“The only thing that should be done with them, Daniel,” he answered. He pulled a box of matches out of his pocket. He took one and struck it. The flame showed his face for the first time. My blood froze. He had no nose, lips, or eyelids. His face was nothing but a mask of black scarred skin, consumed by fire. It was the same dead skin that Clara had touched. “Burn them,” he whispered, his voice and his eyes poisoned by hate.
