Today, the museum stands as the world’s most complete archive of dermatological horror. But I think it’s more than that. It’s a shrine, where both science and art collide in unsettling ways, no longer opposing each other, but fuse into something unholy.
My pulse thrums at the side of my neck, a frantic rhythm that’s betraying me. The sensation is maddening – like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing I might fall, knowing she’d catch me just to see me break.
I shouldn’t be here.I shouldn’twantto be here, but what alternative did I have?
Should I turn back? Go back empty-handed? That’s not just failure – it’s an admission of weakness. Boss wouldn’t just be disappointed - he’d question whether I’m still fit to be his right-hand man. Ms Dubois isn’t the kind of ghost I can claim slipped through my fingers – but walking away without proof of kill? Boss would haunt me far worse than she ever could.
The museum wasn’t hard to find, but I didn’t come here for art – not exactly. My ticket grants me swift access, and once inside, I spot her immediately – it’s hard not to.
There you are.
Her raven-black hair spills across her shoulders, black silk gloves hugging her hands, and gothic boots clunking softly against the stone floor. I linger longer than intended, weaving and drifting through the gallery in a way that feels aimless but isn’t. I watch her discreetly, noting her faint smile. It’s a trap, sprung effortlessly, without warning, and for no reason. Unless...she knows I’m watching.
I see you, gliding through rows of wax skin like you were born to wander among the broken and preserved. You don’t even flinch at the syphilitic faces. Marguerite. The name itself sounds so poetic. I watch. Not because I’m twisted, but because it’s my duty. I see you – even here, surrounded by the grotesque, you remain the most human thing in the room.
Before I can stop myself, I step closer, and a crash shatters the quiet, the noise reverberating through the otherwise quiet gallery. My breath stills as I glance down at the fallen information stand – no damage done, but enough to draw attention.
Shit.
Thick, heavy black boots crunch against the stone floor. Silk-gloved hands rest on her hips, amusement curling at the edge of her lips.
‘Monsieur, c’est dommage...’ The French lilt is deliberate, her accent teasing at the syllables. I look up – too late to feign innocence. She leans down and continues, ‘Peut-.’
I swallow, straightening my back. ‘Sorry, I don’t speak French.’ I murmur.
Something shifts in her gaze – recognition, intrigue, maybe amusement. ‘Ah,’ she muses. ‘Perhaps you prefer English, hmm?’
I pause, fumbling to find my voice. ‘I – err.’
‘I hope zat you are not...how do you say...lost?’ Her smile is faint, teasing, like she already knows the answer.
‘No, not lost. Just drawn here.’
Her brow arches slightly. ‘Drawn ‘ere?’ She repeats, leaning into her accent. ‘Zen I must ask, monsieur...what is it zat draws you ‘ere? Ze art - or somesing else?’
‘The blend of beauty and brutality, I guess.’ Her presence is enough to knock me off balance, and her English tinged with French keeps me guessing. There’s definitely more to this girl than meets the eye. Then, as I’m mulling together her mystique, she slips. Her voice shifts into something sharper, clipped. It’s the same accent, but suddenly more familiar – less foreign. ‘It’s not like this museum to see many visitors who aren’t students.’ Her tone has lost some of its practiced lilt, revealing an unmistakably English cadence underneath. I blink, the realisation hitting me. ‘You’re English!’ I reply, incredulously.
‘Errr...’ Her lips twitch, her kohl-lined eyes boring into mine. ‘Guilty,’ she sighs.
‘What’s your name?’ I ask, without a second thought. She pauses. Just slightly. Just enough for me to register the flicker of amusement in her dark eyes before her lips twitch upwards.
‘Impatient, hmm?’ She muses, tilting her head. ‘Or just eager?’ There’s a tease in her gesture, a kind of performance, before she shrugs with feline grace.
I exhale slowly, forcing myself to hold her gaze despite the heat creeping to my cheeks. I could recover, but something tells me, she’s already decided exactly what kind of fool I am.
Her gloved fingers tap against her arm, deliberately, teasing before she shrugs. ‘Marguerite Dubois,’ she says smoothly. ‘I’m the curator here.’
Of course she is. The name rolls off her tongue like it’s been practiced in front of mirrors for years, but I know it’s not real. Not really. No one who looks like that is called Marguerite Dubois. Her skin – what little I can see – is pale, not porcelain but waxen, not unlike the sculptures she looks after. Her eyes are the colour of bruises, dark and beautiful, and her mouth curves in a way that suggests she’s tasted things no one should. Her gloves are clean, too pristine for someone who works with artefacts, or bodies, or whatever it is she curates here.
She doesn’t blink enough, that’s what unsettles me the most. Instead, she watches me, memorising me like she’s deciding where I’ll fit in her collection.
‘I know,’ I say quietly. ‘But I want your real name.’
Something sharp flickers across her expression – it’s barely noticeable, but I noticed. I notice every glance, every twitch her face makes. Her posture doesn’t change, yet suddenly, she’s a different woman as if I’ve already undressed her.
‘Stella,’ she says, finally. The name slips out like it has cost her one of her nine lives. ‘Stella Anderson.’
Stella Anderson. And just like that, I know I’m fucked – I’ve crossed into something far more dangerous than simple flirtation. I’m fucked. Truly. I’m flirting with the woman I’m here to kill.
