I dug my palms into the tanbark, ignoring the bits of wood that embedded themselves into my skin. I tried to push myself up, but then I felt hands on my shoulders grabbing fistfuls of my shirt and yanking me up. I kicked uselessly at the air. I tried to squirm to see my attacker, but he must have seen me first because he dropped me, fast, another rib-crushing belly-flop to the earth. I heard his footsteps as he stumbled backward.
I knew I should move. I knew I should get up, should run, should find help. But everything ached and my whole body felt as if it was made of lead. I heard footsteps and everything tightened, waiting for another blow. But none came. The footsteps disappeared and the raucous crunching of leaves and twigs and tanbark was gone, replaced by a breezy silence, punctuated by the occasional dog bark, the occasional belch of a Muni bus.
“ChaCha,” I was finally able to croak, feeling the sting of tears at the edges of my eyes.
I pressed myself up onto my haunches and my little pup came barreling toward me, yipping as though someone had just released her. I curled her into my chest and stood, holding what little breath I had and listening to the silence. I felt at the bandage on my forehead, then glanced back at the tiny tears and splinters on my palms, an unabashed fear washing over me. First the Sutro Point murders and the person watching me there. Now I’m manhandled by—what? I looked around me, my stomach going sour. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what had knocked me down.
There was definitely something going on in San Francisco and as usual, I had succeeded in getting into the middle of it.
By the time ChaCha and I returned to my apartment, the luscious smell of coffee had permeated the whole third floor. I didn’t have the vampire sense of smell that Nina and Vlad had, but I was almost one-hundred percent sure I smelled donuts, too. The kind with sprinkles.
“Hey!” Sampson turned when I walked in the door and I had to grin. He was dressed in GQ pressed jeans with a dark wash, and a viciously starched button-down shirt. The thin red stripes of the shirt were kept clean by a frilly apron with kitschy cherries all over it that I had purchased in a fit of Donna Reed-dom (thankfully, that particular fit was fleeting).
I was grinning at Sampson, but his smile fell when he saw me.
“Sophie, what happened?” He rushed out of the kitchen, and I set ChaCha down and shrugged my shoulders.
“Dog fight?”
Sampson pulled a mammoth hunk of tanbark from my hair. “Someone attacked you.” He began untying his apron. “I knew this would happen. I knew my being here was a bad idea.”
“No!” I leapt forward, wincing, putting my hand on Sampson’s forearm. “This had nothing to do with you.”
Sampson’s face was hard. “I come to town, you get attacked, and it’s just a coincidence?”
I waved a scratched-up hand. “You wouldn’t believe how often I get attacked. This city is really going to hell.”
Or hell is coming to the city.
Sampson went hands on hips. “Who did this to you, Sophie?”
I unhooked ChaCha’s leash and hung it on the hook. “I don’t know,” I said honestly.
“Sophie—”
“You said yourself that the people who were after you beheaded and slaughtered the people in Anchorage. I just got a little roughed up.” I forced a smile, not entirely sure how the words “beheaded” and “slaughtered” fit into a pep talk. “Is that bacon?”
Sampson finally relented, shaking his head. “Yeah. Coffee, first of all,” he said, pouring me a cup, “then eggs, bacon and—”
“I thought I smelled—”
Sampson flopped the oven door open, exposing a grease-stained pink bakery box. “Donuts.”
I slid the box out of the oven and selected a donut. “You made these? Box and everything?” I asked with my mouth full.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had company.”
I turned at the sound of Will’s voice behind me. “Uh,” I started. “Uhhhhhh . . .”
Sampson brightened immediately, giving Will a curt nod. “I’m Joe. Sophie’s uncle.”
“Right,” I said, nodding spastically and oozing relief. “Joe is my uncle. Joe, this is my friend, Will.”
Sampson stuck out a hand, but Will hung back, studying Sampson and me. He stepped forward then and without moving his lips muttered, “If you’re here against your will, say spatula.”
“Spatula?” I didn’t have time to blink or to think about the fact that I had spat out what Will defined as a safety word because Will was on Sampson, and ChaCha darted from her dog bed, yapping at the rolling cacophony of elbows and arms. Will grabbed Sampson in a headlock and eggs went flying. ChaCha stopped her yapping to lap them up and I threw myself in the middle of Sampson and Will—groans, growls, and me screaming, “Wait, no! Stop! I didn’t mean spatula! I didn’t mean it!”
There was a throaty growl and then everything stopped: Will’s eyes were huge, his cheeks ruddy and carpet burned. His elbow was firmly clasped around Sampson’s throat and Sampson’s eyes were truly wild—a look I had never seen and that was all at once chilling and mesmerizing. White bubbles of spittle bubbled at the corner of Sampson’s mouth and a glistening sheen of sweat beaded on Will’s upper lip as Sampson’s arm clamped down hard around Will. I was kneeling on the floor, yanking on Will’s arm, palming Sampson’s forehead.