The Experimental Murders (Elysium #2)

Chapter Eight

 A strong gust of wind blew the body against the lamp post, spinning it around so that its back was turned to them. It looked to be a man dressed in shabby, patched-up clothing. There were cuts on his bare feet, and upon closer inspection, it was clear the toenails had been torn off.

"Do you think it's another experimental corpse?" Trinket asked Booker.

Shaking his head, Booker craned his neck to try to see the man's face. "I don't think so. It doesn't seem like there are any added body parts."

Lifting his walking stick, he nudged the dead man and successfully got him to turn towards them. As his face became visible, Trinket was not surprised to find that she recognized him.

Mr. Wotton.

The Mice had clearly made good on their threats, and she couldn't deny being impressed at how quickly they worked. However, their violence and speed only made her worry for Mr. Wotton's poor little girls.

What she hadn't been expecting when the corpse turned towards them was for it to be missing its eyeballs. Even from so high above and in the thick snow, it was clear from the dark sockets that the eyes had been removed.

"The Mice," she said softly.

Booker glanced over at the building they were standing in front of, and she followed his gaze. The flower shop. "Seems to be the case," he said.

Returning her attention to the hanging corpse, she couldn't help but feel a little pity for the foolish man. His thin, white hair blew about as another gust of wind sent flurries of snowflakes circling around his dead body.

"Why did they remove his eyes?" she asked.

Booker shrugged. "As a warning, maybe? Or even just as a form of torture."

"You think they did it while he was still alive?"

"I'm certain they did. Why pass up a chance to inflict more pain on a debtor?"

Despite his logical tone, he looked down at her and twisted his mouth into something between a sneer and a wry smile. Without a word, they continued on home. The cold air seeped through her coat, and she could not get the image of Mr. Wotton's eyeless face out of her head.

What a terrible way to end one's life.

Getting ideas?

As their front door came into sight, Trinket noticed something hanging from the doorknob. When they were close enough, Booker detached it and lifted it up for them both to see. It was a small sack. Exchanging a bewildered look with her, he unlocked the door and ushered her inside.

Once they removed their coats, she followed Booker into the parlour and sat on the settee beside him. They stared at the sack in silent anticipation. Booker carefully untied the red ribbon that held it shut. Then, rather than put his hand inside, he dumped the contents onto the low table in front of them.

Trinket inhaled sharply but managed to keep from gasping out loud. Two eyeballs plopped onto the table like overripe grapes. She stole a glance at Booker. His expression was unreadable, but his jawline was tense, his lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew it was a stupid question, but she asked it anyhow. "Those are Mr. Wotton's, aren't they?"

He nodded but did not speak.

"Why did they leave them here for you?"

He gazed at the eyes for a moment longer before folding the sack and placing it on the table. "I assume as a warning. Or a threat. Telling me to watch myself or something like that." He turned to her and flashed a carefree grin. "They're a creative bunch, I'll give them that."