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I continue to make progress toward the forensic team, in the hope of finally discovering what happened to Ember and, above all, how to reverse the effects.
“How should I know?” demands the first voice.
“Let's go back over the chronology,” suggests the one I imagine to be an assistant.
“Let's hear it.”
“According to the report, the squadron lured our subject into an ambush, immobilized him, froze his gifts, and cast the death spell on him.”
“That's it.” The first nods, taut as a string. “Three spells in a row.”
How can anyone remain so calm in the face of such a violent enumeration? Ember was framed and murdered!
“Stripped of his psyche and magic, a prisoner of our world, his body, which had adopted its human form for the encounter, remained captive. Strange. I'd have thought his flesh would have spontaneously turned into... you know.”
“It's a step I can't quite explain myself, to tell you the truth. Not all creatures are shapeshifters, you know. For some, a transformation spell is required to subject them to the—”
“Sin Eaters. I was just getting to that. The report is silent on the subject. Do you know more?”
“The Brotherhood commissioned one of its own. A woman, if I understood correctly.”
“So, he was freed of his sins, transported to the morgue, and returned to the abbey. Is this correct?”
“Absolutely. Nothing abnormal, then.”
“Nothing. And yet, the situation suffices to demonstrate the contrary.”
They fall silent for a moment.
“Do you believe he's still here?” the assistant asks thoughtfully.
“I don't believe anything. This situation is completely beyond me. With the exception of the state of his remains, there's nothing to indicate that the procedure failed. In fact, there's every reason to believe that it had the desired effect. That said, we mustn't discount this hypothesis, as he could well be out there...”
“How have we managed to keep him away from his body so far?”
“Like the abbey, his body is protected by a repulsive enchantment, materialized by these blessed stones. Perhaps, in his case, this is what is interfering with his firm and definitive death.”
“But if I follow your demonstration, if we take them off, he's liable to repossess it! So there's no way we can't use them!” rages the young monk, suddenly frightened.
“I'm afraid we've reached a dead end...”
So much the better!
I keep moving forward, but just as I'm about to duck behind a cupboard, I stumble. To avoid crashing headfirst into the doors, I hold out my hands. I escape mashing my brain but fail to conceal my fall against the metal panels, which resonate under the dome, alerting the forensic monks, whom I hear leaping simultaneously from their armchairs.
“Sound the alarm!”
After the hanging shreds, I came across a charred body in its car, its bloody tattoo exposed on the asphalt just ahead. Then it was the turn of the crucified man on a bridge, the decapitated man sitting on a park bench—charming, by the way—and, finally, the suicidal man thrown from a building who crashed at my feet. What they all had in common was that they all died horrific deaths. What's more, their tattoos had been ripped from their arms and put on display, like a signature.
An unambiguous warning.
What's even more astonishing is that these abominable acts have never been mentioned in the media, and that law enforcement agencies don't seem to be any the wiser.
Presumably, they were asked to turn a blind eye to these few specific cases.
It's reassuring to know that we're protected by corrupt police officers who can be bought for a handful of euros or a few grams of drugs, as the case may be. It doesn't really surprise me. I've never really liked these people, most of whom delight in abusing what little power they have.
With each new body, I'm off like the wind, without a second thought. I always fear that the sponsors are still on site, precisely to observe the demonstrations of any sympathizers.
