Part I

The capillaries of Boston were clogged with the byproducts of urban decay, forcing Daniel to navigate through increasingly narrow and inhospital roads. Derelict buildings bulged and littered debris into the streets; vagrants wandered aimless - lost to hunger, lost to madness, lost to narcotics occult and mundane. Some blocked his way, others scattered once they saw the vehicle’s singular black chassis, aware of the morbid connotations that accompanied it.

Though time was of the essence, those short delays allowed him a chance to indulge in a favorite pastime and study the neighborhood’s architecture. Neoclassical and Gothic revival were now the prevailing fashions and the general zeitgeist of the time called for everything else to be demolished and replaced. Impoverished communities could not afford to be a part of this movement for ‘urban renewal’ and their aged structures remained untouched, if not exactly pristine. The North End was one such neighborhood and contained the oldest buildings in the city.

He appreciated the slum as one did the ruins of a long dead civilization; a curiosity with no bearing on the present, not so different from a human zoo. Natural sunlight no longer graced the North End, the neighborhood caught between the ever growing shadows of smokestacks and luxury towers. If progress continued as it did, the locals would not be much better off than those condemned to the Deep Colonies.

These factors merely amplified a problem intrinsic to the city’s founding, for unlike the Dutch settlers of New Amsterdam, the English colonists failed to recognize the benefits of a grid system. The city lacked rhyme or reason, doomed from the start to become a labyrinthine hive. It caused him to sweat and groan, but he did what he could to hide his anxiety.

He slowed the autocarriage to a stop in front of a dilapidated townhouse and locked the brakes. From his vest pocket he retrieved a crumpled note and gave it a final glance before tearing it apart and casting its fragments out the window. There existed no doubt in his mind that this was the place.

The air filled his nostrils with the unmistakable stench of raw sewage, rotten fish, and alchemical runoff. Pollution, disease, and human misery – it all flowed down there.

A steady stream of visitors came and went from the building as they pleased. Daniel mused how the objective must have been a popular fellow, unless he merely stumbled on the best whorehouse in the slum. He let slip a small smile before returning to the morose countenance expected of his profession.

The door was closing fast but Daniel quickly obstructed the entrance with his cane. Despite the previous flow of characters, the door refused to budge anymore than his interference allowed. Through a crack he glimpsed the glaring eyes of a pockmarked youth on the other side. The denizens of the Fort Hill neighborhood were notoriously difficult when it came to repossession. They signed the contract, thought daniel, what exactly did they expect to happen?

“Excuse me lad but would you kindly step aside?” said Daniel, preferring diplomacy over force.

“Back the way ye came. We don’t want no trouble but I ain’t afraid to bring it.” replied the boy with feigned bravado.

“My employer has legal ownership of the specimen in your keep. You preventing my right to collect amounts to the unlawful possession of stolen property. Legally speaking, the only ‘trouble’ here is your lack of cooperation. I would prefer not to involve law enforcement but if you leave me no choice…” though Daniel had the physique of a heavy reader, his above average height was occasionally sufficient for intimidation.

The door creaked open without further protest and Daniel entered, hat in hand. Distorted shadows decorated the walls of the candlelit interior. A forlorn congregation resided at the far side of the room, gathered around the source of their sorrow. They invoked the names of saints – Saint Patrick, Saint Peter, Saint Brigid of Kildare. Hearing those names again brought him back to a different time and gnawed upon old wounds.

Daniel cleared his throat before speaking. “Mrs. McDonnell?”

A stout woman rose to her feet and turned to face him. Her skin and posture bore all the hallmarks of hard living, giving her the appearance of someone nearly twice her true age. She stared at him with tired, bloodshot eyes, but spoke not a word.

“Can’t ye see me mum’s in mourning?” said the young man from the door. “Give us time to grieve!”

“I'm sorry for your loss but time is what matters here. Monetary compensation depends entirely on the freshness of the specimen. The University will not pay for inoperative materials. The Dead Contract was quite specific.”

“His name ain’t ‘specimen’, it’s Sean McDonnell! Show the dead some respect!” shouted a middle-aged man bearing a close resemblance to the deceased – perhaps a brother.

Daniel sighed. “I get it. You’re God-Fearers. Papists, clearly. But Mr. McDonnell made a choice to sign that contract. Would you have him be made a liar? A man unable to keep his word? What you cling to is but an empty vessel. His ‘soul’ is gone. I’m sorry but that is simply what it is.

I want you to be compensated. I truly do. No doubt you’ll need it with him gone. But you’ll get nothing if you keep this up. I have an auto-hearse waiting up front. Deliver his body and I’ll pay the maximum amount I’m allowed.

Be quick about your choice. Time is running out.”

Daniel surrendered a curtly bow before taking his leave of the townhouse. Leaning alongside his hearse, he perused the latest issue of The Boston Globe while giving his pocket-watch the occasional glance. He had already begun to make his way to the driver’s seat when a surly pair, the maybe-brother and the pox scarred youth, came out carrying the swaddled remains.

Daniel folded the newspaper and placed it underarm. The backdoor of the hearse sprung open with the pull of a lever, revealing a leaden coffin - a necessary precaution when dealing with the corpses of transmutation workers. The body of Sean McDonnell was delivered with the deliberate care one might associate with the handling of a newborn.

“You made the right choice.” noted Daniel, as he closed the coffin’s lid and locked it with a bronze key - another precaution.

The youth declined to make eye contact and left without further confrontation. Daniel handed an envelope to the older McDonnell, who pocketed the payment quick as he blinked. The man sized Daniel up and down before speaking.

“You’re Irish, ain’t ye?” he said.

“Aye,” said Daniel after a moment of nervous hesitation. “Family came here fleeing the Great Famine.”

“That so…” he replied, nodding his head slowly. “So ye ain’t just preying on the desperate, but ye own kin.”

“I don’t have time for this. This is progress. For the betterment of man. Our science will save more lives than your Dark Age superstition ever could.”

“Progress? I’ve seen what really happens to the dead.

Devil take ye, necromancer.”