14

Russia Dock Woodland, London

She strode toward the third man with the confidence of an Amazon. Her knife rested in the palm of her hand, its sinister blade pointed toward the ground.

“Please,” the third man said. He dropped to his knees between his partners, who were writhing in pain. He held up both hands like a supplicant.

The woman stopped and cocked her hip. She held the knife up like a finger testing the wind. She waggled it.

Salem remembered how to breathe. She sucked in air with such force that she pulled up half the street.

The woman turned with a jaunty smile. “Don’t worry, sweets. I’m not gonna hurt this one.” She made a shooing motion in the direction of the man, like he was a raccoon she’d discovered in her garbage. “Off with you.”

He dragged himself to his feet, sparing a last glance to his pals. They were alive and in deep pain. He turned and ran toward the alley, disappearing into the darkness.

The woman spun on her heel. Salem fought the urge to raise her hands defensively.

“Who are you?” Salem asked.

The woman studied her, unblinking. “Name’s Alafair.” The knife disappeared under her coat and behind her back. She held out a hand, her voice melodic. “Pleased to meet you.”

Salem shook it, pointing toward the alley with her free hand. “You let him go.”

Alafair shrugged. “It’s best. He can get help and all three can spread the word like the plague dogs they are. Infect the pack with a healthy fear of women.”

Salem’s neck creaked as she turned toward the two squirming men on the ground. Men who’d meant to rape and possibly kill her. Her stomach heaved. She caught the bile before it left her mouth. They brought this on themselves.

“I need to call the police,” Salem said, directing her focus toward her phone.

Alafair stepped forward, her face dominated by huge brown eyes. “Wrong. We need to get out of here, Salem Wiley.”

Salem had been dialing. She froze mid-gesture.

“Don’t look so fearful. You’re famous. In my world, in any event. You had to see me following you the last few days?”

Salem tried to disguise her surprise. She’d only made the woman today. “Why are you tailing me?”

“It’s better I show you. Come on, then.”

“I shouldn’t go somewhere with a stranger.” Salem recognized how silly her words sounded too late.

“You’ve got a tracker on your phone.” It was not a question. “Turn it on.”

It was on, always, but while Alafair removed her knives from the men, cleaning them with a handkerchief from her leather jacket, Salem took a photo of her location and wrote a brief email on a timer: Bel, this is weird, but I’m in London with a woman who says her name is Alafair.

She looked up at Alafair, who had casually shoved down the shifty-eyed man as he tried to get to his feet, using her boot to hold him in place. “Can I take a photo of you?”

Alafair shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”

I’ve attached a picture of her. If I disappear tonight, look for her.

She set the message to send in two hours. “If I don’t follow up on that in a sixty minutes,” Salem lied, “they’ll look for me.”

“We better hurry then.” Alafair turned and began jogging back the way Salem had come, blending into the night as if she’d been born to it.