Anatomy of the Immortal Species (Hospital for Immortal Creatures #2)

1

Building one’s reality on the perceptions of one’s five senses does not negate the existence of a world beyond them. Confinement within this illusion is a prison, but only for a mind that can see through it.

For the blind, it is bliss. What is unknown is harmless by default.

To behold a creature’s beauty, without recognising the rotten and poorly patched-up pieces of their soul, is a gift.

It had taken Constantine years to teach himself to feel pleasure without vomiting his guts out the moment he saw past the welcoming facade and into the true essence of a person.

Initially, he used to shut off his necromancer sight completely.

With time, he’d started taking little peeks, until in the end, his own soul had become so depraved that nothing could disgust him.

Not everything hidden is ugly, Constantine thought, leaving the underground parking lot . His lips twisted with the hint of a smile – his first one in days. Some souls’ inner light shone just as bright as their outward appearance. From those, he kept far away.

He drove across the yard, into the cold winter night.

The Hospital’s walls loomed behind him like the black wings of an angel of death.

The architectural monster rose above the mountain hills, slicing menacingly through the forest. With its two twenty-story-high wings, it had been fighting for the salvation of the immortal species during the last one-hundred-and-fifty years.

A magic shield hovered around the building, making it indiscernible to humans, encoding it in electromagnetic signals inherent only to the perception senses of the six immortal species.

As a representative of the nearly extinct necromancer species, Constantine had even better eyesight than the rest.

Had . Past tense. Until he’d run into that crazy witch Mada in Italy.

He slowed down, nearing the ten-foot-tall concrete wall with sharpened spikes – the central gate of the Hospital.

An unfamiliar guard opened it, and Constantine swooped down onto the snowy asphalt, weaving through the heart of the Vitosha Mountain.

The winter blizzard collided mercilessly against the thick tree trunks on both sides of the road, throwing heaps of snow at the SUV’s windshield and forcing Constantine to reduce his speed more often than usual.

It only added to his restlessness and he scanned his surroundings, on edge.

The mountain was home to various spirits, fairies and lesser beings, invisible to most creatures.

Some of them, Constantine could speak to; others, not.

His ability to connect with the souls of the dead was among his necromancer gifts, but it was his special skill – the consumption of souls – that the immortal world considered one of the most horrifying and disgusting acts.

Tonight, however, not a single spirit crossed his path, because Constantine couldn’t see. He perceived only what everyone else could – nothing more.

* **

The illusion of the five senses is, after all, the greatest advantage on Earth , Constantine thought when he entered The Seven Horses.

The excitement over the upcoming night was clear in the searching gazes and the taste of inevitable pleasure that filled the air. The crowd’s inferior energy both made him cringe and sent sweet chills down his spine.

In all of Sofia, The Seven Horses was the trashiest, most disgusting and desperate dump a creature could find themselves in.

Resting down on the leather couches soaked with various bodily fluids was an insult to Constantine’s pants – with their elegant black cut from the latest Fendi collection.

His silk shirt would bear the stink of cigarette smoke for days.

Even though he could no longer see the shadows of the deceased, he was certain none would linger in a place like this.

No self-respecting spirit would tolerate what modern humans called music – a disharmony of sounds to most immortal ears .

And while he specialised in all things demoralising, twisted and taboo in sex, the pornographic S&M performance of the two naked nymphs in the middle of the dance floor failed to stimulate his cock.

However, the slender brunette near the bar, dressed in provocative leather clothes, had potential.

Constantine reached for his drink and frowned.

The bourbon in his glass could serve for cleaning wounds at best, but nobody was here for the alcohol, anyway.

The immortal world had vices darker than drinking, and most creatures satisfied theirs at The Seven Horses.

No wonder Mikhail Korovin despised the club.

He feared its proximity to the Hospital would attract human attention and spent much of his resources ensuring that didn’t happen – or that when it did, it was taken care of.

It was why he’d sent Constantine to personally take care of the organ trade problem weeks ago.

Not that the club had suffered much since his last visit. As if to prove his point, the crowd of exalted creatures welcomed yet another manifestation of the DJ’s lack of taste.

Uninvited, a young vampire settled in Constantine’s booth. His unbuttoned beach shirt revealed pierced nipples. “What’s up, bro?”

“All good,” Constantine said.

“Hey, you don’t look too good, man. I know just the thing to perk you up.” The vampire opened his fist, revealing a little pill nestled in the middle of his palm.

“What is it?” Constantine arched an eyebrow. He had experimented with all sorts of trash in his long existence, but nothing could compare with his necromancer travels – those lifted him by taking him above and beyond the five senses.

“Psilocybin. It sends you to the seventh heaven, dude.”

“Been there. I’ll pass.”

“Something more traditional, then… Coke? Guaranteed quality. Mani says it’s the best.”

Constantine had no idea who Mani was, but he did know the owner of The Seven Horses well enough to recognise him. Nikolay the Righteous strolled past the central bar, surrounded by three of his guards.

Constantine looked down at Nikolay’s hands.

Regeneration had been painfully slow since 1744, leaving him with small, childlike hands – a detail that had earned him the nickname Babyhand, which most assuredly influenced his self-esteem as a mobster from the underground world.

Some might attribute his unpleasant persona to his two chopped-off hands, but in truth, the missing limbs were caused by said persona.

A scoundrel or not, Constantine needed him for the information he could provide.

Two of his guards stopped at the base of the staircase leading to the Righteous’ private lounge, while the third followed his boss up to his modern throne.

Constantine turned to the desperate vampire dealer. “How about I fuck you?”

The vampire jumped to his feet, eyes wide. “Dude, you got it all wrong! I’m into chicks!”

Constantine rose to his full height of nearly six-foot-six. The vampire, taking it as a prelude to the offer, vanished in a flash, leaving the scent of cheap perfume in his wake.

When the necromancer headed for the Righteous’ lounge, the two guards – lycanthropes resembling bears in tasteless clothes – moved to intercept him. Their boss noticed him and signalled for the guards to let him through.

Constantine climbed the steps under Nikolay’s squinting gaze and, without waiting for an invitation, settled onto the empty couch. The softness of the leather against his ass reminded him of the gentle hands of a Thai masseuse.

“As far as I remember, we had an arrangement that you’ll never set foot here again.

” The Righteous pointed his cigar at Constantine.

His Armani suit was impeccable, as was everything about the setting – the natural upholstery, the heavy table with solid wood legs, the Moet decanter, and the luxurious humidor.

Constantine smiled. “You said if you saw me again, you’d chop my head off, feed my brain to your dogs, and keep my skull to scare away the crows.”

The Righteous shook with laughter. “Is that what I said? I guess I wasn’t clear enough, since you’re here again.

” His smile disappeared in an instant behind the thick cloud of smoke the DJ gifted the crowd.

“Listen, necromancer, I did what you asked. I moved the market east. You’ve got three seconds to explain your presence. ”

The Righteous raised his better hand – the one that had regenerated faster – and began counting down. “Three seconds, necromancer. Time’s up.”

“Oh, come on. We know you don’t have the balls. You’re more about kissing ass than kicking it,” Constantine said, giving in to the temptation to tease him a little longer before getting to the point.

The Righteous took the bait. “I do what I have to survive. In business, humiliating yourself is sometimes necessary for the greater good. But a bastard like you”—he waved a hand in deprecation—“can’t know that kind of stuff. You’re just a servant.”

Constantine leaned back, making himself more comfortable. “If you want to keep surviving, I suggest you listen carefully. Your trashy dump has hosted individuals who know the reason behind the disrupted regeneration abilities of the immortal species.”

The Righteous rolled his eyes. “Sure. And these magical fairies also cured my hands.”

“I’m serious. These guys hired a vampire to deliver a box with a threatening message to the Hospital.”

“You don’t say. And by box, you mean containing that witch’s chopped-off head?”

“Kaliope Gazis,” the necromancer confirmed. “Her head was delivered in a box with a message in blood.”

The Righteous raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “I heard about that. She was the first murdered at the Hospital. Rumour has it, there was a second victim…?”

“A chambermaid.”

“I gather she was murdered by her boyfriend and best friend?”

Constantine nodded. “The official version.”