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The mic catches the sound of a match catching fire, the long inhale of him smoking one of those hand-wrapped cigarettes.

“Stay tuned, Forsyth. The monsters are getting dressed for a wedding.”

Damon snorts, leaning back in the driver’s seat as Hunter’s voice fades into some moody guitar riff. “Jesus. You’d think he was narrating the end of the world, not a goddamn wedding. Somebody get that boy a therapist and a hug.”

I lean forward, my breath fogging the passenger window of the SUV. Hunter’s right, the monsters will be out tomorrow night, dressed in silk and lace, in masks.

The Beast.

“That wasn’t just a broadcast,” I whisper. “That was a premonition.”

Damon snorts. “He’s not a prophet, Ari. He’s just high on grief and late-night melodrama.”

But I don’t laugh with him. I can’t.

“I already died once,” I say, more to myself than to Damon. “Right on that riverbank. Maybe this isn’t a wedding. What if it’s my funeral?”

I glance at Damon, waiting for him to mock me again, to tell me I’m being foolish, but he just watches me out of the corner of his eye, jaw clenched. He turns down a dark road, the crunch of gravel replacing the pavement. It’s pitch black other than his headlights. When we finally stop, I look into the dark.

“Where are we?”

He opens the door and I hear it, the sound of water lapping against a shore. Ahead, just outside the beam of light, I see a half-collapsed boathouse, its walls tagged with angry, spray-painted graffiti including a faded devil face with a pitchfork for a tail. The area around it is littered with trash and rusted cans. Damon cuts the engine, then reaches behind the seat to grab a dented metal box and a brown paper bag.

“What are we doing out here?” I ask, scrambling out of the car. Maybe it’s all been a scam. A ruse to lull me into complacency, to trust the men that are my enemies. My pulse thrums, wondering if this is it. This is the night I’m sacrificed to the gods and demons of this hellmouth.

He slams the door shut with his hip. “Feeding cats.”

I stare. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He starts walking toward the building. “We’re feeding cats.”

Sure enough, it smells like mildew and piss. Something floral, too, probably from the crushed body of some cheapair freshener tossed among the junk. Damon crouches near a broken pallet by the side of the warehouse and shakes the bag.

A high, ragged chorus of mews and rustling answers him.

“There’s like six of ‘em. Mostly kittens,” he mutters. “Little monsters. I didn’t mean to get involved, it just kind of… happened.”

I stand a few feet back, arms crossed, watching as shadows slink from the corners with their small bodies and suspicious eyes. The cats emerge slowly: a few scrawny kittens, a male with a torn ear, and then, finally, the sleek, narrow shape of a black female who stops just out of reach, tail twitching.

Damon reaches into the brown bag and comes out with a handful of dried kibble. He tosses it down, but the black cat watches with suspicion, waiting until the others dive in before creeping closer.

He points to her. “That bitch. That’s the one I want.”

“She’s beautiful,” I murmur, looking at her shiny black fur. She’s got a white patch on one foot.

“She’s a menace.” He opens the box, and I realize it’s an animal trap. He hooks the mechanism, and drops a little kibble inside. “I’ve been trying to catch her for a week. The others’ll let me handle them now. But her?” He shakes his head. “Smarter than me, apparently.”

I kneel a few feet from him, still in my gown, now grimy at the hem with dirt and dust. I don’t care, it was ruined the minute my uncle told me to take it off, when it just became another obstacle to his violation.

Out here, in the smelly boathouse, I’m breathing easier. Something about the cold and the stray cats and Damon’s quiet fury calms the noise in my head.

“She reminds me of myself,” I say.

Damon snorts. “Yeah? You think you’re a sleek little alley cat with trust issues?”

“I think maybe I have nine lives.”

He glances sideways. Doesn’t smile. “Well. That makes two of us.”