my job," Leilani said. "You go to Hawaii. You forget about this gray, miserable rock."

  "I can't just leave," Frankie whispered.

  "Why?"

  "Because... I have a job to do."

  Leilani stood, grabbing the plates. "Your only job is to survive. And you can't do that here."

  She turned on the faucet. The squeak of the handle echoed. "Think about it. The deadline is May."

  May. Three months.

  Frankie looked out the window. The street was disappearing.

  Fog rolled in. Not mist—this was thick, white, and opaque. It swallowed the mailbox. It erased the trees.

  [cite_start]It pressed against the glass like a living thing.

  [cite_start]A chill crawled up Frankie’s spine.

  The kitchen felt smaller. She stood and walked to the window, pressing her hand to the glass.

  A vibration hummed through her fingertips.

  Not the fridge. Not the wind.

  A low, thrumming frequency. [cite_start]Like a bass note played on a synthesizer made of bone.

  "Mom?"

  "What?"

  "Do you hear that?"

  Leilani killed the water. Silence.

  "Hear what?"

  Frankie listened. The thrumming was gone.

  "Nothing," Frankie said. "Just the wind."

  "Go shower. Wear the red dress."

  "Yeah."

  Frankie walked to her room and locked the door. She leaned against the wood, heart hammering.

  I’m done, she lied to herself.

  But the fog was here.

  And the ocean was waiting.