The Viscount used his servants to drag her corpse to the basement, where he asked for several medical implements and tools over several hours. He slowly made precise cuts over her jugular veins, her pulse, her heart and blood drained out of her over time, initially flowing like a torrent and then slowing down, at first like a trickle on a rainy roof and then down to drops, tipping one after the other into the bowl placed under her head. Her hair turned from pale white to bloody red, and it was washed later to extract the last bits of blood from her.
After the blood harvest, the Viscount asked me if I permitted him to grind up her bones and muscles so he could harvest more of her blood. I refused because she was a fascinating biological specimen. I wanted to rip her spine open and see how it morphed from human physiology. I wanted to know what she knew about her body. I wanted to see how far her limbs and skull could extend. What environmental characteristics could’ve led to this piece of biological absurdity?
The Viscount took the blood and left. I then started working in my wine stores, using my notes. I had friends from my university who were well-versed in fungi and powders that could break down blood to a sweet, sugary syrup. I had detailed notes in my library, which I used to instruct him in the art of wine making.
As I wore my mask to avoid the stench of her rotting corpse, I touched her face, and it was still plump, delectably, furiously beautiful, as beautiful as the lies of lovers and the smell of summer. Her face and her fangs, her eyes blood red, and her lips, stained with days-old lipstick. I called my butler in, who brought my notes and copies, hanging several copies of relevant literature on the topic on the walls, and I slowly dissected her body, part after part, first the abdomen, then her breasts and lungs, her skull and her mouth, her hands and palms, her thighs and her knees, the tendons on her calf, her feet. It took several days to finish her dissection to my satisfaction. I only noticed a few remarkable features about her. Her back was covered with a scar that resembled the ancient symbol, which precluded thought and humanity itself.
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The scar resembled something that was noticed in cultures from yore, from songs to symbols, from totems to rituals, it was an indelible mark that manifested the realms beyond, as the void itself influenced the culture. It was unremarkable at first, ignored as a symbol of cultish madness, but soon it became ubiquitous as kings and lords accepted it as their symbols and it had granted them powers beyond imagination, reviving their mortal coils from their brink of death, granting them inhuman strength, but inevitably corrupting them in the process.
Her ribcage was aligned in the symbol of the iron crown, an arc with five radiating spokes outward. Her every rib bone intersected with the crown, creating a manic circle of anatomical madness. I was awestruck at how her body nullified assumptions of contemporary science, and yet seemingly reinforced long standing principles of mythic consequences of the occult sciences.
