Four or five guys came around the corner—and stopped short like they were as surprised to find anyone back there as Mary was to have her white-picket-fence moment interrupted.

“What the fuck,” one of them muttered.

“Wassup, bitch.”

Mary crossed her arms over her chest and stared right at them, holding her ground without saying a word. They were your typical fifteen-, sixteen-year-old bunch of nitwits, trying to make like they were gangstas with their low-hanging pants and side-tilt baseball hats—when in reality they might as well have been on a mall crawl by Macy’s and the Sunglass Hut. The trouble, though? In a pack, they were like coyotes, dangerous even though they were scrawny.

“How you doin’?” a third drawled.

What, like you’re Tony Soprano, you little punk, she thought as they closed in on her. Except, when she saw that one of them had a knife down by his side, she stiffened.

What was worse? The boy who was armed was twitching like he was on something.

By this time, Rhage and Bitty had turned around and were making their way back down, and all Mary could think of was, Please just keep going. Get Bitty the hell out of here.

But, no. The GTO stopped a good twenty feet away, its headlights illuminating Mary and the pack of animals.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, shit, check that ride out,” one of the them said.

“I’m taking that whip home—”

The chorus of whistles and curses toned down as Rhage opened the passenger door and rose to his full height. “Mary. Come over here.”

Mary started to walk away, but she didn’t get far. Next thing she knew, the one with the knife had grabbed her and dragged her back against him, putting that blade to her throat.

“Whatchu gonna do?” the boy blustered. “Huh? Whatchu gonna do?”

Mary trembled, but not because she was worried about her own life. What the hell could they do to her? Instead, all she could think of was, No, no, not in front of Bitty—

“Keep going!” she called out to Rhage. “Just drive—”

“I’ll cut you,” came the voice in her ear.

“Fine, do what you want,” she muttered. “Not in front of them, though. Let them go and you can cut me up all you want.”

“What?” the kid sputtered.

“Get out of here, Rhage—”

Yeah, nope.

Not even by half.

All at once, the light shining in her eyes and all over them got brighter by a factor of a hundred and fifty thousand kilowatts. And Mary cursed.

Shit. She knew what that meant.

* * *

“It is not much farther.”

As Assail spoke, he eased off on the Range Rover’s accelerator and made the right-hand turn onto the lane that proceeded down to the peninsula on which he lived. Beside him, riding shotgun, as the humans called it, Markcus was rather quiet, his eyes glued to the windows both in front of him and next to him.

The young male was transfixed by the environs—and also seemingly confused.

“The bridge was different,” he said roughly. “The one we just went over. It’s different from when I . . .”

“Much has changed indeed, I imagine.”

“There are far more tall buildings downtown. More cars. More . . . everything.”

“Wait until you encounter the Internet, my friend. Then you shall see a truly dubious improvement.”

Soon enough, they came upon the house, and Markcus gasped. “It is so . . . beautiful.”

“There is a lot of glass. And much irony in that.”

Assail pulled up to the garage doors, triggering the proper one, and then he proceeded inside and under cover. When Markcus went to open his door, Assail stopped him with a hand to the forearm.

“Not until the panels are back down. Precautions must be observed.”

“My apologies.”

When they were shut in properly, they stepped out on their own sides, and Assail waited for the other male to come around. Markcus was moving slowly, and using the Range Rover for support, but he had made it amply clear that he would accept no help and would not be availing himself of any canes or walkers, either.

Assail stepped over to the house door and opened the reinforced-steel expanse. The scent that boiled out of the mudroom was heavenly, everything that was good about First Meal. Bacon and eggs, coffee, pancakes . . . no, scones?

Markcus faltered as he entered the house. “Oh . . . that is . . .”

“Indeed. Who knew the bastards could cook.”

Assail made his way slowly toward the kitchen, attempting to make it seem as if he always sauntered thus.

In the galley proper, it was obvious that Ehric and Evale had done their utmost to make their guest feel welcome: setting the table—albeit cockeyed and with the forks on the wrong side of the plates; cooking many things—at which they fared far better; brewing coffee—no, wait, that was instant, but still seemed very viable, going by its aroma.

“Sit,” Ehric said unto Markcus after introductions were made. “We shall serve you—no, no argument, sit.”

Markcus shuffled over, groaning with relief as he took his scant weight off his scrawny legs. As he pushed his long hair back, his face was revealed, the anomaly that had led to him having no beard growth meaning that his cheeks and his jaw, his chin and his throat, were availed to the cousins’ curious eyes.

Indeed, Assail thought to himself, the male was rather something to behold.

“I shall prepare you your Last Meal then,” Markcus said.