Evan had stopped pivoting with the widow, but he could feel her predatory stare heating his back now, raising the hairs of his neck. Unease overtook him, and he spun on his heel.

She was clasping the wall behind him in a sort of embrace, scarecrow arms spread, bone-thin fingers clutching the Lexan. Her stare bored a hole right through him. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she licked the glass, leaving a smudge. Then licked it again.

At last she turned and walked out, Xalbador rushing to her side to steer her to her room.

Behind Evan the guards finished placing the last of the chairs. Snap. Clang. Snap. Clang.

He drew in a deep breath, wondering if his day was over at last.

A clopping of footsteps announced René’s entrance. His suit, which looked to be a thick wool blend, bulged at the hip. It seemed even the master of the chalet was bearing a handgun beneath all that fine fabric. David hung on his arm, an ornament on display, with an e-cigarette wedged between his index and middle fingers. Evan wondered if they’d been in the parlor entertaining.

“We done?” Evan hadn’t spoken in hours, and his voice came out husky.

“Not yet,” René said. “We have one final party, and they’re very eager to see you.”

Clasping his hands, he swiveled to the doorway.

Escorted by Xalbador and his AK-47, Candy McClure entered the room wearing a dark green halter dress, the dagger of the deep-cleavage neckline plunging down between her breasts to her belly button.

Orphan V, back from the dead.

Last he’d seen her, he’d locked her in a closet in the spillage of hydrofluoric acid, a little treat she’d intended for him. He’d heard her pounding on the door and screaming but had been massively outnumbered, busy ducking bullets and trying to get to a not-so-fair maiden in distress.

At Candy’s side now was a dead leaf of a man, short and slight, with jaundiced skin and darting flat eyes. No doubt another Orphan.

David vaped off his e-cig, eyeing Candy. “She is spectacular,” he said. “Isn’t she?”

Candy strode across the room on stiletto boots. She confronted Evan through the glass, legs spread, muscular thighs tensed.

She reached for the halter at the base of her neck, untied it, and let the top of the dress fall forward, exposing her torso.

Behind her, David gasped, one hand rising to cover his mouth. At first Evan didn’t understand.

Then she turned.

Whorling scars covered her back and shoulders. Evan stared at the ridges and fissures with disbelief. The seam of disfigurement ran nearly perfectly down her sides; she looked like a doll pressed together from two different molds.

She swung back around, giving him her glorious front.

“Hello, X,” she said. “We’ve been looking for you a long time.”

49. Flicker of Coldness

49

Flicker of Coldness