Page 13 of Her Creation

She lifted her surprised gaze to see her father studying her, waiting for her acknowledgment. “There’s no need to apologize, Papa. You haven’t been sleeping well. Perhaps the laudanum will help restore you tonight,” she said calmly. “What happened to this man? Do you know?”

“Yes, he was a killer, a deserter, and a man without allegiance,” Alphonse said as he leaned against the wall to stabilize himself, looking more drained than ever.

“He’s…huge, the biggest man I’ve ever seen. I didn’t even know men of this size existed. His shoulders are almost too broad for the table; however did you find him?”

Alphonse let out a tired breath. “People apparently knew him as the Wraith of Serbia. A monster that a Russian prison was more than willing to part with for a decent sum of money.”

“The Wraith of Serbia?” Victoria repeated softly as her eyes combed over the eight-foot-tall man. “How could anyone of this size be considered a wraith?” A disbelieving laugh left her throat.

“He is exactly the reason why the subject of our experiment cannot remain alive long after their resurrection, and we will never perform it again. He was a monster and apparently a very, very talented one. A paid killer. No allegiance, just whoever paid the most. Apparently he was unstoppable and undetectable. Countries, kings, everyone used him knowing he would never get caught. I guess Russia, his homeland, wanted his allegiance, and when he would not give it, they disposed of him. The men who dropped it off seemed to be frightened of the man’s presence even after death.” Alphonse took a step forward to peer at the cadaver’s bludgeoned and burned face.

Victoria appraised the same face, and the curve of her mouth turned downward. “He doesn’t look very fearsome to me. Also not much of a wraith. Look at what they did to his face. They burned and beat him? If the killer was unseen, how could they know for sure this was him?”

Alphonse watched Victoria in silence for a moment, as if debating how much information he ought to tell her. “They said he moved unseen—”

“It hardly looks as if that were true,” Victoria mumbled as she leaned closer to the cadaver’s face and reached out slowly to touch the bubbled skin of his indented cheekbone.

Alphonse scowled. “You must put your lace gloves on. I don’t know why, but the thought of you being so carefree, touching it without hand coverings, bothers my mind.”

Victoria straightened with a prickle of irritation. She wanted to shout that he touched bodies all the time without gloves, that she had been dissecting pickled hearts and brains without such measures, but the soft sting that still lingered on her cheek stayed her tongue. “You wish me to wear a pair of my good gloves every time I work on this man? The lace would be stained and ruined by the evening.”

The wrinkles around Alphonse’s eyes relaxed. “I know, but I must insist, even with a lack of good reasoning.”

Victoria pulled the smooth skin of her cheek between her teeth until it pinched and pulled her from the numbness. “I can hardly be precise; I will be completely undexterous with gloves on,” she protested carefully.

“As a surgeon, I agree. As a father, I cannot agree with how your pure and innocent hands will be marred with touching a man so closely as will be necessary, even in a setting such as this. I will have Marta in town make several pairs of fitted black gloves that you may wash. For now, wear the pair you left here.” He moved into her space and reached high upon a small shelf and pulled down a pair of white lace gloves.

“I have been looking all over for these. Helena gave them to me. I will not ruin these!”

Her father shrugged, looking more tired by the second. The laudanum seemed to be taking effect. “Then I will finish the external assessment tomorrow, and we will both go to bed.”

“No.” Victoria cut in sharply. She didn’t want to leave the man lying on the table, not yet. “I—I believe they were old. I will use them.” She took the gloves and held them tightly to her chest as if they might fall away or be stolen back. “You look as though you may finally get some sleep? Go. I will finish here.”

“Can you handle the assessment on your own? Log everything that you find that needs fixing. It’s late. Do external tonight, and tomorrow you may cut into it and assess internally.”

She nodded. “Yes, of course, get some rest. I will see you tomorrow.”

“Oh,” he said, turning around after he had walked toward the stairs. “Roll the table into the chamber when you are finished.”

She turned from where she had looked at the cadaver, back to her father, expressionless. He spoke about the man as if he were a coat, tossed back in the closet and out of sight until he was needed again. “Yes.” She nodded. “Be mindful on the staircase,” she said automatically.

He grunted his agreement. “Wear the gloves, Victoria.”

Once she heard the heavy click of the door latching and was all alone, her hands quickly pressed into the itchy fabric of the white gloves and collected her notebook. She opened it, cracking the spine so that it would remain open, and uncorked her well of ink. Her hands trembled with exhaustion and anticipation, and the small glass jar of ink tipped onto her black dress, but instead of cleaning it, she found herself transfixed by the beautiful man lying dead in front of her. Something about him reminded her of the spider she’d saved earlier—mysterious and certainly misunderstood. How could something this beautiful not be? Despite the terrible things her father had said the man had done, a part of Victoria wondered why he’d done these horrible things. Had they stemmed from a place of good? The stray freckle and scar told stories she longed to hear—maybe she would. She was confident she would bring him back to life. Then she could learn everything about the man. Perhaps with some reconstructive work, she could make the new scars less noticeable. She couldn’t imagine how beautiful he would be with his burns and lacerations cleaned up. Already, she felt like an insect caught in the man’s web. There was an odd feeling of protection already forming for the cadaver.

“Agh!” she cried out in frustration. Her eyes pinched closed, forcing a warm tear to slide down her cheek. “To the devil,” she muttered as she realized she could no longer keep her overwhelming emotions contained, all to herself, inside of her body. Reluctant to go to her room for a change of clothes, she quickly removed the gloves that had, by the grace of God, remained white and unstained by the black ink before glancing about the empty laboratory in panic and focusing again on the cadaver’s face. “One more thing that has been ruined by me,” she mumbled. “Hopefully, you will not be my next.” She quickly peeled off her petticoat with the hopes of saving her white chemise from the bleeding ink. Only a small dot of black had made it through to the loose-fit white linen dress. It was fine; her stays would cover it easily, though with her sudden weight loss, she hadn’t been wearing her stays as there was nothing to cinch. She piled the ball of black fabric at the base of the stairs and quickly returned to her work. Her slender fingers filled the pockets of the lace gloves, and the fabric of her chemise brushed against the sheet that covered the man’s chest and body. The color and fabric of their gowns were identical. Something within her felt heavy at the realization. Though she still inhaled breath, she felt as dead as the man on the table. Already she felt more aligned with him than any of the living that required her to wear a mask of wholeness. They were one, her and the cadaver. All they would really have was each other. It was fitting they should both be so empty and broken.

Gathering her notebook once more, a breath left her chest as she hovered over the gorgeous man. It was like looking at a painting. His face was pale, skin thin and nearly translucent. Even in death, the man’s face relayed a sort of defiant authority. She bent and grabbed the warm glass of the oil lamp, placing it in the empty nook of the table next to him so that she might get a better look at his features.

The warm glow of light glinted over the peaks of his cheekbones, the pointed end of his perfectly sloped nose, the side of his Cupid’s bow that hadn’t been marred and left scarred. One of his closed eyes protruded slightly more than the other. Dark hair, somehow even blacker than hers, fell behind his head in long strands that clumped together in loose waves as lustrous and as black as any raven’s feathers she had ever seen. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached out and slowly touched his silky hair, unable to help herself. Smudges of dirt covered his rounded chin up to the soft dip in his cheeks and under his cheekbones. She grabbed a stray rag from the shelf nearby, dipped it in the vinegar solution, and slowly wiped the dirt from his face, painfully aware with each gentle wipe of the presence the man emanated and the strange comfort she found in it.

She froze as she saw movement in his thick throat. Her nerves electrified before calming them. Had she imagined it? The smallest thread of hope sparked in her gut. Was—was it possible he was still…alive? Could she save him?

Once more, she saw his throat move slightly, to the right of where the skin had been cut open, near his Adam’s apple. She shook her head, brushing it off. He reminded her of the man in her dreams—the one she saved, and then he would heroically save her. She turned slightly to pick up her notebook and again saw the faint movement as her eyes left his and fell to the notebook. A wave of panic drained the blood from her face, her wide eyes snapping back to the dead man and locking onto the cords of his throat. Nothing.

Her exhaustion was getting the better of her. Her eyes welled with heat again. She hadn’t remembered the last time that she had cried so much. But it was all just too much, and eventually, everything, even emotions, overflow, no matter how well-crafted the dam.

“It’s all too much. I’m falling apart,” she hissed in the quiet of the dark laboratory. “We are not very different, you and I,” she muttered to the corpse as she began jotting down notes. “Combustio partialis superficialis, cute nigricante,” she said under her breath, then, “Superficial burns, skin blackened,” she said louder as if to the man himself. Her gloved fingers returned to his face, skating over it tenderly, noting several fractures. Reverently, they glided down his neck, noting the multitude of lacerations. Delicately, she lifted the sheet a bit more and pulled his arm out, placing it on top. A flash of a rigid, muscular male body caused her to fluster while she struggled to cover the nakedness of him; her face was melting in embarrassment…and something else that tickled at her lower stomach.