Chapter Ten: Death

Give it a moment, say, 'Wait until,'

You'll find it waiting there, the heart will abide

The morgue was bustling, oddly enough. Besides the staff, several policemen were standing around, taking what Carl thought to be a morbid interest in proceedings. He found his way through them, assisted in part by Van Helsing, who towered over everyone there, and located the head undertaker.

Much arguing ensued.

"But I know the girl! I saw her just yesterday afternoon and I'd be the one to identify her!"

The undertaker folded his arms defiantly.

"More so than her brother?"

"Yes, more so than—" Carl stopped as he realized what had just been said. He frowned. "She hasn't got a brother."

"She hasn't?"

"No, she hasn't!" Carl stopped. "At least— I don't remember her having one."

"Well, I guess the gentleman was lying, then, when he said his name was Simon Gentle and Tamerlaine Gentle was his sister, what lived with him, and had done for nigh on ten years." The undertaker's voice was very sarcastic, and Carl glared at him and opened his mouth to retaliate when Van Helsing stepped in.

"Listen, man, we've been sent here to view the body, and I'd recommend you let us view it right quick."

"Why should I?" barked the undertaker. "Who sent you?"

Without even a glance at the attendant policeman, who were after all focusing on something else at the moment, Van Helsing procured his Tojo blades from the pockets in his sleeves and held them, whirring dimly, towards the man. The unfortunate undertaker's head was forced back in order to keep his throat from being sliced into, so he looked up into vengeful dark eyes and a face shrouded in secrecy. "The Vatican," he was told.

A minute later, Carl and Van Helsing were following him through the dark halls.

"I hate undertakers," said Van Helsing in a low growl.

"I'm sure they're just doing their job," said Carl, unconvinced.

"Remember the last one we met?"

Carl didn't, for a second, but then a white, skull-like face floated up out of his memory and scared him rather badly. "Oh, yes."

"Thought so."

"I hate undertakers, too."

"Thought so," Van Helsing repeated smugly.

The undertaker led them to a small, grey, cold room. Lying on the slab was the body of a woman, uncovered except for a sheet. The undertaker folded the sheet back and Carl tried not to start crying immediately.

She was obviously young, and rather on the thin side. Her face was turned away from them so they could not see the damage that had been done, but her thick, long, wheat-colored hair was clearly visible and very familiar and for a moment Carl felt that he himself would die. He tried to bring his breathing under control, looking down at the body of the unfortunate woman— and his gaze fell on her throat, pure and white and—

Completely lacking of a large scar that Tamerlaine Gentle had in the curve of her neck, below her chin. He'd forgotten that detail from when they were children, but as she stood with her arms around him the night they'd met as adults, her head tilted back, laughing, he'd seen it and remembered.

"What is that from?" he asked, nearly thirty years ago.

She removed the bandage and left it on the ground. The wound stood out red on her pale skin. "An act of penitence," she said, and smiled with faraway eyes.

Now, so many years later, her words were faded and inaudible, and he couldn't quite recall if she had said penitence or punishment.

Regardless, it was not her. He relaxed and heaved a sigh of relief, standing up a bit straighter as he said, "It is alright, it is not—"

"That's her," said a voice immediately behind him. "I'd know her anywhere." The owner of the voice, moderately handsome except for a crooked jaw and somewhere in the vicinity of thirty years old, swept past Carl and over to the body. Tenderly he reached out, took hold of the chin, and turned the face towards him. Carl quickly averted his eyes, making himself turn all the way around so his back was to the scene, but he could still hear the man's voice.

"Yes, it's her." The voice was full of regret. "My poor Tamerlaine. My only family in the world, except for my uncle."

Carl spun around and took a good look at the man. He had turned his head away from the body, sorrow apparently filling his blue eyes, but he looked up and his eyes met Carl's. There was definite malice in his gaze.

"You're her brother?"

"Yes. May I ask who you are, sir?"

"I'm Carl Hampton. I am a friend of hers, from her childhood."

"You were a friend of hers," corrected Simon Gentle.

Carl bristled. "I hope I still am, sir!"

The man regarded him coolly. "Yes, of course."

"I don't remember her having a brother, I must say."

"Oh, really?" said Simon Gentle, arching an eyebrow. "Well, truth be told, I wasn't around much. I'm a bit of an embarrassment to the family, you see. I'm sure I don't need to go into that."

Carl shrugged.

"But several years ago when my sister was released from the asylum, my uncle refused to have her in the house, and our older sister had of course passed away— so I stepped in like a good prodigal brother and offered to take care of her." Simon gave a slight smile. "And so I have."

"But that's not her," said Carl.

"I beg your pardon," said Simon, his voice turning frosty. "Are you implying that I don't know my own sister?"

"No, I—" Carl stopped as he looked at Simon Gentle. Clearly, he thought, the man knew it wasn't Tamerlaine, and was saying it was despite that. Suspicion flared in his mind. He closed his mouth, backed up and stood next to Van Helsing, who looked at him curiously.

"What's going on?"

"Let's leave," said Carl tightly, and turned away.

Behind him, the sad, mocking voice of Simon Gentle said, "Good morning, Mr. Hampton."