Page 1 of The Sin Eater (Carnival of Mysteries #27)

Ezra

T he morgue is its own world, the quietest place in the hospital. The only unit where none of the patients are monitored, where none of them care if the staff cracks jokes at their expense, where we lock the door at night and walk away.

The dead have nowhere better to be.

That’s not entirely true. We see a steady stream of pick-ups from local funeral homes, where friends and relatives can mourn their loved ones’ passing.

Patients move from their hospital bed to one of our refrigerators and from there to a funeral home, a clean trip from A to B to C.

Some spend quality time with a pathologist having their guts examined before their ride in a hearse, but in the end, they get a proper send-off.

Well, they get sent off anyway.

My shift starts at seven a.m, and I’m very nearly on time.

Rather than wait for the elevator, I jog down the stairs from the main floor.

Most hospital morgues where I’ve worked are on the lowest level, close to the loading dock so funeral homes can make their pick-ups without drawing undue attention to their activities.

The morgue itself is divided in half. The front area is our workroom, separated from the autopsy suite by a bank of coolers that open on either end.

That’s where the bodies go. We only fully staff the area during the day, though some days run into the evening if our postmortems aren’t complete.

After hours, some combination of nursing staff and hospital security guards bring the deceased down and log them in.

That means I never know what’s waiting for me when I roll into work. There’s a weight in my gut, though, heavier than usual, even accounting for Monday morning. I tell myself not to poke at it in hopes it’ll go away.

My counterpart, Geneva, is already logged into her favorite of the four desktop computers, her posture left over from years as an Army medic. She sits perfectly straight, as if her lieutenant is going to show up any minute. Do they have lieutenants in the Army? I don’t even know .

“How many on the list?” I scan her computer screen over her shoulder. She’s taller than me and she wears her hair pulled back in a knot so tight it gives me a headache. My hair’s not quite as long, cut blunt at my chin, and held out of my face with a skinny black headband.

“Oh, hey, Ezra. You’re not actively late this morning. Lemme make a note of that.” Leaning to one side, she gives me a better view of the census.

I bend lower, crowding into her space.

“Back off, asshat. Dr. Chen wants us ready for the first case by nine, with two to follow.”

“So far.” There’ll likely be more. Dr. Chen is the chief pathologist, and while I’m sure she has a first name, she carries herself with so much authority that she’ll always be Doctor to me.

Geneva firmly—make that rudely—shoulders me aside as she straightens. “The ME and a couple detectives will be here for the first one. You want to play OR tech or stenographer?”

I squeeze my eyes shut, that weight in my gut getting heavier. Nothing like adding cops to my Monday. “Your choice. Either way I’m going to need caffeine. Can I go to the Brew if I promise we’ll still have everything ready by nine?”

“Only if you get me something, too.”

“Same ole?”

“Yup.”

“brB.”

She snorts and I leave her clicking through patient charts, finalizing our schedule for the day.

The Brew is short for Brew on the Hill, a coffee shop that’s right next door to the hospital.

We’ve also got a decent grocery store across the street, and several restaurants in the immediate area, which is a good thing because the cafeteria here sucks.

St Luke’s isn’t the biggest hospital in Seattle.

It’s not a trauma center and doesn’t have any truly premier programs—despite what their advertising promises—but like they say in real estate: location, location, location.

St Luke’s is in the heart of Capitol Hill, which means we have access to all the problems of downtown with a side order of gay bashing and the kind of violence that makes street kids so vulnerable.

Pulling my coat on over my scrubs, I head out into the chilly grey morning.

Fortunately, it’s a short walk. The Brew is the kind of place they feature in Hallmark movies and cuddly romances.

It’s open 24/7 since the hospital is open 24/7 and the owner says the nurses need good coffee to give good care.

I could do better about stopping on my way into work, except that would involve getting up earlier.

Unlikely.

The coffee shop’s air is warm, a little hug I didn’t know I needed, and the line is only a couple of people long. I’ll have time for a quick cigarette before Geneva starts looking for me.

Jett is working. Now Jett is an interesting person, in my opinion. Their face is a roadmap of hard living—a goal I aspire to—they’re butch af, and their nametag specifies they/them pronouns. They might actually own the place, since they seem to be there every time I come in.

At any rate, they pull a mean cappuccino and their baked goods don’t suck either.

While waiting my turn, I come close to relaxing.

Or as close as I get, anyway. The air smells of roasted beans and the sconces hanging above the tables give off a warm, golden light.

None of the furniture matches, except that all of it is comfortable, and the chalkboard sign lists all the standard coffee shop beverages, plus a couple of unusual choices.

Witches Brew? I guess. It’s November already. I’ll have to ask Jett if they’re going to make something more turkey-adjacent.

Still, part of me, the part that never really does shut up, is busy.

I was off all weekend, so—I count off days on my fingers—it’s been almost two weeks since I did my thing.

Used my gift. Exercised my family inheritance, or whatever.

Two weeks . That’s what’s been weighing me down.

Can’t ignore it, no matter how hard I try.

Gulping down a useless protest, I start to plan.

Today’s going to be longer than usual, and I’ll be feeling it for the next three days.

Fuck. Doesn’t take me long to go from almost relaxed to tied up in knots. When it’s my turn, I lean against to the counter, making a conscious effort to unstick my jaw so I can order.

“You need to choose a card,” Jett says with a sly smile, offering a deck of Tarot cards. It’s a game they play; if the customer seems stressed or upset, they’ll offer a one-card reading. I don’t put much stock in their predictions, but I take a card anyway.

“Hanged Man.” I hold it so Jett can see. “I swear you must have stacked the deck.” This is the third time this month I’ve picked the same one.

“Hmm.” Jett taps their lips with a finger. “The cards definitely have a message for you. Be patient, and the meaning will become clear.”

What I know about Tarot could fill a thimble. “Whatever, Obi-Wan. Keep your woowoo and give me a quad latte with vanilla syrup. Oh, and Geneva wants her usual mocha. I’ll take a scone, too.”

I’ll save the scone for later. For the ritual, I mean. Once Dr. Chen is done and Geneva and I have checked everything off our to-do list, I’ll slip the scone on the corpse’s chest and say the prayers Dad taught me.

Because going too long without using my gift makes Ezra a very unhappy young lad.

Decision made, at least one of the bands of tension wrapped around my chest loosens.

“As you wish.” Jett’s gaze flicks from me to somewhere over my shoulder. “Morning, Damon. You want the usual?”

And…that tension tightens right back up.

I shrug deeper into my jacket, wondering how to sneak out without being seen.

Damon Clemens is a hospital security guard who is both way too hot and way too straight for someone like me.

And he’s just friendly enough to make me uncomfortable.

Our schedules don’t always line up; I work four ten-hour shifts a week and he works three twelves, which is a-okay.

The last thing I want is to get to know Damon Clemens, only to have him turn away in disgust.

“Morning, Jett. Hi, Ezra.” Damon stands close enough for me feel his warmth. “How’s business?”

“Doing well.” Jett grins from behind their espresso maker. “If my hands weren’t full, I’d have you pick a card.”

“They’ve got it rigged anyway.” I try to laugh like I’m joking. I’m not.

“Don’t pout, Z. The cards can’t help that you aren’t getting their message.”

Damon’s laugh washes over me. He laughs a lot, which makes us opposites in just about every way. He laughs. I snarl. He’s tall and buffed. I’m little and runty. He works to keep people safe, while I pick over their remains like some kind of carrion bird.

“Which card did you get?” Damon nudges me with his elbow.

“Tell him.” Jett’s laughing voice floats over the squeal of the milk steamer.

I can’t stop my lips from pursing like I’d tasted something sour. “The Hanged Man. Same card the last three times.”

“That sounds kinda messed up.” The laughter fades from Damon’s voice.

“It’s not that bad,” Jett says, coming back with my drinks. “It just means he’s stuck, and he needs to be patient while his spirit figures out his next move.”

Jett picks up the card to show us the image of the man hanging upside down from a tree, one knee bent and his expression serene.

“Could be worse, I guess.” Damon’s gaze flicks from me to the card and back again.

Jett puts my drinks in a little cardboard tray, with the scone in a bag in between them. “Tell Geneva I said hello, and give some thought to that card. Three times definitely means something.”

“Yeah.” I snort-laugh, risking a glance at Damon. “It means I need to stop trying to guess the future and just let it be.”

Jett’s smile stretches the scar that runs through the corner of their lip. “Either that or you need to let go of the past.”

I try not to grimace. I fail. “And on that note, I’ll be going. Thanks, dude.” I make my escape, and either I’m blushing real hard or the air has suddenly warmed up about forty degrees. Yeah, I’m going to need at least a cigarette to calm down before I see Geneva.

Sometimes Jett talks like they know more about me than they should, and I’m not sure if that makes me happy or mad.

There are some things I don’t want anybody to know.

I literally can’t let anybody know.

Stalking along the sidewalk, I head for an out-of-the-way gap between hospital buildings, where I can grab a smoke before going inside.

There’s even a little ledge I can set the coffees on.

The wind has picked up, and while it’s not raining yet, it soon will be.

I light a cigarette and inhale a deep, satisfying lungful of smoke.

There’s no way Jett could know how I’d been raised, just like there’s no way I can ignore the impulse that had been beat into me since I was about fifteen years old.

Another deep drag. One of the bands of tension in my chest loosens.

Gotta hope it’ll stay that way this time.

My earlier sense of dread has been replaced by grim anticipation.

I can’t stand here too long or the coffee will get cold, and no matter how bad it sucks, I have to go back into the morgue and go through the motions to get through the day.

And later, after everyone goes home, I’ll open the morgue cooler, unzip the body bag, the one with the scone, and I’ll say a bunch more prayers.

And then I’ll eat the scone.

The corpse will go back into the cooler, cleansed of sin, while I begin my period of penance.

After all, somebody has to pay the price for those sins, and today it’s gonna be me.

It’s the last bit of care I can offer the deceased. I was born and raised a sin eater, and I know what I have to do.

No matter what it costs.