Page 95 of Mortis

Arlo worried his lower lip between his teeth before reluctantly nodding. I pulled Teddy closer as Arlo moved the cursor across the screen, settling his back against my chest. My arms wrapped around his body, holding him firmly against me. He was trembling, so I lowered my head and brushed my lips over his crown. Arlo hovered the cursor over a small image, clicked, and the photograph expanded across the screen.

Teddy gasped.

I growled.

Arlo said nothing.

He merely looked between the two of us, unease written across his face. “Is that—” His gaze returned to the photograph. “Is that him?”

Without answering, Teddy pulled himself from my arms and grabbed my hand. “We need to go.”

“Where are we going?” I asked.

Teddy looked back at me. His blue eyes were wide behind his glasses, the colour seeming brighter against skin that had gone deathly pale. But it was the expression within them that made something cold settle in my stomach. I had seen him amused. Angry. Aroused. Upset. I had even seen him staring into the face of a Beast without an ounce of concern for his own survival.

I had never seen him frightened until now.

“I need a closer look,” he whispered. “That man disappeared from my care, and I need to know what the fuck is going on.”

I didn’t argue. If Teddy wanted to go, I would be beside him.

He opened the door and stepped onto the street.

“Wait!” We both turned to see Arlo scrambling out from behind the desk. A set of keys rattled in his hand as he hurried towards us. “I’m coming with you!”

“Lo,” Teddy started, but Arlo raised a hand.

“I’m not letting you two go off on your own,” he said firmly. “Besides, I’m not staying here by myself when there’s a potential grave robber on the loose.”

Teddy rolled his eyes as Arlo locked the door to Adler & Sons. “I think they actually have to steal from a grave to qualify as a grave robber.”

“Semantics,” Arlo retorted, already marching towards the town square.

I had been there with Teddy before. It wasn’t far, only a short walk from the funeral home, and within minutes we reached the edge of the square. The area was teeming with activity. A large crowd had gathered around the fountain at its centre. Police cars were scattered along the road, their lights flashing, while officers dressed in bright green vests attempted to contain the growing number of curious mortals. Arlo rose onto his toes, trying unsuccessfully to see over the heads in front of him.

“People really are morbid, aren’t they?” he muttered. “Someone shouts about a dead body, and everyone comes out in droves.”

“Yeah, well.” Teddy sighed. “That’s humanity for you.”

I pulled Teddy closer to my side, and he reached for Arlo’s hand. Then I began pushing through the crowd, using my greater height and bulk to clear a path for all three of us. We stopped several times when the press of bodies threatened to separate us. On two occasions, Arlo informed particularly forceful strangers that they should “get fucked and play in traffic.”

I suspected this was not a customary response to being jostled.

Eventually, we reached the front. Only a strip of blue and white police tape prevented us from going farther. But it didn’t matter. We could see everything. I guided Teddy and Arlo in front of me. Arlo gasped, and his hand flew to his mouth.

“Poor Mr Simpson.”

Teddy said nothing. His hands curled into fists at his sides, and his entire body trembled with barely restrained anger at the scene before him. A curved metal bench surrounded the circular fountain. Mr Simpson was sitting upon it. Someone had arranged him carefully, his spine unnaturally straight and both hands resting neatly upon his knees. From a distance, he might have appeared to be an elderly gentleman sitting beside the fountain, observing the commotion around him.

Until you looked at his face.

His eyes, which Teddy had sealed after his death, had been forced open again. Cloudy corneas stared sightlessly across the square. Someone had painted his face too. His bloodless skin had been given an unnatural peach hue, far warmer than the complexion he’d possessed in life. I knew because Teddy had shown me the photograph his wife had given to Maurice. His wispy grey hair had been combed into a neat side parting and hardened into place with some kind of lacquer. They had even dressed him, though it was a half-hearted effort. The suit was too large, hanging awkwardly from his thin frame, and he wasn’t wearing shoes.

I was grateful for the ivory shirt covering the sigil carved into his chest. The fewer mortals who knew Mammon’s mark, the better. But when I saw what had been pinned to his lapel, I wished the sigil was the worst thing on display.

A piece of yellowed paper had been fastened to the fabric, four words scrawled across it in dark red ink. Though perhaps it wasn’t ink at all.

You cannot hide forever.