It takes my brain approximately three seconds to catch up, and then— “Wait, are you saying he?—”
“I think so.” She pushes her pad thai around, not eating. “But that’s not even the strangest part. The Valentine’s collection had this other ingredient. Something sinister and empty. Like biting into a void.”
A shiver runs down my spine, and suddenly my curry doesn’t smell as appetizing. “That’s creepy. Maybe he’s using some weird experimental ingredients?”
“Maybe.” But her tone says she doesn’t believe that, and I know Maya’s instincts about food the way she knows my instincts about color and composition.
The L train rattles past our window, and I watch Maya’s face in profile. She’s scared. But there’s something else there too—something I recognize from my own face when I’m about to mix a color I’ve never tried before, about to put a brushstroke on canvas that might ruin everything or might be exactly right.
She’s fascinated.
“Maya,” I say carefully, the way you’d approach a skittish cat or a too-wet painting. “Whatever this is with Adrian Vale... just be careful, okay?”
She meets my eyes, and for a moment, I see my best friend clearly—brilliant, brave, and walking toward something that might consume her completely.
“I will,” she promises.
We both know she’s lying.
5
GABE
Itap my access code into Adrian’s private entrance at the back of his boutique, balancing the temperature-controlled case against my hip. Two liters of Councilman Reynolds’ finest O-negative, extracted and preserved with the care of a sommelier handling a rare vintage. The man might’ve been garbage, but his blood is valuable.
The door closes behind me with a soft pneumatic hiss as I pass through the small anteroom that serves as a transition space—designed to prevent temperature fluctuations when entering Adrian’s sanctuary. Unlike my basement studio with its deliberate chaos and lingering metallic tang, Adrian’s space exists in another universe entirely.
I step through the final doorway, and I’m hit with that familiar blast of precisely 68-degree air. His chocolate lab—both a workspace and an actual laboratory—gleams under specialized lighting designed to prevent temperature fluctuations. Every surface reflects like a mirror: stainless steel countertops, marble slabs for tempering, and glass display cases that could belong in a museum.
“Delivery service,” I call out, stepping onto floors clean enough to perform surgery on. I spot Adrian at his tempering station, wearing his whites like a second skin, not a speck of chocolate anywhere but on his marble slab.
“Perfect timing.” He doesn’t look up, focused on the chocolate curling beneath his scraper in hypnotic waves. “Temperature log?”
I set the case down and pull out my phone. “37.1 degrees Fahrenheit consistently since extraction. No fluctuations over 0.3 degrees.” I punch in the security code on the case. “The last of Reynolds’ contribution to your Valentine’s masterpieces.”
Adrian finally glances up, a smile barely touching his lips. “Your meticulous preservation makes all the difference.”
I survey the room—digital thermometers display humidity levels and ambient temperature to the decimal point. Chocolate molds arranged by size and depth catch the light. Specialized tools hang on magnetic strips, each one precisely distanced from the next.
I lean against the countertop, crossing my arms as Adrian lifts a digital thermometer from the glossy pool of dark chocolate. His eyes narrow while reading. “89.6 Fahrenheit. Still 0.4 degrees shy of perfect formation.”
Where I find beauty in the chaos—the desperate pleas, the struggling limbs that eventually go still—Adrian finds his in absolute control. My preservation work is visceral, hands plunged knuckle-deep in chemicals, wrestling against decay. Adrian’s is a ballet of instruments and decimal points.
“How many batches is Reynolds contributing to?” I ask, watching as Adrian adjusts the heat with a turn that couldn’t be more than a quarter inch.
“Fourteen. His blood has exceptional minerality.” He dips the thermometer again. “89.8.”
The chocolate swirls beneath his scraper like dark satin. I killed Reynolds with passion—let him see the evidence of his crimes, felt the satisfaction of his realization, his fear. Adrian’s involvement was clinical; the extraction process was as emotionless as a bank transaction.
“You should see how I’ve arranged the councilman,” I say, feeling that familiar excitement bubble up. “Positioned him like he’s giving one of those bullshit speeches. Hand raised, frozen mid-gesture. The preservation fluid gave his skin this amazing alabaster quality.”
Adrian nods without looking up. “90.0 degrees exactly.” His movements shift now, scraper working faster, building structure into the liquid chocolate. “Three more degrees before adding the blood. It must reach exactly 93.0 before incorporation.”
I shake my head, smiling. “You and your decimals. My chemicals either work or they don’t.”
“And that’s why your subjects sometimes develop those unfortunate air pockets.” His voice holds no judgment, just fact. “Precision eliminates variables.”
He reaches for a digital scale to measure blood to the milliliter. Each drop falls into a graduated cylinder, the deep crimson catching the light. It’s mesmerizing—not for its violence, which attracted me—but for its mathematical poetry. Where I see justice served through suffering, Adrian sees components in a formula.
