Page 109 of Winterveil

Once the five of them were gathered on the doorstep, Klaudia moved aside for Nadiya.

Nadiya leaned over and examined the lock. “It’s biometric. Shit.”

Giselle pushed onto her tiptoes so that she could see it. There was a panel above the door handle, with enough space to press a thumbprint. Etched on the door itself were five blocky letters, faded and barely legible. X-N-E-N-Z.

“It’s a cipher,” Giselle said quietly.

Four heads turned toward her.

“Another ROT13, I think.” She peered closer. “Let me just . . .”

The letters arranged themselves in her mind, and then shifted. It was like seeing something take shape from nothing, a drowned object surfacing from the water. More than ever, her brain felt like a machine. A tool.

“K-A-R-A-M.”

Nadiya tensed. “That’s impossible.”

“That’s what it says.”

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Nadiya insisted. “Why would Deckard—”

“It could be a red herring,” suggested Klaudia. But even she didn’t sound convinced.

“Just try it,” said Julian. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

“It could trigger an alarm that sets off a mine and blows us all to bits,” Nadiya said, deadpan.

“No,” Crispin said. “Not . . . not that.”

The four of them waited, tense as the wind picked up. Nadiya stared down at the pad, gaze flickering. At last, she raised her hand, fingers trembling slightly, and pressed her right thumb to the panel.

With a soft whir, the lock deactivated.

Nadiya’s arm dropped and she let out a faint gasp of shock. The door swung open of its own accord, releasing a waft of cold air. The interior of the house was dark, and as they stepped inside, Giselle fumbled for her flashlight, but before she could reach it, the lights flickered on.

Before them was a living room, far more ordinary than the charming exterior of the house would suggest. And more . . . lived in. A leather couch and two armchairs pointed toward a television. A book was open on the coffee table, along with a half-finished saucer of tea. There were the impressions of feet in the fuzzy carpet. On the floor was a coloring book and a scattering of uncapped markers. It looked as though the house had been inhabited until mere moments ago, when every living person within it had simply vanished into thin air.

As they all looked around, Nadiya dropped to her knees and made a strangled sound.

Giselle rushed to her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“It’s—” She stared up at Giselle, dark eyes shining with unfallen tears. “It’s my home.”

“Your home?”

“My parents’ home. My . . . my real home.” Nadiya lay a hand flat on the carpet, shaking, hesitant, as if she were testing the fabric of reality itself. “This is exactly what it looked like, before . . . before . . .”

There was so much pain in her voice that it made Giselle’s chest tighten. Turning to Crispin, she demanded, “What’s going on? Why would Deckard do this?”

But Crispin fell silent, gaze downcast.

“He did say this test was for you,” said Klaudia slowly. She was examining the book that had been left open on the table; Giselle caught the words on its spine. The Last Man. “Nadiya, do you—”

And then, like the drawing of a curtain, the lights went off. The room was swallowed in darkness.

“Klaudia? Klaudia?” It was Julian’s voice, taut with panic.

“I’m here,” she answered. Giselle heard the hushed slide of skin against skin. Julian taking Klaudia’s hand.