Nathaniel shakes his head and follows Cassian inside. Talon strolls in after them, and after a moment’s hesitation, I do, too.
I guess it’s time to get cozy with all aspects of death, huh?
Funny—I thought actually dying would’ve done the part.
Well, damn. I have to hand it to these guys—this place is optimized for handling dead bodies with a disturbing efficiency.
Every surface is designed to be wiped down. Every tool has a purpose. There’s not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place. The morgue is more like a lab for the dead rather than an actual resting place. And, well… it makes sense.
I might be the undead here, but these guys? They’re the real monsters.
Tucked in the far corner of the room, like it’s just another appliance, sits a cremation furnace. An industrial-grade, high-temperature, “oops, where did the evidence go” kind of oven. Yup, these guysownit.
I step closer, drawn despite myself. The metal door is shut, but there are smudges all over it—like it’s been used. Recently. Frequently. Possibly in the past couple of days.
Nathaniel watches me from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting to see if I’m about to freak out.
The good thing for both of us? Dead girls don’t freak out.
Cassian is across the room, carefully arranging something on a metal tray. Talon stands with his arms crossed, observing it all with the calm of a man who has clearly seen worse.
I get it. This is nothing yet.
“So, this is the ‘preparation’ you mentioned earlier?” I ask. “You’re going to cremate the dead man?”
Nathaniel nods once. “Most of him.”
I do not like how he says that. But what can I do?
I glance back at the garbage bags.
“And the rest?” I ask.
Nathaniel tilts his head slightly. “There are many parts of the human body that are useful postmortem.”
I stare. “What.”
“Organs. Bone. Blood,” Cassian supplies, his tone as dry as ever. “Some things burn clean. Others… are put to better use.”
I stare at him.
“Better use,” I echo flatly. “You’re telling me youharvestthe bodies?”
Nathaniel gives me a nonchalant shrug. “Sometimes.”
“Are you serious?” I scoff.
Talon, still leaning against the far wall, grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Little Grim. Don’t tell me you think we are bad people now.”
Another joke. Another rise of anger bubbling in my veins. The morals of these men are all over the place.
I furrow my brows, watching as Cassian opens the first bag—this one full of limbs. Right on cue, Talon pushes off the wall and heads over to the furnace, gripping the heavy metal handle. I can see the muscles beneath his dark clothes flex as he yanks the door open, revealing the charred, blackened interior. The heat has long faded, but the smell—charred, acrid, unmistakable—still lingers.
He grabs the first limb—a severed arm, stiff and pale in rigor—and tosses it inside. The dull thud of flesh against metal twists something inside me.
I swallow hard. I’ve seen death before. I’ve touched it, walked with it, even become it. So why am I...disgusted?
“That's… something,” I mutter, watching him throw the foot in and repeat the process until only the parts Nathaniel wanted to keep are left in the trash bags.
