The basement laboratory always felt colder when the Eclipse Procedure was required. The main device—a massive brass and copper contraption that dominated the center of the room—seemed to generate its own atmosphere, heavy with ozone and history. Thick cables snaked across the stone floor, connected to what looked like a modified electrical generator, but with components I'd never seen in modern machinery.

  Salem sat on the edge of the procedure chair, methodically removing her blood-soaked clothes with her one functioning arm. A black hoodie and sweats were her go-to for hunts. Her movements were painstakingly precise, but a faint, betraying tremor in her fingers stilled the moment she noticed it. The compound fracture in her right forearm was a grotesque mess, deep purple bruising spreading like ink beneath her paper-white skin.

  "Assistance is required." She looked up at me, eyes as unexpressive as ever. "Shoulder dislocation prevents necessary disrobing."

  I helped her carefully, easing the hoodie over her injured shoulder. Beneath, she wore a simple black bra that was soaked with blood. The full extent of her injuries became apparent: deep lacerations across her torso, the broken arm, and what appeared to be several cracked ribs judging by the unnatural depression on her right side.

  "Jesus, Salem," I whispered, "he really did a number on you."

  "Supernatural variables, underestimated. A mistake I make repeatedly." She began arranging her specimen vials on the nearby workbench, each placed in a perfect line despite her injuries. "The Procedure is time-sensitive. Pain is increasing."

  I helped her onto the chair—more a medieval throne than medical equipment. Brass restraints lined the armrests and leg supports, each engraved with symbols that matched nothing in any modern language. The headpiece, a bronze crown of sorts, bristled with copper filaments that would soon connect directly to Salem's scalp.

  "Secure restraints," she instructed, resting back against the cold metal. "Full contact required."

  I tightened the straps around her limbs, careful with her broken arm. "These seem tighter than last time."

  "Correct observation, modified them." Her breathing had become slightly labored, the only indication of pain she allowed herself. "Muscular contraction during procedure. Stronger contractions than anticipated previously. Increased security necessary."

  The chair looked like something from a silent horror film, a relic of mad science rather than the precise biology Salem typically practiced. As I secured the last restraint across her forehead, she looked up at me, a rare moment of something almost like vulnerability crossing her features.

  "Cellular memory activation," she had explained once, in a rare moment of attempted clarification. "The machine stores a perfect template of my optimal cellular structure. When activated, it forces current biological state to conform to the template, regenerating damaged tissue and reversing degradation. Quite painful, unfortunately."

  I moved to the control panel, a bewildering array of switches and dials that looked salvaged from a 1920s radio station. Salem had walked me through the procedure multiple times, but the device itself remained a mystery even to her—biology was her domain, not electrical engineering.

  "Run alignment sequence first," she instructed, voice steady despite her injuries, her diction very specific as she tried saying it exactly how her father had instructed her, helped her remember it. "Three switches, flip in sequence after fifteen-second intervals."

  I flipped the first switch, and the machine hummed to life, copper coils beginning to glow with a faint purple light. The smell of ozone intensified.

  "Second switch. Prepare for preliminary current."

  The second switch sent a visible pulse through the cables. Salem's body tensed, but her expression remained unchanged.

  "Final switch. Full sequence."

  My hand hovered over the last switch. "I hate this part."

  "Noted. Proceed anyway." She broke eye contact for that, her hand clenching.

  My jaw clenched as I threw the switch, stomach knotting with the knowledge of the pain I was about to cause her. Every instinct in my body screamed to protect her, not subject her to this, but I forced myself to continue.

  The laboratory dimmed as the machine drew power from seemingly everywhere at once. The purple glow intensified to brilliant violet, and arcs of electricity—not like any lightning I'd ever seen—began to dance between the copper filaments and Salem's body.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Her back arched against the restraints, which creaked under the strain. This was why they needed to be tighter. Her jaw snapped shut. Teeth ground. The violet crawled under skin.

  I'd witnessed the procedure dozens of times now, and it never got easier to watch. Salem's skin became translucent, her veins illuminated from within by that strange violet light. The broken bones in her arm visibly shifted beneath her skin, realigning themselves with sickening cracks. Lacerations closed as if being stitched by invisible hands.

  Whatever it did, it worked—but at a cost. Salem's screams began shortly after, an inhuman sound that tore from her throat as the purple lightning intensified. The restraints were the only thing keeping her from thrashing off the chair entirely.

  Three minutes and twenty-two seconds. That was how long the procedure lasted. I counted every excruciating second as Salem's body rebuilt itself, her cells rewritten to match the template stored in that arcane machinery. My knuckles turned white as I gripped the edge of the control panel, forcing myself to witness her suffering without intervention.

  Finally, the purple light began to dim. The electricity receded, sinking back into the copper coils. Salem's body went limp in the chair, her breathing shallow but steady.

  I quickly released the restraints, careful not to touch any part of the machinery that still glowed faintly. Her skin was unnaturally hot to the touch, as if she was running a high fever.

  "Salem? Can you hear me?"

  Her eyes opened slowly, steel-grey irises now ringed with a faint purple that would fade within hours.

  "Procedure successful." Her voice was hoarse from screaming, she looked at herself with a calculating glint in her eye. "Cellular restoration should be finished."

  I helped her sit up, supporting her back. The wounds were gone, the broken arm now whole, though angry red marks remained where the injuries had been. These too would fade by morning. Now time for part two, making sure her memory is intact, brain cells are finicky like that. “So what's the scoop on the family heirloom?”

  "This device. Created by my grandfather. 1918." She swallowed, an unusual show of discomfort. "Spanish Flu epidemic. Attempt to save my mother."

  I paused, my hand still on the copper crown. "You've mentioned that before, keep talking."

  "Affirmative. Victor Frankenstein. Frankenstein family lineage, maternal side." Her eyes tracked something far away, perhaps a memory. "I was born 1921. Mother survived flu and died during childbirth instead, unknown cause. Grandfather modified device through 1930s. I began immortality research at thirteen to help improve its function."

  I had to keep her talking as I connected the final wires to the generator, helping make sure the machine didn't cause brain damage. "Run the math for me, how old are you?"

  "One hundred and four chronologically. Twenty biologically." A flicker of something almost like humor crossed her face.

  I couldn't help but smile despite the gravity of the situation. "So I'm married to a genuine GILF. That's kind of hot."

  Salem's eyes widened fractionally, perhaps the closest thing to flustered I'd ever seen from her. A slight pinking appeared high on her cheekbones. "Terminology is inaccurate. Inappropriate." She paused. "Not a grandmother. No offspring. I'm a centenarian technically."

  "Still." I leaned down and kissed her forehead, just below the restraint. "I like older women with experience."

  "I've noticed, we're married." The blush deepened.

  "You know," I said, trying to lighten the mood, "most women your age just get hot flashes, not full electrical storms."

  She gave me a look that might almost be called withering. "Age jokes. Still inappropriate."

  But she didn't pull away when I lifted her from the chair, cradling her against my chest. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to rest her head against my shoulder, a rare display of acknowledged weakness.

  "Thorne's laptop," she murmured, already refocusing on the mission. "Needs cracking."

  "The laptop can wait until morning," I said firmly, carrying her toward the stairs. "Even immortal centenarian mad scientists need rest after being nearly killed by cultists and besides, if the cult is connected to Professor Harmon and his seminars then their influence at the University probably goes pretty deep. They'll find us, we're on a kill spree after all."

  She stiffened slightly in my arms. "That terminology. Not to be repeated in public, but I agree with your assessment."

  "I got an old buddy from Xbox Live that works in Cybersecurity now that gets bored a lot and owes me, I'll ask him." I grinned.

  For just a moment, so brief I might have imagined it, her lips curved into something almost like a smile.

  I still needed to keep her talking, "Tell me a story, what kind of secrets can an old lady share?"

  "Historical accounts," she murmured, eyes already drifting closed despite her resistance. The procedure often left her disoriented, old memories surfacing through her typically ordered mind. "1980s. I did modeling for a local band's demo covers."

  "And how'd that go," I said softly, carrying her up the stairs. "Were they nice guys?"

  She shook her head no. "Masturbated in front of them, then killed them later."

  "Oh." I paused on the stairs, processing that. Then, because what else could I say: "Was their music any good?”

  "Heavy metal band found dead. Big local news story." She looked like she was about to smirk. "And now forgotten. So no, not good."

  She pointed up to the ceiling. "Have some of the demo cassettes in storage. You can listen to it, but the only records they had traffic on were with me on the cover."

  "I mean people listen to Mayhem just because of some church burnings in the 90s and that band is awful." I shrugged with her in my arms. "So I guess your band must have been even worse."

  Salem said nothing more, but her hand found mine as I carried her, squeezing once with surprising strength—as if to anchor herself to the present after being briefly lost in a past older than I could comprehend.

  “So we cooking up your serum tonight?”

  “Ingredients already induced to early chemical baths.” She grabs the doorway at the top of the stairs, making me stop. “Demonia Saville. Invited to one of Harmon’s seminars. Must warn her.”