17. Nik
NIK
Of all the antiques in Lafontaine’s study, the bone cutter was the most terrifying.
A row of jagged little teeth attached to an industrial-shaped handle made it more torture device than medical instrument.
Doctors used to believe it was the best way to open a patient up to relieve their internal pain.
In reality, the splintered bones never grew back properly, and the victim suffered all the more for it.
Medical science had come a long way since then. Modern bone cutters operated with a push of a button and near-invisible blades. Plus, they were rarely needed. People like Lafontaine ensured most surgeries could be prevented entirely or, at the very least, completed in noninvasive ways.
But the original tool had a place of pride on the mantel behind his father’s desk.
Why?
To remind him of where Arts Humains had come from?
To remind him of where it could go?
Nik continued his tour, examining every object he’d grown familiar with while standing in this very spot, memorizing lessons beat into him by more than words alone.
Nik had arranged this meeting to avoid one of his father’s more … invasive lessons.
Lafontaine wouldn’t be angry if Nik handed him a rebel’s daughter on a platter.
Last night with Elara had been … confusing. Wonderful, but still confusing.
When he’d awoken to the smell of sugar on his skin and the memory of her hands in his, he’d wanted to sprint down to the kitchen and confirm that last night had been real and that she was just as lost as he was.
Worse, she’d revived a longing in him, one he satisfied by sketching an outline of Café Divin from memory.
He knew the abandoned building. Everyone in the Restes did.
It contained magie, quarter legend said. If you stood on the street after midnight and stared up into the broken windows, you would see your heart’s desire.
Rubbish.
And the spell Elara had cast over him was too.
He’d shoved the sketchbook into his drawer, sent a letter to Lafontaine, and left before he could delude himself any further. Regardless of whatever feelings he had for Elara, they couldn’t get in the way of their plans.
Besides, she’d hate him if she ever learned the truth.
The only option to keep her safe and keep them on track was to tell his father about her past. They could get ahead of the story, and maybe, just maybe, Lafontaine could convince Elara to be a different symbol to the Restes Quarter.
A rebel traitor.
He moved to the only comforting object in the room: a painting, barely the size of a dinner plate. It hung alone on an alabaster wall near the window, where it would catch both the morning and evening light.
An indigo river set beneath an ashen-sapphire city rippled with small white crests of waves. The buildings leaned toward one another, forming a dark cavern at the end of a small, lonely bridge. A singular street light burned, rippling lines of yellow and white across the layered brushstrokes.
The art didn’t match his father’s austere office, but Nik knew why it belonged.
A lone figure entered from the bottom right corner.
If it weren’t for the details only Nik and his father might notice, she might’ve been a nameless subject, but his father was nothing if not particular: long black hair, dirt smudged upon her fingertips, a pocket full of herbs. A bundle of lavender in her basket.
Nik’s mother stopped on the bridge, looked left to the south, then right to the north. In the end, she chose north.
She always did.
Nik watched the loop repeat three times before his father entered.
“Sometimes I’m afraid she’ll change her mind.”
Nik had never thought of it as a choice.
It was the truth. When it mattered the most, she’d chosen Lafontaine that night, and Nik awoke an orphan, terrified and alone.
While Lafontaine grieved, Nik had stayed as long as he could in their shared apartment, only to be kicked out within the week.
At fifteen, he should’ve been able to survive on his own in the Restes, but his mother had sheltered him.
He slept beneath bridges, huddling around small fires to keep warm against the winter. He found odd jobs. Ones that allowed him to relieve his anger, using his fists more than his head.
Reminders of who I never want to be again, he’d told Elara last night. It’s taken me a while to learn who I am.
Had he really learned, though? Would his mother be proud?
Did it matter?
“Do you miss her?” he asked.
“I miss her wit,” Lafontaine confessed. “Her passion.”
There was more he wanted to ask, but Nik didn’t press the issue. Instead, he readied himself for why he’d come.
“Father, I need to—”
“Please. Let me go first.” Lafontaine motioned to the window. “I want to talk about the future.”
Nik swallowed the knot bruising his throat. “I know Elouise was too forward in the first round. But I think I know—”
“All in due time. I wanted to discuss another future.”
He reached out a hand.
Nik braced for pain.
“Your future, Nikolas.”
His mind went entirely blank as Lafontaine gripped his shoulder. A fatherly embrace.
“The funeral home doesn’t seem to be working out,” Lafontaine commented.
“When I return to my studies, I’ll put in extra time for the hours I’ve lost.”
“Even a lifetime isn’t enough to force the heart where it does not belong.” Lafontaine guided him to one of the shelves, where he reached for a gold syringe. “Another path might be more appropriate.”
The instrument illuminated, and something in the shelf clicked as a mechanism whirred to life, revealing a hidden passageway.
“Don’t dawdle. Our patient awaits.”
Nik’s spine stiffened, but the promise of time alone with Lafontaine was enough to encourage him to follow.
They entered a sterile white room with polished floors and a mirrored ceiling.
Steel sinks lined the back wall, and rows of shelves above were filled with meticulously organized surgeons’ gear.
Nik mirrored Lafontaine, washing his hands to his elbows and tugging on an operating gown that tightened to his body like a second skin. Next, he snapped on a mask and gloves, which smelled of chemicals meant to purify the air.
Lafontaine guided him through a door to the smallest operating room Nik had ever seen. A singular table took up the center, the body on it illuminated beneath a brilliant light.
It was already open, red insides shifting with the patient’s breath.
Nik looked away before his stomach could riot.
On the opposite wall was a mirror. A one-way window?
Why? Why had this room been hidden in Lafontaine’s office? Was it a secret he’d finally earned?
Why now?
“Come, boy.”
Nik turned on leaden feet and forced himself to look upon the patient.
A sheet concealed their face, while machines hummed, ready to keep them alive should the operation fail.
Their rib cage had been pried apart to reveal their sluggishly beating heart.
The entire process was mechanical. Not medicinal.
“Our patient here is suffering from a failure in a heart valve,” Lafontaine said, “which we will attempt to fix.”
This was a massive jump from cleaning corpses.
“Do you know the symptoms of heart failure?” Lafontaine asked.
“Shortness of breath.”
“And?”
“Dizziness.”
“And?”
“Chest pain.”
Lafontaine nodded. “Among other things. However, the only way to determine the true problem is to cut until we find the rot.”
He went to work, pulling a surgical tray close. Normally, a surgeon would rely upon help to provide the tools so they could focus, but Lafontaine did both. He selected a microscopically thin scalpel.
“Each of the Sociétés are called Arts. Do you know why?” he asked.
“Art means skill, which each discipline requires,” Nik intoned, one of many memorized lessons.
“More than that. They require imagination. Even something as gruesome as this.”
With a practiced motion, he cut the pericardium, two layers of tissue that he pulled away to reveal the working arteries, veins, and ventricles.
The whole thing was paper thin, and as Nik watched Lafontaine work, he forgot about how violent he could really be.
This was gentle, careful, and practiced.
“Centuries ago,” Lafontaine continued, “some brave scientist became the first person to peek inside our bodies, to learn how we worked in order to figure out how we could better help ourselves.”
He made another incision, and the tissue split apart in an upside-down V.
“Because of our past, we are now able to cure most diseases and failures in the body with the right tools.”
Lafontaine gave the artery a delicate push, revealing three flaps, oddly discolored and refusing to close all the way. Blood, Nik knew, should only flow in one direction, but this little breakage allowed it to trickle backward. As Lafontaine had said, it looked like rot.
Lafontaine connected two tubes from the machine to the body. Next, he pressed a needle into the meat of the heart. Clear fluid flushed into the muscle, and it beat slower, and slower, and slower … until it stopped.
The machine awoke, keeping the patient alive.
Lafontaine sliced the deteriorated bits out of the valve.
The whole thing was … beautiful.
Elara had moved this way last night. Maybe not in grace, but in determination and focus.
“It is like painting, no?” Lafontaine glanced over the glasses that magnified his vision. “With a few tools, I will help give this woman a new lease on life.”
Lafontaine used forceps to pick up a polished white circle. He placed it in the aortic tube, then used a minuscule needle to sew it in place.
“It is a delicate balance, Nikolas. One wrong move, a singular cut or poke of the needle in exactly the wrong place, and our patient dies.”
In one swift jab, Lafontaine punctured the heart, leaving the needle embedded.
Nik jolted only to find Lafontaine staring up at him, all gentleness gone.
“Your chef cannot upset that balance,” Lafontaine warned.
Shame flooded his spine like ice. He was a fool to let his guard down. To believe that Lafontaine would ever show mercy or an interest in Nik’s future. This was another lesson, one where lives were at risk. Elara’s life was at risk.
“She didn’t know what she was doing,” Nik said quietly.
“Then she is more dangerous for it. Imagine if I had no idea what I was doing now.” He plucked the needle out and slammed it back in. The machine whirred louder. “Does that excuse the damage I’ve caused?”
“No,” Nik sputtered. “No. No. Of course not.”
“Then there are no excuses for Auclair. Keep her subdued.”
If he told his father about Elara now, what would he do? Would he kill her and be done with it? Would he send Nik back to the Restes with nothing?
He couldn’t risk it.
But there had to be more to life than this. More than submitting.
“Couldn’t you use her power?” he blurted. “Her spirit?”
“I thought the same of Plouffe, but her death only shows to the elite that Restes and rebels can’t be trusted.” Lafontaine reached for another tool. “And what kind of message does it send to the Restes if one of their own could be so powerful?”
“They’d want to follow her,” he replied dully. “But isn’t that what we want? To level the playing field for them?”
“We make them feel equal, Nikolas! That doesn’t mean they are!”
This was not what they’d agreed upon when this journey began. Lafontaine was meant to establish himself as Grand Souverain so he could make changes to keep the peace in the Restes. He was meant to be an ally, not … whatever this was.
Nik had been too much like his softhearted mother. He’d followed along the same path without question, forgetting he could change direction whenever he wanted. He just had to make a different choice.
“This is what it takes to keep Anespérer safe.” Lafontaine motioned to the body clinging to life.
“If I brought this unfortunate soul back right now, the valve would work, but those cuts? They would bleed, the heart would contract, and in seconds she would die. This is what’s happening in the Restes.
Now, imagine if they had a fraction of Auclair’s power.
There would be no peace,” he spat. “There would be anarchy and death.”
It was true. The pieces were already falling into place, and his father would soon ignite the city into full panic with his lies about Plouffe’s death.
“Then what do we do?” Nik asked.
Lafontaine continued the operation. “What are the signs of heart failure, Nikolas?”
What other answer could he want?
“Weakness, boy.” Across the body, he met Nik’s gaze. “Is Auclair a weakness?”
It wasn’t unusual for Nik to struggle to see any likeness of himself mirrored in his father. However, it was the first time he felt disgust in meeting his ruthless gaze.
“No.” He straightened his shoulders. “She’s not.”
“Good. Now go.”
Nik stood his ground. Rooted by some unknown pull.
“When do you plan to tell the city about the rebels and Plouffe’s murder?” he asked.
“When do you think I should?” Lafontaine returned.
Nik’s throat tightened. He had Elara’s fate in his hands. He could have it revealed sooner rather than later, force her to turn to him for help when she felt trapped.
Or he could spare her until she had enough power to try and fight for herself.
“The final round,” he replied. “After the new Souverain is crowned. El-Elouise will be a willing puppet, ready to vote however you see fit. And if a Reste girl votes in your favor, it will send a message—”
“That they finally have a voice,” Lafontaine mused. “Tempering the rebellion. Wise decision, boy. Dismissed.”
Nik left him to the operation.
As soon as he was outside in the back gardens, he retched into the bushes, then crumpled against the wall. He ripped the top collar of his suit open and begged for a break in the summer heat.
He’d lied to his father.
Not just concealed the truth.
But lied.
Because Elara was a weakness.
It wasn’t just her skill and determination that awed him. It was her kindness and her lack of judgment. Elara didn’t hold grudges, nor did she patronize him for his mistakes. If that was the kind of person his father wanted to subdue, Nik couldn’t follow him without question anymore.
He wanted a safe, fair city, but his father was wrong in going about it this way. His lesson had backfired.
Because it was Elara’s face Nik imagined beneath the sheet.
It was her heart he imagined stopping.
And he would never let that happen to her.