79

Mission District, San Francisco

The fat-fingered man stood in front of Mission Dolores, solid, wearing that same satisfied pick-up-day expression that stripped Salem fourteen years ago. His fingers were grotesque, rippled and scarred, as large as bratwurst but evilly muscled, disappearing into Bel’s flesh deeper than they could possibly go without snapping bone. Bel cried out and grabbed at his wrist, trying the same move that brought Ernest to his knees in Amherst, but the solid, powerful man didn’t flinch.

Salem pushed him. It was like shoving a concrete wall.

Another man appeared from the shadows and walked toward them. He had the same eyes—those snake eyes—as the man and the woman from Amherst but completely different features. His face was gorgeous, stunning, the immaculate image of a Renaissance angel, too perfect to look at except in short bursts. He smiled and its prettiness hurt. Salem was suffocating in his sugar.

She moaned. She couldn’t force the fat-fingered man to release Bel, and she knew he intended to kill her. Salem would rather die a thousand times herself than watch it, but she felt utterly helpless. All she could was scream from the bottom of her lungs.

A voice called out from across the street. “Salem! Isabel!”