Spectacle(31)

Nathalie nodded and spoke in a solemn whisper. “Another victim. With her skull bashed.” She put her fingertips on Simone’s left temple. “Here.”

Simone mouthed a drawn-out “oh my,” and less than fifteen minutes later they were on a steam tram heading back to the morgue. As they stood in the queue, Nathalie told Simone about her visit to Aunt Brigitte.

“Sometimes I wonder if those visions, the things my aunt claims she saw, were … I don’t know. Real.” Nathalie was relieved to share this thought, at last, with another person.

“You’ve told me stories about your visits,” said Simone, a note of skepticism in her voice. “The woman who said she was painting a mural but she’d stabbed herself and smeared the blood across the wall. And that time a lady ran around shouting that the devil was chasing her and wanted to make her his bride. And a hundred other examples, not to mention your aunt’s behavior.”

This was true. Before her morgue visions, Nathalie was dismissive of the things Tante said and did. The ramblings of a crazy woman.

She reddened, ashamed of the reminder. “Lately I’ve been thinking it might be different with my aunt.”

“Why? Because of your own visions?”

Nathalie adjusted the brim of her cap. “I don’t know. I’m trying to figure that out.”

“As sad as it is, remember that your aunt and those other people, they’re locked up for a reason.” Simone’s tone was kinder than her words, which made them easier to take. “Most of them end up on the street or in the asylum because they can’t tell the difference between imagination and reality.”

Nathalie frowned.

What makes you so sure?

Simone had never met Aunt Brigitte. She only “knew” her through whatever Nathalie shared. Nathalie turned away. “How do you know I don’t belong in there myself?”

“Because you’re you,” Simone said, taking Nathalie gently by the chin. “Practical, smart, and, whether you like it or not, perfectly sane. A little weird and silly at times, but sane.”

She answered with a bittersweet smile. Simone didn’t know she’d stumbled on an uncomfortable truth. Nathalie knew from Papa’s stories, and even her earlier memories, that Tante hadn’t always been this way.

When did that moment happen, the shift from sanity to madness? Where was that final step, and did Aunt Brigitte know it was coming?

Would I?

The guard waved them inside, interrupting her thoughts. Simone patted her on the back as they crossed the threshold.

She was keen to touch the viewing pane, but Simone took more time to study the corpses than expected. Nathalie had to remind herself that what had become normal for her was still a spectacle for Simone.

Still a spectacle.

“These poor girls. Each one suffers more than the last.” Simone stroked the viewing pane as if it were Céleste’s cheek.

For a moment, Nathalie envied her for being able to touch the glass that way. No choice, no consequence. Just touching glass because it was there, a barrier between life and death.

Simone faced her. “I’m ready when you are.”

Nathalie hesitated, fidgeting with the waist of her trousers. The scenes were in reverse, so would she speak backward? Demons spoke backward. That’s what she’d read somewhere, anyway.

Louis had guessed that devil worshippers might be involved. Until they knew the Dark Artist’s motives, nothing could be ruled out.

Then a thought chilled her. This isn’t some kind of possession, is it?

She shook off the unwelcome thoughts and extended her hand, watching her fingertips meet the viewing pane. One breath later she was in the vision, looking down at two blood-spattered, white-gloved hands that were too big and powerful to be hers. And yet somehow they were.

The backward scene went from bloody to bloodless as the killer chiseled the victim’s face. Steady, powerful strokes. This time Nathalie did more than see it. She felt the blade rip.

Everything continued in reverse. The knife disappeared. The girl’s head bounced up like a ball into the killer’s hands, then he tilted her to the side to inspect a deep wound on her temple. He pushed her toward the corner of a decorative wooden table and lifted her head in a swift, violent motion. The victim’s eyes, full of tears, met his the moment before her death.

Then Nathalie was once again in the viewing room of the morgue.

Simone took her hand. “What happened?”

“I—he threw her down into the corner of a table,” said Nathalie, her voice hoarse. “That’s what killed her, so the slashes came after she was dead. And he was wearing white gloves.”

“Knifing her after she was dead,” said Simone, shaking her head. “How barbaric.”

Nathalie took her hand out of Simone’s. “I can’t believe I didn’t realize this all along. I’m not just watching like an outside observer. I’m not looking over the shoulder of the murderer. I’m seeing it through the eyes of the killer himself. And—and now I’m feeling it.”

Nathalie shuddered. She’d rather have a thousand spiders on her body than have that feeling again.

Simone exhaled the way people do before delivering bad news. “Now it makes sense. The way you spoke, as if you were him. Inside him, almost.”

Nathalie’s stomach tightened. Somehow she was closer to the vision, more aligned with the murderer, than ever before.