Jupe made a noise beside me. I touched his hand with the back of mine and he immediately held it.

“I tried to scream,” she said, “but he got a hand over my mouth before I could. Kicked out my feet, dropped me to the ground, and held me down in the grass. For a second, I thought he was going to rape me or something. It didn’t even cross my mind that it was the Snatcher.”

“What made you realize it?” I asked quietly, squeezing Jupe’s hand.

She shuffled one foot in front of her, tracing some invisible pattern on the walkway. “He whispered something to me. He said, ‘Cindy Brolin, number seven.’ I thought I was going to die of fright right then. Everyone was talking about the Snatcher those days. La Sirena was terrified. Every day we waited to hear if someone else had been taken. I knew the boy that got taken before me. Knew he was number six . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took a drag and her cigarette ashed; she flicked the filter roughly.

“What happened then?” Lon prompted.

“He mumbled something about needing a taste of me to be sure that I was ‘viable.’ Then he bit me.”

“Bit you?”

Cindy nodded. “Yeah. Right on the arm.” She pushed up the blue sleeve of her shirt, revealing a faded, crescent-shaped scar above her left elbow. “Had to have ten stitches. My parents told the doctor who sewed me up at the emergency room that it was a dog bite.” She laughed nervously, then pushed her sleeve down. “I’ve been having nightmares about that bite ever since you both showed up at my apartment and told me that kids were going missing again.”

“Sorry,” I said.

She shook her head and looked away. “Anyway, he took the chunk out of my arm, then said something in another language.”

“Any idea which language?” Lon asked.

“It was crazy-sounding. Kinda like—”

“Like what?”

“This is going to sound stupid, but it was almost like some alien sort of language from a Star Trek movie or something. Silly, right?”

Odd, but not silly. Lon was good with languages. He quizzed her, asking if what she’d heard sounded like Latin, speaking a few words in Latin for her to compare with her memory. Definitely not, she said. He tried a little Greek. Not that either, she said. Nor Egyptian, nor Enochian. That ruled out most of the basic spells. Dare was convinced that Bishop had been trying to re-create the transmutation initiation ritual, that the research notes were in the same journal with the list of the original missing kids. Notes in Latin. But if it wasn’t Bishop who was taking the kids, then maybe the notes they found in Bishop’s house were for the real Snatcher. Maybe he was forcing Bishop into helping him. Maybe he was another disgruntled Hellfire member who wanted the same power that the officers had. He could’ve turned on Bishop if the transmutation spell didn’t work out. . . .

“Okay,” Lon said, giving up on the mystery language, “what happened after he bit you and spoke strangely?”

“He still had one hand over my mouth, so I couldn’t scream, but I saw my cigarette on the ground where I’d dropped it when he first grabbed me. While he was talking in that other language, I picked up the cigarette and shoved it into his face.”

“Aww, shit,” Jupe murmured.

She shrugged. “I only got his cheek. But it was enough to surprise him. He rolled off me, acting insane. Kicking and yelling. I didn’t stick around to see what was going on, just jumped up and ran to my front door. He came after me, but I pounded on the door, and my parents woke up and let me in. He took off. I never saw him again.”

“Your parents didn’t go to the police?” Lon asked.

“My dad reported it anonymously from a phone booth at the emergency room. I remember my parents arguing about it in the car on the way to the hospital. This Snatcher had already managed to take six kids, and the police didn’t have any leads. People were pissed off at them. Picketing outside the sheriff’s department. And my mom didn’t want to draw attention. All the other families were on the news, reporters camping outside their homes. Mom was too afraid that the guy would come back for me. Or my little sister. She was fourteen at the time, only a year younger, and she has a disability. She couldn’t walk so good. Still can’t. Mom said she was easy prey. My uncle came over and helped my dad search the neighborhood when we got back home. Mom was hysterical. Later that night, she had a nervous breakdown.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

She sniffled, then wiped her nose. “It wasn’t her first one. When I was younger, she stayed in a hospital for a couple of months after losing a baby. Anyway, if the police did catch him, I would’ve had to testify in court—and if he ever got out on parole, or if they screwed up the case, he might come after me in the future. That’s what my dad said. A couple of weeks after my mom’s breakdown, we packed up and moved to my uncle’s house in Morella. My dad was just doing what he felt was best for us, you know?”

“That’s all anybody can do,” said Lon sympathetically.

“I know this might be an odd question,” I said, “but at the time, were you experimenting with anything occult-related? Learning about magick, that kind of thing?”

“Huh? Like witchcraft? No. Why?”

“Just wondering,” I said. Seeing Lon give me a strange look out of the corner of my eye, I changed the subject. “Can you tell us what he looked like?”