As a bitter wind whipped up trash and detritus littering the blighted street Declan haunted not unlike a highwayman of old, he spied a wee lass slinking along like a mouse past a tomcat, hugging herself against the chill Belfast night. Even beneath the sun’s golden glow, a woman all on her own would have been mad to walk the stretch of Hell called Whelan Row, not without a stout man to keep her safe company. Yet here was this pale and pretty young thing dressed as if for a summer stroll in the countryside, about to deliver herself to Declan’s doorstep.

“I ought to pinch meself in case I’m dreaming,” Declan said with a chuckle, “but it’ll be tons more fun pinching her.” He slipped silently into a shadowed alley and pressed himself flat against the old battered brick box he called home, then held his breath while the soft shuffle of the wee lass’s dainty footfalls approached. As visions of degradation danced in Declan’s head, he fingered the straight razor stuffed in the front pocket of his grimy blue jeans. When any bit of fun was done, he always made sure to finish it good and thorough.

Declan sprung from hiding with a graceful twirl, and the wee lass slammed into him as if a stone wall had sprung up in her path. Uttering a shocked squeak, the poor thing bounced off him and staggered backward, teetering on her heels near to toppling, but Declan clapped his meaty paw upon her slight shoulder, holding her upright.

“Careful now,” Declan said. “We don’t want to take a tumble. Or do we?”

The wee lass did not answer, only glanced at the rough hand gripping her shoulder, then looked up at him with doe eyes wide with fear.

“What’s your name, little darling?” Declan asked.

The wee lass shuddered as a tremulous gasp slipped from her quivering lips. She offered no name, nor spoke at all. Terror had snatched away her tongue.

Declan licked his lips, and a ravenous grin spread across his stubbled face. “It’s okay. Your name don’t matter. I’ll call you what I like.”

With a frantic moan, the wee lass struggled to pull away, batting and slapping at Declan’s outstretched arm, but his hand remained a vice clamped upon her shoulder. As violent sobs seized her slender frame, tears spilled down freckled cheeks.

“Foolish little lamb,” Declan cooed. “You wandered into the wolf’s den all alone.”

The wee lass stared up at him, her eyes gone glassy. “I’m never alone,” she said, and her mouth gaped wide as if to let loose a scream, but what emerged made no sound at all.