The mansion's kitchen felt different in the morning light—less gothic horror, more domestic normalcy. But the illusion crumbled when you noticed what Salem was doing at the heavy oak table.

  She sat with spine rigid as a surgical instrument, examining her sample from Thorne under a magnifying glass. The black substance had congealed overnight into something that made my eyes want to slide away from it. Not quite moving, but suggesting movement at the edge of perception. Like cells trying to remember how to be alive, forming patterns that shouldn't exist in nature.

  Demonia emerged from the guest bedroom moving like someone who'd forgotten how to trust solid ground. Her purple hair hung in disheveled curtains around a face that looked older than it had yesterday—not physically, but in the way trauma ages the eyes. Makeup had smeared into dark circles that made her look haunted even in morning light. She was wearing one of Salem's oversized band shirts that hung to her knees—formerly one of mine before Salem had decided my shirts made better pajamas than her actual pajamas. Every movement suggested someone nursing both a hangover and the kind of existential terror that made you question whether you were still dreaming.

  "Coffee," she croaked, slumping into a chair. "Please tell me you have coffee and that yesterday was just an alcohol-induced nightmare."

  I poured her a mug from the pot Salem had prepared with her usual mathematical precision—exact water temperature, precise grounds ratio, optimal brewing time. "Sorry. The nightmare was real. The alcohol just made the cleanup messier."

  Salem glanced up from her examination. "Blood alcohol level low. Minimal impairment. Memory intact."

  "Fantastic," Demonia muttered, accepting the coffee like a lifeline. "So I really did see my former lab partner turn into some kind of... what the hell was that thing?"

  "Biological modification. Cellular restructuring beyond current scientific understanding." Salem set down the magnifying glass with precise movements. "Analysis of the substance proved non-terrestrial cellular structure."

  Demonia nearly choked on her coffee. "Non-terrestrial? You mean like... alien?"

  "Unknown origin. Not Earth-based biology." Salem reached across the table and picked up what appeared to be a leather-bound journal, pages yellowed with age. "However, biological impossibility has precedent."

  I leaned forward, recognizing the journal. Salem rarely brought out her grandfather's notes unless the situation was truly dire. "Salem, are you sure about this?"

  "Information relevant to current threat. Disclosure necessary." She opened the journal carefully, revealing pages covered in spidery handwriting and detailed anatomical drawings that looked disturbingly familiar. "Victor Frankenstein. 1811 through 1932. Research into biological restoration and... enhancement."

  Demonia leaned closer, her scientific curiosity overriding her fear. "These drawings... is that the Eclipse Machine?"

  "Affirmative. Original schematics, for Mark 1." Salem turned the page, revealing more detailed technical drawings. "Machine design was originally intended for cellular restoration. Grandfather's hypothesis was perfect biological template could be stored and replicated indefinitely."

  "Replicated?" I asked, though I suspected I already knew where this was going.

  Salem's fingers traced the edge of the page, an unconscious gesture. "Template creation requires initial biological mapping. Complete cellular and genetic profile stored in machine's memory core." She paused, and for just a moment, her clinical mask slipped. "First subject becomes permanent template. All subsequent uses restore to that original pattern."

  Demonia set down her coffee cup slowly. "Wait. Are you saying that if I used that machine, it would turn me into... into you?"

  "Correct." Salem's voice remained steady, but her hand moved unconsciously to touch her collarbone. "Machine defaults to stored template unless new calibration performed. New calibration... difficult. Requires complete system reset."

  "Difficult how?" I asked, watching Salem's face carefully.

  Salem's eyes met mine briefly, and I saw something I rarely witnessed—uncertainty. "Theoretically possible. Practically... untested. Risk of complete biological failure during recalibration is significant, could create a total genetic collapse."

  She turned another page with the reverence of someone handling a funeral program. The photograph that emerged made my blood run cold—not just because of what it showed, but because of how Salem's hands began to tremble as she looked at it.

  A young woman lay on what was clearly an early version of the Eclipse Machine, copper filaments spreading from her scalp like a metallic spider web. She was beautiful in the way that stops time—dark hair fanned across the brass headrest, delicate features peaceful in artificial sleep. The resemblance hit like a physical blow. It was like looking at Salem, but warmer somehow.

  "Your mother," I whispered.

  "Elizabeth Frankenstein. Third successful template storage. Late 1800s, fell sick in 1917." Salem's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Spanish Flu mortality rate was twenty percent. Mother survived multiple infections using Eclipse."

  Demonia leaned forward, studying the photograph. "It worked?"

  "Temporarily. Cellular restoration successful. Flu eliminated." Salem turned the page again, revealing what appeared to be a death certificate. "Pregnancy complications were an unforeseen variable. Machine could restore cellular damage, not prevent childbirth mortality. Reason unknown."

  The silence stretched uncomfortably. I could see Demonia putting the pieces together, her expression shifting from curiosity to horror.

  "Salem," she said slowly, "if the machine stores the first template permanently, and your mother was the first to use it... then when you use the machine..."

  "Cellular restoration to mother's biological parameters. Correct." Salem closed the journal. "Age sixteen when first procedure required. Grandfather's choice was allow my death from infection or preserve life using existing template."

  "Jesus Christ," Demonia breathed. "You're living in your mother's body."

  Salem's expression didn't change, but I noticed her hands clench slightly. "Biological identity is a complex philosophical question. Consciousness remains consistent. Memory intact. Personality unchanged."

  "But physically—"

  "Physically identical to Elizabeth Frankenstein at age twenty." Salem's voice took on an edge I rarely heard. "Mirror reflections are challenging. Genetic testing is problematic for legal documentation."

  I reached across the table and covered Salem's hand with mine. Her skin was cold like ice. "That's why you needed the immortality serum. The machine keeps the body young, but the brain—"

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Brain tissue not designed for century-long memory storage. Cognitive degradation inevitable without chemical intervention." Salem's grip tightened on my hand. "Dementia, memory loss, schizophrenia, personality dissolution. Serum prevents neurological breakdown."

  Demonia set her coffee down with hands that weren't quite steady. "So you're trapped." The words came out flat, like she was testing them for truth. "You can't stop using the machine because you'll age and die normally, but every time you use it..."

  She trailed off, staring at Salem with the kind of horror reserved for looking into an abyss that stares back.

  "Every time you use it, you become more like your mother. Not just physically. Mentally. Emotionally. You're slowly being overwritten by a dead woman."

  "Not becoming. Already am. My body is now a replica of hers." Salem pulled her hand free and opened the journal again, flipping to a page near the back. "Documentation suggests... behavioral modifications also possible over extended time periods."

  The page showed more recent handwriting—Salem's own precise script from decades past. Notes about personality changes, memory fluctuations, dreams that felt too real to be dreams.

  Salem's right hand moved unconsciously to her left ring finger, twisting a wedding band that wasn't there. Had never been there, not on Salem's hand. "Sometimes I remember memories I can't have." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word carefully controlled. "Mother's memories, encoded in cellular structure. I remember..."

  She stopped. Started again. Her breathing had changed—shallower, faster.

  "Wedding day that wasn't mine. The weight of silk I've never worn. Pregnancy I never experienced—morning sickness, the first flutter of movement." Salem's hand pressed against her flat stomach, and something flickered across her face—confusion, maybe pain. "Someone else's child."

  The weight of this revelation settled over the kitchen like a shroud. Salem had been living with this existential horror for nearly ninety years, and now Demonia got to learn things I'd known for two years. Her reaction really reminded one how unnatural the whole thing was.

  "That's..." Demonia struggled for words. "That's the most horrifying thing I've ever heard."

  "Functional immortality achieved. Cost is scceptable." But Salem's voice wavered slightly on the word 'acceptable.'

  "Is it reversible?" Demonia asked. "Could the machine be recalibrated to your original template?"

  Salem's laugh was sharp and bitter. "Original template destroyed. Grandfather's records indicate complete system purge after mother's template installation. Safety precaution to prevent... confusion."

  "So there's no way back."

  "Correct assessment."

  "But your grandfather used it, right? I mean, he did his undead monster shenanigans in like 1812, a hundred years before your mother needed it. Surely he was keeping himself younger somehow."

  Salem flipped back to the image of her mother and pointed to the machine. "Different Eclipses. Grandfather used Mark 1. Mother originally programmed into Mark 3 and later to 7. Mine is Mark 7."

  Demonia took a sip of her coffee. "How many marks are there?"

  Salem stopped to think. "Seven, maybe eight."

  "Maybe eight? When did 'maybe' enter your vocabulary?" Demonia asked irritably.

  "Eighth was under construction at Castle Frankenstein in Geneva. Unclear if it was in operating condition."

  "Can't you go check it out and see?"

  Salem shrugged. "No. Sold the property. Wanted no ties to Europe." Which explained the mansion and how my wife had been a professional student for eight decades without ever needing a job.

  I squeezed Salem's shoulder, feeling tension coiled in her muscles like steel wire about to snap. "Salem, why are you telling her now?"

  "Current threat level requires full disclosure." She straightened, rebuilding her composure. "Cult's breeding program. Vessel preparation. Technology would be of use to them."

  "You think they're trying to steal the Eclipse Machine?" Demonia asked.

  "No, I don't believe they know about the Eclipse, but if they found the tech, it would accelerate their goals."

  Demonia stood at the side of the room, gripping her coffee mug tight. "Can you two stop dropping reality-shattering revelations on me every five minutes?"

  I looked at her and shrugged. "No.”

  *******

  Back in the lab, Salem arranged Thorne's harvested materials meticulously. Blood in one vial, bone marrow in another, cerebrospinal fluid that caught the light like liquid mercury. The thymus tissue sat in a petri dish, gray and unassuming despite being carved from a human chest just a couple days ago.

  The processing device dominated the lab table—brass and copper with Tesla coils that looked like mechanical spiders. Salem added the biological components first, each one landing with a wet sound that made Demonia step backward.

  "Non-biological stabilizers," Salem muttered, reaching for a bottle of Coca-Cola. She checked the ingredients label twice, her finger tracing down the list. "Formula variations affect potency. Precision required."

  Salt. Distilled citric acid. She crushed ibuprofen tablets with methodical efficiency, the powder mixing with an alarming quantity of omega oil supplements.

  "That's what you use to fix your brain?" Demonia's voice came out strangled.

  "Neurological maintenance. Correct." Salem's hand hovered over the activation switch. "Observation not required. Lab exit available."

  But Demonia didn't move, transfixed by the horror of scientific method applied to something that should never exist.

  The Tesla coils sparked to life with sharp electric cracks. Inside the container, Thorne's essence churned with the supplements, releasing a smell like hot copper and something sweetly organic that made bile rise in my throat. The mixture shifted from crimson to amber as electricity coursed through it, then began to emit that unsettling golden glow.

  Three minutes exactly. Salem shut off the device and lifted the lid. Steam rose from the now-liquid contents as she poured the elixir into a coffee mug, the irony of the mundane container not lost on any of us.

  Demonia made a sound like she was choking. "You're going to drink that. Oh my god, you're actually going to—"

  "God has no part in this." Salem's voice carried an edge of something almost like blasphemy.

  She stared at the mug for exactly three seconds, then tilted her head back and began to drink. The first swallow made her throat convulse—she still hadn't exactly developed the palate to enjoy her creation. The second forced her eyes shut. Golden light traced down her esophagus with each gulp, visible through her pale skin like internal circuitry coming online.

  Halfway through, she stopped to breathe—a sharp gasp that sounded like drowning in reverse. Then she drained the rest in one violent motion and slammed the empty mug down.

  Her chest heaved twice. When she spoke, her voice came out rougher than usual. "Maintenance complete."

  Demonia stared at her, processing the full scope of what immortality actually meant. "Just like that? You drink someone's internal organs and we move on?"

  "Efficiency required. Timetable unknown." Salem wiped golden residue from her lips. "Intel update."

  "But we had time for some dingy bar concert," Demonia protested, her voice still shaky from witnessing Salem's grotesque maintenance ritual.

  Salem's expression didn't shift. "Cancer research is a noble goal. Worth attending." She pivoted to face me with the same intensity she'd use to discuss the weather. "Intel update."

  I pushed myself off the wall, understanding that Salem's abrupt transition was as much about avoiding Demonia's horrified stare as it was about efficiency. "After digging through Thorne's laptop, I believe 'Esoteric Maritime Holdings' was his euphemism for Montaigne Heavy Shipping."

  Salem's eyes snapped upward, calculating. "Evidence?"

  "Browser history tells the story. Montaigne Heavy Shipping's shareholder portal is his most visited site, complete with saved password." I tapped my fingers against the lab table. "His stock portfolio shows major investments in Montaigne. Couldn't crack his bank account—he was smart enough to secure that—but the timing correlates perfectly with that new warehouse they built in the bay district. It's on the beach, and he's had a lot riding on them, so I could see Maritime Holdings being his nickname for them."

  Salem processed this for exactly two seconds. "Target confirmed. Tactical approach: 11 PM insertion."

  "What about me?" Demonia cut in, finding her voice again. "Yesterday I couldn't leave your sight, now you're planning breaking and entering without me?"

  Salem turned to face her directly. "Negative. Breaking and entering with you."

  "And if I refuse?"

  Salem's pause lasted just long enough to be unsettling. "Then remain here. Survival probability... uncertain."

  The weight of that hung in the air. Demonia stared at Salem, clearly realizing that her safety wasn't guaranteed anywhere anymore.

  "Fine," she sighed. "But I want to know what we're walking into."

  "Unknown variables. Warehouse contents: undetermined. Threat assessment is significant." Salem moved toward her weapons cabinet, the conversation already shifting into operational mode. "Preparation window is six hours. Require structural intelligence—floor plans optimal, satellite imagery and external photos acceptable."

  Salem began rummaging through her cabinet, pulling out scalpels, some ceramic blades, a weirdly shaped tranquilizer gun for dog catchers, and some other small precise blades.

  I turned toward the stairs. "I'll see what I can pull up on the laptop." I caught Demonia's eye. "Gun safe is in our bedroom, top floor, dresser on the right. Code is 3386. Pick something you're comfortable with.”