Three hundred feet above the valley floor, on the unexcavated granite switchbacks beneath the western stone support prop of the Star tower, the hunter stood motionless in a pocket of nonstop, unlisted shadow.
The creature didn’t breathe. Its chest rose and fell in a slow, rhythmic test model of breathing—the exact four-count rhythm Len Vey had practiced along the windy gravel shoulders of the Tern Road to prevent muscle burn buildup during steep climbs—but no moist vapor escaped its nostrils into the freezing air. Its body generated no body-energy heat that a heat glass could detect. Its skin was room-heat, matching the thirty-eight-degree chill of the damp granite against which its shoulder rested.
It wore the dark gray wool courier coat Len had arrived in on Day 1. The garment was matching down to the tiny weave. The frayed hem where a briar patch had snagged the wool near Highwater Wash, the grease spot from a wheel hub on the right pocket flap. The tarnished brass postal buttons bearing the embossed horn of the northern post.
Unlike Len’s ruined frame, however, the hunter’s left arm was whole, supple, and unscarred. Its left wrist bent with smooth, clockwork ease, five long, articulate fingers pressing against the rough stone of the ledge.
