The Anatomy of Magic (Darkest Divine #1)

Chapter 1

ONE

The arch of the surgery windows cast long shadows across the blood-streaked tile, reaching over my shoulder and urging me to rush.

The rain had paused at least, and the room had returned to a stiff quiet.

Beads of sweat gathered on my lip, courtesy of the cursed cloth mask the head surgeon forced us to wear during operations, and I fought the urge to wipe them away as I sutured the last incision of the man who had died on the operating table.

He had been brought in by strangers, wearing the ragged clothes of a beggar, with four stab wounds in his chest. Little could be done.

He had no name, and without that, there was no way for us to find family or friends who might claim him.

The last person to speak to him was similarly dead and anonymous in the morgue down the hall—the very man he had been fighting.

From what I assessed from the surgery, the pair had similar injuries.

Slashes through their bellies, blunt trauma to their skulls, blood in their ears.

It had clearly been a vicious fight, though not an unusual one.

The Flooded Fissures was a cruel neighborhood, and we saw drop-ins like this every few days.

The old surgeon clicked his tongue behind his teeth. “You’re wasting time making those stitches pretty. They’re both eligible for the drop, and you need to be at port by the last bell.”

“You want me to take both of them?” My fists curled in my gloves, lubricated by thick blood. I pulled off the outer layer, leaving the clean ones underneath for a dirtier business.

Bernard ignored my whisper-shout as he pulled shut the blinds. Though we were set on a hill looking over the canals and were impossible to spy from the streets thanks to a few conveniently placed shrubs, he was never careless when it came to the surgery’s side business.

“What’s one more? Twice the money, Nina. Think of it. The buyer will be twice as pleased, I’m sure.” Bernard helped me cover the body in a clean shroud before taking his place at the dead man’s shoulders.

“Twice the weight,” I countered, “means twice the chance of getting caught. You always seem to forget that part, since you aren’t the one smuggling dead bodies across the city!”

We heaved together, taking the cumbersome weight and transferring it to the narrow box he’d arranged on a rolling table. Bernard shut the top with a sigh. “I’ll give you the day off tomorrow.”

“How about a week off?”

“Tomorrow.” His eyes narrowed. “I have important appointments this week I can’t let you miss.”

“You finally admit how much you need me, Dr. Broussard?” I smiled sweetly.

“You’ve certainly made yourself indispensable.

” His brows jumped, but his tone was gentle.

“Now get going. I don’t have the lifespan to find and train a new assistant.

I’ll get the cart and meet you around the back.

” He snapped off his own gloves and shrugged out of his coat, wheeling the body out of the room.

“Get rid of their belongings. I left them in the bin near the wash station.”

“Fine. What’s one more?” I grumbled, moving toward the bin while I still had my gloves on. The dead man’s last possessions were soiled with street filth and a foul brand of whiskey.

“If I could take your place, I would, Nina.”

I glared at his back, watching as he limped from the surgery.

He was telling the truth. Bernard should have retired by now, and our longer operations left him stiff and swollen by the end.

If it had been a sensible option for him to move bodies across the city, I had no doubt he’d risk it to keep me out of danger.

Unfortunately, here in the Flooded Fissures, sensible options were as rare as easy coin. I had a ship to meet by sundown.

I was planning to toss the man’s clothes into the furnace heating our building, but as I folded up a pair of trousers, something heavy fell from the pocket.

At my feet was a black velvet pouch, too fine to have belonged to the poor beggar Bernard was now pushing from the room. I gingerly scooped it from the floor, testing the shape of the contents with a prod of my fingers before loosening the fastening.

Inside were a trio of dice—and a business card.

“That’s a first.”

It was always interesting to discover what people carried around in their last moments. The dice were black with gold inscriptions. But there were no numbers or dots: Instead, they were covered with strange symbols that must have been used for a specific kind of game.

Yet the symbols weren’t the strangest part. I could immediately feel that there was magic to these dice.

It was not like the old magic—the power that still lingered in the bones of the Architect and the bloodlines of his chosen children.

No. This was artificial magic, the product of an engineer from the Academy.

Any object crafted by the engineers was classified as a relic.

They were closely protected, carefully regulated, and immensely valuable.

In a poor sector of the city like the Fissures, an item like this could make you very rich—or it could get you killed.

I wondered if the card would help explain the origin of the dice, but it wasn’t any help.

I could make out the caricature of a face, but some of the beggar’s blood had seeped into the stiff paper, blurring what might have been an address.

The face might have been the symbol of the business, but it wasn’t one I recognized.

Thankfully, I had a contact who specialized in knowing things no one else did. I threw the beggar’s clothes in a bin to burn them later, pocketing the dice.

A bell chimed at the front desk.

A glance at the clock showed we should have been closed for the evening. Bernard should have locked the front doors before the surgery, but he must have forgotten—again. The evening got a bit busy, with two eviscerated beggars on the tables.

“Dr. Broussard?” I called out, wondering if he’d heard. There was nothing but the insistent request of the bell again—and a long moan.

“Hell,” I whispered beneath a breath. “I don’t have time for this.” The bell rang again.

Ding. Ding.

“Alright!” I shouted, slapping off the second set of gloves. Bernard would have to finish loading the bodies onto the cart alone while I got rid of the visitor.

Ding.

Each little chime clenched my teeth tighter. From the end of the hall, I called toward the waiting area. “We’re done for the night. If you’re experiencing severe bleeding, confusion, or chest pain, there’s an infirmary on Vermillion. Otherwise, come back in the morning.”

A short pause, then the bell dinged again.

I cursed, obligated at this point to see what the cause of our visitor’s insistence could be.

“You’d better be near death—”

The moment the words left my lips, I immediately regretted them.

The double doors swung wide, snapping against the walls as I took in the sight of a man bleeding across the front desk.

His head, covered by the hood of a coat, rested on top of the varnish as bright blood formed a small pool across the tile floor.

Drop by drop, it collected beneath him. His hand lazily hovered over the bell, dinging it once more like he hadn’t realized I was there.

“Bloody Architect,” I whispered, forgetting my earlier irritation.

His head lifted, and I found myself staring into orange eyes, bright as dying embers. I’d never seen anything like them. He snarled, “Sorry to be a bother, but I think I need help.”

He pushed off the desk to stand, but his legs wobbled. I had to lunge for him, surprised by his stature and the strength left in my limbs as I caught him. “Take it slow! If you hit the ground, I’m not getting you back up.”

His hand went reactively to his side, holding it there as he grimaced. From the amount of blood soaking his shirt, he’d already lost more than what was necessary to keep a man on his feet.

“Where am I?” he asked, melting his weight into mine as I half carried him down the hall and into a spare room. An entire head taller than me, his chin rested on the top of my head while his bloody side stained the shoulder of my pale canvas smock.

“The best surgery this side of the Grand Canal. Did someone drop you off? A constable, perhaps?”

“I’m alone,” he murmured, inhaling a sharp breath. “Are you the surgeon, then?”

“I’m Nina,” I said. “The surgeon’s assistant. And you are?”

“Miserable,” he croaked.

“Nice to meet you.” I pulled him toward a bed, flicking on the lights over the stretcher in the middle of the room. “We need to get this coat off.”

“I can’t—”

“Then I’ll cut it off.”

“For essence’s sake.” He leaned a hip against the bed, beginning to peel the coat from his shoulders. “So eager to get me undressed.”

I was, if only for an opportunity to assess him with better visibility.

I stayed close, watching as his face contorted while he slowly shifted the heavy material down his arms. His hood fell back, revealing silver hair, damp and disheveled with sweat, that stuck to the nape of his neck.

That hair caught the light like quicksilver, falling in unruly layers to frame his temples.

His face was bruised, but that was not concerning for now.

High, angular cheekbones cast small shadows across his cheeks, joined in severity by the sharp bridge of his nose.

His mouth, however, softened the rest, with thin, expressive lips that tried to smile in the face of death.

Equal measure alluring and dangerous, his face reflected nature itself, like he’d been designed by a divine hand.

Broad shoulders tapered to a narrow waist along a lean frame. His dark shirt glistened in the gas lamp’s light, fresh blood leaking from a knife in his side.

“You’ve been stabbed! Why didn’t you say so?”

He looked down at the site, as if just realizing it for himself. His dark brows rose an inch. “I didn’t know it was still in there.”