The Final Descent (The Monstrumologist #4)(58)

“He’ll burn in hell for this.”

“What? Have you not been listening? Where did Sir Hiram find you, anyway? If you want to fiddle with notions of heaven and hell, get thee to a seminary! The world is round, Isaacson: a ball, not a plate. If something should happen while I am occupied upstairs tomorrow, you are not to force the issue, do you understand? I shall decide if and when to end her misery. Now take this sample to the curator’s office and prepare the slides. I’ll be there directly.”

I ducked between two stacks of crates and pressed my body deep into the narrow space. Isaacson hurried past; I glimpsed his face screwed up with worry and fear, a syringe loaded with blood clutched in his hand. Now there was silence but for the feverish moans.

“There, there.” Warthrop’s voice broke through, oddly tender. “It comes in waves. This too shall pass.”

And now a quiet sobbing, hopeless and heart-wrenching. Then Warthrop again: “Here, hold this. When the next wave hits, squeeze as hard as you can; it will help. I won’t be long . . .”

I held my breath as he emerged. He walked with his shoulders rounded, his head down, like a man bearing a thousand-pound burden.

Then I stepped out from my hiding place and hurried to the open doorway. I knew what I would find. I knew who Warthrop’s patient must be. There was only one female in the entire world who would venture into the Monstrumarium. She must not have gotten on that ship after all. And she must have found Warthrop’s precious “prize.” Or it had found her. Evil, evil. There seemed to be no limit to his unintentional cruelty. Another victim in his wake. Another sacrifice upon the altar of his unbounded ambition.

A layer of old blankets covered a long, waist-high dissection table. A smaller table had been set at one end, upon which a bowl of hot water steamed. Beside the bowl an array of instruments, vials, and two syringes, one empty, the other loaded with an amber-colored liquid. A large bucket marked HANDLE WITH CARE—CAUSTIC sat in the corner. Sulfuric acid was an indispensable tool in aberrant biology, used primarily for stripping bones to prepare them for study and for cleaning instruments.

A sheet lay crumpled upon the floor next to the drain used to carry runoff of blood and body fluids into the city sewers. She must have kicked off the sheet in her distress, and I saw that she was naked, and sweat glimmered on her exposed flesh; it pasted her dark hair to her scalp; it pooled in the hollow between her br**sts. She was clutching a rubber ball, Warthrop’s parting gift, and she squeezed it rhythmically, as if to keep time with music only she could hear.

I stepped closer. Drawn. Repulsed. She was covered head to toe with splotches of red, a patchwork quilt of inflamed skin; in the center of the angry white boils glistened like the chrysalis in the basement, on the brink of hatching. I recognized what this was. I knew what she suffered from.

Drawn, repulsed: closer . . . closer.

Her eyes rolled back in her head. Her dark lashes fluttered. Her delicate, childlike features were clear of boils, but I knew what monster lurked just beneath the surface. I knew what was in her.

The same was in me.

Would you like to try?

What I would really like is something indescribably euphoric—orgasmic, for lack of a better word.

You will like it.

I stumbled backward, and my mind recoiled as well. A black roaring tide smashed into my chest, stopping my heart. The most chaste of kisses. The most chaste of kisses! From a great distance, as the dark tide drove me into suffocating depths, I could hear someone wailing: Someone’s soul was being torn in half. It was mine. It was not mine. Faceless thing, nameless thing, thing that dances in the flames.

And then I smack into his chest, and he wraps his long arms around me, and there is his face overwhelming my vision, filling it to the last centimeter, dark eyes in pale death mask, Mihos, the guardian, but he is too late to save me: I’ve fallen over the edge; my corruption chews on the last of my bones. No room no place no point in mercy or forgiveness or sorrow or any human thing. Just the weeping chrysalis and the perfection of the ancient call, the overarching imperative contained in the most chaste of kisses.

THREE

“I am not a physician,” the monstrumologist said. “I am a philosopher. But her mother dragged me into the sickroom regardless. No, no, I said, I have come for the boy, only the boy. But she was a mother and her child was sick and, after I examined the girl, I asked her how long she’d been sick and what were her symptoms, and I suspected—I did not know, of course—the underlying cause of her distress. It posed a serious conundrum. If allowed to run its course, her affliction could result in a wildfire of infection: her sister, her mother, the denizens of the opium joint. From there it might spread throughout the entire city before the outbreak could be contained. She could not go to the hospital—the risk of a serious outbreak was only marginally slighter there. Was it arawakus? I did not know. But better to err on the side of caution.

“Undoubtedly she is infected. There is nothing to be done, as you know, beyond making her comfortable. I’ve been giving her morphine and treating the boils with hot cloths. There is little left of her mind; the organism has infiltrated her cerebral cortex. I don’t believe she knows where she is or what is happening to her, and that is a mercy. A mercy.

“I must confess I am torn. Keeping her alive only prolongs her suffering. Only pushes off for another hour the final agony. What do I choose? Is it even my choice to make? I am not God. I act the part at times. I place the mantle upon my shoulders and each time I pay. I pay! Your father loved me, and that love cost him his life, cost you yours in a way that is somehow more terrible. Unendurable pain, Will Henry, unrelieved and unredeemed. This poor girl upon this makeshift altar, this virginal sacrifice, and I the heretical priest who would spill her blood to appease a voracious god!