Page 1 of The Flesh Remembers
What Will You Give for Him?
Eleanor felt that each moment carried her deeper into a fevered dream she could not wake from. The carriage rumbled along uneven cobblestones, its lantern swaying in the damp London air. Her heart thudded against her ribcage, and a heady mixture of dread and an unexpected excitement made her feel slightly faint as the carriage swayed along the bumpy road. She imagined herself teetering closer to some unknown precipice with every jolt of the wheels. The fog outside pressed against the carriage windows, smearing the city’s silhouettes into a gray blur. Midnight drew near the hour she had been instructed to arrive at Beaufort Lane by the Old Canal.
She inhaled sharply, her chest rising as she fought to quell the restless, aching flutter in her body. Memories of James still clung to her, especially the searing, carnal images that had plagued her dreams the night before. They surged backnow, unbidden and ferocious, sending a pang of despair through her. It was almost too much to bear to want someone so badly, only to know that you will never touch them again. Eleanor squeezed her eyes shut and fought the tears threatening to fall. She could not fall apart now, not when she was so close to something that might take this despair from her for good. The carriage slowed and halted with a jarring creak. The driver glanced her way, his expression unreadable in the lantern’s dim glow. She steadied herself, offering him a curt nod, signalling that she required no assistance.
“Should I wait, madam?” he ventured softly, his tone almost reverent, as though sensing the gravity of her mission.
Eleanor hesitated. “Wait… but no longer than an hour,” she murmured, her voice trembling slightly. “If I do not return, you may leave.”
With that, she slipped from the carriage, her boots meeting slick cobblestones. The air smelled of damp stone and something faintly metallic, as though charged with anticipation. Across the canal, a weather-beaten building loomed, its windows boarded, its brick walls overgrown with ivy. A single sconce above the doorway flickered weakly, casting jagged shadows. A low hum emanated from the structure, vibrating faintly through the fog.
Her heart began to pound a staccato beat as she approached. The tarnished brass knocker, shaped like a serpent coiled in sinuous loops, gleamed faintly in the wavering light.
She grasped it, her gloved fingers trembling, and let it fall. The resulting thud echoed through the canal’s eerie silence. Eleanor slipped her gloved hand into the pocket of her cloak and felt the scalpel nestled there. She grasped the handle tightly and felt a bit of calm. She was no fool, though shewas doing something foolish, and she would be prepared for the worst if it should happen.
Moments stretched interminably. The door creaked open as doubt began to claw at Eleanor’s resolve. She froze, the weight of the darkness within beckoning her forward. Slowly, she stepped inside. The door groaned shut behind her, sealing her in.
The corridor ahead was narrow, its faded wallpaper sweating in places, as if the walls themselves exhaled. A muted, greenish glow bled from flickering sconces, their halos swaying like candlelight. The air was thick with the sharp, slightly metallic scent of ozone and something faintly sweet, like damp roses left to rot.
Beneath it all came a hiss, not mechanical, exactly. It sounded too…wet,as though the buildingbreathedbehind its seams.
Eleanor felt a wave of heat spark within her, an be in unmistakable mingling of fear and forbidden arousal. Seemingly out of nowhere, the memory of James’s hands flooded her senses once more: the way they had gripped her hips, firm and possessive; the way his mouth had claimed hers, leaving no inch of her untouched by his fire. What was happening to her? It was as if the air in this corridor was teasing these memories from her unwillingly. Her brow furrowed as she tried to ignore the unbidden thoughts and will them away. She needed to be clear-headed and in control in this situation.
She passed beneath a copper arch. Without meaning to, she let her palm graze the carved edge. A jolt shot through her, low and hot, curling deep within her. She pulled her hand away–but too late. Her nipples had already hardened beneath her blouse, and her steps faltered. “Stop it,” she whispered to no one.
But the walls didn’t stop watching her.
The corridor opened into a modest foyer. A single table stood in the centre, bearing a ledger and an unlit lamp. Beyond, an archway framed a larger, shadow-drenched space. Eleanor hesitated, drawn forward by the thrumming in the walls, as though the building itself pulsed with hidden energy.
“You’ve arrived,” came a coarse voice behind her.
She spun, her heart leaping to her throat. A man emerged from the shadows, his appearance strange and unsettling. He was thick and muscular, with wiry black hair and a heavy beard peppered with gray, which framed his thin-lipped mouth. His eyes gleamed with a glint of cold amusement asthey roamed her face, lingering on her parted lips and the curve of her shoulders.
“I’m the assistant, Edgar Frye,” he said, his voice rough, but he spoke softly, as though any raised tone might shatter the fragile hush. “They said you’d come.”
Eleanor struggled to control her breathing. She had expected an elderly doctor, perhaps a sombre caretaker. But this man… his presence exuded a wildness; a tension coiled beneath the surface like a predator assessing its prey.
“You know why I’m here?” she managed, her voice quieter than intended.
Frye’s gaze slid over her with deliberate slowness, the barest quirk of his lips betraying his interest. “Hmm. You’re here about a broken heart.”
Eleanor stared at him in surprise. “A broken heart? Why would you say such a thing?”
Frye flashed her a humourless smile as he stroked his unkempt, black beard.
“It’s why you’re here, no? To find the one you lost?”
“I…well…” Eleanor stammered. She was completely caught off guard by Frye’s frankness.
“Don’t worry, Dr. Ashcroft, we take things seriously ‘round here. Fairfax believes he knowshow to bring the dead back to life.” Frye whispered the last sentence while looking hungrily into her eyes. “So, he should be able to help you with your little…problem.”
Eleanor put a hand to her throat and swallowed hard. She had known or suspected that that was what went on with her; it certainly was what the letter had hinted at. But she wasn’t sure until then if she had believed it.
She nodded, her throat dry, and trailed him through the archway. The chamber beyond was cavernous, its dim light barely illuminating an array of strange instruments: metal rods, glass tubes, coils of wire. A mechanism in one corner buzzed faintly, its wires snaking across the floor like living tendrils. The air was thick with the faint tang of ozone, reminiscent of an approaching storm.
Halfway across the room, Frye stopped abruptly. He turned to face her, and their tension crackled like static. He stood so close she could feel the faint heat radiating from his body, nearly brushing the edge of her cloak.
“Don’t pretend,” he murmured, his rough, deep voice sounding like the growl of some ravenous animal, “that you didn’t come here to bleed for him.”
