Nocticadia: A Dark Academia Gothic Romance
Nocticadia: Chapter 10

Dragging the scalpel down from the acromian, to the center of the chest, and then toward the abdomen, I made a Y-incision on the decedent’s body. I’d already performed an external exam and confirmed that she was, in fact, Andrea Kepling, sent from Calypso County Medical Examiner’s office for confirmation on the cause of death.

The faded black map of veins, or vonyxsis, I’d noted on external examination served as the first clue. However, a few different parasitic toxins were known to cause the discoloration, so it didn’t necessarily confirm a case.

The second clue was the putrid, dark colored fluids seeping from the incision. With how long she’d been stored, I’d have expected some fluid ejection, but not the profuse liquids that dripped into the catch basin under the examination table.

And, fuck, that stench. Not even retained shit in the bowels smelled as horrible.

A tickle at my ankle drew my attention to the floor, where a black ball of fur circled my legs like he had any right to be there. A Bombay cat I’d inherited after he’d somehow gotten into my lab, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get rid of the damned thing. He kept the mice and rats away, though, so I’d decided to let the nosy little bastard stick around. “I see you decided to show up,” I said behind the mask and shield covering my face. “Almost started without you.” The cat, whom I’d named Bane, sauntered his way across the room and settled in the corner opposite me, where he licked his paws.

Forceps in hand, I carefully peeled back the decedent’s skin like a butterfly, exposing her ribcage beneath. Nothing exceptionally notable about the skin or the bones still covered in remnants of flesh. Aside from the darkened veins, the state of her body at that point seemed rather unremarkable for one supposedly having been ravaged by disease. It was what I’d hoped to replace within that would tell a sinister and grim story for how she might’ve died.

Next, I grabbed the rib shears and snapped each of the connecting bones. With a postmortem knife, I sliced away the muscles holding it in place, and lifted away the rib shield, exposing the organs beneath. Using the broad end of the knife, I shaved a small bit of the muscle from the bone, noting another defining characteristic of the parasite–bone striations. If I were to remove all of the muscle and flesh, her skeleton would undoubtedly be covered in faint black lines, like tiny fissures in the bones. Why, or how, the parasite managed such a thing remained a mystery.

I collected a small sliver of the flesh onto an awaiting agar plate for later examination and set it aside, then made a quick dictation on visual exam of the heart, lungs, and fluids collected in the spaces. Not water, though. Aside from excessive inflammation, I didn’t replace evidence of aspiration into the lungs. Only the thicker, serum-like fluid, which I believed had seeped from the GI tract during patient transportation. I ladled about a liter of the moldered fluid from her abdomen and chest cavity into a sterile jar. As I held it up to the light, I couldn’t help but wonder how many eggs it might’ve contained.

Tying a string to the bowel, I cut the fat away from her body, and once free, I dumped the entrails into the awaiting bucket beneath the table.

As I meticulously removed each of the organs and weighed them, I finally reached the one I’d been interested in from the beginning–the liver. In her case, it was about a quarter of the size it should’ve been, black, nubbly, and oozing the fluids I’d collected earlier. In the absence of the parasite itself, it confirmed Noctisoma. I’d never seen another parasite ravage the liver quite the same. Enzymes released by the worm liquified the organ for faster consumption and made for one hell of a slimy mess.

Movement caught my eye.

I peered through the irritating face shield barrier that reflected the light to replace something wriggling in a pool of liquid in the interstitium. With the forceps, I poked around and lifted out a long, black, skinny worm, about a foot long.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered. The head of the worm latched onto my glove, and though I felt nothing, the sight of it chomping onto my finger startled me, and I dropped it back into the decedent’s abdominal cavity. “Damn it!”

The worm slid over the flap of skin, and down the edge of the examination table. I lurched for the floor drain just a few feet away, but before I could cover it with my shoe, the parasite slipped through the drain holes, and just like that, it was gone. Not even Bane, my cat, could get to it fast enough, as he sat pawing at the drain, clearly depressed for the missed opportunity. He somehow had the intuition not to eat the worms, thankfully. At most, he’d have only slowed it down.

“Fuck. Fuck!” I peeled off the glove to replace a tiny bubble of blood beading at the surface of my skin.

Since when had they grown fucking teeth?

As I stared down at the carved decedent, my thoughts rewound to the quick briefing Lippincott had given me before I’d agreed to perform the autopsy.

“She’s a special case.”

What made her special?

After washing the wound with soap, I covered it with a Band-aid, before donning a new pair of gloves, and set back to seeing if her body would tell me.

By the time I reached her brain, I already had the scenario of her death clear in my head. Having witnessed the progression a few times, I knew what the worms inside of her had ultimately wanted–escape. I sawed the last bit of her skull and, with a skull key, pried off the top crown of bone to expose her brain beneath. Black lines proved the presence of the toxin in high concentration, and the presence of blood lent some insight into how she’d died, confirmed by the attached radiological reports stating she’d suffered a stroke. After cutting away all the nerve connections, I removed the gelatinous organ and set it aside. In cutting away slices, I found what I was looking for in the prefrontal cortex–a pocket contained within a clear membranous sac wherein the purest toxin, aside from what could’ve been harvested from the liver about a week prior, remained perfectly encased. With a needle tip, I pipetted the fluid from inside and deposited it into a prepared test tube. I held up the bright purple fluid with its black marbled threads to the light. Might’ve been entirely too late to utilize anything, as she’d been dead for quite some time. Although I’d have gotten the best results within minutes of death, it was still worth hanging onto the sample. Perhaps whatever hell the woman had suffered in life, with her illness, might one day offer a sliver of promise in her death.

Back at my office in the administrative corridor, I stared at my bandaged finger, my head trying to wrap itself around what I’d seen during the autopsy. Clearly, the worm had evolved and I suspected it might’ve been due to repeated inoculation in humans—a hearty human liver certainly could’ve been reason enough to grow teeth.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

I cleared my throat. “Come in.”

The door creaked open to Dr. Lippincott, Provost of Dracadia, a longtime friend of my father’s. Hands tucked into his pockets, he strode across the room, the sight of him souring my already cantankerous mood. “I don’t suppose you have any liquor hiding in here somewhere?” he asked, brows winged up with a sickening hope.

Of course I did. After all, one didn’t take a job working for high class assholes without something to numb the misery of it all. I reached down into the bottom drawer of my desk and grabbed a bottle of bourbon, along with two glasses.

“Brace yourself, Devryck.” Lippincott was the only one who didn’t bother to address me by doctor, or professor. I hadn’t decided whether it was a friendly gesture or meant to be condescending.

After pouring him a glass, I passed the liquor to him, watching as he polished it in one gulp then signaled me to pour another.

“I just met with Langmore for an hour. Apparently, he received a call from Albert Wilkins. Do you remember Albert, at all?”

“Yes. Dracadia’s finest alcoholic,” I answered, watching Lippincott toss back another shot.

“Well, he’s done his time, gotten sober, and seems to be working for some community college in Massachusetts. Anyway, Langmore claims he called to tell him of a student of his who was tasked with writing some mind-blowing case study involving a parasite.”

“Adorable.” I kicked my feet up onto my desk, not-so-patiently waiting for the point of his story. “So, what about that, exactly, warranted an hour-long meeting?”

“Langmore requested funds to cover her first semester entirely. I understand she happens to be quite brilliant. Unanimously approved by the admissions committee.” He flicked his fingers, seeking more liquor.

“And?” I poured another round into his glass.

“He placed her in your Neuroparasitology rotation.”

“That better have been one fuck of a research paper she wrote.”

“I didn’t actually read it.” He snorted and waved his hands dismissively. “Do you have any idea how many student essays cross my desk? It’s a literary slush pile of the poor and helpless requesting financial assistance. Who the hell has time for that? My bigger concern is that Langmore might be trying to fast track these students behind my back, and if that’s the case, I intend to catch the weaselly bastard red-handed. Therefore, I’d like her to stay in your class. If you detect any monkey business with the asshole, report to me. I’ve got my reappointment coming up, and I don’t need any surprises.”

“You’re asking me to babysit an undergrad.” The tone of my voice couldn’t have been more unenthusiastic. “Who is she?”

“Lilia Vespertine. Perhaps you can take her on as an assistant–”

“Absolutely not.” I took another sip of my whiskey, relishing the burn in my throat as I swallowed back the urge to punch him.

Lippincott buried a chuckle in his glass. “At the very least, I want to monitor her while she’s here. If he attempts to place her in any other advanced class without prior authorization, his ass will be canned.” Upper lip curled into his teeth, he shook his head. “I have been waiting for the opportunity to get rid of him. And that nosy bitch, Gilchrist,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And what of the girl, in that case?”

“We deny her financial assistance for the second semester. She was awarded a Meritus Scholarship for financial hardship. There isn’t a chance in hell that she could attend the school, otherwise.” He ran his finger over the perimeter of his glass, eyes unfocused. “On a separate note, I understand you’ve completed the autopsy report for Andrea Kepling. May I ask the replaceings?”

“Bone striations. Near complete putrefaction of the liver. Vonyxsis. Bilateral tapetum lucidum. Significant levels of toxin isolated from the brain and liver. Nothing surprising.” I didn’t bother to mention the worm with fucking teeth.

“So we’re calling it Noctisomiasis.”

“The presence of the toxin is fairly indicative, I think.”

He let out a hearty huff and shifted in his seat like the guy had a bad case of hemorrhoids. “I have to tell you, I was not entirely on board with this autopsy being performed here.”

“Why?” I had to tread carefully with Lippincott–he was like a politician, in that the more questions you asked, the more diversion he inserted into his responses. “What makes her so special?”

Another resigned exhale, and he tapped his finger against the rim of his glass. “She’s been identified as one of the patients who went AWOL in your father’s study.”

Of course she was. Nearly two decades had passed since the scandalous disaster that had loomed over my career like a fucking curse. Six women had died. Two had gone missing. And, somehow, I’d inherited the shitshow job of cleaning up my father’s reputation. “Well, it seems she can no longer speak about it. So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, she broke into my house and tried to kill me. How incredibly fucked would that look, if you then submit an autopsy report on a patient who went missing from a study twenty years ago, which demonstrates a rare parasite that I happen to have contributed a large sum of funds to research. She did accuse me of putting fucking worms in her belly!”

“Last I checked, all evidence of those women having participated in the study was eliminated.” It was sickening the way someone’s entire life could be turned into a lie. How easily one’s existence could be wiped out without question, or explanation. Every detail of the two who’d participated in the study and subsequently left had been thoroughly erased without a shred of consequence. While I’d been given all of my father’s formulations, I knew nothing of the women involved in the study.

Was probably better that way.

“Reports were still submitted to the board prior to that. I don’t need the media catching wind of this and conjuring stories that I had any part in this woman’s death. She was deemed psychologically unfit, and therefore, uncredible, but as you are well aware, corpses never lie.”

My thoughts returned to the moment, during Andrea’s autopsy, when I’d pulled a foot long worm from her abdomen. “I do replace it surprising that she only recently became ill. It’s been twenty years. This is not an organism that longs to inhabit the body for any great amount of time.”

“Police said she was homeless on the island. Maybe she got herself infected. I have no explanation. I played no part in your father’s sadistic studies, nor have I gone out of my way to contact this woman, after what she did to me.”

“Yet, you’re here for something. What is it?”

“I want you to alter the report.”

I snorted at that and poured myself another drink, uncertain if the crazy son of a bitch was serious, or joking. “You’re asking me to falsify my replaceings?”

“Don’t you dare get technical and legal with me. Remember who saved your ass last year with that Harrick girl.” Yet another scandal with absolutely no merit. “Your family name has cost me excessive damage control. I’m simply asking you to remove the toxin detail.”

“And the bone striations? How the hell do I explain that in the absence of any genetic abnormalities or dysplasia?”

“Strike that replaceing, as well.”

Groaning, I rubbed a hand down my face, listening to him turn a simple report into a complex web of lies that even a novice pathologist worth his salt could untangle. “She has an entire medical profile based on the damage this organism has caused. What happens when someone questions my replaceings and she’s exhumed?”

“She’s due to be cremated afterward. Neither the hospital, medical examiner, nor this university is interested in absorbing the cost of a burial. As I understand they’ve tracked an uncle who can sign for cremation. Therefore, your report is the gospel. Quietly remove those replaceings, and no one will be the wiser.”

Falsifying a report was nothing new–I’d done it before, with reasonable and logical explanation. Trying to conjure a reason for every physiological assault this woman had endured, however, was a puzzle I didn’t need thrown into my lap.

“You think I’m a bastard for requesting such a thing.”

I twirled the last bit of liquor in my glass, convincing myself it’d be a bad idea to bash his face with it. “I’m more impressed that you could so easily ask me for a favor that would cost me my license.”

“What is it you want in exchange, Devryck?”

Now we were talking. I could justify the work for a bargain. “I want the cameras removed from my laboratory.”

“Those cameras are a requirement of funding. They’re in place as a result of—”

“I know why they’re in place.” I tipped my head just enough to stretch the scar that spanned from my neck to elbow. An acid attack, courtesy of the ever-vigilant student body, who’d felt compelled to villainize me for the disappearance of a girl–without proper evidence, of course. I’d spent two months on hiatus, recovering from it, which had put me further behind in my work. “I do not work with student assistants, as I’ve explained a number of times to the board.”

“Why do you insist they be removed, then?”

“I don’t appreciate feeling as if I’m being watched while I work. It upsets my focus. Quietly have them removed, and no one will be the wiser.” I echoed his words from just moments ago.

“Fine. Consider it done.” Legs crossed, he looked around my office and took a sip of his liquor.

I couldn’t help fantasize how incredibly gratifying it would be to slip a few larvae into his drink. Of course, that was just laziness talking. I loathed the idea of having to edit my report.

“I’m surprised I managed to catch you in office hours, at all. It’s a wonder you sleep.” Lippincott pushed his empty glass onto the desk. “How is the research coming along?”

My mind wouldn’t let it go, this fantasy, so vivid and entertaining. Thinking about those wriggling things making their way down his esophagus and into his belly. Snap out of it, Devryck. I cleared my throat, rolling my shoulders back. “Steady and tedious, as always.”

“Any headway on the latest variant?”

“Yes. I now have a moth with a fully extended proboscis that’d prefer a nice, rare steak over sliced oranges.”

“I replace that utterly fascinating.”

“If it didn’t equate to failure, I might, as well.”

“I don’t mean to add further pressure, but with the quarterly evaluations coming up, there will be unwanted interest in the program.” His hands curled around the arm of the chair, and the muscles in his face tensed.

It was no mystery, what had his panties twisted. Having to face members of The Rooks–those practically born into excessive power–with a stagnant report wouldn’t be an easy task. Fortunately, I enjoyed a somewhat insulated status, in that my lineage with the group went so far as my great-great grandfather–one of the founders. It was the only reason The Rooks hadn’t thrown my father into one of their pretty cages, after the humiliation he’d caused. Humiliation that I’d since been tasked with sopping up.

While ambitious and brazen enough to climb the ladder of power, Lippincott was only a first-generation Rook. Nouveau riche who only married into money, and his not being born into it made him practically expendable. Easily knocked from his rung, if he were to fuck up.

“I’ve commandeered the midnight lab to assist in moth propagation and inoculation, in hopes of testing multiple variants at once,” I offered as a stale consolation. It didn’t matter how long I took to complete my work. Unless I suddenly became a threat to the society, I’d suffer nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

Lippincott, on the other hand, carried the weight of failure.

Fortunately for him, I had other reasons riding my ass to stay motivated. Most notably, the fact that, at any moment, every muscle in my body could lock up and seize, including my heart, and throw me into cardiac arrest. So, yeah, I felt the pressure.

“But we are still far from human clinical trials.” Lippincott slumped in his chair like a child who wasn’t getting what he wanted for Christmas.

“Inoculating a human at this stage would be disastrous. Deadly. Irresponsible.” An image of the alley drunk I had locked in a cell right then flickered through my mind.

“As will failure to produce results. Bear in mind the difficulty in getting this study approved, particularly with a Bramwell at the helm.” He rubb

Dragging the scalpel down from the acromian, to the center of the chest, and then toward the abdomen, I made a Y-incision on the decedent’s body. I’d already performed an external exam and confirmed that she was, in fact, Andrea Kepling, sent from Calypso County Medical Examiner’s office for confirmation on the cause of death.

The faded black map of veins, or vonyxsis, I’d noted on external examination served as the first clue. However, a few different parasitic toxins were known to cause the discoloration, so it didn’t necessarily confirm a case.

The second clue was the putrid, dark colored fluids seeping from the incision. With how long she’d been stored, I’d have expected some fluid ejection, but not the profuse liquids that dripped into the catch basin under the examination table.

And, fuck, that stench. Not even retained shit in the bowels smelled as horrible.

A tickle at my ankle drew my attention to the floor, where a black ball of fur circled my legs like he had any right to be there. A Bombay cat I’d inherited after he’d somehow gotten into my lab, and I couldn’t, for the life of me, get rid of the damned thing. He kept the mice and rats away, though, so I’d decided to let the nosy little bastard stick around. “I see you decided to show up,” I said behind the mask and shield covering my face. “Almost started without you.” The cat, whom I’d named Bane, sauntered his way across the room and settled in the corner opposite me, where he licked his paws.

Forceps in hand, I carefully peeled back the decedent’s skin like a butterfly, exposing her ribcage beneath. Nothing exceptionally notable about the skin or the bones still covered in remnants of flesh. Aside from the darkened veins, the state of her body at that point seemed rather unremarkable for one supposedly having been ravaged by disease. It was what I’d hoped to replace within that would tell a sinister and grim story for how she might’ve died.

Next, I grabbed the rib shears and snapped each of the connecting bones. With a postmortem knife, I sliced away the muscles holding it in place, and lifted away the rib shield, exposing the organs beneath. Using the broad end of the knife, I shaved a small bit of the muscle from the bone, noting another defining characteristic of the parasite–bone striations. If I were to remove all of the muscle and flesh, her skeleton would undoubtedly be covered in faint black lines, like tiny fissures in the bones. Why, or how, the parasite managed such a thing remained a mystery.

I collected a small sliver of the flesh onto an awaiting agar plate for later examination and set it aside, then made a quick dictation on visual exam of the heart, lungs, and fluids collected in the spaces. Not water, though. Aside from excessive inflammation, I didn’t replace evidence of aspiration into the lungs. Only the thicker, serum-like fluid, which I believed had seeped from the GI tract during patient transportation. I ladled about a liter of the moldered fluid from her abdomen and chest cavity into a sterile jar. As I held it up to the light, I couldn’t help but wonder how many eggs it might’ve contained.

Tying a string to the bowel, I cut the fat away from her body, and once free, I dumped the entrails into the awaiting bucket beneath the table.

As I meticulously removed each of the organs and weighed them, I finally reached the one I’d been interested in from the beginning–the liver. In her case, it was about a quarter of the size it should’ve been, black, nubbly, and oozing the fluids I’d collected earlier. In the absence of the parasite itself, it confirmed Noctisoma. I’d never seen another parasite ravage the liver quite the same. Enzymes released by the worm liquified the organ for faster consumption and made for one hell of a slimy mess.

Movement caught my eye.

I peered through the irritating face shield barrier that reflected the light to replace something wriggling in a pool of liquid in the interstitium. With the forceps, I poked around and lifted out a long, black, skinny worm, about a foot long.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered. The head of the worm latched onto my glove, and though I felt nothing, the sight of it chomping onto my finger startled me, and I dropped it back into the decedent’s abdominal cavity. “Damn it!”

The worm slid over the flap of skin, and down the edge of the examination table. I lurched for the floor drain just a few feet away, but before I could cover it with my shoe, the parasite slipped through the drain holes, and just like that, it was gone. Not even Bane, my cat, could get to it fast enough, as he sat pawing at the drain, clearly depressed for the missed opportunity. He somehow had the intuition not to eat the worms, thankfully. At most, he’d have only slowed it down.

“Fuck. Fuck!” I peeled off the glove to replace a tiny bubble of blood beading at the surface of my skin.

Since when had they grown fucking teeth?

As I stared down at the carved decedent, my thoughts rewound to the quick briefing Lippincott had given me before I’d agreed to perform the autopsy.

“She’s a special case.”

What made her special?

After washing the wound with soap, I covered it with a Band-aid, before donning a new pair of gloves, and set back to seeing if her body would tell me.

By the time I reached her brain, I already had the scenario of her death clear in my head. Having witnessed the progression a few times, I knew what the worms inside of her had ultimately wanted–escape. I sawed the last bit of her skull and, with a skull key, pried off the top crown of bone to expose her brain beneath. Black lines proved the presence of the toxin in high concentration, and the presence of blood lent some insight into how she’d died, confirmed by the attached radiological reports stating she’d suffered a stroke. After cutting away all the nerve connections, I removed the gelatinous organ and set it aside. In cutting away slices, I found what I was looking for in the prefrontal cortex–a pocket contained within a clear membranous sac wherein the purest toxin, aside from what could’ve been harvested from the liver about a week prior, remained perfectly encased. With a needle tip, I pipetted the fluid from inside and deposited it into a prepared test tube. I held up the bright purple fluid with its black marbled threads to the light. Might’ve been entirely too late to utilize anything, as she’d been dead for quite some time. Although I’d have gotten the best results within minutes of death, it was still worth hanging onto the sample. Perhaps whatever hell the woman had suffered in life, with her illness, might one day offer a sliver of promise in her death.

Back at my office in the administrative corridor, I stared at my bandaged finger, my head trying to wrap itself around what I’d seen during the autopsy. Clearly, the worm had evolved and I suspected it might’ve been due to repeated inoculation in humans—a hearty human liver certainly could’ve been reason enough to grow teeth.

A knock at the door interrupted my thoughts.

I cleared my throat. “Come in.”

The door creaked open to Dr. Lippincott, Provost of Dracadia, a longtime friend of my father’s. Hands tucked into his pockets, he strode across the room, the sight of him souring my already cantankerous mood. “I don’t suppose you have any liquor hiding in here somewhere?” he asked, brows winged up with a sickening hope.

Of course I did. After all, one didn’t take a job working for high class assholes without something to numb the misery of it all. I reached down into the bottom drawer of my desk and grabbed a bottle of bourbon, along with two glasses.

“Brace yourself, Devryck.” Lippincott was the only one who didn’t bother to address me by doctor, or professor. I hadn’t decided whether it was a friendly gesture or meant to be condescending.

After pouring him a glass, I passed the liquor to him, watching as he polished it in one gulp then signaled me to pour another.

“I just met with Langmore for an hour. Apparently, he received a call from Albert Wilkins. Do you remember Albert, at all?”

“Yes. Dracadia’s finest alcoholic,” I answered, watching Lippincott toss back another shot.

“Well, he’s done his time, gotten sober, and seems to be working for some community college in Massachusetts. Anyway, Langmore claims he called to tell him of a student of his who was tasked with writing some mind-blowing case study involving a parasite.”

“Adorable.” I kicked my feet up onto my desk, not-so-patiently waiting for the point of his story. “So, what about that, exactly, warranted an hour-long meeting?”

“Langmore requested funds to cover her first semester entirely. I understand she happens to be quite brilliant. Unanimously approved by the admissions committee.” He flicked his fingers, seeking more liquor.

“And?” I poured another round into his glass.

“He placed her in your Neuroparasitology rotation.”

“That better have been one fuck of a research paper she wrote.”

“I didn’t actually read it.” He snorted and waved his hands dismissively. “Do you have any idea how many student essays cross my desk? It’s a literary slush pile of the poor and helpless requesting financial assistance. Who the hell has time for that? My bigger concern is that Langmore might be trying to fast track these students behind my back, and if that’s the case, I intend to catch the weaselly bastard red-handed. Therefore, I’d like her to stay in your class. If you detect any monkey business with the asshole, report to me. I’ve got my reappointment coming up, and I don’t need any surprises.”

“You’re asking me to babysit an undergrad.” The tone of my voice couldn’t have been more unenthusiastic. “Who is she?”

“Lilia Vespertine. Perhaps you can take her on as an assistant–”

“Absolutely not.” I took another sip of my whiskey, relishing the burn in my throat as I swallowed back the urge to punch him.

Lippincott buried a chuckle in his glass. “At the very least, I want to monitor her while she’s here. If he attempts to place her in any other advanced class without prior authorization, his ass will be canned.” Upper lip curled into his teeth, he shook his head. “I have been waiting for the opportunity to get rid of him. And that nosy bitch, Gilchrist,” he said through clenched teeth.

“And what of the girl, in that case?”

“We deny her financial assistance for the second semester. She was awarded a Meritus Scholarship for financial hardship. There isn’t a chance in hell that she could attend the school, otherwise.” He ran his finger over the perimeter of his glass, eyes unfocused. “On a separate note, I understand you’ve completed the autopsy report for Andrea Kepling. May I ask the replaceings?”

“Bone striations. Near complete putrefaction of the liver. Vonyxsis. Bilateral tapetum lucidum. Significant levels of toxin isolated from the brain and liver. Nothing surprising.” I didn’t bother to mention the worm with fucking teeth.

“So we’re calling it Noctisomiasis.”

“The presence of the toxin is fairly indicative, I think.”

He let out a hearty huff and shifted in his seat like the guy had a bad case of hemorrhoids. “I have to tell you, I was not entirely on board with this autopsy being performed here.”

“Why?” I had to tread carefully with Lippincott–he was like a politician, in that the more questions you asked, the more diversion he inserted into his responses. “What makes her so special?”

Another resigned exhale, and he tapped his finger against the rim of his glass. “She’s been identified as one of the patients who went AWOL in your father’s study.”

Of course she was. Nearly two decades had passed since the scandalous disaster that had loomed over my career like a fucking curse. Six women had died. Two had gone missing. And, somehow, I’d inherited the shitshow job of cleaning up my father’s reputation. “Well, it seems she can no longer speak about it. So, what’s the problem?”

“The problem is, she broke into my house and tried to kill me. How incredibly fucked would that look, if you then submit an autopsy report on a patient who went missing from a study twenty years ago, which demonstrates a rare parasite that I happen to have contributed a large sum of funds to research. She did accuse me of putting fucking worms in her belly!”

“Last I checked, all evidence of those women having participated in the study was eliminated.” It was sickening the way someone’s entire life could be turned into a lie. How easily one’s existence could be wiped out without question, or explanation. Every detail of the two who’d participated in the study and subsequently left had been thoroughly erased without a shred of consequence. While I’d been given all of my father’s formulations, I knew nothing of the women involved in the study.

Was probably better that way.

“Reports were still submitted to the board prior to that. I don’t need the media catching wind of this and conjuring stories that I had any part in this woman’s death. She was deemed psychologically unfit, and therefore, uncredible, but as you are well aware, corpses never lie.”

My thoughts returned to the moment, during Andrea’s autopsy, when I’d pulled a foot long worm from her abdomen. “I do replace it surprising that she only recently became ill. It’s been twenty years. This is not an organism that longs to inhabit the body for any great amount of time.”

“Police said she was homeless on the island. Maybe she got herself infected. I have no explanation. I played no part in your father’s sadistic studies, nor have I gone out of my way to contact this woman, after what she did to me.”

“Yet, you’re here for something. What is it?”

“I want you to alter the report.”

I snorted at that and poured myself another drink, uncertain if the crazy son of a bitch was serious, or joking. “You’re asking me to falsify my replaceings?”

“Don’t you dare get technical and legal with me. Remember who saved your ass last year with that Harrick girl.” Yet another scandal with absolutely no merit. “Your family name has cost me excessive damage control. I’m simply asking you to remove the toxin detail.”

“And the bone striations? How the hell do I explain that in the absence of any genetic abnormalities or dysplasia?”

“Strike that replaceing, as well.”

Groaning, I rubbed a hand down my face, listening to him turn a simple report into a complex web of lies that even a novice pathologist worth his salt could untangle. “She has an entire medical profile based on the damage this organism has caused. What happens when someone questions my replaceings and she’s exhumed?”

“She’s due to be cremated afterward. Neither the hospital, medical examiner, nor this university is interested in absorbing the cost of a burial. As I understand they’ve tracked an uncle who can sign for cremation. Therefore, your report is the gospel. Quietly remove those replaceings, and no one will be the wiser.”

Falsifying a report was nothing new–I’d done it before, with reasonable and logical explanation. Trying to conjure a reason for every physiological assault this woman had endured, however, was a puzzle I didn’t need thrown into my lap.

“You think I’m a bastard for requesting such a thing.”

I twirled the last bit of liquor in my glass, convincing myself it’d be a bad idea to bash his face with it. “I’m more impressed that you could so easily ask me for a favor that would cost me my license.”

“What is it you want in exchange, Devryck?”

Now we were talking. I could justify the work for a bargain. “I want the cameras removed from my laboratory.”

“Those cameras are a requirement of funding. They’re in place as a result of—”

“I know why they’re in place.” I tipped my head just enough to stretch the scar that spanned from my neck to elbow. An acid attack, courtesy of the ever-vigilant student body, who’d felt compelled to villainize me for the disappearance of a girl–without proper evidence, of course. I’d spent two months on hiatus, recovering from it, which had put me further behind in my work. “I do not work with student assistants, as I’ve explained a number of times to the board.”

“Why do you insist they be removed, then?”

“I don’t appreciate feeling as if I’m being watched while I work. It upsets my focus. Quietly have them removed, and no one will be the wiser.” I echoed his words from just moments ago.

“Fine. Consider it done.” Legs crossed, he looked around my office and took a sip of his liquor.

I couldn’t help fantasize how incredibly gratifying it would be to slip a few larvae into his drink. Of course, that was just laziness talking. I loathed the idea of having to edit my report.

“I’m surprised I managed to catch you in office hours, at all. It’s a wonder you sleep.” Lippincott pushed his empty glass onto the desk. “How is the research coming along?”

My mind wouldn’t let it go, this fantasy, so vivid and entertaining. Thinking about those wriggling things making their way down his esophagus and into his belly. Snap out of it, Devryck. I cleared my throat, rolling my shoulders back. “Steady and tedious, as always.”

“Any headway on the latest variant?”

“Yes. I now have a moth with a fully extended proboscis that’d prefer a nice, rare steak over sliced oranges.”

“I replace that utterly fascinating.”

“If it didn’t equate to failure, I might, as well.”

“I don’t mean to add further pressure, but with the quarterly evaluations coming up, there will be unwanted interest in the program.” His hands curled around the arm of the chair, and the muscles in his face tensed.

It was no mystery, what had his panties twisted. Having to face members of The Rooks–those practically born into excessive power–with a stagnant report wouldn’t be an easy task. Fortunately, I enjoyed a somewhat insulated status, in that my lineage with the group went so far as my great-great grandfather–one of the founders. It was the only reason The Rooks hadn’t thrown my father into one of their pretty cages, after the humiliation he’d caused. Humiliation that I’d since been tasked with sopping up.

While ambitious and brazen enough to climb the ladder of power, Lippincott was only a first-generation Rook. Nouveau riche who only married into money, and his not being born into it made him practically expendable. Easily knocked from his rung, if he were to fuck up.

“I’ve commandeered the midnight lab to assist in moth propagation and inoculation, in hopes of testing multiple variants at once,” I offered as a stale consolation. It didn’t matter how long I took to complete my work. Unless I suddenly became a threat to the society, I’d suffer nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

Lippincott, on the other hand, carried the weight of failure.

Fortunately for him, I had other reasons riding my ass to stay motivated. Most notably, the fact that, at any moment, every muscle in my body could lock up and seize, including my heart, and throw me into cardiac arrest. So, yeah, I felt the pressure.

“But we are still far from human clinical trials.” Lippincott slumped in his chair like a child who wasn’t getting what he wanted for Christmas.

“Inoculating a human at this stage would be disastrous. Deadly. Irresponsible.” An image of the alley drunk I had locked in a cell right then flickered through my mind.

“As will failure to produce results. Bear in mind the difficulty in getting this study approved, particularly with a Bramwell at the helm.” He rubbed his hands together, clearly anxious. “My opportunity to become president of this institution depends on the success of this, Devryck. I’m counting on you to come through with results. Your study could change the entire landscape of medicine and pharmaceuticals.” As if I needed him to remind me. The man hadn’t set foot in a lab in twenty years. At one time, he was brilliant, but he’d chosen politics and administrative drama instead–a path I avoided with the fervor of an unwanted syphilis infection. “I look forward to your next IBS report.”

“I need more time. The toxins produced by this parasite are ever changing and evolving.” Practically turning into monsters, with their teeth and scorpion tails.

“If it’s more time you need, I’ll make that happen. But know that there will be enormous pressure placed on the university in the upcoming months. The board, the sponsors, they want success. They want results. The promise of this study was the only redeeming point for the sponsors.”

“I’ll have results.”

“Of course you will. That’s where you and your father differ.” His gaze fell toward my hand, where I’d placed a Band-Aid on my little parasitic love bite. “What happened there?”

“Papercut. Nothing serious.”

He snorted. “Until it becomes infected, grows some resistant form of bacteria, and turns into septicemia.”

“I washed it, Edward. Thoroughly.”

With a chuckle, he tapped his knuckles on my desktop as he pushed to his feet. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.

ed his hands together, clearly anxious. “My opportunity to become president of this institution depends on the success of this, Devryck. I’m counting on you to come through with results. Your study could change the entire landscape of medicine and pharmaceuticals.” As if I needed him to remind me. The man hadn’t set foot in a lab in twenty years. At one time, he was brilliant, but he’d chosen politics and administrative drama instead–a path I avoided with the fervor of an unwanted syphilis infection. “I look forward to your next IBS report.”

“I need more time. The toxins produced by this parasite are ever changing and evolving.” Practically turning into monsters, with their teeth and scorpion tails.

“If it’s more time you need, I’ll make that happen. But know that there will be enormous pressure placed on the university in the upcoming months. The board, the sponsors, they want success. They want results. The promise of this study was the only redeeming point for the sponsors.”

“I’ll have results.”

“Of course you will. That’s where you and your father differ.” His gaze fell toward my hand, where I’d placed a Band-Aid on my little parasitic love bite. “What happened there?”

“Papercut. Nothing serious.”

He snorted. “Until it becomes infected, grows some resistant form of bacteria, and turns into septicemia.”

“I washed it, Edward. Thoroughly.”

With a chuckle, he tapped his knuckles on my desktop as he pushed to his feet. “I’ll let you get back to it, then.