I can hear the knife-wielding reet reet noise sounding off in his head as his eyes connect with mine. And just as I suspected, his eyes are black, his nostrils flared so wide that for a brief second, I wonder if I could stick a marble up them—only brief, since terror is taking over, after all—and heavenly lord, hold my breasts, because there it is . . . The Vein. Throbbing, pulsating, sending out a message in Morse code that he’s coming for me. “Luna,” Cohen says, his voice so menacing that I can feel my toenails shrivel up in my shoes.
