CHAPTER SIX #2
Every part of the unfortunate nun was weighed and measured.
Samples were scraped and collected from beneath her fingernails, off of her skin.
Hairs were plucked from her head and catalogued.
A strange silvery substance was taken from that shimmering ring around her neck.
Tiny pebbles and crystalline shards had been extracted from where they’d been embedded in her scraped knees.
All her blood and bodily fluids were placed in jars and vials.
It was grotesque, but everything was considered a potential clue which could lead them to her killer.
The coroner had exclaimed over each finding in a particularly gleeful fashion that had left Keen unsettled.
“The organs weigh less than half what they should. Why, her heart is as light as a feather!” Virchow had said this while hefting said heart in his palm, as if it were a melon he was intending to purchase.
Tasting bile, Keen had asked, “Have you seen anything like this before?”
“Only once,” the doctor admitted, a line etched between his brows. “Long ago, in New Savage. Only demons of immense strength manage to drain the very essence of their victims. It’s what killed her, I’m afraid. No human weapon touched this woman.”
Drained of her essence? Her very soul, if Viridian were to be believed.
And if that revelation hadn’t been bad enough, they’d also discovered Catarine’s tongue had been torn out, not just cut out. Virchow had announced this grim discovery as if his sandwich had come with extra pickles.
“Torn out by a very strong and determined sort,” he’d murmured, fingers deep in Catarine’s wide open mouth.
He’d pushed down her jaw so Keen could see, and the sight would haunt him to the end of his days.
“The tongue is a particularly tough muscle. Smart move, really. Knives leave marks we can trace.”
I’m working with ghouls.
Keen shuddered as he came back to himself beneath a clear sky and a bright sun.
His first day on the job had been rather eventful so far.
And now he had to return to his old alma mater.
Oh, he’d known the nun was a teacher at Clementine Preparatory; it just hadn’t occurred to him that he would need to set foot on campus so soon.
Not on his first day. And yet here he was, walking down the familiar street beneath the shade of huge, graceful elms, approaching the wrought-iron gates of his old school feeling like he was walking back in time.
Nothing had changed. Not the stone arch emblazoned with the school’s name nor the brick pillars and yew hedges stretching along the walls.
Except… were they taller, perhaps? It had been some time, after all.
How many years now? Five? No, six years since he’d last walked down this flagstone pathway, beneath the welcoming arch.
Alone now rather than in a flow of classmates. A surreal moment.
But even then he’d been alone, isolated from the others by class and wealth or, rather, the lack of it.
They’d looked down on him for his shabby shoes and the secondhand uniform someone’s older brother had left behind for “needy” students.
He could almost hear the derisive snickering poorly hidden behind elegant, soft hands which had never known a day of roughness, an hour of want, a moment of need.
Beyond the gateway, inside a manicured courtyard, stood a statue of Saint Clementine dressed as a novitiate of the order she would found, one emphasizing the importance of knowledge and study.
The original school had occupied the small chapel now relegated to the outskirts of campus, now used only by the older nuns. On the plinth was the school’s motto:
Service. Community. Devotion.
A worthy maxim. Clementine’s stone eyes were lifted toward heaven, her palm raised for a benediction from the Goddess.
On one of her shoulders sat a stone-carved crow – a creature known for its intelligence – while around her feet curled two serpents, representing demonic forces, both squashed beneath her simple sandals.
As he passed by the statue, Oleander gazed up at its benign face, remembering how he’d taken comfort in this faithful servant of the Goddess, one so lowly and poor yet who had risen to impossible heights.
Saint Clementine had started out as a mystic and a poet, an itinerant preacher, then became revered mother of the Clementine order, with thousands of adherents.
They’d even bestowed an archbishopric upon her just before her death and then canonized her for her many miracles.
Her story had inspired young Oleander, filling him with ambition and religious fervor, and he’d vowed back then to follow a righteous path, to do good works and rise above his station.
He was bright, a quick-witted lad full of potential – it was how he’d earned a scholarship in the first place – and with such gifts, anything might be possible.
Armed now with a blunderbuss, a fine sword and a calling, he let himself experience a swelling of pride.
Not too much, of course. That was no way for a righteous man to act.
A demonhunter’s life was about service, not accolades.
But he settled a hand on his saber’s hilt and stood a little straighter as he strode along the path, confident in his abilities and secure in his status.
He was here as a representative of a prestigious organization, a respected professional.
Not the most lucrative of callings, maybe, but one deserving of respect, even admiration.
The entrance, however, daunted him. Memories flooded his mind, not all of them pleasant.
Honestly, most of them were in fact un pleasant.
He grasped the cold iron door handle, the interior concealed by the bright sunshine reflecting off the leaded-glass panes, and hesitated.
Would anyone inside remember him? Would they see the boy he’d been in the man he’d become?
His pause was brief – a calming breath. Then he opened the door.
It was cool in the old building, much cooler than outside, where false summer had trampled on the belly of autumn.
Judging by the emptiness of the hallways, classes must have been in session.
In front of him stood the grand staircase to the second floor, leading to the math and science classrooms, the administration offices and the nurses’ station.
To his left, down and around the corner, was literature and art, history and the cafeteria.
To the right stretched a long passageway to the gymnasium.
Every inch of the place felt familiar and strange all at once.
The stillness raised gooseflesh on his arms. There was a sense of dread in the air, a gloom that was palpable. Not surprising, perhaps, considering a beloved teacher had just been found murdered.
His footsteps echoed on the polished floorboards as he made his way down the hall, muscle memory directing him.
The entrance to the quad was at the end of the east wing, right past the classroom where he’d taken ethics.
The cloisters were on the other side of the quad.
His partner would still be there, hopefully.
“Excuse me, good sir! The campus is closed to visitors.”
He turned. A young woman was hurrying down the hallway toward him dressed in a neat gray frock, a white headscarf holding back sleek black hair and a white apron pinned to her front – a nurse, if he had to guess.
He froze, staring. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes rimmed red as if she’d been weeping, but that wasn’t what caught him in a vise.
Years vanished and he was a boy again, watching the girl he’d adored approach him with a look of need in her eyes, as if he were a hero come to save the day.
He was , Goddess bless him. He was a first-rank DH. He was someone. He wasn’t that awkward boy from so long ago, fat and ashamed. He snapped his heels together and gave her a bow, taking the opportunity to stare at the floor and gather his wits.
“Ma’am,” he said briskly, straightening. “DH First Rank Keen at your service. I am here on official business.”
“Oh, praise the Branch,” she cried, coming to a stop very close to him, hands reaching out as if she might clutch his arm. “You’ve come just in time. The inspector is with the… the body. It’s so awful! Everyone is beside themselves with shock!”
The body? He blinked. “Please forgive me. I don’t… Are you saying there’s been another death?”
“There’s been a terrible accident,” she said, tears glistening in her cornflower eyes. “A student has fallen from the clock tower. I was… I was nearby when it happened. I tried to help, but…” Her voice choked off.
Oleander felt a wave of sympathy, and his heart skipped.
He wanted to hold her, to comfort this petite woman with shining hair and perfect skin.
Not a nun, but a nurse. Strangely, this pleased him immensely.
Abigail Primm. Abby. The girl he’d watched from afar.
So bright and lively and fun. Everyone had loved Abby, especially him, an outcast boy from the wrong side of the tracks.
She’d been kind to him and decent like so few of his classmates, casting him the occasional smile, complimenting him on an exceptional grade, asking for his help with her studies.
“I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“Of course not.” She waved off his apology.
“I’m the one who’s sorry. It’s been such a terrible time lately.
First Cat, and now poor Cassie.” Her face scrunched prettily, and her hand went to her trembling lips, ruby red and plump.
But in a flash, she gave him a brave smile and pulled herself together.
“The students have been gathered for prayer in the cathedral. That’s why it’s so quiet.
I’ll take you to the inspector, DH… Keen, you said? ”
He nodded, his eyes pinned on her. Did she not remember him? Disappointment swelled in his breast, but then–
“Wait. Keen? Are you… I think I might– Oh, my! Charity Keen!” she exclaimed suddenly, brightly. “It’s you, isn’t it? Do you remember me? I’m Abigail!”
His good feelings vanished, swept away like so much dross before a bitter crest of emotion: pain, embarrassment, hatred. Flames beat at his cheeks, and he knew his ears had gone red. “I do remember you,” he said, his voice hard. “But my name is Oleander.”
Her happy expression faltered. “Oh, I know. Sorry, really. I thought you preferred your nickname.” Her fair cheeks flushed red, and she lifted a hand to her mouth again, looking flustered. “I didn’t mean to insult you, DH Keen. Please forgive my rudeness.”
Instantly, he softened. He understood she hadn’t meant to be cruel; he’d just hated that name so much.
Poor Ollie the scholarship kid, the charity case.
He didn’t belong and everyone made sure he knew it.
His time at Clementine Prep had been some of the worst years of his life, and being here in these gilded halls brought back every miserable memory.
But she had never done anything to hurt him.
It wasn’t fair to take out his anger on Abigail.
“No, I must beg forgiveness, Lady. My reaction was uncalled for. I know you meant no disrespect. It just shocked me to hear that old nickname again.” He forced a laugh. “Reminds me of how old I’ve gotten, right?”
She shook her head. “I should know better than to call a grown man – a distinguished officer, no less – by his childhood moniker!”
“Really, it’s no bother. I really never minded when you called me Charity, Miss Primm.”
It was true. And it was altogether too apparent in his tone. He bit down, teeth grinding, wondering if he’d revealed too much of his feelings.
“Oh, please call me Abigail. We’re old friends, after all.
” She reached out to take his hand and an electric thrill passed through him.
So this was what it was like to bask in her attention.
He’d never experienced it as a youth. She’d been kind, yes, but in a distant sort of way, breezy and distracted.
His heart swelled. This was now, and he was so different.
A successful man. A man , not a boy. He squeezed her hand companionably, forgetting the real reason he was there – to deliver his report to Inspector Viridian – and letting himself experience a moment of hope.
She was as lovely as she’d ever been. Perhaps–
“And it is Mrs Hollander, now, DH Keen,” she said as she released his hand and crushed his heart simultaneously.
Hollander? Goddess, he knew that name. Dirk Hollander had been his tormentor, his nemesis. The boy who’d made his life a living hell. Fucking Dirk Hollander had married Abigail Primm? The sweetest, kindest, loveliest girl in school?
For a moment, he decided the Goddess did not exist and the world was a joke. Let the demons have it.
“You married Dirk?” he blurted before he could stop himself. And every bitter feeling he’d ever had painted those words.
“I did,” she replied, pulling back. She straightened her apron. “He’s joined his father in the family business. Hadn’t you heard? We’ve all grown up quite a lot.” Her tone held a mild rebuke.
He searched for a response. Dirk had been an unremarkable student, yet he’d attended one of the top universities in the Fifth District.
The “family business” was selling rifles and cannon to the military – very lucrative.
The Primms were one of the oldest and most respected families in Havenside, but Hollander wealth dwarfed their meager fortune.
Money always made for a good match, but it had never occurred to him that Abby would care about such things.
She’d always talked about how she might serve the Goddess best. Becoming a nurse was a commendable calling, but marrying someone like Dirk? It was flabbergasting.
All he could think of was the time he’d managed to best Dirk at fencing. That miserable monster had waited for him after school and beaten him bloody.
Oleander opened his mouth, trying to find something nice to say as she grew uncomfortable, her eyes seeking a way out of this conversation.
They were saved by the appearance of Revered Mother Francesca.
Oleander recognized her immediately and it was all he could do not to hunch inside himself as he would have done years ago.
Only the urgency of her steps, her white face and panicky expression kept him composed. His training asserting itself. Danger .
“Demonhunter!” she cried. “Come at once. That accursed nun has gone mad. She’s whirling like the Devil and has called the flames of Hell to Earth!”