Nite Fire: Smoke & Mirrors by C. L. Schneider

Author:C. L. Schneider [Schneider, C. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-06-03T16:00:00+00:00

Eighteen

Arno Gant selected one of the hunks of rare meat on his plate. The tines of his fork slid in, releasing a burst of pink juice. He raised the bite, diverting my attention to his wrist, and the moist, sallow bit of skin showing beneath the cuff of his shirt. My gaze moved again as he opened wide. The slack skin around his lips—a different shade than his wrist—gaped as he placed the morsel on his tongue. Chewing exactly ten times, he ground the meat between his teeth. Another bite, another ten chews, another swallow. As the juice gathered and dripped off his chin, I looked away.

Something was seriously wrong with the man.

I’d expected scars. You don’t set yourself on fire and walk away without permanent damage. Multiple surgeries, skin graphs and reconstruction were normal for a man with such severe injuries. Arno Gant was nowhere near normal. His flesh was a disturbing collage of color tones and textures, covered with weeping, misaligned seams and recent, loose stitching—all for an injury that was years old. An amalgam of overlying smells (human and not) permeated off Gant in vibrant waves. Thrown into the mix was the foul odor of decay.

I understood now what the skin Harper found at the river was for.

Arno was wearing it.

He took no care to hide the sutures at his wrists, the base of his neck, or the sides of his face. They were professionally done, but old. The edges of the flesh were lifting and curled, making me wonder how long ago they were sewn on, what or who the skin belonged to, and when he might need more. Why the fuck, was, by far, my biggest question. His family had money. He could have hired the best plastic surgeons around.

If he was layering his arms and face in the flesh of another, it was likely there was more borrowed skin under his voluminous suit. It was an interesting fashion choice. More resembling the ceremonial robes of a prince than a businessman, the colorful, embroidered garments were roomy and silken, as if he didn’t like the fabric to cling too tightly.

I glanced at Nadine. Knowing better than to speak, I gave her a furtive glance, hoping to convey my confusion and impatience. The subtle shake of her head in response was more of a warning than an explanation as to why minutes had passed without our host speaking a word. Gant eyed us occasionally from the other side of his desk, but he was too engrossed in his meal to spare time for conversation.

Finally, he sat his fork down. Exchanging it for an oversized goblet of wine, he drank with excessive leisure, like every drop entered his mouth, then throat, separately. Were his exacting movements and drawn-out silence a ploy to discomfort us? Or was Arno Gant always this strange? Either way, he was pissing me off. Visions of ripping the glass from his hand and smashing it over his head played in my mind. Instead, I gripped the arm of my chair and waited.

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