He kicked out violently, but the rat’s claws had hooked into his jeans like Velcro. Edie elbowed him hard, elbowed him again when he didn’t stop squirming, and finally turned. Tuck’s tortured expression—face screwed up with effort as he tried not to whimper, straining as far as away from those needling claws as he could in the shadow of the headstone—made her look down at his knees and recoil. The rat was climbing his leg, climbing his body, nosing toward his groin with demented determination.
do they have saint Anthony's fire
