CHAPTER 42
T he cadaver entrance was an old, brick tunnel with two points of entry.
The door outside the university gate, which would’ve left me dealing with the tyrannical gatekeeper and made the whole point of remaining unseen pointless.
Or the door leading to the incinerator room that was connected to the cadaver tunnel.
Neither entrance had cameras. Both were creepy as hell, particularly at night.
A chill wracked my body, as I walked through the open space, carrying nothing more than the flashlight on my phone.
To the left stood six steel doors, like old ovens, and beneath them, smaller sliding doors, which I guessed held the flames used to burn the bodies.
A charred ash scent on the air told me one had been used recently.
Casting that thought to the back of my mind, I hustled through the room to a full-sized door, which spat me into the halfway mark of the cadaver tunnel--an arched brick tunnel, the ends of which were shrouded in darkness, like something out of a horror movie.
The temperature inside the tunnel had to have been ten degrees cooler, the crisp bite of cold gnawing on my bones.
A few more feet ahead, and the tunnel opened onto the autopsy room, with its stainless-steel beds, sinks, scales and white tiled floors, and a steel door to the left that led to the refrigerator, where med school cadavers were stored.
If possible, the room was even colder than the tunnel with a sterile bleach scent that burned my sinuses and overpowered the faint whiff of formalin.
I only vaguely remembered the path based on the quick introduction I’d gotten when Professor Bramwell had whisked me out of there earlier that morning. The cells where I’d awakened were down some other obscure tunnel that I probably couldn’t have found again, if I’d tried.
I kept on through the autopsy room, to the lab door, where I punched in a code he’d given me on the keypad beside it.
A red light on the keypad flicked to green, and the door clicked, allowing me to push through into a wide-open space, with wooden benches and microscopes, stacked books, and walls of bookshelves.
Candles flickered in lanterns and large hurricanes throughout the room, and like in the Midnight Lab, tanks around the room gave off a soft purple glow.
I passed one that housed dozens of worms squirming across the tank floor—far more than those in the lab upstairs.
Rows of shelves housed specimen jars in which unidentifiable objects sat suspended in what I presumed to be formalin.
Amidst the old, outdated echoes of a lab from the 1800’s were a few modern amenities sprinkled in–two large steel refrigerators, a centrifuge, incubators, scales and fume hoods.
A strange clash of old and new that left me scratching my head.
Surely, the university could’ve afforded to outfit such an important project, particularly given the extravagant gala I’d just attended.
Professor Bramwell breezed through the door at the other end of the lab, which led to his office, wearing a long, white lab coat, and a pair of goggles cocked up on his head.
On seeing me, he skidded to a stop. The frown on his face gave me the impression that he hadn’t actually expected me to show up.
I cleared my throat, wearing a sheepish smile, and waved.
Grumbling to himself, he kept on toward one of the benches, and as I stepped in that direction to follow him, he pointed toward the door from where he’d just come. “My office.”
Nerves humming with intimidation, I obeyed his command and made my way toward his office.
Through the door, I came upon another small corridor, with three closed doors and one ajar.
At the end of the hallway flashed an exit sign, which I guessed led to the staircase that opened up on the midnight lab above us–a much more sophisticated laboratory.
With curious steps, I entered the moderately-sized office, where the scent of leather, polished wood, and old books mingled on the air along with the mouthwatering echoes of his cologne.
If the lab was the heartbeat of his research, this room was the brain, given all of the medical and parasitology references that lined the bookshelves on each wall.
Sketches of human anatomy lay scattered on the coffee table as I sauntered past it.
My gaze fawned over the exquisitely carved, cherrywood desk gleaming in the dim light.
Behind it, a vintage-looking record player in a wooden cabinet sat with the lid cocked open.
And above that, on the wall hung a plaque with the Latin phrase: Mortui vivos docent .
I recognized it from a forensics class I’d taken two semesters ago.
The dead teach the living.
Unlike his office in the admin wing, this one held more amenities, which gave the impression he spent more time here–a small refrigerator, a leather couch and ottoman with a blanket draped over the arm, a small fireplace radiating a cozy warmth, and a standing coat rack where an umbrella had been hooked.
Like the lab, his office held skulls of various sizes, jars of strange objects–dissected organs and bones, from what I could make out.
A full-sized human skeleton stood propped on a stand.
Books claimed space everywhere I looked in perfect stacks.
Two microscopes. Candles flickering in large hurricanes.
Something brushed across my ankles, and on a panicked jolt, I leapt onto Professor Bramwell’s desk.
Twisting around showed a black little furball staring up at me with golden eyes.
I blew out a relieved breath and chuckled, climbing off the desk.
“Hello there,” I said, kneeling down to give the cat a pet.
“What the heck are you doing in a lab?” I frowned the moment the words escaped me.
“He better not be experimenting on you.” The cat leaned into the scratching, and I smiled, indulging the attention-loving rascal.
“Strange, he doesn’t strike me as a cat person. ”
Footsteps alerted me to his approach, and I abandoned the cat and scurried toward one of the chairs at his desk, plopping down just before he entered the room.
Crossing toward his desk, Professor Bramwell removed his lab coat and goggles, hung them neatly on the coat rack, and slid into his chair.
The tight fit of his dress shirt certainly didn’t go unnoticed, as he sat forward, resting his elbow on the desktop.
With an unreadable expression, he stared at me for a moment.
“I understand you spoke with Dean Langmore.”
“I did.”
“What did you tell him?”
I shifted in my seat, because the man’s gaze felt like hot laser beams across my skin. “That you tried to help me, but I ran off. Humiliated for having thrown up in your car.”
“To the church, I presume.”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Leaning back in his chair, he steepled his fingers, not bothering to direct his laser beams somewhere else. “You’ll don a lab coat every time you enter the lab. I’ll be sure to have them available to you in the autopsy room. Gloves and goggles are also required.”
“Okay. Can I ask you a question?”
Though he didn’t make a sound, his unamused expression told me he was inwardly groaning.
“Why does this lab look like something out of the dark ages?”
“The specimens you’ve worked with in the midnight lab are newly infected.
Those in this lab are in the tertiary phase and happen to have a rather intense sensitivity to light.
We’ll also be working with adult Noctisoma, which also possesses a very intense aversion to anything that isn’t natural light. ”
“They can survive in sunlight, then?”
“They can , although they’re nocturnal and prefer night.” His comment brought an observation to mind.
“My mother, she hardly slept at night. Do you think the worms affected that?”
“I have no idea what may have caused your mother’s insomnia, seeing as you claim she wasn’t from the island, or had never been here, but yes, they can affect circadian rhythms. As for the outdated state of the lab, I’ve plenty of equipment in the three other labs throughout this building.
I’d much prefer to concentrate funds into the actual study versus giving this particular lab a makeover. It suits its purpose.”
Definitely touchy about the lab. “Of course. I meant no disrespect.” The labs upstairs were certainly well-equipped, I just hadn’t expected to be working in a crypt. Probably fitting, though, for a moniker like Doctor Death.
“Have you ever worked in a lab outside of your degree requirements?” he asked.
“Um. Briefly. A mycology lab when I first graduated high school. It was basically just counting spores through a microscope.”
“Then, perhaps you have a very basic understanding of lab etiquette and safety.”
Except for the times my colleague and I would spray down the bench tops with alcohol that we ultimately lit on fire. “Sure.”
“No food or drink. Practice good hygiene. Do not sniff, or taste. And, for God’s sake, don’t use your mouth as a pipette.”
“No one actually does that. Do they?”
Brow cocked, he let out a sound of exasperation and reached for a to-go cup on his desk, with the infamous gold dragon label of the Dragon’s Lair coffee shop.
“I’ll also have you assist in the occasional autopsy.
Do you have any experience with cadavers, Miss Vespertine?
” He kept his eyes on mine as he sipped his drink.
“No.”
“Then, you will follow my every direction without a fuck-ton of questions. I like quiet when I work. Observe, and you will learn.”
“Yessir.”
“I will give you two hours each night. You will be compensated in cash, as requested.”
I scratched the curious itch at back of my neck. “May I ask what the compensation will be?”
“Two hundred dollars a week. You will clean dishes and keep the lab tidy. You will not nose around.”