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around. Most of them looked European, with the closest in an outfit that could have come out of an underfunded pirate movie: white cotton shirt with full sleeves, brown linen knee pants and soiled white hose. The man had lost his shoes and his hair was as wild as his expression.
    As I watched in horrified fascination, Tomas thrust a crude bronze knife into the man’s still-heaving chest and cut a deep gash that ripped it open from neck to belly. Heat from the wound mixed with the cold air to cause a cloud of steam to rise, but it wasn’t thick enough to keep me from seeing him tear through the ribs like he was snapping twigs. Bright rivulets of blood bathed his hand as he brought out the trembling heart and held it aloft; then slowly, as if savoring the moment, he began to lower it to his mouth. His teeth sank into quivering flesh that was still trying to beat, then tore through a pulsing vein that sent a stream of blood gushing across his face and down his chin. The cascade pooled in the hollow in his throat, then sent red fingers down his chest into his tunic, leaving abstract designs behind so that he looked like he was wearing war paint. His throat convulsed and he swallowed, causing a cheer to go up from the watching warriors.
    I must have made some type of noise, because he looked across at me and, flashing red-stained teeth in a horrible parody of a smile, held out the grisly mass of flesh as if to offer to share. He took a step forward and I realized I was rooted to the spot, unable to stop him, unable to get away, as that dripping hand with its gruesome offering came closer. My paralysis finally broke and I screamed.
    It hurt my throat, but there was no way I could have held it back. The vision shattered and I was back in the gory storeroom, staring wildly at the new Tomas, who, for a split second, was superimposed on the old. His tongue slid out to lick up a tiny drop of red at the corner of his mouth, so small that it had been unnoticeable until he drew attention to it. I remember thinking that old habits die hard, right before I began shrieking at the top of my lungs.
    He took a step towards me, hands held out in front of him as if to show how harmless he was, and I saw that they were almost clean again. As he came closer, a final stain on the pad of one palm dissolved, vanishing into his skin like a drop of water into desert sand. I realized that I was scuttling backwards like a crab, crying and swearing, but I didn’t care. I slipped in blood and went down, and screamed harder when I saw that my legs were covered in red, like roses had bloomed on my hose and boots. Tomas came towards me slowly, speaking calmly, as if I were a skittish colt he was trying to tame. “Cassie, please listen. We’ve bought some time, but we must go. There will be others.”
    I slipped again and fell on my butt, bruising it on something hard. Some part of my brain that was still coherent recognized the shape of the object, and I snatched my gun from beneath me. “Don’t come any closer or I’ll kill you.” I pointed it at Tomas and, despite the fact that it was shaking wildly in my less-than-steady grip, I could tell he knew I meant it. His eyes, usually soft and warm and open, were opaque black mirrors now. I couldn’t see anything past them, and I didn’t want to. God, I didn’t want to.
    â€œCassie, you must listen to me.” I looked into that handsome face, and some part of me detached itself to watch another illusion shatter and die. I thought I’d finally done something good, that I’d actually helped someone, saved somebody, instead of always watching every damn thing I did end in pain — either mine or someone else’s. I should have known it was too good to be true, that he was too good. Way out of your league, Cassie, my girl, I thought as my back hit the door. Maybe you should start smaller, adopt a kitten next time — only I knew there was very little