[Part 1]

The hour was late, and a blanket of silence had fallen over the restaurant. Elsewhere in the city, the nightlife continued in all manner of bars and clubs, but here the din of cutlery and plates and late-night conversation had ended, and I was left to clean up.

The room was dark, but a candle burned with a flickering golden glow on a nearby window sill. The fumes of a faintly lemon-scented cleaning solution hung heavy in the air, and the calm chords of a piano trickled quietly from speakers overhead. They were my only companions as I worked. That suited me just fine. I'd sent my employees home early for this exact reason; I needed some time to think.

I wiped down the final table and pushed it up against the wall with the rest. As I did, I took the opportunity to peek out the window at the silver VW Tiguan parked across the road. It had been sat out there all day, and though the lights were off, I swore I’d seen movement from inside once or twice.

I withdrew from the window, my breath coming a little shallower than before. I’d been confident I’d be able to handle the Rat Trappers if they arrived, but as time went on I'd found myself less and less sure. After all, if Ashton was right, they were far more capable now than before. Over the past few days, I'd been able to think of little else, and I worried my paranoia was getting out of hand. I forced myself to calm down. I was overthinking this. A parked car wasn’t a sign of anything. I took a deep breath and took one final glance out the window.

The door to the Tiguan opened, and a figure stepped out.

The figure closed the door, unhurried, and turned to face the restaurant. I found myself frozen in place. My heart stopped as I saw their gaze linger a moment on the window I was looking through. They paused, hidden in shadow, and began walking towards the entrance.

My heart leapt into my throat, and I tore towards the front desk, diving behind it as the figure approached. I fumbled beneath the desk, my clammy hands failing to grip the shotgun taped to its underside. My breath came ragged, the air catching on my dry throat painfully. I blinked beads of sweat from my eyes and spared a frantic look at the front entrance.

The figure had reached the doors, and their face was bathed in the glow of a street light. Their grey eyes met mine, and I realised to whom they belonged. My pulse didn’t slow at the revelation - in fact, it may even have quickened - but I left the gun in its place. This wasn’t a Trapper; it was a customer.

Colette Boulier threw the doors open and stepped inside. She tossed her silver hair back and made for the front desk, not breaking eye contact for a moment. Colette was tall, with a striking glare and a casual grace. Other than that, she looked completely different to when I’d last seen her. My stomach turned. She’d done it again.

“Ms-Ms Boulier!” I stammered, trying and failing to hide my nerves behind a smile, "My apologies! I didn’t recognise you." Colette smiled humourlessly.

“Good evening, Monsieur. Do not worry. It is no problem,” Colette tapped her cheek with a slender finger, “The look is new. Early-morning jogger, yesterday. The skin fits well.”

It was true. Colette’s skin usually had a slightly puffy quality, but this set fit like a glove. I only hoped it might convince her to wait longer before the next one.

“I-Indeed,” I said. “Ms Boulier, you know my services are always available if you find yourself in need of… a new look.” I hoped Colette would take the hint. I was already driving myself mad looking out for the Rat Trappers; the last thing I needed was a police investigation nearby.

Colette wrinkled her nose. “Agh! I tried your services once. That freezer of yours, it dries the skin too much. It does not fit.” She glided past me, “I presume we are safe to remain upstairs? You do not appear to have many customers.”

“The speciality drinks are all downstairs, Madame,” I reminded her, but Colette pulled out a table and chairs and sat regardless.

“I do not need speciality, Monsieur. I just wish to talk. Your regular bar assortment shall suffice.”

Not a little confused, I selected a bottle of Grenache from behind the upstairs bar and joined her at the table. I poured us each a glass, and Collette drank deeply. She gave a slight nod in place of thanks and levelled her eyes at me, setting her hands on the table. Beyond her gracious appearance, I caught in those eyes a glimpse of the scruffy serial killer who’d darkened my doorway all those years before.

“I am grateful for your hospitality, monsieur. These are difficult times, as I am sure you are aware. I know your remaining open is a comfort to many of our kind.”

I took a slow sip of wine, my unease lessening a little. That was about the closest thing to a compliment of which Collette was capable. She was in a good mood. I smiled modestly.

“I’m glad to hear of it. Business still isn’t the same as before this Trapper situation started, but I’m sure before long this place will be as busy as ever.”

“You are not afraid?” Colette mused, raising an eyebrow. “The Trappers are no joke anymore. Have you not heard about Dalton?”

“You know I’ve heard about Dalton,” I replied coolly.

I would normally never talk to a customer like that, much less Colette, but something about her tone irked me. It was like she thought she was above it all, and not, in all likelihood, at the top of the Rat Trappers’ hit list. Collette’s gaze hardened, and she spoke with a deliberately measured tone.

“Indeed. I suspect a great many people know. I suspect a great many people know quite a lot more than they should." She cocked her head. "I never thought our existence would remain a secret forever, but you were far from the one I expected to start blabbing.”

Colette took her glass in one hand, swirled its contents for a moment, and then downed it. She set the glass back upon the table, then knocked it off with a swift backhand. It smashed against the nearest wall in a delicate tinkle of glass.

I didn't say anything, fearing I’d lose more than a glass if I did. Many of my clients are boorish, violent, or damn-near murderous, but I can control them. I'm the keeper of their haven, and that's a position of power. Colette was a different case. I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to shred me to pieces if I upset her, and it seemed I was already proving an annoyance.

“Madame Boulier. I understand my decision may seem unwise," I chose my words carefully, "You’re certainly not the first to tell me so. But please understand, I carefully considered the risks. My message contained no identifying information. No dates, no places, no names the Trappers didn’t already know. It gave nothing away, and it scared them off for a while. What’s the harm?”

A pulse of air tore through Colette’s throat, then another. Then another. At first, I thought she might be choking, but I soon realised she was chuckling to herself.

“Wrong on both accounts, monsieur. You may have given little to the Trappers, but what about the others? Your little message is publicly available, is it not? Any one of those cattle could stumble across it as they graze their feed. Did you not think of that?”

I shrugged.

“It’s the internet. Everyone believes and disbelieves everything they read. It’ll blend right in with the rest.”

Colette twirled a finger across the table, only half-listening to me.

“My, my, monsieur. You really have thought of everything, haven’t you?”

She stood, bearing over me with towering grace. Slinking over to the front desk, she took two new glasses from the back shelf. I didn’t object, worried I would be signing my own death warrant if I did, but noted that the glasses Colette chose weren't meant to be used. They were old and dusty, part of the first set I'd bought after opening the restaurant. They’d been through a lot, and were now chipped in half a dozen places, so I’d left them to enjoy their retirement at the front desk as mementoes. It seemed they were coming out of retirement though, fittingly at the same time I might be entering a permanent retirement of my own.

Turning her back to me, Colette made for the bar and selected a bottle of Smirnoff, a dash from which she emptied into the two glasses. She then drew a small metal hip flask from her coat and drizzled an unknown tonic into one. The mixture fizzed as it hit the surface of the Smirnoff, refracted into a million pieces through a chip in the side of the glass. Colette caught me watching and snapped the flask shut in a flash, hiding it back in her coat pocket.

"Something to take a little more edge off," she commented dryly, "A need I can thank you for, Monsieur."

Colette set the second round of drinks down, gliding back into her seat. A sculpted nail tapped the side of her glass. I kept my eyes on it, not wanting to meet hers.

"Do you know your problem, Monsieur? I do. It is one I do not deny possessing myself, though I certainly handle it better. Pride. You think yourself so clever that you can taunt those who would see you dead and see no consequences. You think you can expose us, and that we will go quietly along with it. It will catch up with you, this pride. One day. Perhaps not so far away."

I listened with rapt attention, keeping my eyes on Colette's metronomic tapping. Her words were not spoken with anger, or even especial annoyance, but I felt the subtle acid laced between them. My mind raced, praying I could still salvage the situation, when something caught my eye. Colette's glass.

My mouth, already dry, was reduced to sandpaper, my saliva recoiling in terror. My eyes darted across the surface of her glass, hoping, praying I was wrong. I wasn't. Her glass was unblemished. Not a fingerprint on it. Nor a hint of lipstick. Nor a chip through which I'd seen Colette add an unknown substance to one of the drinks. I slowly traced a finger over the edge of my glass, and felt the rough texture of the chipped surface. My breath caught in my throat, and the night's events played out in montage in my head. The Tiguan parked outside. Colette rushing to hide the hip flask from view. Something she'd said earlier: Wrong on both accounts, monsieur. The Rat Trappers hadn't been scared off. They'd just been smart enough to recruit someone on the inside.

My mind swam with realisation, and my wild eyes met Colette's. My horrified expression immediately gave me away, and I saw her composure shift, her own eyes widening for the first time since I'd met her. Her hand dove into her coat pocket, but I didn't give her the chance to find whatever it was she planned to kill me with.

I leapt from the table, throwing my chair back and grabbing my glass in one motion. With a mad speed possible only in life-or-death situations, I hurled the glass - as well as whatever was in it - into Colette's face.

Her screams were hideous.

A banshee's howl erupted from the monster opposite me, her hands racing to cover her face. I saw smoke rising from beneath her fingers, and could only imagine what I'd come so close to drinking. I wasted no more time, and bolted for the front desk. I heard Colette fly from her chair, a mass of screaming rage barrelling after me, but I refused to look back. My feet pounded against the thin carpet. Only a few more metres. Only a few more seconds and the gun would be in my grasp.

A clawed hand bit into my ankle.

I screamed as Colette dragged me to the floor, blood running from my leg in a steady stream. I hit the ground hard, and rolled over, fighting to regain my breath and get the creature off me. I finally saw Colette's face, and had to fight not to scream again.

The poison had burned right through Colette's fresh layer of skin - exposing the countless other skins still present underneath. The first few layers were translucent and crisp, encasing her head in a crinkled mass reminiscent of spider webs. Below that, the decay had set in. slabs of congealed skin, grey and diseased, peeked through the gaps in the spider web, gristly and gleaming with an unknown fluid. Her screams whistled through the countless cracks in her face, which even now was shedding great pale flakes as we fought. I managed to get my feet under her and pushed her off me with surprisingly little effort, as if she were a paper doll. As I felt how light she was, it dawned on me how wrong we all were about Colette. I and the other patrons had always assumed she was some kind of skinwalker. In truth, she was skin all the way down.

Seizing the opportunity, I rose shakily to my feet, tumbling over the desk and grabbing the barrel of the gun. I tore it free from the tape binding it to the table just as Colette scrambled to her feet and tore over the desk towards me. I turned the shotgun on the disgusting creature and fired just as it was about to sink its claws into me.

A few dozen puffs of skin erupted across Colette's chest, the old layers bursting out like straw from a torn scarecrow, and she was thrown to the floor. She tried to get back up, but I didn't let her. I unloaded shot upon shot upon shot into Colette's body until I was out of ammunition, by which point much of her body had burst open, revealing insides that looked like a mass of tissue paper. Skin covered the floor like new-fallen snow, and yet the chest of the monstrous thing on the floor continued to rise and fall with wheezing, shuddering breath.

I collapsed against the bar, my own breath barely coming easier. I couldn’t act. I couldn’t think. The adrenaline had guided me to the gun, but now I had no idea what to do. I gripped the gun so hard my knuckles shone white, never taking my eyes off Colette. As we sat there, her breathing began to slow. At first, I thought I was imagining it, but soon it was impossible to deny. Colette’s breaths grew more and more laboured, each one a shuddering performance that sent yet more of her body scattering to the floor around her. Soon, she gave one last gasp, and was silent.

I didn’t dare move for a few moments, but eventually I forced myself to my feet. Somebody would have heard the gunshots. The police were likely already on their way. A story of a faulty alarm system and late-night nerves would have to suffice, but only if Colette was hidden.

I shuffled slowly over to Colette, peering down at her still form. A single eyelid somehow remained intact despite the poison and the shots; its smooth, delicate appearance a reminder of the beauty that had once disguised this face.

It twitched, and the eye opened.

I stared, horrified, for a moment too long.

Colette hissed, and pounced, colliding with me. I vainly tried to bat her with the empty shotgun, but Colette deftly twisted around me, wrapping what was left of her legs around my waist and securing herself to my back. I tried to buck her off, but without her weight working against her she managed to cling on, reaching around my neck and beginning to strangle me. Her grip wasn’t strong, but it was enough. I uselessly clawed at the arm around my throat, tearing away flakes but doing nothing to weaken Colette’s hold. My mind swam for the second time that evening as my brain was denied oxygen, and I struggled to maintain my footing. Desperation rose inside me, and I raged against Colette, but I just couldn’t dislodge her. She cackled breathlessly as I slowly weakened, whispering in my ear in a rasping, hateful voice.

“Pride, pride, pride! You think you can do this to me? Take it away from me? You are wrong monsieur, wrong! I will get it back. The Trappers say to me. They say I can have fresh skin often. Just have to do a little job for them first!”

I swayed, my vision blurring. She was right. Did I really think I would be able to beat a monster like Colette? Even now, with most of her body gone, she was going to kill me. Even with her most of her scattered on the floor like so much tissue paper.

Tissue paper… tissue paper… tissue-

Paper.

A ghost of an idea came to life in my head, and with the last of my strength, I began staggering to the window where I’d first seen Colette leave the Tiguan. Colette didn’t try to stop me; why would she? Each step was slow as I walked. Each moment was agonising. Each second the throbbing in my head grew more painful. Yet eventually we reached the window, Colette’s choking laugh still bouncing off the walls. My head was pounding. My vision began to blur.

The world outside the window was pitch black, only a few metres illuminated by the candle still burning on the window sill. I turned to it. Colette realised what I was about to do a moment too late. She tried to let go, a scream gurgling up in her throat. It never reached completion. Mere moments before I would've fallen unconscious, I turned and collapsed into the candle, the flame striking Colette on the small of her back. The dry skin of her insides was ideal kindling, and I was hit with a wave of heat as she went up almost immediately.

Colette screamed louder than ever before as the flames consumed her, and she went down. I managed to get away from her, falling into a gasping heap as she burned. She rolled about on the floor in a desperate attempt to smother the fire, but the monstrous torch only grew brighter, her screams steadily rising in pitch until her throat burned away, suddenly silencing her. With no more fuel to sustain them, the flames died quickly, luckily without spreading. Soon, a patch of burnt carpet was all that was left of Colette Boulier.

I stumbled to my feet, the feeling slowly returning to my extremities as oxygen flooded my brain. Putting a hand on the window sill to steady myself, I looked out over the restaurant, its floor still covered with bits of Colette. A small smile spread across my face. My work wasn't done. The police would still be on their way. Colette would have to be swept up and disposed of, and my half-cocked excuse would have to be used. Yet I had won. The Trappers had come for me, had sent one of the country's most prolific serial killers after me, and had failed. Retrieving a broom from the cupboard in the back, I set about removing any trace of my latest customer. This wouldn't be the end, of that I was sure. The Trappers would doubtlessly send somebody else after me. They had chosen a war, after all. A small thought occurred to me though, as the last of Colette was swept into a black refuse bag, and my smile grew into a grin.

I might just be able to win it.