By the time the cops give up on finding me, the sun has gone down, the moon has come out, and I’ve inspected every inch of the dark, creepy cavern that lies beneath Dean’s bedroom.
It’s almost like a cave down there—the kind cavemen once dwelled in and painted strange, ancient images of their religions and philosophies onto. The smaller images are similar to what the paintings in my bedroom at the Roswell mansion looks like—mythical creatures like phoenixes, dragons, unicorns, and fairies, soaring and fighting across the night sky. The biggest mural, though, is what I fixate on the most. It shows a wolf fighting a vampire, with the wolf pack behind him and the vampire’s coven behind him. Next to each of them, though, floating a few feet off the ground, are beautiful creatures that can onl
