Chapter Nine: The Necropolis

CHAPTER NINE

The Necropolis

Mr. Cillian’s office was unbelievably posh and impossibly clean. Large, open drapes bordered the windows, and the immense oak desk looked as though it had not shed a single splinter. The walls were covered with finely-framed photos of Mr. Cillian shaking hands with famous thespians, grinning jovially at the camera. In the corner of the room, a gramophone blared a fluffy tune.

Mr. Cillian sat at his desk, a tarp draped over him from the neck down. A Reaper held a looking glass before Mr. Cillian’s face, which at first glance looked alarmingly tumescent. Then I saw the razor in his hand, and realized the puffiness was from shaving cream. His face was simply so white and pasty that the cream was indistinguishable from it. As he slid the razor down his cheek, it looked as though he was removing a layer of skin.

I was made to sit in an armchair in front of his desk. Crude and moth-eaten, my chair felt out of place in the otherwise pristine office. Mr. Ci