Chapter 2
NIK
It wasn’t Nik’s place to say whether the corpse on the gurney was hideous or not.
But it was.
Basset had, once again, butchered the application of rouge, and the undertones were more beige than yellow. The shade of lipstick was far too dark, and the more sculpted aspects were gloopy, not smooth. The old woman looked like she was melting more than sleeping.
Sleeping.
What a ridiculous concept created by the living in order to cope with the inevitable.
Anyone who’d seen death firsthand knew it wasn’t as simple as falling asleep. It was excruciating. Which was exactly what the family would think once they saw their dear grandmother at tomorrow’s funeral.
“My best yet,” Basset crooned. She dropped her makeup brush into the sink. Rouge smeared all over the surgical pan Nik had nearly gotten clean.
The other Aspirants gathered around the gurney, remarking on her handiwork, lying through their crooked smiles because they thought kissing Basset’s ass might mean they could ride her lab coat up the Société ladder.
If all Nik cared about was climbing his way from Aspirant to Directeur in Arts Humains, he would have been there too, cooing over every fumbled brushstroke.
There was more to life than titles, and while Souverain Lafontaine might appreciate him quickly graduating from Aspirant to the next level of Professionnelle, Nik knew he would despise him more than he already did if he got there by crawling on his belly like a worm.
For now, he would scrub every utensil in the processing room. He would polish every surface, organize every vial, and prep every syringe until he earned the title of Professionnelle.
He’d barely cleared two more plates when the double doors burst open.
A new gurney shoved through, the body beneath covered with a sheet.
Professionnelle Chambon fluttered behind it, his crimson coat stark against the clean white.
Starker than the mottled maroons Nik and the other Aspirants were forced to wear.
“Aspirants!” he cheered. “Gather round. Quickly. Quickly.”
They all flooded forward, eyes wide with hope. Nik found his place in the back, able to peer over their shoulders at the slight form beneath the sheet. Tall. Long arms and legs. Lithe as a surgical thread.
“We have quite the lesson and opportunity before us today,” Chambon said. He pushed his golden frames up. “Several other wings fought to get at this one, but I managed to steal it just in time.”
Whispers floated all around. Plouffe, they all said. Lisette Plouffe.
Nik would gladly go kiss the old woman’s corpse if someone like Chambon managed to get his fumbling fingers on the Souverain of Arts Culinaires. Sure, this funeral home operated out of one of the wealthier quarters, but no one handled a Souverain’s body except the Souverain of Arts Humains himself.
That didn’t stop Nik’s peers from nudging one another with greedy eyes trained on the sheet.
Their joy died the moment Chambon ripped it away to reveal not the porcelain skin of a Souverain but the emaciated body of a boy.
Raw pustules surrounded his mouth, his hair had thinned even before death, and the discoloration around his neck, face, and hands was enough to churn the strongest stomach.
Nik leaned in closer. This wasn’t their usual clientele. Pompes Funèbres de Belleplace didn’t cater to the exceptionally rich, but it also didn’t cater to the exceptionally poor. It served the more middle-class neighborhoods north of the Joyaux. And the boy stretched before them was a Reste.
If the sunken cheeks didn’t give him away, the bleached, hand-me-down clothing did.
“Fantastic, no?” When no one agreed, Chambon clicked his tongue. “Come now. We haven’t had the opportunity to discuss adequate preparations for a body in such poor condition.”
“You can’t mean we’ll be working with cases like…” Basset waved her manicured hand as if the body on the cart was a broken chair or lamp.
“Those who have expired due to dehydration caused by sickness? While it is rare here, it does happen.”
“I’m not talking about the cause of death,” Basset replied.
Chambon perked a brow. “Then what?”
“He was a Reste.”
Nik didn’t realize the words were out of him until every head whipped in his direction. He stiffened beneath the heat of attention, choosing to keep his focus on the corpse’s face as he worked the remaining bit of saliva around his mouth.
“Basset is concerned about having to work in the Restes,” he continued.
“Ah.” Chambon waved his hands. “A common fear among Aspirants. Only those who fail to reach our academic standards are sent there.” When he said it, his eyes were on Nik. “Nothing you should worry about, Basset.”
A few years ago, Nik would have shown Chambon how a Reste handled threats. He would have jumped across the gurney, body and all, to beat that hypocritical smile off his smug face. Thankfully for him, Souverain Lafontaine had taught Nik to behave with a bit more civility.
“Now.” Chambon clapped. “Review time. What are the components of our arterial chemicals?”
Hands shot up in the air.
“Formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, and phenol.”
“Good. And what percentage of that is then diluted?”
“Nineteen percent.”
The questions continued with facts flying until Nik was dizzy with all the information his brain could not hold.
It wasn’t for lack of trying. Most nights he fell asleep with the embalming textbook on his chest, and he’d worn down the wood floor in his study pacing, trying to recite the names and purposes of various chemicals, but none of it connected.
Slow. Thick. Stupid. He’d been called it all, but the one thing he rallied against was lazy. People like Chambon and Basset could call him whatever they liked, but he wasn’t behind due to his lack of effort.
“Dupont?”
He blinked. “Yes?”
“Care to answer the question?” Chambon huffed.
“Repeat it.”
Chambon rounded to the head of the gurney, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “I wished to know if you could enlighten us as to the cause of death for this individual.”
Basset wriggled her hand in the air. “Professionnelle, he won’t know.”
“Patience.”
Nik’s heartbeat quickened. For once, it wasn’t the threat of humiliation that made sweat break along his hairline.
“Come now,” Chambon jeered, knowing very well the trap he’d set. “I know you’ve seen a case or two of it in your youth. A rash upon the arms, legs, and trunk. Swollen, red tongue. Lines around—”
“Scarlet fever,” Nik blurted.
The room was quiet now.
“Good. And to begin the embalming process, where would we start?”
Basset’s hand shot up again. Nik remained silent.
“Dupont.”
“Basset has her hand up.”
“But I am asking you.”
He kept his gaze locked on Chambon. This wasn’t a simple review.
This was a game, and Nik refused to lose.
Souverain Lafontaine had taught him a thing or two about manipulation, and the key to beating someone at their own game was to reveal nothing.
He forced his gaze to soften, his shoulders to release.
“We assess the corpse for discoloration and water content,” Nik answered.
“What then, Dupont?”
“There are other Aspirants, Professionnelle. I’d hate to see you waste all your good education on me.”
Chambon’s glasses flashed as he pushed them back up. “A waste it would be. But I’m a patient teacher. What. Next?”
“Wash the corpse.”
“Very good.” Chambon stepped aside, motioning to the hygienic cabinet. “If you would.”
This was where he expected Nik to break.
Beyond the complicated terms and chemical equations, this was the hardest part about being an Aspirant in a mortuary.
Unlike his peers, Nik had seen his fair share of dead bodies.
He’d clung to one longer than any boy ever should, and when they’d tried to pry him off, he’d fought like a feral cat, scratching and biting until a stern voice and a strong hand pulled him away.
He remembered every cold, rigid muscle pressed against his too-warm skin.
That was the problem. No matter how much he focused on the present and the future, the past was a scar not even the Souverain of Arts Humains could remove.
And Chambon knew it.
“Well?”
The Aspirants parted, leaving him a pathway he marched with his head held high.
He collected sponges, disinfectant spray, and gloves.
Without a pause, he turned back to the body he was now forced to acknowledge.
He started with the hands because it was easier to think of the body as parts of a machine: hands, arms, feet, legs.
All covered in the dark discoloration scarlet fever left behind.
All long and spindly, eaten away by dehydration and hunger that likely started long before the sickness took hold of the man.
Boy.
By the time he reached the face, Nik had no choice but to acknowledge that the corpse was nothing more than a young man maybe a few years older than him.
Once he’d looked, it was impossible to stop studying the pustules around his tightened mouth, the sunken hollows of his cheeks, the dingy locks of blond hair.
Water sluiced down the boy’s skin from overhead, washing grime down the drains.
Chambon paced, analyzing the boy’s armpits, neck, and fingers.
“Disappointing at best, but it will suffice,” he said. “Now, what shall we use to renew some life and hydration to the poor parched soul?”
Basset’s hand was up once more, waving above the crowd, but Chambon’s trap had been set. Not only had he forced Nik to do the one thing he despised above all else, but he’d placed him in a position to be ridiculed. To show how little he truly knew.
“I don’t know,” Nik muttered.
“Pathetic, Dupont. Here for six months, and you are just as abysmal as the day you walked in.” Chambon heaved a sigh and turned back to the other apprentices. “Basset, if you would.”
The lesson continued, allowing Nik to retreat. He didn’t look away as Basset worked to restore the boy on the gurney. Long ago, he’d promised to never look away again.
Chambon watched him, searching for weakness.
Let him. He could suggest Nik return to the Restes, but it would never hold.
Souverain Lafontaine wouldn’t allow it. He’d pulled Nik from the gutter four years ago and made him his direct apprentice, his ward.
Nik’s failures were his failures, and Lafontaine refused to be anything less than perfect.
Nik would remain in Arts Humains, and Lafontaine would disappointedly help find him a new apprenticeship, restarting the abysmal process of trying to please him all over again.
He wished it could be different, wished he could be sharper, or at least half the suck-up Basset was.
“Dismissed. Back to your stations.”
About time. If he had to listen to one more—
“Dupont. A word.”
The others filtered away, throwing glances and whispers over their shoulders until there was only Nik, Chambon, and the boy in the center of the room.
“There is one difference between you and this corpse,” Chambon said.
“A pulse?” They were both lucky the quip was all that slipped from Nik.
“Lafontaine.” The Professionnelle’s voice dropped low; beady brown eyes narrowed over the rims of his smudged glasses. “This boy never had Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine in his life to save him from himself. This boy died as all Restes filth should, quietly and alone.”
The words took their time sinking in, syringes digging deeper and deeper past skin and muscle until they hit something harder than bone.
“How is it,” Chambon continued, “that you managed to give such a fate the slip?”
“My stunning personality, sir.”
The vein that emerged on Chambon’s forehead only when he was particularly flustered appeared.
“Luck,” he clarified. “Luck is the one thing we all seem to lack these days. What makes you deserving of it? I wonder. And if that luck runs out…” He sucked his teeth. “You might join our newest test subject here.”
All of Lafontaine’s lessons were to teach Nik that life across the river was …
different. Food was plentiful, so he didn’t have to sneak apples in his pocket.
Water was always clean, so there was no need to boil it for safe drinking.
Deep gashes could be healed with a simple spray.
None of these lessons prevented Nik from saving half his meal or sniffing his water, and he always let his cuts heal naturally.
But the most valuable lesson was the one that came to him now, the one that stuck: There were different threats here, and Nik’s enemies would require weapons stronger than his fists. And there was no greater weapon than knowledge.
Nik collected secrets, little details that coalesced into stories—ones people didn’t like getting out. It made him invaluable to the most powerful man in Arts Humains.
It was time to remind Chambon of that.
“No, Professionnelle.” He lifted his chin, extending his body to tower over the squat man who glared up at him. “My luck won’t ever run out. And from what I understand, you’ve run into a bit of luck recently too.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” he sputtered.
“Really?” Nik feigned shock, tapping his lips.
“Didn’t your family face ruin a few years ago?
Your father lost everything to his gambling debts: the estate, the bank coffers, even your promised future in Arts Humains.
Little difficult to make it big here when you don’t have something Directeurs and Souverains want. ”
That vein twitched. The heat rushed from Chambon’s cheeks.
“But your tragedy ended somehow,” Nik continued. “Right about the time you became Professionnelle, the bank was repaid, the house was secured, and you…” He reached out and straightened the lapels of Chambon’s crimson coat. “This is an original Morin, no? Very expensive taste.”
Chambon wet his lips.
“I wonder if your luck has anything to do with the inconsistencies in the mortuary’s account books?”
“Now you listen here!”
Nik stepped forward, casting a long shadow over the pitiful man with spittle running down his wobbling chin. Such a child.
“I think it’s you who should listen,” he said quietly. “If you want to keep your newfound fortune, you’ll tell Lafontaine the truth: Dupont is trying. Understood?”
The pathetic creature had the audacity to look confused. “What?”
Before he could clarify, the door opened again. This time, two Directeurs in Arts Humain ruby colors stepped in.
“Dupont.” It was not a question.
“Yes?”
“Souverain Lafontaine requests your presence.”
Lafontaine didn’t make requests, and he rarely called upon Nik while he was at work. Something had happened.
Nik ripped off the gloves and tossed them at Chambon’s feet before turning away.
“Dupont,” Chambon called.
Nik didn’t answer.
“Dupont!”
The panic in Chambon’s shrill voice as he chased after him would have been enough excitement for the day.
But it couldn’t overcome the thrill of facing Lafontaine.