Page 75 of Mortis

A scalpel.

The sharpest one I owned. The same one I’d nicked my fingers on more times than I cared to admit while training.

“Teddy.”

Swallowing silently, I turned towards Kael.

“Yes?” I asked, hoping he wouldn’t notice the slight tremor in my voice.

His lips had thinned into a hard line. He glanced over his shoulder towards the refrigeration units before looking back at me. “The door was left open.”

My hands curled into fists. Slowly, I let out the breath I’d been holding. Crossing the room, I stopped beside him and followed his gaze. One of the refrigeration unit doors stood ajar. Not wide, just enough that the latch hadn’t caught. Just enough for someone to notice.

For me to notice.

“That door was sealed after we inspected Mr Simpson,” I said with absolute certainty.

Preparing the dead was second nature to me. From the moment a body arrived and every mark on their skin was documented, to when they were dressed and ready for their final journey. Every step followed the same meticulous routine. I could’ve done it with my eyes closed. It was muscle memory. I didn’t make stupid mistakes like leaving refrigeration units open.

The strange incidents out front had been irritating at first.

Then unsettling.

But now whoever was responsible had crossed into the back of Adler & Sons.

My domain.

The dead deserved peace. Dignity. Swapping the coffins had already crossed a line. But tampering with the embalming room, messing with a defenceless body that was in my care . . . That was something else entirely.

And I wasn’t having it.

Jaw tight, I pulled the unit’s door fully open. Relief briefly loosened the knot in my chest, because Mr Simpson was still inside, undisturbed.

“Get him onto the table, please,” I instructed, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

Kael nodded. Concern lingered in his eyes, but he asked no questions. He just lifted Mr Simpson onto the embalming table with practiced ease. The white sheet still covered the body exactly as I’d left it the evening before.

For one hopeful second, I wondered if I’d worked myself up over nothing.

I reached for the sheet, fingers curling around the fabric.

Then I pulled it back and my sigh of relief died in my throat.

I froze.

“What the fuck?”

Bile crawled up my throat.

In the centre of Mr Simpson’s chest was a symbol. Lines had been carved directly into his skin, and blood that hadn’t pooled in his back had leaked from the wounds and dribbled down his ribs. It had long since dried, flaking away as I yanked the sheet further down his body.

I glanced at the fabric. No bloodstains. Whoever had done this hadn’t simply carved into him and left. They’d waited for the blood to dry before covering him again. They’d pulled out the drawer, desecrated the corpse, then carefully tucked him back inside.

My gaze drifted towards the autoclave, where that single scalpel still sat inside.

I knew I should’ve felt like a hypocrite. I’d been cutting pieces of flesh from bodies who couldn’t consent for weeks, all to feed Kael and the Beast that lived inside him.

But I’d also spent years treating every person who came through these doors with respect. I wasn’t carving symbols into them for my own amusement. I was doing what I had to do to stop a literal demon from feasting on the town.