What happened after death?


    The question had long bothered me for years, and philosophers since the beginning of humanity. All religions, from pagans to monotheists, put forth their own unprovable theories.


    Would the illusion of separation from an uncaring universe simply end? Would individual consciousness fade into a greater whole? Would their soul remain to reincarnate into a new shell or transcend into a heavenly respite? Was there even such a thing as a soul? For all of the Bible’s proclamations of Jesus’ return, I had yet to see any case of a living man returning from the unknown beyond. The truth was, nobody knew whether or not death was truly the end.


    It wasn’t that I hoped religion was wrong, quite the contrary. The knowledge that there would be something to look forward to after life, that my consciousness would remain in this universe, that everything that made me me would endure, was infinitely preferable to the idea of… blinking out.


    That thought terrified me to my core. The mere possibility that all my experience, all my knowledge, joys, fears, and regrets would simply cease to exist while an uncaring universe moved on was most unsettling.


    The Book of the Lost Deaths hadn’t yet provided a rational answer to those questions, but it might remove the need for men to ask them in the first place. If it spoke the truth.


    I looked on as Mr. Devereaux read the book under a lamp’s glow. The street was nigh empty save for the both of us and a few lowlifes. The good and respected people of Paris already avoided the Belleville quarter for its poverty and insalubrity, and retreated with the sun to abandon the night to drunks, prostitutes not fancy enough for Montmartre, and ruffians. Few police sergeants bothered to visit this part of town, let alone intervene.


    This made it the perfect time and place to arrange a meeting with Marcel Devereaux, one of my book fences—and whose name I strongly suspected to be an alias. He was a man of impeccable taste and dress, with a neatly trimmed mustache flecked with silver, carefully combed hair folded under a hat, and the kind of tailored suit I would have expected from a well-born gentleman rather than a professional criminal. His green eyes flickered with amusement as he flipped through the Book of the Lost Deaths’ pages.


    “This is quite the odd book you’ve brought me, my friend,” he said upon closing the manuscript and returning it to me. “The flax paper used for the pages fit the methods used by pre-Islamic civilizations in the east, but the quality would indicate it was crafted yesterday.”


    “Would you believe me if I said it was likely centuries old?” I asked.


    My fence scoffed. “I would call you a liar, but color me intrigued. Where did you find this?”


    “It comes from the library of Henry Nelson.”


    “Nelson… from the fire during the siege?” Marcel stroked his chin. The mere fact that he found the name familiar surprised me. “I thought the Bureau had confiscated all of his acquisitions over the last decade.”


    I squinted in his direction. Mr. Devereaux didn’t need to tell me which Bureau he was referring to, and their mere mention spoke volumes about the illegal nature of the late Nelson’s bookstore. “I didn’t know he was famous.”


    “I wouldn’t call him famous… more like a near-forgotten curiosity. I’d heard rumors that Nelson trafficked with Russian mystics, African witch doctors, and other people of ill repute. Some collectors paid good money to put their hands on books that didn’t burn with his library, only for the Bureau to take them back.”


    My eyes widened slightly. Henry Nelson was a book-seller and a collector, most of which had burned with his library. Could his occupation have been a front to gather occult grimoires and other artifacts? That would explain why the Bureau confiscated his work.


    “I suppose an empty notebook did not seem worth the effort.” I could imagine why, since Mr. Devereaux didn’t mention the Death entries. I only reveal the truth to my master, the book had said. It showed clueless readers only what it wanted them to see. “I would like to learn more about Nelson, since some of his contacts might still be alive. Could you gather information on my behalf?”


    “Yes… but not for free.”


    I frowned. I’d feared as much. “How much do you want?”


    “That will depend on the work required of me. Maybe a few francs, or a service to be decided at a later date.” The man’s smile had all the sweetness of rancid butter. “I’ve heard that you’re a well-regarded student at the Sorbonne and already assisted a teacher in a surgery.”


    “You are well-informed.” Of course this kind of person investigated those they worked with. The wrong or clueless customer risked exposing them to authorities. “Do you require my skills?”


    “Not yet,” the man replied. “Maybe not ever; but there might come a time when I will knock on your door and ask for your assistance. Should that time ever come, you will assent to my request and you won’t ask questions.”Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    In short, he would either ask me to participate in a crime or assist in a similar enterprise. I was wary of agreeing to that kind of bargain, but I had little choice. Trustworthy contacts were few and far between in our field. I didn’t have the luxury of haggling.


    “Very well,” I consented. “A favor for a favor.”


    “A pleasure then. I will come back to you once I learn more.” Mr. Devereaux coughed. “I must issue a warning, however. If you fly too close to the sun like Icarus, you’ll only get burned.”


    I smiled. “That’s not the moral I took from that tale.”


    “Oh?” He raised an eyebrow at me. “And which lesson did you learn from it then?”


    “That men could fly if they put their minds to it.”


    He chuckled, and I watched him disappear into the darkness of Belleville soon after. I hoped he would prove true to his word. The asylum was legally required to disclose an inmate’s death to the authorities as soon as possible, and if my suspicions were correct, then it was only a matter of time before someone came to investigate Henry’s demise.


    I did not leave Belleville yet, however. I had another reason to set our meeting here, as the Book of the Lost Deaths had promised me a ‘dark miracle’ if I waited long enough.


    And so did I, for the Lord knew how long. I stood in the cold near the streetlight, waving off whores and drunks alike, keeping to the shadows. I couldn’t tell if I waited for hours or minutes, but I eventually sensed the Book of the Lost Deaths faintly shuddering in my hands in what could pass for trepidation.


    I heard the sound of horse hooves hitting stones.


    I turned to look at a black carriage advancing on the road. It looked normal at first glance, almost ordinary, but that illusion lasted until it passed under the light. My heart pounded so hard in my chest that I thought I would have a stroke.


    This was a coach of the dead.


    The two horses pulling it were little more than walking corpses with sunken eyes, their hides stretching over fleshless bones. I had no idea how they could pull anything without collapsing dead on the ground. The coachman himself looked no better, with pallid skin and the bluish fingers of a dead man. His hat barely hid a set of black holes devoid of life where the eyes should have been, and I could hear his vertebrae hiss when he turned to stare at me.


    I wasn’t the kind of mind to be easily frightened, but I found the sight so unsettling that I avoided the coachman’s gaze. The carriage continued without pausing for a few meters and then stopped to take a drunkard waving at it with a bottle.


    I dared to take a peek at the vehicle. Its surface was black and its interior was hidden behind windows adorned with crimson curtains. I didn’t see any joints linking the wheels to the rest of the structure, as if the entire vehicle formed a single whole. If the drunkard noticed that detail—or the corpse-like driver for that matter—he didn’t show it and opened the door wide enough for me to catch a glimpse of the inside. It seemed normal at first glance, with four passenger seats… except for one small anomaly.


    The door had teeth for locks.


    By the time I realized what kind of abomination I’d stumbled onto, it was already too late. The drunkard had walked inside and the door closed on him. The corpse-horses carried the carriage away into the dark soon after with a condemned passenger.


    I’d always believed in the supernatural, or rather, in phenomena that science could not yet explain, but that… that thing defied nature itself. I’d faced a true monster of legends, and no one noticed. None of the ruffians in the street so much as blinked at this crew of the dead. This entity hid its true nature from them all, while I’d been blessed with the truth.


    I opened the Lost Deaths and wrote the question burning on my mind: “What was that creature?”


    “The Coach-Eater,” the book replied. “The lesser death by carriage, servant of the Hecatomb of Misfortune. Such is the beast whose blood you must obtain if you covet the power of a Chassemort.”


    A Chassemort? A death-hunter? I supposed it would be an appropriate title for someone following this book’s guidelines. It called itself a guide to murdering Mortalities, after all.


    Nonetheless, why would I need this creature’s blood? I didn’t even have to write this question before the book answered it for me.


    “I have opened your eyes to the hidden truth, but to step through the threshold of true magic requires greater dedication and sacrifice. To refine your body into that of a sorcerer and connect to the Web of Life, you must undergo the Nigredo: the blackness and putrefaction that comes from feeding on death itself.”


    I’d read enough censored alchemy books to recognize the word Nigredo for the first step in creating the legendary Philosopher’s Stone, a device said to grant immortality. However, the Lost Deaths spoke of refining my body instead of a substance.


    “This is but the first step of a long journey, isn’t it?” I wrote into the book. “Do you expect me to become a Philosopher’s Stone?”


    “Like any other substance, the human body and mind can be perfected,” it replied. “True immortality will only be achieved once all Mortalities will have been exterminated, but imperishable youth and immense power are nonetheless within your grasp.”


    I could read between the lines: I had to seize the power of magic from this demon the same way Prometheus stole fire from the gods.


    I wasn’t foolish enough to take the book’s promises of power and youth at face value, but if half of what it said was true… nay, I was simply too curious to turn back now. I had taken a peek behind the curtain and now craved to see more.


    “How do I kill this creature?” I asked the book. “You said I required magic to kill death. How can I do that if I can only gain magic by slaying it first?”


    “A lesser death like this one will perish like any other beast, through guile or strength.”


    “I would have preferred detailed steps,” I retorted.


    Its answer disappointed me. “I am a guide to immortality and hunting down Mortalities, but the path I offer is fraught with peril. I will not teach my secrets to an unworthy master. The Coach-Eater’s death, thus, I demand as proof of your skills.”


    My jaw clenched in frustration. “What of your former master’s inheritance then? Or this Ankou Society you mentioned?”


    “All will be revealed once you undergo the rite.”


    I snapped the book shut. I was tempted to threaten it with burned pages to force it to reveal its secrets, but I had the intuition it would backfire. A magical artifact capable of altering the perception of others could easily slip through my grasp at any point. I couldn’t let this one-in-a-lifetime opportunity to learn the truth about death slip through my grasp.


    Moreover… to be honest with myself, I would have hunted down that Coach-Eater for free anyway; both because a monster like that one shouldn’t exist in the first place, and because its mere existence drove me to intense curiosity.


    The hunt was on.