31. Thirty
The air changed as we descended into Roche’s private gallery, growing colder, sharper. The scent of antiseptic and formaldehyde wrapped around us like a shroud, familiar scents that yanked me back in time to my childhood. To memories of walking through my father’s specimen room. The clinical chill, the museum quiet, the soft click of expensive shoes. It was all the same. I half expected to find my father waiting at the bottom of the first set of stairs.
My hand stayed steady on Xander's hip as we followed Roche deeper underground, but inside... Inside, my protective fury and the lingering darkness were at war. The possessive hunger I'd inherited from my father grew stronger with each step, fed by their artificial submission. Xander had always been fierce and independent; seeing them like this, even knowing it was an act, twisted something in my chest.
The drugs they'd taken made them sway slightly against me, and their pupils were blown wide enough to convince even me that they were floating in a pool of chemical restraint. Yet beneath that manufactured vulnerability, I caught flashes of their usual sharp intelligence.
Roche led us past glass cases filled with preserved butterflies pinned to velvet pillows. The display could’ve been lifted directly from my father’s connection. Even the lighting was the same, soft spots highlighting iridescent wings forever frozen in mid-flight. In death, they retained an artificial beauty that had always fascinated my father. Now, it called to something twisted in my own blood.
“Magnificent, aren’t they?” Roche paused to admire a particularly striking Morpho, its azure wings spanning wider than my hand. “Most collectors simply pin their specimens, but true preservation requires a more intimate understanding of anatomy.”
“The devil’s in the details,” I agreed, letting genuine appreciation color my voice.
Xander pressed closer to me, their breath coming faster, though their face remained carefully blank. I could feel them trembling, even if it was invisible to the naked eye. They were playing their part perfectly, but I knew them well enough to recognize the controlled rage beneath their docile facade. Was it fucked up that I thought his fear only made him more beautiful? Absolutely, but I couldn’t stop myself from thinking about it.
Roche smiled. “Butterflies are merely the beginning,” he said. “More complex subjects require significantly more preparation.”
Behind Roche, Misha swayed slightly, flashing a vacant smile. Still, I thought I caught a slight tremor in his hands when Roche gestured for us to follow him to another set of stairs.
I catalogued everything as we descended another level. We were two stories beneath the surface. With Roche’s security and our hidden location, the response time of any would-be rescuers wasn’t promising. We were on our own down here. I just had to pray that Xander was an even better actor than I’d given him credit for.
The landing opened up into a room that might’ve been more at home in a medical school rather than a private residence. Surgical lights hung from tracks in the ceiling, their sterile glow reflecting on the stainless steel tables arranged beneath them. Every surface held instruments that looked like they’d come straight out of a horror novel, or a morgue. Hard to say which. The entire space smelled of alcohol and chemicals, of older, darker things.
“My private workshop,” Roche said with obvious pride. “Where temporary beauty becomes eternal perfection.”
Xander tensed at my side, but showed no outward signs that he was anything other than happy and content, leaning against me.
“Remarkable,” I said, studying the collection of chemicals and tubes arranged on the nearby shelves. The labels all bore strangely familiar names, compounds I recognized from my father’s work. My fingers itched to trace the careful script.
“So few people appreciate the technical requirements,” Roche said. “The dedication needed to transform fleeting beauty into something timeless.”
“It seems like a lot of work,” I said.
“All art worth doing is difficult, and all art worth viewing requires…sacrifice.” Their smile widened as they came closer. “Tell me, Monsieur Verity, have you ever wondered what it would be like to possess beauty completely? To own something so thoroughly that even time itself cannot take it from you?”
I looked down at where Xander was pressed against my side, letting my hunger show. “Every day,” I admitted softly, and felt Xander shiver.
“Then perhaps we should discuss my more permanent methods.” Roche lifted what looked like a bone saw, letting the light play across its serrated edge. “Your spouse’s beauty is undeniable, but surely you’ve considered how fleeting such perfection can be. How easily the years steal what nature has gifted.”
“Nature is cruel that way,” I agreed, tightening my grip on the back of Xander’s neck until he made a soft sound. “Always destroying what should be preserved.”
“Precisely.” Roche set down the saw and moved to a locked cabinet, lifting an ornate key from around their neck. “I have developed certain methods to prevent such tragedy, if you’re open to hearing about them. Ways to ensure beauty remains exactly as it should.”
The cabinet doors swung open to reveal rows of glass vials. Each one contained a shimmering clear liquid that refracted the light like liquid diamonds. "The latest revolution in preservation technology," Roche explained, lifting one vial with reverent care. "A compound that maintains cellular integrity indefinitely while allowing for perfect positioning. The subject remains completely flexible during the initial process, enabling proper arrangement before the solution fully bonds."
I leaned forward. "Fascinating. Some kind of advanced skincare treatment? The cosmetics industry is always seeking new ways to preserve youth."
"Oh no, Monsieur Verity." Roche's smile turned predatory. "You misunderstand. Life itself is decay. From the moment we draw breath, we begin to rot. The only way to achieve true preservation..." They paused, studying my reaction. "Is to stop the decay completely. And the only way to stop decay is to end life itself."
I forced myself to maintain my facade of clinical interest, despite my anger at the casual way he talked about killing. "An unfortunate but necessary sacrifice for eternal beauty."
"Precisely." They lowered the vial, approval glinting in their eyes. "The subject must be alive for initial administration, you see. Before cellular breakdown begins. But life and preservation are ultimately incompatible. One cannot maintain both."
I tilted my head, fighting back nausea as I glanced toward their pet. "Your companion seems unafraid."
“The drugs keep him calm,” Roche said, reaching out to stroke Misha’s shoulder. “And when the time comes, I’ll give him a little extra boost, so he doesn’t feel a thing. He’ll just... drift away. It’s peaceful and beautiful to watch.”
I fought the urge to be sick. This monster was talking about murdering human beings as if we were discussing the fucking weather.
Roche withdrew his hand from Misha and turned back to me. “Though I must admit,” they said, moving to a control panel near the door. “I find it fascinating that a former FBI agent would be so interested in my preservation techniques.”
My blood turned to ice. Beside me, Xander tensed, but maintained his drugged facade, even as my mind raced through possibilities. How had we blown our fucking cover?
Roche’s tone was pure chipped ice as he said, “Tell me, agent Valentine, did you find out the truth about your father before or after they arrested him for all those missing girls?”
“You must be mistaken—” I started, but Roche cut me off.
“Oh, no. I’m afraid I’m not. Did you really think I wouldn’t investigate you after your little performance at my party? That I didn’t have people watching you? I know all about your little meetings with the Russians and your little…” He gestured to Xander. “…Russian connection. You should have been more careful. Sloppy work for a former fed. But then, you Americans never did have any style.”
A soft click echoed through the room as metal shutters slid into place over the doors. The ventilation system hummed to life, and I caught the faint scent of something sweet beneath the antiseptic air. I immediately covered Xander’s mouth and nose and ducked my face under my shirt, but it was inevitable. Whatever gas he was filling the room with would eventually make it into our lungs.
“You’ll make the perfect additions to my collection,” Roche purred, taking a step back. He turned and paused when he found Misha standing there with a gas mask in his hands. “Here, boy,” Roche demanded, holding out his hands. “Give it here.”
Misha slowly lifted his eyes from studying the gas mask to look straight at Roche. “No.”
“What did you say to me?” Roche’s voice held genuine shock as they stared at their supposedly broken pet.
"I said no." Misha's hands trembled, but his voice grew stronger. "You think the drugs make me mindless, that I'm just a doll who can't think or feel or remember. You tried to use our shared struggles with gender to manipulate me, to make me think you were the only one who could understand. But I remember everything you've done to me. You're not an artist or a visionary. You're just a murderer who happens to be non-binary, using identity as another tool to control people."
“Defiant brat!” Roche lunged for him, but Misha was already moving.
Xander's stance shifted subtly, their practiced sway vanishing as they positioned themselves to intercept if Roche got too close to Misha. We'd planned for multiple scenarios, but their protective instincts were genuine.
Misha ran across the room, opened another cabinet and flung two more masks at Xander and me, his movements far more coordinated than his drugged state suggested he was capable of. Roche scrambled to grab for Misha, but Misha slipped away, always just out of reach.
“You slippery eel!” Roche accused, still trying to catch Misha. “You lying bitch!”
I made sure Xander's mask was secured first. They shot me a quick, reassuring nod before I slipped on my own and rushed to help Misha. I grabbed Roche’s head from behind and slammed them face first into the nearest cabinet. The glass door shattered and Roche screamed, flinging themself to the floor. The sounds they made as he rolled around with giant shards of glass in his face felt justified.
“The override!” Misha pointed to the panel by the door. “Red button. Hurry!”
I dove for the control panel even as Roche started yanking hunks of glass out of their face. My fist found the emergency override just as Xander stomped a pointed heel down on Roche’s hand.
With a hiss and a groan, the ventilation system stopped pumping gas into the room, but the gas that was already there had nowhere to go. Roche gasped, reaching desperately for a nearby cabinet.
“You can’t,” Roche gasped. “My security…”
“Your security is currently dealing with a series of equipment malfunctions,” Xander said, removing his heel to crouch beside Roche. “I’m afraid they’ll be busy for quite a while. We’re going to have plenty of quality time to spend together.”
“The…the…police…” Roche’s voice was growing more and more strained from breathing in the gas.
“They’ll be very interested in this workshop,” I agreed, watching them fight against their own chemical cocktail. “And what’ll be left of you. Eventually.”
A garbled sound escaped Roche as the gas finally put them under. Their body fell limp against the cold floor, chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of chemical sleep.
“There are restraints in the cabinets,” Misha said. “The ones he uses to hold his subjects while the preservation fluid does its work.”
My hands clenched into fists. “Perfect.”
“The gas will keep them under for about an hour,” Misha continued, his voice muffled by the gas mask. “Long enough to secure him properly. Will the security be busy for that long?”
Xander's lips curved into a cold smile as they kicked Roche over onto their back. The gesture was pure them, confident and precise even in violence. “Trust me, Xavier can keep them busy however long we need.”
Xander met my eyes through the gas mask, and I could read their expression even through the plastic: they were ready to ensure Roche faced consequences for every person they'd hurt. This was the Xander I knew, the calculating strategist who'd helped plan this operation, not the docile creature they'd pretended to be.
I looked at Misha. In the end, he’d saved us, but the kid had been through a lot already. No need to traumatize him further. “Are you sure you want to be part of what comes next? We can secure you an exit now if you’d rather.”
Misha glared down at Roche’s still body, fingers twitching. “They spent months drugging me, raping me, torturing me. If anyone deserves a pound of flesh, it’s me.”
I nodded. I couldn’t agree more.