CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
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Iris Everton
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Novos, 926 PC
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Ceralline’s body had been brought in from the cart box by box, jar by jar. The common laboratory resembled a living space on new year’s morning. Only the gifts in these boxes were morbid and disgusting. If the bones did not belong to a woman she watched murdered, she may have had more ambition but for the first time since enrolling at the University da Mi’lier, she hung back and let the other first years take the lead. Master Rellin had given her such a burning look of disappointment that it ate away at her every second of every day. Enough that she decided to take action.
One evening, she waited until the common laboratory, and the university as a whole, was empty before going into the lab and confronting her fears. She stood at the counter covered with her victim’s preserved organs for several minutes before she finally spoke, finally telling the woman she was sorry. She hadn’t intended to do anymore than that, but everything poured out of her. She told Ceralline of Barik Liskin and what he’d done to her sister, that told her Jameson had been the one to push her and while she had been seeking revenge at the moment, her heart weighed just as heavily for Ceralline as it did Candice. A bit of an exaggeration but not terribly so. By the end she’d explained her whole relationship with Jameson and the strange dynamic the two had between them, hoping another woman might understand her. In some ways, Jameson had pushed Iris off a tower as well, killing much of what she used to be. Only Iris had to live with what she’d become and Ceralline didn’t have to. She didn’t ask the woman to pity her, but the thought did cross her mind.
After that night, Iris developed an edge that allowed her to work with Ceralline’s broken bones and damaged organs and the change in her approach did not go unnoticed. Master Rellin’s disappointment turned into curiosity as to why she’d been so timid at first. She’d given him the best excuse she could think of; her sister’s death, amplified and manipulated well enough to fit the circumstances in the laboratory better. He’d been understanding and apologetic. Even went as far as to invite her to his personal laboratory where the real work was being conducted. A rebellious tingle had made the hairs on her arm stand on end the first night they’d walked down the empty corridors together. Well after the university had closed for the night. Something small but entirely new to her. She couldn’t deny she liked it.
She had thought the common lab was a dream. She’d been wrong. Master Rellin’s lab had twice the amount of equipment, three ovens, and a near endless selection of alchemicals. Everything the next great alchemist could possibly want. Far less crowded too.
That’s where they were this evening, just like they’d been several other nights this week. She took her place on the opposite side of the workbench from Master Rellin, expecting to watch him cut into the cadaver lying between them yet again. But tonight, he held the surgical knife out, letting it hover over the corpse. She stared at him through the narrow slits in her leather mask. His green eyes were barely visible behind his own in the torchlight. A welcome precaution. Mister Hatherford had died of some unknown disease. “Go on,” he said. “You've earned it.”
Master and apprentice. Or so she wished. He’d shown an interest in her skills and intelligence from day one, but now it was quite clear he considered her something more than a student. The word had not yet come from his lips, but it rested there, waiting for the right moment. And even if it never came, they’d grown close and she needed that. He was a funny man, in his own right. And caring. Sweet like a grandfather. Stern like one too when necessary. He was more than enough to fill the hole she’d made when she left her father in Faylawn.
The knife was slim and light. Masterfully made, strikingly sharp. Nothing like the ones she used at home to cut meat. And though she couldn’t feel it through her thick glove, she knew it was frigid cold. A technique Master Rellin swore was necessary. She saw no point. She positioned the knife in her hand exactly how he’d shown her and laid the edge of the blade against the washed-out gray skin of the corpse. She glanced at him once more.
“You won’t hurt him.” He let out his deep grumble of a laugh, snorting roughly at the end.
The skin parted slowly along the incision. No blood. No pain. She stopped at the mark an inch above the man’s navel then stepped away, looking at her work. A ten inch incision sounded long in her head but it looked enormous on a person. Like the body might split in half. She knew better though, the sternum was still intact, not like Ceralline’s. She placed the blade at the top of the cut and slid it along the man’s ribs. Again at the bottom. She moved to the other side of the workbench and repeated the process. When she was done, she laid the knife down and waited for praise. She could sense a smile beneath Master Rellin’s mask. That was plenty for now.
“Now peel it back.”
She exhaled, smelling her own bad breath as it filled her mask. She was not excited about this part. How could she be?
Her gloves made gripping the skin difficult. She had to work to get under each flap. She grimaced as the skin folded back on itself, revealing bone and bodily fluids.
Master Rellin lifted a hammer in one hand and a chisel-like tool in the other before nudging her out of the way. She watched intently as he placed the chisel on the sternum and lifted the hammer high enough to create enough force. He turned to her before he swung the tool. “Exciting isn’t it?” Thump. Thump. Thump.
She wouldn’t call mutilating corpses her favorite thing she’d done in Locke, but there was a certain thrill in it. It felt risky and taboo. A surprisingly big part of her could understand why Jameson and his friends talked about their criminal endeavors as if they were some kind of addiction.
Thump. Thump. Thump. Louder. Harder. Crack. “Ah! There we go,” he said, laying the tools down with a soft thud.
The body looked pitiful and inhuman, more like wild game they needed to butcher and prepare for winter.
“Do you actually think this is possible? To figure out who killed Ceralline?” In truth, she believed Master Rellin was the kind of man who’d lead the City Guard on for months just so he could play with corpses. But, if he put his mind to it, who knew what he could do. She didn’t like knowing the one man in the empire that could catch her was on the case.
He cleared his throat. “I’ve never been one to approach a new possibility thinking I won’t succeed, but… this does seem quite unlikely. Even if we do discover a way to pull evidence from a corpse, Ceralline has been dead for months. There’s nothing we’ll be able to do with a bag of bones. A waste of time and resources really. That’s why I gave the project to the first years to begin with. I dare not waste the time of the fifth years. We’ll never know whether it was a tragic accident, an escape from responsibilities, or a heartless murder. Suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Knowing won’t bring her back.”
“You don’t think it would be important to catch a murderer running around the streets of Locke?”
“There are too many murderers running around the streets of Locke to count. And if you think otherwise, you’re not as brilliant as I thought.”
“You’re right,” she said quickly. “I guess sending one to the gallows doesn’t do much.”
He let out a loud breath. “I’m afraid not.”
“Why cut this body open then? Why have I helped you with all this?”
He stared at Mister Hatherford’s chest before picking a few pieces of bone out of the mess. “I wouldn’t want to tarnish my good relationship with the City Guard by turning in a lackluster effort. News of the research has surely gotten out by now. First years are quite predictable in that way. The powers that be will be happy to know I have so many minds working on their case. And perhaps a few of those murderers will think twice now.” He pulled a few more pieces of bone out of the cavity and tossed them aside. “And I must admit, I’m curious about the human soul.” It seemed like such a childish admission for a man of his academic prowess. “No better way to fulfill that curiosity than to have cadavers delivered to you daily.”
A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.
“I thought we knew all there was to know about souls,” she said. Every person had one, some were greater than others.
“Surely not. And what’s left to learn is nearly unfathomable.” She tilted her head, not able to show any emotion with the mask still on. “Think about it. Purists have magic in their soul. Not in their lungs. Or Kidneys. Or blood. It’s in their soul. By their own admission.” It was almost as if he was speaking to the corpse rather than her. He poked around inside it aimlessly. “And they use it. Not just the magic, their soul too. Like a tapped barrel is how I once heard it described. They can feel it. Feel it, but not see it. Like air. Imagine that, Iris. Imagine what could be done with that. We’ve harnessed the power of wind. Why not magic?”
“So, you’re not truly interested in the soul at all…”
“Very little. It’s magic I’m interested in.” He paused, turned his masked face to hers. “I want it.” She could sense he was asking for her help without letting spoken words make an idea too real to take back.
A long silence. A heavy one that the notion deserved. They’d be dabbling in something dangerous. If Purists got wind of such a project, they’d seek them out, stomp out the flames before they overwhelmed the forest. This is how you change the world.
Finally she said, “I want it too.”
There was a purposeful energy about him as he covered up the corpse with a blanket. He ripped his leather mask off and looked at her. His big, dark eyes sat deep in their sockets. His bushy brow was messy and untamed. “I need you to promise me you won’t mention this to anyone. No one at all, Iris.”
Another silence. Brief but full of gravitas.
“Not a soul.”
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“What is all this?” Iris asked, stepping over a small crate inside Jameson’s door. There were dozens more all around the apartment. Big. Small. Square. Rectangular. Each with a black skull painted on it. A displeasing odor controlled the atmosphere, acidic and sharp. She closed her eyes in disappointment. A bad feeling filled her, scraped at her nerves.
“Iris! What are you doing here?” Jameson asked.
“I still live here, don’t I?” She had intended to get a job to pay her rent. Perhaps at Penelope’s Place. That was until Jameson said she could live with him, focus on her work in the lab. A kind gesture on the surface but she knew he simply didn’t want her being the center of attention for dozens of drunk men. In hindsight, moving in with a criminal had not been her best choice, but the lab was more important than her living conditions. And it wasn’t like Jameson’s odd lifestyle wasn’t entertaining. Every other night some broke bum would show up at the door with a delusion of grandeur, guaranteeing it would ensure a better life. A couple of them had almost convinced her, but Jameson always turned those ideas down. The better it sounds, the less likely it’ll work, was his attitude. There was an upside to it all though; they made love like two rabbits that had been caged for months.
“Sorry Missus Wicket,” a man in the corner said. A face like a criminal. Dirty hair matted down with sweat. “We’ll be out of your hair by sunrise.” Perhaps she was quick to judge, but she had a strong feeling there was no chance he was telling the truth. She had watched the sun rise as she’d walked home after all.
There were three other scoundrels sitting on or against the crates all around the room. One was Yormir Huff. A brown bottle stood between his thick legs and his eyes were closed. She’d grown to like The Old Wolf, as the others called him. Crude, yes, but he never stepped over the line like so many others Jameson welcomed into their home.
Brunson sat in a chair too nice for his ass. She’d bought that chair. It was her chair. The one nice thing in the whole damn apartment. She considered letting it slide but let too many things slide with a man like Brunson and you’re bound to regret it. “Get up.” The weasel looked at her like she’d better watch her tongue when speaking to him. “Get. Up.” His eyes narrowed. Her eyes narrowed. Neither backed down. “Get the hell out of my chair!” She stepped toward him but his dagger appeared out of nowhere.
“Back up now, little lady. I wouldn’t want to upset my good pal Wicket by slitting his woman’s throat.” The way Brunson’s tongue wet his lips between sentences made her blood boil.
“Get out of my chair!”
“Why don’t you sit on my lap. Wick won’t mind.”
“I’d rather die,” she said. His eyebrows rose as he shrugged lightly.
Jameson stepped between them, flicking Brunson out of the chair with a finger. “Sweetheart, I thought you’d be at the laboratory all night.” His eyes were heavy and exhausted. They’d had a good time celebrating their haul, no doubt.
“Do you see that?” She pointed at the morning sunlight trickling through the tattered curtains. “I stayed all night, Jameson. I did what I said. Why won’t you!”
“Oh. I guess we lost track of time.”
“Rum and whiskey will help you do that, won’t it!”
Jameson stepped towards her, taking her hand gently but creating nothing but tension. “Sweetheart.”
“What’s in the crates?”
“Reckon it’s best we don’t talk about it.” She threw his hand from hers and stormed toward a tower of smelly boxes. “No, Iris! Stop.”
She froze, respecting the fear in his voice. The smell was even stronger up close. Is that cider? Oh, no. Every negative emotion known to man rose in her stomach, right up through her chest, and into her throat. She knew of only one alchemical that smelled like apple cider and it wasn’t one a group of criminals should be handling. She turned back to him slowly. “What are you doing with Apple Core?” She spoke slowly and quietly, as if the angry alchemical might explode if she let out her fury.
Jameson opened his palms, hoping she’d understand. “We got a good deal on it. You’re lookin’ at a small fortune right here.”
“A large fortune,” Brunson said. He grunted when Yormir smacked him in the stomach and told him to shut his mouth.
“There’s enough here to blow up half the city, Jameson. Get rid of it. Now.” She didn’t raise her voice, but her anger was plenty evident.
Brunson walked toward them. “It don’t work like that, sweets.”
She smacked him. He grabbed his bony cheek in disbelief then lunged at her. She bumped into a crate as she backed away in a rush. Froze. Begged The Creator for mercy. Jameson wrapped one of his muscular arms around Brunson’s chest and held him back before he pushed the weasel away.
No one else seemed to understand the unbelievably high potential for a deadly explosion.
“Reckon if ya touch her you’re dead,” Jameson said. Brunson licked his lips and scowled, straightened his fancy cloak with a shrug of his shoulders before walking away. Jameson turned to her. “Can’t just walk down the street with stolen goods. Give us till nightfall, then we’ll clear it out.”
“You have no idea how dangerous this is.” She turned toward the door so quickly it was oddly noticeable. “Good luck, idiots.” Brunson stood in her way, cheek red, tongue running across the front of his teeth. “If you’d be so kind. I’d rather not be here when you all explode.” He didn’t move when she did. The moment she put the back of her hand on his shoulder to swipe him out of the way, he grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back. Pain shot through her arm but she was distracted by the blade at her neck. Death by blade. The absolute clencher to a horrible choice of getting involved with Jameson. The tip of the dagger dug into her skin enough to let her know it was serious. She looked at Jameson, helpless and scared.
Brunson whispered in her ear. “You’re a lucky gal, Iris. If that handsome chap wasn’t so fond of ya, I’d put my co-” He let go. The blade left her skin bordering on numb with fear as he moved past her toward Jameson.
She found a place to hide in plain sight, rubbing her neck and breathing hard. Yormir corralled her and protected her from what was happening in the middle of the room.
Brunson handed over the dagger with no resistance. Jameson’s eyes were a navy shade of evil as he put a hand on the man’s shoulder and pulled him closer. “What’d I tell ya, Brunson?” There was no time for the weasel to respond. He keeled over in silence as Jameson buried the dagger in his stomach. A second time. A third. She looked away, trying not to hear the surreal sounds of steel sinking into flesh. There was a thud as Brunson hit the ground in a pool of his own blood.
No one spoke as Jameson wiped the dagger on his pants leg and tossed it onto the dead body. She had thought she wanted Brunson dead, just as she’d felt with Ceralline, but now, as she looked at his lifeless body, the explosives crates, Jameson’s wicked blue eyes and face, all she really wanted was to hug her father. She rushed toward the door, ignoring Jameson’s call. She was gone, down the stairs and into the morning buzz of the streets. She wove through merchant carts and dodged people, acting as normally as someone who’d just witnessed a murder could. Until finally, she turned a corner several blocks away and pressed her back against the wall. Deep breaths. No tears though. Not here.
“Everything alright, ma’am?” She jumped at the sound of the voice, soft and sweet as it was. A man sporting the crimson robe of the High Chamber stood a few feet away, looking so sympathetic she thought he might cry with her if she broke down. A full head of brown hair, sturdy shoulders, and a picturesque face made him something impressive to look at. There was a calming aura about him but not enough to help her catch her breath. “Are you alright?” he asked again, stepping closer. He brought his warmth with him. She started to bow her head. “No, no. There’s no need for that.” He was close enough now to smell the citrus aroma coming from the silver pomander around his neck. “It’s alright. You’re fine.”
She looked at him warily, not wishing to upset him and whatever magic he possessed. She tried to speak but couldn't get words out of her mouth. It all felt too suffocating. Jameson. Brunson. The Apple Core. And now this man. His robe.
“You look like you could use a friend,” he said. If a smile could light up the world… “I’m Alaric Sampson. What’s your name?”