“I just—I was just starting, you know, hadn’t even got his clothes off, and he just—” She stopped and swallowed. Scotch. Jesus, she’d never get the taste of Scotch out of her mouth again, no matter how much vodka she drank. Or the taste of Burt. The thought almost made her heave. “He just burned up. I don’t know how it happened, Ming, swear I don’t. It just-happened. Whoosh.”

“You know what they’ll say.” Ming got up and walked over to the window; it looked out on a blank wall. Velvet looked around, saw Paolo leaning in the corner’s shadows, next to some leather contraption that looked uncomfortably like a harness. Black and red leather hoods hung on the wall like severed heads, with black tails of whips between. He pulled on something, and the leather swayed uneasily. “They’ll blame you. Bad for business.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Was he smoking?”

“Well, sure, I mean, you know, he was on fire—”

Ming flicked her black-lacquered, needle-sharp fingernails in Velvet’s direction. Velvet shut her mouth with a snap.

“Cigarettes,” Ming said. Velvet shook her head.

Ming lapsed into silence, stared out at the blank brick wall. She tapped a cigarette out of a silver case and lit it, dragging the smoke deep, blowing a hot fog out against the windowpane. Velvet watched the glowing tip of the cigarette with complete fascination.

“I’m concerned, Velvet. Take some vacation,” Ming said. She turned and smiled. “Two weeks.”

Velvet’s lips said yes ma’am, but she was watching the cigarette. The hair on the back of her neck crawled. The smell was all wrong, not burning tobacco, burning—melting—she swallowed a gag. The cigarette flared bright red as Ming sucked, went ash-gray with masochistic disappointment when she stopped.

It wasn’t at all like Ming to be concerned. Not at all. And “vacation” was a word most girls heard right before a “special” job. One that put them in the hospital on a respirator. If they were lucky.

“Don’t make trouble.”

“No ma’am.”

“And don’t talk to anybody.”

Ming drifted over, and Velvet looked hard at the floor. There was a tuft of red hair near her chair.

Ming’s hand felt as cold as ice on her cheek, long nails a sharp pressure near her ear. Velvet didn’t want to see her eyes.

“You know,” Ming said, very slowly, “I’m thinking of moving you up. No more hotel tricks. Very specialized stuff. What do you think of that?”

Velvet kept staring at the floor.

“That’d be great,” she said, and ignored the fluttery feeling in her stomach. “Really great.”

The smell of smoke was greasy in the back of her throat, like mucous.

“Now go with Paolo,” Ming said, and the icy hand left her face. “He needs a little company.”