Magia Posthuma ✓

Epilogue

Vienna, Violet Tuesday 2017

Irene yawned as her eyes wandered the stuffy ballroom. It was packed to the gilt rafters with colleagues and staff from Vienna General – from anaesthetists to paramedics – all of them rubbing shoulders with business big wigs and local celebrities. They'd shed their scrubs and stethoscopes for the night and donned evening gowns and tuxedos; all because some foreign billionaire had decided to have a clear out of one of his mansion attics and auction off a load of crap to raise money for the Haematology Department.

She wouldn't have bothered coming if Kristoff hadn't sent over one of his typically condescending emails right at the end of her shift – on brand with his overuse of italics and underlined phrases and splashes of red text thrown in to make it all look really serious. The truth was that she'd rather have spent another twelve hours in the morgue than endure two hours at another tedious as fuck fundraiser.

Besides, that late check-in just as she was heading out the door had looked like it was going to be an interesting one – a twenty-something John Doe found in a broken chest freezer behind a bar in The Gürtel. Not a single scratch, track-mark or bruise to his pale skin (other than some stunning tats); as peaceful looking as if he'd curled up, fallen asleep and never woken up.

Maybe she'd slink off early and head back to the hospital – get a head start.

Irene slouched against a nearby wall and immediately earned a tut from one of the hovering attendants – working overtime to make sure none of the guests got pissed on prosecco and ruined some priceless chunk of history.

She sent an apologetic smile, "Sorry – heels," she said, pointing a downward finger at the black, Gianvitto Rossi pumps she'd dropped a whole month's wages on.

An investment; after all she went to a lot of funerals. Not that she was supposed to or was required to (in fact, it was kind of frowned upon), she just couldn't seem to help herself. Somehow, she'd always felt the need to breathe life into the bodies that arrived on her slab. She needed to know who they were; what kind of life they'd had pre-mortem. Whether they'd been loved or not.

The big funerals – church halls and crematoriums packed with mourners – were fine, but it was the small ones she was always intrigued by. The ones with only a handful of people, or less.

The attendant raised an eyebrow and then strolled away – satisfied that he'd done what he was being paid for.

"...It's not like I've been on my feet all day – for fucks sake," Irene threw after him, only half under her breath. "I mean, put some chairs around if you don't want people to lean!"

"Oh, there you are!" a familiar voice called out from amongst the crowd of suits.

Irene turned her head and spotted Amy – one of her over-friendly residents – trying to squeeze her way towards her holding two bubbling glasses of prosecco high over her blonde head.

"I was starting to think you'd already bailed," she said as she tottered towards her, prosecco extended. "Prost!"

Irene took the glass and clinked it with Amy's, "Prost. Can't say I'm not tempted," she admitted, stealing a swig. "To be honest, as soon as I've shown Kris that I came, I saw, I schmoozed... then I'll probably head off – you haven't seen him, have you?"

Amy pouted. "Oh, really?" she whined as she ran a hand through her sweeping, shoulder-length waves. She was far too pretty to work in a morgue. "You're not going to hang around for the auction?"

Irene pulled a face. "No."

"Oh, come on, Rini," Amy said, grinning.

Irene shuddered; she couldn't remember how many times she'd asked her to stop calling her that – she was supposed to be her boss for fuck's sake.