But before I could plan a suitable getaway, Marisol came around the tombstone, looking for another one to spray, and saw me lurking there. She let out a scream that could wake the dead around us.

I jumped back at that ear-piercing shriek, hitting a tree―but when I turned, I saw it wasn't a tree at all. It was Marshall, who stood there like an oak.

"Well, look what we have here," he said. "Nothing to be scared of, Marisol. It's just the Flock's Rest Monster."

I grimaced at the nickname. It had been with me for as long as I could remember.

My grimace must have looked like a wolf baring its teeth, be­cause he said, "Look at that, I think it's got rabies."

"What do you think you're doing," Marisol said, "spying on people?"

"I wasn't spying, I was just―"

"You're sick," Marshall said.

"No, no, what was the word?" Marisol said slowly. "She's an . . . abominationl"

That caught me off guard. Had they been there that day―or had they only heard? Or were they the master-means behind it?

I lunged toward Marisol, wanting to rip that pretty skin off her face, but Marshall held me back and then tossed me against a gravestone so hard it almost toppled over. I felt the impact of that stone in every joint of my body.

"Don't you touch Marisol," he said. "You ain't got a right to touch her. Or me. Or anybody."

I tried to get away, but he pushed me back against the stone again. "Where you going, piggy girl? Don't you want to spy on us some more? Maybe I'll get you a camera. Hey, will it break if you're the one snapping the picture, too?"

Then something swung out of nowhere and slammed against Marshall's ear. He stumbled back.