《Otherworld Demon Hunting Chronicles》


 Chapter 1

    The moon hung high in the sky as the midnight bells tolled from the church spire. London slept under a veil of mist, its dark silhouette faintly illuminated by flickering gas lamps.


    A carriage trundled through a muddy alley, surrounded by ramshackle buildings that sprawled wildly like a forest of bricks. Streetlamps had their glass shattered by mischief-makers, their flames dancing in the night breeze like fireflies trapped in beer bottles.


    This was clearly a lawless "Rookery" (a slum), now eerily silent save for the creak of wheels echoing through the gloom.


    Inside the carriage, two masked men conversed softly.


    ¡°We¡¯re close,¡± the blond-masked man sniffed the air, closing his eyes as if sensing something. ¡°Nine, ten, eleven¡­ no, perhaps twelve.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps?¡± asked the black-haired masked man beside him.


    ¡°One¡¯s aura is faint¡ªeither gravely wounded or dying. That one, along with two others, lies deep beneath the church crypt. Four more lurk in the hidden passages, others stand guard: one in the bell tower, two in the chapel, and the rest in the old houses across the street. Wait¡ªone of the sentries from the old house is approaching.¡±


    ¡°Hey, friend! Stop right there! If you value your head, get out!¡± A burly man reeking of alcohol yanked open the carriage door, aiming a drugged shotgun.


    ¡°Handle the outsiders. They¡¯re ordinary folk, not worth interrogating. Keep it quiet, and leave none alive,¡± the blond man ordered.


    ¡°Wha¡ª¡± The drunkard froze, his face twisting in horror as he lost control of his body. His limbs moved against his will¡ªdropping the gun, retrieving a dagger from his boot, and hiding it in his sleeve.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go meet your friends,¡± the black-haired man¡¯s ghostly, gentle voice echoed as the man stiffly marched forward.


    ...


    Beneath the church, a soul from another world stirred awake.


    For a long time, she had drifted between sleep and consciousness. When she was wheeled into the ICU, she sensed death approaching. In her final moments, she bid farewell to her family without regrets.


    After an eternity of darkness, she awoke in a cold stone chamber. Her body felt foreign¡ªrenewed and vibrant. The nausea of chemotherapy and the pain of prolonged bedrest had vanished. The sterile smell of disinfectant was replaced by dust and decay. Candles flickered at her head and feet, casting light on a cloaked figure bustling at an altar.


    The walls were lined with man-made niches, each holding a withered corpse. The grotesque sight kept her from moving. A wise decision, as footsteps soon echoed on stone.


    ¡°Owen? You should be on guard with the others, not dawdling here!¡± The cloaked figure rasped, his voice unnaturally wet, as if synthesized by machinery.


    ¡°Apologies, Master. I wished to offer my services. Unlike the other brutes, I could assist you as a proper apprentice,¡± a young man named Owen fawned.


    ¡°An apprentice¡­¡± The cloaked figure pondered. ¡°Youarecleverer than those fools. Grind the valerian in the mortar, mix it with distilled belladonna juice, then add crushed autumn crocus petals¡ªafterit cools. Waste my herbs, and you¡¯ll regret it.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Yes, Master! I¡¯m honored!¡± Owen eagerly complied, chattering as he worked. ¡°I¡¯ve seen ancient ritual murals in an alchemist¡¯s tome. Great sorcerers always had apprentices to handle tedious tasks. With me, your loyal servant Owen, this ritual will surely succeed!¡±


    ¡°Hmph.¡± The Master sneered. ¡°Pray you haven¡¯t blundered elsewhere.¡± His tone sharpened suddenly. ¡°Did any of you filth dare touch my primary material? A young, healthy virgin corpse¡ªexactly the sort you degenerates would defile!¡±


    ¡°I swear, Master! I bought her from the hospital before she died. Though disgraced in life, no one dared violate her purity¡ªnot with the noose waiting. I wrapped her like a mummy! My peers didn¡¯t even know her gender! She¡¯s perfect for your needs. But¡­ this ritual seems identical to the last. If¡­ not that I doubt you, Master¡­ but if it fails again, please don¡¯t punish your humble servant Owen¡­¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± The Master¡¯s voice softened. ¡°You¡¯ve always been obedient. As a reward, you may copy the runes by the altar. Just don¡¯t disturb the setup.¡±


    ¡°Truly?! Thank you, Master! I¡ªI don¡¯t know what to say¡­¡±


    But for the girl feigning death, this was her greatest crisis. The altar centered on her, every rune etched around her body. The men spoke a dialect of English she somehow understood fluently. Their talk of crimes and the sinister aura chilled her. If they discovered she wasn¡¯t a corpse, would they kill her on the spot?


    Owen¡¯s cheerful footsteps echoed like a death knell. As she debated bolting, a muffled groan rang out.


    ¡°You¡ª!¡± Owen collapsed, lifeless.


    ¡°This time, I won¡¯t fail.¡± The Master¡¯s voice turned icy. ¡°The Aztec sacrificial dagger from the New World enlightened me. The gods grant no favors to beggars. Every ritual requires sacrifice.¡±


    He chanted in a sibilant tongue. Wet slicing sounds and dry whispers filled the chamber. An indescribable madness and evil choked her. Darkness encroached her vision, as if shadows had descended.


    Paralyzed as if trapped in a nightmare, her body ignored her mind¡¯s commands. Though fully aware, her eyes stayed shut, yet monochrome images flooded her mind.


    The cloaked man appeared middle-aged but moved with an old man¡¯s frailty. His forked tongue flickered like a snake¡¯s. He ripped a still-beating heart from Owen¡¯s chest¡ªa dark red mass pulsing frenetically, pumping endless blood. Placing it on the altar, warm blood flowed through carved grooves, pooling beneath her.


    ¡°Ah¡­ Praise life! Rotting blood cannot compare to true vitality!¡± The Master murmured raptly. ¡°The power of ancient gods is too perilous for mortals. Using this virgin corpse as a vessel, and sacrificing my finest disciple¡¯s soul, I¡¯ll create a resurrected servant¡ªobedient as the sleepless guardians of pharaohs! The Aztecs proved it possible¡­ Even at the Kingdom level, I can forge a being with divine power, wholly mine to command¡­¡±


    ¡°Quetzalcoatl, all-knowing master, I grovel before you! Praise your coils encircling the realm of death, heed your whispers from the abyss! I offer blood¡ªfeast on the pain, void, torment¡­ Death is a door, and I hold its key!¡±


    Had she been lucid, she¡¯d have scoffed. The Master¡¯s ¡°all-knowing¡± god clearly hadn¡¯t verified his ritual. Yet against all odds, the impossible happened.


    It felt like hatching from an egg¡ªa chick¡¯s world-shattering awakening. Overwhelming senses and insight nearly drove her mad. A force yanked her from a dark well into an endless ocean.


    Was this witchcraft? Magic?


    She didn¡¯t know. Her blurred vision focused on a humanoid shape¡ªthe Master. But now, she saw him as a crimson silhouette, flesh and bones transparent, only his heart and veins visible, glowing brighter near the core.


    Hypnotized, she acted. Her body lunged, snatched the dagger, and stabbed repeatedly at the radiant heart.


    Warm red light erupted from the shattered organ. She bathed in life itself¡ªlimbs invigorated, senses sharpened. The world unveiled itself: rippling soundwaves, candle heat, light¡­ and an overwhelming divine force.


    A door of understanding burst open. A veiled young woman in earth-toned robes sat on a black throne, barefoot with flowing hair. The vision wasn¡¯t seen¡ªitimprinteditself, a lighthouse tearing away the veil of reality.


    As ecstasy faded, her enhanced hearing caught screams outside. New danger approached. The Master¡¯s corpse lay warm at her feet. She rummaged through his robes, finding only a broken jade dagger lodged in his ribs.


    A cold blade pressed against her throat.


    ¡°Drop the weapon. Raise your hands,¡± a voice commanded.

 Chapter 2

    ¡°Drop the weapon. My sword is quick. Don¡¯t test it.¡±


    The cold voice echoed in the crypt. By the altar¡¯s dim light, she followed the blade to its wielder¡ªa young man in antique European attire, golden hair tied back, face hidden behind an opera mask.


    Her head throbbed. The blood splattered on her chilled rapidly in the crypt¡¯s cold. The cultists hadn¡¯t clothed their sacrifice, leaving her exposed. Reluctantly, she focused on survival over modesty.


    Behind the swordsman, a black-haired masked man lit more candles with a torch. She noted the gun in his hand. The earlier screams lacked gunfire¡ªthey¡¯d subdued the cultists effortlessly.


    Outnumbered and outgunned, resistance was folly. Fate had let her die once in a 21st-century hospital¡ªwhy torment her again? She released the broken dagger. It clattered on stone.


    ¡°A wise choice, miss.¡± The blade retreated slightly. ¡°You¡¯ve met me at an unfortunate time and place. To avoid misunderstandings, explain truthfully: Why are you here? What happened?¡±


    Time to spin a tale¡­ She panicked. The swordsman¡¯s blade bore fresh blood¡ªhe wouldn¡¯t hesitate to kill her.


    Earlier, she¡¯d found a silver mirror among ritual items. Her reflection showed a pale, slender girl with ash-blonde hair and lake-green eyes. A deep puncture near her left eyebrow swelled the eyelid.


    Memories of hospital conversations resurfaced. A young doctor once described ¡°ice pick lobotomies¡±¡ªdriving a steel probe through the eye socket to scramble the frontal lobe, pacifying mental patients. Some victims, like a railroad worker impaled by a rod, survived but turned violent. Many died.


    This body¡¯s owner likely died from such a procedure. A perfect cover.


    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t remember¡­ The doctors strapped me down¡­ a long needle through my eye¡­ It was horrible! My head hurts¡­ I barely recall anything. Where am I? Kind sir, can I return to my family? The doctors said I¡¯d go home once cured! Please don¡¯t hurt me¡ªmy family will pay¡­¡±This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.


    ¡°Show me your left eye.¡± The swordsman¡¯s tone shifted.


    She complied, revealing the wound.


    ¡°Walter Moniz¡­ That lunatic¡¯s theory actually worked¡­¡± he muttered, disbelieving.


    ¡°What is it, Sir?¡± The black-haired man asked, having lit the crypt¡¯s candles.


    ¡°Nothing. Just a crank who believed skull shape dictates fate. His ¡®ice pick surgery¡¯ supposedly cures madness, homosexuality, melancholy¡­ How did the medical board approve this? And now a living, coherent patient? Absurd!¡±


    Same here, but I can¡¯t say the original owner¡¯s dead, she thought.


    Irked, the swordsman growled, ¡°How did you kill him? Thomas Simon was a dangerous occultist. A frail girl fresh from lobotomy shouldn¡¯t have stood a chance.¡±


    ¡°After the surgery, I slept¡­ woke here. They called me a ¡®corpse.¡¯ I pretended to be dead. He said he¡¯d infuse me with a dark god¡¯s power, make me his puppet. If he knew I lived, he¡¯d kill me¡­ I stabbed him when he chanted¡­ I was terrified! I didn¡¯t know my strength¡­ Was it the god¡¯s curse? Are you exorcists? Can you cleanse me?!¡± Her voice trembled with feigned fear.


    The swordsman softened. Sheathing his blade, he said, ¡°You¡¯ve ¡®awakened¡¯ as an occultist. For those who gain power involuntarily, we offer paths to rights¡ªif you follow rules. But first, we have urgent matters.¡±


    The black-haired man handed her his coat, checking a pocket watch. ¡°We must hurry. Baroness Vickery¡¯s ball ends soon. By 2 AM, guests will depart. You wouldn¡¯t want to walk home or linger until dawn. Especially not¡­ dressed so scandalously.¡±


    ¡°Find the damned thing in fifteen minutes!¡± the swordsman barked.


    The black-haired man nodded, searching the Master¡¯s corpse. ¡°Miss, I¡¯m Winslow O¡¯Connell. This is Sir Ulysses Jos¨¦ de Fisher. Your name?¡±


    She glanced at a rusted wristband engraved ¡°Yvette Xim¨¦nez.¡±


    ¡°Yvette Xim¨¦nez.¡±


    ¡°Miss Xim¨¦nez, have you seen a 10-inch ancient dagger?¡± Winslow gestured.


    ¡°This?¡± She lifted the broken, bloodied hilt.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ broken?!¡± Winslow paled.


    Ulysses retrieved a green jade fragment from the corpse, washing it with tequila. The Aztec blade, crafted by flaking stone into a leaf shape, lay shattered.


    ¡°A B-ranked ancient relic¡­¡± Winslow muttered.


    ¡°He died less than half an hour ago,¡± Ulysses checked the corpse¡¯s eyes, resigned.


    ¡°Had you not insisted on detours, we¡¯d have prevented this,¡± Winslow accused.


    ¡°If my carriage was seen heading here at midnight, rumors would claim I visited streetwalkers!¡± Ulysses retorted. Though society tolerated men¡¯s affairs, consorting with low-class women would ruin his reputation.


    ¡°You avoided worldly shame but will be the occult world¡¯s laughingstock.¡±


    ¡°Unlike you, my aloofness has half the circle awaiting my downfall.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ll be disappointed.¡± Ulysses strode to Yvette, his blood-speckled attire intimidating.


    He¡¯ll silence me! She braced for death.


    ¡°¡ªMiss Xim¨¦nez, will you work for me?¡±


    ¡°Huh?¡±

 Chapter 3

    And so, Yvette found herself following these mysterious figures¡ªwho had just threatened her with swords¡ªout of the underground ossuary. The scattered corpses along the way chilled her. After ascending a long stone staircase to the surface, they traversed a desolate graveyard and reached a carriage hidden in the shadowy woods outside the church. A pale, middle-aged man in servant¡¯s livery stood silently nearby.


    ¡°I know you must have questions, but please board first. We¡¯ll explain once we¡¯re safe,¡± Winslow said, opening the carriage door.


    The enclosed coach had two facing benches. Winslow gestured for her to take the rear seat facing forward¡ªthe more comfortable position.


    Peering through the curtain, she watched the two men retrieve fresh clothes from saddlebags. Winslow donned a crisper black coat and matching top hat, resembling a uniform, while Ulysses slipped into an embroidered rococo-style coat and a feathered tricorn hat, evoking Tom Cruise¡¯s Lestat from Interview with the Vampire.


    ¡°Write to Scotland Yard. No other witnesses¡ªthey¡¯ll handle it,¡± Ulysses said, retrieving a dark-draped birdcage from the carriage. Inside perched a glossy black raven.


    Winslow nodded, scribbled a note, and secured it in a metal tube on the raven¡¯s leg. The bird vanished into the night with a flap of wings.


    The men boarded, sitting opposite Yvette, and removed their masks.


    Both appeared in their mid-twenties¡ªat least superficially. Winslow had neat black hair, a stern demeanor, and wore a charcoal waistcoat under a black wool coat, his starched white shirt collar peeking through a tightly knotted cravat.


    Ulysses cut a far more flamboyant figure: lazy blue eyes, golden hair tied with a black ribbon, and a lavish coat dripping with lace ruffles at the cuffs and collar¡ªa dandy straight from Versailles.


    Winslow sat rigidly upright; Ulysses lounged against the cushioned seat, gazing out the window. When Winslow¡¯s eyes met Yvette¡¯s, he flushed and looked away abruptly.


    Awkward.


    As an Albion native raised in conservative mores¡ªwhere women¡¯s attire covered neck to toe, gloves included¡ªWinslow now struggled with propriety. Earlier, urgency had overridden decorum, but potential future collaboration made their current situation untenable.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Noticing his discomfort, Yvette tightened the borrowed coat around herself.


    ¡°Typical Albion prudery. A true gentleman would pretend nothing happened,¡± Ulysses drawled, still watching the night. ¡°And you, miss¡ªa proper lady would¡¯ve fainted to spare everyone this tedium. No one would dare revive you with smelling salts.¡±


    Yvette ignored him, focusing on the window. Midnight London sprawled beneath a shroud of factory smoke. Gas lamps glowed faintly through the haze¡ªthe city asleep, save for distant aristocratic revelry. Light and shadow, wisdom and ignorance, faith and doubt¡ªthis was 1836 Albion, the best and worst of ages.


    ...


    The carriage rolled northwest through fog-drenched streets, past grim Georgian townhouses, until reaching Hampstead Heath¡ªa leafy suburb favored by Albion¡¯s nouveaux riches and foreign elites seeking cleaner air.


    A lane of plane trees led to a red-brick villa asymmetrical in design, its gardens wild rather than manicured. French-inspired mansard roofs and sculpted bay windows contrasted with modern wrought-iron railings.


    Servants opened wrought-iron gates, and the carriage halted at a carved walnut door.


    ¡°Prepare a bath for the lady,¡± Winslow instructed upon arrival.


    Led upstairs, Yvette noted the era¡¯s technological limits: even a wealthy home like Ulysses¡¯ lacked plumbing. Servants hauled heated water from a basement boiler.


    A maid arrived with a bucket¡ªher waist cinched unnaturally small by a corset. Horrified, Yvette declined more hot water despite the cooling bath. Comparing her own slender frame to the maid¡¯s waspish figure, she thanked modern fashion for sparing her such torture.


    After bathing, she donned a loose linen chemise and voluminous house robe¡ªacceptable attire for receiving guests. Following a servant to the drawing room, she sank into plush carpets before a crackling fire.


    ¡°May I offer you tea?¡± Winslow handed her a cup sweetened with milk and sugar. The warmth seeped into her bones.


    ¡°You must have questions,¡± he said. ¡°But first¡ªwhat do you recall of this world? Given your¡­ circumstances, I suspect gaps in common knowledge.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ remember little before the surgery. Not my family, nor my home. Where are we? What year is it?¡±


    ¡°Today is October 14, 1836. You¡¯re in Sir Ulysses¡¯ estate in West Hampstead.¡±


    ¡°1836? Anno Domini 1836?¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡±


    ¡°Is Hampstead the country¡¯s name?¡±


    Ulysses chuckled. ¡°Ask that publicly, and Albion¡¯s patriots will take offense. Hampstead is a London district. Best avoid such errors¡ªespecially with your French name stoking their ire.¡±


    ¡°Sir, I take no offense,¡± Winslow countered. ¡°While some compatriots are¡­ passionately nationalistic, they¡¯re not as narrow-minded as implied.¡±


    ¡°If you say so.¡± Ulysses spun a globe beside him. ¡°Here lies Albion¡ªan island adrift in blue seas. That nearby continent is Europe, though ¡®nearby¡¯ means little to Albioners. They fancy France near the Azores, Byzantium in some equatorial desert, and the New World no farther than Ireland¡­¡±

 Chapter 4

    ¡°Sir Jules, what exactly are these ¡®Transcendents¡¯ you keep mentioning? Are they sorcerers? Or something else? You said I¡¯m now a Transcendent too, but I don¡¯t feel any different. Am I lacking a way to channel my abilities?¡± Yvette spread her palm, straining her imagination, but no sparks leapt from her fingertips, nor did any extraordinary signs appear.


    ¡°There¡¯s no doubt you¡¯ve gained esoteric power from this incident,¡± he replied, unfolding a handkerchief containing shards resembling broken green beer bottle glass. ¡°These are fragments retrieved from the corpse¡¯s chest¡ªa blade crafted at least four thousand years ago. It was an Aztec ceremonial dagger, passed down through generations for slicing sacrificial flesh. Stone tools may be sharp, but they¡¯re brittle by nature. This wasn¡¯t designed for stabbing¡ªits tip is blunt, shaped like a teardrop.


    Yet this object, utterly unsuited as a weapon, shattered ribs in your hands. The broken tip cleanly pierced the heart. A frail girl fresh from ¡®ice-pick therapy¡¯ shouldn¡¯t have managed this. Try to recall¡ªwhat truly happened?¡±


    ¡°I¡­¡± Yvette¡¯s memory of the event still felt dreamlike. An alien force had surged from the void, threatening to overwhelm her. Sight, smell, hearing¡ªevery sense had transformed, as if a veil had lifted to reveal the world¡¯s essence. If this was reality, what had her ordinary perceptions been before?


    ¡°Initial awakenings are intense. The raw truth of the world overwhelms mortal minds. Many go mad or faint, dismissing it as fantasy before resuming mundane lives.¡± Ulysses spread his hands. ¡°The intellect is an onion¡ªits brilliance locked behind layered walls. You¡¯ve peeled one skin, but without understanding, you¡¯ll forget. Still, ordinary life isn¡¯t bad. If you can¡¯t master this, we¡¯ll erase your memories and grant generous compensation¡ªtypically, an inheritance from a distant ¡®relative¡¯ you¡¯ve never met.¡±


    Reincarnating in a supernatural world just to stay ordinary? What¡¯s the point?


    ¡°Abilities vary. My ¡®True Sight¡¯ reveals life-flames. You must explore yours alone.¡±


    What had she perceived? Light¡­ heat¡­ soundwaves?


    She¡¯d learned sound was mere vibration, yet she¡¯d felt those ripples. The ritual candles¡¯ glow¡ªeven behind her¡ªmanifested as luminous orbs¡­


    A world of pure energy, no matter.Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.


    Speed transforms even fragile objects¡ªa brittle chrysoprase dagger breaking ribs. Her sudden agility and strength must have drawn from this energy realm, harvesting and redirecting force.


    Energy can be moved.


    As she pondered, the men remained silent. Winslow quietly refilled her teacup. Only the fireplace crackled.


    Closing her eyes, she focused on the flames. Two impressions formed: warmth against her skin, and a radiant energy cluster visible even through closed lids. She pinpointed its size and direction.


    Now guide it¡­


    Winslow checked his pocket watch. Thirty minutes passed. As he prepared to urge patience, Ulysses stopped him.


    ¡°She¡¯s succeeded,¡± he mouthed, nodding at Yvette¡¯s teacup. Steam rose unnaturally for Albion¡¯s chill autumn. Soon, the liquid boiled over.


    Opening her eyes, Yvette saw the spilled tea. Her power involved energy conversion¡ªthermal and kinetic. She could shift a flame¡¯s heat elsewhere, transform warmth into motion. But only for inanimate objects or herself. Light a curtain with a match¡¯s fire, empower her muscles with a stove¡¯s heat¡ªbut not drain a person¡¯s warmth to freeze them.


    ¡°Apologies. I lost focus.¡±


    ¡°Think nothing of it. This pales beside your awakening¡¯s damage.¡± Ulysses glanced at the shattered ritual blade.


    ¡°Sir Jules,¡± Winslow chided. ¡°Miss Xim¨¦nez, this Frenchman¡¯s notorious for his abrasive tongue. Pay no heed. Congratulations¡ªyour comprehension outshines most. A remarkable feat.¡±


    ¡°The dagger¡­¡± Yvette hesitated. ¡°Was it valuable? How can I make amends?¡±


    ¡°A New World relic. Mundane value: ¡ê500. But its esoteric worth? Priceless.¡± Ulysses shrugged. ¡°Though for me, ¡ê500 matters little. The true loss is scholarly¡ªan Aztec sacrificial artifact holds secrets money can¡¯t measure.¡±


    ¡°But reports could blame Thomas Simon¡¯s mishandling,¡± he added. ¡°Or the Docklands team¡¯s incompetence.¡±


    ¡°Sir!¡± Winslow interjected. ¡°Turning blind eyes to harmless smuggled relics is policy¡ªit secures foreign artifacts for study. Don¡¯t slander our colleagues.¡±


    ¡°Their negligence let it reach a madman. That¡¯s the report.¡± Ulysses dismissed.


    ¡°Organization? Scrutiny?¡± Yvette questioned.


    ¡°Allow me to introduce our glorious institution,¡± the Frenchman sneered, bowing theatrically. ¡°The Albion Special Missions Bureau¡ªoverseer of Transcendents, cleaner of supernatural messes. Other nations have equivalents. Mundanes want safety from gods and monsters. For two millennia, we¡¯ve woven lies¡ªreligion, morality, science¡ªto veil the occult. Our predecessors¡¯ group had another name: the Inquisition. Pity we can¡¯t just burn heretics anymore¡­¡±


    Ignoring the rant, Yvette grasped this was a parallel Earth with occult-twisted history.


    ¡°Formal membership requires grueling vetting. Mind-readers would uncover our ¡®accident.¡¯ But we¡¯ve¡­ flexible options. ¡®Bounty Hunters¡¯¡ªindependent Transcendents following our rules. Many later join properly, their pasts¡­ overlooked.¡±


    ¡°Sir Jules, let her choose freely,¡± Winslow insisted.


    ¡°The Bureau¡¯s perks, I can match,¡± Ulysses grumbled. ¡°But choose as you will. The dagger¡¯s loss won¡¯t haunt me¡ªI just hate bureaucrats buzzing about it.¡±


    Both men awaited her decision.

 Chapter 5

    ¡°I¡¯ll become a Bounty Hunter,¡± Yvette answered without hesitation.


    ¡°You needn¡¯t make concessions out of misplaced gratitude,¡± Winslow said, surprised. ¡°This man deserves no leniency. A lesson in humility might temper his arrogance.¡±


    ¡°With allies like Winslow, who needs adversaries?¡± Ulysses spread his hands. ¡°A prudent choice. Virtue does reap rewards.¡±


    ¡°Everything¡¯s unfamiliar since my awakening. Formal membership would overwhelm me. Working under your guidance seems wiser.¡± Yvette paused. ¡°You saved me from those cultists. Alone, I¡¯d never have escaped. If becoming a Bounty Hunter helps repay that debt, I¡¯m grateful.¡± And keeps mind-readers from discovering I¡¯m an interloper, she added silently.


    Noting Winslow¡¯s protective demeanor, she offered him a reassuring smile.


    ¡°Mutually beneficial¡ªno losses incurred,¡± Ulysses declared triumphantly. ¡°Now, the origins and rules of Transcendence.¡±


    Yvette straightened, committing every word to memory.


    ¡°All Transcendent power stems from deities,¡± Ulysses began, firelight gilding his features. ¡°Whether you revere them matters not. Engaging with gods rarely ends well.


    We inhabit a cold cosmos¡ªplanets, natural forces, nameless ancients lurking in shadows. Legends speak of half-divine kings and priestly castes communing with greater beings: Sumerian rulers interpreting dream omens, Theban pharaohs harnessing underworld forces, Dionysian maenads devouring sacrificial flesh¡­ Though these gods have departed, their legacy corrupts modern Transcendents. Some even carry their tainted blood.


    Today¡¯s fools dig up forbidden lore, begging vanished gods for power. Most reap catastrophe. Deities care nothing for mortals¡ªtheir gaze alone can shatter minds. Few survive such ¡®blessings.¡¯¡±


    He explained two Transcendent types: descendants of ancient bloodlines (like himself and Winslow) who might inherit ancestral gifts, and those like Yvette¡ªordinary humans transformed through rituals or divine whims. The latter¡¯s powers varied wildly, their sanity often crumbling under the strain.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Now, Transcendence¡¯s hierarchy.¡± Ulysses handed her an aged vellum tome.


    The illuminated page depicted a familiar glyph¡ªa golden Tree of Life, ten sephiroth arranged in three columns, a serpent coiling through its branches.


    ¡°The Sephirothic Tree¡ªhumanity¡¯s crowning metaphysical blueprint. Ten emanations from Malkuth(Kingdom), the earthly realm¡ª¡± he traced the lowest sphere ¡°¡ªto Kether (Crown), divine perfection. The serpent¡¯s path marks our ascent from mortality to godhood. You stand at Malkuth¡¯s threshold.¡±


    ¡°Where do you and Mr. O¡¯Connell reside?¡± Yvette eyed the Hebrew inscriptions.


    ¡°Both at Tiphareth (Beauty), fifth sphere. Beyond Yesod (Foundation), Hod (Splendor), Netzach(Victory).¡±


    A five-tier gap¡­ Wise not to resist earlier.


    ¡°Malkuth¡ªgateway to death, shadow, and Eden. Crossing it severs you from humanity. Power brings blessings¡­ and curses.¡±


    ¡°Curses?¡±


    ¡°Transcendents transcend mortal laws. Many revel in depravity, evading consequences until¡­¡± Ulysses¡¯ gaze darkened. ¡°¡­their humanity erodes. The power twists them¡ªlike Thomas Simon¡¯s forked tongue. Final corruption leaves them monstrous.¡±


    ¡°How do we resist?¡± So gods here are all elder horrors, Yvette realized.


    ¡°Anchors preserve sanity¡ªreligion, codes, rigid lifestyles. Some adhere to stricter morals than mundanes.¡±


    ¡°Religion? But deities here are¡ª¡±


    ¡°Not worshiping them. Established faiths¡ª¡± Ulysses waved dismissively ¡°¡ªAnglicanism, Catholicism. The latter¡¯s unpopular here.¡±


    ¡°The Holy Trinity exists?!¡±


    ¡°Few clergy truly believe. The Trinity reflects human virtue¡ªa mirror against the void. Many Transcendents adopt it successfully.¡±


    Create your own god? Clever.


    ¡°Paths vary,¡± Winslow added. ¡°My code follows knightly virtues: humility, valor, compassion¡­¡±


    Fits his character.


    ¡°¡­while Sir Ulysses adheres to the Mortal Path.¡±


    Yvette blinked. This peacock?


    ¡°The Noble Path requires integrity and duty¡ªqualities beyond some.¡± Winslow¡¯s eyes glinted. ¡°Maintaining baseline morality already strains certain parties.¡±


    ???


    He struggles with basic decency?!


    ¡°Gods differ from Frenchmen in one regard: Gods don¡¯t presume themselves French.¡± Winslow¡¯s dry jab hung in the air¡ªa dig at Gallic arrogance.


    Ulysses smirked, unperturbed.


    As they debated, Yvette pondered her own anchor. Religion? Never. But what else¡­?

 Chapter 6

    ¡°But how do I ascend to higher spheres?¡± Yvette finally asked her most pressing question.


    ¡°Not yet,¡± Ulysses evaded. ¡°Prove your worth through service, pass mental evaluations, and the Council will grant ascension materials. Success isn¡¯t guaranteed¡­ You¡¯ll learn in time.¡±


    ¡°As we climb the Tree, consciousness transcends matter. Humanity anchors us¡ªa tether between spirit and flesh. But even discipline can¡¯t fully ward off corruption.¡± His tone turned grave. ¡°Impatient fools crumble into monstrosities mid-ascent. Most sane Transcendents refuse advancement despite eligibility. Why gamble everything?¡± He gestured to Winslow. ¡°The Three Edicts.¡±


    Winslow straightened. ¡°First: Never reveal yourself. Mundanes mustn¡¯t learn of our existence. Breaches incur punishment¡ªexecution for severe cases. This also means concealing your mortal identity from fellow Transcendents. Firearms level the field¡ªeven low-tier Transcendents can fall to a bullet.¡± He nodded at Yvette. ¡°You witnessed this firsthand. Secrecy protects more than laws.¡±


    ¡°Sir Ulysses masquerades as a Franco-Albionese noble¡ªmedical accolades, royal honors. I play his steward.¡± Winslow continued. ¡°Next social season, you¡¯ll debut as his prot¨¦g¨¦e. Think of it as¡­ an endless masquerade.¡±


    London¡¯s social season (April-August) saw aristocrats flaunt heirs. Ulysses¡¯ connections would position Yvette among elites¡ªeasier than fabricating a bourgeois lineage.This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.


    ¡°Is this necessary¡­?¡± Yvette hesitated.


    ¡°Essential.¡± Ulysses sipped Darjeeling blended with Damask rose. ¡°Ancient texts dwell in noble libraries. Street urchins can¡¯t parse Akkadian cuneiform.¡±


    ¡°Why hasn¡¯t any Transcendent reshaped society? Created a utopia?¡± Yvette mused.


    ¡°History¡¯s answer: disaster.¡± Ulysses¡¯ cup clinked. ¡°Medieval pogroms, pharaohs warring over relics¡­ Two centuries of secrecy birthed this¡ª¡± He gestured at gaslit windows. ¡°¡ªsteam engines, global trade. My tea alone spans three continents. Why upend such marvels?¡±


    ¡°Second Edict: No forbidden rituals.¡± Winslow resumed. ¡°Even accidental communion with Outer Gods risks catastrophe. Your awakening, being involuntary, is pardoned.¡±


    ¡°Third: No Soul Devouring.¡±


    ¡°Devouring¡­?¡±


    ¡°Consuming another Transcendent¡¯s essence to ascend. Always involves cannibalism.¡± Winslow grimaced. ¡°The Devoured¡¯s memories corrupt the devourer¡ªa Frankensteinian abomination.¡±


    ¡°Does ¡®ascension materials¡¯ mean¡­?¡±


    ¡°Absolutely not.¡± Ulysses cut in. ¡°Council-approved methods only. Soul Devouring tops our purge list.¡±


    By the time birdsong heralded dawn, Yvette realized their all-night session.


    ¡°Forgive me¡ªI¡¯ve kept you awake¡ª¡±


    ¡°Awake?¡± Winslow chuckled. ¡°This is bedtime for society. Operas end at midnight, balls dawn.¡±


    Nocturnal as vampires¡­ Yvette eyed Ulysses¡¯ pallor.


    ¡°French convent-bred ladies keep earlier hours,¡± he conceded. ¡°But you¡¯ll adapt. Breakfast at ten. Pleasant dreams.¡±


    Exhausted, Yvette collapsed into goose-down bedding. Her throbbing brow oozed faintly¡ªlegacy of the ice-pick lobotomy. Yet sleep claimed her, visions flickering: masked cultists, golden trees, and a serpent coiling through starlit voids.

 Chapter 7

    ¡°Is something amiss? You¡¯ve barely touched your meal. Albionese cuisine may lack finesse, but breakfast is tolerable. The fare worsens as the day progresses.¡± Ulysses paused, fork hovering over his kedgeree.


    Though called ¡°breakfast,¡± the clock neared noon. Yvette¡¯s body hadn¡¯t eaten in days. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains, gilding the table¡¯s floral centerpiece¡ªfresh harebell and carnations. Opposite her, Ulysses lounged in a brocade morning robe, his golden hair rivaling the dawn.


    The spread tempted any appetite: steaming coffee, toast with clotted cream, plump poached eggs, tomato-baked beans, and sizzling mushrooms with bacon. Yet Yvette could scarcely breathe, let alone eat¡ªher corset¡¯s whalebone stays cinched ruthlessly.


    ¡°¡­Can¡¯t¡­ breathe¡­¡± Her words emerged thin, chest constricted.


    ¡°The pallor! The delicate flush! You¡¯ll dazzle next season,¡± Ulysses enthused. Winslow nodded approvingly.


    Your beauty standards are broken!


    Breakfast proved torture. Worse came that afternoon¡ªUlysses presented an array of Parisian gowns. ¡°The pinnacle of fashion,¡± he declared. ¡°Custom orders intercepted and tailored overnight.¡±


    ¡°Why not secondhand?¡± Yvette asked, recalling Petticoat Lane¡¯s bustling rag markets.


    ¡°Last season¡¯s rags? Mon dieu. You¡¯ll bear the de Fischer name. Spare it disgrace, dear niece.¡±The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Stunned by extravagance, Yvette pondered why this ¡°generosity¡± felt so irksome.


    Moments later, she emerged in mint-green rococo splendor¡ªlayered taffeta, cascading lace, and a hoop skirt wide enough to sail the Channel.


    ¡°Exquisite,¡± Winslow approved.


    ¡°Eighteen inches by spring,¡± Ulysses mused, eyeing her waist.


    Yvette staggered. 45 centimeters?! The maids had tightened her stays mid-dressing.


    ¡°Must I wear this¡­ cage?¡±


    ¡°Eccentricity draws attention.¡±


    ¡°Said the man who owns seven embroidered nightshirts,¡± Winslow muttered.


    ¡°I¡¯m French¡ªeccentricity¡¯s expected. Albionese think we breathe arrogance.¡±


    Yvette ventured weakly: ¡°Could I¡­ pose as a man?¡±


    Silence fell.


    ¡°Preposterous,¡± Winslow breathed.


    ¡°Intriguing.¡± Ulysses circled her. ¡°One final adjustment.¡±


    Before she could react, maids pinned her arms. Yvette tapped thermal energy to resist¡ªyet their grip held firm. Their skin felt corpse-cold through silk gloves.


    ¡°Puppets,¡± Winslow explained. ¡°My craft. Apologies for the roughness.¡±


    ¡°The scar.¡± Ulysses donned surgical gloves, sterilizing a scalpel. ¡°Marks you as flawed. Let¡¯s erase it.¡±


    ¡°Why do you look¡­ eager?¡±


    ¡°Passion for healing.¡± He offered a vial. ¡°Laudanum. Eases pain.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Stubborn girl.¡±


    The maids forced her onto a divan. Cold steel pierced her brow, scraping necrotic tissue. Yvette clenched her jaw¡ªsilent.


    ¡°Impressive fortitude.¡± Ulysses seemed almost disappointed.


    ¡°No sutures?!¡± She glared as he removed gloves.


    ¡°Patience.¡± He slit his finger, pressing bleeding flesh to her wound. ¡°My blood accelerates healing. Side effect: itching.¡±


    Fifteen agonizing minutes later, her mirror showed flawless skin.


    ¡°Thank you, Sir Ulysses.¡±


    ¡°Uncle Ulysses. Practice.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re barely older!¡±


    ¡°Nephews shirk duties. Nieces require guidance. Now.¡±


    ¡°¡­Uncle Ulysses.¡±


    He beamed like a cat with cream.


    ¡°Must you torment her?¡± Winslow sighed.


    ¡°She blushes under your gaze, Winslow. Give her time.¡±


    ¡°Dinner shall feature your favorite: black pudding.¡±


    Ulysses paled. ¡°¡­Cruelty incarnate.¡±


    ¡°Miss Yvette¡¯s portion will be¡­ adjusted.¡±

 Chapter 8

    Days later, the maids delivered new attire: a champagne frock coat embroidered with gilt thread, a matching waistcoat, lace-trimmed shirtsleeves, and a tricorn hat adorned with satin ribbons. The ensemble included ivory stockings, knee-length breeches, and chestnut leather pumps.


    Dressed fully, Yvette blinked at her reflection¡ªa porcelain-skinned dandy radiating delicate elegance.


    Too effeminate.


    In this timeline, France¡¯s pre-revolutionary opulence still reigned. Unlike Albion¡¯s sober gentlemanly aesthetics, Parisian fashion catered to salon hostesses¡ªmen¡¯s attire dripped with lace and pastels to please discerning noblewomen.


    ¡°Only a peacock like Ulysses could pull this off,¡± Yvette muttered. His haughty demeanor offset the frills, transforming opulence into authority. Her borrowed outfit¡ªtailored from his upcoming Parisian order¡ªfelt like playing dress-up.


    ¡°Your male guise spares us months of etiquette training,¡± Ulysses remarked. Albionese ladies cultivated demure grace; Frenchwomen perfected coquettish charm. Yvette¡¯s modern directness suited neither¡ªbut made a convincing boy.


    ¡°Chin up, little lord. Let the rabble bask in your radiance.¡± Ulysses adjusted her posture. ¡°Should anyone slight you, challenge them to duel.¡±This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°Duels are illegal here.¡±


    ¡°Only fatal ones matter. Crush their pride discreetly.¡±


    ¡°But against Transcendents¡­¡± Yvette hesitated. ¡°Is my power truly useful?¡±


    ¡°Ingenuity bridges gaps.¡± Ulysses flexed his hand¡ªmuscles writhed, nails blackening into raptor talons. ¡°At your tier, I mimicked harpy eagles. 400-pound grip strength. Crush skulls like walnuts.¡± He demonstrated by flattening a silver crown. ¡°Your energy conversion holds potential. Imagine.¡±


    Guns. The thought struck her. ¡°Are firearms legal here?¡±


    ¡°Hunting¡¯s a national pastime. Why?¡±


    ¡°My ability could amplify their use.¡±


    ¡°Pistols then¡ªdiscreet.¡± Ulysses turned as Winslow entered.


    ¡°The Fleet Street editors await,¡± Winslow said. ¡°They need your¡­ guidance on framing the chapel incident.¡±


    As a ¡°French nobleman,¡± Ulysses held shares in major papers¡ªa convenient veil for covering occult events.


    ¡°Take Yves¡±¡ªUlysses coined a masculine variant of her name¡ª¡°to Malkin¡¯s workshop. A pistol for our fledgling duelist.¡±


    Winslow stiffened imperceptibly. ¡°You¡¯ll return for supper?¡±


    ¡°Naturally. Spare no effort on the black pudding.¡±


    Once Ulysses left, Winslow sighed. ¡°He¡¯s grown fond of your cooking.¡±


    Albion¡¯s upper class dined notoriously late. The real trial came at 7 PM¡ªYvette¡¯s ¡°practice¡± meals. Lemon-studded puddings, kidney pies reeking of offal, and the crowning horror: jellied eels glistening like aquatic nightmares.


    Ulysses had devoured even Winslow¡¯s vengeful black pudding¡ªa blood sausage resembling congealed nightmares. ¡°I modified my taste buds to hyena¡¯s,¡± he¡¯d confessed. ¡°Scavengers endure worse.¡±


    Madness. Yet Yvette¡¯s herb-roasted pheasant and saffron stews had thawed even his Gallic snobbery.

 Chapter 9

    With this role model in mind, Yvette also began avoiding the "tempering of willpower." After all, she had recently been honing her control abilities, and nothing tested her skills more than mastering the precise heat of cooking.


    For several days in a row, whenever the maid prepared meals, Yvette would assist in the kitchen. This era¡¯s Albion was also a hub of global trade. Exotic crops from the New World and the Spice Islands flowed endlessly into its ports, and the kitchens of affluent households brimmed with all manner of spices.


    Beef stewed with cinnamon, fennel, ginger, and pepper; curry crab stir-fried with turmeric, dill, and coriander powder¡­ The mysterious culinary arts of the East awakened within her. Through practice, Yvette gradually grasped the limits of her current abilities.


    Her energy conversion and teleportation abilities were confined to a three-meter radius around her body, requiring a direct line of sight. As long as no living beings blocked the path, she could phase through materials like metal or walls.


    The era¡¯s stoves didn¡¯t use open flames beneath pots. Burning coal was placed in cast-iron furnaces with ventilation pipes built into the walls. The flames heated an iron plate above, transferring heat to the pans placed on it. This provided steady but low heat, suitable only for slow simmering or braising.


    In Yvette¡¯s hands, however, the isolated coals¡¯ heat could be directly transferred into pans, mimicking the high-heat stir-frying of later eras. This produced the seared aroma Chinese cuisine called wok hei¡ªa sensation entirely novel to people of this time.


    "You must be a culinary-type transcendent¡­ This cabbage dish is divine! Olive oil, minced garlic¡­ with a hint of magical smokiness. Until today, I¡¯d fantasized about the ambrosia Tantalus stole from the Olympian gods. Thank you for ending my imagination," praised Ulysses, who had long suffered under Albion¡¯s culinary traditions.


    Even Winslow approached her afterward: "Might I humbly request you share your recipes?"


    Yvette jotted down simplified versions of stews and braised dishes from memory for him to practice. She wondered how his attempts had fared.


    "Mr. O¡¯Connell, how did you find the recipes I wrote?"


    "As the nephew of Sir Ulysses, you may call me Winslow," the black-haired young man replied with uncharacteristic hesitation. "I¡¯ve tried them several times, but encountered issues¡­ For instance, what exactly constitutes ¡®a pinch¡¯ or ¡®to taste¡¯?"If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    Ah¡­ The whimsical measurements of Chinese cuisine truly defied explanation¡­


    That afternoon, Yvette and Winslow rode to the "Maskelyne Workshop" Ulysses had mentioned.


    Their destination was Clerkenwell in northeastern London, a district crowded with traditional artisans¡ªclockmakers, jewelers, and the like. Though Albion¡¯s class hierarchy deemed manual laborers the lowest tier, these craftsmen serving the elite often earned substantial incomes, with top artisans rivaling lawyers or clergy in wealth.


    Peering from the carriage window, Yvette saw rows of elegant townhouses. Street-facing displays glittered with pristine glass showcasing jeweled clocks, pocket watches, and chains. Upstairs workshops echoed with metallic clinks and hammer taps. Carriages bearing family crests lined the streets as ladies and gentlemen shopped for evening social adornments.


    The carriage halted before an unassuming shop. Through its, Yvette glimpsed gem-encrusted clocks and watches.


    "Good afternoon. Young Master Yves de Fishe has an appointment with the proprietor," Winslow announced with practiced decorum, opening the door for her.


    "The master said to bring you straight in," a clerk greeted warmly. "Here for custom firearms, I presume? Master Maskelyne doesn¡¯t bother with flashy signage¡ªregulars know his clocks and pistols boast London¡¯s finest craftsmanship."


    "Firearms are handmade? Doesn¡¯t that mean each shop¡¯s models differ?" Yvette asked offhandedly.


    Unbeknownst to her, this era¡¯s finest guns were horologists¡¯ masterpieces¡ªprecision instruments as irreplicable as art. Assembly-line firearms from the New World, still in infancy, were deemed crude and unreliable by traditional artisans.


    The clerk sniffed disdainfully: "You should experience real firearms, not New World¡¯s soulless trash."


    They passed through a courtyard dotted with practice targets into a workshop cluttered with metal ingots, gears, and half-finished timepieces. A disheveled, red-nosed man reeking of alcohol emerged¡ªMaskelyne, master artisan and covert transcendent.


    "Little one, Fishe¡¯s nephew? Owing the Frenchman a favor¡­ State your requirements," Maskelyne grunted, sharp-eyed despite his slovenly appearance.


    "Master Maskelyne is a longtime ¡®circle insider¡¯ acquainted with Sir Ulysses. His transcendent abilities aid craftsmanship," Winslow whispered.


    Yvette bowed. "I seek a pistol. Might you explain current models?"


    Maskelyne outlined options: scatter-shot versus conical bullets, single-shot versus revolvers. Yvette opted for a large-caliber revolver despite warnings about recoil.


    To demonstrate her transcendent-dampened recoil control, she test-fired a bear-hunting pistol¡ªoriginally commissioned by a Kievan Rus noble later exiled. Maskelyne approved her capabilities but mocked her "abysmal shooting posture."


    After finalizing specifications (short barrel, reinforcement), they departed.


    Crossing into a bustling commercial district, Yvette observed street vendors hawking gruesome tabloids:


    "Extra! Ikkenham Red Mill Murders! Five dead overnight¡ªsatanic ritual traces!"


    Though outside their jurisdiction, Winslow purchased a leaflet detailing victims hung upside-down and drained of blood¡ªa case bearing no vampiric hallmarks but ripe for public hysteria.


    Ulysses later fumed about police incompetence and sensationalist press. Yvette fabricated a plausible "drunken acquaintance" cover story to quell occult rumors, earning praise:


    "Genius. In France, you¡¯d reign as salon queen."

 Chapter 10

    "Um... Sir Ulysses, I commissioned a firearm from Mr. Maskelyne today. During the test firing, he criticized my posture and suggested I find an instructor. Could you recommend someone?" Though Maskelyne had referred to "that French duel maniac"¡ªlikely Ulysses himself¡ªYvette hesitated to impose given his busy schedule.


    "Why recommend others? Do you doubt my marksmanship? Or does Albion even have qualified shooting instructors?" The Frenchman scoffed. "Their so-called hunting is a farce¡ªaristocrats accepting pre-loaded guns from servants to shoot caged animals. Why not fire at the cages directly? Save the servants the trouble..." He trailed off, then brightened. "Ah, but since I used a sword that night, you might misunderstand. Rest assured, my pistol skills rival my blade. No need for outsiders¡ªI¡¯ll teach you myself. And as your dear uncle, I¡¯ll dedicate these days to imparting practical combat skills. Winslow can handle the newspaper affairs."


    His cheerful tone betrayed relief at delegating work.


    "Stance dictates accuracy¡ªbalance, sight alignment, breath control," Ulysses lectured, adjusting Yvette¡¯s grip. "The Weaver stance balances stability and defense, but since recoil doesn¡¯t faze you, the duelist¡¯s single-handed pose suits best¡ªminimal exposure, maximum flair."


    True to his boasts, Ulysses demonstrated flawless marksmanship, even shooting coins mid-air to pierce bullseyes. As he guided her posture, he muttered, "Thank Providence Winslow¡¯s absent. He¡¯d quarantine me three feet away like a plague bacillus..."


    Albion¡¯s prudish norms forbade even engaged couples from close contact. For now, Ulysses exploited the liberty, his hands steadying hers without censure.


    "Albionites think waltzes are indecent¡ªhypocrites," he sneered before approving her stance. "Drill this into muscle memory. In combat, instinct trumps aim. When actions flow without thought, you¡¯ll be a true shooter."


    "Understood. Thank you."


    "You¡¯ll also learn swordsmanship. A French heir ignorant of blades? Unthinkable. In crowded cities, steel whispers where guns shout." Ulysses outlined her crash course: "One month to master arms, etiquette, and public appearances. Thereafter, you¡¯ll reside near Covent Garden¡ªa property of mine¡ªto patrol an unsupervised district."


    "Alone?"


    "Precisely. Challenging for a ''recovering invalid,'' but necessary. Tomorrow¡¯s Sunday¡ªwe¡¯ll attend Anglican communion to cement your identity. Albion¡¯s universities demand unmarried Anglican males. You fulfill one criterion, but we¡¯ll... improvise the rest, dear nephew." His smirk promised mischief.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    The next day, a begrudging Ulysses¡ªclad in uncharacteristic somber attire¡ªescorted Yvette to church. Amidst murmured liturgy, a venomous whisper cut through:


    "Behold! The illustrious Sir Ulysses graces us. Even the Holy Trinity must kneel in gratitude."


    A hawk-eyed man in his thirties glared from the pews¡ªChief Superintendent Artaud of Scotland Yard, hatred simmering beneath his stern demeanor.


    "Ignore him. Wait," Ulysses murmured.


    Post-service, the trio converged outside. Artaud erupted: "Saturday¡¯s headlines vilified my precinct! Two dozen complaints about negligence¡ªletting grave-robbers slaughter eleven! Slander!"


    "Facts, not slander," Ulysses purred. "My papers uphold journalistic integrity."


    "Where were you that night? Keep this up, and I¡¯ll haul you in for ''questioning''!"


    Yvette arrived as Artaud threatened, her pulse quickening. Ulysses remained unflappable: "Ah, perfect timing! Meet my ''nephew,'' Yves de Fishe. Yves, this is Chief Superintendent Artaud¡ªour beloved ''public servant.'' Call upon him anytime."


    "Damned Frenchie¡ª"


    "Pleased to meet you, Superintendent." Yvette offered her hand.


    Artaud¡¯s brief grip froze him. "...A woman?"


    "Superintendent Artaud¡¯s ability¡ª''Bloodhound''¡ªdetects truths through touch," Ulysses explained, unfazed. "As you see, she¡¯ll soon operate independently. Do watch over my ''frail foreign niece,'' won¡¯t you?"


    Artaud stiffened, thrusting a card at Yvette. "Contact me... if needed." His glare softened. "But curb your uncle¡¯s antics! That Red Mill case¡ª"


    "¡ªIs under control, thanks to Yves¡¯ inspired fabrication." Ulysses outlined the "drunken acquaintance" cover story.


    Artaud¡¯s fury dissolved into reluctant gratitude. Ulysses pressed his advantage: "Yet our noble superintendent repays her aid by snarling ''damned Frenchie''¡ªshocking ingratitude!"


    "I¡ª That wasn¡¯t¡ª" Flustered, Artaud fled.


    Weeks of grueling study followed¡ªsword drills, target practice, etiquette lessons. By month¡¯s end, Yvette earned her mentors¡¯ approval.


    On moving day, Winslow presented her carriage: "A prudent hire¡ªSir Ulysses prepaid a year. Your driver, Carl."


    The coachman eyed his effete new master¡ªYvette¡¯s androgynous beauty and French flair fitting Albion¡¯s stereotype. Yet her warmth disarmed him: "No need for aliases. To Covent Garden, please."


    townhouse¡ªa four-story gem in London¡¯s heart¡ªgleamed under Winslow¡¯s meticulous preparation. "Staffing is essential," he cautioned. "My automatons can¡¯t serve here. Hide your nature from mortal servants."


    As they toured the rooms, Yvette ventured: "Winslow... why remain a steward? A transcendent of your rank could claim higher status."


    "Service anchors my humanity," he replied, gaze distant. "Knighthood requires a liege. Sir Ulysses... never wavers."


    Yvette blinked. "I just want to survive¡ªbe a proper bounty hunter."


    "An admirable start." Winslow¡¯s smile held melancholy. "We transcendents walk apart from mortal tides. But purpose steadies us."


    After final instructions¡ªallowances, raven post, weekly visits¡ªWinslow departed. Alone, Yvette collapsed onto featherbed musings: Two months... healthy at last. Time to fight as I always have.


    At two o¡¯clock, a knock heralded her guide¡ªa nondescript clerk in dated attire. "At your service for staffing and errands," he droned, name already forgotten.


    As they rode forth, Yvette breathed deep. Her new life¡ªfraught with secrets and steel¡ªhad truly begun.

 Chapter 11

    Though Winslow had prepared nearly all household necessities, Yvette browsed Charing Cross Road¡ªLondon¡¯s famed bookstore district¡ªto stock up on modern novels absent from Ulysses¡¯ antique-laden library. At a newsstand, she also purchased newspapers the Francophile aristocrat disdained.


    ¡°Apologies for the wait¡ªI lost track of time,¡± Yvette said to her guide, who stood patiently.


    ¡°No urgency. My task is to assist your errands,¡± he replied. ¡°Though I prefer observing people to reading.¡±


    Yvette skimmed The Court Weekly, its pages filled with aristocratic gossip, then a more serious broadsheet. A politician¡¯s interview dominated the front page, arguing workhouses should reduce rations to deter ¡°lazy parasites.¡± Society¡¯s cruel logic deemed poverty self-inflicted; the unemployed clung to respectability to avoid being branded permanent paupers.


    The second page detailed crimes¡ªtheft, abandonment, rape¡ªwith lurid specificity. A divorce trial aired intimate bedroom details, while a rape victim¡¯s full name blared in print.


    ¡°The content displeases you?¡± the guide noted.


    ¡°Victims aren¡¯t criminals. Publishing their names¡­ it¡¯s a second violation.¡± She folded the paper sharply.


    London¡¯s servant economy thrived on necessity. Without staff, daily life collapsed under chores: chopping sugar loaves, molding candles, laundering finicky fabrics. Yvette needed competent help¡ªhence the guide¡¯s presence.


    As they approached the hiring hall, chaos erupted. A runaway carriage hurtled toward them, horses frenzied. Yvette lunged, gripping the cargo rail. Her power reversed the vehicle¡¯s inertia, forcing the steeds to strain backward. To bystanders, it appeared the slim youth single-handedly halted the chaos.


    ¡°Thank you, young sir!¡± The driver bowed, mistaking her guide for the brawn.


    Whispers followed: ¡°Did you see? That boy stopped it alone!¡±


    Yvette adjusted her tricorn hat, muttering, ¡°I¡¯ve trained in martial arts.¡± The guide said nothing.


    Inside the hiring hall, a tearful woman pleaded with a clerk. ¡°Please list me! My child can¡¯t sleep on streets!¡±


    ¡°No reference letter, no registration,¡± the clerk snapped. Formerly well-dressed, her frayed cuffs hinted fallen status.


    ¡°A dismissed maid,¡± the guide murmured. ¡°Likely caught in a scandal¡ªtheft or affair.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    When the woman mentioned her child, the clerk coldly advised: ¡°Try the workhouse. Or the Foundling Hospital¡ªif they¡¯ll take a bastard.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the Foundling Hospital?¡± Yvette asked.


    ¡°An orphanage, oversubscribed. Unwed mothers¡­ rarely survive respectably.¡± The guide¡¯s smile chilled. ¡°They vanish into Thames fog or brothels.¡±


    Yvette approached the trembling woman.


    In this era, servants were less human than talking furniture. "Refined" households taught children to belittle or bully staff¡ªa practice believed to nurture character by reserving compassion for one¡¯s peers, not "inferiors." Abuse and harassment went unchallenged; judges and juries, being gentlemen themselves, dismissed servants¡¯ grievances. To torment "furniture" was no crime.


    Alison Lynch had served such a "gentleman¡¯s" household. The master spent hours fondling maids and thrashing footmen¡ªsometimes "disobedient" maids too, using canes, birch rods, hemp ropes¡­ whatever lay handy. The mistress, paragon of virtue, ignored her husband¡¯s exploits. Alison¡¯s dismissal came not for yielding to him (as all young maids did), but for conceiving. Though abortion was illegal, London¡¯s apothecaries sold "menstrual regulators" laced with arsenic and mercury¡ªpotently effective. The mistress deemed expulsion proper punishment for such "ingratitude."


    Penniless, Alison survived on meager savings until childbirth drained her reserves. Now, as despair crested, a figure emerged through her tears.


    "Mrs. Lynch," spoke the angelic youth, "having newly arrived from France, I require an experienced maid for my Covent Garden residence. Might you accept?"


    Alison blinked. "Y-Yes! Thank you, sir!"


    Grace incarnate! Had the Holy Spirit sent this ethereal boy?


    "You may bring your child. My home has ample space."


    Alison froze. Unheard of¡ªa bastard under a master¡¯s roof? Yet the youth¡¯s French accent excused eccentricity. "I¡­ don¡¯t know how to repay you."


    "Here¡¯s my address. Come promptly¡ªI¡¯m hopeless alone."


    That night, as Alison settled into 24 Langley Street, a visitor arrived at Ulysses¡¯ West Hampstead manor.


    "Mr. Ordinary," Winslow greeted, serving tea to a man of forgettable features¡ªthe afternoon guide.


    "Thank you, Clockwork. The Doctor¡¯s prot¨¦g¨¦ passed inspection. Her psyche remains untainted."


    Ordinary¡¯s ability rendered him imperceptible¡ªa ghost blending into any crowd. Yet prolonged exposure to depravity in the Americas had exacted a toll. Removing his hat, he revealed a third eye nestled in his scalp, lid half-shut. "New World cultists¡­ their rot seeped into me. But observing her today soothed it back to dormancy."


    Ulysses leaned forward. "Your verdict?"


    Ordinary¡¯s third eye slithered to replace his right, its murky iris staring blindly as his hand scrawled diagnoses. The note chilled Ulysses:


    "Her empathy is primal, untainted by moral posturing. Yet such purity draws hungers beyond our realm¡­"


    Exhausted, Ordinary departed. "Prolonged contact risks contamination. Even healed, we carriers¡­ linger."


    Meanwhile, Yvette jolted awake. Moonlight revealed an open book she didn¡¯t recall purchasing. The pages fluttered to Leviticus:


    "You must not eat meat with blood, for blood is life¡­"


    Then John:


    "The bread I give is my flesh for the life of the world¡­"


    The text blurred except one passage, scrawled in her hand yet unwritten:


    "Our life feeds on others¡¯ deaths. In corpses, dormant life awaits¡ªto merge with living flesh and awaken."


    Her tongue slithered, forked like the cultist¡¯s. A shadow loomed¡ªhooded, ravenous.

 Chapter 12

    Yvette¡¯s neck seized under a frigid, rotting grip. Though breathless, she felt something soft¡ªan eyeball-sized orb¡ªroll off her shoulder.


    ¡°You killed me¡­ vile usurper!¡± The one-eyed, decayed cultist hissed, fingers tightening. ¡°The ritual failed¡­ yet succeeded! My Lord grants me rebirth¡ªyour flesh shall be my vessel!¡±


    As darkness encroached, the bloodied text flashed in her mind:


    ¡°Our life feeds on others¡¯ deaths. In corpses, dormant life awaits¡ªto merge with living flesh and awaken.¡±


    The world warped. Walls became pulsing viscera; her body split into gaping maws. The cultist¡¯s scream died as jagged ribs snapped shut¡ªa carnivorous bloom.


    Yvette awoke at her desk, neck stiff. The nightmare lingered¡ªvivid, visceral. Alison, her new maid, had tidied the books and closed the window. ¡°To avoid ink spills,¡± she¡¯d explained.


    At breakfast, Alison fretted over Yvette¡¯s meager appetite: a bread-egg sandwich and coffee. ¡°Perhaps roast veal or pigeon?¡±


    ¡°Fruit suffices. Strawberries soon, yes?¡± Yvette replied absently, scanning ironed newspapers¡ªAlison¡¯s meticulous touch.


    A delivery arrived: a box from Maskelyne¡¯s workshop. Inside lay her custom revolver¡ªa tool for battles seen and unseen.


    The nightmare had revealed more than terror. In it, Yvette became the¡ªa fallen transcendent named Hydra. Memories surfaced:


    Rain-lashed night. Hydra cleansed bloodied hands beside a carriage. ¡°We¡¯re even, Boiling Lake Lord.¡±


    The passenger¡ªa fellow conspirator¡ªraged: ¡°You call smuggling that dagger even?!¡±


    Hydra sneered: ¡°Your budding will exile you¡ªas it did me. My method saves you.¡±


    The Boiling Lake Lord, a novice transcendent, feared losing his hard-won power. Hydra¡¯s solution: sever and store his, like Egyptian canopic jars preserving organs for resurrection.


    Hydra¡¯s past hinted at a shadowy cabal¡ªthe Nine-Headed Serpent. Once a¡¾Magnificence¡¿-tier transcendent, he¡¯d fractured his to evade. The dagger¡ªa relic of Mesoamerican myth¡ªenabled this forbidden rite.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators!


    Yvette weighed reporting this to the Special Missions Bureau¡ªthe Hydra loathed. But exposing her dream-memories risked scrutiny. Best wait, she decided.


    Alison hovered, uneasy. Her new master¡¯s Francophile delicacy clashed with Albion¡¯s meat-centric machismo. ¡°Boys need beef!¡± she muttered, recalling tavern boasts.


    Yet Yvette¡¯s focus stayed on the revolver box¡ªher key to survival in a world where humanity and horror intertwined.


    The box contained the custom-made pistol Yvette had ordered. With a short, thick barrel just over two inches long, it resembled a miniature mortar or flare gun. Given that fine firearms of this era were crafted by clockmakers, the weapon maintained an artisanal elegance - alloy construction adorned with etchings, gilding, and tortoiseshell inlays on the grip, all executed with intricate craftsmanship.


    Yet its oversized cylinder and bore distinguished it from ordinary pistols. The five-chambered revolver operated smoothly when Yvette tested the mechanism, its precision engineering promising reliable performance. Included were five specialty rounds with silver casings and crystal tips, said to possess paranormal efficacy against spectral entities, plus two pounds of granular gunpowder and bullet molds.


    This was standard practice - firearms being bespoke creations rather than mass-produced, each requiring custom ammunition. Yvette''s townhouse contained a distillery workshop complete with furnace, crucibles and glassware, typical for producing everything from cosmetics to bullets. Her thermal manipulation abilities allowed perfect casting by controlling heat dissipation.


    She crafted three bullet types: standard lead conical rounds, expanding hollow-point "Devil''s Kiss" rounds (whose horrific wounding potential earned alarmed looks), and hardened steel armor-piercing projectiles made possible by reinforced rifling. Though eager to test-fire, central London''s noise restrictions and her afternoon appointment at the Royal University stayed her hand.


    Opting instead for a slender rapier - part of Sir Ulysse''s combat tutelage - Yvette descended to find her housekeeper Alison preparing to market. Declining a carriage ride due to propriety concerns, Alison headed for Covent Garden''s produce stalls while Yvette departed for academic orientation.


    At the Royal University''s Classics College, anticipation brewed. Students gossiped about the new French aristocrat joining their ranks, evidenced by the dean''s conspicuously displayed recommendation letter bearing a ducal seal. Among them, lovestruck Gary simmered with jealousy toward this incoming rival for the dean''s daughter Julie''s affections, even threatening anachronistic duel challenges that his friends wisely declined.


    The scene crystallized the era''s social tensions - privileged aristocrats gliding through institutions where commoners struggled with fees, romantic ideals clashing with practical realities, and the lingering specter of continental rivalries coloring every interaction. Yvette''s arrival promised to disrupt this microcosm, her unconventional background blending alchemical pragmatism with noble bearing in ways these sheltered scholars could scarcely anticipate.

 Chapter 13

    That afternoon, Yvette arrived at the Royal University to meet her academic advisor. The professor warmly received her and insisted she join his family for tea. Through their conversation, Yvette learned that the university operated on a remarkably lax system: no fixed curriculum, self-directed studies, and only requiring her presence once every week or two. Though initially concerned about exams, the professor assured her she¡¯d graduate with honors in two years without sitting for a single test.


    The advisor¡¯s true fascination, however, lay with the names on her recommendation letter. He lavished praise on Sir Ulysse¡¯s medical achievements¡ªodd enthusiasm from a classics professor¡ªand hinted heavily at desires to visit the nobleman¡¯s residence or encounter the Duke of Lancaster. Yvette deftly sidestepped these probes by emphasizing her limited familiarity with her ¡°uncle¡¯s¡± social circle.


    Undeterred, the professor pivoted to extolling his daughter¡¯s embroidery skills and piano virtuosity. Yvette endured the awkward tea session with polite nods before making her escape.


    ¡°Your intellect has made this afternoon truly delightful, Mr. de Fische! I do hope we might share tea again,¡± the professor effused at parting.


    ¡°Certainly,¡± Yvette replied, fleeing the suffocating hospitality.


    Rounding a garden wall, she nearly collided with a red-faced student. Though her enhanced reflexes allowed her to steady herself, the young man staggered before freezing mid-glare. His anger melted into slack-jawed awe as he took in Yvette¡¯s androgynous beauty¡ªivory skin, luminous eyes framed by cascading hair¡ªbefore fleeing in flustered panic.


    ¡°Odd fellow,¡± Yvette murmured, brushing off the encounter.


    Meanwhile, across campus, lovestruck Gary returned to his friends in a daze. ¡°His complexion¡­ like sculpted alabaster¡­ his gaze pierces the soul¡­¡± he rhapsodized, igniting alarmed suspicions about his sudden appreciation for male beauty.


    Returning home, Yvette found Sir Ulysse awaiting her. ¡°Your mental evaluation cleared you for fieldwork,¡± he announced, handing her a philosophical fragment from ¡°Mr. Mundane¡±¡ªan enigmatic observer who¡¯d determined her ideal path:


    ¡°Why fear our inner selves? Our terror stems from clinging to identity. Release attachment to self, and what remains to dread?¡±


    The accompanying document revealed calligraphy painstakingly recreated through gridded illustrations¡ªSir Ulysse¡¯s own handiwork.


    ¡°This passage¡¯s true meaning is lost in multiple translations,¡± Ulysse cautioned.


    ¡°Not to me,¡± Yvette grinned.


    Their meeting concluded with a new assignment: infiltrate the Labyrinth of Thought club¡ªa group of amateur sleuths obsessed with unsolved crimes. ¡°They¡¯re privileged meddlers,¡± Ulysse sneered. ¡°Guide their curiosity away from¡­ sensitive matters.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    As Yvette accepted the mission, Ulysse dropped darker news: the asylum surgeon who¡¯d sold her corpse-to-be now faced hanging for grave robbery. When offered prime seats at the execution, Yvette declined¡ªthe era¡¯s macabre fascination with public hangings held no appeal.


    Thus began her dual life: university dilettante by day, undercover club infiltrator by night, all while navigating a world where Enlightenment ideals clashed with supernatural secrets¡ªand where a single misstep could unravel both her mission and carefully constructed identity.


    Adopting the "Unicorn Stance"¡ªbody angled sideways, rapier extended toward an imaginary opponent¡¯s face¡ªshe demonstrated why the slender blade was more than a thrusting weapon. A flick of her wrist sent the blade slicing through a forearm-thick tree branch with a whoosh of parted air. A reverse cut halved the remaining stump, both strikes executed as mezzotagli (half-cuts)¡ªlightning-fast slashes meant to disable limbs rather than deliver killing blows.


    Most swordsmen relied on height and reach for advantage, but Yvette¡¯s supernatural agility compensated. She visualized an opponent lunging overhead, then bent backward at an impossible angle¡ªa move that would topple any ordinary fighter¡ªbefore counterthrusting upward.


    ¡°Fencing exhausts the mind more than the body,¡± she mused, collapsing onto the grass. Her training under Sir Ulysse had revealed swordsmanship as a cerebral art. The treatises he assigned resembled geometry texts, filled with concentric circles and intersecting curves mapping optimal footwork and blade trajectories¡ªpart of La Verdadera Destreza, the "True Skill" system pioneered by mathematician-duelists.


    To think 16th-century fencing masters debated hyperbolic geometry while crossing blades¡­ Yvette chuckled, recalling Ulysse¡¯s quip: ¡°If you can¡¯t bisect a parabola, don¡¯t bother bisecting a man.¡±


    Sunlight streamed through the Palladian windows of the St. James Street townhouse, gilding the mahogany-paneled reading room where three gentlemen sipped Darjeeling amidst crime gazettes.


    ¡°Burglary homicides¡­ drunken brawl killings¡­ yawn.¡± Twirling his waxed mustache, the man codenamed Oleander tossed aside The Times. ¡°Where¡¯s the artistry? A proper English murder requires a vicar or barrister¡ªsomeone civilized enough to devise clever stratagems before tripping on a minuscule oversight!¡±


    ¡°Hear, hear!¡± agreed Strychnine, an silver-templed aesthete. ¡°These modern brutes lack the decency to stage a proper locked-room mystery.¡±


    Upas (named for the mythical poison tree) interrupted their lamentations with a sigh. ¡°A Mr. de Fische seeks membership. Nephew to that insufferable Sir Ulysse.¡±


    ¡°Another Frog?¡± Strychnine harrumphed. ¡°Out with him!¡±


    ¡°On the contrary,¡± Oleander smirked. ¡°Imagine Sir Ulysse¡¯s face if his kin joins our ¡®childish detective games.¡¯ Let¡¯s test the pup.¡±


    Yvette entered to find three pairs of eyes dissecting her like a cadaver at Bart¡¯s Hospital.


    ¡°Your uncle,¡± Oleander began silkily, ¡°holds our club in contempt. Why should we welcome his blood?¡±


    ¡°I share no confidences with Sir Ulysse,¡± Yvette countered. ¡°My passion lies in criminological puzzles¡ªparticularly the intellectual elegance of poisoners.¡±


    ¡°Elegance?¡± Strychnine snorted. ¡°Stabbing takes guts. Poison¡¯s a coward¡¯s tool!¡±


    ¡°On the contrary.¡± Yvette leaned forward, eyes glinting. ¡°A knife murder risks one moment of detection. Poisoning demands threefold genius: procuring toxins unseen, ensuring lethal dosage, and masking motive. It¡¯s a chess match versus a bar brawl.¡±


    Oleander applauded. ¡°Bravo! My vote¡¯s secured.¡±


    Strychnine grudgingly conceded, ¡°Were your name not de Fische¡­ but no. I dissent.¡±


    All eyes turned to Upas, who shuffled tarot cards with practiced flair. ¡°Let fate decide.¡± The Death card flipped upward. He chuckled. ¡°Apt. Welcome to the Labyrinth, Mr. de Fische.¡±


    Thus began Yvette¡¯s infiltration¡ªa dance between aristocratic pretense and occult duty, where every tea-soaked conversation might unravel supernatural secrets¡­ or expose her own.

 Chapter 14

    "London''s social season begins in April," Upas drawled. "Prove your character before we risk admitting a... questionable foreigner." His finger spun The Magician card¡ªits imagery of sleight-of-hand suddenly igniting her insight.


    Six months... midnight...


    Her eyes lit up. "Your ''six months'' isn''t temporal¡ªit''s astrological. August 22nd marks Leo ceding to Virgo. The real key..." She tapped The Magician, "...lies in the card you hid¡ªStrength."


    Upas froze as she continued: "Strength depicts a virgin taming a lion¡ªVirgo overcoming Leo. Show us the eleventh card."


    Reluctantly, he revealed Strength¡ª"I Consent" scribbled on its back.


    "Magnificent!" Oleander cheered while Strychnine grumbled, "Should''ve known a de Fische''d ruin a perfectly good plot twist."


    "Call me Mandrake," Yvette declared, claiming her club codename.


    Candelabras bathed the private dining room in honeyed light as footmen served foie gras en cro?te and salmon mousseline. Between bites of Strasbourg delicacies, the conversation turned macabre.


    "Tomorrow''s expedition should delight," Strychnine announced. "The Ickenham Red Mill murders¡ªfive victims, rumors of vampirism. Police bungled it, as usual."


    Yvette''s fork hesitated over her tarte tatin. The very case she''d helped obscure with counter-rumors.


    "Capital!" Upas leaned forward. "An open-air crime scene, occult whispers... perfect for our talents."


    "Count me in," Yvette smiled tightly. Time to play double agent.


    As they plotted their investigation, she noted the cruel irony: these aristocratic sleuths sought to unravel a mystery whose truth could unleash supernatural catastrophe. Her mission? Ensure they found only fiction in the facts.


    Outside, fog swallowed the gaslit streets¡ªa fitting shroud for the game afoot. Tomorrow, the Labyrinth of Thought would stalk a killer... while the real predator sat among them, sipping Burgundy wine with guileless charm.If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    When Yvette descended the stairs after freshening up, she spotted a small basket on the dining table alongside breakfast. Alison, arranging a stack of ironed newspapers, greeted her warmly: ¡°Good morning, Master Yves.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± Yvette eyed the basket draped with a floral cloth.


    ¡°You mentioned an outing with your companions today. I bought fresh venison and tuna at the market this morning and prepared two types of sandwiches. They¡¯ll keep you nourished on your journey.¡±


    ¡°Venison? That must have been quite the effort. Thank you, Alison. But please don¡¯t trouble yourself next time. The potato salad you made last week was delightful even as a cold dish.¡±


    In this era, venison, swan, and peacock were considered noble fare¡ªgame reserved for the aristocracy, as commoners risked gunfire from gamekeepers or prosecution for poaching. Potatoes, meanwhile, were viewed as ¡°unseemly¡± fare, lower in status than oats fed to horses.


    ¡°Master Yves,¡± Alison chided gently, ¡°potatoes are not food for a gentleman of standing. You ought to eat what benefits your health¡ªmeat, for instance.¡±


    ¡°Why? Are potato pur¨¦e or beef stew not delicious?¡±


    ¡°¡­I admit your recipes make them palatable, but they grow underground, unlike proper crops that rise nobly toward the sun.¡±


    Yvette nodded politely, privately dismissing the bias. If root vegetables are unworthy, then onions and carrots must be villains too. She understood Alison¡¯s concern: in London, social validation hinged on appearances.


    The group boarded a train to Ickenham, the rhythmic clatter of wheels and billowing steam punctuating their lively debate about urban legends.


    ¡°¡ªUpas, you can¡¯t seriously believe in supernatural twaddle!¡± Oleander scoffed. ¡°The ¡®Golden Flash¡¯ sightings in Midshire were mass hysteria!¡±


    ¡°Or ergot-infected bread,¡± Yvette added. ¡°History proves fungal toxins cause delusions¡ªlike the Dancing Plague of 1518.¡±


    Outvoted, Upas relented: ¡°Fine, have your science. I¡¯ll keep my theories.¡±


    Arriving at the isolated mill, they found two carriages parked outside. A government official handed a check to a well-dressed man¡ªMr. Durand¡ªwho now claimed ownership of the property.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± Durand¡¯s servant barked, ¡°this is private land!¡±


    ¡°A check requires bank clearance to take effect,¡± Strychnine retorted, puffing his meerschaum pipe. ¡°Legally, this remains public until then.¡±


    As they pressed forward, Yvette froze. The path felt eerily familiar¡ªshe¡¯d walked it in a dream, through the eyes of ¡°Hydra.¡± Durand¡¯s voice confirmed it: he was the unseen ¡°Lord of the Boiling Lake¡± from her vision.


    ¡°How invested you are, Mr. Durand,¡± Oleander drawled. ¡°Repairing the mill before ownership? Almost as if¡­ you anticipated its vacancy.¡±


    Durand¡¯s smile turned icy. ¡°Billgate and I had discussed selling this derelict mill. Tragically, thieves murdered him before we finalized terms. As for alibis¡ª¡± He spread his hands, ¡°¡ªeight servants attest I never left my estate that night. The police agree: four drunk farmers overpowered by a stranger. Now, unless you wish to face libel charges, I suggest you leave.¡±

 Chapter 15

    When Durand departed, Antiaris sighed irritably. "Must you interrogate suspects so bluntly every time? That man¡¯s a landed gentleman ¡ª not some common laborer to badger."


    "I thought," Oleander protested, "if guilt truly plagued him, my questions might startle a confession. Country squires always play the villain in mystery tales."


    "Enough," Strychnine cut in, patting Yvette¡¯s shoulder. "We¡¯ve weathered worse ¡ª remember when that banker nearly broke Oleander¡¯s nose? At worst, a libel lawsuit. Datura¡¯s the shaken one, but really, it¡¯s nothing."


    You fools. You¡¯ve no idea.


    Yvette¡¯s gaze lingered on her three oblivious companions. If Durand¡¯s occult identity surfaced, he¡¯d silence them without hesitation. Worse, the Bureau¡¯s protocols mandated psychic scrubbing for civilians exposed to supernatural violence ¡ª a procedure whispered to fray the mind itself.


    Should¡¯ve brought the raven to summon reinforcements... but how to explain how I identified him?


    Oleander¡¯s voice interrupted her thoughts. "We¡¯ll lodge at the village¡¯s finest inn! Tomorrow¡¯s 6 o¡¯clock train offers twilight vistas across the downs. A perfect bookend to our rustic idyll!"


    Though every instinct screamed to flee, Yvette stayed. To leave without cause would insult the group.


    Durand¡¯s study door locked with a click. Beneath the oil lamp¡¯s glow, his cultured features warped into something reptilian.


    "Vermin. To dare question me..."


    An unfamiliar bloodlust surged through him. When had he last killed? Months? Years?


    Memory fragmented oddly ¡ª childhood details crisp, recent years blurred. Two murders lingered vivid: the cousin whose fortune he¡¯d inherited; the fianc¨¦ whose death freed Elisa to marry him. (How dully her throat had opened compared to the feral joy of that first elimination.)This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Natural order, he thought, touching the mirror. My divine heritage elevates me above mortals. They¡¯re but game to my hunter.


    The glass briefly rippled ¡ª a remembered nightmare where his jaw elongated into equine bones, teeth crowding like gravestones. Gone now, he reassured himself. ¡°Hydra¡± purged those visions.


    Yet sometimes... sometimes he heard voices beneath his thoughts. Did another consciousness wear his skin like a glove?


    "No!" He smashed the mirror. Glass shards framed his trembling smile. "I command this flesh. I chose every death."


    In the shards¡¯ mosaic, his eyes gleamed feral.


    "The detectives... they¡¯ll dream themselves to death tonight."


    Dinner brought an unexpected witness ¡ª a stableboy mournfully begging kitchen scraps for "the Colonel," a lame gelding bound for slaughter.


    "Durand¡¯s men neglected him," the boy sniffled. "Four months ago, they yanked his shoes, worked him raw. Now the leg¡¯s rotten through."


    Four months. Yvette¡¯s pulse quickened. In her vision as "Hydra," she¡¯d glimpsed a limping horse ¡ª this very beast.


    Durand¡¯s occult nature now confirmed, her friends¡¯ earlier confrontation grew lethally reckless. Paranoid, he¡¯d likely surveil them for weaknesses.


    No sleep tonight.


    Pistol under pillow, sword oiled and gleaming, she feigned reading until midnight.


    Oleander¡¯s cigar lighter flared in the hall. "Nightmares," he admitted when pressed. "A leech the size of an oak trunk chased me. Then I remembered ¡ª giant leeches can¡¯t move fast. Realized I was dreaming and woke myself."


    Bruises flowered on his knee by morning.


    At Strychnine¡¯s panicked knock, Yvette found Datura semi-conscious, vomit staining his sheets. The village doctor paled at his symptoms: internal bleeding with no visible cause, a leg wound resembling animal bites.


    "M...m...lion..." Datura rasped. "Dreamt... a lion..."


    Dreams again.


    By afternoon, Yvette had pieced the puzzle: Durand¡¯s uncle¡¯s family died screaming of hallucinations decades prior. Now her friends suffered night terrors that scarred flesh.


    "Poisoners never stop," Strychnine muttered when consulted. "Their arrogance demands repeated attempts."


    Yvette¡¯s blade whispered from its scabbard. "Then this poisoner dies tonight."


    Midnight. Chimney heat blazed against Yvette¡¯s skin as she dropped into Durand¡¯s parlor. The house creaked with unnatural sleep ¡ª footmen snoring through imagined dangers.


    Third-floor lamplight bled under a door.


    She lunged ¡ª sword piercing featherbed as Durand rolled aside. Steel flashed again, but he vanished through a secret panel.

 Chapter 16

    The moment he entered the secret chamber, Durand suppressed his excruciating pain. Groping in the dark, he used the sword-and-shield decorations on the wall to brace against the hidden door before igniting a kerosene lighter. Looking down at his flank, he saw a deep laceration continuously oozing blood that had already saturated a large portion of his nightshirt.


    From the assassin''s infiltration speed, the killer must have been inside the house when Durand activated his slumber ability. Yet the assailant remained awake, and the strength required to thrust a sword through both bed and floorboards far exceeded human capability.


    Durand realized with absolute clarity - this man, like himself, was a Transcendent!


    His own abilities favored stealth assassination, but frontal confrontation against a killer showing signs of physical enhancement would prove disastrous, especially wounded...


    Clutching his bleeding flank, Durand saw no alternative but to resort to that method.


    ......


    Yvette twisted the mechanism Durand had previously activated. Though clicking sounds emanated from within the wall, the door remained immobile - blocked by some obstruction.


    Why complicate matters? She lifted a kerosene lantern from the mantel, drew a tongue of flame from the fireplace to ignite the wick, then cranked the valve to maximum intensity.


    Channeling the lantern''s fierce blaze through her left hand, she pressed her right palm against the hidden door - transforming fire''s scorching heat into irresistible force.


    Groaning metal protested as the antique sword-and-shield ornament warped, yielding a narrow passage barely sufficient for her frame.


    Lantern in one hand and rapier in the other, Yvette advanced into the pitch-black corridor. Beyond lay a chamber matching the parlor''s dimensions, its rough stone walls webbed with ancient cobwebs. Raising her light source, she illuminated a horrific tableau at the far end:


    Durand cradled an opened canopic jar, extracting a stillborn infant steeped in sanguine fluid. The fetus clutched a grotesquely malformed tumor veined with pulsating membranes - some unnatural organ parasitizing its abdomen.


    Noticing her entrance, Duran fixed her with venomous eyes: "You destroyed my wealth and status. Now you''ll die through unbearable torment - taste my wrath!"


    With that, he viciously bit into the eldritch organ - devouring the mass in savage gulps.


    This putrid flesh represented his own excised kidney. The "Hydra" cult had employed forbidden rites to condense his Quintessence into specific viscera stored in Egyptian Soul Jars - vessels originally crafted for pharaohs to preserve essence and soul for resurrection. Failing to perfect organ preservation, Hydra practitioners improvised with dark sorcery: linking the flesh to newborn infants drowned in kin-blood as sustenance. This explained the Red Mill Family massacre - their recent childbirth provided convenient victims, while Durand''s acquisition of their land at bargain prices created development opportunities.


    Separating his second Quintessence via kidney extraction lowered Durand''s position in the Tree of Life sequence, anchoring him closer to the Material Realm and reducing risk of distortion from eroding humanity. Without this precaution, his warped psyche would have long since deformed his mortal shell. Yet corruption''s path knows no end - senior Hydra members who conducted more profane experiments had excised two Quintessences. Though unable to remove the final foundational Quintessence [Kingdom], they still manifested mutations.Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.


    Now the second Quintessence reintegrated. As Durand swallowed, his flesh contorted: skin withering into sagging drapes, facial bones elongating, nose stretching, lips receding to expose a herbivore''s crooked molars.


    Yvette drew her revolver. Five specialized rounds filled the cylinder - one Spiritsilver Crystal for phantoms, one anti-armor steel penetrator, two lead slugs, and a frangible expanding round. Spinning the chambers mid-draw, she unleashed her planned trio: standard, expanding, then armor-piercing.


    Durand raised a distorted limb - *clink-clink* - two lead pellets dropped harmlessly. Though the steel round perforated his palm to embed in his forehead, dark ichor merely oozed around the intrusion.


    Was this...Distortion?


    Legend stated Discarded Ones shed humanity''s constraints to amplify Transcendent abilities. Now beast and man merged into abomination. Despite the horrific visage tempting retreat, Yvette held firm.


    *"Victory shuns fearful countenances. Cowards never gain glory. Keep your blade ever toward foes."* The combat teachings of Ulysses echoed through her mind.


    Indeed. Fear serves no purpose. *He fears me enough to risk transformation - my threat outweighs his horror of monstrosity!*


    Maintaining eye contact with the nightmare creature, Yvette leveled her sword in silent challenge. Smashing the lantern between them unleashed blazing kerosene. Through flame''s curtain, she accelerated toward Durand - interrupted by shadow coalescing into smokey lupine form.


    Her thrust met smoke. Phantom!


    The wolf dispersed...only to reconstitute as python fangs behind her. Though twisting aside, serpent''s kiss tore palm-sized flesh from her nape. White lace collar blossomed crimson.


    Agony.


    Observing undulating shadows throughout the chamber - at least eight more potential threats - she recalled Ulysses'' lesson:


    *"Never reveal pain. Disdain your wounds, lest enemies gain confidence."*


    Pain tolerance? She''d mastered this in past life''s cancer battles - daily plunges into despair masked by sunshine. To spare family grief, compartmentalize pain. Become two selves - weeping inner child veiled behind radiant smiles.


    *Simple. Pain belongs elsewhere.*


    Tasting bloodied fingers, she embodied Ulysses'' swordsmanship maxim:


    *"Blade-art demands terrifying presence. Become living flame - every movement screaming bloodlust, destroying enemy composure."*


    Success showed in Durand''s flickering gaze.


    Fire''s backlash ignited tapestries, revealing shadow-wolves skulking in corners. Through flames, both combatants measured each other - Yvette seeing a bestial mockery of man; Durand confronting not the dandyish French noble from yesterday''s encounters, but a battle-honed predator.


    Now reinvigorated at Quintessence Level [Foundation], Durand commanded nightmare entities built from mortal templates - faster, stronger, regenerating in seconds. Twenty such horrors should secure victory.


    Yet time pressed. Albion''s Secret Constabulary lurked everywhere. But Yvette shared his urgency - the spreading fire would draw villagers. Both sought swift resolution.


    Simultaneously they moved. Shadow-wolves converged as Yvette launched impossible vertical leap, snatching rusted chandelier. As canid jaws snapped below, the pack shifted - muzzles elongating into raptor beaks, forelimbs reknitting as wings.


    Without hesitation, Yvette pendulum-swept over guardian wolves. Mid-air, her pistol fired backward - propellant force converted into momentum boost surmounting defenders. Crashing into Durand, she drove her blade through his chest, the steel''s piercing runes flaring cold light.


    Twisting the grip, Yvette withdrew the sword. Dying spasms sprayed lifeblood across stones. Phantom wolves froze mid-air, dissolving like sundered mist. Firelight dancing on blood-smeared cheek, her aquamarine eyes glittered with primordial ferocity.


    At the inn, Oleander drowsed beside his comrade when hoofbeats shattered the night. Emerging, he witnessed the universally detested Sir Ulysses dismounting a magnificent black stallion with starburst forehead and four white socks.


    "Gratitude for aiding my friend. Where''s Arrowwood...I mean, Faulkner?"


    "Following. I rode ahead upon receiving my nephew''s letter."


    Since London''s social season approached in April, nobles currently circulated between country estates. That Ulysses arrived in impeccable evening wear spoke volumes about his priorities. Oleander checked the legendary steed - this was indeed "Starbreaker", the four-white-legged shadow feared across three kingdoms.

 Chapter 17

    "This is the ''Walnut Cracker''?! The ''Walnut Cracker'' of His Grace the Duke of Lancaster?! You didn¡¯t flee from the Duke¡¯s banquet, did you? And stole his most prized racehorse?!" Oleander groaned, clutching his forehead. The horse was practically worth a city, its bloodline stretching further than most noble pedigrees. Breeding it would fetch more than London¡¯s most celebrated courtesan.


    "He lent it to me." Ulysses fastened his weapons to the saddle. "Which direction is the Duran estate?"


    "Northwest, about two kilometers. There¡¯s a garden flanking its side¡ªeasy to spot... Wait, no! Sir, this isn¡¯t the issue! My friend is suffering from a violent, grotesque illness. He needs a physician!"


    "Feed him opium tincture if he¡¯s awake. Let him sleep. I¡¯ll return in an hour." Ulysses mounted the horse, ignoring Oleander¡¯s protests, and galloped off with a snap of the reins.


    ***


    One shovel, two shovels...


    Yvette dug a hole beneath an oak tree in the woods beside the Duran estate, clutching a spade. Beside her leaned a large bundle wrapped in faded velvet drapery¡ªperfectly sized to hold a body.


    A moonlit, eerie forest. A lavishly dressed youth with half a bloodied face. The sound of earth breaking in the silent night. It was a scene ripped straight from the pages of a Gothic novel. Yet as the protagonist, Yvette felt no triumph. Thankfully, none of the servants had stirred. She¡¯d carried the corpse out through the front gates to prevent ordinary folk from discovering Duran¡¯s monstrous transformation.


    Though she¡¯d swiftly extinguished the fire in the secret chamber, restored the door, and even remembered to grab the gardener¡¯s spade on her way out, she was still inexperienced in corpse disposal. *Next time, position the wound facing upward*, she chastised herself. This time, she¡¯d slung the body over her shoulder, allowing blood to seep through the fabric and soak her clothes...


    Ugh. *No next time*.


    Mid-dig, a hand abruptly tapped her shoulder. Yvette jolted, nearly swinging the spade at the unwelcome visitor.


    "Good evening, dear nephew." Ulysses stood behind her, smiling, his azure eyes slit-pupiled and unnervingly feline.


    "...Could you *warn* me next time?"Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    "I intended to visit Mr. Duran¡¯s estate but caught a whiff of blood. Followed it here. Thankfully, the victor was you. But why bury such a ''prize''?" His pupils normalized as he spoke.


    *He must¡¯ve swapped his nose for a dog¡¯s and eyes for a cat¡¯s*. Yvette noted the unsheathed sword in his hand. He¡¯d crept here uncertain whether the burier or the buried still lived.


    Ulysses prodded the wrapped corpse with his blade, revealing Duran¡¯s nightmarish visage. "Ablation? Beyond 25% corruption¡ªpermanent, irreversible. Ablation amplifies a fallen¡¯s power. Even a first-layer [Kingdom] would¡¯ve surpassed your tier."


    Yvette nodded silently, omitting that Duran had been a second-layer [Foundation].


    "Why not summon us?"


    "My friend was cursed by his power. Had I returned to London for help, they¡¯d be corpses by now."


    Ulysses sliced his palm with the sword. "I adhere to victory above all. Win flawlessly, and flaws vanish. A slightly tarnished crown still shines for a first duel." His blood-smeared hand grazed her neck, healing the wound.


    "¡ªBut pray your excuses sway stubborn Winslow."


    Yvette¡¯s hopes chilled.


    ***


    The police and "Wolfsbane" arrived almost simultaneously. By then, Ulysses had finished healing¡ªhalf-heartedly acknowledging Oleander¡¯s gratitude.


    He¡¯d merely fed the mortal some of his blood. The injuries were stabilized; rest would suffice. Yvette hadn¡¯t returned to the inn, her bloodstained clothes and shoulder¡ªevidence of corpse disposal¡ªtoo conspicuous for amateur detectives. Ulysses claimed she aided police investigations while she actually guided Althor¡¯s undercover as officers to retrieve Duran¡¯s body.


    All³¬·²Õßcorpses required retrieval, with merit tiers: same-tiercaptives held highest value, followed by ablated corpses, then humanoid ones¡ªlikely reward scaling with difficulty.


    "...Sir Ulysses, if I may¡ªwhich case did Mr. Fisher assist with?" Now that their friend was safe, Oleander and Wolfsbane resumed their inquisitive selves.


    Yvette and Ulysses had prepped a cover story. His azure eyes glinted mischievously. "The Red Mill murders¡ªyour reason for coming here."


    Two sharp inhales.


    "The killer was local squire Duran."


    Gasps erupted.


    "My nephew Ives unveiled his true face." Ulysses diverged from their agreed script, irked by her recklessness. "The key clue was ''Colonel,'' the horse slated for slaughter. The stablemaster¡¯s son said they¡¯d left for three days. Returned to find its horseshoe missing, hoof cracked¡ªrendering Colonel lame. Ives interviewed servants: Colonel had remained stabled during those days, at least by day. Horses are runners¡ªeven shoeless, hooves don¡¯t deteriorate so rapidly. What could erode them so severely?"


    "Rain. As our nails soften in water, hooves soaked by downpours wear faster. It only rained once during those three days¡ªthe night the Red Mill family died. Only Duran would abuse a horse so cruelly. Others, finding a lost shoe, would walk rather than force a pained animal to pull."


    "...Ives sent Duran a letter detailing his crimes. The wretch begged, bribed. Ives remained unmoved."


    "...Cornered, Duran ambushed him. But he chose poorly. My nephew wields France¡¯s finest swordplay. He parried the sneak attack with a half-turn, forced the blade outward, then thrustinto Duran¡¯s shoulder."


    "...''Surrender! You¡¯ll face fair trial!'' Ives disarmed him. But the damned soul feared exposure more than death. Facing justice, the killer leapt laughing into the

 Chapter 18

    Yvette stirred at midday, her mind clear and powers sharper than ever. Within three meters, her control was near-flawless¡ªa gun in her hand could bend bullets to her will, striking distant targets with ease. At the edge of her range, though, precision wavered, like a child¡¯s clumsy toss landing inches shy.


    But overnight, something had shifted. Where before she¡¯d fumbled at maximum reach, now she sensed mastery. Did battle hone me? she wondered, uneasy.


    Memories of last night¡¯s dream intruded. The hazy first half recoiled from her grasp, but the latter unfolded with crystalline clarity¡ªa vision through Durand¡¯s eyes.


    The black-robed man had been a scholar of forgotten worlds; Durand was a brute. Awakened by chance, he¡¯d hoarded his power like a miser, evading the Bureau for years. Yvette guessed he¡¯d thought himself alone until the secret society claimed him.


    In the dream, Durand pored over Penstrokes on the Isle of Idhra, extracting a letter.


    Your power flows from ancient gods. To climb their ladder, feed their hunger. Blood opens divine ears. Cain¡¯s crops withered; Abel¡¯s lamb won favor. Heed this: Rituals are maps. Let your blood guide you.


    ¡ªHydra


    The black-robed man¡¯s Gothic script clung to her thoughts. Sacrifice¡ªthe very act that had greeted her arrival here. The Bureau forbade such rites, yet Hydra prospered through butchery. Why hadn¡¯t they sought the Bureau¡¯s sanctioned½úÉý?If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Durand¡¯s reply quivered with zeal. A voice in his blood demanded his wife, a ¡°prime offering.¡± He feared failure but would comply. His letter, paired with gold, vanished into the book.


    No addresses. No names. How did Hydra¡¯s letters travel? A dead drop, Yvette guessed¡ªa hiding spot known only to members. Durand¡¯s library might hold answers...


    At the inn, Nerium and Strophanthus lunged to embrace her. Inside, Strychnine bemoaned missing her ¡°epic clash¡± with Durand, lauding Julius¡¯ tall tale.


    Spotting Julius fleeing on horseback, Yvette snagged his reins, strength belying her frame.


    ¡°Explain,¡± she growled, driving a fence post into the earth.


    Julius coughed up the truth: a prank gone awry. As she marched off, he followed, wary of her simmering rage¡ªa telltale crack in the Old Gods¡¯ grip.


    Meditation steadied her. ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she offered. Julius deflected with a grin: ¡°A little fire suits you.¡±


    At Durand¡¯s estate, cops relented under Julius¡¯ bluster. Yvette combed the study, finding Penstrokes... and Durand¡¯s unfinished plea to Hydra¡ªstalled investments, a request for patience.


    Julius deciphered the code: ¡°Idhra¡± was Hydra¡¯s ancient name. The book was a drop point. Inspector Alto pinned it to his conspiracy wall, linking Durand and Thomas Simon (a.k.a. Hydra) with red threads.


    ¡°Secret societies multiply like rats,¡± Alto grumbled. ¡°The literate age¡¯s curse.¡±


    Yvette pressed to examine Thomas¡¯ seized books. Alto obliged, touting her as a future star detective. Julius vetoed: ¡°No daughter of mine wastes breath on titled fools.¡±


    Their bickering¡ªJulius¡¯ Latin barbs, Alto¡¯s baffled glare¡ªsealed the feud. Some partnerships, it seemed, thrived on spite.

 Chapter 19

    At the Altou estate, Yvette observed the two factions "engage in a spirited debate" (a polite way of saying they¡¯d screamed at each other but stopped short of violence). Pleading university duties, she excused herself and rode a carriage to campus.


    For centuries, clandestine supernatural cabals had masked their identities at secret meetings. Her own club¡ªa gaggle of aging roleplayers¡ªmimicked these societies, albeit with members fully aware of each other¡¯s backgrounds.


    Such groups often adopted thematic aliases: zodiac signs, Greco-Roman gods, Tarot arcana.


    But what pattern guided the Black-Cloaked Man and Duran¡¯s faction? The codename "Lord of the Boiling Blood Lake," paired with clues from Pen-Tipped Izla Island, hinted at geographic references. Unraveling this could expose their relics.


    Yvette¡¯s edge? She alone knew Duran¡¯s alias. Reverse-engineering their naming rules beat sifting through dead ends.


    Yet instinct warned her: "Boiling Blood Lake" must stay hidden from her superiors. Whenever she slew a supernatural being, she dreamed of them¡ªher powers swelling, nearing the brink of Originium¡¯s second stratum. Something unnatural pulsed beneath these gains.


    Library first. If I uncover leads, I¡¯ll leak them anonymously to Special Missions.


    The Royal University¡¯s classical archives brimmed with knowledge¡ªyet her bookish refuge shattered as she spotted her effusive advisor. She dodged behind shelves, shielding herself with a folio.


    Saved. No more enduring empty chatter after that farcical spat. A gasp betrayed her: a ginger-haired student gaped nearby.


    ¡°You¡¯re Fis¡ªmmph!¡±


    Her palm stifled his cry. Recognition dawned¡ªa classmate from the advisor¡¯s circle. She withdrew her hand, pressing a finger to her lips.


    ¡°Gary, wasn¡¯t it?¡±


    The crimson-faced youth nodded wildly. Gods above¡ªthe enigmatic beauty!


    Lately, Gary¡¯s cessation of ogling the advisor¡¯s daughter had earned praise for ¡°newfound scholarly focus.¡± Only he knew his obsession had shifted from the girl to her silver-haired peer.If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°I¡¯d appreciate quiet,¡± Yvette murmured. ¡°Almost cost me with that shout.¡±


    ¡°S-Sorry!¡± Gary stood ramrod-stiff, marveling at her: the effortless grace, the commanding gesture¡ªa noblebred scholar with rogueish intensity!


    But why rifle through books so briskly? Scanning indexes, flipping pages¡­


    ¡°¡­Ives?¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡±


    ¡°Are you¡­ researching something?¡±


    ¡°The Boiling Blood Lake. Know any sources¡ªpoems, logs, myths?¡±


    Gary blinked. ¡°That¡¯s¡­ infernal. Dante¡¯s seventh circle¡ªCharon ferries souls across it.¡±


    Charon¡ªthe centaur guardian. Not a place¡ªa mythic beast!


    Lightning struck. Their names follow legendary monsters!


    ¡°Brilliant! Dinner¡¯s yours next week!¡± She dashed off, leaving Gary breathless.


    Dinner?! With him?! Saints preserve me¡ª


    ¡°The Divine Comedy... Yes, that¡¯s the one.¡±


    Yvette located the rusted filing cabinet deep within Scotland Yard¡¯s archives, just as Chief Superintendent Altair had described. Inside were remnants from the cultists¡¯ lair¡ªmost forbidden texts had been seized, leaving behind mundane journals and thrillers. Her fingers finally brushed against a battered copy of The Divine Comedy. There, in faded ink on page 109, glared the damning note: October 9th, Canary Wharf, S.S. Seagull.


    Duran¡¯s handwriting. The proof was indisputable¡ªthis book had passed from his hands to the cultists¡¯, a ledger of their dark pact.


    Canary Wharf... where the ritual dagger had entered the city, according to Winslow. On the 9th, Duran delivered the blade. By the 11th, blood soaked the Moulin Rouge. By the 14th¡ªthe day she¡¯d awoken in this world¡ªDuran lay butchered, his stolen Quintessence grafted via the cult¡¯s grisly ritual. The timing fit like a coffin¡¯s nails.


    She presented the book to Altair in his cluttered parlor.


    ¡°Either you¡¯re clairvoyant,¡± the Chief Superintendent muttered, squinting at the annotation, ¡°or the rest of us are blind. How did we miss this? Duran¡¯s handiwork, plain as day.¡±


    He tacked the page to his macabre evidence wall. Three crimson threads sprouted like veins: one to Duran¡¯s file, one to the cultist Thomas Simon, and one to a nameless face in an unmarked photograph.


    ¡°Consider Scotland Yard, Miss Fisher,¡± Altair pressed. ¡°Your instincts are wasted on freelance work. I¡¯ll see you rewarded, of course¡ªrecommendations, bonuses¡ª¡±


    Escaping his enthusiasm, Yvette retreated to Hampstead Heath. Ulysses¡¯ butler awaited with arctic courtesy.


    ¡°Master Ives,¡± Winslow intoned, smile colder than the Thames in January. ¡°How¡­ fortunate you¡¯ve survived your adventures.¡±


    Dinner was a silent siege. Winslow served her a quivering goblet of punch¡ªthe loathsome Albion tradition of raw egg whites, spirits, and cloying spice. Ulysses, ever the provocateur, sniffed theatrically:


    ¡°Ah! Notes of garden slugs and fish guts. A classic vintage.¡±


    When he reached for the cup, Winslow materialized like a vengeful specter. ¡°Kindly consume your own punishment, sir. And no transmuting it into gin this time.¡±


    Yvette ate her roast pheasant to the melody of Ulysses¡¯ muted gagging.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Days later, under the Tower of London¡¯s shadowed battlements, a prisoner writhed under leeches etched with anti-magical runes¡ªWitch-Leeches, designed to shackle transcendent powers.


    He was the man from the photograph. The third thread.


    Unseen and unknown, another piece moved on the board.

 Chapter 20

    Inside the shadowed tower, three masked figures in obscure robes stood vigil over the ritual circle. Their prisoner, battered and writhing with leech-like parasites, collapsed at the sigil¡¯s edge.


    ¡°Henry Mitchell,¡± spoke the central inquisitor, his voice echoing coldly through the chamber, ¡°or do you prefer your alias¡ª¡®Harpy¡¯? For four years, we¡¯ve tolerated your defiance. You spurned our order yet were permitted to thrive, so long as you obeyed the Law. Instead, you wallowed in forbidden rites. What justification have you?¡±


    Mitchell¡¯s laughter ricocheted off stone walls, raw and unhinged. ¡°You lecture me? Hypocrites! Cloaking your tyranny in lies¡ªplaying jailer to hoard power¡ª¡± The black leeches coating his skin pulsed malevolently as he thrashed.


    ¡°Your ¡®truth¡¯ reeks of blood,¡± the inquisitor countered. ¡°Four harlots tortured. Two vagrants carved like meat. Do you deny it?¡±


    ¡°Deny? I elevated them! The Starving One beyond the heavens claims what¡¯s His¡ªblood for His thirst, souls for His glory! I am His prophet!¡± Spittle flew as Mitchell strained against his bonds.


    ¡°Prophet? You¡¯re a rabid dog,¡± the leftmost figure intoned, chains clinking beneath his robe as he stepped forward. ¡°The proud shall be humbled. The greedy, stripped bare. Judgment is upon you.¡±


    As the inquisitor raised his hand, Mitchell¡¯s screams curdled. The limb was no human hand¡ªa grotesque, boneless tentacle, glistening and serpentine, stretched toward his face.


    ¡°Terrified by mortal hands?¡± The masked voice dripped scorn. ¡°How will you face the Holy Flame that sees every shadow in your soul?¡±


    The tentacle plunged into Mitchell¡¯s eye sockets. His body convulsed as the parasitic leeches writhed, swelling grotesquely. When the inquisitor withdrew, their captive sat slack-jawed, drool pooling in his lap.


    The trio chanted, their sigil flaring cobalt. Spectral walls boxed the monstrosity as azure fire engulfed it. Flesh crisped to ash, leaving twin crystals¡ªviolet and jade¡ªamid the embers.


    ¡°Second Essence: Foundation. Fourth: Victory,¡± remarked the central inquisitor. ¡°A fitting yield.¡±


    ¡°Mutation past 50% primes the harvest,¡± his comrade agreed. ¡°Pity the Mentalist¡¯s talents risk his own corruption.¡±


    As the fatigued Mentalist dismissed concerns, the trio strategized: assassinate high-profile cultists, capture the bookseller alive, dispatch local agents to the ¡®Two Pence¡¯ bookstore.


    ¡°And the bounty hunter who tracked them?¡± queried one.


    ¡°Mr. Ordinary endorses her. Grant her Essence access¡ªif she stays sane.¡±


    The verdict was unanimous. Somewhere in London, a shadow stirred¡ªunaware its hunters had already marked their prey.


    ¡­¡­


    "So those jars in Thomas Simon''s lair contained his essence?" Winslow set down his teacup, astonishment painting his features as Yvette described her confrontation with Duran. "We all assumed they were cursed artifacts ¨C voodoo dolls or the like ¨C and had them destroyed. Thank heavens you struck when his guard was down. Had he reclaimed that essence..."


    Yvette shifted uncomfortably under the older man''s admiration. This fifth-tier powerhouse wore humility like a second skin, yet they''d essentially bullied some poor third-tier occultist into oblivion. If anything, the black-robed man had been the vulnerable party.Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.


    "When we first met," she changed tack, "you spoke of Simon like an old acquaintance. Sir Ulysses called him ''a pyre-worthy menace.''"


    "Even among amoral practitioners, his atrocities stood out." Winslow''s gaze darkened. "Exile delayed his execution, not canceled it."


    "What made him so dangerous?" She leaned forward. Her first supernatural kill had felt anticlimactic for someone allegedly notorious.


    "Knowledge domain abilities ¨C exceptionally rare. Official records state he consumed brains to absorb languages, locate ancient sites, and amplify ritual efficacy." Winslow tapped the teapot thoughtfully. "Ill-suited for direct combat. Hence his doomed attempt to craft a corpse puppet... and his unfortunate choice of vessel."


    Unconscious? More like freshly deceased, Yvette mused. The original owner was long gone when I woke in this body.


    "If powers stem from deities, why did Simon''s gifts differ from mine?" she pressed. "Can gods answer those outside their cults?"


    "Deities operate beyond mortal comprehension." Winslow stirred honey into his tea. "Consider sunlight ¨C do you begrudge some distant farmer drying laundry with your warmth? Unless noticed..." He made a explosive gesture. "Catastrophe follows divine attention."


    "Simon exploited this detachment. Most rituals fail when mismatched to one''s patron deity, but his gifts bridged the gap."


    "So all ceremonies are forbidden?"


    "Those involving dormant or extinct entities remain permissible ¨C medieval ''white magic.''" A wry smile surfaced. "Superstitious trifles, really. Maypole ribbons for good harvests, mistletoe kisses ensuring fertility..."


    Their conversation meandered through modern customs. In Sir Ulysses'' absence, what began as brief visit stretched into leisurely tea. Albion''s traditions differed starkly from Huaxia''s ¨C robust blended leaves versus delicate single-origins, milk-laced brews taken with stodgy scones. Winslow broke a rock-hard pastry with ceremonial care, spreading jam with the precision owed to finest porcelain.


    "Feels odd receiving this treatment in trousers," Yvette remarked. Half a year in this world had normalized such gallantries ¨C she''d performed them herself at society functions.


    "Protocol bends among friends." His eyes crinkled as crumbs scattered for eager sparrows. Birds flocked to the windowsill, beaks pecking in practiced rhythm.


    "You''ve tamed them."


    "Merely kindred spirits." Winslow''s voice softened. "My awakening felt... hatching. Brittle shell giving way to terrifying wonder."


    "Oh, I know! That first glimpse beyond the veil ¨C skies endless, old shelters lies." Her fingers traced the teacup''s gilded rim. "But the visions... the hunger..."


    "Mmm. We emerge changed. Vessels for forces demanding worship and sacrifice. Yet the hardest cage to maintain..." He touched his chest. "...lies within."


    Sunlight dappled Hyde Park''s walkways where a bespectacled scholar meandered, lost in The Curse of Sphinx. He scarcely noticed the skittish clerk brushing past ¨C just another nameless face in London''s machinery.


    Two paces on, dampness prickled his collar. Why did pedestrians recoil? A scarlet-stained handkerchief answered.


    "Murder! Fetch the constables!"


    As consciousness faded, his cheek pressed against the fallen book''s pages. The scholar''s final thought echoed his research ¨C some riddles defy solutions.


    "Why won''t you stay gone?!"


    Sweat slicked the financier''s palms as the dagger reappeared on his desk. His rise from gutter to empire builder hinged on haruspicy ¨C sacrificial divination starting with pigeons, progressing to dockside orphans. High society lauded his philanthropy while missing the bloodstained threads binding his fortune.


    The blade trembled. Last month''s sacrifice ¨C that gutter rat''s accusing eyes ¨C seemed etched in steel. With mounting dread, his arm jerked puppet-like, weapon arcing toward the window... then freezing mid-swing. An invisible puppeteer yanked the strings.


    "No! NO¡ª"


    Steel pierced his temple in slow, deliberate inches.


    Outside, mourning crepe whispered as a woman palmed the dagger. "Be at peace," she intoned to empty air. A ghostly sigh answered before stillness claimed the study.


    Three miles east, a rapier slid smoothly from magnate''s skull. Sir Ulysses watched the corpse slump over Times stock reports ¨C death instantaneous, features serene. A blood droplet sealed the wound before he polished his blade clean.


    "No obvious tells," the blond murmured. "Though tomorrow''s rags will bleat about suicide pacts and midnight robberies..." Window latches clicked open. "My condolences, Chief Inspector."


    He melted into shadow, leaving only a bloody thumbprint on the sash ¨C soon to vanish like morning dew.


    When servants found the body hours later, the house echoed with shrieks: "A seizure! Fetch the physician!"

 Chapter 21

    Ulysses returned home under the veil of twilight, moments before supper.


    ¡°Settled?¡± Winslow asked.


    ¡°Naturally.¡± Removing his plumed tricorn, Ulysses noticed Yvette. ¡°Ah, perfect timing. I¡¯ve a gift for you.¡±


    From his coat emerged a lacquered box housing a luminous violet prism.


    ¡°[Foundation] essence distilled? Remarkably expedient,¡± Winslow observed.


    ¡°The Committee provided it with the assignment. Given my Durham report, they assured additional vials if needed.¡±


    Lost in their arcane exchange, Yvette frowned. ¡°What are you two discussing?¡±


    ¡°Master Yves, congratulations loom¡ªyour second Essence, [Foundation], nears awakening.¡±


    Second what?!


    ¡°Correct,¡± Ulysses said, placing the crystal in her palm. ¡°Our bureau¡¯s transcendents rely on these against ancient-god-empowered fiends. Without such sanctioned ascension, enforcing bans on profane rites would¡¯ve doomed us to medieval extinction. Dreams are gateways; this crystal shall ferry you to higher truths. Clutch it in slumber, and paradise awaits.¡±


    ¡°Sleep while holding this¡­ and I ascend? It seems too simple.¡±


    ¡°Simplicity deceives. Essence awakening demands personal revelation of cosmic Truth. The crystal merely¡­ guides¡ªoffering visions to shatter mental barriers. Three vials typically suffice per ascension, assuming sanity holds.


    You linger at [Kingdom], the first Essence¡ªa fledgling toehold in reality¡¯s fabric. The Tree of Life segments into four realms: lone [Kingdom] anchors [Assiah], our mortal realm, governed by the Cherub Sandalphon. Reaching [Foundation], the second Essence, marks your true pilgrimage¡ªsymbolized by Gabriel, divine herald. Essences 2-4 weave [Yetzirah], the emotive realm; 5-7 compose [Beriah], where intellect reigns; 8-10 ascend to [Atziluth], domain of Eternal Ones¡ªa sphere whispered to bestow immortality, hosting angels and demons of lore.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s the highest attained Essence?¡±


    ¡°Our archives note a Seventh Essence [Mercy] adept¡ªstill mortal. Each ascension risks sanity: chasms between Essences seethe with Old Gods¡¯ corruptive screams and cosmic abominations¡ªa creeping blight upon flesh and soul¡­¡±


    ¡°Sir, spare your ghoulish flair. Tonight¡¯s black pudding and eel aspic may temper your theatrics.¡±


    Sir Winslow¡ªbastion of knightly probity¡ªmaterialized.


    ¡°By Beelzebub¡¯s cleft hoof¡ªis that a demon before me?¡± Ulysses hissed.


    ¡°Pay no heed. The path to [Foundation] is safe,¡± Winslow countered. ¡°Bureau crystals are purified¡ªonly Truth persists. Higher Essences court madness, but your trials now involve mere phantasmal whispers. Should fear grip you, I shall keep vigil.¡±


    ¡°¡­Even my Gallic tongue balks at such courtliness. Winslow, you surprise.¡±


    ¡°Serving noblewomen tempers knightly pride to compassion. Alas, you embody neither grace nor virtue, Chevalier¡ªa poor muse for chivalric refinement.¡±


    Charming¡­ Yvette marveled at Anglo-French animosity¡¯s creative potency.


    Opting for home over haunted vigils (a silently judging Winslow seemed eerier than phantoms), she dined through Winslow¡¯s culinary interrogation of Ulysses. Departing at eight-thirty, she dismissed her carriage early to stroll toward Langley Street.


    No maidservant greeted her arrival¡ªAlbion¡¯s gentry, notoriously inept at self-reliance, seldom carried keys. Tabloids mocked a lord who, upon his bisected footman¡¯s demise, cried: ¡°Send me the half with my key!¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Yvette, however, often self-tended¡ªa habit that once troubled Alison until reassurance mended misunderstandings. Retrieving her key, she entered soundlessly.


    In Albion homes, ¡°unclean¡± servant quarters occupied ground floors, segregated from aristocratic upper sanctums. Respecting tradition, Yvette rarely trespassed¡ªAlison stiffened like a startled hare whenever she did.


    Tonight, drawn downstairs, she glimpsed Alison feeding her infant from a slender brown vial¡ªinstantly recognizable. Laudanum.


    Yvette seized the bottle. ¡°What is this?¡±


    ¡°Forgive me, Master Yves, I¡¯ll¡ª¡±


    ¡°The bottle. What is it?¡±


    ¡°¡­A quieting tonic. For infants.¡± Alison blanched.


    Opium tinctures numbing squalling babies were commoner staples. Working couples (30 shillings weekly) faced destitution upon childbirth¡ªmothers rushed back to work, relying on chemists¡¯ poisons. Laudanum bottles sported cherubic motifs, selling lies of healthy slumber while infants turned wan and frail.


    ¡°Never again. Not for Mary. Not for anyone.¡± Yvette¡¯s voice chilled. ¡°Tend her needs¡ªI won¡¯t perish if supper¡¯s late.¡±


    ¡°But her cries¡ª¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d host a banshee¡¯s chorus before this filth.¡± Uncorking the vial, she spilled its contents into the scullery drain.


    [¡­Today¡¯s reprimand carried divine wrath. Though masters¡¯ scoldings once shamed me, tonight¡¯s sternness kindled awe. An angel dwells in Master Yves¡¯ breast¡ªI revere him as I revere Christ.]


    ¡ªAlison Lynch¡¯s diary


    ¡­¡­


    Falling¡­


    She drifted downward, slow and inexorable.


    Where am I?


    Her eyes opened to an azure gloom above, an yawning void below¡ªa weightless limbo between sea and womb, neither cold nor suffocating.


    Am I swimming through the heavens¡­ or drowning in starlight?


    Uncertainty vanished; only the fall remained. What awaited in the abyss¡¯ maw?


    As she wondered, the darkness beneath her split¡ªa slender rent hundreds of meters long, blazing with primordial ochre light thick as molten blood. The atmosphere congealed around her, heavy as Lethe¡¯s currents, yet her gaze pierced the murk, locked onto the fissure¡¯s solar inferno.


    Her heart drummed¡ªcompelled by a voiceless siren call! There, in that silent incandescent tomb, slumbered the god who¡¯d gifted her power. No mortal knew its face or name, yet its antiquity dwarfed humanity¡¯s brief flicker.


    Primordial Architect. Alpha and Omega.


    The radiant abyss swelled, subsuming her in a sea of light¡ªuntil salvation: a gateway yawned above the fissure. She crossed, spared the abyssal plunge.


    Darkness lifted. A new vista: cosmos unmasked. Stars were gears, planets their cogs, orbits interlocked brass rings¡ªcelestial clockwork.


    A nude Apollo-esque figure braced the mechanism atop a plinth, arms upraised.


    Clarity returned. She understood: this mechanized firmament was Yesod (Foundation)¡ªSecond Emanation of the Sephiroth, gateway to enlightenment.


    Ascension.


    Yvette awoke. The sephirah crystal in her palm disintegrated, spent.


    But her transformed vision twisted reality¡ªedges undulated like Van Gogh brushstrokes, faint giggles whispered from shadows. Post-breakthrough hallucinations; unsettling without preparation.


    She breathed through the chaos until silence prevailed.


    New powers emerged: sound mastery joined heat and mechanics.


    At 4 a.m., carriages clattered as London¡¯s elite partied. Yvette muffled the noise¡ªperfect quiet. Unnerved by sensory deprivation, she bided time until dawn, then raced to test skills in wilderness.


    "Silenced Bullet": firing a pistol, she canceled both recoil and bang¡ªa stealth assassin¡¯s trick. Tempting for mischief, but heroes call the police.


    Duel energy channels¡ªleft-brain/right-brain coordination needed work.


    Next: Reverse engineering. Could kinetic energy become sound?


    High frequencies scattered birds; bass rumbles blurred vision. Aiming at a glass: shatters at inches, harmless at meters. Pointless?


    But 19 Hz infrasound¡ªuntargeted, messing with eyeball resonance¡ªbriefly blurred sight. "Hymn of Obscuration." Range: 5 meters. Boombox potential in echo chambers.


    Now swordfights get interesting. Catch: don¡¯t deafen yourself mid-fight.


    Social season loomed. Dance drills intensified¡ªno room for error among gossipy aristocrats. Waltzes were taboo; polkas and minuets ruled. Her partner? Ulysses, begrudgingly leading the "lady¡¯s" steps.


    That morning, she arrived early. Ulysses drafted a medical expose:


    "Emerald Green¡ªarsenic-laced poison. Factory girls¡¯ hands ulcerate; wallpapered rooms induce migraines..."


    His quill danced in precise Carolingian script.


    Yvette reflected: This caustic dandy had saved countless lives at 18, proving cholera spread through tainted water¡ªknighthood earned. "Doctor" suited his codename.


    "Ascension achieved," she announced. "Yesod."


    "One crystal? Rare talent," he conceded.


    "A prodigy, then?"


    "Gifted adepts often court madness. Tread carefully."


    She edged toward forbidden topics: "Ever wonder about our power¡¯s source? The¡­ god behind it?"


    "Fatal curiosity. Some truths hunt us." He warned of Alba¡¯s lineage¡ªincubus blood tracing to Lilith, not a temptress but a cosmic void dubbed "Black Moon." Gazing upon such entities invited insanity.


    Membership formalities arose. With endorsements, Yvette¡¯s initiation neared. Ulysses feigned indifference: "Scotland Yard might suit you."


    "Rather stay. If¡­ acceptable."


    Relief ghosted his features. "Surprising. I¡¯m hardly¡­ congenial."


    "To me, you¡¯re kindness itself. You sheltered me¡ªa stranger."


    "Kindness¡­" Ulysses chuckled wryly. "Sanitarium life warped your benchmarks. But no complaints."

 Chapter 22

    Beyond Yvette''s awareness, shockwaves from her actions rippled through London''s sunless underworld.


    In the maritime-themed Humpback Whale tavern near Canary Wharf, seasoned sailors nursed rum while swapping tales. A burly drunk regaled the eyepatched barkeep with storm survival yarns. "Ghosts o'' sixty-foot waves still chase me!" he slurred, rattling empty tankards.


    The barkeep''s chuckle held Arctic chill. "Storms? Child''s play. Let me tell of the Stillness." His voice dropped to a kraken''s rumble. "Ship frozen in glassy seas. Sun bleaching bones as mates butchered each other for brackish dregs... When only I floated on salt-cracked planks, tentacles rose. Not death - baptism."


    The drunk''s face purpled, fingers scrabbling at an invisible noose. Gamblers circled, placing wagers on his seizure. "Two shillings says he croaks!" Coins clinked as the man''s boots drummed finality on ale-sticky floorboards.


    Later, the barkeep conversed with a cloaked newcomer. "Our King claims what''s his," he said, polishing glasses. "Your associates?"


    "Dead. Secret Police snuffing embers."


    "Let them. Each crackdown fans rebellion''s flames." The barkeep''s eye gleamed. "While fools play hero, we''ll resurrect the Drowned Lord''s dominion."


    Meanwhile, Yvette earned her "Libra" codename during society''s pinnacle event preparations. As valets cinched her into ball garments, a grisly gift arrived - an ivory rose ring pulsing with captured nightmares. "Seven uses," Ulysses warned. "Forged from your prey''s teeth."


    "Monster parts?" She paled.


    "Heroes wear Hydra-skin cloaks," he countered. "Decline it, half of London''s shadows would kill for this trinket."


    Elsewhere, ancient powers stirred. Secret Police raids sent paranormal denizens deeper underground... or sharpened long-festering ambitions. In gambling dens and opium parlors, forbidden oaths were sworn. The drowned god''s disciples bided time with oceanic patience, ready to drag civilization into crushing depths.


    No wonder Muskin had been so irritable when Yvette made her request earlier¡ªhe¡¯d looked ready to throw her out on the spot.


    ¡°What about the piercing rapier?¡± Yvette mused, thinking back to her fight with Duran. Ordinary bullets had barely scratched the Nightmare-spawn¡¯s mutated hide. Even hardened steel rounds only punched through a hand¡¯s width of bone and muscle before stopping. But that rune-etched blade had ripped its chest open. Guns worked on ordinary supernaturals, it seemed, but mutations demanded cold steel.


    ¡°So now I owe him,¡± Ulysses said dismissively.


    ¡°What?¡± She stared at the weapon¡ªperfectly suited to her, lifesaving in battle¡ªunsure how to respond.


    ¡°Relax. He blunders often enough. I¡¯ll repay the debt eventually¡ªI¡¯ve covered his slips since before you were even Awakened. Earn it by not embarrassing me tonight. You¡¯ve done well¡­ aside from shattering that relic dagger. Consider this your bonus.¡± He tossed her a slip of paper crowded with feminine names. ¡°Memorize these. One misstep, and the Fishers become the joke of the season.¡±


    ¡°Dance partners?¡± She grimaced. Balls here ran on strict schedules¡ªevery waltz, every partner prearranged. Breaking a ¡°sacred¡± dance promise was social suicide.


    ¡°Each a jewel of Albion¡¯s aristocracy. Charm them thoroughly, nephew, or I¡¯ll deny you¡¯re kin.¡±


    Absolutely unreasonable! Why must I play the suitor?!


    ¡°Veronica Faulkner?¡± The last name jolted her.


    Faulkner¡ªPoisonwood¡¯s surname. The ¡°Mind Labyrinth¡± member was heir to Baron Kilgreenwich. This had to be his sister.


    ¡°She volunteered,¡± Ulysses said. ¡°Unheard of for a debutante. The rest were family negotiations.¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t approach you directly, did she?¡± Yvette paled. If Poisonwood thought Ulysses had schemed a rendezvous¡­ given Albion¡¯s obsession with propriety (even betrothed couples needed chaperones) and Frenchmen¡¯s scandalous reputation, he might soon taste a uniquely British poison.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be absurd. A married intermediary conveyed her interest.¡±


    Ah, of course¡ªmatrons could mingle freely, making them ideal messengers.


    ¡°Princess Margaret hosts tonight in the king¡¯s stead. Ladies are presented at St. James¡¯s first; men observe. When the attendants call them, note your partners. Invite them in order when the dancing starts. No mistakes.¡±The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    Yvette nodded. Forgetting a lady would doom her to humiliation.


    The palace allowed only families¡ªno servants. Winslow had polished them to perfection before staying behind.


    Their carriage joined a parade of vehicles emblazoned with heraldry. Inside, women glowed in gem-encrusted gowns, men stiff in antiquated court dress: long French coats, breeches, white hose, and ceremonial swords. No modern tailcoats here¡ªtradition ruled this centuries-old event.


    Then again¡­ swords and coattails would clash.


    She glanced at Ulysses, resplendent as a storybook prince. ¡°You¡¯re dancing too?¡± She¡¯d assumed he was just her chaperone.


    ¡°I¡¯m an eligible bachelor, am I not?¡±


    In Albion¡¯s circles, men routinely wed in their thirties. At twenty-four, he was comfortably ¡°young.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t wait to see you lead for once. Try not to trample anyone.¡± She smirked, recalling his grudging but precise rehearsal.


    ¡°Forget you saw that,¡± he muttered, scowling at the window.


    They arrived mid-stream. Chandeliers blazed, mirrors multiplying their light. Debutantes glided in three-meter trains, feathered headdresses bobbing, heirlooms glittering at throats and wrists. The hall gleamed¡ªsatin, gems, and gilt.


    The ¡°Queen Charlotte¡¯s Ball¡± was a debutante¡¯s debut. With strict gender parity, seating charts married titles to titles¡ªnever spouses. Yvette took her place among the wallflowers, leaving the floor to the ladies.


    A liveried footman had presented claret earlier, though Ulysses¡ªnever fond of Bordeaux vintages¡ªmerely cradled his goblet without drinking.


    Yvette observed as a statuesque blond gentleman disentangled himself from admirers and strode toward them.


    ¡°Ulysses! Aeons since last we met,¡± the newcomer hailed, golden features warm as summer mead.


    ¡°Your Grace.¡± Ulysses¡¯ acknowledgment chilled like January frost.


    The Duke of Lancaster himself! The name sparked recognition¡ªit graced her academy admission papers. Oleander¡¯s tales resurfaced: Ulysses fleeing that fateful banquet astride the Duke¡¯s champion courser, dress-cloak billowing behind him.


    ¡°Now, now¡ªI know your humor runs glacial, but today¡¯s frigidity exceeds habit.¡± The Duke¡¯s smile held mirthful reproach. ¡°Do troubles nip at your heels?¡±


    ¡°A kitchen calamity. Some gremlin¡®s hexed our meat-mincer to spawn accursed blood puddings¡ªeach dawn unveils fresh gastronomic treason.¡±


    Ever since Wenslow caught wind of Ulysses¡¯ aborted scheme to drink Yvette¡¯s punch, the long-suffering butler had retaliated via culinary warfare. Not that ¡®meat-mincer¡¯ was entirely fair to Wenslow¡­


    The Duke guffawed. ¡°Ha! What fresh hell did you unleash upon that saintly soul?¡±


    He names Wenslow outright? Proof of intimacy, Yvette surmised¡ªthe kind permitting borrowed stallions and unguarded jests.


    Both men possessed gilded locks, yet diverged like sun and moon. Lancaster radiated solar vitality¡ªamber tresses framing Hercules¡¯ build, every gesture warm and expansive. Ulysses exuded lunar austerity: ash-blond hair silvered as ghosts¡¯ breath, his Gaunt elegance better suited to brooding over grimoires than attending balls. Pose them together, and one might stage a Renaissance allegory of Day and Night.


    Narcissus would drown himself anew, mused Yves de Ferri¨¨re, amused.


    Noticing the youth during their exchange, Lancaster arched a querying brow.


    ¡°My nephew, Yves de Ferri¨¨re,¡± Ulysses performed the obligatory courtesies. ¡°Yves, His Grace the Duke of Lancaster.¡±


    ¡°Ulysses.¡± The Duke¡¯s tone sobered abruptly.


    ¡°Your Grace?¡±


    ¡°I must recant past blindness.¡±


    ¡°Save your breath¡ªI discerned your nature at first acquaintance. Fear not; state secrets remain safe with me. Gallows hold no allure.¡±


    Yvette tensed. Does he jest with treason?!


    ¡°My error lay in scope,¡± the Duke pressed. ¡°Having asked for sisters in vain, I overlooked¡­ Nieges? Any comely nieces tucked in your ancestral crypts?¡±


    Ulysses¡¯ marble veneer didn¡¯t crack. ¡°None extant.¡± Turning to Yvette, he murmured just loudly enough: ¡°Mark this libertine. His vices spread as miasmas. Should he leer your way, scream for the Yeomen Warders.¡±


    ¡°You malign me!¡± Lancaster clutched pearl-less cravat. ¡°Our bond frays by the syllable!¡±


    Fanfare severed further debate.


    A woman entered, black hair glossier than ravens¡¯ wings scraped into chaste chignon. Brocades weighted her slight frame regally¡ªPrincess Margaret, acting monarch in her father¡¯s stead. Albion¡¯s crown bypassed sons for firstborns, regardless of sex. History texts revealed half their rulers in recent centuries had been queens. With the current king reportedly bedridden, that ratio seemed set to tip again.


    Debutantes processed forward, trains cascading over arms like frozen waterfalls. Princess Margaret¡¯s lips brushed each bowed forehead¡ªblessings bestowed. Efficient gestures betrayed years of rehearsal. The king¡¯s madness had barred him from public life since her majority.


    ¡°Unusual times,¡± Lancaster murmured as dances formed.


    Ulysses snorted. ¡°Same mothballed pageantry¡ªmonarchist rigidity ossifies innovation.¡±


    ¡°Ah, but this year His Majesty¡¯s flesh fails,¡± the Duke countered. ¡°Imagine¡ªexpiring whilst nobles caper below! Charon pauses his oar-strokes to laugh.¡±


    ¡°Few would mourn the passing.¡±


    Yvette suppressed a gasp. Such casual regicide! Yet none could deny the king¡¯s lunacy¡ªhis whims tormented courtiers even as Parliament ignored them. This ball might double as a wake.


    When partnering commenced, Yvette approached her assigned debutante. Conversation followed Ulysses¡¯ formula: flattery of gown and complexion, then lighter fare. Albion¡¯s education segregated sexes brutally¡ªmaidens learned embroidery and silence, youths classical languages and arrogance. Thus Yvette¡¯s attention to feminine topics¡ªgothic novels, garden design¡ªproved disarming.


    To Albion¡¯s ballroom doves, this Gallic youth seemed a unicorn¡ªattentive sans lechery, cultured sans condescension. Better yet, his blushes matched theirs. By evening¡¯s third allemande, clusters of young ladies were fanning flushed cheeks, giggling behind gloves.


    ¡°Adequate,¡± Ulysses remarked post-dance, observing admirers¡¯giggles. ¡°¡®Blushing¡¯ quota met. Though your footwork retains provincial clumsiness.¡°


    Yvette groaned. Between labored gallantries and tripping over skirt-trains (others¡¯), survival seemed triumph enough.


    Peeking at gossiping debutantes, she recognized a universal choreography¡ªwhispers, stolen glances, bashful smiles. Schoolyard infatuation transcended eras. One thought sustained her:


    At least I¡¯m not wearing heels.

 Chapter 23

    Away from Yvette¡¯s hearing, genteel whispers drifted among clustered debutantes:


    ¡°Isn¡¯t he divine? We¡¯ve misjudged the French¡ªMr. Fisher¡¯s nothing like his boorish uncle. He noticed the Byzantine jasmine in my perfume! First gentleman to name it properly. Said it matched my eyes¡­ Oh, he¡¯ll break hearts someday.¡±


    ¡°Typical Gallic charm,¡± another sniffed. ¡°They all play coy with Sir Ulysses, but who refuses him? It¡¯s a dance: feign indifference so defeat doesn¡¯t sting.¡±


    A third laughed. ¡°No wonder we hire French valets¡ªthey¡¯re decorative. Real work¡¯s done by invisible drudges, like household gremlins.¡±


    Unnoticed, Yvette approached her next partner: Veronica Faulkner, sister to the grim novelist dubbed ¡°the Upas Tree.¡± Expecting a gothic statue, she found a vivacious brunette with fawn-like eyes.


    ¡°You¡¯re the Mr. Fisher!¡± Veronica gushed, ignoring etiquette. ¡°My brother¡¯s novelizing your Red Mill case! His draft¡¯s thrilling, but he says reality was wilder. Please, tell me everything!¡±


    Yvette reddened. How to explain slaying a monster with a magic sword? She deflected¡ªthese fencing enthusiasts would spot lies.


    The Faulkners were fifth-tier nobles¡ªAlbion¡¯s power elite. Veronica, fan-girling hard, spilled secrets between waltzes, even critiquing Crown Princess Margaret:


    ¡°She treats the King¡¯s madness¡­ clinically. Let him ride indoors! My friends call it devotion, but I smell duty, not love.¡±


    A messenger scurried to Margaret, who staged believable (but overlong) shock. Music died as she announced the King¡¯s death.


    Veronica muttered, ¡°Awful timing¡ªjust as I met you!¡± before enacting the noble faint. Around them, ladies dropped like flies, men scrambling to juggle grief and damsels.


    Later, Yvette confronted Ulysses: ¡°The King was poisoned¡ªarsenic in that green wall dye!¡±


    ¡°Clever girl.¡± He burned his toxin-research notes.


    ¡°Why?!¡±


    ¡°Shall we crown our Queen a murderer? Stability trumps truth. Besides¡ª¡± He gestured to a cholera outbreak headline. ¡°The poor drink poison daily. Poverty¡¯s the incurable malady.¡±


    On the morrow of the old king''s death, his coffin rolled through London''s fog to St. Paul''s Cathedral, guards in scarlet flanking the hearse as bells knelled his passage. Though reviled in life ¨C a mad monarch turned tabloid caricature ¨C death miraculously sanctified him. Now crowds queued to glimpse their suddenly indispensable sovereign, scrambling to invent posthumous merits where none existed.Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.


    Princess Margaret''s coronation proved brief. The golden mantle she wore during her ascension now gathered dust, replaced by widow''s black ¨C osiander silk darker than a starless night, complemented by jet jewelry that absorbed all light. Across the realm, tailors cursed under their breath as mourning edicts emptied their shops of vibrant silks.


    In the frost-laced garden, Queen Margaret IV confronted not her handmaid but Lady Delaine ¨C the hawk-eyed falconer who once raced stallions through Windsor''s meadows. Their breaths crystallized in the cold: the Queen''s measured, her lover''s ragged.


    "You''d abandon me now?" Margaret''s voice held the lethal precision of a crossbow cranked taut. "When I''ve burned every bridge between us and our freedom?"


    Father should''ve died years ago.


    The childhood whisper had become a battlecry these recent months.


    Young Margaret always knew her tastes ran contrary to Albion''s expectations. While playing the porcelain princess, she fantasized about tearing palace tapestries with her teeth. Then came Delaine ¨C all windswept hair and hawking gauntlets ¨C teaching her heart forbidden geometries of desire.


    Last autumn''s hunt shattered their private Eden. The bloated king spotted Delaine astride her Friesian mount and bellowed his lust across the grounds. Royal stewards scurried to explain propriety ¨C Continental paramours required marital pretense.


    "Marry her off then!" the king roared through wine-stained lips.


    The Delaine house, overstocked with sons and hungry for influence, sold their daughter to an attach¨¦ content to keep Parisian beds warm for eternity.


    Margaret''s vengeance unfolded in brushstrokes. Scheele''s Green ¨C that arsenic-laden hue ¨C blossomed across every royal chamber she knew her father nightly inhabited. She watched his skin mottle, his breath shorten, until death''s rattle interrupted wedding preparations.


    Now crowned, her first decree was love unmasked ¨C only for Delaine to recoil.


    "You frighten me," the falconer whispered, tears freezing on her cheeks. "This queen who poisons..."


    "Go." Margaret watched her retreat, realizing courage comes in differing measures.


    As shadows lengthened, a voice broke her reverie:


    "Black becomes Your Majesty, but not when chattering teeth mar the effect."


    Lynna ¨C the handmaid supposedly banished to Edinburgh ¨C materialized like a revenant.


    "How long have you haunted me?" The Queen''s fingers itched for a dagger.


    "Since you first admired green wallpaper''s transformative properties." Lynna''s smile revealed teeth too sharp for servants. "My order''s protected your bloodline since before Stonehenge''s stones stood upright."


    When Margaret scoffed, the maid grasped her hand. Golden light pulsed between their palms ¨C the Queen''s self-inflicted wounds vanished, reappearing on Lynna''s skin.


    "We are... caretakers." Lynna produced a diamond that seemed to drink moonlight. "The Koh-i-Noor''s true inheritor. Your father''s crown held glass."


    "The cursed stone!"


    "Curses are reciprocal." The maid unrolled a scroll older than the Magna Carta. "Your ancestors traded danger for dominion. ''Who holds this diamond rules empires, yet pays in blood.'' But women... women temper its hunger."


    Margaret traced signatures of dead queens ¨C Elizabeth, Anne, Victoria ¨C her fingertip pausing at her mother''s shaky hand.


    Lynna offered a raven-quill. "The price of empire awaits your signature."


    The diamond''s facets flashed, showing Margaret Armadas burning and tea-scented opium dreams.

 Chapter 24

    At the Ulysses household in Hampstead Heath, an uninvited creditor ushered in chaos.


    ¡°Sigh¡­¡± The man downed another swig of whiskey, the bottle glugging noisily.


    ¡°A shred of dignity, if you please,¡± Ulysses said frostily. ¡°Day-drinking reeks of desperation¡ªor have you developed a taste for jailhouse hospitality?¡±


    Alcoholism plagued Albion like a fever. Countless laws aimed at sobering the populace had failed. Drunks brawled in alleys; constables scraped them off cobblestones.


    ¡°You owe me,¡± Maskelyne muttered, bleakness etching his voice. ¡°This requires your¡­ expertise.¡±


    ¡°Another scandal needing press suppression?¡±


    ¡°Worse. I¡¯ve misplaced an object. Retrieve it.¡± The creditor¡¯s fingers twitched in his hair.


    ¡°Call in Alto, then. The Chief Inspector excels at hunting strays¡ªand debts.¡±


    ¡°No. That stone-faced bore would blabber to the whole Order!¡±


    Ulysses¡¯ brow creased. ¡°A relic?¡±


    ¡°A camera. It photographs spirits.¡±


    ¡°Hardly catastrophic¡ªprovided we find it before some fool snaps a poltergeist.¡±


    ¡°Ah. Therein lies the rub.¡± Maskelyne winced. ¡°The fool already has. My district¡¯s drowning in ghostly pamphlets.¡±


    Yvette gaped. Even idle at home, Ulysses couldn¡¯t escape calamity. Controlling narratives was his burden¡ªnow Maskelyne¡¯s bungling entangled them both.


    ¡°¡­The device hinged on an occult breakthrough. Corpses¡¯ eyes retain death-images¡ªnecromancers have harnessed this for millennia. Postmortem scrying, I termed it. But what if the eyes belonged to¡­ other entities?¡± Excitement warmed Maskelyne¡¯s voice. ¡°A colleague procured a mutated giant squid¡¯s eye¡ªenormous lenses, perfect for crafting optics. And it worked! The camera reveals ethereal energies!¡±


    He brandished the whiskey like a torch. Ulysses yawned.


    ¡°Spare me the theatrics. How¡¯d you lose it?¡±


    ¡°My workshop¡¯s cluttered with clocks and rifles. Cameras are fiddly novelties. I¡­ stashed it inside a clock case. Forgot. My apprentice sold it.¡±


    ¡°When?¡±


    ¡°Last week? Or the one before¡­¡±


    ¡°You remembered after the flyers appeared.¡±


    ¡°¡­Yes.¡±


    Ulysses massaged his temples.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    Maskelyne unfurled a cheap broadsheet¡ªhalf text, half ghostly photograph. The image showed a filth-caked girl in a derelict alley, neck craned unnaturally. Hair veiled her face, but shadowed eyes burned through the newsprint. Even in grayscale, the dress stains evoked blood. Her translucency screamed supernatural.


    PYE STREET PLAGUE¡ªPHANTOM¡¯S CURSE?


    Yvette frowned. Ulysses had debunked such myths, proving plagues stemmed from tainted water. Yet specters still haunted public imagination.


    ¡°The Order knows,¡± Maskelyne hissed. ¡°They¡¯ve sent the Funerary Dame. Beat her to it, Ulysses. Please.¡±


    ¡°A necromancy expert should handle this.¡±


    ¡°No! She¡¯ll trace it to me! My research permits¡ªgone!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m a doctor, not an exorcist.¡±


    ¡°You. Owe. Me.¡±


    Ulysses shrugged. ¡°I lack genie powers.¡±


    Yvette stirred. Ulysses¡¯ debt stemmed from forging her weapon. Guilt tugged at her.


    ¡°Let me try,¡± she whispered.


    ¡°This doesn¡¯t concern you,¡± Ulysses snapped.


    Maskelyne brightened. ¡°Capital! Young Mr. Fischer to the rescue!¡± Rumors painted Yvette capable¡ªshe¡¯d impressed even Inspector ¡°Hound¡± Alto. If Ulysses refused aid, the favor remained intact. Perfect.


    Once alone, Ulysses eyed Yvette. ¡°Why volunteer?¡±


    ¡°The debt¡¯s mine to bear.¡±


    ¡°Foolish pride. Maskelyne wants secrecy¡ªno Order resources. His Clerkenwell cronies print those flyers. He¡¯s hit dead ends already.¡± His gaze sharpened. ¡°This ends badly. Still determined?¡±


    The following dawn found Ivette weaving through London¡¯s underbelly, her transformation complete.


    Gone were silks and lace. A coal-smudged urchin now walked the cobbles: beret askew, rough-spun shirt billowing under a boy¡¯s outsized jacket, trouser cuffs riding high above scuffed boots. Her hair¡ªpale as unbleached flax¡ªlay hidden beneath knitted wool. Perfect. Exactly what Ulysses had prescribed. Show up swanning in brocade, he¡¯d warned, and witnesses would clam up faster than a Whitby oyster. Centuries of Albion-Fran?ais squabbles ensured that.


    Petticoat Lane rags, these. Winslow¡¯s clockwork servant had procured them, then boiled the lot thrice over. Wise¡ªgiven what festered in those stitches.


    This borrowed skin granted passage to another city entirely. No more bows from grocers, no sing-song ¡°At your service, young sir.¡± Here, shopkeepers clutched their wares when she neared, eyes sharp as magpies¡¯.


    Small wonder. The law hanged thieves here¡ªunless they were knee-high. Hence the rookery gangs: old sharks schooling shoals of starveling children. Factory rats at seven, pickpockets at eight. Girls? Different market. (Twelve, the law whispered, was old enough. God help Albion¡¯s statutes.)


    Even as Ivette pondered this, shadows slithered. A leering voice from an alcove: ¡°How much for the night, pretty pigeon?¡±


    Her fist answered first¡ªa useful trick from the Parisian gutters. The man reeled, dignity bruised. She walked faster, tasting London¡¯s rot beneath its gilt. Ulysses could keep his parliament gossip and royal luncheons; this festering wound needed lancing.


    Mousskin¡¯s blunder had opened the way. The fool inspector haunted goldsmiths¡¯ row¡ªclean lanes guarded by silver-topped canes. But two turns east, the world curdled. Brick warrens hunched back-to-back, landlords grafting illegal attics like fungal growths. Ropes heavy with washing blotted the sky; filth gurgled between cobbles.


    No maps charted this cartilage. Ivette navigated by stench and suspicion until¡ªbehind a yard choked with flyblown paper¡ªshe found her prize. Three presses clattered in the gloom, cranking out cheap broadsheets. Same ghostly lithograph as Mousskin¡¯s leaflet.


    ¡°Came in last week,¡± the printer coughed. ¡°Red-haired codger, eyes like burnt holes. Paid him five shillings, he scarpered. Then two days back¡ªgent buys the original plate. Heavy purse, military trim.¡±


    Not Mousskin¡¯s doing. Special Ops, then¡ªsnuffing leads. But why?


    Ivette nursed bitter dregs in a workers¡¯ caf¨¦. The brew tasted like ditchwater strained through newsprint. Her bread wore a grease some charlatan called ¡°butter.¡± Walls bore threats: STEAL A SUGAR LUMPS WE¡¯LL STEAL YOUR TEETH. She¡¯d skipped the stew; Ulysses¡¯ warnings echoed: ¡°Expect newts in the broth. And not the green kind.¡±


    Gnawing the rock-hard loaf, she marshaled her thoughts. Sugar would spark the mind, even from this grim fare. Somewhere in London¡¯s smoke, a phantom grinned¡ªand she¡¯d carve that smile into answers.

 Chapter 25

    When the newspaper trail ran cold, Yvette''s thoughts took a sharper turn. If the camera''s owner couldn''t be tracked through publications, perhaps the photograph''s location held answers. After all, the phantom''s image required the photographer''s physical presence. Maybe witnesses lingered there?


    Time pressed urgently. She needed that camera before the Mourning Lady''s agents did. Any competent occult organization would immediately recognize its anomalies. This was 1840s London, after all - an era when daguerreotypes demanded subjects to sit frozen for minutes, often braced by specially designed chairs. Yet Muskin''s device worked instantaneously through alchemical imaging, its lens crafted from a Otherworldly creature''s ocular tissue. Any examination would expose Muskin''s fatal oversight.


    "Where might I find this haunted lane?" Yvette slid the newspaper across the caf¨¦ counter with feigned nonchalance.


    The proprietor''s polishing rag stilled. "Let sleeping curses lie, lad. That quarter''s quarantine-locked. Plague burns through them like Hell''s own fire - yet never crosses to neighboring streets. Dark forces at work, mark my words."


    "All the more reason to quicken my step!" She leaned forward, eyes alight with manufactured zeal. "I''ve traveled from Whitechapel chasing phantoms. Would you have me slink home empty-handed?"


    After persistent needling, the man relented with directions and stern warnings.


    The plague district announced itself through boarded windows and sulfur-stained quarantine signs. Those too destitute to flee shuffled through fog-choked lanes like consumptive specters. Their wheezing coughs echoed through the derelict maze.


    Finding the exact alley proved maddening. Dank courtyards bled into nearly identical brick warrens until - there. The "haunted" tenement blended seamlessly with its neighbors: splintered shutters, windows mummified in newsprint, doorway sagging on rotting hinges. Yvette''s stolen photograph showed the phantom hovering precisely here.


    Knocks went unanswered. Circling the building, she intercepted a hollow-cheeked woman staggering under laundry and water buckets.


    "Allow me." Yvette deftly relieved her burden.


    "My thanks," came the rasping reply - a voice scraped raw by sickness.


    Leaning closer conspiratorially, she brandished the newspaper. "They say phantoms walk this lane! The photographer caught his specter right here. Ever seen a red-haired gentleman lurking about?"


    The woman recoiled as if scalded. Bucket clattering, she fled inside, barricading the door with audible desperation.


    Ah. Guilty knowledge indeed.


    Retrieving the abandoned wares, Yvette scaled crumbling bricks to a second-story window. Within lay a seamstress''s purgatory - mountains of lacework beside a cradle holding an opiate-drugged infant. The mother''s existence measured in yards of thread and shillings earned.


    She descended stairs silently. The woman''s shriek died within Yvette''s conjured sphere of silence.


    "My apologies for the dramatic entrance." Sovereign coins clinked onto scarred wood. "But a spirit-hunter requires answers. Your daughter''s dress - the lace brooch matches our phantom precisely."


    Trembling fingers caressed the photograph. "Stitched... hours before she vanished. If that''s her ghost..." The woman''s chin lifted with fatalistic resolve. "Find who took this. Please. My baby..." Her gesture encompassed the threadbare room. "Those coins buy milk instead of laudanum."


    Victorian poverty demanded brutal arithmetic. Coal Clubs and Boot Funds allowed paupers to collectively purchase winter fuel or footwear through weekly pennies. Lose one family member''s wages? The fragile scaffold collapsed. Hence the inhuman lace quotas - survival measured in endless stitches.


    Emerging into the twilight, Yvette sensed movement - a shadow detaching from brickwork. Her hand flew to the derringer concealed beneath her coat.


    A woman clad in logwood-black mourning attire stood in the street. Logwood, the so-called "ink tree," dyed fabrics the deep black reserved for grief¡ªa shade now ubiquitous since the king¡¯s death. To Yvette, however, the dress¡¯s gothic silhouette felt oddly fashionable, a dissonance of eras. Cultural whiplash, she mused.The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.


    The woman¡ªblack-haired, brown-eyed, unnervingly pale¡ªstudied a compass, its needle twitching erratically. The Funerary Lady. Yvette recognized her from the descriptions: a spiritualist hunting specters.


    Hiding in the woman¡¯s blind spot, Yvette observed. A normal compass would steady north. This one skittered like a live thing. Tracking a ghost? she realized.


    According to their intelligence, the agency saw this as routine¡ªa rogue spirit needing banishment. But Yvette knew better. Ghosts strong enough to appear in photos were dangerous, and this one had noticed the camera. Worse, its lair likely hid the missing journalist.


    Priorities: retrieve the camera or follow the ghost?


    Her lone lead¡ªthe newspaper¡ªhad dried up. Meanwhile, Winslow¡¯s words echoed: "Ghosts grow stronger with each kill." The haunted journalist¡¯s time was dwindling.


    Earlier, Winslow¡¯s ghost story had chilled her: a boy peering at midnight feet under his door. "A joke," he¡¯d claimed, too convincingly. Ulysses derided Albion¡¯s quirks¡ªlike brothels catering to men nostalgic for schoolyard canings. Yvette¡¯s lips twitched despite herself. Focus.


    The Funerary Lady¡¯s compass stabilized ahead. Yvette needed to bypass her. Her new sonic ability might disrupt the needle...


    Steaming tea in hand, she pulsed ultrasonic waves. The compass jerked. The spiritualist frowned but followed its false trail.


    Go! Yvette darted toward terraced houses. Which one? The compass pointed broadly¡ªshe¡¯d need to backtrack.


    Rounding a corner, she collided with the Funerary Lady. Rookie mistake.


    "Twice now." The woman¡¯s voice iced over. "Who are you?"


    Yvette confessed: rumor control for the French spymaster.


    "His new schemer? Pathetic." The woman marched past.


    A slimy landlord intercepted them, hawking "quality" lodgings. The spiritualist flashed a bureaucratic warrant. The man fawned, surrendering keys to a decrepit house¡ªits door already broken.


    Inside reeked of mold and despair. The hunt continued.


    Modern London stood as a titan of industry and humanity¡ªa teeming supercity where even crumbling tenements cost fortunes. Most laborers surrendered half their wages to landlords.


    The door creaked open, releasing a breath of decayed blood.


    Every muscle in Yvette¡¯s body tensed. Her palm found the revolver¡¯s grip, thumb snapping the cylinder into position before the stench fully registered.


    They followed the coppery reek to its source: a kitchen where the cutting board¡¯s dark stains spoke of butchery without cleanup. Scattered bones¡ªmice, stray cats, anything small enough to catch¡ªlittered the corners.


    From above came shuffling steps. The compass spun like a dervish.


    Yvette dove through the nearest window, caught the ledge mid-fall, and with a pulse of unnatural force, launched upward into the second story.


    He waited at the stairhead¡ªa scarecrow of a man, rust-haired and shaking. The scissors in his hands trembled as he turned, eyes widening at the intruder.


    Three steps. A wristlock. Knees planted between his shoulder blades.


    ¡°Your tip,¡± she said, pressing the newspaper to the floorboards by his cheek.


    ¡°Yes! Lock me up! Now! Please!¡± The man¡¯s desperation bordered on euphoria.


    Britain¡¯s famed madness, Yvette thought. She¡¯d met those who paid for punishment, but imprisonment fetishists?


    The Lady of Funerals ascended, pausing to survey the scene. A curt nod acknowledged Yvette¡¯s work.


    Spellcasters paid a cruel price: their world-shaking magic demanded space and precision, weaknesses the Lady¡¯s corsets compounded. Against a blade in close quarters? Only Yvette¡¯s preternatural reflexes prevented bloodshed.


    ¡°Sir,¡± the Lady began, ¡°your aura is... troubled. What walks beside you?¡±


    ¡°You see it?!¡± His laughter frayed into hiccups. ¡°Even I thought I¡¯d cracked!¡±


    ¡°I listen where others dismiss. Speak.¡±


    The man gaped as at a miracle.


    ¡°Watts. Reporter. Started with the camera¡ªa trick! A snare for fools!¡±


    Worst possible outcome. Forgive us, Maskelyne.


    ¡°Bought a clock, received a camera instead. Kept it. Normal ones need minutes of light¡ªthis took instant shots, even at dusk. The pictures... twisted, but serviceable.¡±


    Corpselight development, Yvette recalled. The dead¡¯s grief stains the plates.


    ¡°Later, photographing slums... developed the plate and saw her. A spectre in the frame! Sold the shot to a scandal rag. Easy money... until the dreams came.¡±


    His voice dropped to a whisper.


    ¡°Waking here. Lost days. Then the cravings¡ªeating vermin, trash... this body moves without me!¡±


    A jagged sob. ¡°Sacked. Penniless. Take me to prison!¡±


    ¡°Common possession,¡± the Lady cut in. ¡°The ghost¡¯s no titan¡ªit piggybacked on your consciousness.¡±


    Cornered, Yvette thought. Maskelyne¡¯s secret won¡¯t survive this.


    ¡°How do I escape?!¡±


    ¡°Bring the camera. At dusk, I exorcise the spirit.¡±


    ¡°Your name! I¡¯ll make you famous!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll forget. Upstairs. Now.¡±


    The camera emerged¡ªan ugly black box, unremarkable save for its lens. Inside, when the Lady pried it open, membrane-like optics glistened.


    The Aberrant King¡¯s squid lenses. Maskelyne¡¯s obsession made flesh.


    ¡°A mortal¡¯s hands waste such craft,¡± the Lady said, arranging ritual components.


    ¡°Why the props?¡± Yvette gestured at the salt and candles.


    ¡°Mummery. Humans expect smoke and whispers. Let fools think I¡¯m one of them.¡± Her smile held winter. ¡°When that shade appears, I¡¯ll unmake it.¡±


    Unmake.


    Strictly speaking, the ghost hadn¡¯t killed¡ªjust forced survival. Spirits were fractals of desire, broken mirrors reflecting single needs.


    But Yvette held her tongue. Let the expert work.

 Chapter 26

    Dusk thickened into gloom. Watts quivered in his attic bedroom, awaiting the spectral visitation he knew would come.


    ¡°...Sir... sir...¡± The ghostly whisper slithered under the door, accompanied by frenzied scratching. ¡°...Have you found it...?¡±


    Wood panels trembled. A translucent figure materialized, clawing with broken nails.


    Yvette and her companion¡ªthe funerary aristocrat known as Lady of Tombs¡ªburst into the hall, witnessing the macabre spectacle.


    ¡°Begone, wraith.¡± The Lady raised glowing fingers. ¡°This plane tolerates no abominations.¡±


    The spirit turned. Blood-caked lace trim clung to the tattered dress¡ªa mother¡¯s labor turned burial shroud. Gaping wounds riddled its translucent flesh. Murder¡¯s handiwork.


    ¡°You... See me...¡± The ghost rasped.


    ¡°You disrupt nature¡¯s balance,¡± the Lady intoned. ¡°By life¡¯s edict, I shall pur¡ª¡±


    Yvette body-checked her mid-sentence.


    ¡°Explain this madness!¡± The Lady spat.


    ¡°Hear her plea first. What if it¡¯s crucial?¡±


    ¡°Sentiment blinds you. This thing¡±¡ªthe Lady gestured contemptuously¡ª¡°is but corpse-echoes. Vengeance or denial¡ªall wraiths crave. Never reason.¡±


    The ghost moaned, ¡°Find me... Save Mother...¡±


    Behind Yvette¡¯s eyes flashed the washerwoman¡¯s tubercular frame. ¡°Half an hour,¡± she bargained.


    Searches proved futile. The spirit¡¯s mantra¡ª¡°Find me... hurry...¡±¡ªintensified. No denial. No bloodlust. Only desperate familial love.


    At the window, Yvette noted bucket-laden neighbors queuing below¡ªthe communal pump. Pestilence¡¯s vector? Ulysses¡¯ theories returned: contaminated water. One pump. One poison source.


    Her mind blazed connections¡ªcellar, corpse, plague. She plunged downstairs.


    The cellar reeked of decayed refuse. Behind a crudely constructed wall lay the truth: a corpse rotting in watery muck, its collar¡¯s Lilliputian bow still clinging.


    Tear-tracks shimmered down the ghost¡¯s blurred cheeks as they uncovered the horror. ¡°Mother... safe now...¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    The specter dissolved, its purpose fulfilled. Festering in groundwater meters from the pump¡ªthe contagion¡¯s heart. Even the Lady stood stunned.


    ¡°Alert the well-users,¡± Yvette ordered. ¡°Authority papers will sway them. I¡¯ll track the killer.¡±


    The trembling landlord arrived, confessing to lax rent collection from a ¡°Blackjack¡±¡ªodd for his miserly reputation. Yvette¡¯s gut clenched. A grifter-supernatural.


    At Blackjack¡¯s abandoned lodgings, ransacked drawers spoke of hurried flight. Inn staff mindlessly let the debt-renter depart with luggage.


    The Lady proposed standard protocols¡ªtelegraphs to ports and stations. Yvette dissented: ¡°He¡¯ll disembark early. Vanish.¡±


    At the writing desk, pencil-rubbed indentations betrayed a timetable: 19:40 Glasgow Express¡ªPlatform 3. Ten minutes remained, Charing Cross Station three hopeless gridlocked miles away.


    Yvette chose rooftops.


    Brick and slate blurred beneath her feet. She flowed across London¡¯s cramped skyline¡ªnight¡¯s shadow, gravity¡¯s jester. Below, carriages crawled through gaslit smog. Above, Death¡¯s huntress raced.


    Run, cur. Hide in nations... My vengeance flies swifter.


    Black Jack lounged in the plush solitude of a first-class compartment aboard the Glasgow Express, a world apart from the rabble in steerage. His tailored tailcoat and top hat gleamed under the compartment¡¯s lamplight, casting a gentlemanly veneer over the monster beneath. A half-finished bottle of Mumm champagne and a stack of newspapers adorned the table¡ªprops for a role he¡¯d perfected. The thin partition walls did little to muffle the debate next door: two scholars squabbled over lunar origins, their voices dripping with academic fervor. Pathetic, he mused, twirling his cane. I¡¯ll teach them humility at the next stop.


    His true power lay not in wealth, but in influence. A honeyed word, a calculated glance¡ªhis victims folded like paper. Investors emptied purses for phantom ventures; wide-eyed maids followed him to damp cellars, eager for employment. There, he¡¯d sermonize about his exploits, feign guilt, then butcher them mid-apology. Each scream was an ovation for his artistry.


    But lately, a hitch: a ghostly photograph of his latest victim had surfaced, pursued by a mad journalist. Black Jack retreated to hotels, biding time until funds arrived. Then came them¡ªa noblewoman and her sharp-eyed escort. His usual tricks faltered; they saw through the ¡°landlord¡± charade. A chill slithered down his spine. Not ordinary.


    He fled in a top hat and fresh disguise, treasures in tow. Tonight, he¡¯d bankrupt the scholars next door, leap the train near Birmingham, and vanish. Poetry in motion, he thought, smirking.


    Drowsiness struck abruptly. The scholars¡¯ voices died. Odd, how the engine¡¯s roar seemed to¡­ amplify.


    Yvette clung to the train¡¯s exterior, her gloved fingers frostbitten. Inside, the oil lamp¡¯s glow silhouetted Black Jack¡¯s smug profile. She steadied her revolver¡ªa custom Smith & Wesson with hollow-point rounds. The shot cracked the silence, glass exploding inward. His head burst like overripe fruit.


    ¡°Your tricks were mediocre,¡± she whispered, releasing her grip. Wind slapped her face as she dropped, sprinted, and vaulted onto a passing freight train. Guards below heard nothing.


    Earlier, she¡¯d pieced together his habits: first-class comforts, a fondness for Mumm. The Nightmare Ring on her finger pulsed, its soporific wave sparing the engineer. A rose thorn¡¯s sting kept her alert. Passengers slumped; only Black Jack resisted¡ªa flicker of consciousness. Target confirmed.


    Now, sprawled on the freight car¡¯s roof, Yvette watched the moon. Somewhere, a ghostly girl¡¯s face blurred into peace.


    Sleep well, sister.

 Chapter 27

    Lesley Shar, the austere "Funeral Lady," sat stiffly in the caf¨¦. Her untouched jam sandwich and coffee grew cold as her thoughts churned.


    That reckless boy¡ªcharging after Black Jack alone. Foolish.


    A waiter interrupted her brooding. "Madam, a... grimy youth claims acquaintance. Shall I dismiss him?"


    "Send him in."


    The bedraggled figure who entered could¡¯ve been plucked from a coal bin. Ivette¡¯s face was smudged, her clothes streaked with chimney soot and alley filth. Shar raised an eyebrow.


    "No time to clean up," the girl said breathlessly. "It¡¯s done. Black Jack¡¯s dead¡ªno witnesses. His corpse will surface at a station eventually. Your people can collect it."


    Shar studied her. "I misjudged you. Calling you calculating was unjust. But Ulysses..." She snorted. "How does that indolent fop command your loyalty?"


    "Sir Ulysses has his merits..." Ivette trailed off, imagining her patron dozing in his club armchair.


    "Your name. And codename. For the report."


    "Libra. Ivette de Fische. But your compass led me to the body. I¡¯d have failed without¡ª"


    "Clarity guides my pen." Shar¡¯s tone forbade argument. "The Order will see truth. And... you¡¯ve reminded me justice without mercy is a hollow blade."


    Ivette squirmed. Do all occultists shower allies with earnest praise?


    "Why the gamble?" Shar pressed. "Black Jack could¡¯ve turned every passenger against you. A mob with pistols... one stray bullet..."


    "I acted first."


    "And was that impulse yours? Or your creed¡¯s dictate?"


    "Does it matter?"Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "Creeds shield us." Shar leaned forward. "The deeper we delve into Primordial power, the louder the beast within rages. Without dogma to chain it..."


    "My creed¡¯s Eastern: know your true heart. Black Jack¡¯s victims¡ªa child fed poison to keep quiet, a mother working herself to death... I wanted him gone. No dogma required."


    Shar¡¯s frost melted. "A creed of self-mastery. Themis herself would approve, Libra."


    My codename¡¯s about physics, not goddesses! But Ivette bit her tongue. "The camera..."


    "Maskin¡¯s toy?" Shar¡¯s lips twitched. "It stinks of dead horrors. Not my jurisdiction."


    Victory.


    Dawn streaked the sky as Ivette reclaimed the camera. Her stench¡ªcoal, sweat, and alleyway¡ªmade cabbies recoil. Hampstead Heath¡¯s genteel residents wouldn¡¯t suffer her in their carriages.


    Guess I¡¯m walking.


    Yvette had little choice. A private carriage was within her means, but it would draw unwanted stares. In Albion, every class knew its place. A factory worker who struck gold wouldn¡¯t dare book a first-class ticket¡ªsuch "above-your-station" flamboyance earned scorn. To flash the coins in her purse, pocket money to a Fisher heiress, would shock commoners: here, a grubby street rat reeking of stolen wealth.


    So she hitched rides on delivery wagons instead, darting aboard when drivers glanced away. If a cart veered off course, she¡¯d leap to the next.


    By 10 a.m., after a game of vehicular hopscotch, she reached Ulysses¡¯ townhouse.


    The breakfast spread was typical Winslow: hearty Albion fare. With the kingdom in mourning, the ton had forsaken late-night revelry. During the April-August social season, nobles crawled home at dawn and rose past noon. Today, Ulysses lounged in shirtsleeves and a billowing dressing gown, carving smoked sausage as the dining room wafted with roasted meat and fresh bread¡ªuntil a reeking shadow darkened the doorway.


    ¡°Saints preserve us¡­ A bath, immediately!¡± Winslow exclaimed.


    ¡°Pyle Street¡¯s hygiene plummets daily. Does London dump its refuse there?¡± Ulysses mused drily.


    The human embodiment of ¡°Starving Orphan Returns.jpg¡± dropped her camera case. ¡°Job¡¯s done. Apologies for the stench. Bath first¡ªthen your breakfast won¡¯t taste like ash.¡±


    She turned to leave. A hand seized her collar, whirling her toward the table. Ulysses shoved her into a chair. ¡°You¡¯re famished. Winslow needs twenty minutes for hot water anyway.¡±


    True. Since yesterday, she¡¯d gagged down Pyle Street¡¯s ¡°cuisine¡±: bread laced with sawdust, jam dyed god-knew-how. Now, even Albion¡¯s greasy breakfast spread tantalized.


    ¡°But I smell like a chimney¡­¡±


    ¡°My nose is¡­ indisposed.¡± Ulysses wiped his soot-streaked hand on a handkerchief.


    The chairs¡ªdainty giltwood things with velvet cushions¡ªwere relics from a faerie¡¯s parlor. Perching her filthy self there¡­


    ¡°My clothes¡¯ll stain¡ª¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re tolerable. Offensive, but not ocular blasphemy.¡±


    Charming.


    His candor disarmed her. She scrubbed her hands in a basin and attacked the plate.

 Chapter 28

    ¡°To think you outmaneuvered the ¡®Lady of Funerals¡¯ in securing that camera! I expected you to return empty-handed, wallowing in defeat.¡±


    ¡°¡­Credit lies with Miss Schaal, not me.¡±


    Ulysses froze, cutlery hovering. ¡°She¡¯s involved? Then the device should be in the organization¡¯s custody. Explain.¡±


    Yvette recounted events. Her two colleagues¡ªmasters of theatrics¡ªgasped dramatically.


    ¡°The case is closed. Why the long face?¡± Ulysses pressed.


    ¡°¡­Nothing.¡± Memories of the tormented spirit lingered.


    ¡°Hmph. The ¡®Lady of Funerals¡¯ bending rules for you? Unthinkable. She must hold peculiar favor¡­¡±


    ¡°Or your reputation sinks so low that basic courtesy seems grand,¡± Winslow interjected. ¡°Avert celebration. Had the task fallen to you, Sir, we¡¯d be drafting apologies to Parliament. The Lady shows no quarter for¡­ French blusterers.¡±


    Ulysses scowled but held his tongue.


    ¡°¡­Broken clocks, etcetera. With bones unearthed at the Pump Street well, we¡¯ve concrete proof of cursed remains. Now comes the drudgery: quelling hysterics. I¡¯ll propose a ¡®Fire Risk Committee¡¯ to shutter these gutter presses¡­¡±


    Yvette held doubts. These fly-by-night papers operated from shadowy print-shops¡ªParliament¡¯s antiquated hounds couldn¡¯t hunt them all. Shutdowns would merely spawn underground editions.


    ¡°Half-measures won¡¯t suffice. My solution: fight fire with fire. By week¡¯s end, ¡®spectral evidence¡¯ will be a punchline.¡±


    ¡­¡­


    Two days later, Yvette navigated Pump Street¡¯s cobbles in threadbare disguise. Ulysses¡¯ promised ¡°gift¡± awaited.


    Her scheme had set Albion ablaze. Even here, laborers pooled coppers for respectable broadsheets priced at a day¡¯s rookie wages.


    The air crackled with debate¡ªtoday¡¯s Times expos¨¦ dominating discourse:


    ¡°Saints witness! The Times guts these liars! No fear, no favor!¡±


    ¡°Whole coffeehouses are quoting it! Those ink-rats fooled us for years!¡±


    A bystander blinked. ¡°Ghost photos? My missus lit votives for a week!¡±


    ¡°Ancient history!¡± another crowed. ¡°Times blew the scam wide open¡ªshow a ¡®ghost¡¯ by dodging mid-shot! They¡¯ve death threats posted now. Coppers on it!¡±


    ¡°Death threats?!¡±


    ¡°Read the Telegraph yourself!¡±


    A cluster formed, voices rising as they scanned The Times¡¯ defiant editorial: Unbowed. Cheers erupted.


    ¡°Heroes of our age!¡±


    ¡°No more penny dreadfuls! Burn their presses!¡±


    Victory.


    Yvette melted into the crowd, phantom-like.


    Her playbook¡ªEarth¡¯s media circus tactics¡ªhad staggered London: manufactured ¡°haunts,¡± strategic expos¨¦s, staged threats. Each act meticulously timed.


    Here, primitive photography enabled easy fraud: pose as specter, exit mid-exposures. A trick Earth¡¯s charlatans milked for decades. Yvette leaked mock ¡°spirit photos¡± to tabloid vultures, let greed spread the hoax, then shattered the illusion. Final stroke: frame rivals as thugs intimidating truth-tellers.If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    Future supernatural photos? Handled through underground channels monitored by allies like Miss Schaal. A masterclass in narrative control.


    At the derelict pump, Yvette found her ¡°gift¡±: Ulysses hosting a charity gala for social-climbing industrialists. Albion¡¯s Commons Parliament seats demanded such pageantry.


    ¡°¡­Funds will modernize pumps and sewers. Surplus builds a hospital,¡± a magnate fawned.


    ¡°¡­Donors¡¯ names etched in stone¡­¡± Ulysses parried.


    ¡­¡­


    The laundress¡¯ home felt lighter. Cradle-rocking, she smiled through grief.


    ¡°Neighbors say you found my Mary¡­ saved us all.¡±


    ¡°She saved herself,¡± Yvette whispered.


    Handing over ¡ê30 as ¡°Miss Schaal¡¯s charity,¡± she was gently refused:


    ¡°The veiled lady settled debts. But take this¡ª¡±


    A patchwork handkerchief¡ªsilk scraps stitched by mother and child¡ªpressed into her palm. Albion¡¯s mourning traditions prized such tokens.


    ¡°For luck,¡± the woman said.


    ¡°I¡¯ll treasure it.¡±


    It was past midnight when Ulysses returned, evidently concluding his dinner with the charity group. Yvette relayed the newspaper editors¡¯ reactions. His smile carried a razor¡¯s edge: ¡°So the guttersnipe tabloids are finally meeting their end? Splendid. You¡¯ve a gift for puppeteering public sentiment. Blackjack¡ªthat delusional charlatan¡ªmet a fitting end at your hands.¡±


    The compliment curdled. Charlatan? She¡¯d ambushed the man openly. Yet he spun it like some back-alley deceit...


    Yvette settled on a stiff ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Hm?¡±


    ¡°The gift. You attended Pyle Street¡¯s charity event. How did you know I...¡±


    ¡°My dutiful nephew returned victorious yet moping. Mentioning that spectral girl, you wilted like a child refused a puppy. Rewards were in order.


    But my challenge persists: you disdain jewels, gowns, theater, and the hunt. For a Frenchman, it¡¯s criminal to leave a lady¡¯s melancholy unrelated to romance. Today¡¯s chance was overdue¡ªmy thanks for permitting me the pleasure.¡±


    He swept into a courtly bow, all rakish elegance¡ªthe sort of man eternally mistaken for a rake despite spotless conduct. Yvette thought of Batesian mimicry: harmless creatures aping venomous ones to evade predators.


    ¡°...A reply? Silence bruises a gentleman¡¯s pride,¡± Ulysses prodded.


    ¡°Forgive me. I theorized: maintain this performance, and you¡¯ll bedazzle London¡¯s marriage market.¡±


    ¡°Performance? Exhausting. I reserve effort for worthy recipients.¡± He glanced away, muttering, ¡°Most women would swoon. Yet here I earn frosty disdain? No matter¡ªfrost beats sorrow.¡±


    Another murder lingered in the shadows, eclipsed by the ghost-photo scandal. A first-class train passenger lay dead, skull obliterated by a large-caliber bullet. The victim¡ªa ¡°venture pioneer¡± with neither company nor credible projects¡ªhad swindled vast fortunes.


    Most investors resigned to their losses. But one anomaly arrived: a young woman at the station, face etched with despair.


    ¡°The police took the body days ago. Try Scotland Yard...¡±


    ¡°No need.¡± Her quiet grief softened the clerk.


    ¡°May I ask...your financial toll? Many inquire about his effects. Forgive my candor: the man was a grifter. Reclaim your funds before they¡¯re squandered.¡±


    ¡°Not money... A promise. Now unfulfilled.¡± Her dignity shamed him.


    ¡°Any leads on the killer?¡±


    ¡°The rail company failed you. We¡¯re aiding the police¡ªthose tax-drinking sluggards¡ªto hunt the brute.¡±


    ¡°May justice prevail.¡± She left, despair clinging like mist.


    Fool, she seethed. Had he merged with me, he¡¯d live. Why refuse?


    The box hummed: Find the killer... Who?


    ¡°Infection struck only Pyle Street. Dismissing ghosts, I sought common threads: air, food, water. Water fit¡ªlocalized, daily use. My uncle¡¯s cholera studies guided me.¡± A week later, the Thinking Labyrinth Club pressed Yvette for details.


    Blackjack¡¯s identity now public, the masses deemed his death cosmic justice.


    Yvette had braced for his nightmares. Yet after days... nothing. Did gunshots void the ritual? Or...


    She remembered the blood-crusted train window. Without the glass, it would¡¯ve drenched her...


    Club members besieged her. Though newspapers anonymized her as ¡°Mr. M,¡± their elite connections unmasked ¡°Mandrake.¡±


    ¡°Truth hides in plain sight¡ªyour brilliance unearthed it,¡± praised Monkshood.


    ¡°Mandrake! Hoarding such a case?!¡± Oleander protested.


    ¡°I posed as a laborer. Youth disarms suspicion¡ªunlike your aristocratic airs. Monastery life taught me servant¡¯s chores. Could you haul water for slum dwellers?¡±


    Oleander reddened. A true Albion gentleman, he¡¯d never held his toothbrush.


    ¡°I must finish The Vampire Murders before you solve another crime!¡± groaned Aconite. His novel¡ªinspired by the Moulin Rouge killings¡ªstarred Chevalier, a French noble detective (his sister¡¯s romantic demand), meant to launch a series.


    ¡°Join us at the Pyle Street house tomorrow!¡±


    ¡°Regrettably, I¡¯ve an art exhibition.¡± Truthfully, facing those who¡¯d seen her disguised as a beggar... discomfort outweighed curiosity.


    ¡°The Royal Academy Exhibition! Our artists lack Florentine polish, but their avant-garde sparks,¡± mused Strychnine, puffing his pipe.


    A century-old tradition, the exhibit showcased 1000 juried works. During London¡¯s social season, nobles flocked as patrons¡ªcareers hinged on their gaze.


    Though no opera critic, Yvette cherished art. For a modern eye, this was a living museum. The invitation had been unmissable.

 Chapter 29

    ¡°Oh, look! That one¡¯s exquisite! What¡¯s the story here?¡± Julie, their professor¡¯s daughter, pressed closer to the glass, where a delicate bracelet teemed with miniature creatures.


    ¡°Noah¡¯s Ark, I¡¯d wager¡ªthough I¡¯ve never seen Bible tales rendered so whimsically,¡± Carol remarked.


    Though Albion¡¯s moralists deemed society a peril for women, the social season¡¯s grand events¡ªart exhibitions, flower shows, opera galas¡ªwere permissible rebellions. Today, Yvette joined Julie, her sisters, and classmates Gary and Carol at the Royal Academy¡¯s glittering halls.


    The jewelry wing, per the ladies¡¯ request, came first. Gold serpents coiled around ivory cameos; mother-of-pearl unicorns reared atop rings. Serpent motifs ruled¡ªsymbols of eternal life, fashionable for their talismanic allure.


    Yvette puzzled over myths her friends fluently dissected: ¡°Sirens sing sailors to doom; mermaids just drown them.¡± ¡°No¡ªgriffins have lion hindquarters; harpies are all bird!¡±


    Then¡ªYvette halted.


    A lily brooch glowed under glass. Not the usual³éÏóstylized blooms, but lifelike petals¡ªfiligree tracery cradling translucent enamel, as if plucked from a meadow.


    ¡°Plique-¨¤-jour,¡± the artist declared, French accent sharp. ¡°Sunlight through stained glass¡ªno backing, just enamel suspended. A master¡¯s work.¡±


    ¡°Price?¡± Yvette switched to French.


    ¡°¡ê20. A patriot¡¯s discount.¡±


    ¡°Twenty pounds?!¡± Julie echoed in clumsy French. Nearby, a padparadscha sapphire necklace glittered at ¡ê18.


    The artist sniffed. ¡°Albion values rocks over art.¡± Plique-¨¤-jour was Paris¡¯s latest rage, but here, nobles craved carats, not craftsmanship. Months of labor? Unmentioned. Pride choked explanations.


    ¡°I¡¯ll take it.¡± Yvette handed over crisp notes. To her modern sensibilities, artistry trumped gemstones. The brooch¡ªconvertible to a pendant¡ªwould suit Alison, her housekeeper: understated, wearable without galas.The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    ¡°Wasteful¡­¡± Julie muttered.


    ¡°True jewels belong in safes. This¡ªlight, elegant¡ªcan be worn daily.¡±


    The girls flushed. Such intimacy! A gift begging to linger near someone¡¯s heart. What lucky lady inspired such tenderness?


    Yves is smitten¡­ Gary¡¯s chest ached. Yet watching him cradle the brooch, smile faint as dawn¡ªit was poetry.


    Art exhibitions featured diverse mediums, yet paintings still dominated. Cultural circles harbored unspoken hierarchies: writers reigned supreme, followed by composers ¡ª both deemed refined and aristocratic. Painters trailed behind, then sculptors and others. Thus, the grandest accolades at these events invariably went to canvas works.


    Beneath the surface, however, two factions vied for supremacy. The Industrial Revolution¡¯s upheavals had replaced pastoral idylls with factories and smokestacks, eroding religious certainties. Academic traditionalists mourned this loss, retreating into medieval and classical motifs as spiritual refuge. Meanwhile, renegade artists defied establishment norms, branding academic obsessions with ¡°lofty themes¡± and ¡°balanced formalism¡± as stifling relics. Their radical styles demanded revolution ¡ª yet to gain recognition, they had to appease the very traditionalists they scorned.


    Evette¡¯s peers at the Classical Academy overwhelmingly favored academic art, its mythological and epic subjects mirroring their studies.


    ¡°The raw power of The Desperate Philistines! When the Ark crushes Dagon¡¯s idol, the priests¡¯ horrified faces ¡ª pure apocalyptic dread!¡±


    Dagon¡­ some forgotten pagan god, wasn¡¯t it? Their conquerors imposed the Trinity. Legends linger where faith dies. Evette noted silently.


    ¡°Give me The Shepherd and the Nymph! Sunlit haze, that ethereal creature whispering secrets ¡ª pure enchantment!¡±


    Amid their chatter, Evette froze before an unconventional masterpiece. The canvas spanned over four feet, its execution flawless, its composition taut with controlled energy. Though its theme might have offended academic sensibilities, its brilliance had earned a place among ¡°nobler¡± works.


    The asylum scene radiated light. Madwomen in shadowed corners glowed with preternatural calm. Central to it all lay a dead girl on a surgical slab, flaxen hair splayed, a scar marring her left eye socket. Her pallor spoke of death, yet heavenly light embraced her ¡ª a soul released from torment. Here, mortality became sacred, sorrowful poetry.


    Beauty aside, the girl¡¯s resemblance to Evette chilled her: the hair, the healed eye wound (courtesy of Ulysses), the asylum setting¡­


    That¡¯s me. It has to be.


    ¡°¡®The Maiden¡¯s Release¡¯? Avant-garde leanings, Evette?¡± Gary observed. ¡°Academics would shun these colors ¡ª too emotional. They prize meticulous lines over passion. Still, a shame if this wins nothing.¡±


    He doesn¡¯t recognize her. Thank God.


    Evette¡¯s current self bore no resemblance to the painting¡¯s frail specter. Sword at her hip, posture honed by Ulysses¡¯ tutelage, she exuded crisp authority ¡ª a far cry from that wraith.


    Regardless, the painting must be removed. She¡¯d buy it, then hunt down the artist. What secrets did he know¡­?

 Chapter 30

    Yvette¡¯s resolve to purchase the painting wavered the moment the dealer named his price: ¡ê1,200¡ªa small fortune, enough to sustain a middle-class household for a dozen years.


    Even with Ulysses¡¯ generosity¡ªa ¡ê400 furniture stipend, ¡ê150 monthly allowance¡ªthe sum dwarfed her savings. She¡¯d squirreled away ¡ê600 through thrifty living, but this¡­


    The man before her was no artist. His immaculate attire and lack of paint-stained fingers marked him as a dealer, the sort who preyed on starving talents, hoarding their works until death or fame lined his pockets.


    ¡°¡ê1,200 for an unknown?¡± She arched a brow.


    ¡°A steal for genius.¡± The dealer blew a smug cigar cloud. ¡°Stone¡¯s Bacchanalia fetched ¡ê2,000 from Lady Temple. This piece? Merely¡­unlucky in timing.¡±


    ¡°Might I meet the artist?¡±


    ¡°Suicide last month.¡± He flashed a shark¡¯s grin. ¡°Posthumous value, my dear.¡±


    Damn. No leads from the painter himself. She needed that canvas¡ªbut her funds fell short.


    Ulysses¡¯ patronage had granted her a townhouse, an arsenal of oddities, and ample coin, yet pride choked her from begging advances.


    ¡°Sold!¡± A voice rang out.


    The Duke of Lancaster sauntered over, trailing a perfectly poised footman. The dealer¡¯s sycophancy hit operatic heights: ¡°Your Grace! What an honor¡ª¡±


    Yvette¡¯s hopes died. Even if she¡¯d scraped together the gold, the Duke¡¯s whims overruled all.


    ¡°Ulysses¡¯ pretty prot¨¦g¨¦!¡± The Duke winked. ¡°Fancy a morbid masterpiece?¡±


    ¡°Yves de Fische,¡± she corrected coolly, praying the painting¡¯s crowds would stay blind to her face.


    ¡°Interested, eh?¡± His grin turned foxlike. ¡°Answer me: Got any sisters? Lovely aunts?¡±


    ¡°The Fische line breeds sons.¡±


    ¡°Boring.¡± He flicked a hand. ¡°Wrap it for the lad.¡±Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Protesting repayment only earned a theatrical gasp: ¡°Pay me? How vulgar!¡±


    Post-Duke, whispers exploded:


    ¡°¡ªowns half the West End!¡±


    ¡°Tossed ¡ê1,200 like chicken feed¡ª¡±


    Yvette later relayed events to Ulysses, who shrugged. ¡°Consider it a perk. Lancaster¡¯s eccentric, not dangerous. Stay clear.¡±


    As she left the gallery, a raven-haired beauty pressed a note into her hand¡ªan address, and a confession: Stone¡¯s ¡°completed¡± works were forgeries by a debt-ridden artist.


    ¡°His model,¡± the woman clarified, vanishing.


    At dusk, Ulysses¡¯ response was pragmatic: ¡°Take Winterslow tomorrow. Buy it quietly.¡±


    ¡°No need. The Duke¡­intervened.¡±


    ¡°Naturally.¡± He sipped brandy. ¡°Forget repayment. Nobles collect favors like stamps.¡±


    ¡°Is he one of us?¡±


    ¡°Just a bored lord. Annoying, but harmless.¡±


    <div>


    When Yvette returned home, Allison greeted her anxiously. "Master Yves, a massive painting arrived today. Where shall we hang it? The drawing room or foyer? But both are full¡ªwe¡¯d need to remove something else."


    "Don¡¯t bother. It¡¯s not staying." Yvette handed her a velvet box. "I found this brooch at the gallery. It¡¯s for you."


    Inside glimmered a golden lily of enamel and filigree, delicate as frost.


    "It¡¯s too generous, Master¡ª"


    "Nonsense. Just sand and glass." Yvette shrugged. "No jewels, see?"


    Allison¡¯s voice trembled. "It¡¯s¡­ beautiful. I¡¯ve never¡ªthank you." She fled, leaving tear stains on the floor.


    Yvette knew fragments of her story: a mother dead in childbirth, a father drowned in gin, a childhood with a bitter aunt who¡¯d packed her off to London at fourteen. Like thousands of country girls, Allison might have faded into the city¡¯s shadows¡ªnameless, childless, forgotten.


    Not Mary, Yvette vowed. She¡¯d send the girl to school. In her world, education had armed women to seize their futures.


    The painting¡ªa hulking thing in a gilded frame¡ªwas lighter than her guilt. She hauled it to her study and locked the door.


    Burn it.


    The frame splintered soundlessly in her grip. Beneath the cracked top layer, another painting lurked: the same girl, now lying in a deranged nightmare. Walls crawled with stains; her lips parted as if whispering to phantoms.


    A double canvas. Stone¡¯s work?


    Miss Moretti had shared the tale earlier: Stone¡¯s family dead by carbon monoxide, his suicide in the attic. The art dealer, loath to lose coin, hired Marino to finish Stone¡¯s pieces. Marino, forced to mimic another¡¯s hand for wealthy tasteless buyers, seethed in secret.


    Yvette scraped the upper layer away. Madness bled through.


    At noon, she found Marino¡¯s rented rooms in Soho. Foreign artists crowded here, poorer ones squeezing into attics. A working-class couple on the stairs glared at Miss Moretti¡ªmodels drew scorn in Albion¡¯s rigid morals.


    The painter slept until dusk, so Miss Moretti led her upstairs. The attic studio stank of linseed oil, its sloped window filtering gray light. Canvases and frames cluttered the floor. A mortar held yellow grit¡ªchrome yellow, the model explained, washing her stained hands.


    Painters once ground their own pigments: cheap gypsum for white, costly lapis lazuli for divine blue. Yet here, in this cramped den, a canvas blazed with ultramarine¡ªa king¡¯s ransom in azure.

 Chapter 31

    The lavish painting captured a Viking longship adrift on cerulean waves. Unlike the towering galleons of explorers or modern steamships, its low dragon-prowed hull evoked ancient raids. Passengers clambered playfully on masts, strummed lutes, or roared with laughter¡ªnone steering, none rowing, as though the treacherous sea were a placid pond.


    Centuries prior, such open boats braved northern seas while even seasoned sailors later faced doom in stormy waters. Thus did Viking ships symbolize rash courage. Yet these figures weren¡¯t warriors. Their manic grins and contorted postures, rendered in feverish brushstrokes, spoke of delirium.


    A Ship of Fools.


    Before asylums, Europe¡¯s mad were exiled aboard derelict vessels, drifting as ¡°free prisoners¡± toward oblivion. Medieval artists used this motif to populate ships with sinners¡ªgluttons, lechers, sloths¡ªcloaking moral warnings in dark comedy rather than horror.


    Unfinished, the canvas still dazzled with lapis lazuli¡¯s cornflower blues, its costliness explaining why the dealer urged Marino¡¯s completion. Yet it languished under London¡¯s soot, its dusty surface awaiting the artist¡¯s neglected touch.


    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± asked Yvette.


    ¡°Stone¡¯s unfinished Ship of Fools,¡± Miss Moretti replied, noting Yvette¡¯s interest in A Maiden¡¯s Deliverance. ¡°Notice the ultramarine¡ªpure lapis, no cheap substitutes. Any patron would covet such extravagance.¡±


    ¡°Why abandon it?¡±


    ¡°Hirst, the dealer, balked at wasting precious pigments on ¡®lowly¡¯ subjects. Marino¡ªever the purist¡ªdownsized his studio to fund it himself.¡± Her disapproval tinged the praise. ¡°Supply the lapis, and he¡¯ll finish promptly. He¡¯s obsessed with Stone¡¯s diaries, despite gaining nothing.¡±


    ¡°Stone¡¯s diaries? The deceased artist?¡±


    ¡°Indeed. He¡¯s singularly devoted, even rereading them nightly.¡±


    Yvette handled the paint-smeared journal carefully, flipping past petty squabbles to pivotal entries near her own awakening:


    Oct. 2, 1836


    Hirst¡¯s demands for noble-pleasing tripe suffocate me. Art belongs to Bacchus¡¯ ecstatic madness, not Apollo¡¯s cold reason! Yet Darlene needs funds for our daughter¡¯s schooling¡­


    Oct. 13, 1836


    Burleigh Asylum¡¯s amphitheater staged a failed ¡°ice-pick therapy.¡± The corpse lies shrouded.


    This aligned: cultists acquired the body post-surgery, a day before Yvette awoke in it.


    Oct. 28, 1836


    Began A Maiden¡¯s Deliverance.*


    Months of self-loathing followed as Stone¡¯s marriage crumbled and bills mounted.


    Jan. 9, 1837


    Madness as sublime power! Patients endure squalor like beasts. Perhaps suffering births genius¡­ Michelangelo¡¯s gout, Beethoven¡¯s deafness¡­


    Inspired, he turned to Ship of Fools, using Hirst¡¯s leftover lapis for tempestuous seas.


    Jan. 18, 1837


    I AM THE FOOL! Cast adrift by cruel Fate. Madness shields me! Let storms rage¡ªwe laugh! I¡¯VE CONQUERED DEATH!


    His scrawls dissolved into chaos until a final lucid note:


    [Undated]


    Found Darlene and our daughter dead. My ¡°conquest¡± of death a sick joke. Let my corpse hang as art¡¯s ultimate jest¡ªmankind¡¯s folly laid bare.


    Yvette closed the diary, the tragedy¡¯s final act already clear.


    There could be no doubt¡ªthe painter Stone had descended into madness within the latter pages of his journal. True, oil painters of this age often withered under the poison of their pigments¡ªlead and mercury bred delirium, a scourge romantically dubbed ¡°the painter¡¯s malady.¡± Yet Stone¡¯s sanity hadn¡¯t crumbled steadily. It had shattered in mere weeks. His early entries brimmed with clarity, but the moment he began his second Ship of Fools, his thoughts warped unnaturally. No ordinary affliction explained this. There was darker alchemy at work.This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it


    I must have that painting¡ªand the journal. Yvette¡¯s mind raced. If only Malinor would part with them¡­


    ¡°Pray keep the diary¡¯s contents private,¡± Miss Moretti urged, noting Yvette¡¯s prolonged silence. ¡°Though society brands artists as eccentric, Mr. Stone¡¯s words¡­ they harbor a deeper despair. Even Hurst insisted Malinor guard its secrets.¡±


    ¡°My interest lies with The Ship of Fools,¡± Yvette pressed. ¡°What price for its possession?¡±


    ¡°You truly see its worth?¡± Miss Moretti¡¯s smile lit the room. ¡°A connoisseur indeed! But ultramarine is no trifle expense. Should you commission Malinor to finish the work, an advance for lapis lazuli may be required. The sum? That¡¯s for the artist himself to say.¡±


    ¡°When might he rise?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s likely stirring. He repairs here by four to paint¡ªI¡¯ll rouse him.¡± With a curtsy, Miss Moretti departed, footsteps echoing down the stairwell.


    Alone, Yvette circled the studio, her eyes drawn irresistibly to the macabre canvas.


    A storm-lashed sea. A listing vessel moments from foundering. Yet its passengers guzzled wine, danced wildly¡ªa final, feverish blaze before the candle snuffed out.


    Once, monasteries displayed such images to admonish: humans shackled to base instincts were little better than beasts. The fools¡¯ contorted faces mirrored animals, not men.


    And what of those who transcend? Yvette mused. Their corruption springs not from gluttony, but from older, hungrier powers.


    A maxim from the Special Missions Bureau whispered through her thoughts: Knowledge hunts two ways. Some truths are stalked by men; others stalk men, desperate to be known.


    The former¡ªmathematics, chemistry, all sciences of reason. The latter¡ªthe occult, slithering through shadows, seeding impossibility. Yet fools persist, trusting their paper boats of intellect to brave Lovecraftian seas.


    Madness. All of them. Even me...


    Had an observer been present, they¡¯d have recoiled at Yvette¡¯s contorted posture: spine arched toward the canvas, feet rooted as if magnetic forces warred for her soul.


    Reality dissolved.


    Studio. Turpentine stench. Canvases. Gone.


    Now: a pitch ocean, starless and depthless. A skiff trembled beneath Yvette, storm-battered.


    Something lurked below.


    The hull cracked. She plunged.


    This sea defied nature¡ªwood fragments sank like stones. Yvette grasped for debris, but planks dove faster than her body.


    Down. Down. She clamped her lips, but the ocean pried them open, flooding her throat¡ªnot brine, but gelatinous worms, squirming and translucent.


    A predator. She understood now. Not water, but a thing wearing water¡¯s guise. A mind-lurker that ensnared Stone, now hungering for her.


    Her descent accelerated. Memories unspooled against her will¡ªa thief rifling her psyche.


    Enough!


    Yet control had fled. Once, such weightlessness had comforted¡ªan amniotic drift toward oblivion. Now, every fiber rebelled.


    In that prior fall, she¡¯d perceived.


    A voiceless hymn. A primordial radiance¡ªgold laced with arterial crimson. A fissure spanning horizons, glowing like a bisected star. And within, the Sleeper. The Namer-of-Shapes.


    As remembrance surged, the spectral sea convulsed. Depth became void. A continent of night yawned beneath.


    The fall ceased. Writhing parasites in her gullet stilled. Time fractured¡ªfive seconds stretched into eons.


    Fools! Waxen wings could never court the sun. They¡¯d mined her mind and struck a lode too lethal.


    The Sleeper¡¯s sanctum brooked no trespass. His Name choked lesser tongues. Yet these vermin had dared to pry.


    Yvette stared downward. A crimson chasm¡ªkilometers long¡ªunzipped the dark. Something stirred.


    Invisible horrors shrieked, fleeing her in gibbering retreat. Yvette sensed ascent, yet the abyss drew nearer¡ªa pursued becoming pursuer.


    New gashes sundered the void. The false sea boiled away.


    Closer now. Retinal agony. Through blazing light, she discerned a black filament cleaving the golden maelstrom¡ªa dark thread lost in brilliance.


    Every luminous rift bore this obsidian cord.


    The chasm neared. The formless horde evaporated, unmasked by baleful light. Details sharpened.


    Not magma. Sinews of radiance¡ªtendrils converging upon a central rift, their nexus a branching scar.


    Recognition dawned. Terror petrified her.


    No fissure. No chasm.


    An eye. Monstrous beyond measure. Kilometer-long capillaries fired the iris. The central void¡ªa slit pupil, reptilian and pitiless.


    New eyes ruptured the dark. The world quaked. Then¡ªsilence.


    Lids sealed.


    Yvette jolted awake in her parlor, clutching a defiled Ship of Fools. Gone: the rich ultramarine. Only fools remained, frozen in revelry.


    She retched into a basin.


    From her throat slid azure slime, shimmering like pulverized lapis.


    How? Whence came this infection? And what specter had piloted her flesh home?


    Empty at last, she questioned Alison.


    ¡°You returned at twilight, Master. Borne the painting clutched to your breast. You seemed¡­ altered. Subtly.¡±


    Altered.


    Had she walked back? Or some hitchhiker wearing her skin?


    Was she still Yvette? Did the squirming things linger?


    She invented excuses¡ªa brandy¡¯s fickle curse.


    Alison accepted this, though troubled. In Albion, a man who couldn¡¯t drain a glass? Preposterous.

 Chapter 32

    Yvette steadied her breathing, piecing together the fractured puzzle.


    The deranged artist Stone had somehow channeled forbidden forces into his masterpiece The Ship of Fools¡ªa canvas now housing otherworldly entities. These beings exploited her visit to the Marino estate, puppeteering her body to transport their crystalline nest into her home.


    Their hubris proved fatal. While sifting through her memories, they stumbled upon the slumbering god whose power had touched Yvette during her aetheric awakening. A flicker of divine attention sufficed¡ªtheir vast consciousness evaporated like morning dew under the sun.


    She almost laughed bitterly. That boiling abyss she''d envisioned? Merely the closed eyelid of something... older.


    True Elder Gods defied comprehension. Even dormant, their scale froze mortal hearts. Should such entities ever fully awaken, their gaze alone would shatter minds like stained glass under cannonfire.


    Not even the crystal invaders endured that momentary glance. Their terror¡ªscreaming through shared perception¡ªstill crackled in her nerves. Though most parasites had purged from her system, tendrils of doubt remained. Had any fragments escaped detection?


    After securing the expelled blue residue in a biscuit tin, Yvette summoned allies. Wisely, she omitted the deity''s involvement. Let them think some nameless horror overreached while violating her psyche. Truths about interworld souls and lunar-eyed gods invited straitjackets and barred windows.


    The hardening blue gel fascinated her. Earthly mutations like Duran''s still bore flesh and blood, but these invaders conducted no crimson rivers through mineral flesh. Sci-fi tales of silicon lifeforms came to mind¡ªcarbon''s sturdier cousin forming crystal sinews instead of meat.


    Half-formed theories scattered when the raven''s wings beat against midnight. Organization-trained, these clever corvids outmatched carrier pigeons¡ªboth in wit and talon-strength against predators. Two hours brought carriage wheels on cobblestones.


    Ulysses arrived with Winslow in tow, the latter crossing himself fervently. "Thank heaven you''re unharmed! When you wrote ''restricted movement''¡ª"


    "A figure of speech," Yvette deflected, recounting abbreviated truths. She watched Ulysses examine the now-stony fragments¡ªobserved veins bulging as his nails reshaped into blackened claws that effortlessly flaked the diamond-hard substance.


    "Extraplanar origin," he concluded, crunching a shard between molars. Yvette swallowed questions. Whatever bizarre metabolic modifications let him process alien minerals weren''t worth unpacking now.


    Their destination chilled her more than Ulysses'' sudden professionalism. The Tower of London''s fortress walls reeked of damp stone and old blood. Passing beneath Traitor''s Gate''s spiked portcullis, shadowed arrowslits seemed to track their progress.The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    Her skin prickled. "Are we¡ª"


    "Being watched? Yes." Ulysses guided their carriage toward the Bloody Tower''s silhouette. "But not hunted."


    The shadow-guard''s challenge came expected. Ulysses'' contempt came quicker¡ªa flash of insectile eye and predatory grace as he plucked the true assailant from camouflage. Yvette glimpsed the transformation¡ªthe compound eye''s fractal gloom, the root-like veins¡ªbefore he schooled his features.


    This revelation settled cold in her gut. Ulysses could mimic more than wolves or songbirds. When required, he wore the shape of nightmares themselves.


    The clatter of hurried footsteps broke the tense silence as a maid emerged from the tower stairs. Unfazed by the violence below, she smoothed her apron and announced, ¡°The Spindle will receive you now, Doctor¡ªand your¡­ companion.¡± Her gaze flickered to Yvette before settling on the respectful, if uncertain, ¡°Miss.¡±


    Ulysses released his grip, letting the cloaked assailant crumple. Without a backward glance, he strode into the shadows of the Bloody Tower. Yvette followed, her boots sinking into antique carpets that swallowed every sound.


    The Norman keep radiated a bone-deep chill no fireplace could vanquish. Forgotten by kings centuries prior, its vaulted chambers now served darker purposes. A hearth roared futilely against April¡¯s lingering bite as they climbed spiraling stairs¡ªpast empty halls where tapestries whispered forgotten wars.


    At the uppermost landing, Ulysses gestured to an oak door scarred by time. ¡°He¡¯ll see you alone.¡±


    Yvette hesitated. ¡°How should I address him?¡±


    ¡°Need-to-know,¡± Ulysses grunted, relenting slightly. ¡°He¡¯ll scour your soul for taint. Go.¡±


    Taint. The word coiled in her gut. Those formless horrors weren¡¯t mere beasts¡ªthey were scions of elder gods?


    Memories surfaced: Bureau archives detailing sorcerers warped by pacts, biblical tales of fallen angels seeding earth with monsters. Even now, spies hunted vampiric remnants clinging to faded glory. But true progeny? Those belonged to another age.


    Ulysses¡¯s voice intruded. ¡°Stars are cold and distant. What claws at you is a fragment¡ªa half-born thing. But let¡¯s be thorough.¡±


    The door shut behind her with tomb-finality.


    The chamber defied time¡ªa m¨¦lange of Byzantine silks and tarnished silver. No footman attended; the lone occupant waited beyond moth-eaten draperies.


    ¡°Come closer, child,¡± beckoned a voice as dry as parchment. ¡°My legs object to ceremony.¡±


    Yvette drew the curtain¡ªand stifled a gasp.


    The man resembled a candle left too near flame¡ªflesh slumped in molten folds across a reinforced chair. Yet his eyes gleamed sharp behind the ruined mask of his face.


    ¡°You¡¯ve met my ugly cousins, I see,¡± he rasped. ¡°Fear not. My sins were¡­ voluntary.¡±


    The Spindle. Yvette recalled Fate¡¯s weavers from myth, threads snapped by shears. This broken seer fit the metaphor grotesquely.


    He gestured to her jar. ¡°Let¡¯s see what shadows cling to you.¡±


    The azure stones glimmered as he lifted one. His pupils dilated into starfields.


    ¡°A crumbling chapel¡­ artist¡¯s hands channeling nightmares. The filth tried to birth itself through him. It failed¡ªbut left a door.¡± The vision faded, leaving him diminished. ¡°You must seal it.¡±


    ¡°Why me?¡±


    ¡°The severed thread points only forward.¡± Each word cost him. ¡°Oracle¡¯s curse: paths glimpsed, destinations obscured. You might succeed. You might die.¡±


    Yvette exhaled. If eldritch filth sought her once, it would again. Better to face it armed with warning.


    ¡°I¡¯m in.¡±


    The Spindle¡¯s jowls twitched¡ªapprovingly? ¡°Good. I¡¯ll buy you time. Study. Prepare. When the Bureau comes knocking¡­¡± A wheeze that might have been laughter. ¡°¡­knock harder.¡±

 Chapter 33

    Noticing the Spindle¡¯s palpable exhaustion, Yvette quickly excused herself and shut the door behind her.


    Outside, Ulysses slumped against the stairway wall, hat askew. His furrowed brow suggested uneasy dreams.


    She moved to rouse him, but his eyes flashed open¡ªsharp as daggers¡ªbefore recognition softened his gaze. ¡°Apologies,¡± he muttered hoarsely. ¡°I drifted off.¡±


    ¡°Are you ill?¡± she pressed. Ulysses had seemed off from the start. Though she¡¯d initially suspected betrayal, his haggard arrival predated any mention of eldritch horrors. What sickness could breach his unnatural resilience?


    ¡°Higher-tier Source Essence exacts physical tolls.¡± He straightened his cuffs wearily. ¡°The Old Gods¡¯ touch lingers. Now¡ªthe Spindle¡¯s verdict?¡±


    ¡°My corruption¡¯s purged, but their nest remains. He says¡­ I may be needed.¡±


    ¡°Refuse if you wish.¡±


    ¡°I accepted.¡±


    His hands stilled. ¡°Without consultation?¡±


    ¡°Protocol aside, you¡¯ve zero survival instincts for a novice.¡±


    ¡°The Spindle said¡ª¡±


    ¡°He wants a tool. I see safer paths.¡± Ulysses exhaled. ¡°But you¡¯re cut from his cloth.¡±


    ¡°His frailty¡ªis that his gift¡¯s price?¡±


    ¡°A toll for meddling with fate. Forbidden fruit for mortal hands.¡± His ominous tone recalled classical tragedies:


    ¡°At Cumae¡¯s gates, I saw the Sibyl shriveled


    In her glass prison. When boys mocked ¡®What now, Sibyl?¡¯


    She rasped: ¡®I crave death.¡¯¡±


    Yvette knew the myth¡ªApollo¡¯s cursed gift of endless decay. Like the Spindle trading youth for foresight. Noble, yet horrific.


    ¡°Cease gawking. We depart.¡±


    At the carriage, she offered: ¡°Let me drive. You should rest.¡±


    ¡°Since when do you harness horses?¡±


    ¡°Since now.¡± She¡¯d cheat with transcendental means if needed.


    ¡°Pray we don¡¯t ¡®rest¡¯ in a constable¡¯s wagon.¡±


    Yvette gripped the reins, channeling equestrian skills through dawn¡¯s chaos¡ªhucksters¡¯ shouts blending with clattering hooves and steam whistles. Behind her, Ulysses slept through London¡¯s cacophony, shielded by her energy field.


    ¡­¡­


    Investigation limped onward. Spindle¡¯s testimony spared Yvette scrutiny, but painter Marino endured relentless surveillance. Interviews revealed his creative revival after selling a piece to some French aristocrat¡ªgold being art¡¯s best muse.


    Yet all described his Ship of Fools as forgettable, each remembering different banality. Mind-probers confirmed honest confusion, their ¡°truths¡± fractured mirrors.


    The asylum Stone mentioned proved typically monstrous¡ªpatient beatings, corpse trafficking¡ªbut no eldritch links. Bureau agents, fraying, shuttered it on corpse charges. Desperation breeds blunt solutions.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Should I help?¡± Yvette asked Ulysses later.


    ¡°Let them flail. We¡¯ll know when needed.¡±


    ¡°Why me? Why those painters?¡±


    ¡°Madness let them channel formless horrors. Artists shape belief¡ªlike tribal idol-carvers. Your¡­ aura interested them.¡±


    ¡°Horrors needing painters to exist?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± He smirked. ¡°Men see angels; poets see truth.¡±


    The revelation chilled¡ªthese were no seraphs. Happy endings? Only partial. Marino recovered with lover reconciled, memories fogged by mental probes. But this age drank mercury for clap. Oblivion seemed mercy.


    "You say the Old Gods¡¯ minions might covet my power¡­ Does that mean even deities feud among themselves?" Yvette pressed.


    "Thank Providence they do. If every abomination summoned by those cosmic horrors ever united against us, mankind would¡¯ve been snuffed out ages ago."


    "A true apocalypse¡­" She shuddered, visions of the dreaming Creator haunting her¡ªan entity too terrible to name, let alone behold.


    "The world endures¡ªonly humans perish. Should we vanish, something else will crawl from the ashes."


    "The Old Gods¡¯ spawn?" If humanity fell, new monstrosities would surely rise¡ªor survivors twist into mockeries of themselves. Another doubt surfaced. "Where would you rank that formless thing inside me among Transcendents? You claimed their kind birthed angels, demons, and fey of legend. Yet I¡¯ve never heard of divine servants dying of old age¡ªeven elder vampires linger forever. Are they all Source Layer 7 or higher, creatures of the [Divine Realm]? But if even the Bureau lacks Transcendents past that tier¡­ is victory impossible?"


    Her mind reeled. Those formless vermin seemed feeble before the Slumbering Creator! Now she learned they were once worshipped as celestial messengers. How could frail flesh oppose them?


    Yet The Spindle called her the "key"¡ªwas she meant to bait monsters until her patron Old God stirred?


    "Precisely. You¡¯re doomed," Ulysses deadpanned.


    "What?" Her mask of calm shattered.


    "A jest. Let fear keep you sharp." The Frenchman¡¯s smirk danced. "Their power defies mortal measure. Even kin among divine spawn differ wildly before/after anchoring to our world¡¯s laws. Without footholds here, they lack substance or presence¡ªeffectively ghosts. Hence their hunger to be seen. Our order silences the occult not to hide truths, but to starve them. Not all view Old Gods as evil¡ªfools still chase immortality or thrones through their rot."


    So these entities were incomplete¡­ manageable for now? Yet unease lingered¡ªnot fear, but dread for the Tree of Life¡¯s ascent. If that awaited at its zenith, what became of Transcendents?


    "You brood like a stormcloud."


    "Just¡­ questioning our purpose. What are we? If the Tree¡¯s roots sprout mindless horrors, why climb higher?"


    Ulysses chuckled.


    "Am I a joke to you?"


    "You? Philosophizing? How novel." He steepled his fingers. "¡®Meaning of life¡¯? A child¡¯s riddle. We live to live. Guard civilization, reap its rewards¡ªglory, coin, status. A fair trade. Progress requires it.


    "See South Ameriga: soil so rich ten kingdoms could feast, yet ruled by corpse-gods. When deities sleep, priests slit throats to wake them. None farmed smarter or forged steel. Conquistadors found savages with stone axes¡ªtheir hedge-mages no match for arquebuses."


    He gestured dismissively. "As for ¡®angels¡¯¡­ Academia squabbles. Popular theory claims they¡¯re hollow echoes¡ªtrue selves lingering in cosmic voids. Thus, perfection lies beyond, awaiting our ascent."


    His sneer betrayed disdain.


    "Your thoughts, sir?"


    "Eager pupil?"


    A nod.


    "They may not be our betters. A¡­ heretical view."


    "But their immortality¡ªonly Divine Realm entities transcend death!"


    Ulysses dotted a page. "Behold: I play god to this paper-world. This speck? An ant. This line? Its path to sugar. Yet none pierce the page to challenge me¡ªflatlanders can¡¯t grasp 3D."


    He twirled a music box¡¯s ballerina. "To true gods, we¡¯re wind-up dolls." He spun gears, skipping the dance. "Their time-streams flow apart¡ªgods freeze as we burn bright and die. Hence they seem eternal."


    Yvette flashed to Earth-cinema: a film might span eons, yet a viewer skips it in minutes. The reel¡¯s sentience would scream as its demise nears, while the watcher stays unchanged.


    "So divine spawn are superior¡ªageless like their masters!"


    Ulysses set paper beside music box. "What if they¡¯re the flat¡­ and we the dancers?"


    A poet¡¯s gamble.


    If divine spawn were just¡­different, not higher¡ªhumans died but held souls; "angels" drifted eternal yet mindless. Not alive, but static. Craving mortal shells to feel whole.


    No proof¡­ but Yvette willed it true. Humanity¡¯s spark mattered here.


    "Enough gloom! You¡¯ve forgotten life¡¯s wine." He snapped up. "A Chambertin ¡¯68 from my cellar nears perfection¡ªplump berries, velvety spice. Let its kiss cure your woes."


    Burgundy¡¯s crown jewel, wasted by Albion¡¯s nobles as d¨¦cor¡ªcorks crumbled into vintage broth.


    Yet Ulysses drank his treasures when ripe, costly or humble.


    His creed? A sage¡¯s joy in mortal delights¡ªno chains, no regrets.

 Chapter 34

    A few days later, when the investigation seemed to hit a wall, ¡°The Spindle¡± finally endorsed Yvette.


    Upon receiving the raven¡¯s summons, Yvette armed herself and boarded the arriving carriage. Among the party sent to retrieve her was an acquaintance¡ªMiss Sharr, the ¡°Mourning Mistress.¡±


    ¡°Good afternoon, Miss Sharr.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s been too long,¡± Sharr replied, her smile glacial yet cordial. ¡°Lord Spindle himself recommended you. If even he vouches for you, this matter should resolve swiftly.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s not count our chickens,¡± grunted a disheveled man with a rust-red beard and a faint Irish brogue.


    Sharr gestured to him. ¡°Yvette, meet ¡®Oak Sage¡¯ Kegan¡ªa spirit shaman.¡±


    In this world, folklore often held kernels of truth. Myths of old gods, their monstrous kin, and occultists had shaped ancient legends.


    Shamans¡ªCeltic druids of yore¡ªhad dwelled in wild groves, masters of charms and curses. Red hair, common among the Irish, marked their bloodline. Kegan, Sharr implied, carried such ancestry. The Special Missions Bureau had evidently gathered specialists in spectral threats for this assignment.


    ¡°Another witless mortal,¡± sneered a shrill voice.


    Yvette spotted its source: a black cat hunched on the carriage seat.


    ¡°Blasphemy! How dare you eye the magnificence of Lord Malcolmus, the Nightstrider?!¡± The cat¡¯s fur puffed like a thundercloud.


    ¡°Lord Malcolmus,¡± Sharr said, her tone frosting over, ¡°you know the rules.¡±


    The cat¡¯s ears pinned back. ¡°Very well! For the morning¡¯s offering of succulent quail, We shall¡­ humor thy plebeian request. Observe Our merciful silence!¡±


    ¡°Malcolmus¡ª¡±


    ¡°Meow.¡±


    Sharr sighed. ¡°Malcolmus was once a scholar of esoterica. After a¡­ mishap in a pharaoh¡¯s tomb, a curse transformed him. The Bureau assures us his condition is ¡®benign¡¯¡ªif one ignores the incessant dramatics.¡±


    ¡°A mummy¡¯s curse? Literally?¡±


    ¡°Mummified cats, to be precise. Pharaohs were entombed with them.¡±


    The cat¡ªnow a sulking void of fur¡ªlicked a paw with exaggerated dignity.


    ¡°We¡¯ll settle at our safehouse first,¡± said Sharr. ¡°It¡¯s vacant, so we¡¯ll grab provisions. Dinner preferences?¡±


    ¡°A sandwich suffices,¡± Yvette said. She¡¯d eat anything except Albion¡¯s infamous ¡°delicacies¡± like jellied eels.


    ¡°Shepherd¡¯s pie,¡± rumbled Kegan.


    The Irish dish¡ªminced meat under potato crust¡ªwas practicality incarnate. In Albion, only the Irish embraced potatoes without prejudice. Others scorned them as ¡°papist tubers,¡± but the Irish, bound by rocky soil and resilience, depended on the hardy crop. Kegan¡¯s loyalty to his roots, even as a paranormal, was refreshing. Unlike social climbers who bought fake family trees to masquerade as gentry, he wore his heritage unabashed.


    ¡°Mrow-mrrrow~¡± The cat¡¯s tail swished like a metronome.


    ¡°One sentence, milord.¡±


    ¡°We demand the ¡®Scarlet Herring¡¯s Agony¡¯¡ªfreshly reaped, stewed in the molten bowels of perdition until its wretched essence screams!¡±


    ¡°Tomato-braised herring, extra tender,¡± Sharr translated, jotting notes.


    Yvette stifled a grin. Oddly adorable.Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    She reached to pet the cat. A paw blocked her.


    ¡°Insolent creature! Touch Us and lose the hand!¡± The cat retreated, nose aloft.


    But those toe beans¡­ Yvette¡¯s resolve hardened.


    ¡°¡­Ballylun Asylum,¡± Kegan droned, ¡°occupies a requisitioned Tudor chapel. Opened in 1795, it¡¯s a graveyard disguised as a hospital.¡±


    Yvette flipped through files the Bureau had raided¡ªpatient records citing ¡°insanity¡± for trivialities: reading novels, ¡°female hysteria¡± (code for menopause), or husbands tired of wives. True cures were myths; corpses piled high.


    ¡°The death toll¡­ it¡¯s monstrous,¡± Yvette whispered.


    Sharr¡¯s reply was clinical. ¡°Asylums exist to warehouse inconvenient souls. No one cares what becomes of them.¡±


    Ship of Fools, Yvette thought. The ¡°mad¡± were still cast adrift, just in stone cells now.


    ¡°We¡¯ll reconvene once His Lordship finishes dining,¡± Sharr said, checking her watch.


    On the balcony, Yvette found Malcolmus mauling his braised herring¡ªgnawing haphazardly, tail lashing. Bones littered the plate.


    He¡¯s terrible at this. Her old cat had choked twice; why assume a human-turned-cat would fare better?


    She returned with chopsticks.


    ¡°Vile thief!¡± The cat hissed. ¡°Defile Our feast and perish!¡±


    ¡°This peasant fare insults you, Lord. Allow me to cleanse its impurities.¡± She tweezed out bones with surgical precision.


    The cat sniffed the deboned fish, then inhaled it, purring like a rusty engine. Post-meal, he permitted neck scratches, even flopping over for a belly rub (quickly revoked).


    ¡°We grant thee¡­ limited privileges,¡± the cat mumbled, drowsy from grilled tuna and vanity.


    Too cute. But no naps yet.


    Yvette scooped him up, ignoring indignant yowls.


    ¡°Work first, Your Lordship.¡± She smuggled a chin scratch, marching him back to the others.


    "...The omens are clear: Burylun Hospital is cursed," declared Kegn, the Oak Sage. "Though abandoned, the whispers of nature¡¯s spirits scream warnings. Some unseen horror festers there¡ªa darkness our eyes cannot pierce."


    Like all Celtic shamans, Kegn communed with primal spirits dwelling in trees and beasts. Yet these entities were simple creatures of instinct, capable only of broadcasting raw dread or comfort like crude alarm bells.


    "Even the dead know nothing," added Sharl, her voice edged with frustration. For seven days, she¡¯d interrogated every fresh soul crossing the veil. But ghosts were broken mirrors¡ªreflecting only shards of their dying obsessions before fading into oblivion.


    A black cat leapt onto the dusty archives, tail lashing. "Fools! When shadows bar your path, why grovel in ignorance? The great Malcuse sees beyond your pitiful material plane."


    Yvette scratched under its chin. "And what does His Feline Eminence propose?"


    Purr. "A hidden realm overlaps your world¡ªa spiritual mirror called the Shadow Realm!" The cat¡¯s claws kneaded documents. "Twilight thins the veil between worlds. Bring your star-eyed novice to the hospital at dusk... after suitable offerings, of course."


    "Let¡¯s kill it," Sharl said flatly. "Ghost or cat-spirit, we¡¯ll pry answers from Malcuse¡¯s corpse."


    The cat¡¯s fur bristled. "W-wait! Let this merciful lord enlighten his unworthy servants! The threads of fate themselves decree your young comrade holds the key. At twilight, we strike!"


    ¡ª¡ª


    Burylun Psychiatric Hospital loomed through London¡¯s coal-stained dusk. Centuries of industrial grime crusted its red brick bones like a mourning shroud. Inside, madness lingered in the mildew¡ªwalls scrawled with deranged murals, floors littered with soiled rags that might¡¯ve been bandages or straitjackets.


    "Humans reek!" Malcuse yowled, tail lashing a trash heap as investigators picked through the asylum¡¯s corpse.


    Kegn stiffened. "Fog."


    Not natural fog. This mist slithered like a living thing, swallowing light and sound. Sharl flung open a window¡ªthick tendrils coiled outside, strangling streetlamps into faint halos.


    Yvette thumbed silver-tipped bullets into her revolver. Shadows moved in the haze.


    "We leave. Now," Kegn rasped through a handkerchief. "Who knows what this miasma does to lungs? And if..." His voice dropped. "Others witness supernatural events, containment becomes a nightmare."


    But the fog thickened to soup. Groping blindly toward the exit, they emerged gasping to clear air¡ªonly to freeze.


    No fog. No anomaly.


    And Yvette was gone.


    ¡ª¡ª


    Silence.


    Yvette¡¯s boots echoed alone through a cotton-white void. Phantoms flickered past¡ªfour? Six?¡ªignoring her pistol¡¯s gleam. She stumbled toward remembered streets, but the mist thickened with every step until liquid clogged her throat. Gagging, she retraced her path.


    A spectre floated through her torso.


    [Surgical saws sing! Blood waters the garden of thought!]


    The delusion struck like fever. Her fingers itched for bone drills until the ghost passed, leaving icy revulsion.


    Through thinning fog, Burylun Hospital reappeared¡ªolder, fouler. Moss veined its walls; lunatic sigils oozed across plaster like infected sores. Inside, things wearing human shapes drifted between roles¡ªdoctor to patient, orderly to raving prophet¡ªall bearing the marks of psychiatry¡¯s failed experiments.


    One doctor-ghost peeled off his bloody coat. Beneath lay a patient¡¯s shift¡ªand a gaping hole where his skull should be.


    Yvette recoiled as another spirit drifted through her:


    [Madness is the scalpel of progress! Rational men build cages¡ªthe insane forge keys!]


    The compulsion to join them nearly overpowered her. No¡ªremember the ice pick scars. Remember what happens when we play god with minds.


    Gun steady, she advanced into the asylum¡¯s rotting heart.

 Chapter 35

    Yvette trailed the withered procession of phantoms deeper into the asylum¡¯s bowels.


    The air thickened with cadaverous dampness¡ªa miasma of mold and mildew clinging to the walls like the breath of an exhumed grave. Her footsteps, once sharp against stone, now sank into spongy decay, each muffled thud accompanied by the groan of buckling planks.


    Surrounded by silent specters, she alone broke the tomb-like stillness. Her pulse quickened, but she smothered the sound with a practiced twist of her Gift.


    As the shades drew nearer, their fractured thoughts seeped into her consciousness:


    ["Revelations! The shackles of reason undone¡ªthrough dreams I witness humanity¡¯s cradle, the dance of continents and stars! The Child Divine heals our flawed minds!"


    "Letters burn with color! A¡ªazure, I¡ªebony, J¡ªcrimson¡­ How blind I was to life¡¯s prismatic truth! Only the Child¡¯s whispers unveil it!"


    "Gloria! Gloria! The Child is thought¡¯s flame, existence¡¯s purpose¡ªthe Alpha, the Omega!"


    ¡­¡­


    Whispers swelled into a clamorous hymn¡ªa deranged liturgy tinged with sacrilegious reverence.


    Yvette¡¯s skull throbbed. Her body moved autonomously with the parade. When she willed herself to retreat, she found the corridor choked with boiling mist¡ªa predator coiled to strike.


    Trapped, she bit her tongue sharply. Focus. Observe.


    Decay ruled here. Mold veined the walls like malignant lace; paint hung in leprous shreds. The floor¡¯s gray blotches puzzled her¡ªlichen? Fungus? Yet no spiders skulked in this damp purgatory.


    The procession pressed onward. Though her mind rebelled, the advancing mist forced her forward.


    At last, the asylum¡¯s heart yawned before her: a sunken theater of nightmares. Tiered seating encircled a surgical stage, as Stone¡¯s journal had described¡ªa funnel of suffering where doctors once played God.


    Now she understood the walls¡¯ blight.


    Barnacles.


    They clung everywhere¡ªclustered on benches, crusting the ceiling, devouring the walls. Not ordinary shelled vermin, but swollen growths festering like plague-boils. The largest¡ªa monstrosity at the stage¡¯s edge¡ªloomed like a tumorous titan, its lesser kin groveling at its base.


    As boils merge into carbuncles, so barnacles¡­


    Bile rose in her throat.


    The phantoms took their seats, eyes riveted to the spectacle below. "Surgeons" in gore-caked coats wheeled a stretcher bearing a vacant-eyed wretch. Though his skull seemed whole, his slack jaw and dull gaze proclaimed his idiocy. He blinked innocently as they clamped a trepanation device¡ªjagged crown of rust and old blood¡ªto his brow.


    The amphitheater¡¯s anticipation crackled. A thousand alien zealots roared in Yvette¡¯s mind:


    ["Another soul to be sanctified! Let the Child sunder reason¡¯s prison!"


    The "surgeons"¡ªlikely madmen moments prior¡ªfumbled their instruments. The trephine bit into bone. The victim thrashed, tendons straining, until a final seizure left him limp.


    ["Unworthy. Let the void claim him."


    Their collective sigh hollowed Yvette¡¯s chest.


    Madness. All madness¡­ Unless it¡¯s I who am deranged¡ª


    The titan barnacle shuddered. From its jagged maw oozed a translucent horror¡ªa gelatinous brain veined with blackened sinew, sliding forth on a slug¡¯s viscous track. Smaller cysts spat forth amoebic abominations, their forms warping as they crept toward the corpse.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    ["O Blessed Child! Sanctify our idiocy, imbue us with Your endless mind!"


    The psalms crescendoed. Yvette clawed her temples. Not my voice¡ªwhose? Whose?!


    Through stinging eyes, she watched the "Child" engulf the corpse and butchers alike, its stomach pulsing with half-digested twitches. Yet the throng¡¯s joy swelled¡ªa cacophony of adoration.


    She strained to look away. Failed.


    Every phantom wheeled toward her, eyes blazing with rapture:


    ["Behold perfection! The Child embraces even the wretched! Offer yourself, holy bride¡ªbear His scion!"


    Her will crumbled. Though her soul screamed, her lips moved:


    "Praise¡­ the Divine¡­ Let my womb¡­ be His vessel¡­"


    Hands¡ªcold, spectral¡ªbore her to the gore-smeared slab. The Child reeked of rancid tidepools. Its neural tendrils slithered up her legs, peeling away silk and skin¡ª


    A god¡¯s puppet I may become¡­


    But not here.


    Not yours.


    Mine is the Sleeper Beneath¡ª


    Who dreams in the Abyss¡¯ cradle.


    Away, carrion!


    The shot shattered the dark.


    From the moment it began, Yvette sensed the unnatural reverence coiling through her veins¡ªa cursed compulsion warping her mind to worship the abomination before her as divine. An ancient tactic, this: false angels and older horrors had always exploited mortal awe to pose as saviors.


    In the material world, those with awakened souls might resist. But here in the Shadow Realm, where a thousand broken minds amplified the creature¡¯s allure, even seasoned practitioners found themselves genuflecting to its vile majesty.


    She felt her psyche sliding toward oblivion, clawing for purchase yet finding none. Distraction proved futile; resistance, a fading dream.


    Save for one thread of salvation.


    Each time she envisioned those serpent eyes¡ªburning beneath the void like bloodied suns¡ªthe counterfeit devotion wavered. While phantom choirs hymned praises to their "Divine Scion," her whispered litanies honored the Nameless God who slept beyond the stars.


    If madness claimed her, she¡¯d choose whose madness it would be.


    Mercifully, memory alone sufficed. The Sleeper required no attention to command awe¡ªIts presence was the tide, the vortex, the silent majesty of galaxies unborn. This upstart "godling"? A gutter mummer playacting at godhood, reeking of desperation.


    It marked her now. Escape? Impossible here. True Old Ones couldn¡¯t breed in this withered realm, but half-blood spawn through mortal wombs? That they could manage. Her death or its own¡ªthose were the exits. Slay the anchor, collapse the pocket dimension. Simple geometry.


    She played the compliant broodmare, enduring its slithering touch upon the surgical slab.


    Closer. Closer.


    The corpulent horror moved with glacial torpor, its true weapon the psychic yoke binding thralls. Those formless servitors, however¡ªah, their claws could rend steel. Yet as Yvette lay recumbent, they withdrew, deferring to their master¡¯s grim sacrament.


    Tentacles slick with mucus coiled about her legs. Her mind sharpened to a blade¡¯s edge¡ªcalculating trajectories, attack vectors, counterstrokes. They¡¯d die to shield it... therefore...


    The moment flashed. Steel cleared its sheath; mercury-cored bullets found their mark. Four roars merged into one thunderclap as enhanced reflexes surpassed mortal limits. Spectral horrors dissolved¡ªno time to confirm. Her blade sought the writhing black cord in its brainstem.


    Translucent tissues quivered, half-digested corpses suspended within. The blade struck resistance¡ªwrongness.


    Shadows converged. No second chances. Abandoning steel, her hand plunged into viscera colder than a corpse¡¯s guts¡ªclawing, ripping¡ªuntil her fingers closed on smoothness.


    If wrong... She smiled. The fifth bullet¡ªher ace in the hole.


    Her hand tore free clutching a milky orb veined with gore.


    The psychic shriek near shattered her skull¡ªa stillbirth¡¯s wail. Servitors disintegrated. The false god collapsed, jellyfish-limp. Then¡ªthe roar of breaking worlds.


    ......


    Two hours missing. The asylum yielded no traces of "Libra" Yves.


    "Shadow Realm," grunted Oak-Sage Keegan.


    Funerist Shar paced. "A novice shouldn¡¯t face phantoms alone¡ª"


    "My ravens will alert the Circle." Keegan¡¯s communion with beasts required no familiars.


    "Blundering hairless apes!" Marcurse¡¯s flattened ears quivered. "Lose a whole human! Incompetent¡ª"


    Rafters trembled. Plaster rained down.


    "Quake?"


    "Structural collapse," corrected Keegan. "We leave. Now." Minutes after their escape, the building imploded.


    Shar frowned at the settling dust. "Not mere collapse. Ancient dead stir¡ªmad shades, long entombed..."


    "¡ªRealm¡¯s crumbling! Meatbag¡¯s still inside!" Marcurse¡¯s tail lashed.


    "Silence." Keegan planted a golden mistletoe twig. Murmured invocations summoned a tide of rats. Scampering scouts returned minutes later, leading them to a fresh burrow in the graveyard.


    Shovels bit earth. They unearthed Yvette amidst skeletal debris, her arms locked around a luminous artifact¡ªa barnacled idol depicting a fish-headed horror.


    "Pearl?" Shar brushed dirt from its nacreous surface.


    "Uncarved. Saltwater. Six-pound specimen." Keegan squinted at the aberrant hybrid visage.


    Marcurse sniffed. "Dagon¡¯s likeness. Mediterranean cults. Rare in Albion¡¯s climes."


    "But this asylum," the cat added, "was once a church held by Sir Charles Roberts¡ªprivateer turned ''gentleman'' after the Reformation."


    Shar connected the dots. "A plundered relic?"


    "Precisely!" Marcurse preened. "Thus concludes another purr-fect operation! Tribute! Salmon! Shiny things¡ª"


    "Keegan returns the artifact," Shar overrode the feline. "I¡¯ll tend our wounded."


    As they parted, the idol¡¯s empty eyes watched¡ªand somewhere in the deep, something old and vast turned in its sleep.

 Chapter 36

    Yvette stirred awake on a plush mattress, blinking at the familiar surroundings of her old room in Ulysses¡¯ estate.


    ¡°Awake at last, young master?¡± A doll-like maid with a porcelain smile helped her sit up, presenting a basin of steaming water.


    Though seldom visited, the Ulysses manor boasted servants of uncanny perfection¡ªsilent footfalls, unerring efficiency, and dignity that put even illustrious families to shame. Unlike greedy staff elsewhere, these automata neither begged for coin nor gossiped. Rumor claimed ancient lineages had begged Wynslow to train their households, never guessing the ¡°servants¡± were clockwork marvels.


    ¡°You¡¯ve slept through midday. Shall I draw your bath?¡±


    ¡°Please.¡±


    Trapped in earth after the Shadowfold¡¯s collapse, she¡¯d blacked out from asphyxiation. Now scrubbed and reattired, grit still lodged under nails demanded proper washing.


    Her personal cedar tub¡ªa privilege earned through employment¡ªclanked upward via pulley from the kitchens, a far cry from her modest Covent Garden home. Sinking into rose-petaled warmth, she called over the splash:


    ¡°Are the lord and steward about?¡±


    ¡°Awaiting you downstairs,¡± the maid chimed.


    Noble estates segregated genders architecturally¡ªeven servants¡¯ wings¡ªto preserve appearances. Her placement in the gentlemen¡¯s quarter avoided scandal, though it meant Ulysses and Wynslow studiously avoided her floor¡­ save when bath-hauling clatter announced her movements.


    She found them in the parlor, Wynslow steeping tea beside a groaningµãÐÄ¼Ü of sandwiches and cakes.


    ¡°Alive, then.¡± Ulysses pushed forth a claret-hued goblet. ¡°The ¡®Funeral Madonna¡¯ delivered you half-dead¡ªsuperficial wounds healed, but drink this tonic. Disgusting, but necessary.¡±


    The metallic tang betrayed his blood as ingredient. She gulped it¡ªpoppy cakes would cleanse the aftertaste.


    ¡°Regale us with your near-death escapade?¡± Wynslow prompted.


    Omitting her borrowed divinity, Yvette summarized¡ªher colleague¡¯s prompt dig having averted death-by-dirt after slaying the godling.


    Wynsoft¡¯s eyelashes dipped. ¡°My apologies for the ordeal.¡±


    ¡°Hardly dire. The creature couldn¡¯t breach my mind. My team¡¯s competence saw through.¡±


    ¡°By the Saints,¡± Ulysses groaned. ¡°Must you deprive us of heroics? A lady buried alive after fending off eldritch violation ought to swoon or something!¡±


    ¡°Only you¡¯d crave such theatrics, my lord,¡± Wynslow cut in. ¡°Our lady shelters us from her distress.¡±


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    ¡°Truly, I¡¯m fine. Besting it left no room for fear.¡±


    Not entirely true. Foul exhilaration lingered¡ªthe Creator¡¯s glee through her veins at destroying a rival¡¯s spawn. Had wielding its power bound her closer to its alien whims? She buried the thought.


    Ulysses snorted. ¡°Ever the pragmatist. Oh¡ªyour gender? The Sharr woman knew before delivering you.¡±


    Her teacup rattled. ¡°How?!¡±


    ¡°Torn hose, no shoes¡­¡± He smirked. ¡°No man has feet that dainty.¡±


    Wynslow¡¯s glove twisted his ear. ¡°You overstep, my lord!¡±


    In Albion¡¯s puritanical aristocracy, a lady¡¯s ankle counted as erotic as bare breasts elsewhere¡ªhence why piano legs wore petticoats. Wynslow¡¯s glare could freeze magma.


    Yvette flushed despite herself. Had she been born a decade later, she might¡¯ve laughed. But in this gilded cage of propriety, such frankness bordered on indecency¡ªanother reason to cherish her masculine guise.


    Yvette frowned. Now it made sense why Miss Salle had brought her home. In etiquette-obsessed Albion, wouldn¡¯t the male "Oak Sage" Kegan have been proper? Yet here they¡¯d sent the lady. Probably knew something.


    That moment under the dirt¡ªshe¡¯d clutched something from the Shadow Realm. What?


    The memory stayed blurred. The Funerary Lady called it an Ancient God statuette, some relic now with the Bureau¡¯s eggheads. Back then, survival trumped curiosity. Just recalled its jagged shape festering with monster sludge.


    The Bureau¡¯s roots? Heretic-burning nutjobs. Their Trinity faith¡ªcrafted by ancient mages as a ¡°sane god¡± to fight cosmic horrors. Scriptures screamed bloody murder about idols:


    [Cursed be the creep who carves secret statues!]


    [Smash their altars! Burn their creepy dolls!]


    Even: [I¡¯ll trash your shrines and dump your corpses on your gods. You disgust me.]


    Brutal stuff. Before the Trinity cult won, this world was all magic and many-gods¡ªeach probably fronting some squid-faced abomination.


    The real Old Gods float out there in space. To hit Earth, they need humans to imagine them into shape. Our ancestors fought hell to block that. Trashed most cult relics. Now the Bureau saves the safer ones: research tools against cosmic ick. Like that feather-serpent dagger that zapped her here.


    Shame she¡¯d missed inspecting that idol. High-tier kin guarded it¡ªmight¡¯ve been special. Maybe... a breeder? Like some ant-queen?


    Wait¡ªif gods don¡¯t do the nasty, where¡¯d kin come from?


    Ulysses¡¯ answer: ¡°Gods don¡¯t gender. Kin aren¡¯t kids¡ªthey¡¯re like shed skin cells. Drop a flake, god barely notices. Though some fussy ones gobbled their kin.¡±


    ¡°True kids? Often rebellious. Ancient mages descended from those god-hybrids who grew a conscience. Data shows gods wanting Earth really want human babymamas¡ªthey¡¯ll burn a million kin for one hybrid kid.¡±


    So kin=toenail clippings. Breeders=the real deal. That boss kin in Shadow Realm, weak but protected¡ªmaybe it¡¯s the babymaker? Her brain fizzed with vile theories.


    ¡°Regrets,¡± Ulysses sighed. ¡°Should¡¯ve kept you a freelancer. This is no teen girl¡¯s work.¡±


    Shocker¡ªMr. Perfect admitting error? The man usually oozed French savoir-faire, quoting poetry while ordering executions. Critics sniped he ¡°talks like Moses fresh from the mount.¡±


    ¡°You started young!¡± she countered.


    ¡°I¡¯m male.¡±


    ¡°Sexist hogwash! Paupers send 10-year-olds to factories. I¡¯m legal. Spindle rots in a tower saving us¡ªmy risks are peanuts! I¡¯m field-ready!¡±


    ¡°Parliament-men lock up daughters till 18 but okay child brothels at 12. Overprotection¡¯s natural. Stay clear of tentacle business.¡±


    ¡°Ohhhh! Papa Ulysses!¡± she crooned.


    ¡°Exactly. Take vacation. Here¡¯s ¡ê2k¡ªchuck it in the Thames if bored.¡±


    Hush money¡ª21st-century millions. How to blow it? No boozing¡ªliver¡¯s too young. Brothels? Wrong plumbing. Gambling? A bit. Charity? Maybe...


    ......


    ¡°Saints swear! My clan had that pearl? We¡¯d be lords!¡±


    In stinking sewers, two thugs worked over a pawnbroker. Six years back ¡®Doctor¡¯ Ulysses¡¯ cholera paper built these tunnels. Now rats and crooks ruled them.


    The one-eyed goon waved a mildewed logbook: ¡°Your grandpappy stashed a cursed pearl idol here¡ªwhat church?!¡±


    ¡¾Cursed idol made sailors jump ship. Hid it in church for holy bleach.¡¿


    ¡°Which bloody church?!¡±

 Chapter 37

    <div>


    Days had slipped by before the two criminals pieced together the trail of Sir Charles Roberts¡¯¡ªthe legendary "Royal Pirate"¡ªinheritance, leading them to the crumbling remains of Boleyn Hospital.


    They were far too late. The asylum lay in ruins, a crisp "No Trespassing" sign nailed to its outer fence.


    "Blast! The relic¡¯s gone¡ªOur Lord¡¯s scent lingers, but we¡¯ve missed it!" snarled the first man, fists denting the weathered fence.


    "Steady, Fire Rum," his one-eyed companion growled, vaulting the barrier. "The trail¡¯s fresh enough."


    Old pirates both, they clung to their seafaring monikers. "Fire Rum" nodded to explosive grog mixes; "Jolly Roger" evoked skull-and-crossbones dread.


    "Earth¡¯s been turned here!" Jolly Roger crouched where Yvette¡¯s rescue had torn the ground. Police had patched the hole, but the stench of ancient divinity clung to the soil.


    "Aye, this is it!" Fire Rum kneeled, sifting dirt until his fingers snagged fabric. He held the scrap aloft, sunlight revealing gaudy embroidery. "Some frilly lass beat us to it?"


    "Twit. That¡¯s a gentleman¡¯s coat¡ªcashmere, no less." Jolly Roger snatched the cloth. "Albion fops don¡¯t stitch roses on frocks. Bond Street tailors¡¯ll talk. When I find the thieving pup, I¡¯ll keelhaul him from here to Jamaica!"


    Meanwhile, Yvette¡ªblissfully unaware of her new enemies¡ªinhaled Sussex¡¯s crisp air, her new gown rustling. No wonder nobles flee London each season, she thought. The sooty capital paled against this greenery.


    Albion¡¯s aristocracy danced to nature¡¯s tune: parliamentary springs in Grosvenor Street townhouses, summer matchmaking at country villas, autumnal hunts, and frosty winters in ancestral halls.


    Today¡¯s excuse? The Goodwood Races. The Duke of Richmond¡¯s sprawling estate¡ª48 square kilometers of manicured turf and ancient woodlands¡ªhosted the second-grandest equestrian event after Royal Ascot. Invitations demanded full regalia, though Yvette¡¯s ever-growing wardrobe (courtesy of Ulysses) made that trivial.


    Her clubmates¡ª"Oleander," "Monkshood," and the reluctantly absent "Upas" (trapped by deadlines)¡ªhad secured tickets.


    As their carriage jostled toward Goodwood, Oleander hunched over a handbook, undeterred by the bouncing springs.


    "The Stallion Compendium?" Yvette peered at his reading. Albion bred a mania for guides, even rating brothels in The Nocturnal Gentleman¡¯s Companion.


    "Weatherbys¡¯ pedigree bible. No stakes won without it," Oleander muttered, flipping pages.


    Yvette¡¯s eye caught a name: Nutcracker¡ªthe same stallion Ulysses had borrowed from the Duke of Lancaster.


    "Nutcracker¡¯s favored, but odds are stingy. Better to bet on place or show," Oleander advised.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Scanning the bloodlines, Yvette blanched. The sire¡¯s also the grandsire?


    "Pureblood retention," Oleander shrugged. "Father-to-daughter breeding locks in champion traits."


    Yvette tossed ¡ê300 on a steeplechase dark horse while Oleander pinned hopes on "Tempest" for second place¡ªuntil catastrophe struck.


    Mid-race, Nutcracker¡ªridden by the Duke himself¡ªfaltered at a turn. The champion¡¯s thundering gallop became a deadly trajectory toward the rails where Oleander stood.


    Yvette lunged, hauling her friend aside as she muted the crash¡¯s force. To onlookers, it seemed miraculous: the half-ton stallion shattered the barrier but left the duke dazed, not dead.


    "Fetch physicians!" roared the Duke of Richmond¡¯s heir, sprinting across turf.


    Yvette reached the duke first. "We¡­ meet again, Yves," he wheezed, clutching her arm. "Your gift¡­ differs from Ulysses¡¯."


    She stiffened. Ulysses had hinted at the duke¡¯s ties to their clandestine order, but how had he discerned her power? Most bloodline gifts shared familial echoes¡ªyet hers warped energy itself, worlds apart from Ulysses¡¯ augmented strength.


    "Distant kin," Yvette said lightly, helping him rise. Let the duke puzzle over that.


    <div>


    <div>


    As Yvette helped the Duke of Lancaster from beneath his fallen steed, a flurry of servants descended upon them. She meant to withdraw, but a skeletal grip clenched her sleeve.


    ¡°Yves,¡± the Duke rasped, drawing her close. ¡°Your uncle Ulysses was my truest ally. In this den of wolves, you¡¯re my only safeguard. Stay until my men arrive¡ªthis was no simple mishap.¡±


    So the stumbled racehorse veers toward conspiracy? Yvette¡¯s thoughts raced.


    Memories surfaced of Queen Margret¡¯s coronation ball¡ªthe whispers behind closed doors, the vanished king, St. James¡¯s Palace suddenly drowning in cerulean mourning drapery. That demure princess, now monarch, wore grief as smoothly as her pearl choker.


    Royalty¡¯s rot seeps deep. If palace walls could bleed blue, perhaps the Duke¡¯s caution wasn¡¯t paranoia. As both a Bureau operative and Ulysses¡¯ kin, she fit his needs neatly.


    Repayment for that accursed painting he funded.


    ¡°Understood,¡± Yvette acquiesced.


    Pandemonium unfolded¡ªstretcher-bearers, shouted orders, the Duke¡¯s theatrical groans. She shadowed the procession to Goodwood¡¯s opulent guest chambers where an ancient physician performed comic-opera diagnostics, ultimately prescribing liniments and laudanum.


    The Duke¡¯s chest tells a darker story. During the examination, Yvette glimpsed ruined flesh over his heart¡ªa scar too jagged for surgery¡¯s grace. Some secrets weren¡¯t hers to unravel.


    Once alone, the Duke shed his deathbed act with a booming laugh.


    ¡°Your enemies still lurk,¡± Yvette cautioned.


    ¡°Enemies?¡± He waved dismissively. ¡°Merely an incompetent stablemaster. The colt inherited weak hocks¡ªit¡¯ll be put down.¡±


    Too clean a resolution. ¡°Random chance makes poor assassins. That horse threw others before you.¡±


    The Duke¡¯s eyes hardened. ¡°Thoroughbreds are but crafted failures. Their bones snap under the weight of our greed.¡±


    Yvette recalled ¡®Nutcracker¡¯¡ªthe muscle-bound poetry of his gallop, the wet-eyed confusion as his leg shattered. Bred to break, then discarded.


    ¡°You mourn the beast?¡± The Duke¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. ¡°How¡­ quaint.¡±


    ¡°Any sportsman would,¡± she deflected. ¡°Since no plot threatens you¡­¡±


    ¡°Ah, but don¡¯t we all play bred-to-break creatures?¡± His murmur chased her exit. ¡°Parents, grandparents¡ªthe Lancasters marry their own, you see. Like horses kept pure¡­ and flawed.¡±


    In the hallway, Ulysses arrived with Richmond¡¯s heir, exchanging terse pleasantries. Her uncle¡¯s nod carried approval; the heir¡¯s courtesy masked suspicion.


    Behind oak-paneled doors, familiar voices clashed:


    ¡°Reckless,¡± Ulysses accused. ¡°Death-chasing games?¡±


    ¡°Curiosity!¡± The Duke¡¯s retort rang bright. ¡°Would you stitch my head back if they lobbed it off? Admit it¡ªyou need me. Need this tainted blood binding me to your Tower¡¯s wretched¡­¡±


    ¡°The Spindle bears heavier chains.¡±


    ¡°Firstborn privilege!¡± Bitter laughter. ¡°He gets the rotting flesh, I the fractured mind. Our ancestral curse¡ªequal yet opposite.¡±


    ¡°A bargain struck long before us.¡±


    ¡°A farce! My role¡ªto revel and unravel?¡± The Duke¡¯s sneer turned wistful. ¡°Still¡­ when he tastes envy through our bond? That sweetens the gall.¡±

 Chapter 38

    Unaware of the discussion that had transpired after her departure, Yvette returned to her circle of friends. Concern for the Duke of Lancaster¡¯s condition rippled through the crowd, drawing even casual acquaintances to press for details. She offered carefully curated reassurances¡ªminor injuries, swift recovery¡ªand as the group crossed themselves in murmured prayers of ¡°Divine protection,¡± their curiosity sated, they dispersed.


    Only Oleander remained visibly crestfallen. His dismay stemmed not from malice toward the Duke, but from dashed calculations: with the Duke¡¯s injured ¡°Nutcracker¡± withdrawing, Oleander¡¯s predicted runner-up ¡°Tempest¡± had seized victory in the speed race.


    ¡°Gambling¡¯s fickle by nature,¡± Yvette offered sympathetically, only then recalling she¡¯d missed the later races while tending to the Duke. Her own impulsive wager on a horse¡ªshe¡¯d forgotten its name¡ªremained a mystery.


    ¡°Let me check¡­¡± She fished a betting slip from her purse. ¡°¡®Southern Cross¡¯? How did it fare?¡±


    Oleander¡¯s shoulders sagged further.


    ¡°Blind luck triumphs over meticulous study¡­ Is this the detective¡¯s famed intuition?¡± he grumbled.


    How does carelessly tossing 300 pounds keep turning profit?


    ¡°Join me at The Mitre tonight. Dinner¡¯s on me,¡± Yvette proposed.


    ¡°Only a Clos de Vougeot can salve this wound¡­¡±


    ¡°Very well. La Tache, if you insist.¡±


    By nightfall, the day¡¯s disappointments had faded. During their outing, a prominent banker near The Mitre had leapt to his death. The group devoured every newspaper account: a suicide note, corroborated financial strife, and solitary rooftop contemplation by witnesses painted a clear picture. The papers yawned.


    Even the Labyrinth of Thought club meandered from the incident into debates over fictional crimes.


    ¡­


    In subsequent days, Yvette established her presence across charities¡ªwomen¡¯s hospitals, reform schools, child welfare societies, slum renewal projects¡ªdonating ¡ê1,000. Nineteenth-century philanthropy lacked modern sanctimony; industrialists sparred publicly with reformers, even over child labor.


    ¡°Idle hands breed vice,¡± factory lords declared. ¡°Ten-year-olds must learn tradecraft early, lest they starve as unskilled adults.¡±


    Philanthropy itself faced attacks: critics claimed it nurtured poverty. Finite jobs and resources doomed the masses. Starvation, they argued, was nature¡¯s solution.


    Yvette noted the pervasive Malthusian and Social Darwinist rhetoric among capitalists. Thankfully, nobles¡ªwhether sincere or status-conscious¡ªchampioned charity. She even crossed paths with her dance partner from the Queen Charlotte Ball, now aiding seamstresses. A tentative correspondence resumed.


    Next destination: Muskine¡¯s workshop.


    Her shadow-realm battle against an eldritch horror at Berelund Asylum had cost four specialized bullets¡ªanti-spectral rounds now dwindling to one. Her talents sufficed against physical foes, but ethereal threats demanded preparation. Muskine, supplier of the original five, might replenish her stock.


    ¡°Ivis! My savior!¡± Muskine roared, enthusiasm eclipsing their last meeting.


    She sidestepped his lunging hug. The tinker¡¯s bulk rattled a tool rack; he scrambled to stabilize it, catastrophe narrowly averted.


    ¡°Too close!¡±


    ¡°Your craftsmanship served me well, Mr. Muskine, but I¡¯ve spent four crystal-silver rounds. Have you more?¡±


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    ¡°For my rescuer? Gladly¡ªif not for a missing ingredient. Secure ¡®Salt,¡¯ and I¡¯ll forge you a lifetime supply.¡±


    ¡°Salt?¡±


    His brow furrowed. ¡°You¡¯ve clearance for this? Consult ¡®The Doctor¡¯ or ¡®Clockwork.¡¯¡±


    Cryptic as ever.


    ¡°But first¡ªa token of gratitude!¡± He produced a lacquered box. ¡°Finished yesterday!¡±


    Inside gleamed a monocle¡ªgold-framed lens on a delicate chain. The material, neither glass nor quartz, flexed faintly.


    ¡°Repurposed from that accursed camera¡¯s core¡ªthe kraken¡¯s crystallized eye! Wear this, and phantoms can¡¯t hide!¡±


    ¡°And they¡¯ll sense me in turn? Like the ghost drawn to the camera?¡±


    ¡°Precisely! Brilliant deduction!¡±


    She snapped the lid shut.


    ¡°...My thanks.¡±


    ¡°Wear it sparingly¡ªvisions may seep through. Weekly seawater rinses prevent fogging...¡±


    Charming.


    Departing with the dubious gift, Yvette sought answers about ¡°Salt.¡±


    ¡­


    ¡°Salt?¡± Winslow nodded. ¡°May Eve approaches¡ªthe witches¡¯ gathering. ¡®Funeral Mistress¡¯ or ¡®Oak Sage¡¯ will guide you.¡±


    ¡°A journey?¡±


    ¡°Their enclave shifts yearly¡ªnever far. Secure some for me? I¡¯ll reimburse you.¡±


    ¡°Witches¡ªdoesn¡¯t the Bureau monitor them?¡±


    ¡°They¡¯re reclusive, not hostile,¡± Winslow explained. ¡°Many collaborate with us. Their nature-based traditions¡ªdruidism, shamanism¡ªstabilize them. Scholars believe their patron deities perished long ago. A god¡¯s death isn¡¯t swift¡ªlike a whalefall nourishing the deep for ages.¡±


    Yvette imagined the Creator¡¯s slumbering vastness¡ªhow might a dying deity¡¯s essence linger?


    Yvette had written to Miss Sharr about attending the May Eve coven, only to receive twin raven-borne replies the following dawn. The occult scholar regretted being summoned to a mystic symposium in the German states ¨C that patchwork realm soon destined to become Earth''s Deutschland ¨C but promised to enlist an acquaintance as guide: one Mr. Keegan, known among the circles as the Oak Sage.


    German intellects, it seemed, pursued esoterica as doggedly as earthly sciences. Their penchant for alchemical formulae and resurrecting forgotten heresies explained the seminar''s location. Miss Sharr''s business there was, doubtless, as much tradecraft as scholarship.


    The Oak Sage''s letter arrived posthaste. Yvette, seeking initiation into witch-meet customs, queried him on gold conversions and disguises. His reply spoke of sylvan recluses spurning coin, their markets trading in "manna" ¨C milky seed-pearls prizing philter-brewing and medicinal grubs. Those bearing Aberrant relics might strike deals, though alchemists would exchange manna for vulgar gold at usurious rates.


    Aberrant remains...


    Her thumb absently traced the rose ring forged from Dulan''s fang ¨C too precious to barter. Yet among her oddments lay a tin of petrified shards from that formless horror''s carcass. Maskin had deemed them too fractured for artifice, though apothecaries might find use.


    The Devon-bound train carried uneasy thoughts. Beyond grimy windows unfurled a land of tin mines and fishnets. At journey''s end, corseted London refinement jarred against oilskin smocks and miners'' muttonchops. Eyes tracked Yvette''s lace-gowned passage through the village before she retreated to her inn.


    Twilight brought the expected rap. Keegan''s weathered visage creased in greeting. "No trouble at all. That Blytheram business..." He let the sentiment hang, proffering disguise: hooded cloak, vulpine mask, paper sachets. "Sprinkle this mooncalf powder. Twists sight and sound."


    Nightshade rituals commenced at forest''s edge. Keegan murmured oaks awake, circled broken menhirs thrice, led her thrice across a totem-carved bridge ¨C backward through its shadow each time. Mist rose, thickening with every eldritch observance until their lantern flame sickened. Fern-cloaked trees hunched like arthritic titans through the haze.


    "Tread carefully." The druid''s warning proved apt. Centuries of leaf-mold pillowed each step, moss devouring every stone.


    They breached the gloaming at the fire''s edge. Powder-dusted forms wavered ¨C shapes seen through heat-haze, voices echoing down stone tunnels. Antlered silhouettes moved among the crowd ¨C the Stag King''s votaries. Flower-crowned women embodied the May Queen, petal-veils obscuring faces. Wildlings went unmasked, ritual scars proclaiming their divorce from man''s world.


    "Camouflage matters little when your address reads ''Trackless Wood''." Keegan nodded at unhooded traders.


    Market stalls clustered bonfire-ward. Yvette puzzled over sigil-carved boards until Keegan deciphered the glyphs: claw-like Ogham for hedge-mages, angular runes for northern craft. "Stick to root and herb-mongers," he advised. "Alchemical contraptions lie beyond my ken."


    The azure shards met polite refusals from bone-gnawers and wortcunners before a moss-bearded witch offered twenty-four manna-pearls. Keegan''s eye then lit upon a lean-to scrawled with Sanskrit. "Ascetics! Their ''salt''s'' half-price."


    The stallkeeper''s pierced flesh spoke of Ganges-side rigors. Haggling transpired in fractured lingua franca until three ounces of grey powder changed hands ¨C the yogi''s last stock. Among his wares, Yvette spied fingerbone amulets. Understanding dawned.


    "Funerary ash." The druid read her revulsion. "Hindus render it cheaper than our grave-dug salts. Death feeds life''s wheel ¨C no sacrilege if used in good faith."


    Soul-rattled, Yvette pocketed the tin. Keegan steered her toward cauldron-scented booths where mandrake roots danced in vitriol. Her first witch-market demanded thorough exploration.

 Chapter 39

    The witches and wizards congregated bore little resemblance to the spell-slinging mages of Yvette''s gaming memories. These were creatures of bubbling cauldrons and pumpkin coaches - European folklore made flesh, muttering incantations over tinctures that might grant mermaids legs or trick princes into love.


    Yvette trailed through the arcane bazaar, Keegan''s rumble translating curiosities that defied mortal understanding.


    "Drowsyberry elixir," he deciphered a vial''s purpose, "keeps trivial dreams at bay - one spoonful before bed."


    Yvette peered at whispering jars. "Bottled wraith-song. Hermits'' lonely diversion," Keegan cautioned. "Though overuse brings vertigo."


    At a cluttered stall, an iron tin no larger than a snuffbox arrested her gaze. Beneath its pewter lid swirled ointment layered with Bastet''s perfume - Egyptian cat-goddess'' blessing rendered in unguent form.


    "Three applications for twilight sight," the merchant crooned through Keegan''s translation. "But demand felid participation." The ritual''s details - forehead salve, paw-press judgement for cat abusers - made Yvette''s eyes shine behind her mask. A legitimate reason for kitty head-pats?


    "Perfect." Her coin purse leaped open. Keegan sighed at enthusiasm outpricing haggling.


    A nearby candle''s perfection halted them - ivory Apollo carved in anatomical exactitude. "Burns tokens of affection," Keegan explained. "Seven days of obsessive yearning." The adjacent pink philter made him flush. "''Witch''s Draught'' bends wills through blood. But strong minds..." He tripped over warnings, mistaking her academic interest.


    "Avert disaster," he finished gravely. Magic''s failure unveiled personal history - a mother''s charm-born union dissolved when spells faded, ending in woody limbs and cleansing flames.


    Yvette grasped why curses crowded this gathering. Here hung fetishes to wither crops, mirrors whispering compulsions, dolls breeding night terrors - defense mechanisms for wildfolk against plough and pasture.


    A dreamcatcher''s feathers brushed her cheek, recalling Unwin''s tortured sleep at Bloody Tower. She bartered for the web-hoop charm - tourist trinket for London''s most inscrutable benefactor. Odd gifts accumulated: talismans for a mother-daughter pair, frost-proof inkwells, herb-preserving sacks, and three phials of misbegotten Flame Mantle brew that had nearly roasted their maker.


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    Noticing Keegan''s empty hands, she pressed until he confessed a Vow of Poverty binding all wealth to Dublin''s tenement dwellers. Even train tickets came via colleagues'' charity. His mother''s tragedy birthed this creed - wizardkind''s fumbled human entanglements required magical shortcuts, breeding sorrow.


    Far from Devonshire''s bonfires, London''s moonlit lanes harbored darker revels. An overturned carriage sheltered gilt-haired prey. Steel flashed as a brute demanded "Fisher!" through broken French.


    "Qu''est-ce que je peux faire pour vous?" The passenger''s eyes widened with Gallic innocence, lace cuffs fluttering surrender. His knife-gleam smile promised anything... except truth.


    The hulking marauder known as "Firewine" had arrived in Albion with purpose¡ªto reclaim the lost Pearl Idol.


    Long before the rise of Rome, seafaring clans across the Mediterranean¡ªCarthaginians, Phoenicians, Canaanites¡ªpaid homage to Dagon, the Leviathan Lord who ruled the waves. But when imperial legions stamped out paganism under the banner of their Holy Trinity, flame consumed temple and idol alike. Few relics survived the purge. The Pearl Idol, smuggled to safety by fleeing priests, became a beacon for those who still whispered the old gods¡¯ names.


    As New World colonies bloomed, heretics plotted to spirit the artifact across the Atlantic. Pirate ships offered discreet transport; distant shores promised sanctuaries beyond the Church¡¯s reach. But disaster struck¡ªthe vessel carrying the sacred relic vanished, swallowed by storms. Dagon¡¯s faithful mourned their god¡¯s wrathful judgment.


    Centuries later, salvagers probing the Golden Triangle¡¯s depths uncovered a truth written in barnacled timber. Cannon-scarred planks and shattered masts revealed the Idol¡¯s carrier hadn¡¯t fallen to divine will, but mortal treachery. Which meant...


    The relic still existed.


    Firewine¡¯s cohort "Jolly Roger"¡ªconspicuous with his missing eye¡ªcouldn¡¯t risk surface inquiries. Thus the tattooed brute ventured into London¡¯s underbelly, swapping his salt-stiffened jerkin for a Bond Street-tailored facade. Between bribing pickpockets and oily tailors¡¯ apprentices emerged a name: Sir Ulysse Josu¨¦ de Fichat, a French ¨¦migr¨¦ whose servants ordered custom garments with particular attention to... intimatewear.


    Firewine spat in disgust. Foppish aristocrats and their deviant appetites! No matter. Tonight, this powdered peacock would spill secrets through broken teeth.


    He caught the Frenchman¡¯s carriage near Westminster, steel-roped muscles hauling the vehicle sideways. As Sir Ulysse tumbled out babbling panicked French¡ª(Typical coward!)¡ªFirewine froze.


    His left arm tingled. Spread numbness.


    A scalpel embedded in cobblestones beside his boot.


    "Slower than I estimated," came crisp Albish vowels. Not the gibbering nobleman, but the carriage¡¯s unassuming passenger.


    Snap went Firewine¡¯s skull as realization struck¡ªring-adorned fingers twisting during the struggle, needle pricking his brawny forearm. Neurotoxin.


    "Your idol¡¯s guardians grew sloppy," the false fop remarked, kicking the sewer grate shut. "Now. Names. Locations."


    Firewine roared curses. Let flesh slough from bones¡ªDagon¡¯s true servant never broke.


    His final sight: a carriage axle rising.


    Ulysse worked methodically, reducing mutated tissue to gutter slurry. When constables arrived, the night held only scattered fabric scraps... and distant rush of foul waters below.

 Chapter 40

    "You insist on this pointless ritual, Lienna. What game are you playing?"


    Queen Margaret IV studied the Koh-i-Noor diamond before bed, its cold fire rippling across velvet. A nightly chore as tiresome as court etiquette.


    "Your bloodline kindles its dormant magic through meditation," said Lienna, the undercover operative posing as a maid. "Focus, and its spirit awakens."


    "Spirit? It¡¯s a glorified paperweight. Where¡¯s my immortality? Where¡¯s the power to smite enemies?"


    "Subtlety serves sharper ends." Lienna lowered her voice. "Shall I recount the tale even kings fear to whisper?"


    The queen¡¯s eyes turned predator-sharp. "Proceed."


    "Born of Indian earth a thousand years past, this gem baptized itself in fratricide. Princes slaughtered siblings, warlords poisoned mentors¡ªall to own its lethal glow. For the Koh-i-Noor is Discord incarnate, breeding greed like maggots in rot. Until one doomed chieftain read scripture beneath a faceless idol: *Only God or a woman may tame its bite.**"


    Margaret scoffed. "Superstition."


    "Yet here it rests¡ªin Albion¡¯s crown, not some conqueror¡¯s grave. Our queens wielded its curse as a scalpel. When Spain grew too bold, we armed France. When France dreamed of empire, we bolstered Prussia. Let Europe¡¯s hounds snap at each other while we profit from their barks."


    "And India?"


    "Divide tribes, crown pliant puppets, watch rebellion choke on infighting. All possible because you," Lienna¡¯s finger grazed the gem, "channel its discordant song each night. A gentle hum to sour alliances among our enemies."


    The queen exhaled. "So this tedious ritual is my battleground?"


    "Pray it remains dull. Should you ever unleash its full cry, the price would haunt generations."


    Blissfully ignorant of supernatural betrayals, pirate captain "Jolly Roger" slammed his rum mug, glaring at the damning headline:


    "Firebrand Shot by Bobby! Hospitalized Awaiting Trial!"


    That swill-brained idiot! He stormed toward the door¡ªonly to freeze as the tavern¡¯s salvaged mast-beam creaked ominously. Sailors¡¯ lore rang loud: Three warnings before doom. First, a rigging-wheel plummeting near his boots. Second, the tavern¡¯s signboard smashing where he¡¯d stood.


    Even the Drowned Lord¡¯s timber warns against this folly.


    Better a live coward than dead hero. If Firebrand¡¯s mortal disguise held, a prison stretch might even improve his temper.


    Three days of stakeouts left Chief Alton cynical. "Your cultist trap caught flies, Ulysses. Pack it in."


    The investigator watched Alton leave, then scanned Holy Cross Hospital¡¯s exits. No tattooed sailors. No cloaked figures. Just the metallic taste of wasted time.


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    At home, apprentice Yvette greeted him with a dreamcatcher. "A Walpurgis gift! Witches taught me¡ª"


    "¡ªthat dirt floors beat gas lamps?" Ulysses sneered. "Civilization exists for a reason." He tossed her a bloodied cloth scrap. "Cultists tracked this from your Otherworld fiasco. Clean up your mess before it gets us both killed."


    After choosing crystallization over cash for her promotion to Grandeur, Yvette left.


    Winslow, the ageless valet, served tea with grandfatherly grace. "Pity she refused scones." His gaze lingered on the dreamcatcher. "Superstition suits the young."


    "Delusion suits no one." Ulysses flicked the trinket. "You hang spiderwebs to trap wasps, not tigers."


    They sipped in silence. Both knew nightmares couldn¡¯t be caught¡ªonly endured.


    The organization moved swiftly. Within two days, Yvette held two amber crystals¡ªkeys to ascending the third sephirah, Tiferet. To avoid disturbances, she retreated to her old room in the Yulissis mansion¡¯s male wing. Winslow lit sandalwood from the East Indies, its sacred smoke curling through the air.


    She pressed a crystal to her chest, closed her eyes, and let oblivion take her.


    The Vision.


    A city.


    A city dying.


    Bodies rotted in the streets beneath a death-knell sky. Plague-swollen lymph nodes bulged black beneath collars and arms. Madmen leapt from rooftops; others raved at heaven until their final breath.


    ¡°The Black Death comes! Kings flee! Lords flee! All useless! It¡¯ll feast until none remain! Forty days¡ªthen the world dies!¡±


    ¡°O Holy Spirit! I confess¡ªI deflowered a girl! Cuckolded my brother! Stole the priest¡¯s silver watch! Forgive me!¡±


    ¡°The Divine is dead! His veins spew venom! Pestilence-Rider descends! Man¡¯s reign ends here!¡±


    As plague choked the city, a furnace-wind rose.


    Fire.


    Flames gnawed rooftops. Fiery imps shattered leaded windows, molten metal oozing like veins. The crackle of devoured wood sang of renewal.


    Smoke blazed brighter than sun, transmuting hellscape to gilded temple¡ªa purifying forge.


    Yvette woke gasping, sweat-drenched, phantom heat clinging to her skin.


    The crystal had crumbled to dust, but power thrumded in her veins¡ªsenses preternaturally sharp. Too sharp. Why else see shifting eyes in the wallpaper? Hear the Night Mother¡¯s hiss?


    Illusions. Lies.


    Stumbling downstairs, she found Winslow waiting.


    ¡°Tea?¡± he offered, pouring a blend of lemongrass and chamomile sweetened with sugar.


    ¡°You waited up?¡±


    ¡°The ascent through Yetzirah is treacherous.¡± His voice held paternal concern. ¡°How were the visions?¡±


    Yvette recoiled¡ªblood gushed from his teapot, drenching the table.


    ¡°Unpleasant sights?¡±


    She shut her eyes. Not real. The cup he pressed into her hands held only herbal sweetness.


    Winslow, ever practical, had brewed caffeine-free tea¡ªproof this was reality.


    ¡°I¡¯m stronger¡­ but the visions¡­¡±


    ¡°All transcendents endure this,¡± he said gently. ¡°The Illuminating Dream shows higher realms. Rest before trying again¡ªrush, and the visions may¡­ twist you.¡±


    Yvette described the flaming city.


    ¡°The path from Malkuth to Tiferet is the Primordial Flame,¡± Winslow explained. ¡°Fire visions mean you¡¯re nearing ascension. The city was London¡ª1666. Plague killed thousands; the Great Fire cleansed it. Six fire deaths, yet they called it salvation. The Monument¡¯s gold flame at Pudding Lane marks where hell began.¡±


    ¡°But why dream history?¡±


    ¡°Few do. You¡¯ve overstudied.¡± He shifted tone. ¡°The fire birthed Albion¡¯s dour fashion. Post-inferno, our king banned French frippery. We dressed in mourning hues¡ªParisians mocked us as paupers.¡±


    As Winslow¡¯s lecture grounded her, the hallucinations faded.


    Days later, ¡°Poisonwood¡± summoned her to a May Eve gathering. His debut novel, The Vampire Murder Case (first in Lord Detective Chevalier¡¯s saga), had launched. Blending the real ¡°Red Windmill Murders¡± with aristocratic intrigue, it captivated readers.


    Noblemen penned essays analyzing Chevalier¡ªa French lord-detective whose intellect and swordsmanship enthralled all. The Times dedicated columns to his ¡°romantic genius.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t me,¡± Yvette groaned, avoiding the book.


    Poisonwood teased that Chevalier had a real prototype (the ¡°Pyle Street Phantom¡± solver) but kept Yvette¡¯s name hidden. Thankfully, readers imagined Chevalier as Yulissis-like¡ªbrooding and virile¡ªnot a boyish girl. Else, she¡¯d never leave home.

 Chapter 41

    The aristocracy, ever-restless, flitted between country estates like swallows with the seasons, trailed by retinues of servants. Uninvited visitors often found only echoing halls and polite butlers murmuring, "The family is abroad until autumn."


    The "Wolfsbane" had summoned Yvette to a Chigrinwell estate¡ªa pastoral jewel nestled in woodlands, ideal for escaping London¡¯s grime. In Albion, forests were ancient fiefdoms; even Ulysses¡¯ foreign wealth couldn¡¯t secure hunting rights. But the Chigrinwells¡¯ woods now teemed with imported American foxes, their invitation promising sport.


    Such whimsy proved commonplace. Nobles had slaughtered native foxes to near-oblivion, necessitating overseas shipments to sustain their barbaric pastime.


    Armed with Ulysses¡¯ rifles, Yvette arrived by carriage. The Baron and his wife were absent, leaving "Wolfsbane"¡ªFaulkner Chigrinwell¡ªand his sister Veronica to host literary-minded guests.


    As Yvette¡¯s coach neared the gates, a rival carriage veered into view. Through its window glimmered a noblewoman swathed in jet adornments. Yvette yielded the prime stopping point¡ªgentlemanly courtesy the Viscountess Pelersh acknowledged with a melting glance.


    Faulkner blinked at his aunt¡¯s arrival. "Clarice?"


    "Solitude chills the blood," the widow drawled, assessing Yvette. "Your acquaintance, nephew?"


    Introductions ensued. Yvette¡¯s lips brushed the Viscountess¡¯s gloved hand¡ªa ritual mastered through vigilance. The widow purred approval: "Had such gallantry graced my youth¡­"


    "Your youth endures, madam. Time itself kneels before beauty." Flattery bloomed laughter like claret spilled on silk.


    Miss Moore, the Viscountess¡¯s drab companion, trailed behind¡ªa professional sycophant leaching prestige. Faulkner dispatched them to chambers while Yvette wrestled vertigo. Hallucinations resurged: marble floors yawned into whirlpools.


    "London¡¯s miasma," she claimed when Faulkner frowned. He snorted: "Winter¡¯s coal-fog turns skies to bile. Forget gloom¡ªour guests await!"


    By dusk, the parlor brimmed with macabre chatter. London¡¯s gutters lately coughed up mangled corpses¡ªgirls mauled as if by beasts, limbs stamped with hand-shaped bruises.


    "Ghouls!" cried one guest. "Graves burst open¡ª"


    "Rot-gas," another sneered. "This is science¡¯s century! Likelier lycanthropes¡ª"


    (Ulysses¡¯ pet fiction: feral children raised by wolves.)


    Yvette, uninformed, steered theories toward gangs and fighting dogs. Faulkner countered: "Why slaughter profit-bringing harlots? These wounds¡­ inhuman strength snapped bones. Imagine clawed things feasting under moonlight¡ª"


    Ladies fluttered fans, feigning horror. Yet come supper, they devoured blood-rare venison with relish. Yvette¡¯s neighbor¡ªa baronet¡¯s wife¡ªgnawed meat with carnivorous vigor, ruby droplets staining her smile.


    "Truly, Albion¡¯s steel-stomached breed," Yvette mused, retreating from her plate.


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    "Very well," she conceded inwardly. "Let them feast. I¡¯ll nurse my French sensibilities."


    After dinner, when card games were proposed and eagerly accepted, Yvette slipped away with a detective novel, seeking a fireside nook to read undisturbed.


    Near the scullery, she found Miss Moore¡ªViscountess Perche¡¯s timid companion¡ªfrozen outside the door as servants¡¯ voices drifted out:


    ¡°Machine lace? Why waste time washing this rubbish?¡±


    ¡°Miss Moore¡¯s, no doubt.¡±


    Though cheaper machine-made lace now flooded markets, servants in grand houses still sneered at it. Yvette silenced them with a cough and summoned Joseph, the overeager footman who¡¯d carried her trunks.


    ¡°Assist Miss Moore as you did me,¡± she said mildly. ¡°I¡¯d hate for the butler to hear about your¡­ tips.¡±


    Pale-faced, Joseph obeyed. As Yvette departed, she overheard:


    ¡°The viscountess wants her saddle polished¡­¡±


    Odd task for a companion, she mused.


    In the parlor, Viscountess Perche lounged like a pre-Raphaelite odalisque, nibbling grapes from her maid¡¯s hand. ¡°Not a card player, Mr. Fisher?¡±


    ¡°Books suit me better.¡±


    Their stroll through the hedge maze took a startling turn when the viscountess pierced her disguise: ¡°You¡¯re Faulkner¡¯s Chevalier, aren¡¯t you?¡±


    Yvette¡¯s flinch drew a laugh. ¡°My nephew¡¯s hermitic¡ªhe¡¯s no French friends. And Veronica¡¯s besotted with that fictional knight.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t reveal it. Chevalier is an ideal. I¡¯d feel a fraud.¡±


    ¡°How chivalrous! Most men would milk that fame. My husband certainly preferred fantasy to marriage¡­¡± Bitterness edged her tale of infidelity¡ªmaids, actresses, a secret love-nest.


    ¡°You¡¯re lovelier than any stage siren, madame,¡± Yvette protested.


    ¡°Men crave forbidden fruit. Youth. Danger.¡± Her sigh carried centuries of disillusionment. ¡°Stay naive, dear boy.¡±


    As Yvette offered solace, the viscountess brightened. ¡°You¡¯ve lifted my gloom. Might we talk again?¡±


    ¡°Whenever you wish.¡±


    The adapted version tightens dialogue, enhances atmosphere, and employs more vivid descriptors (e.g., "pre-Raphaelite odalisque") while preserving key plot points and period tone.


    The following morning, "Ironwood" organized a hunting party - though "hunting" proved far removed from Yvette''s expectations of stealth and sport.


    A small army of servants rounded up game with hounds and horns, herding panicked creatures into shooting galleries. Liveried attendants stood ready with pre-loaded shotguns, turning nobles into mere trigger-pullers. At each crack of rifle-fire, spaniels bounded through bracken to retrieve fallen quarry.


    Like shooting ducks at a carnival stall, Yvette thought dryly. So much for sportsmanship. Modern gamers crave realistic simulations, while these lords reduce bloodsport to point-blank target practice.


    Come evening, their "conquests" would adorn walls as taxidermy or plates as gourmet fare. Yvette joined the riding excursion briefly, sidesaddle chafing both physically and symbolically. Though virtue meant little to her beyond social currency, stained riding habit could spark unwanted rumors.


    Returning early, she discovered Viscountess de Perche nursing a twisted ankle, her companion flustered with remedies. "Mr. Fisher, might you render assistance?" The noblewoman''s dulcet tones belied the serpentine fingers caressing Yvette''s collar as she was lifted effortlessly.


    "Strength belying that sylphlike frame," purred the viscountess, breath warm against Yvette''s jaw. "Like some woodland spirit besting mortal brutes."


    When pressed about slaying Duran, Yvette mechanically recounted Ulysses'' fabricated duel - blade clashes ending in shoulder thrust and suicidal plunge.


    "Tsk. You recount battles like tax ledgers." The noblewoman''s lips brushed an earlobe. "No fire describing how you pinned your prey? Forced through defenses? Sank steel deep into quivering..."


    Yvette nearly dropped her burden.


    Depositing the viper on brocade cushions proved no refuge. Teeth caught Yvette''s coattail as she turned. "You Franks! String women along like game..." The viscountess lamented with theater-worthy anguish. "Even when we spread silken nets, you dance just beyond reach."


    "Madame, I swear¡ª"


    The sudden hiss chilled more than winter panes. "Decline me? A viscountess? Cry out now, and your precious reputation¡ª"


    Yvette''s hand flew to the nightmare-forged ring at her throat. Shadowed corridors. Unwitnessed struggles. So easy to erase this venomous rose...


    Shock burned through her at the instinctive murder calculus. When had human life become chess pieces? Each dark choice etching deeper into her soul...


    "Chose wisely, my lady." Yvette''s glacial tone frosted the chamber. "Threats ill-suit survivors."


    As she gripped the door handle, brass turned under another''s hand.

 Chapter 42

    The door swung open to reveal a brawny stranger¡ªone whose presence in the ladies¡¯ quarters baffled Yvette until recognition struck.


    Viscountess Perche¡¯s footman? What business brings this stallion to the mares¡¯ stable?


    ¡°Explain yourself,¡± demanded the Viscountess, though her rising color betrayed anticipation.


    The footman¡¯s smirk oozed provocation. ¡°Came to serve my mistress proper. Unless¡±¡ªhis eyes raked Yvette¡ª¡°this perfumed popinjay satisfies?¡±


    Yvette¡¯s cheeks burned. The man¡¯s contemptuous once-over¡ªpausing pointedly at her breeches¡ªtwinned with his vulgar snort. To this swaggering Adonis, she posed less threat than a gelded poodle.


    The Viscountess tittered, transformed from scorned huntress to pantheress eyeing fresh kill. ¡°My hungry beast,¡± she purred, dismissing Yvette with frosty finality. The door¡¯s slam echoed like a gavel.


    Hypocrite! Yvette stormed downstairs, recalling the lady¡¯s earlier praise of her ¡°ethereal delicacy¡± over ¡°loutish muscle-men.¡± Yet her crimsoned bed linens¡ªgossiped by maids¡ªproved the footman¡¯s regular service. A noble¡¯s palate tires of venison, she consoled herself. But I¡¯m no trifling syllabub¡ªmore... quail in verjuice! Let that oaf gorge on mutton pies!


    Miss Moore intercepted her, agitation marring the companion¡¯s usual composure. ¡°No... complications, Mr. Fisher?¡±


    ¡°Save your overeager rescuing,¡± Yvette parried. ¡°Had we progressed to climactic negotiations, your footman¡¯s entrance might¡¯ve proved... indelicate.¡±


    ¡°Better scandal than tragedy,¡± Miss Moore whispered, fleeing as if chased by hounds.


    Dawn found the Viscountess vanished¡ªa strategic retreat, Miss Veronika suggested with catty relish. ¡°Grown bored of silvered sirens?¡± the girl prodded.


    ¡°Prefer cooler constellations,¡± Yvette deflected. ¡°Scholars over courtesans.¡±


    Veronika groaned. ¡°Set your star-chart in Hades, then! Even Parisian salons barely tolerate bluestockings.¡± Their debate flowed into reformist zeal until Yvette excused herself to prowl the grounds.


    A severed oak branch snagged her notice¡ªtoo thick for wind-snap, its splintered end pointed like an accusation toward the Viscountess¡¯ window. Gossip trickled forth from loose-lipped staff:


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    <ul>


    <li>Bedding ¡°resembling a bordello¡¯s¡±</li>


    <li>Screams (of passion? punishment?) before dawn</li>


    <li>Mysterious midnight tree-crash that left neighbors sleepless... yet the Viscountess claimed undisturbed slumber</li>


    </ul>


    In London¡¯s fog-cloaked streets, patterns emerged. The killer¡¯s dumping sites formed a grotesque constellation¡ªone aligning eerily with sewer tributaries. Retracing the current¡¯s flow led...


    To milady¡¯s doorstep.


    "The creature is here! Run¡ªdon¡¯t let it take you!"


    Viscountess Perche trembled in her locked chambers, her pulse drumming in her ears. It had all begun with a cursed secret¡ªa forbidden recipe for eternal youth.


    Years of powders and rouge had masked her fading beauty, but the mirror betrayed her: wrinkles carved around her eyes like cracks in porcelain. Doctors, charlatans, even aging courtesans¡ªnone could halt time¡¯s march. Desperation led her to an underworld auction, where shadowy traders peddled horrors: mummified "honey-corpses" for healing, skull-brewed tonics once sipped by kings, and alchemical obscenities like powdered pharaohs.


    The prize was a ragged parchment¡ªa stolen page detailing an elixir of maiden¡¯s blood and myrrh. Without hesitation, she ordered her maid to kidnap a street girl. Rosewater fasting, chest blood drawn mid-scream¡ªthe recipe demanded agony.


    It worked. Her skin bloomed anew, while the imprisoned girl withered into a wrinkled husk. The "spent" girl was drowned in sewers, her body dumped into the Thames to mimic suicide. London¡¯s river swallowed such tragedies daily.


    Fortnightly, the ritual repeated. Youth flowed anew, until her discarded refuse drew a predator.


    First, papers wrote of Thames corpses gnawed hollow. Then her disposal maid vanished. One sleepless night, she glimpsed it¡ªa hunched, half-human abomination skulking in the garden. Bloodied fabric near its trail matched her maid¡¯s dress. Panic crystallized: It ate the corpses¡­ and now hungers for fresher meat.


    Her wrinkles returned as fear paralyzed her. Salvation seemed to arrive in Moore¡ªa drifter with no ties. But Moore¡¯s stolen jewels revealed darker sins: a fugitive fence fleeing gang strife. Blackmail twisted her into an accomplice. Together, they fed bloodless victims to alley shadows, praying the beast stayed sated.


    It didn¡¯t. Ravenous, it prowled closer. Police swarmed the streets; whores hid after dark. Trapped, the viscountess fled to her nephew¡¯s country home¡ªonly for the beast to clamber onto his oak like some grotesque arachnid. It followed. It demanded.


    Back in London, she barricaded herself, yet the monster pressed its nightmare silhouette to her window, blotting out lamplit streets. Screams choked into unconsciousness.


    Next dawn, resolve hardened. Moore¡ªthe last loose thread¡ªwas ambushed in the distillery. A gelatin capsule, fat with poison, would nest in her gut. Let the beast feast and perish.


    But as the viscountess stirred her lethal brew, sudden drowsiness felled her.


    Down the chimney slipped Yvette, investigator of sewers and secrets. Amid skeletal debris, she¡¯d pieced the horror together. With a flick of the Nightmare Ring, slumber claimed the house¡ªjustice whispering through smoke-blackened bricks.

 Chapter 43

    Yvette stepped closer to Miss Moore, still shackled to the restraint table, and confirmed her faint pulse and breath. Alive¡ªfor now.


    The woman¡¯s eyelids fluttered open.


    "You¡­ Mr. Fisher?" Moore¡¯s voice wavered with relief. "You saved me. Thank you."


    Polite words, yet they sent icy dread down Yvette¡¯s spine. She recoiled, blade and pistol drawn in a heartbeat.


    "Mr. Fisher?" Moore echoed, bewildered.


    "That sleep spell should¡¯ve kept any human unconscious for hours," Yvette snapped. "What are you?"


    A wet, dreamlike laugh bubbled from Moore¡¯s throat. Beneath her corseted gown, flesh rippled and bulged¡ªas if some grotesque inner being strained against a paper-thin shell.


    Yvette¡¯s silenced pistol spat a round through Moore¡¯s right temple. Brains and bone fragments painted the wall.


    Yet the woman merely swayed. Blood oozed down her face, ignored as raw muscle fibers knit across the gaping wound, leaving a puckered crater. Her body behaved like living clay, organs either absent or rendered irrelevant.


    The remnants of Moore¡¯s face stretched into a rapturous smile. "You can¡¯t comprehend, Mr. Fisher. I¡¯ve seen Him¡ªa being beyond our measly existence. His Majesty showed me humanity¡¯s filth¡­ and His mercy. The stars themselves bend to His will! He gifts us transcendence, if we but shed these¡­ inferior forms."


    The fireplace erupted in frantic sparks. Moore¡¯s body unfolded. Atrophied legs dangled uselessly as a dozen new limbs sprouted from her torso¡ªarms and legs of mismatched sizes, writhing like a beetle¡¯s legs. Her original arms elongated into chitinous pincers, while a glossy carapace sheathed her torso, muffling the click-click of countless joints.


    A guttural voice, half-human and half-reptilian, reverberated: "A paltry sacrifice unlocks perfection. Why cling to feeble limbs and solitary minds? Merge! Multiply! Become¡ª"


    Yvette tuned out the rant. Earlier, she¡¯d swapped her crystal rounds for steel-tipped bullets. Now, she smashed a vial of Flame Cloak elixir against her thigh. Liquid fire erupted around her, searing a curl of hair to ash. Channeling the heat into her blade, she ignored the blistering pain.


    The hybrid horror scuttled forward, its movements hypnotically fluid. Three gunshots thudded into its mass, each impact amplified by the inferno clinging to Yvette. The creature stumbled but kept advancing¡ªuntil Yvette¡¯s superheated blade carved a smoking trench from its shoulder to hip.


    Foul smoke choked the air as she emptied her revolver into its face and backflipped away, flame-propelled momentum carrying her clear of snapping pincers.


    The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    Too close.


    A glance confirmed her sword strike had gutted the beast¡ªyet instead of organs, its cavity brimmed with squirming brains recoiling from the light. The monster shrieked, clawing at its seared wound. Charred flesh sloughed away, fresh tissue bubbling forth¡ªbut one of its many limbs shriveled in exchange.


    Yvette reloaded, mind racing. Ammunition dwindled. Flame Cloak duration: eight minutes remaining. No¡ªthis ends now.


    Two bullets bought her time to reach the dining room. She barred the heavy oak door, luring the creature into a trap. When it burst through, Yvette upended the enormous mahogany table¡ªa slab of New World hardwood nearly indestructible to mortal tools¡ªand pinned the horror beneath.


    "Enjoying the sauna?" she muttered, redirecting her dying flames beneath the table. The stench of roasting chitin filled the room as the monster thrashed, its writhing limbs smashing table legs. Yvette cleaved each reaching appendage, ignoring the sizzling acid splatters eating at her skin.


    Three minutes later, flames guttered out. The creature twitched feebly, its regenerative crawl too sluggish. Yvette impaled it with a fireplace poker, then immobilized every twitching fragment with silver cutlery¡ªroasting each fork and knife red-hot to cauterize its unholy vitality.


    Only then did she stagger outside, bribing a street urchin with coins to fetch Ulysses. The boy gaped at her burns and bloodied attire but bolted at the promise of more silver.


    Back in the dining room, Yvette kept watch over her macabre centerpiece¡ªa multi-limbed abomination skewered by twenty steak knives, its jerking grows weaker by the minute.


    Ulysses better hurry. This thing¡¯s still breathing.


    <div>


    Back in the shattered dining room, Yvette slumped against a wall, finally certain the trapped monstrosity couldn¡¯t escape. Only now did the adrenaline fade¡ªand with it, the numbness that had shielded her from pain.


    Every inch of her skin burned. Lifting an arm, she saw the creature¡¯s wax-like residue eating into her flesh like acid. She hacked at her sleeve with a dinner knife, but the substance clung like sewer tar. The red welts darkened, withering as if the wax drank her blood. Living tissue only, she noted grimly¡ªher clothes and the wooden floor remained untouched.


    I¡¯ll rot alive if I don¡¯t stop this.


    Snatching liquor bottles, she doused blades in brandy and scorched them over the hearth. Then she began cutting¡ªnot her clothes, but herself. The knives were dull, the agony blinding. Tears and bourbon became her anesthetics. By the time Ulysses found her, her arms and torso were a mosaic of self-inflicted wounds, blood pooling beneath her limp body.


    ¡°The viscountess¡­hypnotized¡­Moll¡¯s the monster¡ª¡± she slurred before darkness took her.


    Ulysses carried her to a sterile room, barking orders at Winslow. ¡°Surgery, now. And clean this mess before the police arrive.¡±


    Winslow gaped at the carnage. ¡°The creature did this?¡±


    ¡°She did. The toxin required¡­radical excision.¡±


    They worked through dawn¡ªUlysses mending flesh, Winslow orchestrating cover-ups. Neither noticed the waxy, starfish-like creature oozing from a guest room into the sewers.


    Yvette awoke to honeyed water and Ulysses¡¯ scowl.


    ¡°You¡¯ll drink this slowly,¡± he commanded, spoon hovering.


    She flushed, realizing her bandaged state. ¡°I wasn¡¯t crying earlier¡ª¡±


    ¡°Of course not. Merely lacquering my conscience.¡± His sarcasm softened as he fed her. ¡°Rest. Your heroics depleted more than blood.¡±


    Later, he returned with a feast: tender veau blanc, seared cod gleaming with herbs, a ruby-red jelly quivering provocatively.


    ¡°You¡­cooked?¡±


    ¡°Starving my patient would negate stitching you back together.¡±


    She devoured it, too famished for decorum.


    ¡°Protein rebuilds muscle,¡± he said, watching her scrape the plate. ¡°No arguments.¡±


    Yvette nodded, too grateful to protest. Somewhere between the bourbon, the blood, and his unexpected bedside manner, she¡¯d survive¡ªnot just the monster¡¯s poison, but the brutal cure.

 Chapter 44

    Soon after Yvette¡¯s supper concluded, Winslow arrived with updates, his coat speckled with rain.


    ¡°Contained?¡± Ulysses¡¯ cigar glowed in the dim parlor.


    ¡°Barely. The jurisdiction overlaps were¡­ messy.¡± Winslow adjusted his cuffs. ¡°That wax Young Master Ives mentioned? My marionettes handled it cleanly. Met¡¯s Occult Division still struggles with the stuff¡ªit liquefies living tissue. Without automatons, we¡¯d have evacuated the manor.¡±


    Yvette leaned forward. ¡°And the Viscountess¡¯s public story?¡±


    A glamorous noblewoman¡¯s demise¡ªfront-page fodder for every scandal sheet.


    ¡°Blamed on Met¡¯s recent gang arrests.¡± Winslow¡¯s mechanical eye whirred softly. ¡°Narrative: Thugs bribed her lady-in-waiting Moore, drugged the staff, attempted looting. Viscountess avoided the tainted soup, confronted them, got murdered. Mundane enough.¡±


    ¡°Yet the Viscountess herself¡ªalive? Those murdered girls¡­ her doing or Moore¡¯s?¡± During the battle, Yvette recalled, the noblewoman had lain unconscious elsewhere.


    Evidence suggested ignorance¡ªbinding Moore, preparing poisons. Perhaps the sewer corpses were the monster¡¯s independent hunts.


    ¡°Missing prostitutes trace to her.¡± Winslow produced a singed parchment scrap. ¡°Found hidden in her jewelry case. A ¡®Rejuvenation Elixir¡¯ fragment from an Elder God grimoire.¡±


    ¡°The Book of Azrael.¡± Ulysses exhaled smoke like a pronouncement.


    ¡°Precisely. Temptation¡¯s ledger.¡±


    Yvette frowned. ¡°An elixir¡­ in a ritual text?¡±


    ¡°Superficially, a pharmacopoeia.¡± Winslow¡¯s glove creaked as he gestured. ¡°But these concoctions only function for the owner. Lose a page, recreate it perfectly¡ªit¡¯s inert. Thus classified as Relic-class grimoire, high-risk.¡±


    He cited history: A medieval warlord, empowered by Azrael¡¯s pages, dominated rivals until his wife stole a recipe. His next ¡°Hero¡¯s Draught¡± became lethal nightshade brew. He died mid-battle, forsaken by vanished magic.


    ¡°And its true evil?¡± Yvette pressed.


    ¡°The recipes demand depravity. Murder. Necrophagy. Debauchery. Worse¡ªit warps the mind. Early pages seem eccentric. Later ones¡­ addictive. Saints become butchers, chasing stronger thrills.¡±


    ¡°So the Viscountess took those girls for the elixir¡¯s heart-blood?¡±


    ¡°While Moore¡ªanother god¡¯s devotee¡ªate the remains. She¡¯s en route to Research now. Her biology¡­ defies classification.¡±


    Yvette grimaced. Charred, dismembered, yet still squirming¡ªno ordinary mutations.


    ¡°My oversight:¡± Winslow¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°Traces led from Moore¡¯s closet box to sewers. Pumpkin-sized entity escaped. Disciplinary letters await drafting¡ª"


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    ¡°Folly.¡± Ulysses crushed his cigar. ¡°This district¡¯s agents ignored a festering threat. Had we not stumbled upon it, how many more would that creature have devoured? Formal censure is necessary¡ªlet indolent oafs choke on their negligence.¡±


    There it is, Yvette mused. Ulysses¡¯ blame-redirection genius¡ªframing their midnight chimney intrusion as dutiful ¡°colleague activities.¡± Masterful.


    Unseen by all, the monster in transit decayed strangely. Grafted limbs sloughed off like rotten fruit. By Tower arrival, forearms decomposed mid-swing. Researchers frowned at twitching remains.


    ¡°Last feeding?¡±


    ¡°Three weeks since disappearances stopped. Death-row donor en route.¡±


    The Veil demanded hard choices.


    When the shackled convict entered¡ªa hardened killer¡ªhe sobbed at the creature¡¯s half-charred maw and squirming limbs. The monstrosity fed. Flesh knitted.


    Next dawn, notes recorded: Subject despondent. Mutters abandonment.


    ¡°Restoring its strength risks containment breaches,¡± a lead researcher warned. ¡°But its mind decays¡ªstarved of symbiotic partner from the escaped box.¡±


    Resolution came swiftly. Within sacred geometry circles, thaumaturgic flames rose. What remained became crystallized essence¡ªraw material for safer artifacts.


    The Abyss stared back. They made certain it blinked first.


    The azure glow of the Hammer of Witches sigils pulsed to life, casting jagged shadows across the ritual chamber. The monstrosity at the circle¡¯s heart remained motionless¡ªa blasphemous mockery of piety, claws clasped as if in prayer, carapace glistening like cathedral stained glass drenched in rot. Only when eldritch flames began stripping its flesh did the researchers remember this wasn¡¯t some saintly martyr, but a thing spat from cosmic gulfs.


    Praying? The notion curdled blood. To what stygian god did it whisper? To the colossus coiled between spiral nebulae, whose vigil over Earth bent reality to madness? Could such an entity¡ªnameless, formless¡ªeven acknowledge this abomination¡¯s devotions?


    None dared dwell on answers. Veterans exchanged uneasy glances. Each ritual peeled back another layer of night¡¯s veil, revealing humanity¡¯s fragility against the things knitting existence¡¯s frayed edges.


    "Field ops outdid themselves," a junior technician breathed, adjusting his spectacles.


    "Priceless specimen," scoffed a gray-bearded alchemist. "We scraped its cells for weeks and only confirmed the obvious¡ªit¡¯s a flesh-horror stitched from corpses. Incinerate it before we get ideas."


    Ulysses would¡¯ve smiled at their caution. Now, though, he watched Yvette wobble up the grand staircase¡ªa far more delicate puzzle.


    "Your mortal coil¡¯s still knitting itself, Princess," he drawled, trailing her like a disgruntled chaperone. "Must you risk splattering like overripe melon on the foyer tiles?"


    Yvette¡¯s grip whitened on the banister. "Movement rebuilds muscle. And stop calling me that."


    "Adorable, your mortal compulsions. Did you know stairfalls kill two hundred Albionites annually? Tragic waste of good brandy."


    She ignored him, focusing on her legs¡¯ alien fragility. When the euphoria hit¡ªcoppery and bright, like kissing a live wire¡ªshe almost welcomed it.


    "You¡¯re grinning," Ulysses noted, too casually.


    Her fingers flew to numb lips. "Hallucinations. From the crystal."


    Liar. She recognized this feral joy from the train massacre. Some parasitic godling¡¯s spawn had died tonight, and a shard of her reveled in its death-throes.


    The dream came clawing after midnight.


    Cold floorboards. Cleaver sticky with viscera. Someone¡¯s knocking¡ª


    The door creaked open to reveal Miss Moore¡¯s human simulacrum, pearl-buttoned gloves flawless.


    "Kinslayer," it crooned. "Let us merge. Let my flesh seed your ascension. We¡¯ll dance upon dead stars when the veil burns."


    Reality frayed. Yvette awoke gasping, clutching sweat-damp sheets.


    Only fragments remained¡ªa hayloft childhood memory not her own. A violet meteor piercing summer skies. Village children¡¯s laughter curdling to screams as the cracked stone birthing something slick and chittering, its limbs clicking like rosary beads...


    "Le¨®n was there," she whispered. "Blackjack. Before he became..."


    The revelation hung like a dagger.

 Chapter 45

    The lingering horror from another''s eyes still gripped Yvette''s bones as she woke.


    In her dreamscape, gales shrieked between racing clouds. Something ancient waited - not for her, but for a younger version of Moore. The pumpkin-sized mollusk with writhing tentacles they''d encountered might be but a nerve-ending of some cosmic predator. Since time''s dawn, such inconceivable horrors had festered in the dark reaches beyond mortal comprehension. How paltry humanity''s rational constructs seemed against these truths.


    Why do men instinctively fear the dark? Perhaps the void''s chill echoes our primal understanding - that existence itself is but a flicker against infinite, lightless eternity.


    She shook the thoughts away. Better to examine the iceberg''s tip than ponder its submerged bulk, she reasoned.


    Was Leon, the boy whose memories she''d invaded, truly the villain she''d slain as Blackjack? If so, when had their paths diverged - childhood allies both granted powers, or separate encounters in adulthood? Were they aware of each other''s gifts? Could some hidden cabal bind them?


    The questions spun unanswered, yet certain truths crystallized: Moore''s powers undeniably sprouted from that meteor-borne entity - likely a fragment of some Elder God. Winslow''s testimony confirmed an identical creature had slithered from her childhood home. Had it clung to Moore''s shadow all these decades?


    Blackjack''s hedonistic villainy contrasted sharply with Moore''s zealous devotion. The Bureau typically tolerated rogue talents content with bourgeois comforts, intervening only to prevent disaster. But Moore''s fanaticism placed her among history''s most dangerous archetypes - the true believer and the reckless scholar, ever prying at locks better left sealed.


    Exhausting these threads brought no revelation. The visions were relics of bygone years; practical matters demanded focus. With the Bureau aware of the entity, priority shifted to its capture. Success there would answer all.


    Curiously, after this latest nightmare, her powers surged as if augmented by another crystal dose. Why? Only three had ever triggered these perspective visions: robed Hydra, Durand of the Boiling Lake, and Moore (who still breathed in custody). Blackjack and the Barnacle Hierophant''s deaths left no such echoes. What hidden pattern governed this?


    Their victory over Moore''s monstrous form owed much to the incendiary cloak elixir obtained at the witches'' market. Though impractical for covert use, this portable inferno granted exponential combat boosts. Now diminished reserves necessitated procurement plans.


    Days of convalescence complete, Yvette returned to society''s whirl. Her self-imposed isolation had worried companions. Now, clubmates gathered at their beloved Caf¨¦ Mitre amid clinking crystal and silver-domed platters.


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    "To Mandrake''s restored vigor!"


    As attendants relayed whispered requests between diners, Yvette fielded endless toasts until Oleander intervened: "Cease this barrage! The man''s just risen from sickbed!"


    Wolfsbane leaned close. "I''d meant to call during your confinement - left card at Hampstead gatehouse. Sir Ulysses'' man turned me away most gruffly."


    "Your uncle''s medical wisdom guided many through last winter''s pestilence," Oleander reassured the table. "His prescription of rest proved sound, no?"


    Before Yvette could respond, a commotion erupted. Across the cobbled avenue, atop the Woolsack Assurance offices, a figure swayed at the roof''s edge.


    "Another desperate soul?" Oleander mused. "That banker last month - remember, Mandrake? At the races? Left his watch and note upon the ledge."


    Yvette''s chair scraped empty as he spoke.


    Short stared into the maw of London''s gray-stoned gullet. The Hunt''s rules were absolute - by becoming prey, his family might yet escape creditors. One step ended their suffering. But oh, Amelia''s eyes shared this street''s gentle silver...


    As gravity beckoned, a force like storm-winds seized him.


    ¡°You¡¯re¡­?¡± Short blinked up from the cobblestones, vision swimming, as a striking youth with long foreign locks studied him.


    ¡°Just passing through.¡± Yvette offered a hand.


    The man¡¯s attire told a story¡ªtailored waistcoat, frock coat cropped at the latest fashion, trousers without a crease out of place. His walking stick, though finely carved, showed the scuffs of use.


    A prosperous man, she noted, but that shabby pipe reeks of penny tobacco. Fortunes change.


    When he declined to share his woes, she didn¡¯t press. Some griefs needed silence.


    ¡°Why not ask why I¡­¡± His voice frayed.


    Yvette adjusted her tricorn. ¡°Men don¡¯t leap off roofs for simple reasons. But traffic accidents kill more than despair¡ªmind your step next time.¡±


    As she left, commotion bubbled below. Reporters scrambled upward until her glare stalled them: ¡°Give him air.¡±


    On the roof, Short steadied himself. That boy¡¯s velvet cloak had kindled mad hope¡ªPerhaps wealth could salve my ruin? Foolishness. Strangers owed no miracles.


    Tomorrow, he resolved, sell the machinery. Mortgage the townhouse. Start anew. Three generations¡¯ rise¡ªartisan to clerk to factory owner¡ªcrumbling to dust. Yet life remained.


    His fingers found the keepsake knife, its hidden Stanhope lens preserving a memory: his wife¡¯s stiff smile during the interminable portrait, infant squirming in her arms. I nearly orphaned them.


    Relief, sharp as grief, pierced him.


    ¡°Three cheers for Mandragora!¡±


    The tavern erupted as Yvette returned. Strangers sent wine, admirers begged introductions.


    ¡°Like a bloody osprey diving!¡± A clubman slapped her back. ¡°Thought you¡¯d both go over!¡±


    He never heard me, she mused. Perks of silence.


    Amid the hubbub, a card caught her eye¡ªblack-bordered, gilt-lettered.


    ¡°Death¡¯s Gallery?¡± Oleander whistled. ¡°VIP passes! They¡¯re dissecting a mummy at dawn!¡±


    ¡°Fowler¡¯s collection?¡± Ulysses sniffed when consulted. ¡°Competent, if ghoulish. His ¡®Veined Arm¡¯¡ª¡±


    ¡°How shrunken heads?¡±


    His scalpel flashed. ¡°Otter skulls. Pass.¡±


    Yvette dangled the tickets. ¡°Medical anomalies. A pharaoh¡¯s kin unwrapped¡­¡±


    Ulysses¡¯ nostrils flared. ¡°Purely as escort, mind you. Ghastly business, corpses¡­¡±

 Chapter 46

    On the morning of the exhibition, Ulysses appeared uncharacteristically understated in a plain black frock coat and trousers¡ªso devoid of his usual French opulence that Yvette nearly mistook him for the valet.


    The Industrial Age had democratized fashion through mass production, leaving tailoring as the last bastion of aristocratic distinction. No more ancestral sable robes; Albion¡¯s gentlemen now vied discreetly through Savile Row precision rather than gaudy gems. Yet even in simplicity, Ulysses¡¯ lithe frame and tapered waist provoked Yvette¡¯s sartorial envy¡ªher own narrow shoulders drowned in borrowed tailcoats.


    ¡°Avoiding spectacle, Sir?¡± she ventured. ¡°Wise, given the macabre exhibits. I¡¯ll change.¡±


    ¡°Stay. You¡¯ll monopolize attention regardless.¡± He donned a face mask, suspicious as a highwayman.


    ¡°Whatever for?¡±


    ¡°Evading* tiresome acquaintances*.¡±


    Ah¡ªRichard Fowler, the curator. Ulysses¡¯ unspoken vendetta amused her. Three years prior, the collector had dismissed his forgery accusations as ¡°jealous calumny.¡± Now here he was, preemptively masked.


    Her VIP pass granted early entry. Fowler¡¯s greeting faltered at Ulysses¡¯ presence¡ªthe two-family ticket presumed a wife, not this inscrutable companion¡ªbut propriety prevailed.


    The exhibition paraded medical grotesqueries: desiccated limbs, celebrity cadavers (a shriveled Lord-Mayor resembling a smoked ham), and laughable hoaxes. Ulysses dissected a ¡°mermaid¡± skeleton with clinical disdain: ¡°Dolphin spine fused with baboon ribs. The ¡®flesh¡¯ is salted mutton. Amateur work.¡±


    Yet certain specimens silenced him¡ªa vitrified optic nerve, a disarticulated skull.


    ¡°The cranium¡ªit fascinates you?¡±


    ¡°Its dissection method. The skull¡¯s puzzle of sutured bones resists separation sans occult means. Yet some mortal genius packed the cavity with dried peas, submerged it¡ªhydration expanded the legumes, gently prying each plate apart. Elegant.¡±


    Their tour halted at Fowler¡¯s pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance: a gilded sarcophagus cradling an 18th Dynasty prince. VIPs watched mummy unwrapping; plebeians viewed the aftermath. Yvette¡¯s feigned interest stiffened.


    Crossed arms. Narrow shoulders. Wide hips.


    Years of hospital chats had taught her osteology. This pelvis screamed female.


    Fowler¡¯s rictus grin confirmed others¡¯ doubts.


    Egyptian tombs, long pillaged for mummy-paint pigments and quack remedies, now birthed forgers. Royal relics fetched fortunes; Fowler¡¯s ¡°prince¡± was likely some peasant¡¯s bones dipped in gilt.


    ¡°Fraud!¡± hissed a patron. ¡°I paid forty guineas for this?¡±


    Fowler¡¯s face purpled.


    ¡°Genuine,¡± Ulysses murmured when Yvette inquired.


    ¡°But the skeleton¡ª¡±


    ¡°Tutankhamun¡¯s own remains¡ªstudied by clandestine scholars¡ªhad a clubbed foot and feminine pelvis. Inbred royals. This one¡¯s defects confirm lineage.¡±


    ¡°Supernatural corruption?¡±


    ¡°Dormant for millennia. Besides, their sorcerers ritually purged corpses of power. Harmless.¡±


    ¡°¡­Is this documented?¡±


    ¡°Imperial Library¡¯s public archives. Aiding Fowler serves your agenda.¡±


    Yvette stepped forward, channeling Ulysses¡¯ lecture (censoring the occult).


    ¡°¡­Consanguineous pharaonic marriages bred hereditary anomalies. This mummy¡¯s deformities align with Tutankhamun¡¯s lineage, per the Alexandria Codex held in Bloomsbury. I¡¯ll furnish references.¡±


    The applause was thunderous. Fowler near-wept.


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    ¡°Mr. Fisher! You¡¯ve saved this exhibition!¡±


    ¡°Credit lies with my uncle.¡± She anchored Ulysses¡¯ retreating sleeve. ¡°Sir Ulysses tutored me exhaustively.¡±


    Fowler blanched. ¡°But we¡ªthat is¡ªforgive my past impertinence, Sir! Your grace humbles me¡ª¡±


    Ulysses escaped only to mutter:


    ¡°Gratuitous meddling.¡±


    No, Yvette thought. Revenge is a dish best served mummified.


    Having explored the museum during its early preview, Yvette and her companions found little left to see by opening hours, though the day remained young.


    "Lunch in Kensington first, then a leisurely stroll before returning," suggested Ulysses.


    "Kensington? That¡¯s quite a detour, isn¡¯t it?" Yvette¡¯s brow furrowed. Several fine eateries lay nearby¡ªwhy venture to the city center? Ulysses hardly struck her as a culinary connoisseur.


    "The horticultural exhibition¡¯s ongoing. We might as well visit while there."


    Ah, Kensington¡¯s famed flower show. During the London season, when nobility flocked to the capital, such events multiplied like spring blooms. Gardening being deemed a genteel pursuit¡ªparticularly among ladies¡ªthe Royal Horticultural Society¡¯s exhibit mingled masterpieces from aristocratic gardeners with pet projects of society matrons.


    Lately, Yvette¡¯s clubmates had dragged her through every seasonal diversion¡ªhorse races, tennis matches, hunts where servants flushed terrified prey toward gentlemen¡¯s guns. None appealed, least of all the bloodsport after recent¡­ incidents. Flowers seemed a safer delight. Yet her burly companions preferred more masculine amusements. Men at flower shows? Only when squiring female relatives.


    Ulysses¡¯ invitation intrigued her. His phrasing of "while we¡¯re there" rang false¡ªthis felt more pilgrimage than pitstop.


    "Are you¡­ taking me there specially?"


    "Kensington¡¯s no great distance. And earlier¡ªthose bones and taxidermy bored you senseless, didn¡¯t they? You barely paid attention."


    Busted.


    Prior assumptions melted upon arrival. Yvette had imagined a glorified plant market¡ªrare species, flawless blooms, pots lined up for admiration. Reality engulfed them. This wasn¡¯t visitors observing flora but submersion in a living tapestry.


    Exotic blossoms formed merely a fraction. Landscaped gardens sprawled, arrangements cascaded, even prize vegetables gleamed. French-inspired "natural" designs ruled¡ªartful wilderness where delicate specimens basked in glasshouses dotted with charming teahouse furniture. Enchanted, Yvette wandered wide-eyed.


    One oddity stood out: attendees were mostly gentlemen escorting ladies. Two men together drew glances.


    Feeling this, Ulysses drifted half a step behind, a shadow at Yvette¡¯s shoulder.


    "Sir?"


    "Not ¡®Sir.¡¯ Merely your hay-fevered valet today." He adjusted his face mask.


    Disguises crumble before familiarity.


    "Ulysses! At last! Yearly invitations, yearly excuses." Booming laughter announced the Duke of Lancaster, golden as his RHS medals. "Almost mistook you¡ªso oddly dressed!"


    "Address me formally. Shouldn¡¯t you be dancing attendance elsewhere this season?"


    Normally crisp in French-cut coats that aggravated Albion¡¯s jingoistic sensibilities, Ulysses¡¯ plain attire today invited comment. Ah, the ton¡ªwhere ladies rolled carriage blinds to better flaunt gowns and critique rivals¡¯ hemlines.


    "A riding injury pardons my absence. Bless that clumsy mare¡ªshe brings me serendipity!"


    Without my intervention, you¡¯d be worm-food, not here badgering him, Yvette¡¯s inner voice snarked.


    "Yves! My gallant savior! Don¡¯t tell me Ulysses is¡­ escorting you?" The Duke¡¯s smirk could sink ships.


    "My nephew wished to dine locally," Ulysses cut in stiffly. Normally the duke¡¯s verbal sparring partner, he stood disarmed by his own uncharacteristic ruse.


    Yvette threw him a lifeline: "We thought to view the exhibits after lunch."


    "Providence smiles! Come, behold my triumph! With Her Majesty mourning, the field¡¯s clear. Victory shall be mine!"


    The duke¡¯s glasshouse revealed his masterpiece: clusters of unearthly spider lilies, ivory petals veined crimson, blood-red stamens at their heart¡ªa vision of bridal macabre.


    No wonder his confidence. While rivals touted irises and dahlias, his entry hailed from mythic Cathay¡ªnautical graveyard since ancient mages¡¯ departure stirred eternal maelstroms. Cultivating such warmth-loving blooms in London¡¯s chill? A feat of horticultural hubris.


    "Summer blossoms coerced into spring via heated greenhouse¡ªcharcoal stoves, night and day."


    "Magnificent. Certain to win."


    Her praise lit ducal inspiration. "A name eludes this marvel. Yves¡ªthe honor¡¯s yours."


    "Me?! I name weapons, not flowers!"


    "Then ¡®Yves de Fische¡¯s Bloom¡¯ it shall be! All London will whisper of you~"


    Saint George, spare me¡­


    Rescue came from an unlikely knight:


    "Fueling rumors of your¡­ unconventional tastes, Your Grace?"


    Hear hear!


    "Scandal amuses."


    "They¡¯d hustle you to the altar by week¡¯s end."


    "Ugh. Nevermind."


    Yvette stammered: "Name it¡­ for the gardener?"


    The duke wrinkled his nose. "¡®John¡¯s Pride¡¯? Unthinkable."


    Fair.


    "Moot for now. Let friendship be commemorated!" He snatched shears.


    "Your competition entry!"


    "Plenty in the nursery."


    Ignoring protests, he presented the bouquet. "Befits you."


    Yvette stiffened. Such words¡­ rarely directed at gentlemen.


    ¡­


    Evening found Yvette souring over tea and tragedy¡ªthe gazette¡¯s obituaries:


    [Corey Short (42), Titmouse Furnishings proprietor, perished May 22nd via self-administered toxin. Financial collapse cited, following thwarted rooftop suicide attempt days prior. Coroner¡¯s verdict: self-murder.]


    Redemption¡¯s light¡­ extinguished?


    That final smile had radiated hard-won peace.


    "Flowers in your room, Young Master." Alison¡¯s vase glowed with unnatural blooms. "Sugar water prolongs their life. What fine lady grew these, I wonder?"


    Yvette swallowed the truth: A ducal jester¡¯s whim, grown by John the gardener. Let maidens dream of rose-tinted romance.

 Chapter 47

    Corey Short''s death weighed heavily on Yvette''s conscience, yet what''s done couldn''t be undone. When the name resurfaced days later, fate twisted its knife anew.


    "Apologies for this meager hospitality," muttered Keegan, the druid they called Oak Sage, gesturing at their dismal surroundings - a derelict factory turned relief station.


    Yvette chewed stoically on the dense loaf, its course texture a far cry from aristocratic fare. Potato-pea bread, scorned as pauper''s gruel now, would ironically become artisanal chic in future centuries. Here, jaw-aching gnawing replaced delicate slicing. A flicker of Otherworldly warmth softened the ordeal.


    Keegan shifted uncomfortably. The Irish ascetic''s oath permitted him root vegetables, but serving this to a noble-born girl? The slums offered no redemption.


    "Quite tasty, really - earthy sweetness." With practiced poise, Yvette brushed crumbs from her corduroy coat, beret concealing telltale lustrous locks.


    Around them loomed the Mutual Aid Society''s reserves - crates of rough bread and salvaged goods. In an age when governments turned blind eyes, the poor sustained themselves through communal grit. Each copper coin pooled became medicine for the sick, shrouds for the dead, hope for the jobless.


    Dawn had found Yvette adopting laborers'' hours. By noon, her dual talents - clerk''s precision and Otherworldly vigor - halved the day''s work. Dockhands gaped as the "delicate lad" hefted flour sacks like feather pillows.


    "Here, pretty lad - your due!" A grizzled organizer tossed Yvette a scuffed football, treasure beyond slum children''s wildest hopes.


    "Jaiden, she''s not..." Keegan''s protest died as Yvette dimpled.


    "Gracious thanks, Uncle!"


    Post-inventory, Keegan surveyed the crowd: "Distribute now? Evening brings chaos in dark streets."


    "Why so much food?" Yvette frowned. "Shouldn''t fuel and clothes dominate?"


    "Carpenters..." Keegan hesitated. "Their employer... defaulted. Took his life."


    "Short? Corey Short?" The name struck like thunderclap.


    The druid veered into forest lore, sparking her request: "That Flame Cloak Potion - could your circle provide more?"


    "A fire-ring brewer? Masked at the Sabbat. I know a stationary flame-wall mixer..."


    "Mobility''s essential."


    Chaos erupted during distribution. Yvette waded through shouting men as Keegan demanded answers.


    "That whoreson destroyed us!" A snarling worker shook his quarry. "His lies drove Short to ruin!"


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    "Union slander?"


    The accused fled, only to meet Yvette''s iron grip: "Oh no you don''t. Talk."


    In a grimy alley behind the warehouses, the man squirmed under Yvette and Keegan¡¯s interrogation. "Short docked my pay ¡¯cause I slacked off," he muttered. "Wanted to make ¡¯im pay."


    "You foul worm!" Keegan¡¯s face flushed crimson. "Expelled from the Brotherhood! Leave London¡ªif I see you again, I¡¯ll throttle you myself!"


    In this age of threadbare survival, even shopkeepers lived week-to-week. Laborers without kin or fellowships crumbled at the first crisis¡ªa fever became a death sentence. For an Irishman like him, exile was a death warrant: London¡¯s workers blamed his kind for stolen jobs and surging crime. Yet the man just nodded, hollow-eyed.


    "Deserve it, Mr. Keegan. I¡¯ll go."


    Yvette¡¯s instincts prickled. Too calm. A man cast out into this Irish-hating city should rage or beg. But loyal Keegan noticed nothing, so she held her tongue, memorizing the man¡¯s retreating path. She excused herself later, trailing him through twilight streets.


    The man meandered without urgency, swigging ale from a bottle. By nightfall, he staggered drunk into London¡¯s underbelly¡ªa squalid district even constables avoided. Medieval sanctuaries for outlaws had decayed into gang nests locals called "the Devil¡¯s Acre."


    Yvette navigated the maze of crumbling tenements. Gaunt youths in stolen finery eyed her, but her boyish disguise held. She slipped past a snoozing lookout, scaling worm-eaten bricks to a rooftop. Voices echoed from a second-story hovel:


    "...Did like you said, boss. Drove Short to off ¡¯imself. Brotherhood booted me out. Nowhere else to go..." The man¡¯s earlier resignation had curdled into groveling.


    "Beetle¡ªtwo quid. See him out," drawled a voice like rusted iron.


    "Right you are, chief!" piped a teenage boy.


    "But boss! You promised¡ª!" The man¡¯s plea drowned under a pistol¡¯s metallic click.


    The boy laughed. "Take the coins, or I¡¯ll take ¡¯em back through your skull!"


    Yvette peered through rotten shingles as the man bolted. The cold voice spoke again: "Tail him. Feed him to the Thames. Loose lips sink ships¡ªand our ¡®noble patrons¡¯ won¡¯t shield us if this leaks."


    Patrons. The laborer was a pawn. Yvette needed to trace the strings upward¡ªbut first, warn Keegan.


    As she retreated, a freckled teen blocked her path¡ªBeetle, all cocky swagger. "What crew you from, eh?"


    Yvette feigned desperation. "Got nowhere. Heard this place takes strays..."


    Beetle jabbed her chest. "What¡¯s your trade? Dip? Fence? Cat burglar?"


    Yvette gambled. "Locks. I crack ¡¯em silent."


    "Chief¡¯ll bite. Come on."


    The chief¡¯s den reeked of vice. Hawk-nosed and reptilian-eyed, he presided over his court: a honey-trap girl counted coins; preteens traded pilfered linen for pennies. Beetle strutted in, puffing his chest.


    "You sorted the snitch?" the chief growled.


    "Snitch is fish food, chief! Found this locksmith here¡ªfresh meat!"


    "A fiver for you, Beetle." The chief never blinked, leering at Yvette. A preteen thief whined about unfair pay, but the chief¡¯s gaze stayed fixed.


    The honey-trap girl purred, "Maybe better work for you, pretty thing..."


    The chief dismissed the crew. Alone, he circled Yvette. "Name. Age."


    "Charle. Orphan. Sixteen."


    "Sixteen¡­ Get nabbed, they¡¯ll hang you like Christmas pudding."


    "Won¡¯t get nabbed."


    "Arrogant pup." The chief¡¯s breath reeked of gin. "But I¡¯ve sweeter work. Quieter. Fatter purses."


    Yvette recoiled as he grabbed her chin. "I¡¯m no Molly boy."


    He chuckled. "Men pay plenty for porcelain skin like yours. No locksmith earns this much."


    Revulsion surged, but Yvette played along. She flicked a hairpin, popping a padlock silently¡ªa "parlor trick" powered by her hidden gifts. The chief huffed but yielded, calling her a prissy coward.


    As his vulgarities flowed, Yvette plotted. Once she unraveled this gang¡¯s patrons¡ªbe they mortal lords or darker forces¡ªMr. Alto would raze this rat¡¯s nest. Let the chief dance at rope¡¯s end.


    But first¡­ who pulled the strings?

 Chapter 48

    Two days into the gang, Yvette realized the Hook-Nosed boss operated on another level. A counterfeit scammer sprung from jail via a slick lawyer? No petty thug could swing that¡ªhe had allies in high places.


    ¡°Play by my rules, and even prison won¡¯t hold you,¡± he bragged, sharp eyes glinting.


    ¡°Only idiots get nabbed,¡± Yvette retorted, already envisioning his arrest. Let¡¯s see your lawyer talk your way out of Chief Alto¡¯s cells.


    After two idle days, the boss finally called her in with Little Beetle. Their mark: a locked study in a vacant manor. The owner? Away. The guard? A soused old codger. Beetle¡¯s job: drug the man¡¯s gin, then keep watch. Yvette¡¯s task: crack the study, swipe a document, leave no trace.


    ¡°Easy peasy, Boss!¡± chirped Beetle. Yvette nodded, silently vowing to botch the job if the papers mattered.


    She caught the boss¡¯s gaze lingering¡ªparanoia or a plotted betrayal?


    By afternoon, Beetle had a whiskey laced with knockout powder. After downing it, the caretaker snored like a hog. Beetle cuckoo-called the all-clear. Yvette scaled the wall, slipped through a half-shut door, and climbed upstairs, blueprint in hand.


    Meanwhile, Beetle ditched his post, jingling coins. ¡°Ten quid in two days¡­ Fancy a pint, eh?¡±


    Upstairs, Yvette jimmied the lock¡ªnot with picks, but her Hymn of Mists. Heat bled from the air into subsonic waves, their frequency tuned to rattle the lock¡¯s guts. She left false scratch marks, masking her power¡¯s precision.


    The door creaked open. No study awaited¡ªinstead, whips, shackles, and a sweaty aristocrat aiming a revolver.


    ¡°Pretty birdie¡ªhands up,¡± he crooned. Realization struck: the boss had pimped her out as a toy.


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    Her Hymn surged again, warping heat into a hum that liquefied the man¡¯s vision. Blinking wildly, he fumbled his gun¡ªnow hers, barrel kissing his temple.


    ¡°Twitch, and I redecorate this room with your skull,¡± she said sweetly.


    The man¡ªa coal-to-jet tycoon lauded in papers¡ªsobbed bribes. Disgusted, Yvette rifled through his Sadean smut, unearthing a photo: business elites, the tycoon¡­ and a smudged figure. The stance, the cane¡ªMr. Short. But his face? Eaten by shadows, like a corpse¡¯s fading portrait.


    Yvette slammed the photograph against his sweaty jowls. "Memory lapse? Let me remedy that. Look at Cory Shortt. Remember now?"


    The libertine blanched. "Christ¡¯s sake, put that cursed thing away!"


    "Cursed?" She studied the mottled image¡ªshrouded faces like tombstones in fog. Shortt¡¯s obliterated visage confirmed her suspicion. "Why do corpses haunt this frame?"


    "When that banker leapt at Ascot..." She conjured obituary names like dark incantations. "James Volpe. Who else danced with your angel?"


    "You¡¯re bluffing!" Spittle flew. "No outsider could¡ª"


    "I enumerate these names," Yvette cocked her Adams revolver, "to illustrate how thoroughly you¡¯re known. Test me with falsehoods, sir, and we¡¯ll explore pain¡¯s pedagogy."


    His triple chin quivered. "Protection. Swear it!"


    "God above, must I spell it?" She gestured toward the boarded windows. "Those alley rats saw me enter. Murder you? Why inherit Scotland Yard¡¯s gaze over a pissant like you?"


    Defeated, he scrawled his confession under gunpoint¡ªa grotesque memoir of hubris:


    Club invitations from tailors¡¯ sons turned City predators. Parlor games with parliamentarians. The ritual: a doll gutted, re-stuffed with roe-deer organs, buried at crossroads. Then the questions... oh, the questions It answered...


    Stock tips. Rival¡¯s mistresses. Which mines to invest in. Every answer a chisel strike on our souls. Months between cullings at first. Now weekly. Hungrier.


    Volpe? Shortt? We didn¡¯t kill¡ªwe curated despair. Bullied until the noose seemed kinder. But these past years... It takes who It wants. Even through ink and parchment now. Even¡ª


    The quill clattered. Vertebrae popped like champagne corks. His face lolled backward, lifeless eyes reproaching his twisted spine.


    Yvette sniffed cordite, scanning for phantasms. Nothing. Only the expanding dread in her gut¡ªand the photograph in her pocket.


    Newly developed in the chemical gloom: her own portrait among the faceless damned.

 Chapter 49

    nly swarmed past, laughing like windchimes. "Play with us! Play with us!" Their invitation hung in the air, though none glanced back.


    Further on, boys clustered around an upright nail, tossing coins. The rules were street-simple: land your halfpenny to claim the pot. As Yvette passed, a copper disk struck true.


    "I did it!" A grubby victor punched the air.


    Common enough¡ªLondon''s gutters teemed with urchins. But the hairs on Yvette''s neck prickled.


    Cobblestones clattered. She spun aside as iron crashed down¡ªa flower stand obliterating where she''d stood. "Saint''s mercy!" cried onlookers, crossing themselves.


    "Toast your health, lad," advised a shaken witness. "Better a whole head than a crown!"


    Celestial protection? Yvette''s smile felt brittle. These "accidents" tasted orchestrated.


    Down a halfpenny, a boy trudged from the game. The clatter of hooves drew her to a hackney carriage¡ªsafer than dodging rooftop terrors. But as wheels rolled, children''s rhymes pursued:


    "Humpty Dumpty had a great fall¡ª All the king''s horses couldn''t mend him at all!"


    The verse still haunted when the carriage lurched. A wheel-spoke snapped. Panicked horses veered, dragging the wreck toward collision. Yvette hauled the driver clear, cushioning their fall with unnatural grace.


    Through tears, the man inspected splintered livelihood. Yvette handed him a charity address¡ªher thousand-pound donation to Keagan''s refuge should cover repairs. "Saint bless you!" he wept, unaware she''d been the lightning rod.


    "Playtime!" The singsong call echoed everywhere and nowhere. Above, sullied clouds brooded¡ªthe Angel''s hunting grounds.


    Ahead loomed dockside hazards: stacked crates, swinging chains. Yvette swerved toward the railyard. Let the entity try its tricks on empty tracks! She memorized train schedules, stepping clear of scheduled thunder.


    It worked... until the iron bridge.


    "London Bridge is falling down!" Children formed a living archway. Beneath their game, rusted rivets swam in the Thames. Yvette''s vision fractured¡ªsteel groaning, flesh bursting under collapsing girders...


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    She recoiled. A fleeing "bridge" child collided with her knees.


    "We playing?" Yvette asked softly.


    The boy looked up¡ªand fled screaming. "Cor! His eyes were like... like knife-blades!"


    Yvette scanned the fat man¡¯s final confession, her eyes settling on the club¡¯s address.


    Come play the game! The childlike voice taunted again, a predatory lure veiled as invitation. Whatever this "game" entailed, the Angel would not be denied.


    The Suicide Club lurked near the Bishop¡¯s Crown, not far from where she¡¯d saved Short¡ªand where a banker had leapt to his death. The district reeked of sacrificial intent, a darkened altar for the Angel¡¯s hunger.


    As Yvette walked, children¡¯s laughter dogged her steps. "Come play!" they chorused, their chant too synchronized, too hungry. Normal children, perhaps¡­ yet their eyes gleamed with borrowed malice.


    She pieced together the Angel¡¯s patterns. The fallen rivet, the shattered axle¡ªcalculated probabilities, not miracles. It nudge fate¡¯s threads, fraying a screw here, rusting a joint there. But true power? No. A bridge wouldn¡¯t collapse; that demanded divine wrath, and the Angel was no god.


    Then why the drawn-out theater? Why herd victims to the club?


    Hydra¡¯s words echoed: "Ritual is an address. Without it, sacrifices go astray."


    Suicide as ceremony. Each death, a tailored offering. And she¡ªa fellow occult being¡ªwas the grand prize. The Angel would savor her end, hence its contradictions: accidents to pressure her, riddles to tempt her. A predator playing with prey.


    Her grip tightened on the pistol hidden in her coat. Steady. Breathe.


    The club¡¯s address led to a grimy alley, suffocated by leaning rooftops that smothered the dusk. A rusted sign creaked: The Old Clock Tower. The ghost of a beer mug hinted at its past life.


    Inside, a bartender polished glasses, deaf to her footsteps. Yvette¡¯s finger rested on her trigger. One move, and a bullet would pierce the cloth toward his heart.


    "Welcome¡­ sir," he droned, lids half-shut, eyeballs rolled back. "Nights belong¡­ to members. Enjoy."


    Her nape prickled. Behind her, the door had vanished. Walls boxed her in.


    The bartender¡¯s breath hitched¡ªa sleeper¡¯s rhythm. She aimed¡­ but he dissolved. Dust coated the bar. A promotional poster hung askew: Half-Price Drinks for the King¡¯s Birthday ¨C July 21st.


    No living monarch claimed that date. This relic was two decades old.


    The Angel had conjured a warped replica¡ªa shadow-puppet of the past, threaded into the Veil.


    A pencil clattered off a table. Yellowed letters lay beside a brandy glass, its ice long melted. The script bled brown, ink or blood:


    *[...Cease this folly. My lineage climbed through that cursed game, but the cost? Ravens feasted on my ancestor¡¯s skull after Cromwell¡¯s fall. When the crown revived, his family swung as traitors. His diary recounts the mob¡¯s cheers as his kin died¡ªthe same cheers that once hailed the king¡¯s execution.


    Yet they had heirs to spare. You do not. Turn back.


    But if you persist, I¡¯ll recite the rites. Pray you choose wisely.]*


    Centuries-old treachery. A noble house gambling with occult forces, their rituals now resurrected.


    The pencil rolled toward shadowed stairs.


    Yvette ascended, the darkness swallowing her whole.

 Chapter 50

    The structure had warped into something far more sinister than the quaint tavern they¡¯d entered. With each creaking step upward, Yvette confronted the Angel¡¯s corrupting influence. The staircase now defied reason, its endless spiral vanishing into impossible horizons - a drunkard¡¯s nightmare given form.


    The second floor mimicked a nobleman¡¯s quarters fallen to ruin. Behind an ajar door, the relentless plink-plink of water beckoned. But upon entering the candlelit chamber, the stench of decay overwhelmed her. A gruesome bathtub tableau revealed itself ¨C murky fluid darkening linen into burial shrouds, blade abandoned beside telltale stains. Though no body remained, the suicide¡¯s ghost lingered through a farewell note heavy with cosmic dread:


    "It was no angel but a vast, uncaring hunger. We¡¯re grains beneath its gaze. I pray you escape the game I¡¯ve doomed you to..."


    Higher floors unfolded as galleries of despair. Windows yawned over vertigo-inducing mists; blood-crusted textiles whispered of midnight agonies. One room mirrored the torture den where she¡¯d watched the fat man snap his own neck ¨C now maggot-ridden and reeking, though barely a day had passed. Illusions, all of it... yet the bile rising in her throat felt real enough.


    The hospital floor chilled her most. Sunlight streamed cruelly across a deathbed¡¯s tokens: fractured penmanship beside an emptied vial. The words carved into old wounds ¨C memories of smiling through decaying flesh, bargaining with death between chemotherapy rounds. How easy it¡¯d be to drink the tincture now rolling toward her...


    A gunshot rang out before conscious thought. "Not today," she rasped, smoke curling from her revolver. "Your game ends here."


    The Angel answered by seizing her arm. Joints popped as the barrel rose toward her skull. She¡¯d anticipated this gambit ¨C while mortal minds snapped like twigs under its grip, a Hunter¡¯s will bent but didn¡¯t break. Let it pull the trigger. Let it taste divine irony...


    The blue-white flash left ozone sharpness. Behind her, the bullet¡¯s true victim - the Angel¡¯s manifested self - collapsed twitching. Its final glare held millennia of spite before dissolving into the floorboards.


    Rules anchored even gods. By making it "suicide" its own conduit, she¡¯d checkmated the cosmic parasite. Let it hibernate another century in defeat. Her boots echoed toward the exit, heavy with other people¡¯s ghosts but lighter than they¡¯d been in years.


    Yvette blinked, suddenly aware of her surroundings¡ªa noisy tavern corner, her boot resting on a rickety staircase. The air buzzed with boisterous conversations as drinkers clinked frothy mugs beneath tobacco-stained beams.


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    A waiter did a double-take. The stranger had materialized by the stairs. Had they been there moments ago?


    "Sir, second floor¡¯s restricted," he said hastily.


    Upstairs belonged to the working girls¡ªa controlled space to prevent drunks harassing patrons or workers. Transactions happened under the tavern¡¯s watchful cut.


    Retreating, Yvette stepped outside.


    The building had changed. Fresh whitewash gleamed under moonlight; polished windows sported new curtains in peony patterns. Where a splintered "Old Clock Tower Tavern" sign once hung, "Queen¡¯s Bar" now flaunted a painted siren.


    A century¡¯s weight settled on her shoulders. She queried a passerby about the old tavern.


    "Oh, that burnt down in the ¡¯66 Fire," the local said. "Took half the street. Rebuilt years later, renamed."


    1666¡­


    The photograph in her satchel felt heavier. Retrieving it, she found everyone erased¡ªexcept her doppelg?nger.


    There "she" stood, alone in the corner. Same face, but twisted with malice¡ªa vengeful spirit trapped behind photographic paper.


    Fear prickled her neck. She secured the cursed image, navigating London¡¯s night like a minefield until reaching Hampstead Heath¡¯s gates.


    Midnight chimed as clockwork servants ushered her in. Winslow and Ulysses exchanged looks¡ªher disheveled state spoke volumes.


    "Why the late visit, Master Ives? And this¡­ attire?"


    She laid out the fat man¡¯s diary and altered photo, skimming details. Winslow¡¯s frown deepened with each word.


    "This is beyond reckless! Letting Sir Ulysses mentor you was clearly¡ª¡±


    "¡ªA masterstroke," Ulysses cut in. "Note how she survived."


    "I distinctly recall teaching restraint."


    Yvette tuned them out. Her powers neutralized the Angel¡¯s tricks. The Barnacle Scion had required mass sacrifice; this thing preyed on lonely capitalists. Child¡¯s play. Even possession attempts would fail¡ªkinetic energy became heat, guns misfired. Why the fuss?


    But logic wouldn¡¯t sway Winslow. Time for theatrics.


    Summoning chemotherapy memories¡ªneedles, nausea, sterile walls¡ªshe bowed her head. "I¡¯m sorry¡­ Winning felt hollow. Old wounds reopened..."


    The steward deflated. "My apologies¡ªrelief made me harsh. Let¡¯s¡­ have tea cakes. Yes, tea cakes help." He fled kitchenward.


    Ulysses snorted. "Bravo. But next time, blink slower when lying¡ªenhances sincerity."


    "You¡¯ll play along?"


    "Winslow¡¯s ¡®tonics¡¯ taste worse than prison swill." Leaning closer, he added, "The sorrow wasn¡¯t feigned, though. Who hurt you?"


    "No one living." She changed tack. "There¡¯s a brothel kingpin. Gets children from sniveling weasels. Should rot in Newgate."


    "I¡¯ll have Alto arrange a ¡®residency.¡¯ Prisons need vermin to clean their cesspits."


    His grin promised creative cruelty, but Yvette intervened: "No gallows-view suites this time."


    "Patience. Broken limbs first. Then decades as a brigand¡¯s bride."


    Winslow returned with a tower of pastries¡ªsturdy scones, sticky maple pancakes. Homely, hearty.


    As syrup melted on her tongue, darkness lifted. The Angel¡¯s whispers had preyed on buried despair, but sweetness anchored her. Misfortune struck, yet kindness always followed.


    "Young Master enjoys the pancakes?"


    "They¡¯re perfect tonight," she said, savoring the lie and truth alike.

 Chapter 51

    Yvette dispatched the report via raven to the Tower of London headquarters that very night. Sleep would elude many¡ªthe organization¡¯s psychics would swarm forth, purging memories of the occult ritual from every club affiliate¡¯s mind.


    Yet Yvette¡¯s concern lay elsewhere: the lone surviving photograph. After days of scrutiny, the artifact division declared it safe for crafting¡ªa rare relic pulsating with latent power.


    ¡°Scholarly gold, this!¡± Maskin admitted two days later, bloodshot eyes testament to sleepless analysis. ¡°Half my colleagues would duel you for it. But¡­ if you¡¯d consider trading¡­¡±


    Ulysses¡¯ theory held: the ¡°angel¡± was a vestigial, a half-summoned entity that trapped souls through ritual games. Defeated by Yvette, it now lay dormant¡ªa macabre trophy.


    Unlike the Barnacle Scion¡¯s brute shadow-pulling, this feeble spirit needed willing players. Its unfinished state, however, bound both sides to fair rules: lose the game, forfeit your soul.


    ¡°What does the photo create?¡± Ulysses pressed.


    ¡°A proxy amulet,¡± Maskin explained. ¡°Slight luck, but its true worth lies in diverting harm. Imagine a bullet¡¯s trajectory¡ªthe amulet twists fate¡¯s dice, making misses likelier. Useless against expert strikes, but a godsend amidst chaos.¡±


    Yvette frowned. ¡°At what cost?¡±


    ¡°The amulet cracks instead of your ribs¡ªheals slower than flesh. Overload it, and it shatters.¡± Maskin hesitated. ¡°Also¡­ side effects. Melancholy, perhaps. Or surviving disasters while others drown. Eldritch crafts always bite.¡±


    Yvette weighed options. Her nightmare ring (five uses left) versus this cursed pendant¡­


    ¡°Unless,¡± Maskin added, ¡°you line it with crown gold¡ªregal consecrations dampen curses. But seven-coronation metals? Myths!¡±


    As Yvette despaired, Ulysses summoned a servant. From his macabre collection room emerged a box¡ªinside, a gnarled golden arrow. Its twisted shaft told of unthinkable battles.


    ¡°Melt this,¡± Ulysses ordered. ¡°St. Edward¡¯s original crown¡ªsmashed by Cromwell¡¯s lot. Reforged post-Restoration. Albion¡¯s lost treasure.¡±


    Maskin drooled. ¡°Return unused scraps,¡± Ulysses warned.


    ¡°Sir, this is too¡ª¡± Yvette protested.


    ¡°No petitions. Unless¡±¡ªcold eyes glinted¡ª¡°you prefer a collar for future recklessness?¡±


    She gulped. ¡°Necklace suffices.¡±


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    Alone later, Ulysses caressed the arrow¡ªold ghosts haunting his gaze. Yvette puzzled: why did a French exile hold Albion¡¯s crown-metal?


    ¡°House Fische¡¯s legacy, sir?¡± she ventured.


    ¡°Gone. We shed French titles during exile. Albion honors suffice.¡±


    History here bent oddly: France escaped revolution despite funding American rebels. Monarchy lingered.


    ¡°Regrets?¡± Yvette instantly regretted asking.


    ¡°None.¡± A head-pat dismissed further queries.


    As Ulysses left, Yvette sensed half-truths. To lose nobility was shame¡ªyet his reticence hinted deeper secrets.


    Fifteen days had elapsed since the crystal-assisted Advancement. With her nightmares and visions subsiding, Yvette judged herself ready for the second dose.


    At Ulysses¡¯ and Winslow¡¯s urging, the ritual unfolded in Hampstead Manor¡¯s guarded chambers.


    ¡°Master Ives,¡± Winslow inquired after lighting the ceremonial incense, ¡°if I may¡ªwhat creed guides you?¡±


    ¡°Creed?¡± Most contemporaries paid lip service to Trinitarian doctrines¡ªCatholic France, Anglican Albion. But as a time-displaced soul, Yvette answered truthfully: ¡°I was atheist¡­ until Awakening proved gods exist. Now? A materialist, I suppose.¡±


    Winslow¡¯s teacup clattered. While European salons buzzed with Deism¡¯s fashionable half-measures¡ªa Clockmaker God winding creation before retreating¡ªsuch blunt irreligion marked one as a dangerous radical.


    ¡°How¡­ unconventional. Yet beneficial for the Third Source¡¯s trials.¡±


    ¡°Because heretical visions break the pious?¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± The knight¡¯s gaze turned inward. ¡°No Edenic genesis. No paternal God. Only cosmic entities oblivious to our ant-like struggles. When devotees grasp this¡­ minds crumble like overbaked shortbread.¡±


    Yvette connected the dots¡ªWinslow¡¯s confessed lack of purpose, his clinging to chivalric codes as existential armor. Had his own Ascension unveiled truths that unmoored him?


    ¡°I reject scripture,¡± she countered, ¡°not its virtues. Why does a moral code¡¯s origin¡ªgod or mortal¡ªmatter? Goodness persists regardless. Even your Ulysses walks the Mortal Path!¡±


    Winslow¡¯s startled laugh held self-reproach. ¡°Out-knighted by an heretic! You¡¯re right¡ªSalah ad-Din proved virtue needs no baptism. Perhaps¡­¡± He straightened, the stalwart retainer returning. ¡°¡­a soul¡¯s compass matters more than who forged it.¡±


    As Winslow regained footing, Yvette mused on Awakened fragility. They armored themselves with oaths and disciplines against the Old Gods¡¯ erosive whispers, yet none emerged unscathed¡ªobsessions, tempers, existential dreads. If Winslow¡¯s flaw was doubt¡­ what cracks lay beneath Ulysses¡¯ polished veneer?


    The crystal¡¯s prismatic surface caught firelight. It struck her then: Other paths¡ªKegan¡¯s ascetic vows, Schall¡¯s unyielding justice¡ªdemanded sainthood. But the Mortal Path¡¯s endgame wasn¡¯t angelic perfection¡ªit was ordinariness. Flaws intact. Heart still human.


    Sleep took her to a mirage-palace where a dual-sexed throne guardian¡ªserpent scepter in one hand, occult lantern in the other¡ªheralded her Third Source awakening: [Grandeur] , the ¡°Primordial Balance¡± symbolized through androgeny.


    Through the guardian¡¯s gaze, she witnessed Earth¡¯s infancy¡ªa sterile hellscape of volcanic tides and methane gales. Lightning lashing primordial soup birthed amino acids, then single-celled pioneers. Eons accelerated: gilled wanderers crawling ashore, dinosaurs ruling then fossilizing¡­ Life¡¯s grand experimental theater.


    She awoke clutching crystal dust¡ªthe entire odyssey compressed into hours. Miller-Urey¡¯s 1953 experiment echoed this vision: lightning animating life¡¯s building blocks. But here and now, such truths devastated. Ancestry reduced to chemical accidents; humanity a cosmic afterthought beneath indifferent gods¡­ Small wonder minds fractured.


    Her 21st-century education cushioned the blow¡ªno shattered paradigms, just dull awe at Time¡¯s scale. Advancement achieved, yet triumph felt¡­ petty. Like an ant boasting of conquering a molehill.

 Chapter 52

    The ten spheres of the Tree of Life coiled upward in a zigzag pattern ancient mystics called the "Serpent''s Path" or "Creation''s Lightning." Having ascended to the third sphere of Magnificence, Yvette now grasped the phrase''s deeper resonance¡ªlightning that once sparked life''s first building blocks in Earth''s primordial soup. The metaphor bridged cosmic order and evolutionary miracle.


    Her latest awakening brought electromagnetic manipulation. Testing it, she heated water by emitting microwaves from her palm¡ªa more scientific approach than her previous inexplicable heat-teleportation.


    Thirty seconds produced boiling water, but practical uses seemed scarce. In future eras, this gift might disrupt wifi or boost signals¡ªpetty tricks for a supernatural talent. But discovering she could transform heat radiation into visible light offered tactical value: neutralizing invisibility cloaks by revealing body heat signatures, much like thermal imaging technology.


    Still, EM waves dissipated too rapidly for combat efficiency. Even maximum output would barely warm a distant foe. Better to just swing a sword at close range.


    A pocketwatch check showed 2:30 AM. London''s streets lay quiet beneath grime-coated gas lamps¡ªrecent inventions that dimly lit main thoroughfares while leaving alleys pitch-black. Enterprising "link-boys" with torches guided night travelers through the maze, though some collaborated with thieves to lead victims into traps.


    One such link-boy abandoned a gentleman in a dead-end alley, dousing his torch to escape. Glowing green eyes lunged from the dark¡ªa werewolf intercepted mid-pounce by a kick that smashed it against brickwork. The gentleman adjusted his hat while the creature choked on broken ribs, noting his attacker''s slit-pupiled eyes with dawning horror:


    "You''re... Secret Police?"


    "Your recent killing spree violated our accords," Ulysses replied, injecting silver solution into the paralyzed wolfman. Hauling his prey to a waiting carriage, he endured the Duke of Lancaster''s theatrics:


    "Imagine skinning it alive! Would the pelt remain after death?" the Duke mused, savoring imagined atrocities.


    Ulysses remained impassive. Everything before dawn felt like a recurring dream¡ªexcept tonight, he''d chosen to return home early. Some instinct warned that tomorrow would bring unexpected developments...


    The next morning at ten, Yvette shuffled downstairs in slippers, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Both men scrutinized her¡ªno visible changes.


    She blinked at the lavish spread: smoked haddock, ham, roast lamb, ?ufs en cocotte, toast with honeyed preserves. Such feasts required predawn labor without modern conveniences.


    ¡°Special occasion? Someone¡¯s birthday?¡± she mumbled through toast.


    ¡°Shouldn¡¯t we be asking you? Any aftereffects from the crystal?¡± Ulysses set down his coffee.


    ¡°Well¡­the ascension worked, I suppose. But mostly I just felt¡­small. Like we¡¯re all motes in a vast cosmic sea.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s all?¡±


    ¡°Should there be more?¡±


    Winslow exhaled. ¡°Thank the Saints. Many crumble under the world¡¯s truths.¡±


    ¡°What about you two?¡± Yvette pressed. ¡°How¡¯d you take it?¡±


    Winslow grimaced. ¡°My world shattered. I awoke from mankind¡¯s pretty lies¡ªrealized our intelligence isn¡¯t divine, just¡­evolutionary luck.¡±


    ¡°As a physician,¡± Ulysses said drily, ¡°I knew humans are patchwork creatures¡ªvestigial muscles, useless bones. The ¡®truth¡¯ held no surprises.¡±


    ¡°Oh! And I finally get the ¡®Lightning of Creation¡¯ metaphor¡ª¡±


    ¡°Metaphor?¡± Winslow frowned.


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    ¡°Life¡¯s spark! Like how lightning birthed the first¡­¡± She trailed off, unsure if 19th-century science recognized amino acids.


    ¡°You dreamed of apes evolving? What¡¯s lightning to do with it?¡±


    Ulysses nodded, equally perplexed.


    Wait¡ªdid they not see the primordial Earth? The ocean¡¯s first stir?


    ¡°Er¡­my dream had monkeys transforming under storms. Must¡¯ve been a coincidence!¡± Better omit the abyss-of-time bits. If evolution rattled Winslow, primordial soup would finish him.


    Yvette had often pondered the Bureau¡¯s ascension crystals. What made these shimmering artifacts capable of bridging dreams to higher realms? And if they were so potent, why had no Transcendent ever breached the Eighth Emanation? Were the crystals for upper tiers impossibly rare¡ªor did the Old Gods¡¯ whispers shatter mortal minds?


    After reaching the Third Emanation, Ulysses finally explained.


    "High-tier crystals are nearly unobtainable," he said. "The lower planes¡ªMaterial (First), Formative (Second to Fourth)¡ªyield enough. But beyond the Creative Plane (Fifth to Seventh)? Scraps. Those seeking higher ascension must¡­ improvise."


    Now at the Third Emanation herself, Yvette realized she had one crystal-aided tier left. By the Fourth, she¡¯d need alternatives.


    "Improvise how?"


    "Books."


    That was how she found herself trailing Ulysses into a crumbling London monastery. They shifted a bookcase to reveal a rust-ringed trapdoor, descending into a cramped passage. Torchlit and oddly fresh-smelling, its sandstone walls¡ªquarried to extinction centuries prior¡ªbore soot stains older than her grandfather.


    Ulysses¡¯ warnings echoed: High-tier crystals are scarce. Reading forbidden texts becomes necessary, but books are slower, deadlier. Each page steeped in the Old Gods¡¯ corruption.


    Even Third Emanation crystals were rationed. Hence, the Bureau granted limited archive access. This repository held "safer" tomes; others in London were far darker.


    These books hungered, Ulysses had said. They ensnared. Couldn¡¯t be loaned. Only read on-site by keepers of iron will. The current keeper? A man stripped of power by an incident that left him immune to mental assaults¡ªa fair trade, perhaps.


    Ulysses gestured to the passage. "Go on. I¡¯ll be at the caf¨¦. Come another day if you¡¯d rather."


    "But the keeper¡ª"


    "He knows you. My recommendation sufficed."


    Yvette crept down. The tunnel¡¯s rustic sandstone¡ªunlike modern brick¡ªharked back to Camelot. An oak door awaited at the end, nudging open to reveal a candlelit archive.


    "The maiden returns. What services does she crave of Lord Marcus today?"


    A black shadow sprang onto a shelf, staring down with feline disdain.


    Ah¡ªthe "keeper"! Yvette nearly laughed. Marcus¡ªthe smug library cat¡ªmade perfect sense. She¡¯d bring tuna next visit.


    When she paused, his tail thrashed. "Mortal! Ignoring me?!"


    "N-no! Your glory stunned me, Lord Marcus!" She eyed his perch, itching to scritch his ears.


    A voice chimed¡ªher voice: "So fluffy! If I butter him up, maybe I can sneak a pat¡­ Oh, that belly!"


    Yvette whirled. Her mirror image stood gushing in a cheval glass, hands clasped like a schoolgirl.


    What in seven hells¡ª?!


    Marcus¡¯ fur bushed. "Impudent worm! Desecrator!"


    "It¡¯s the mirror! I didn¡¯t¡ª"


    "Even angry, he¡¯s precious! Cats are supreme beings!" the mirror trilled.


    "That artifact," Marcus hissed, "exposes hidden thoughts¡ªplaced here to weed out the weak. You¡¯ve offended my dignity! Step. Away."


    Yvette scrambled aside.


    Marcus stretched to leap down¡­ then paused, squinting at her.


    "Treacherous whelp¡­ state your business. My mercy grants one request."


    "Just¡­ browsing? What¡¯s here?"


    Her eyes adjusted. Chains bound the shelves¡¯ books¡ªthick tomes in alien leather, metal-clasped, quivering faintly.


    "Look closer," Marcus purred, smirking.


    She approached¡ª


    Bang! Books exploded into motion. Some lunged at her, chains clanking; others cowered deep into shadows.


    "Gods above¡ª"


    Marcus hopped onto the shelf. A tail-flick later, the books froze, slinking back like scolded pups.


    "Some knowledge hungers for minds. Some flees them. Those lunging? They¡¯d devour you. Those hiding? Their gods despise yours."


    "Does this¡­ happen often?"


    "In ten years here, none ever stirred a whole shelf. Most agitate a dozen books. You¡¯re¡­ unique."


    "What does that mean?!"


    "Girl¡ªwho is your patron?"


    Yvette hesitated. Ulysses forbade digging¡ª"curiosity invites corruption."


    "I¡­ don¡¯t know. Isn¡¯t that forbidden?"


    "Most by your tier sense it¡ªthrough bloodline marks or dream-whispers. The veil is thin."


    "Mine came from a ritual. A rogue Transcendent used me as a component."


    Marcus¡¯ eyes slitted. "Which deity did the fool invoke?"


    "Quetzalcoatl, blending New World and Egyptian rites."


    Yvette recounted the tale: the obsidian dagger, the botched undead ritual that backfired, granting her power.


    "Fascinating," Marcus mused, leaping onto her head to paw her brow like a toddler inspecting a toy. "Quetzalcoatl¡ªdeath and rebirth. Egypt¡¯s Ouroboros¡ªeternal cycle. I¡¯d theorized they name the same entity. You confirm it! Mixed rites pleased the god¡ªhence your survival."


    Yvette blinked. Ulysses had taught her: Gods wear countless masks. Lilith, Baalat, Druj¡ªall the same dark moon.


    So¡­ the Creator was Quetzalcoatl?


    "Mark this," Marcus growled. "No records show Quetzalcoatl or Ouroboros spawning lineages. If true¡­ you may be the first of your kind."


    Yvette¡¯s jaw dropped.

 Chapter 53

    Marcuse recounted tales of an elder age when celestial envoys crossed the stars to walk among mortals. The Servitor Races and Old Ones, wielding powers beyond mortal ken, became objects of reverence for ancient tribes. Across continents, cults arose¡ªeach civilization forging its own pantheon to these alien overlords.


    But mortal minds, frail as candle flames, could scarcely fathom the visitors¡¯ true essence. Modern scholars dissecting extinct beliefs found many "gods" to be mere Servitors. Even the Feathered Serpent faced skepticism¡ªperhaps a lost Servitor, some argued. How else could Spain, lagging in naval supremacy, blunder westward to claim virgin lands? How crush mighty empires and rise on stolen gold to become history¡¯s first eternal empire?


    If divine, why did this serpent god permit its children¡¯s slaughter? Their altars shattered, temples burned¡­


    "In Egypt¡¯s scrolls," the black cat mused, tail flicking Yvette¡¯s ear, "dwelt Apophis¡ªserpent of the Duat, bane of Ra himself. Every lore breeds such a beast: Canaan¡¯s Lotan drowned by Baal, Leviathan coiled in primordial seas, Jormungandr encircling Midgard¡­ Some lie dead by divine hand; others sleep, waiting. Mankind glimpsed their master through veils but heard no answer. The New World¡¯s fools tried awakening what never slept." Marcuse nestled deeper into her hair, purring smugly.


    Yvette frowned. Save the Aztecs, every culture cast serpents as apocalyptic foes. Coincidence? No. The slumbering Creator¡¯s hatred for rival powers pulsed through history¡¯s veins like poison.


    "Choose your books, fledgling," Marcuse yawned. "Naptime beckons."


    The handwritten tomes offered no titles. Without the cat¡¯s guidance, Yvette would wander lost. Noted¡ªafternoons suited library visits. Read, pet the feline, avoid troubling Sir Ulysses¡­


    "Another day, Lord Marcuse. Sir Ulysses waits."


    Fish treats next time, she vowed silently.


    The cat scoffed. "That man¡­" It leaped onto dusty shelves. "Ten years I¡¯ve guarded these stacks. Six since he arrived. Never once sought knowledge here."


    Odd. Ulysses stood at the Fifth Principality¡ªhow, without the Bureau¡¯s archives? Bought his ascension? Or stagnated by choice?


    "Child!" Marcuse¡¯s warning froze her exit. "The mirror¡ªglance when entering, glance when leaving. Linger, and your reflection walks free¡­ to steal your life."


    Yvette gulped. Quick. Don¡¯t stare.


    ¡­¡­


    Baron Chigwin¡¯s soir¨¦e buzzed with trivia. Faulkner "Hemlock" pasted on a smile as his father approached with Reynolds¡ªagent to the reclusive Marquess of Montague.


    "Your novels intoxicate the Marquess," Reynolds declared, monocle gleaming. "The Specter of Bell Street¡ªwhy, His Lordship skips breakfast Fridays to read your column!"


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    Faulkner basked in the praise. The Baron, outmatched in literary banter, retreated to lesser guests.


    "These tales borrow from reality, yes? The Marquess hungers to walk those grim sites."


    Faulkner admitted his sources¡ªRed Mill, Pyle Street horrors.


    "Such vivid detail! One might think you¡¯d wielded the scalpel yourself!"


    "The credit belongs to another. Chevallier¡¯s true face¡­" Faulkner hesitated. But what harm? Elevating Yves via noble patronage¡­


    "Yves de Fisher," he confessed. "Nephew to Sir Ulysses, the Duke¡¯s shadow."


    Several days passed before Yvette found herself staring at the Marquess of Montague¡¯s calling card, its embossed crest glinting ominously in her hand. The maid Alison had practically vibrated with nervous excitement when presenting it¡ªalongside a letter that now lay open on the mahogany desk.


    Marquess. The title alone prickled her neck like cold fog. Albion¡¯s nobility played by labyrinthine rules she¡¯d only half-learned since waking in this gaslit world. Dukes swanned about London¡¯s ballrooms; earls toasted in gentlemen¡¯s clubs. But marquesses? They lingered in shadows, their castles echoing with older, darker histories.


    The letter¡¯s looping script danced with compliments to her "acute intellect" and invitations to discuss a "sensitive affair." It reeked of honeyed traps, yet curiosity gnawed harder than caution.


    Warwick¡¯s station vomited smoke as Yvette stepped into waiting velvet-lined splendor. The carriage climbed through thickening mist until stone battlements clawed at the gloom¡ªa brute of a castle straddling the river Avon. Arrow slits glared like a basilisk¡¯s eyes; the portcullis hung rusted yet threatening.


    "Gothic rot," she muttered, though her pulse quickened. Modern nobles built Italianate villas with proper plumbing. Only someone utterly mad¡ªor immortal¡ªwould keep this drafty pile.


    Inside was another world. Wax gleamed on ancestral portraits; ancestral swords crossed above hearths large enough to roast oxen. The valet who met her moved with unnatural grace, black hair oiled back save one errant tendril. His gloves stayed snow-white, his smile colder than the Brandy Punch at White¡¯s.


    "My lord will join you shortly," he intoned, proffering tea in Wedgwood so thin it sang.


    Steam curled from the cup. Yvette¡¯s little finger twitched¡ªa nervous tic she¡¯d nursed since discovering her... peculiar talents. Light bent at her whim now; heat whispered secrets.


    And this man held none.


    No flush to his cheeks. No candle-flicker reflection in pupils that drank light like tar pits. When he turned, Yvette twisted reality just so¡ªviewing the world through thermal tongues only she could command.


    The valet dissolved into void.


    Dead flesh. Or undead.


    Her Derringer dug comfortingly into her corset stays. Not enough for a rhino, but perhaps sufficient for... whatever masqueraded here.


    The marquess entered with a aristocrat¡¯s languid haste, beard trimmed to Hapsburg perfection. His outstretched hand froze mid-gesture as Yvette¡¯s pistol found his temple.


    "Clumsy theatrics," sighed the marquess. Behind him, the valet¡¯s snarl revealed fangs like ivory needles.


    "I¡¯ve read Varney," Yvette snapped. "Sunlight myths. Stake through the heart. Care to test which bits Bram got right?"


    The valet¡ªRandall¡ªhissed like a steam valve. "Filthy mongrel! I¡¯ll¡ª"


    "¡ªdo nothing," interrupted his master, "while our guest explains how she pierced our little masquerade."


    Yvette grinned without humor. "You hired a valet with worse circulation than Westminster¡¯s corpses. Even Eton boys blush after tea service."


    Randall tensed. "Liar! I never¡ª"


    "Enough." The marquess¡¯s voice could¡¯ve frosted Hell¡¯s windows. "You smell of fear, Miss Ives. Or shall we acknowledge the charade?"


    Her thumb tightened on the hammer. "What do you want?"


    "Advice." He gestured to leather-bound tomes lining the walls. "On surviving an age where old blood dwindles... and new sciences breed hunters."


    Yvette¡¯s laugh held no joy. "Ask Darwin. Or the fellows at the Royal Society dissecting electric eels."


    "We ask you." Red flickered behind his eyes¡ªdim as coals, ancient as graves. "The blood sings of your gifts. Help us walk in daylight, and name your price."


    Outside, dusk bled across the gardens. Somewhere, roses withered.

 Chapter 54

    Lord Montague remained unruffled, his manner the picture of antiquated Albion elegance. "Naturally, insights into one¡¯s gifts are guarded secrets. My inquiry was imprudent."


    With those words, his form dissolved into a swirl of inky pitch. Tendrils of shadow hissed through the air toward the hearth, coalescing beneath an oil painting into his familiar aristocratic silhouette.


    The portrait loomed in Renaissance grandeur¡ªa stiff-collared noble with Shakespearean whiskers, bearing the Marquis¡¯ haunting likeness. Three centuries old, at least, Yvette realized. Against such ancient power, resistance seemed folly.


    The valet, Randall, sneered silently, his contempt clear: You dare threaten His Lordship?


    Had his master not stayed the servant¡¯s hand, Randall might have struck. Instead, he withdrew, simmering.


    ¡°You serve the Holy See¡¯s shadow arm, do you not? Though it dons modern labels,¡± Lord Montague observed.


    Yvette tensed. How could he know?


    ¡°Do not marvel. We old bloods dance with Rome¡¯s agents through the ages. I sought your counsel and learned of you: a sudden noble arrival in London, embroiled in uncanny affairs while the Yard cloaks your steps. Old allies in the Templar ranks taught me their ways.¡± The Marquis raised a placating hand. ¡°I masked my nature, as is our custom. Yet my plea is sincere¡ªI require your aid.¡±


    With the ¡°hostage¡± unharmed and no blades drawn, Yvette holstered her pistol. ¡°State your need.¡±


    ¡°A wayward daughter of my line has eloped with a blackguard to London. Track her discreetly. My men will fetch her home for chastening.¡±


    This trifle demands me? Yvette nearly scoffed. What game did this elder vampire play?


    ¡°¡ªOr so I meant to claim. Truth holds darker hues.¡±


    ¡°Elaborate.¡±


    ¡°It begins with our making. Your Order knows the rite: drain half a mortal¡¯s vitae, replace it with our own. Three days hence, the wretch shuns bread, thirsts for blood¡ªcompleted as one of us. This Embrace births our progeny.¡±


    His lip curled. ¡°Some argue to overbreed¡ªherd mankind as cattle. Fools. We moderates leash such instincts, blending old honor with mortal governance. Long ago, the blood-mad fell to Templar blades fed by our own betrayals. We survivors endure through restraint¡ªsip lightly, veil our kills, and Rome turns its blind eye.


    My sire held this creed. We balance the hunt: only when a vampiric line extinguishes may new blood rise.¡±


    The Marquis¡¯ voice thickened. ¡°Two I¡¯ve sired: Randall here¡±¡ªhe nodded at the dissimilar valet¡ª¡°and Aurora, my vanished thorn. She loved a mortal knave.


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    I¡¯d have allowed her decade of dalliance ere faking her demise. But she sought to Embrace the rogue.


    I interrupted the profane rite, silencing her paramour. A mercy. I pretended her crime mere intent¡ªthe Embrace unfinished.


    Weeks passed. Aurora fled. Her lover¡¯s grave lies violated, and now London¡¯s lanes teem with vampiric whelps and mongrel curs.¡± His nose wrinkled at ¡°ÀÇÈË¡±¡ªwerewolves. ¡°My enforcers return empty-handed. Find her trail¡ªwe shall deliver justice.¡±


    Grief flashed, then drowned beneath regal composure.


    ¡°Why not enlist the Order?¡± Yvette pressed. Hadn¡¯t Wensley claimed the Church tolerated discreet vampires?


    ¡°Rome shelters both friends and firebrands sworn to burn our kind. I¡¯ll not parley with pyres. Besides¡±¡ªa wry smile¡ª¡°zealots flock to Mass. My spies say you shun pews.¡±


    Yvette wavered. Refusal meant mind-wiping, their secrets preserved. Yet accepting vampiric patronage...


    ¡°Ponder over supper.¡± The Marquis gestured.


    Supper unfurled as Albion abundance: grouse bursting with chestnuts, venison steeped in claret, golden-crusted tarts. Servants paraded platters fit for twenty, though only Yvette lifted silver. Randall, now frostily correct, carved dainty portions¡ªa lady¡¯s meal on a gilded plate, each course vanishing after but three bites.


    Such waste, she thought, even as the marrow-rich stew warmed her. Above, the portrait¡¯s eyes¡ªthose ageless, knowing eyes¡ªwatched every mouthful.


    During the solitary feast''s interlude, a severe-faced woman who could pass for fifty entered bearing a silver tray, her hair scraped into merciless coils that screamed "head housekeeper."


    The tray''s lone crystal chalice swirled with ominous crimson liquid.


    Blood, naturally, Yvette noted. Even civilized vampires needed their fix.


    His Lordship secured his napkin with ceremonial precision before sipping. "Astounding vitality!" Lord Montagu''s eyes glazed with pleasure. "Sunday already? Of course - only Ada achieves this symphonic harmony of forbidden flavors."


    Yvette''s brows knotted. Weren''t bloodsuckers supposed to crave fresh virgins? This spinster housekeeper clearly hadn''t been fresh for decades.


    "Born during the 1791 Grand Celestial Alignment," His Lordship explained. "Planetary convergences blessed her sanguine essence."


    "You keep her chained here as cattle?" Yvette challenged.


    "Madam guest." The housekeeper''s pinched lips betrayed decades of suppressed retorts. "I choose service over marriage. My wastrel father..." Her shudder spoke volumes. "Here I command wages and respect. My blood bought freedom - why exchange it for some man''s collar?"


    Yvette recalibrated. Not all women dreamed of domestic cages. With wealth and purpose, why risk fortune-hunting suitors and marital chains?


    Lord Montagu''s restraint proved admirable - Sunday sips maintained Ada''s rosy vigor. A sustainable vintage, this bloodstock.


    Dessert abandoned for business, His Lordship proposed terms: "Help hunt Aurora, earn our gratitude. Refuse freely - no ill will."


    The rogue vampire''s bastard-spawning spree demanded containment. "Cooperation serves peace," Yvette agreed.


    "Randall accompanies you," Lord Montagu decreed. "None surpass his nose for tainted blood."


    The brooding vampire''s earlier hostility still lingered, but Yvette needed his tracking skills.


    Their midnight train compartment thrummed with unspoken friction. Yvette eyed Randall''s mysterious case. "Weapons?"


    "Medical kit." He displayed gleaming phlebotomy tools. "Unlike fictional brutes, we don''t gum our meals from sweaty necks."


    The clinical approach reassured Yvette. Blood via syringe seemed almost respectable compared to fang-and-collar savagery.


    Homecoming complications arose when housekeeper Alison discovered them. Randall''s improvised "tutor" role required choking down supper with silverware that blistered his palms. Only after Alison retreated did he spew gory chunks into the sink.


    Yvette recoiled. "Internal bleeding?"


    "Silver bullets work better," Randall rasped, nursing scorched lips. "Remember that."

 Chapter 55

    "Next time, I''ll send Allison away earlier and make sure she stops using the silverware," Yvette informed Randall.


    "Unnecessary," the vampire replied with icy pride. "Consuming mortal fare before human eyes forms the bedrock of our Masquerade. The Marquis endures entire banquets without faltering not through strength of arms or ancestral pedigree, but iron discipline - the true mantle by which kings conquer and command. Retreat is for cowards; those who shy from trials lose all."


    Baffling creatures, Yvette mused. But his words sparked realization - just as other supernatural beings used rituals to retain humanity, perhaps vampires clung to these concepts of honor to leash their darker urges.


    From beneath his gruesome "utensil kit", Randall produced a photograph. The monochrome image showed a lovely woman whose dark lips suggested ebony tresses and rosebud mouth in life.


    "Aurora. Silverplate cannot capture our kind - this required the Marquis'' pet inventors. Learn her whereabouts. Leave the rest to me."


    "The Marquis claims she''s consorting with werewolf outcasts and spawning bastard get. If true, can you retrieve her surrounded by allies?" Yvee inquired. Vampire potency depended on generation - each Embrace halving the sire''s power. As Aurora''s contemporary, Randall should be her equal.


    A contemptuous sniff. "I was groomed as Successor. The heretic is no match."


    Immortals needing succession? Before she could question further, Randall continued: "As for those mongrel curs... Even among beasts they''re scum. Breeding with humans veils their stench. Bastards born of incest turn madder than rabid dogs. Cast out for savagery, they skulk as tinkers and thieves - creatures of chaos."


    His lips curled in distaste. "Seek Aurora in the warrens. But mind the strays - starved brutes in mangy fur or human rags. Let none scent your purpose."


    Dawn''s glow creeping through the drapes drew a hiss. "Daybreak. Damned summer''s abbreviated nights. Rest and deploy your agents. We hunt at dusk."


    Agents. Servants. Yvette suppressed a wry smile. All she commanded were dust motes and daydreams.


    Yawning, she confiscated the household silver despite the housekeeper''s protests, retreating to her workshop. Six hours later, molten silver filled bullet molds beside measured powder charges - silver tongues for speaking with monsters.


    While Randall''s coffin lay silent (sunlight leeching even nocturnal vitality, leaving immortals as waxen corpses by day), she headed to the Iris Caf¨¦ where ink-stained newshounds traded gossip over whisky and Turkish tobacco.


    "Clever innuendo boosts circulation better than tawdry expos¨¦s," argued a red-faced editor. "Remember the Coppersmith scandal? Moral outrage peddles better than whorehouse menus."


    Empty leads. Yvette turned towards Scotland Yard. Superintendent Altman might have darker truths to share.


    Yvette presented Superintendent Alto¡¯s card at Scotland Yard, where a crisp-nodding sergeant ushered her into the chief¡¯s wood-paneled office.


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    ¡°Yves! To what do I owe the pleasure?¡± Alto stood, his walrus mustache twitching with genuine warmth.


    ¡°Following up on some¡­ unusual gang activity,¡± Yvette replied, sidestepping the vampire affair. The Marquis had warned her¡ªthe Special Missions Bureau¡¯s Puritan exorcists saw no difference between his law-abiding kin and rogue monsters like Aurora. Exposing the truth risked unleashing their zealous purge.


    The gang lead itself came from the Marquis. His agents had pried whispers from London¡¯s gutters: a striking woman consolidating brutal crews, some rumored to shelter werewolf castoffs.


    Alto thumbed through leather-bound dossiers. ¡°Petty theft¡¯s down, but brawls and protection rackets hold steady. Nothing extraordinary.¡±


    No spikes? How to dig deeper?


    Logical, Yvette realized. If rational, Aurora would avoid Special Missions¡¯ watchful eyes. Yet London¡¯s teeming masses offered ideal hiding¡ªtoo vast for even the Marquis¡¯s agents to comb.


    A flaw in the Bureau¡¯s vaunted network: fixated on educated elites dabbling in occult tomes, it ignored the unwashed underbelly. Aurora¡¯s quiet predation left no trail for bobbies to trace.


    Time for bold measures.


    ¡°Superintendent¡ªcould you¡­ imprison me briefly?¡±


    She recalled the ¡°Iron Brotherhood Code¡± from her past life¡¯s lore¡ªshared jail time forged unshakable loyalty among men. Thugs clammed up around peelers but might gossip freely with a fellow convict.


    Alto paled. ¡°In theory, a sound stratagem. But those cells are vipers¡¯ nests! They¡¯ll treat a fair youth like¡ª"


    ¡°I¡¯ve handled worse. Besides¡ª¡± She smirked, flexing a hand. ¡°Doesn¡¯t brute strength rule your prisons?¡±


    The superintendent stared at her delicate frame¡ªmore porcelain doll than pugilist.


    ¡°Please, sir?¡± Yvette deployed wide-eyed supplication.


    Alto crumbled. ¡°¡­Not a word to Sir Ulysses.¡±


    ¡°Scout¡¯s honor!¡±


    ¡­


    Processed through booking with theatrical formality, Yvette stood before a jaded jailer.


    ¡°Yves Peterson. Drunk and disorderly. Twelve shillings bail.¡±


    ¡°Can¡¯t pay.¡±


    ¡°Sure about that, lad?¡± The jailer¡¯s tone implied offer a bribe.


    ¡°Not a farthing, sir.¡±


    ¡°Cell 217, then.¡± The jailer crossed himself. 217 housed beasts even seasoned warders feared¡ªkillers denied bail. What grudge had this angelic youth provoked?


    Catcalls erupted as Yvette passed cells:


    ¡°217? Saints preserve ¡¯im!¡±


    ¡°Dainty arse¡¯ll be tenderized proper!¡±


    Inside 217, five brutes closed in. Their ringleader licked cracked lips. ¡°Pretty mouse. Need teachin¡¯ the pecking order?¡±


    Yvette rolled up sleeves. ¡°Actually, let¡¯s skip to where I rearrange your order.¡±


    Adjoining cells pressed ears to walls, anticipating moans. Instead:


    Thud. Crack. Howls.


    Minutes later, Yvette perched on a bunk, idly buffing nails. Around her, groaning men clutched fractured ribs.


    ¡°Your turn. Crimes. Now.¡±


    The confessions¡ªpetty thuggery¡ªearned her derisive snorts. ¡°Pathetic. No proper villainy?¡±


    One sneered through split lips: ¡°You, then?¡±


    She leaned close, voice velvet menace. ¡°Pulped a rival¡¯s skull. Boss had lawyers spin it self-defense. Honestly?¡± A grin slithered across her face¡ªpure psychopathy. ¡°I liked the crunch.¡±


    A convict scoffed. ¡°Murderers swing at Newgate! Liar!¡±


    ¡°Ah, but talent gets perks.¡± Yvette produced Havana cigars¡ªunthinkable luxury. ¡°Boss plants evidence, palms judges¡­ Could walk tomorrow. You lot? Forgotten trash.¡±


    Hoodlums scrambled for smokes. ¡°Christ¡ªthese cost a fortune!¡±


    ¡°How¡¯d you smuggle ¡¯em? Your guv¡¯nor must own the bleedin¡¯ courts!¡±


    ¡°Prove your worth, reap rewards.¡± Yvette surveyed them scornfully. ¡°Your bosses? Small-timers. My crew? Empire-builders.¡±


    ¡°My knobhead capo left me rotting!¡±


    ¡°Take me on, boss! I¡¯ll gut anyone!¡±


    All but one. A hulking brute glared silently.


    ¡°You. Doubting me?¡± Yvette jabbed a finger.


    ¡°Me guv¡¯nor¡¯s got bigger plans,¡± he growled. ¡°New leader¡ªa prophetess! Soon, all London¡¯ll bow to Mother!¡±


    Bingo. Female leader.


    Yvette yawned. ¡°Prove it. Name your crew¡¯s best fighter. I¡¯ll break him.¡±


    ¡°Glasgow Casino. Woolworth Street. Bring your fists.¡±

 Chapter 56

    Yvette pressed the gang member further. The man revealed that his boss¡ªalong with several rivals, including one they¡¯d once stabbed¡ªhad sworn loyalty to a mysterious woman a month earlier. At first, disgruntled members cursed her as a sorceress, but even the loudest critics soon became devotees. The boss¡¯s right hand, crippled decades ago when his former leader clubbed him for skimming loot, had been magically restored by this woman.


    Once satisfied no more clues remained, Yvette beat the thugs again. Guards, primed by Artois, ¡°arrested¡± her and faked a lockdown¡ªa ruse to let her escape undetected.


    Back home, Yvette relayed the details to Randall. The vampire, now in casual clothes, was polishing a syringe.


    ¡°It¡¯s Aurora,¡± Randall concluded. ¡°Timing matches, and healing old injuries aligns with embracement.¡±


    ¡°To Woolworth Street tonight?¡±


    ¡°Yes, but¡­¡± He hesitated uncharacteristically. ¡°My¡­ nourishment requires a volunteer. Your maid¡ª¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t touch Alison.¡±


    ¡°Never without consent and compensation,¡± Randall said firmly.


    Montague¡¯s household rotated daily donors. After 24 hours, hunger must gnaw at him.


    ¡°Alison¡¯s nursing. Find someone else.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d have me hunt gutter trash? Filthy, disease-ridden¡ª¡±


    ¡°Relax.¡± Yvette snatched the syringe. ¡°Sterilized?¡±


    ¡°Alcohol.¡± Randall raised an eyebrow.


    Vampires had long known bloodborne plagues. Medieval lords used syringes or occult cleansings to protect their herds¡ªsecrets they couldn¡¯t share without exposing themselves.


    Alcohol¡¯s not enough. Yvette superheated the needle with stolen candle-flame, then cooled it.


    Squeezing her arm, she jabbed the vein¡ªand missed.


    ¡°¡­You punctured through,¡± Randall said flatly.


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    ¡°Expertise needed.¡± She thrust her arm at him.


    After adjustments, blood filled the vial.


    ¡°That¡¯s half a cup!¡± Yvette protested when he stopped at 130ml.


    ¡°I¡¯m fasting.¡±


    ¡°For what? You¡¯re already rail-thin.¡±


    ¡°Aesthetic priorities.¡± His jaw tightened.


    Randall waved her out. ¡°I don¡¯t dine with an audience.¡±


    High-maintenance bloodsuckers, she thought, leaving.


    Alone, Randall grimaced at the cup. Her blood smelled divine¡ªa cruelty. Montague¡¯s guilt made sense now. Drinking a comrade¡¯s blood felt cannibalistic.


    He drained it. The purity sickened him.


    The slum felt wrong. No beggars hawking matches. No pickpockets. Just eerie order.


    ¡°Catch any scents?¡± Yvette whispered.


    ¡°My nose isn¡¯t a hound¡¯s. They¡¯d need to be breathing down my neck.¡±


    ¡°Won¡¯t they sniff you out?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re shadows. Even feral pups can¡¯t scent us.¡±


    The district welcomed visitors with buildings steeped in coal dust, their walls charred and windows gaping holes. Night draped its cloak, yet lamplight remained scarce. Shadows slithered like oily phantoms in sewage-clogged alleys¡ªstray beasts or skulking men, all fleeing the gloom.


    Amidst this desolation, a jaundiced glow seeped from a structure labeled Glasgow. The promised den of vice throbbed with life, its cacophony spilling into the street.


    ¡°Storming in seems¡­ theatrical,¡± Yvette muttered, vetoing Randall¡¯s brawn-over-brain approach. Better to flush rats from their nest.


    Jingling a near-empty purse, she slipped inside.


    The casino reeked of desperation¡ªdice clattered, cards slapped tables, and drunks toasted to ever-full codpieces. Ignored as another youth chasing fortune, Yvette joined a dice game.


    Oddly, tonight the seasoned croupier fumbled. Coins piled before her. Sensing enforcers¡¯ stares, she exited stage left, bait trailing.


    Predators pounced at the first corner: blade ahead, boots behind.


    ¡°Lesson time, whelp¡ª¡±


    Randall¡¯s shadow-swipe cut the threat short. Yvette disarmed her attacker, unimpressed. Prisoner boasts had promised elite guards, not these thugs who¡¯d struggle against a tavern brawl.


    The interrogation hit dead ends until Randall¡¯s bloody intervention. Crimson drops transformed snarling curs into groveling sycophants.


    Master! they fawned.


    Their dead-end boss? A woman, whispered the thralls. A shadow puppeteer. Vagrants vanishing? Monsters, claimed knackery gossip.


    Randall snapped their necks after¡ªmercy, he claimed. Their addiction to vampiric vitae meant slow, maddened deaths otherwise. Yvette¡¯s protests died unspoken. Species differed; so did ethics.


    Butter became her next gambit. At derelict mills, she bartered golden pats for truth. A haunted woman spat warnings: Stay inside when darkness falls.


    In starving lanes where laundry moldered unlit, even bread required Salvation Army charity. Yet the destitute had fled¡ªor been taken. By what?


    Randall lingered, an unspoken question between them. Yvette walked faster. Blood bonds troubled her. If loyalty could be dripped down throats like laudanum, what of Ada¡¯s ¡°choice¡± to feed the Marquis?


    Some puzzles lacked clean solutions. Tonight¡¯s required only this: follow the crumbs, butter-smeared though they were.

 Chapter 57

    ¡°What lurks out there at night?¡± Yvette pressed.


    The woman wrung her hands. ¡°A friend of mine¡ªdrunkard though he was¡ªswore he saw pale beasts ripping a beggar apart in the alleys. Eyes like witchfire, glowing in the dark. He fled, packed nothing, and vanished. We thought him mad¡­ until the rest noticed: fewer vagrants, bloodstained rags, drag marks. None dare speak of it. Talk too loud, and you disappear next. The beasts hunt those foolish enough to wander after dark. Where they take the bodies? Best not to ask.¡±


    Yvette offered a wedge of butter and slipped outside, where Randall waited, grim.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°White beasts with green eyes. Aurora¡¯s doing?¡±


    Randall¡¯s brow furrowed. ¡°Green eyes mean werewolf frenzy¡ªwhen their humanity snaps. But white pelts? Unheard of. Their forms mirror common wolves, just¡­ fouler.¡±


    Yvette glanced at the remaining butter. ¡°I¡¯ll question others, but they¡¯re terrified. Informants might lie. We¡¯ll need your judgment.¡±


    ¡°If there are spies, who?¡±


    ¡°Likely werewolves posing as humans. The poor trust neighbors, not outsiders. Aurora¡¯s bloodlust limits her pawns¡ªshe can¡¯t control mortals long. Werewolves fit.¡±


    Randall nodded. ¡°Check laundry lines. Werewolves don¡¯t keep families. Their young are raised by humans, then cast out. Humiliation fuels their rage until they snap. A house with varied clothes? Not theirs.¡±


    Yvette bartered butter for rumors. Most repeated the same, but a ¡°knocker-upper¡±¡ªdawn worker rousing sleepers¡ªspilled a clue:


    At daybreak, he¡¯d found blood and paw prints (¡°wolf-like, but bigger!¡±) leading to a sewer grate. He quit the neighborhood, fearing the worst.


    With her butter gone, Yvette followed Randall into the stench-ridden tunnels. Dank walls gave way to musk and droppings. Randall, eyes sharp in the dark, quickened his pace.


    They halted at a junction. There, a stone altar bore a claw-marked symbol¡ªa jagged star¡ªand a grotesque trophy: a severed head skewered on a spine, ribs splayed like broken spokes.


    Randall tilted the head. The pointed ears confirmed it. ¡°The Marquis¡¯ enforcer. A loyal servant.¡± His voice chilled.


    ¡°Aurora¡¯s nearby. Should we alert the Marquis¡ª?¡±


    Stolen story; please report.


    ¡°No.¡± Randall¡¯s fangs gleamed. ¡°Her crimes disgrace us all. Exposing this shames him further. I end this.¡±


    As he stormed off, Yvette lingered, repulsed by the star symbol¡ªa dripping wound in stone.


    The Marquis¡¯ grief flashed in her mind: a father steeling himself to lose a daughter. What if Randall falls too?


    She sprinted after him. In the gloom, his ears had sharpened, eyes blazing crimson.


    ¡°Eternity¡¯s no blessing,¡± he said bitterly. ¡°The stronger our blood, the heavier the moon¡¯s curse. The Prince¡­ tires of this world. Stays only to leash ambitious pups. Aurora¡ª¡± His voice cracked. ¡°She was meant to stand beside him. Now I¡¯ll bury her myself, sister or not.¡±


    The tunnel''s dank walls bore witness to increasing signs of predation ¨C fecal mounds steaming and desiccated, human remnants gnawed to splinters.


    "Something''s wrong," Randolph muttered, nostrils flaring. "These aren''t regular lycanthropes." Rounding a moss-slick bend, they disturbed seven ghastly figures hunched over bones. Albino horrors turned in eerie unison, luminescent eyes piercing the gloom.


    Nature''s albinos often shimmer with unearthly grace ¨C these aberrations radiated disease. Pus caked their muzzles. Translucent skin stretched over distended ribs like rotten parchment. Their ragged pelts hung in clumps, revealing weeping lesions.


    Yvette''s silver revolver snapped up, but Randolph stepped into her sightline. With ritualistic precision, he opened his wrist. Blood spiraled into existence as a wicked lance.


    Chaos erupted. The white-furred pack attacked with rabid fury. Randolph moved like liquid shadow ¨C a sweeping strike cleaving one skull while nicking another''s leg. The wounded beast collapsed moments later, hemorrhaging impossibly from a shallow cut.


    Survivors attacked in coordinated frenzy. Yvette staggered under their baleful gaze ¨C that primordial fear of wolves howling in human DNA. Yet visions of cosmic truth burned away the terror: she''d stared into the Abyss itself.


    Randolph''s weapon dissolved into crimson mist. Blood needles pierced fur and flesh alike. The lycanthropes froze mid-pounce, veins bulging grotesquely until...


    Wet explosions painted the walls.


    Kneeling amidst gore, Randolph chanted. Blood rivers coalesced, reforging his weapon. Yvette observed clinically: typical vampire dramatics. The Spear of Longinus metaphor made sense now ¨C holy wound transformed into cursed power. Vlad Tepes would approve.


    "Marquis'' duty done," Randolph rasped. "Stay if you will witness justice." He licked wolf-blood from his thumb and hissed. "Abominations! She''s breeding mongrel get ¨C mixing our blood with mangy curs!"


    Understanding dawned. These plague-ridden mutants were hybrid failures. Divine magics rejecting each other, hence the suppurating flesh. That any survived Embrace proved miraculous ¨C or hinted at darker forces.


    The catacombs gave way to medieval stonework. Aurora awaited at a star-chalked altar, raven hair cascading over a gravid belly.


    "Grandfather''s attack dog arrives," she purred. "Still fetching his slippers?" The pregnant vampire turned poisoned sweetness on Yvette. "And you brought him here? How quaint. My brother playing knight-errant for mortal trinkets?"


    Yvette blinked. So the ice-cold Randolph was considered naive? His past century locked in ancestral castles suddenly made sense. Aurora''s venom flowed freely: "He microbes my actions while licking the Patriarch''s boots! Where''s the justice in--"


    "Enough!" Randolph''s lance hummed with pent blood-magic. "You desecrated sacred laws. Judgment comes."


    As the siblings traded barbs, Yvette noticed the star symbols ¨C constellations unknown to any earthly sky. The altar''s geometry made her teeth ache. Whatever gods Aurora worshipped, they boded ill for London... and perhaps the world.

 Chapter 58

    Aurora inhaled deeply, her voice dripping with mockery. ¡°Ah, the sweet fragrance of innocence¡­ How unfortunate this little human arrived too soon. Had she delayed until after the next dark moon, I might¡¯ve introduced you to Fabian¡¯s true self.¡±


    Fabian. Yvette recalled the name¡ªAurora¡¯s doomed lover, slain mid-transformation by the Marquis.


    ¡°Madness consumes you,¡± Randall replied coldly, closing the distance between them. His spear flashed, its razor tip lunging for her chest.


    Aurora snatched the blade, but whether by design or grim chance, its momentum drove it deep into her distended abdomen. Severed fingers clattered to the floor. Yet she remained eerily calm as Randall strained to withdraw his weapon, only to find its buried half had dissolved.


    ¡°Come, Fabian¡ªgreet our guest,¡± Aurora cooed, her neck contorting unnaturally until her skull hung limp against her collarbone.


    From her spine, a second head emerged¡ªa young man¡¯s visage swathed in glistening amniotic film. Its muffled voice rasped:


    ¡°Love me¡­ as I love you¡­ my angel¡­ My other half¡­ Without you, I wither¡­¡± The head sagged silent.


    Yvette shuddered. The newborn head¡¯s murmurs evoked a restless fetus before its final stillness.


    Aurora¡¯s body jerked alive. With puppet-like motions, she clawed open her belly, revealing no organs¡ªonly a writhing nest of golden tendrils beneath a mucous membrane. The tendrils glowed with malevolent indigo phosphorescence.


    Randall crumpled, clawing at his eyes as smoke curled from his seared flesh.


    Ultraviolet light. Though invisible to humans, Yvette¡¯s attunement to electromagnetic energy flared in recognition. She lunged forward, diverting the lethal rays into harmless heat. Aurora¡¯s violet haze, she realized, masked true UV emission¡ªlikely an ability granted by her parasitic cargo.


    When the glow faded, Aurora¡¯s primary head snapped upright, giggling, while Fabian¡¯s dangled behind like a grotesque growth.


    ¡°Still breathing?¡± Aurora sneered, caressing her lover¡¯s dormant face. ¡°That fossilized tyrant robbed me of Fabian¡¯s mortal form. But I adapted. I devoured him. Now he gestates within¡ªready to be reborn under the Star Apostles¡¯ grace!¡±


    ¡°Delusion,¡± Randall croaked, his face blistered, eyes seeping blackened blood. ¡°You¡¯re their puppet¡­¡±


    Aurora¡¯s composure shattered. ¡°Blasphemer! The Star Daughter will restore him! That night¡ªwatching silver nails pierce his heart¡ªburned vengeance into my soul. Your death begins my reckoning!¡±


    Behind Yvette, Randall whispered, ¡°Go. I¡¯ll stall her¡­¡± His spear lengthened as he fed it fresh blood.


    Aurora laughed¡ªa shrill, brittle sound. ¡°Let her flee? How na?ve!¡± Her whistle summoned a pack of snarling wolf-beasts from the corridors.


    ¡°Your master¡¯s precious creeds¡ª¡®honor your word, else be honorless¡¯¡ªdid you swear to shield her?¡± Aurora taunted. ¡°My brood craves new stock. Let¡¯s see if human women breed better with wolves¡­¡±


    ¡°Harm her, and the Veilguards will hound you,¡± Randall warned.


    Aurora scoffed. ¡°Kill her, and the Church flails blindly. Beg on your knees, oathkeeper¡ªgrovel¡ªand I¡¯ll spare her. Choose: honor¡­ or her flesh?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t!¡± Yvette snapped before Randall could reply. Honor wasn¡¯t worth this viper¡¯s sport.


    She hefted Randall¡ªthen hurled him into a reeking sludge trench.


    ¡°What¡ª?!¡± he sputtered, blinded but shielded by the muck¡¯s grimy embrace.


    Yvette shattered a vial, flames billowing around her. Channeling her gift, she transformed the inferno into pure UV fury. Lycanthropes shrieked, crumbling to char. Aurora recoiled until Fabian¡¯s head surged forward, neutralizing the assault.


    When silence fell, only Yvette stood unscathed.


    ¡°Holy Light¡­ Traitorous blood!¡± Aurora hissed from behind a crimson barrier, mistaking Yvette for a sanctified hunter.


    ¡°I¡¯m no zealot,¡± Yvette replied coolly. ¡°But all threats to the Veil meet judgment. This ends now, Star Apostle.¡±


    When the slick, waxy membrane glistened within Aurora¡¯s opened abdomen, a cold recognition gripped Yvette. She¡¯d seen this before¡ªin Moore¡¯s fevered dreams. The same membrane had sheathed those clawing, multi-limbed horrors from the meteor. The same corrupted violet glow pulsed here, mirroring the baleful star that had haunted Moore¡¯s childhood skies.


    Even the altar¡¯s twisted engravings whispered double meanings. The starburst patterns worshipped the Star-Maiden, yes¡ªbut their jagged rays coiled too sinuously for mere light. Tendrils. Feelers. An artist¡¯s rendering of the very abominations that now writhed in Yvette¡¯s memory.


    Three days after Moore¡¯s death, the Bureau¡¯s cleanup crew had scoured the Viscount¡¯s sewers. They¡¯d found traces of that same wax-like residue near the drains, but London¡¯s filth-choked tunnels guarded their secrets. A footnote in a report, awaiting future horrors to give it context.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    Yet why the divergence? Moore had hosted the Star-Apostle as a separate entity, while Aurora¡¯s very flesh had become its nursery.


    Yvette¡¯s mind cycled back to the quivering meat-sprouts¡ªpale and clustered like enoki mushrooms. A theory crystallized: The Apostle had puppeteered Moore¡¯s fusion experiments. Her essence was too frail to birth its spawn outright, demanding rapid, grotesque augmentation. Not so for Aurora. As a highborn vampire¡ªa breed closer to the Progenitors¡ªher bloodline required no such crudities. Vampire essence flowed through generations, and Aurora, a princess of middling-high descent, made a perfect vessel.


    The wolfspawn infesting the sewers echoed Moore¡¯s hybrid abominations. Bureau files described Moore¡¯s true form as a patchwork of stolen supers, requiring constant human flesh to stave off necrosis. Common werewolves killed for sport under the moon; these creatures fed nightly out of desperation. Their festering sores hinted at systemic rejection¡ªtoo many stolen parts, too little cohesion.


    Both women had been pawns. Moore, her mind warped into believing herself an evolutionary vanguard, was but a living womb. Aurora, swallowing her lover¡¯s remains, had ingested the Apostle¡¯s spore¡ªa hitchhiker within the meteor¡¯s core, now using her vampiric vitality to gestate. Those enoki tendrils weren¡¯t a resurrection¡ªthey were the larval form of a star-borne god, awaiting birth into Earth¡¯s soil.


    The puzzle¡¯s pieces locked into place with damning clarity: This abomination could not be permitted to flee.


    Aurora recoiled as the human girl spoke, her bones vibrating with instinctive terror¡ªthe vampire¡¯s primal dread of silver and sun. Yet this was cattle. Prey. Why then did familiarity claw at her gut? Why did panic¡ªnot her own¡ªthrum beneath her ribs?


    ¡°Fabien?¡± She caressed the withered second head grafted to her shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t fear. Our eternity is¡ª¡±


    Agitation boiled in her womb. Another consciousness scrabbled at her thoughts¡ªretreat, retreat, complete the birth!


    ¡°It¡¯s reading your memories,¡± Yvette pressed. ¡°Recycling old phrases like a broken music box. Your ¡®Fabien¡¯ is a parasite wearing his skin¡ªno better than a rove beetle tricking ants into feeding it.¡±


    The second head¡¯s earlier ramblings came back¡ªlove vows spat like broken poetry, disjointed and rehearsed. Aurora gritted her teeth as alien whispers shrieked in her skull, urging flight even as her own rage demanded vengeance.


    To concede the lie now would unmake her. She¡¯d sacrificed too much¡ªstatus, kin, honor¡ªall to clutch this shred of Fabien¡¯s shadow. Like a gambler doubling down on ruin, she¡¯d rather burn the world than fold. Before the meteor, her immortality had been a gray wasteland. Then came Fabien: a mortal poet scribbling verses by moonlight, too shy to meet her gaze. His adoration had been a flame in the Arctic night. Let the universe call her deluded; she¡¯d cling to this half-life with his face until entropy¡¯s end.


    But first¡ªvengeance. For the sacrilege. For the butchers of his flesh.


    Defying the Apostle¡¯s shrill warnings, she slashed her wrist. Blood sizzled into a serrated bone-whip. Target: the floundering in the muck. Coat him in filth to smother that accursed light-attacks. (She¡¯d sooner perish than wallow in sludge herself.)


    Yvette anticipated the feint. Aurora, for all her power, fought like an aristocrat¡ªall theatrics, no grit. Real fighters misdirect with glances and twitches. As the whip snapped sideways, Yvette fired through her holster¡ªgunslinger style¡ªher altered bullet smashing Aurora¡¯s wrist. Three more shots shattered joints.


    Sword blazing with Holy Fire, Yvette cleaved the vampire¡¯s womb. The fleshy mass inside recoiled, then screeched as the superheated steel cauterized it¡ªa psychic howl that liquefied resolve. The Star-Apostle flopped onto the stones: a stillborn horror, putrescent and mewling, its feeble tendrils writhing like drowned spiderlings. Its death rattle echoed through the tunnels¡ªa cosmic wrongness deflating into sewer stench.


    Shaking off the psychic aftershocks, Yvette hauled Randal from the filth. ¡°Apologies for the¡­ baptism. I needed to shield you from the purge.¡±


    To her surprise, the fastidious vampire prince bore his reeking shroud stoically. ¡°No harm done. But what in nine hells was that scream?¡±


    Yvette swiftly relayed the night¡¯s harrowing events to Randall.


    ¡°What of Aurora?¡±


    The name snapped Yvette back to awareness. She hurried to the vampire princess, who lay motionless in the sludge. Aurora¡¯s limbs bore scorch marks from silver rounds, yet the gruesome abdominal wound was already knitting itself¡ªa grim testament to vampiric resilience. At least she doesn¡¯t need air, Yvette thought grimly. Drowning in sewer muck would¡¯ve been an undignified end.


    ¡°Alive, but unconscious.¡±


    ¡°Your blade, Mr. Fisher,¡± Randall rasped, struggling upright.


    Yvette stepped between him and the prone noble. ¡°If you take her head now, you rob the Prince of vindication. Let the Cult bear the blame publicly. A trial revealing their manipulation will silence those doubting your sire¡¯s leadership.¡±


    Randal froze, then inclined his head. ¡°Your counsel is sound. My judgment¡­ falters.¡±


    ¡°We must move.¡±


    Guiding the blinded vampire, Yvette shouldered Aurora¡¯s limp form through the fetid tunnels.


    ¡°This state¡­¡± Randall grimaced as they neared the surface. ¡°We¡¯ll be noticed.¡±


    ¡°Stay with her. I¡¯ll secure transport.¡±


    Emerging into the street, Yvette¡¯s sewage-soaked appearance sent pedestrians recoiling. A hackney driver waved her off: ¡°Begone, gutter rat! You¡¯ll soil my rig!¡±


    ¡°Good sir!¡± she implored. ¡°Villains stole the drains! My lady fell through¡ªher brave companion followed! Aid us to Covent Garden, and fifty pounds await!¡± Aurora¡¯s finery sells the tale, Yvette calculated. Offering coin myself would see me jailed.


    ¡°Fifty quid?!¡± Nearby drivers prickled like hounds. A modest London home cost thrice that.


    ¡°Ignore this cur!¡± Rival coachmen descended. ¡°I¡¯ll bear you for forty!¡±


    ¡°Thirty!¡±


    Returning triumphant, Yvette froze. A crowd had encircled her companions¡ªordinary folk entranced, slack-jawed and vacant-eyed.


    ¡°Randall¡­¡±


    ¡°Break their gaze!¡± the vampire hissed. ¡°My hunger¡­ stirs compulsions.¡±


    They fled to the carriage. When the driver sat catatonic, Randall whispered an apology: ¡°Starved bloodsingers¡­ involuntarily entrance mortals. I¡¯ll drive.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Yvette drew the blinds and bared her wrist¡ªslender, yet the same that had smote abominations. ¡°Feed.¡±


    Randall¡¯s fangs pierced yielding flesh. Rich blood flooded his senses¡ªthen he recoiled as if branded.


    ¡°Enough?¡± Yvette tilted her head.


    ¡°I¡­ What happened?¡± The driver blinked, flicking the reins.


    Though sated, Randall trembled. Yvette¡¯s blood lacked the celestial bouquet of Ada¡¯s (born under auspicious stars), yet its pull had been¡­ primal. Had her mortal frailty beguiled him?


    He touched his lips, skin still humming where her pulse had thrummed.


    Across town, Ulysses lounged in Yvette¡¯s parlor, eyeing the substituted copper teaspoons. Alison prattled about her employer¡¯s new ¡°tutor¡±¡ªa noctivagant charlatan sans books.


    ¡°Montagu¡¯s circle, you say?¡± Ulysses swirled his Darjeeling. ¡°How curious¡­¡±


    The governess leaned closer. ¡°Sleeps till dusk! Claims scholarship yet reeks of brandy!¡±


    ¡°Nightly excursions?¡± Ulysses¡¯ smile turned vulpine. Silverware stored¡­ Urgent errands after dark¡­


    Time to hunt a certain wayward prot¨¦g¨¦e.

 Chapter 59

    Yvette froze at her doorstep. Golden light still spilled from the windows¡ªAllison waiting up again?


    She sighed, turning the key. Hadn¡¯t she warned they¡¯d return at dawn? The housekeeper¡¯s fretting knew no bounds.


    "Young Master! Your¡ªoh merciful heavens." Allison gagged as the door swung open. Yvette¡¯s trousers were mud-spattered, her tutor Randall reeking like a sewage wraith, clutching a bedraggled noblewoman.


    "Sewer mishap," Yvette blurted. "We overlooked an open drain."


    "Praise the Saints you¡¯re safe! But Sir Ulysses¡ª"


    "Uncle¡¯s here?!" Yvette¡¯s gut lurched. She gestured frantically at Randall to bolt.


    "A poor escape plan, Ives." Her uncle¡¯s voice cascaded down the stairs. Ulysses leaned against the bannerman, immaculate as ever. "Do enlighten me about tonight¡¯s... adventures."


    Randall stiffened. His healed eyes narrowed at the stranger. There was a nagging familiarity here¡ªan old portrait? A court audience? The scent was wrong for a vampire, yet...


    "Mr. Randall, my tutor," Yvette interjected. "He¡¯ll clean up first¡ª"


    "Stay." Ulysses¡¯ gloved hand halted the vampire. "Let¡¯s confer as colleagues."


    In the parlor, Ulysses dispensed with formalities: "The Kindred want you policing their bastards?"


    Yvette¡¯s rehearsed lies evaporated. How did he know?


    Randall answered with funereal dignity: "We sought Mr. Fisher¡¯s expertise. The apostate caused the attacks. My negligence endangered her¡ª"


    Ulysses snorted, eyeing Randall¡¯s filthy coat as proof of effort. "Leave London. Next hunters won¡¯t play nice." He tossed Yvette a velvet case. "Your gadget."


    "Brilliant!" Her hand darted out¡ªonly for Ulysses to trap her wrist.


    The bite mark glared crimson.


    "Sunrise cures insolence." Steel entered Ulysses¡¯ voice.


    Wait!" Yvette blocked him. "Randall hadn¡¯t fed! His thrall aura triggered the mob. He took my blood so we escaped!"


    "Charity whores exist."


    "His bloodline rejects impurities¡ª"


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    "Montague¡¯s whelp?" Ulysses cut in.


    As Randall braced for combat, Ulysses instead produced black tablets¡ªnutritional sludge for vampires. The chemist had stripped blood of all flavor, retaining only faint traces of his own essence.


    Weeks later at Warwick, Randall stared at the loathed medicine. A servant coughed: "The portrait, my Prince."


    Beneath dust-laden drapes, the massive canvas revealed Ulysses¡¯ doppelg?nger¡ªCardinal Pontian, Primate of Albion, haloed by doves. The inscription dated to Wolsey¡¯s era.


    Young Randall had stumbled upon it decades ago during games. Back then, the austere prelate bore no resemblance to the "Parisian dandy". Yet their blood signatures aligned.


    If Pontian was Ulysses¡¯ ancestor... how did her uncle share a 400-year-dead vampire¡¯s essence? The portrait¡¯s fawning dedication, the medicine¡¯s molecular echo¡ªpieces of a mosaic too blasphemous to complete.


    <div>


    Randall swiftly buried the incident. Aurora¡¯s flight demanded meticulous cleanup.


    Sir Ulysses had begrudgingly altered his report¡ªscrubbing mentions of the vampire princess and substituting himself for Randall as Yvette¡¯s accomplice. While this placated mortal authorities, clan elders required appeasement.


    Tradition dictated a public censure. Randall spent days petitioning crypt-dwelling ancients, guided by the Prince¡¯s wisdom.


    ¡°Your Highness, does this roster suffice?¡± He presented the invitation list to the Marquess of Montagu¡ªAlbion¡¯s vampiric sovereign.


    The Prince amended names with a raven-feather quill. ¡°Summon these. The rest languish in Byzantium or the Colonies¡ªlet them rot. Inform Miss Fischer. She¡¯s earned our audience.¡±


    His vow of ¡°clan friendship¡± now demanded fulfillment. Should Yvette attend, introductions would spare her future treks to Warwickshire.


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°Speak your mind.¡± The Prince detected his hesitation.


    ¡°We unearthed a portrait¡ª¡®To Pontian, His Holiness.¡¯ Odd decorum, given our papal frost. Do you know this cardinal?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± The Prince¡¯s gaze lingered on candle shadows. ¡°Saints sell piety. Mortals see art, not monsters. Immortality grows tedious, Randall. Cultivate an eye for beauty.¡±


    ¡°As you say.¡± Randall fled before the lecture deepened.


    Alone, the Prince ignited centuries-old letters. Flames devoured flawless Latin script:


    Montagu¡ª


    Delay pardoned. For mortal guises: never linger. Let cities forget. Return as your heir. Fracture your soul into roles¡ªplay each briefly. Mannerisms shift with the mask.


    Find me in Constantinople.¡ªPontian


    Yvette combed gutter press for hysteria. The Suicide Club¡¯s ¡°angel¡± glared from her locket¡ªits malice bound by golden filigree.


    Bureau sluggards now chased vanished beggars, but rumor milled fables of sewer phantoms. Stamp taxes kept respectable papers costly, spawning penny dreadfuls that sprouted like mold.


    Once, heresy laws stifled dissent. Now coal pits spat dinosaur bones, eroding scripture.


    Sir Ulysses sneered at his paperwork: ¡°If apes birthed us, ascension¡¯s less traumatic.¡±


    ¡°Roaches outlived dinosaurs,¡± Yvette noted. ¡°Fossils prove it.¡±


    ¡°Then statecraft survives doomsday.¡± He eyed his watch. ¡°Tea o¡¯clock.¡±


    In the Iris Caf¨¦, ink-stained hacks huddled nearby.


    ¡°Dawdler.¡± Yvette piled broadsheets onto his knee.


    ¡°Fetch Winslow. Why should the butler nap?¡±


    ¡°Tyrant.¡± She filed annotated clippings. ¡°Done by dusk.¡±


    ¡°Bureau praised your sewage purge. We share laurels¡ªmy acting that gutter-blooded wretch.¡± Ulysses slid her a dossier. ¡°Holiday booked. Volcanoes pulse post-Season¡ªsalamander hunting.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    ¡°Your apothecary¡¯s poison requires magma blood. No eruptions here.¡±


    The Flame Mantle elixir¡¯s aura magnified her gifts exponentially¡ªthree vials halved by past battles. Deprived of it, she¡¯d revert to flimsy mortality.


    ¡°Recklessness demands insurance.¡± Ulysses tapped the file. ¡°Pack for geysers after the Season dies.¡±

 Chapter 60

    "The New World¡­" Yvette mused, her imagination colored by the gold-rush tales currently popular in Albion. Though fascinated, a niggling doubt surfaced. History texts painted the American Revolution as a righteous uprising - oppressed colonists driven to arms, triumphing over tyrannical British rule through their Declaration''s damning indictments. Yet now, as a subject of the former colonizing power, would her presence there provoke resentment? The papers suggested Albion''s populace viewed their Atlantic cousins with equal disdain.


    "Sir," she ventured, "do you think the Americans resent us?"


    Ulysses raised an eyebrow. "What gives you that impression?"


    "Well... They did throw out our government rather forcefully."


    The aging spymaster chuckled. "Politics and personal feelings make poor bedfellows. Parliament''s investment portfolios include half the tobacco plantations in Virginia. Even General Gage - our former commander in the colonies - prioritized protecting his shares over pressing military advantage. He was cashiered for reluctance to burn profitable assets. To the upper crusts on both sides, independence was merely a change of fiscal paperwork."


    This glimpse behind the patriotic curtain left Yvette reeling. The Revolution as boardroom maneuver rather than heroic struggle?


    Having concluded their day''s work amidst such discussions, Yvette remembered Lady Alison''s morning correspondence. "Sir, the Marquess of Montague invites me to a private opera at Queen''s Theater. There being no conflicting engagements..."


    "Dress specifications?" Ulysses interrupted with bureaucratic briskness.


    "Period costume and masks." She glanced at the Florentine-embossed invitation. In London''s foggy streets, such garments might raise eyebrows, but the tradition harked back to Venice''s dagger-and-intrigue nights when masks meant survival as much as fashion.


    Ulysses'' monocle gleamed. "Capital! You''ll find that guest list most... illuminating."


    As they prepared to depart, Yvette bundled newspapers into neat stacks. The uppermost issue displayed their earlier topic - colliery excavations revealing ancient amber-trapped insects and spiral-shelled fossils. The image resurrected memories of her ascension visions...


    Who could comprehend that everything crawling, flying, or blooming traced back to those first lightning-struck amino acids in Earth''s primordial stew? Life''s great experiment, where success meant survival and failure became limestone strata. The newspaper''s philosophical snippet resonated:


    ¡¾All creatures bear primordial slime upon their backs, hauling birth''s chrysalis to death''s threshold.


    From common abyss we spring, yet each claws toward separate suns.¡¿


    Even ammonites, she mused - those spiral architects of Paleozoic seas - were but nautilus cousins who chose evolutionary dead ends. Extinction the price for specialization.


    The Kin presented darker implications. Office theorists called them "higher echoes" - cosmic entities requiring blood prices to manifest. Ulysses argued they simply differed, not transcended. But why then their malignant interest in humanity? Neither hypothesis explained their dark symbiosis with Earth...


    That night''s dream began familiarly - the vast vertical pupil, sunset-gold and pitiless. Down its light-shaft she fell into stygian void.


    Primordial lightning cleaved chaos. Again she stood upon infant Earth - skies poison, oceans roiling, thunder without end.


    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    But no evolutionary parade followed. Only endless lightning strikes illuminating the abiotic world. During her previous ascension''s vision, she''d comprehended ascension paths: Serpent''s Coil and Flaming Blade described the soul''szigzag climb up Creation''s Tree. But lightning? Lightning fell top-down!


    As epiphany struck, the thunder stilled.


    She floated through cosmic dark until a violet comet materialized - frozen womb of living nightmares. Its shedding ice left bioluminescent trails, like some celestial moth scattering spore-dust. When Earth intersected this stellar spoor...


    Yvette awoke gasping.


    The revelation burned - Kin sought inverted ascension. While humans climbed from material Malkuth toward spiritual Keter, these beings descended from cosmic heights to plumb physicality''s secrets. Hence their endless probing, their harvesting of fleshly knowledge...


    The comet itself - Aurora''s "Star-Daughter"? Majestic yet diminished compared to her patron deity. Like viewing a candle beside erupting volcano. The Sleeping Creator bore countless serpentine names - Apophis, Leviathan, J?rmungandr - yet remained aloof, only stirring when other celestial vermin required culling.


    Here lay the rub - her capricious deity seemed content playing cosmic cat to others'' mice. While other gods schemed, this primordial force simply... enjoyed the hunt.


    Poor Thomas Gage''s predicament suddenly seemed universal - all existence caught between hostilities they scarcely comprehended.


    On the designated evening, Yvette donned her invitation-mandated attire and rode to Queen¡¯s Theatre.


    For Albion¡¯s elite, nighttime marked the start of refined amusements¡ªballet, opera, and theater mirrored their upside-down. The street overflowed with noble carriages, their house crests winking under gaslight.


    Yet...


    Peering through the carriage window, Yvette frowned. Most emblems were strangers to her. Odd, given Albion¡¯s five-tier aristocracy totaled mere hundreds. Even unfamiliar nobles should¡¯ve had recognizable symbols.


    The reclusive Vampire Prince¡ªMarquis de Montague¡ªrarely socialized. Combined with Ulysses¡¯ hint about meeting "unusual company," Yvette guessed these guests belonged to the night.


    Alighting, she witnessed an overdressed merchant arguing with an usher:


    "Apologies, sir. Invitation only."


    The man bristled. "You think I can¡¯t afford this?" His glare darted between opulent arrivals¡ªhe yearned to rub elbows with power.


    Yvette flashed her gilt-edged card and glided past his envy.


    Inside, prickling unease gripped her. Masked figures swirled through the lobby like phantoms. Were they staring? She feigned interest in a frescoed ceiling.


    Unheard whispers swarmed:


    "Mortal intruder..."


    "Virgin¡¯s aroma¡ªunclaimed?"


    "Careful! Witch-hunters prowl London¡¯s fog."


    A masked Randall materialized, scattering shadows with a glance. He led her to a private balcony.


    "Prince¡¯s prot¨¦g¨¦ claimed the human," murmured the crowd. "Why invite prey to predator¡¯s den?"


    In the velvet-draped box, Yvette pushed her masquerade mask up. "How¡¯d you spot me so quickly?"


    "Your scent blazes here," Randall said. "Like roses in a crypt."


    So everyone here was... She momentarily forgot her hidden UV device. Suddenly, this theater felt colder.


    "None shall harm the Prince¡¯s guest," Randall assured, summoning wine and opera glasses with a silver bell¡¯s chime.


    Yvette hesitated. "What opera is this?"


    "Agamemnon¡¯s dilemma: sacrifice a daughter to Artemis for war winds, or doom his troops."


    Ah¡ªthe myth where Artemis swaps Iphigenia for a doe. Was Montague staging coded pleas for his progeny¡¯s case?


    Vampires now occupied half the seats¡ªimpressive numbers for immortal recluses. The overture swelled.


    Greek choruses sang as stage pirates enacted family treason: Agamemnon¡¯s ambition, Clytemnestra¡¯s revenge, Orestes¡¯ matricide. Superb vocals, masterful orchestration¡ªbut every performer moved like marionettes. Compelled thralls? Yvette shivered.


    Amidst divine wrath plot twists, Prince Montague himself prowled center stage¡ªAgamemnon incarnate. His voice rolled like thunder:


    "Must I drench altars with my child¡¯s lifeblood? How else save the fleet?"


    Enter Aurora: pale, flower-crowned, trance-stepping toward doom. Yvette¡¯s nails dug into velvet armrests. Publicly parading his fugitive daughter?


    Ritual crescendoed. Aurora lay on the altar, bound for Artemis¡¯ mercy/butchery. Blade flashed¡ªsmoke erupted. A deer¡¯s head thunked down.


    Yet vampires gasped. Some recoiled; others trembled.


    Sudden silence. The Prince stepped forth:


    "Kin! We harbor a viper: my child Aurora¡ªdefiler of blood, breaker of laws. She dies tonight. Let her ashes warn all¡ªthe Masquerade stands inviolate!"


    Flames engulfed the animal corpse. Not stagecraft¡ªvampiric Final Death.


    Yvette froze. That "doe" had been Aurora.


    This wasn¡¯t opera¡ªit was execution theater.

 Chapter 61

    As the theater curtains fell, Lord Montague carved a path to Lady Yvette''s secluded booth.


    "Shocked, are we? Expecting familial leniency towards my wayward child?" The vampire lord''s smile revealed pearl-white fangs.


    She hesitated. "I... anticipated discreet justice. Not this public theatre of blood."


    "Albion''s Night Courts demand decisive rulership," he replied, moonlight silvering his ceremonial mantle. "Would you have Kindred queens and barons flood Earth with bastard lineages? Every stolen conversion diminishes humanity''s fragile light. The sentence required theatricality ¨C a lesson etched in crimson."


    Yvette conceded silently. The ancient laws protected mortals as much as immortal society. Predators unchecked would feast humanity to extinction.


    "My true purpose glows brighter," Montague continued, motioning towards shadowed courtiers. "Three London-bound scions stand indebted after you cleansed our House''s dishonor. Warwickshire lies too distant for urgent consultation."


    The introduced vampires wore mortal guises effortlessly ¨C a bibliophile baronet, a reclusive heiress, and most intriguingly, a patron of sciences. Recalling those terrible visions of celestial corruption ¨C an astral monstrosity seeding cosmic plagues ¨C Yvette posed her query:


    "Astronomers? Scholars charting the void betwixt stars?"


    "Dietrich von Stein," mused the scholarly benefactor. "Saxon lenscrafter obsessed with stellar observation. His glassworks founder on bubble-filled blanks currently, but next month promises London demonstrations. Associates include Greenwich stargazers..."


    Yvette accepted the Prussian''s credentials. Europe''s idle rich funded inventors like racehorses, hungering for reflected glory. Dietrich wouldn''t refuse a sponsor''s request for introductions.


    Filthy pennies skittered across ale-stained planks. The silent docker collected his pittance, ignoring the foreman''s sneer. This was "Merry Roger," apostle of sunken temples, now reduced to dockside anonymity.


    His companion''s botched reconnaissance had ended in bullet wounds and tabloid headlines. While yellow sheets later ridiculed the "police fantasy," Roger maintained disciplined hibernation ¨C selling his tavern, dissolving into London''s bone-tired dockworkers where sea-tanned skin and salt-cured lungs drew no stares.


    Rotting timber groaned. Candlelight revealed a velvet-collared intruder.


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    "Lost, milord? This ain''t no pleasure garden."


    "A pity about your rum cellar," the dandy remarked, inspecting grime-caked nails. "Authentic Antillean blends grow scarce since your... retirement."


    Roger''s pulse spiked. Oceanic powers surged instinctually ¨C a man might "slip" into Thames mud tonight¨C


    "Needless drama," the man tutted, producing a surgeon''s lancet from his cane. "Observe tonight''s entertainment instead."


    Their exchange unfolded in hissed whispers ¨C the stranger revealing horrifying insight: Drowned God rituals, even failed artifact plots. When Roger demanded provenance:


    "Spoon-fed opportunities! Smugglers needing tidal sabotage! Treasure hunters seeking sunken crypts! Yet you snatch cutlery while the feast awaits..."


    "Judas!" Roger''s blade flashed.


    The visitor''s laughter dripped arsenic. "Judas betrayed truth for silver. We scribes of Christendom''s fables betrayed ourselves. Entire civilizations built on lies to veil cosmic cancers. But your wage-thief? His skull now garnishes Warehouse Three''s cobbles ¨C my parting gift."


    A commotion erupted as dockhands returned ¨C recounting their overseer''s "accident" with relish. Timelines matched perfectly: death had stalked the visitor''s departing footsteps.


    As Albion''s glittering social season waned, the final summer month heralded the time-honored Investiture rites.


    Yvette observed dispassionately¡ªthe ancient Order of the Garter concerned royalty alone. Queen Margaret IV, though unwed, presided as sovereign over this inaugural ceremony of her reign. Foreign monarchs¡ªHoly Roman Emperors, Byzantine rulers, Muscovite Tsars¡ªhad dispatched envoys or come personally, transforming London into a hive of crowned heads and hidden dangers. The Special Missions Bureau''s agents prowled the crowds, Yvette among them scanning for supernatural threats.


    Her nerves stretched tautest when the Garter procession passed¡ªminutes feeling like hours. The Queen''s azure garter gleamed against velvet robes, white plumes nodding regally. Only when the last jeweled slipper vanished from view did Yvette exhale.


    Relaxing slightly, she admired subsequent knightly orders. The Albion Imperial Knights'' approach quickened her pulse differently¡ªthere strode Ulysses, Grand Master Lancaster''s lieutenant. The two made striking figures: crimson cloaks flowing over gold-braided uniforms, dress swords swinging. Their heroic mien eclipsed older knights'' paunchy solemnity, setting ladies'' fans fluttering like startled doves.


    Definitely the block''s handsomest, Yvette conceded privately.


    Post-ceremonial duties found her meeting Ulysses in mufti outside headquarters.


    "Sir Knight! Survived the peacock parade?"


    "Endured. You stayed? Surprising."


    "Worth it to see you play hero-costumed."


    His wry smile faded as Lancaster descended¡ªa golden retriever of a duke. "Ives! Here for my grand entrance?"


    When pressed for compliments, Yvette''s diplomatic evasion proved too subtle. Relentless, the duke conscripted her into Greyston Manor''s gathering through an overeager viscount''s proxy invitation.


    Next day''s arrival at the Versailles-like estate brought fresh bewilderment. Liveried footmen with prizefighter physiques handled luggage like sacred vessels¡ªa ritualized absurdity underscoring Albion''s new-money grandeur. The convalescent Earl''s absence disappointed title-hunters, leaving his son Thornton to host.


    Through it all, Yvette marveled at aristocracy''s intricate dance¡ªwhere servants balanced icy propriety with sacred service, and dukes collected people like curios. Yet behind marble fa?ades and plumed hats, the real game continued¡ªone where her role remained shadowed and unclear.

 Chapter 62

    A servant from Earl Grey¡¯s household had just finished assisting Yvette¡¯s attendants with her luggage when another footman stepped forward. Without a word, he retrieved a silver box from his tray and presented it to her.


    Copying the other guests, Yvette accepted it with a polite nod. Every attendee seemed to hold one. No doubt Ulysses will explain later, she thought.


    She spotted him across the room, engrossed in conversation¡ªuntil the Duke of Lancaster sidled up to her.


    ¡°Daydreaming, Yves?¡±


    ¡°Your Grace! I was merely¡­ admiring how impeccably trained the servants are here.¡± Her tone strained to mask discomfort.


    ¡°Ah.¡± The Duke¡¯s smile widened as he flicked open her silver box. Inside lay cerulean paper scraps. Plucking one, he drawled, ¡°Pray visit my estate someday. My servants rival these¡ªand my brother shares my esteem for you.¡±


    ¡°Your¡­ brother?¡± Since when does he have a brother who knows me?


    The Duke offered no answer. With a foxlike smirk, he retreated up the staircase, footsteps light with mischief.


    Once he vanished, Ulysses joined her, palm outstretched. ¡°Hand it over.¡±


    Baffled, Yvette complied. He swapped her box for his own, which she opened to reveal crimson confetti.


    ¡°Avoiding carmine, Sir?¡± She suppressed a grin. Such a masculine hue.


    Ulysses groaned. ¡°Three hundred rooms. Forty guests. Scores of servants. Need I spell it out?¡±


    At her blank stare, he relented. ¡°Once, a libertine mistook a lord¡¯s chamber for his paramour¡¯s. He leapt into bed¡ªand grabbed a hairy calf belonging to a gouty marquess. The scandal exiled him to the Continent. Hence¡±¡ªhe shook the box¡ª¡°color-coded paper trails. The Duke memorized your shade. Use mine now, and never reveal yours again.¡±


    Yvette blinked.


    The mansion¡¯s maze of corridors justified the precaution. Her guide took ages to locate her room¡ªunlocked, like all inner doors. Privacy, it seemed, remained a novel luxury.


    Later, she tiptoed into the hall to sprinkle crimson scraps. But a cerulean trail snaked past her door, vanishing into the adjacent room.


    She knocked on the shared wall. ¡°Sir Ulysses?¡±


    Fabric rustled on the other side before his voice cut through: ¡°Ah, my neighbor. Afternoons are yours to idle¡ªbut dress formally for dinner.¡±


    Of course. Nobility demanded a wardrobe for every hour: promenades demanded walking dresses, tea required visiting gowns¡­ Yvette opted for a brief stroll to avoid whispers of penury.


    Near the shrubbery, hunters returned with game. One rider clutched a live fox by the nape¡ªoddly docile, its tail a slack banner.


    ¡°A bold catch!¡± Yvette called. ¡°Did it charge your net?¡±


    ¡°It offered itself,¡± a man replied. ¡°Tame as a pup, reeking aside.¡±


    The creature¡¯s passivity unnerved her.


    Dinner introduced Earl Grey: a vibrant man in his prime, save for the bandaged stump of his left arm. Guests showered him with condolences, but he waved them off, jesting about his ¡°hunting trophy.¡±


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    ¡°Yet my finest quarry came not from land, but sea.¡± His gaze lingered on the Duke of Lancaster. ¡°Last week, I sampled caviar transcendent¡ªKiev¡¯s ¡®black gold¡¯ pales to sawdust in comparison.¡±


    The Earl excused himself after dessert.


    Yvette endured parlor debates until weariness reclaimed her.


    That night, furtive footsteps halted outside Ulysses¡¯ door. A knob creaked¡ª


    Shiiiing. Steel rang out next door.


    ¡°Your Grace,¡± Ulysses deadpanned, ¡°to think you¡¯d skulk into my chambers like some back-alley degenerate.¡±


    ¡°Misunderstanding!¡± the Duke yelped. ¡°By our friendship¡ª!¡±


    Scuffles followed. Yvette pictured Ulysses herding him backward, blade leveled.


    ¡°My honor demands reparation. We duel at dawn.¡±


    ¡°A glove! Don¡¯t toss the glove! Look into my aggrieved eyes¡ª!¡±


    The Duke¡¯s pleas faded as he bolted downstairs, grief evidently no hindrance to haste.


    Yvette muffled laughter. Ulysses could comedy-pair with a lamppost.


    Yet the Duke¡¯s brother¡ªwho was he?


    Life at the manor drifted by like molasses. Though mere days had passed, Yvette felt suspended in amber.


    When Earl Gray failed to appear at the second day¡¯s banquet, guests amused themselves with hunts and cards, while statesmen murmured in parlors. Their discussions reeked of patrician arrogance.


    "Humanity divides itself¡ªsuperior intellect and virtue elevate the elite. Nature¡¯s design," declared one.


    "Pastures overgrazed starve the flock," another drawled. "Likewise, the poor proliferate beyond their meager rations. Let charity cease, and hunger shall curb their breeding."


    Teatime interrupted these philosophies. A servant presented finger food¡ªdainty cakes above, suspicious sandwiches below. The Gray chef¡¯s creation disturbed tradition: shredded crimson meat, more butcher¡¯s scraps than noble fare.


    A guest inspected his sandwich dubiously.


    "Venison, sir!" The servant urged. "Minced to savor the broth¡ªa culinary marvel!"


    Yvette examined her portion. Though shredded, the meat glistened succulently.


    A neighbor took a bite and froze, eyes widening. "Astounding... unlike any venison¡ª"


    "Juvenile game, perhaps? Richer marbling..."


    As praise circulated, Yvette reached for one¡ª


    "Yves. Attend me." Ulysses stood framed in the doorway.


    "Coming, Uncle."


    The servant persisted: "Dinner¡¯s hours distant! At least take a sandwich¡ª"


    Oddly pushy, Yvette thought. "No thank you. My stomach rebels."


    Escaping the servant¡¯s wounded look, she followed Ulysses to a gilded chamber where Winslow and the Duke of Lancaster waited.


    "Ulysses! Darling rogue!" The Duke flourished. "And Yves¡ªhas Cupid guided you to my door?"


    "Enough theater," Ulysses said. "The sandwiches are tainted."


    "What?" Yvette stared. The others betrayed no surprise. "You all knew?"


    Winslow nodded. "His Grace enlightened me posthaste."


    But he¡¯s no adept! Without Ulysses¡¯ intervention, she¡¯d have eaten.


    "Poison? Shouldn¡¯t we warn¡ª"


    "Not poison. The meat itself... is problematic." Ulysses¡¯ tone forbade inquiry.


    Why shut me out? Resentment prickled.


    "Your Grace¡ªhow would you discern this?"


    The Duke¡¯s vulpine grin sharpened. "Though giftless, I¡¯m curse-touched. I see... reflections. Earl Gray¡ªa pallid wretch with a lamprey¡¯s maw. His shadow crawls with grasping hands, devoured by goat-shaped specters."


    "His forebears enclosed commons for pasture, beggaring tenants. My visions mirror their sins."


    Yvette recalled textbooks: Enclosure Acts starving peasants for profit...


    "My brother¡¯s your ¡®Spindle.¡¯"


    The Tower¡¯s Fateweaver! Ulysses¡¯ calm confirmed prior knowledge.


    "The sandwiches, then¡ª?"


    The Duke¡¯s smile turned black. "Lambs caper in shadows, feasting on limb-studded ore."


    Yvette blanched. Earl Gray¡¯s own curse¡ªcould it mean...


    "Hollow visions?" she whispered.


    "Ulysses confirmed: that meat wasn¡¯t deer..."


    "Enough," Ulysses warned.


    "Ah, but he tasted its truth!" The Duke¡¯s eyes glittered.


    He ate it? Yvette recoiled, recalling Ulysses biting cursed stone. Gods¡ªthe revulsion...


    "Uncle¡ªare you¡ª? Your Grace, stop baiting him!"


    The room gaped.


    The Duke chuckled. "Sweet child¡ªUlysses has swallowed fouler things. He spares you the horror."


    Ulysses redirected. "Earl Gray¡¯s fate is uncertain. Perpetrator unknown¡ªmundane or occult. This reeks of ritual. Time bleeds away, but guests here hold power. His Grace departs immediately."


    "Yves should escort him," Winslow suggested.


    "No. You both go."


    "No," they chorused.


    "Too dangerous alone," Yvette protested.


    "Assign Yves to me?" The Duke fluttered lashes.


    Ulysses¡¯ pause stretched.


    "Beloved comrade~?"


    "...Winslow accompanies you."


    The Duke wailed betrayal.

 Chapter 63

    Ulysses dismissed the Duke of Lancaster''s pleas with icy finality, splitting their party in four. Yet before departure, both the Duke and Winslow shared disturbing findings with those remaining.


    "The valet delivering Earl Grey''s sandwiches bears watching," Winslow murmured. "Even uninvolved, he may lead us to hidden strings."


    The Duke sighed, adjusting his cravat. "What else? Ah yes¡ªthat club Grey and I frequent." His voice dropped. "We aren''t hunting foxes, Miss Yvette. Our ''quarry'' requires... sterner measures. Monstrosities from shadowed realms. Grey claimed he''d bagged a rare specimen recently¡ªlost an arm to it, though surgeons blame infection." His chuckle held no mirth. "We clubmen often lose limbs. Price of chasing nightmares."


    A cabal hunting magical beasts?! Yvette gaped. The Duke¡ªan ordinary aristocrat¡ªdared such game?


    Ulysses¡¯ friend smiled thinly. "We employ professionals or wield heirlooms." His gaze sharpened. "But Grey''s injury¡ªtoo convenient. That severed arm tells darker tales."


    Two hours later, the Duke performed his exit¡ªgroaning about old riding injuries, "diagnosed" by Ulysses as requiring London''s medical contraptions. A flawless theater witnessed by servants.


    Back in the parlor, Yvette found transformed debates¡ªwealthy cynics now sermonizing charity with glassy fervor.


    "Give! Forgiving debts pleases the Divine!"


    "Spend your corrupt riches saving paupers¡ªour holy duty!"


    Cold dread crept through her. These men cited scripture yet ignored practical aid. Albein lords mocking religion for generations? Now chanting like choirboys?


    "The Eucharist is blasphemy!" A sandwich-stuffed lord bellowed, crumbs spraying. "We should carve our own flesh for the Savior!" Murmurs of agreement swelled. Her neighbor rasped: "Yes... Let Him feast on us..."


    Yvette fled as the dressing gong clanged. Passing Ulysses¡¯ door, she hesitated¡ªblue paper scraps littered his threshold...


    Inside, she found him adjusting a lace jabot, shirt half-unbuttoned. "Took up self-dressing to spite lazy valets," he quipped, securing the neckcloth with practiced ease. His hands, she noted, moved with surgeon''s precision despite aristocratic indolence.


    She described the chapel-like parlor. His brow furrowed. "Sacrificial urges..." Retrieving a sandwich fragment, he explained: "Mice ate this meat, marched unprotesting into a cat''s claws. They watched kin get eaten¡ªplacidity unbroken. Just like..."


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    "The trapper''s docile fox!" Realization struck. "The tainted meat enforces self-sacrifice! But you bit it¡ª!"


    "Trace amounts affect mortals, not seasoned hunters," Ulysses shrugged. "This corruption reeks of higher powers twisting Grey."


    A rustle froze them. His hand covered her mouth, breath warm at her ear: "The service lift stirs..."


    Yvette acknowledged with a nod and casually flung a decorative piece from the table, magically muffling its fall. The sandalwood ornament rolled noiselessly across the floor. "My barrier''s up," she told Ulysses. "We can speak freely within three meters."


    "Clever," Ulysses remarked, his ears having morphed into bat-like points that twitched faintly. "The service lift carried no supper carts earlier - just soft-soled evening shoes. Guests shouldn''t prowl servant passages."


    Indeed, every aristocratic home maintained strict separation between family staircases and staff corridors. Most lords died never seeing their own service lanes, let alone others''.


    "Track them by scent?" Yvette guessed.


    "Precisely." Ulysses'' nostrils flared. "Dinner will reveal our mystery guests."


    When the brass gong summoned them, Ulysses lingered by the dining hall entrance, discreetly sniffing each arrival. Yet all place settings filled without matching his quarry - until their host''s son announced five guests'' abrupt departure.


    Though silver platters bore untainted roasts and stews, Yvette ate only after Ulysses sampled each dish. Later, amid cigar smoke and brandy, she cornered him. "Well?"


    "Those five never left," he murmured through her sound-dampening field. "They''re hidden here."


    Yvette''s mind raced. If this involved the Afflicted - those void-dwelling parasites descending the Sephirot - every moment mattered. Their kind hungered for human essence to anchor in our world. Beyond the leaded windows, stars glimmered malevolently. Since her vision of the Star-Mother seeding space with terrors, the night sky chilled her.


    "Why..." she mused, "do we ascend the Tree while they descend? Are we the anomalies?" Mortality versus their soulless immortality - what sane person would choose eternal emptiness?


    Ulysses cut through her thoughts. "We search tonight."


    Feigning early retirements, they stole downstairs. The servant wing stood empty, staff occupied upstairs. Following his heightened senses through storage rooms, they discovered a loose trapdoor.


    "Stay close," Ulysses breathed, dropping into the dripping tunnel. The air tasted of salt and rot.


    Soon, an alien cadence vibrated through stone - not song nor speech, but some wet, gurgling liturgy that squirmed into the brain. Ulysses tensed. "Block your hearing at first sign of madness."


    Yvette complied as the chant intensified, guiding them toward phosphorescent gloom. There knelt the missing five, joined by household staff, all swaying before an open coffin. At their center stood Earl Gray, limbs grotesquely truncated, face contorted in rapture as he led the unholy chorus.


    With a sudden retch, the earl spewed black bile and organ shards into the coffin. The cultists scrambled to drink the putrid slurry.


    "Now!" Ulysses hissed, producing surgeon''s blades. His tongue flickered along the edges, leaving iridescent trails. "Toxin-laced. Draw blood to paralyze. Your sword."


    When Yvette presented her blade, Ulysses bent low, his pale lips grazing the steel as he anointed it with venom. The sight - aristocratic vampire attending a lady''s sword with such intimacy - sparked unexpected heat in her cheeks.

 Chapter 64

    Once the neurotoxin took effect, Yvette and Ulysses charged into the chaotic assembly. Though these cultists reveled in depravity, their human frailty betrayed them¡ªmuscles locked, they crumpled to the floor, twitching and babbling incoherently.


    Yvette trussed them like game hens, ensuring they¡¯d stay subdued post-toxin. Lantern lit from the bonfire¡¯s embers, she approached the coffin.


    The stench hit first¡ªa tidal wave of fish-rot and decay. Eyes watering, she pressed a rag (torn from a captive¡¯s shirt by Ulysses) to her face and peered inside.


    The thing within defied nature. Its moist, segmented hide glistened like a lamprey¡¯s. A bulbous head fused fish and human traits, while its torso split grotesquely: quasi-human above, blistered fish-flesh below. Tubular growths spilled from its abdomen like fungal tentacles. Putrefaction had ruptured the belly, spewing gelatinous eggs, necrotic organs, and slime across the coffin¡¯s velvet lining. The reek¡ªammonia and sulfur, searing as poison¡ªclung to Yvette¡¯s throat.


    This was the ¡°delicacy¡± Earl Grey had raved about at dinner? His words echoed in her mind:


    ¡°My prize hails from the ocean¡¯s abyss, gentlemen. Last week¡¯s caviar¡ªharvested from a specimen beyond your wildest nightmares¡ªmade Kiev¡¯s ¡®black gold¡¯ taste like sawdust.¡±


    Yvette gagged. Had this¡­ creature¡¯s eggs truly been served as food? She turned to Ulysses¡ªonly to watch him pluck a thumbnail-sized egg and swallow it whole.


    ¡°Relax,¡± he said, wiping his mouth. ¡°I¡¯ve built¡­ immunities.¡±


    ¡°¡­How was it?¡± she managed.


    ¡°Sulfuric aftertaste. Notes of gangrene. Three out of ten.¡±


    Unbelievable. This man wrinkled his nose at blood pudding yet chewed nightmare-fuel with sommelier poise.


    Progeny, Ulysses declared. Unlike vampires¡ªparasites who ¡°convert¡± hosts¡ªthese beings birthed stillborn young unless sustained by dark rites. The eggs¡¯ advanced decay proved the creature¡¯s offspring had died in utero long before its own demise.


    ¡°But why would Earl Grey ingest this filth?¡± Yvette pressed.


    ¡°His club¡¯s tastes exceed hunting,¡± Ulysses mused. ¡°Forbidden flesh, exotic agonies¡ªthey sample everything. This specimen¡¯s no local. Antifreeze proteins in its tissue mark it as Arctic-born. Smuggled here, perhaps?¡±


    Yvette¡¯s mind raced. Ancient texts spoke of Old Ones¡¯ hybrid offspring¡ªsome with humans, others with beasts. This abomination, adapted to polar depths, had no business in Albion¡¯s waters. Who¡¯d transported it?


    But contingencies came first. Guests and staff¡ªsome tainted by supernatural influence¡ªneeded quarantine. Her Nightmare Ring could induce sleep, yet the estate¡¯s sprawl demanded precision.


    Ulysses¡¯ preternatural hearing mapped the manor¡¯s hotspots: card games in the parlor, kitchen scrubladies, gardeners trimming hedges. Two strategic activations later, silence gripped the halls. Stragglers¡ªa scullery boy, a groom¡ªfell to Ulysses¡¯ toxin-dipped pins.


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    ¡°Conserve your artifact,¡± he advised. ¡°Needles suffice for vermin.¡±


    Seven chances¡ªthat was all the nightmare ring offered. One used against Black Jack, another tidying the Moore affair¡¯s loose ends, two more today... Three remained. A twinge of reluctance pinched Yvette, but practicality overruled sentiment. The ring hailed from Duran, a Second Layer Source soul. Against mundanes, yes, effective enough¡ªbut even First Layer novices shook off its haze in moments. Higher-tier transcendents? Laughable. And now? She¡¯d ascended to the Third Layer herself. Squashing First Layer fledglings required no crutches. At best, the ring bought time to mop up messes. Today¡¯s chaos qualified. Not wasted.


    Still, contingencies needed planning.


    ¡°Your paralytic toxin¡ªcould we stockpile it? Handier than the ring for witness reduction when I¡¯m solo.¡±


    ¡°Anything I bioforge degrades minutes post-separation. No shelf life. Otherwise, you¡¯d get crates of blood ampoules. Useless once they revert,¡± Ulysses sighed.


    Pity. Had Duran been their ally, his knack would¡¯ve simplified cleanup. Vampires could erase minds, but their shadows lurked too deep. With Winston reporting this mess, dragging bloodsuckers in now? Recipe for disaster.


    Mulling over transcendents¡¯ powers, Yvette noted Ulysses¡¯ uniqueness. Others bent reality: Winston puppeteered limbs, Keegan whispered to nature¡¯s spirits, Saul exorcized phantoms, Jack and Duran toyed with minds. Even she twisted energy¡¯s threads.


    Not Ulysses. His gifts turned inward. Even his miracle blood dulled outside his veins. Odd.


    ¡°If your powers evolve outward one day¡ªheavens. Imagine battlefield clerics radiating healing auras...¡± Yvette mused.


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± Ulysses demurred. His smile¡ªpolished, distant¡ªmasked truths like stained glass.


    Days later, at Hampstead¡¯s Fisher Manor, Yvette observed Winston churn ice cream while dissecting Earl Grey¡¯s scandal.


    ¡°Reinforcements arrived promptly, I trust? After depositing His Grace, I dispatched alerts immediately.¡±


    ¡°Ordinary fools playing with a dead kin-beast. Harmless.¡± She shrugged. ¡°Shame the puppetmaster skipped the party. We¡¯d have bagged them. Now? Pray for luck.¡±


    ¡°Psychics will crack the earl¡¯s mind soon,¡± Winston soothed.


    Yvette shook her head. ¡°The mind-scourger checked on-site. Earl¡¯s psyche¡¯s mush¡ªraving mad. No leads.¡±


    Today¡¯s paper beside her showed Earl Grey at a charity gala. A lie. The true earl rotted in the Tower under interrogation. Ulysses wore his face.


    Yvette had watched the metamorphosis¡ªgrisly, clinical. Ulysses smashed his nose; cartilage knit into the earl¡¯s hook. Muscles slithered under skin for hours. Final tweaks birthed a mirror image, mustache completing the fraud. Not even kin would spot the ruse.


    It begged a question: If Ulysses could rebuild faces, was his own angelic visage engineered? Vanity, sure¡ªbut transcendently-enhanced Narcissism?


    Disgusting.


    ¡°Your vacant stare insults my craft. Critique the voice.¡± Ulysses rasped the earl¡¯s bass.


    ¡°Just speculating¡ªdid you sculpt your real face too? Suspiciously divine...¡±


    Flick.


    ¡°Petty vanity beneath me.¡± Ulysses snorted. ¡°Natural, this face. Mimicry¡¯s a vise. Pray the earl¡¯s ¡®accident¡¯ happens fast.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t it...hurt?¡± She recalled the bone-crunching.


    ¡°Numbed nerves. Maintenance aches, though. Sensory deprivation¡¯s unwise long-term.¡±


    Hence, Ulysses endured the masquerade, while Yvette and Winston charaded through press duties.


    Albion¡¯s summer social season¡ªcooler than her Chinese past life¡¯s infernos. Locals wilted, craving iced luxuries.


    Winston crafted ice cream sans modern tech: nested pails, salt triggering ice melt. He churned the tin pot¡¯s cream-jam blend till frost crept in. Serve with fresh mint and blackcurrants.


    ¡°Why lurk here? I¡¯d have delivered it chilled.¡±


    ¡°Fascinated by the alchemy.¡± She spooned silky sweetness.


    ¡°Well?¡±


    ¡°Velvet. Perfection.¡±


    ¡°His Grace¡¯s recipe¡ªegg yolks prevent grit.¡± Winston glowed. ¡°But ladies shouldn¡¯t overindulge.¡±


    ¡°My gut¡¯s sturdier.¡± Past life¡¯s 50¡ãC pavements haunted her. ¡°Albion¡¯s mild. Extra scoop won¡¯t bite.¡±


    Plucking an ice lens, she scanned headlines through its clarity:


    Christie¡¯s Charity Auction July 19: Viscount¡¯s heirloom emeralds for Salvation Army...


    Sir John Mayne juggles racing, homeless housing fundraisers...


    Baroness Swansea nets ¡ê6k for injured laborers...


    Philanthropy was seasonal sport, but this year¡¯s frenzy felt odd. Earl Grey? No¡ªold-blood elitist, allergic to commerce. Not a penny-pincher¡¯s ally.

 Chapter 65

    A mere coincidence? Yvette wondered briefly before fixating on the crystal-clear ice before her.


    Even in her modern past, such flawless ice had been uncommon. Trapped air bubbles usually created opaque freezer cubes, requiring industrial processing to achieve bar-quality clarity¡ªan impossibility in this refrigeration-less age.


    "Winslow¡ªdoes our host maintain an icehouse? How is this transparency achieved?"


    "The ice markets stock readymade blocks," Winslow explained. "Shipped from Lake Winham in the New World. Their operation is ingenious¡ªharvesting winter lake ice which forms without air pockets, much like Songhua River ice for Harbin''s sculptures."


    New World ice? The geographical leap startled her. Transporting it across hemispheres during a four-month voyage defied logic.


    "Merchants line holds with sawdust insulation," Winslow continued. "Only a third melts en route, and meltwater serves as crew provisions. Free raw materials yield enormous profits¡ªvisionaries, those colonials."


    Ah, surface-area physics. Thick cores preserved by insulating chaff... and potable meltwater eliminating port stops. Yvette recalled North American glacial deposits like Glacier National Park¡ªyear-round ice sources enabling this frozen trade.


    "Another bowl, please?"


    Her eager gaze defeated Winslow''s frugality.


    Blue witchfire consumed the one-armed corpse within the Tower''s purification circle. Two white-coated researchers observed clinically.


    "Subject terminated himself with a carved spoon last night," one remarked. "We should''ve restricted movement."


    "Insanity made him useless¡ªkept babbling sacrament and offering his flesh." The other shrugged. "Financial investigators found leads anyway. This pawn bought occult services; we need his supplier."


    Earl Gray''s irregular massive bank transfers had led them to a recent London arrival¡ªjobless yet wealthy, tipping lavishly at brothels and clubs. The perfect facade for a low-tier supernatural profiting from hidden powers.


    A facade now extinguished¡ªdead before the Earl''s fatal gathering.


    Lesley Sharr, "Mourner" of the Special Missions Bureau, arrived under urgent recall.


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    "Your prot¨¦g¨¦ ''Libra'' encountered an Abyssal incident," a researcher informed. "No agent casualties, but corrupted minds require... adjustments."


    Sharr''s lips tightened. "My role?"


    "Trace our dead payee''s memories. He''s Tier-2¡ªsuicided via tonic overdose. Suspect timing implies conspiracy."


    "Memories fade after seven days."


    "Preservation rituals commenced three days postmortem."


    As they navigated Tower corridors, her colleague probed: "Any Rosicrucian insights from Frankfurt?"


    The Order''s blend of mysticism and proto-science fascinated the Bureau. Unlike blind worshippers, Rosicrucians dissected the divine as scholars¡ªdangerously enlightened. Sharr''s ancient lineage alone granted access to their secret congresses.


    Every June during Corpus Christi, the Rosicrucian Order and its offshoots convened - a gathering Shar never missed for intelligence updates.


    "Same stale seminars," she reported. "Astral journeys, alchemical formulas, mind studies... maybe thirty percent actually useful. I''m compiling the worthwhile bits for archives. Check the new arrivals if curious."


    "Splendid news!" The researcher beamed.


    Shar''s expression darkened. "Outer Circle meetings. Rumor says several crossed into Inner Circle territory recently. Their new discussion sites? Completely hidden from us."


    The rose-entwined cross emblem - a stylized Tree of Life - bore ten mystical spheres called Sephiroth. While independent mages stumbled blindly into power, Rosicrucians systematized the occult: ten ranks mirroring ten spheres, from 1=10 Neophytes in Malkuth to elite adepts beyond fifth sphere Geburah.


    Inner Circle resurgence after decades of absence suggested dangerous breakthroughs. Yet Albion''s Protestant church, long estranged from Rome, shielded them from Papal interference. Continental problems for Continental authorities, Shar decided, entering a cluttered chamber.


    Mummified limbs and alchemical gear littered the workspace. Floating in greenish fluid, a shaven head stared through the glass - jaw locked in tetanic rigor, eyes voids of diluted poison.


    "Kept the head per your instructions," the researcher said. Autopsies remained the only reliable method for Sephirah testing; uneducated hedge-mages couldn''t verbalize their own power levels.


    Donning elbow-length gloves, Shar lifted the specimen. Long-dead irises reflected final moments - a necromantic gift from her bloodline. Sometimes mere flickers, occasional golden retrievals of hour-long death visions. Today...


    "Guh-ACK!"


    Minutes later, the researcher found Shar vomiting convulsively.


    "Nether... backlash..." She trembled, phantom burns prickling her skin. "Saw my own death... cursed vision. Pitchfork through guts unless I lockdown. But mark this - there''s an occult puppeteer who blocked my probing. No accident. No mortal squabble. We''re dealing with..."


    Days later, Canterbury Cathedral''s porter blinked at the visiting French dandy. Roman Catholics craving Anglican audiences? Unheard of. Yet the stranger''s gilded beauty compelled obedience.


    Ulysses stood haloed by stained-glass light, his frippery shed like a serpent''s skin. Ribbed columns framed him ascending into the vaulted heaven - an angel misplaced amidst mortal arches. The porter fled to announce him.


    Canterbury''s stones told layered histories: heavy Romanesque foundations lifting Gothic spires heavenward. Ulysses traced the metamorphosis - humanity''s vaulting ambition once called blasphemy, reborn as divine aspiration. Progress or peril? The question lingered in colored light.

 Chapter 66

    While Ulysses stood lost in thought, the gatekeeper¡¯s voice interrupted: "Sir Ulysses, His Holiness requests your presence in his study. Allow me to¡ª"


    "I know the way."


    The gatekeeper stared at the blond man¡¯s retreating figure, mystified. After two decades of service, he would¡¯ve remembered such a striking visitor. Yet this man moved with the certainty of someone who¡¯d walked these halls countless times.


    Three precise knocks echoed at an ancient oak door.


    "Come." The voice within was parchment-thin yet firm.


    Ulysses entered to find the Archbishop of Canterbury already rising¡ªan unsteady movement for a man whose white beard brushed his sacramental robes. Ulysses raised a staying hand.


    "Spare the courtesies, Your Holiness."


    The old man chuckled. "Ten winters have aged me to kindling, yet you? Still spring¡¯s bloom. What ill wind brings you here?"


    "A shadow moves through London."


    All warmth drained from the Archbishop¡¯s face. "The Grey Estate incident. Our fallen brethren¡¯s handiwork?"


    Few knew the Special Missions Bureau¡¯s leaders wore miters before crowns. Born from the Inquisition, the Bureau¡¯s power still flowed through cathedral arteries. Ulysses¡¯ next words needed no embellishment.


    "Grey¡¯s mind shattered. We traced a name through his coffers¡ªa dead man now. The Lady of Funerals tried reading the corpse... and found a poisoned gift. She¡¯ll haunt no graves this season."


    Ulysses paused. Death¡¯s arithmetic unfolded: "Apothecary records showed a vigor tonic laced with bromide. Harmless alone¡ªuntil reacting with strychnine. The killer transformed daily doses into an hourglass. Final sip, final breath. He mixed this death-schedule weeks ago."


    Stolen novel; please report.


    The Archbishop leaned forward. "Meaning...?"


    "The curse on our Lady? A taunt. He knows our methods, mocks them. Leaves breadcrumbs seasoned with arsenic." Ulysses¡¯ smile held no warmth. "Classic."


    Bony fingers scrubbed aged eyes. "Your counsel?"


    "Study Grey¡¯s circle. Chemists. Herbalists. But..." Ulysses produced a small vial. "The cultist¡¯s stench? Cod-laced. Track any Nordics or Rus in their company."


    The Archbishop nodded slowly. A chessboard spread between them, its pieces carved from bone and shadow.


    Yvette¡¯s carriage rattled through London¡¯s fog, her thoughts tethered to the Earl Grey affair¡¯s sinister echoes.


    Miss Schaal¡¯s letter had arrived like a shadow. A curse seized during their investigation now bound her friend to isolation¡ªno visitors, no pitchforks, no risks. A Sleeping Beauty farce, Yvette mused. But the Organization, ever meticulous, would outwit such parlor tricks. Still, unease gnawed at her.


    Fell-beings. Even in death, their malice lingered.


    As Julius played the Earl¡¯s doppelg?nger, investigators flocked to Yvette for answers. The Fell-thing¡¯s flesh, they¡¯d learned, bred a cannibalistic madness. Consume it, and you ached to be consumed¡ªa grotesque parody of horsehair worms driving crickets to drown. The gluttonous lord who¡¯d gorged on cursed tea sandwiches met his end beneath carriage wheels; lesser offenders now donated fortunes to orphanages, their memories scrubbed clean. Only the ritual¡¯s inner circle¡ªthose who tasted the fish-monster¡¯s rot¡ªwere ash in unmarked graves.


    And the fox? Yvette remembered the creature stumbling into the hunt¡ªperhaps infected, luring hunters where wolves no longer prowled. But the investigators shrugged. ¡°Higher minds corrupt lower,¡± they¡¯d said. Rats leaped to cats¡¯ jaws, but cats stayed cats. A grim hierarchy: human to rat, never reverse.


    Kittens dining under observation¡­ She envied the Tower¡¯s researchers their furry lab assistants.


    Bond Street¡¯s bustle shook her from brooding. A patisserie¡¯s flyer promised salvation: OPERA CAKE¡ªeight layers of Parisian sin. Inside, a lemon-spritzed aperitif arrived, its ice suspiciously pristine. ¡°Wynham Lake¡¯s finest,¡± the waiter sneered, spitting vitriol at Norwegian ¡°frauds¡± peddling counterfeit ice.


    Next door, Wynham Ice Co.¡¯s window dazzled with a crystalline block¡ªand a foreign newspaper beneath. Dead fish carpeted a Nordic shore. ¡°Proof Norway¡¯s ice kills!¡± the clerk crowed.


    Yvette¡¯s pulse quickened. Norway. Ice. Pieces aligned.


    ¡°Where,¡± she demanded, ¡°do these Norwegian liars hide?¡±

 Chapter 67

    Norwegian Ice Purveyors Ltd occupied a side street a stone''s throw from bustling Bond Street, though conspicuously lacking its opulent clientele.


    Yvette observed the quaint advertisements parading outside - laborers clad in sandwich boards resembling comical armor, a hallmark of Victorian commerce. Steeling herself against the fishy undercurrent in the air, she pushed through the shop door.


    "Your establishment''s recent... reputation troubles me," Yvette began pointedly.


    The clerk blanched. "Sir! Pay no heed to competitors'' venomous lies¡ª"


    "Precisely!" Yvette cut him off. "Only dullards swallow such calumny. We enlightened minds judge through observation!" She launched into an impassioned defense of Norwegian ice quality, each argument met with the clerk''s scribbling approval.


    When deftly steering conversation toward dwindling profits, she watched desperation flicker across his weathered face. This man reeked of common stock - starched linens perfumed with cheap herbals masking dye-fixing nitrates extracted from chicken dung. No mastermind, just a wage slave with a frugal wife.


    Her true objective emerged as warehouse inspection. After token resistance, the clerk relented, lured by potential aristocratic patronage.


    The icehouse transported them into Niflheim''s domain. Mountains of crystalline blocks stacked like dragon''s hoard pierced summer''s veil with wintry breath. Holding a lantern to the frozen monoliths, the clerk beamed with hometown pride until Yvette''s tracker nose caught the telltale taint - not common mackerel stench, but the brackish reek of sunless abysses from Grey''s accursed banquet.


    "Recent shipment?" she inquired, though knowing the answer. Ten days aligned perfectly with the monstrosity''s arrival. Tracing the manifest led to Trident Shipping''s Heather departing imminently.


    Mad dash through London''s thoroughfares in a bucketing hansom revealed the cabbie''s romantic delusions. She played along, though her quarry posed greater menace than any star-crossed lover.


    The Thames'' cancerous outflow greeted them - a bubbling midden where six million souls'' effluvia gathered. Here, beneath the methane explosions and floating cadavers of last year''s pleasure cruise disaster, Yvette''s true hunt began.


    Aboard the Heather, "Jolly Roger" seethed through his scrubbing duties. The first mate''s spittle still dried on his cheek. How the Drowning God''s disciple longed to drag that Viking-descended fool into the briny depths! But discipline held him - London''s occult sentinels were stirring. Better flee to Nordic fjords before¡ª


    His rumination shattered as ten bone-white fingers curled over the gunwale. Something ancient and hungry had been clinging there since port, patient as the tides.


    The game boards were set. Beneath the foul Thames, past the oblivious sailors, hunter and hunted both scented blood in the water.


    Yvette clung to the ship''s rail, breathless from her last-minute boarding.


    She''d sprinted across docked vessels when port officials pointed out the departing ship, timing her leap onto Erica''s hull as it inched past a neighboring brig. Now dangling above London''s putrid outflows, she fought queasiness - the water steamed with slaughterhouse waste and rotting refuse. This fetid stew reminded her dim inherited memories of the "Great Stink" that once halted Parliament. If current reek indicated anything, history might soon repeat.


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


    The stench urged haste. Activating her stealth abilities seemed prudent when voices interrupted - "Merry Roger" and an old salt arguing about spoiled fish. She eavesdropped until the frustrated veteran left, then flipped aboard toward the cargo hold.


    Below deck, the boatswain barked orders: "Scour every plank! Roger''s rotting stinkfish taints our cotton cargo!" Curses and brine confirmed her suspicions, but pinpointing the killer among scattered crew remained impossible.


    Options brewed: Ambush after identification, using the Nightmare Ring to disorient? Or blanket-sleep the crew now? The first tempted - catch the culprit off-guard. But the sewage stink warned: once in open sea, any sailor could escape diving. Only this polluted stretch trapped swimmers. Decision solidified.


    She unleashed the Nightmare Ring. Sailors crumpled. On deck, Yvette''s silenced revolver snipped rigging. Sails tumbled; windless in the filth, Erica drifted stagnant. Steamers might''ve complicated sabotage - blessed old tech reliability.


    Reloading, she descended... unaware "Merry Roger" already stirred. The pirate sensed supernatural tampering. Hull vibrations confirmed sails down - trapped in sewage. Snatching multiple pistols, he charged upward.


    They met mid-stairwell. Recognition flashed: only empowered beings stayed conscious. Guns erupted.


    Yvette''s three shots struck true. Two lead rounds bounced off reptilian hide; a steel core round chipped a neck scale. The pirate chuckled, plucking the slug from his cheek. Meanwhile, his blunderbuss blast should''ve shredded her - yet shot pattern magically outlined her silhouette, leaving her untouched.


    Her necklace burned - the reliquary containing a bound "angel" redirected bullets through esoteric geometries. Blood seeped from its edges. Finite protection. Roger''s belt bristled with pistols; confined corridors favored his spreadshots. She retreated topside, snapping two parting rounds.


    He pursued. Open deck meant home advantage - brine empowered him. The duel''s next phase would favor brutish strength over trick-shot geometries.


    The salt-stained planks proved Yvette''s tactical ground. She burst onto the deck first, damp wood perfect for skidding backward while loading steel-jacketed rounds with practiced hands. As her scarred opponent emerged, six-gun blazed at facial weak points - eyesockets, nostrils, any unarmored crevice.


    The brigand they called Jolly Roger snarled, his bullet-riddled palm weeping crimson. This milksop needed drowning. Drawing deep breaths like a sounding whale, he loosed an ineffable resonance that reverberated through bones rather than ears. Against her will, Yvette''s legs carried her toward the scum-coated railing, body bending backward over the foetid swell.


    Through gritted teeth, she triggered the Damping Field - her ace against harmonics. Ambient vibrations dissolved into warmth as control flooded back. The pirate gaped. His Siren Call worked through skeletal conduction! How had this landrat countered it?


    Roaring in frustration, Jolly Roger''s human mask sloughed away, revealing craggy scales glittering venom-green. Cutlass held high, he charged through renewed gunfire, trusting his mucus-slicked hide against mundane steel.


    Their duel became lethal ballet. Yvette''s Patterned blade - legacy of some forgotten civilization - shattered his cutlass but skittered harmlessly across lubricated scales. The pirate warlock conjured tempest waves across still waters, deck heaving like drunken whaler. Yet the investigator danced through turbulence, manipulating kinetic vectors like marionette strings.


    When clawed hands sought to disarm her, Yvette feigned retreat toward the harpoon cannon. Norse runes etched its cast-iron breach - a leftover from whaling days. With calculated desperation, she channeled Flame Cloak''s thermal burst into the powder chamber. The barbed iron sang from its barrel, pinning the scalekin through gut with sickening crunch.


    Blood bubbled at Yvette''s lips as she collapsed. Energy transference exacted toll - each joule leveraged through flesh cost capillaries burst. Yet kneeling in gore, she catalogued this new threshold: 18,327 newtons sustained for 0.6 seconds before vascular rupture. Valuable data for next encounter.

 Chapter 68

    Yvette watched the hybrid creature¡ªscales glistening like some ghastly marriage of lizard and fish¡ªtwitch its final moments beneath the harpoon pinning it to the deck. Blood spread in macabre brushstrokes across the planks as its death-throes stilled.


    Finally. She exhaled, shoulders slumping. Enhanced physique or not, that armored hide had nearly outlasted her. Ambushes proved futile against such foes¡ªtheir unnatural fortitude demanded drawn-out battles of attrition.


    Still, physical threats paled against curses. Miss Shah''s plight haunted her¡ªstruck by a Sleeping Beauty hex without warning. No strength could defy such reality-bending afflictions. Compliance wasn''t a choice when curses operated on cosmic laws. Give her tangible enemies any day.


    Her last Flame Cloak potion''s dregs lingered phantom-like in her veins. Months would pass before she''d again taste that liquid wildfire¡ªthe ecstatic rush of limitless energy unleashed.


    Ulysses'' promised New World excursion couldn''t come soon enough. A vacation hunting salamander blood, he called it. She''d settle for restocking rare alchemical components away from London''s stuffy ballrooms.


    Peeling the blood-crusted lace from her neck required agonizing focus. Overexertion had left capillaries burst¡ªrust-colored streaks framed her nostrils, her trembling hands barely functional. Even blinking scraped like sandpaper.


    The harpoon''s black powder blast laid bare her limits. Previous experiments used controlled flames¡ªhearth-warmth, potion-induced coronas¡ªsteady energies she siphoned like a pampered lordling sampling wines. But today''s detonation? Raw chaos. Its ferocity outclassed even roaring hearths, though total heat fell short¡ªelse that first test subject would''ve roasted alive rather than complaining about "overheating" before diving overboard.


    Hubris, she chastised herself. Today''s backlash¡ªmuscles frayed, vision blurred¡ªwarned against future recklessness.


    After three attempts, the locket''s chain slipped free. Blood clogged its filigree, masking the golden sheen.


    Let this work. The materials¡ªAlbion''s crown jewels, that sliver of Voidkin essence¡ªwere priceless. Losing them to a single desperate ploy would sting.


    The miniature portrait inside resembled a mutilation exhibit. One eye gone, the other radiating pure malice. Bullet wounds wept crimson threads that defy logic¡ªdripping from the painted paper onto her palm. Grotesque, yet it stole death from her today.


    Gratitude softened even the Voidkin''s snarl. "Hate me if you must," she murmured, inspecting the healing gashes. Three days'' estimate. Satisfied, she buffed the locket shut.


    Now the uglier task...


    Seamanship eluded her. The slain fishman had likely navigated these waters effortlessly¡ªhis gill slits hinted at submarine talents. Choosing this sewage dump as battleground had been wise; seawater might''ve empowered him further.


    She peered overboard. Dark sludge oozed below. Even leviathans would drown here¡ªbest let "sewage-breathing" remain hypothetical eldritch nonsense.


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    Hiding the corpse sufficed. Her messenger raven would''ve reached allies by now. Rescue couldn''t lag.


    The harpoon ripped free with a sickening slurp. Icy blood drenched her sleeve¡ªso cold it burned. Her head swam, vision fracturing...


    She snapped alert, scanning horizons. A prickling sixth sense¡ªsomeone saw her, not casually but with focused malice. Ridiculous logic argued¡ªthe distant harbor''s ships resembled crumbs. No human eyes pierced that haze.


    Shrugging off dread, she hauled the corpse below.


    Harborside, an unremarkable man lowered a brass telescope. His sketchpad bore a haunting youth''s likeness¡ªraven-haired, eyes twin abysses.


    "Quality optics, sir," a passing sailor remarked.


    "Passable. Our German cousins craft finer." He tapped charcoal over azure irises. "But this vantage? Irreplaceable."


    The sailor squinted at the seascape canvas. "Odd subject for dockside sketching."


    "Oh, I never draw what''s physically present." Delicate highlights transformed painted eyes¡ªsuddenly alive with stolen skies and seas. "Modern tools reveal hidden perspectives."


    "Family portrait?"


    "An introduction," the artist smiled. "Soon, we''ll meet properly."


    Packing up, he savored his gamble''s payoff. Using the Drowning King cultist as bait had paid twofold¡ªthe Secret Police''s hasty reaction confirmed their alertness, while his true surveillance went unnoticed.


    Through telescopic lenses, he''d studied Yvette like a biologist observing rare fauna. His curse required eye contact¡ªnormally dangerous, as targets sensed the violation. But lenses bypassed the primal awareness. Miles apart, he''d branded her psyche with a tracer even hounds couldn''t scent.


    Delicious irony¡ªtheir vaunted "detectives" becoming his marked prey.


    Soon, little hawk, he mused, watching Yvette''s ship shrink on the horizon. We''ll see how you fare when the hunter becomes hunted.


    Before noon, a Royal Navy vessel arrived under signal flags¡ªonly for the boarding party to discover the entire crew unconscious. Whispers of "curse" slithered through the ranks. Yvette grimaced: sailors¡¯ superstitions and a ship steeped in strangeness made deception futile.


    She¡¯d stashed the fish-man¡¯s body in a cotton crate, but the soldiers¡¯ thoroughness guaranteed exposure. Worse, her own presence defied explanation under the captain¡¯s piercing gaze.


    The officer interrogating her wore his authority like armor: immaculate navy uniform, eyes sharp as cutlasses. He¡¯d marched straight to her, dissecting her evasion attempts with surgical precision.


    "...You¡¯re here on someone¡¯s alert, Captain," Yvette deflected. "Surely they explained my role?"


    She¡¯d signaled her organization, but this felt wrong¡ªno ally would send such an inflexible investigator.


    When name-dropping society connections failed, the captain coldly reiterated: "Answer plainly."


    Yvette weighed using the Nightmare Ring again¡ªrisking ghost-ship legends¡ªagainst exposing the monster. Passing it off as a giant lizard? Impossible: human clothes undid that lie. Why hadn¡¯t she stripped the damned thing?


    A soldier¡¯s report interrupted: blood found on deck, awaiting orders to search below.


    Yvette tensed. Despite her cleanup, harpoon-splintered planks bled residual stains. As she reached for the ring, the captain grabbed her wrist.


    "Stand down," he ordered his men. "My informant secured evidence. I¡¯ll proceed alone."


    Dragged below, Yvette gaped as the captain¡¯s face shifted¡ªrevealing Ulysses¡¯ trademark smirk. "Settled the matter, I see?"


    "You¡ª!" she sputtered. "Why this charade? A simple command¡ª"


    "Spare me the palace red tape," Ulysses drawled. "By the time Her Majesty¡¯s hierarchy rubber-stamped orders, you¡¯d be barnacle food."


    Yvette rubbed her temples as he pantomimed an absurd chain of command.


    "Disapproving, are we?" he teased, voice sugar-coated steel.


    "Immensely grateful," she deadpanned.


    He snorted, then inspected her injuries. "Overexertion. Capillary bursts. Weakness." Applying salve, he demanded details.


    "One attacker: scaled, coherent, water-aligned."


    "Scales..." Ulysses peeled back the corpse¡¯s armor, exposing a kraken tattoo. "Dagon¡¯s brood."


    He dispatched Yvette ashore: "Devise a cover story. Unauthoized naval deployment smells like mutiny to Crown noses."


    Alone, Ulysses hunted the dead man¡¯s bunk. Dagon¡¯s cult was organized, but another player lurked¡ªthis curse reeked of deeper schemes.

 Chapter 69

    Yvette climbed into the rowboat, playing her role as the ¡°informant,¡± and was carefully winched down from the warship¡¯s side.


    ¡°Bit unsteady compared to the big girl, sir¡ªmight make your head spin. But we¡¯re close to port,¡± the navy oarsman said cheerfully.


    From this low vantage, the battleship loomed like a living fortress. Its rigging formed a lattice of ropes and sails, geometrically perfect, ready to dance with any gale. The black maws of gunports beneath the deck promised hellfire¡ªa hundred cannons waiting to roar. One synchronized broadside would light up the sea like infernal fireworks.


    That fish-man¡¯s bulletproof hide meant nothing here. Even if he hid, the merchant ship beneath him would splinter under cannonfire, plunging him into poisoned waters. Collateral damage be damned¡ªprogress had its price.


    Science wins again, Yvette mused. Without the harpoon¡¯s tech, she¡¯d never have pierced his defenses. Give it another century, and nitro-powered guns would turn his scales to confetti.


    Power levels among the supernatural might stay fixed, but their impact shifts with the times. That fish-man? In the Bronze Age, he¡¯d have been a one-man apocalypse¡ªdecapitating kings, scattering armies. But now? Ulysses sweet-talked a battleship into service, and its cannons hit harder than a coven of warlocks.


    Progress marched on. By her old world¡¯s timeline, these sail-driven behemoths were already relics. Albion¡¯s navy still clung to canvas, but the papers whispered of steam¡ªRoyal Dockyards buying engine factories, hiring specialists. Ironclads loomed on the horizon.


    The rowboat¡¯s sway stirred her thoughts. She¡¯d pin today¡¯s chaos on a foreign spy stealing steam-warship blueprints. Royal Navy secrecy, treason charges for loose lips¡ªclean and credible.


    She tucked a windswept lock behind her ear. The skin there prickled¡ªsplinters from the shotgun blast, probably. No matter. Yet the forming bruise felt... odd. Almost eyelike.


    That evening, Yvette drafted her sanitized report: [Date]. Spy disguised as dockworker steals schematics, drugs crew with rum, attempts hijacking. Heroic Navy thwarts plot.


    She handed it to the palace courier and bedded down at Ulysses¡¯ manor. Had his masquerade as the colonel held?


    Are there more of us in the court? The report needed highborn authority to seal witnesses¡¯ lips¡ªTrident Shipping crews, naval gunners. Only palace power could hush that up. The Duke¡¯s reach? Or others?


    Hooves clattered outside. Ulysses¡¯ carriage.


    Boots climbed the stairs.


    ¡°Colonel swapped out?¡± she asked.


    ¡°Drunk and shipped off. Crew gagged. Your side effects?¡±


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    ¡°Gone. Eyes cleared faster than my powers.¡± She flashed a healed lower lid.


    Her hair shifted, revealing the bruise.


    Ulysses reached. She batted his hand away.


    ¡°Splinters,¡± she lied, yanking her collar up. Why the recoil? Embarrassment, surely.


    His pause was microscopic. ¡°Rest. Medicine.¡± He bled into a cup. ¡°Drink.¡±


    Old habits bowed to doctors¡¯ orders. She gulped it down.


    ¡°Sleep.¡±


    ¡°Not tired¡ª¡±


    ¡°You will be.¡±


    Ten minutes later, she was dead to the world.


    Her window creaked open. Ulysses swung in, scalpel gleaming.


    She slept like a shipwreck survivor¡ªrobe hiked, leg hooked around twisted sheets. If society learned he¡¯d crept into a lady¡¯s bedchamber...


    Since when do you flinch? Her earlier rebuff nagged. Hopefully, the mark¡¯s creator would strike soon¡ªhe preferred not to play burglar nightly.


    The bruise glowed. A mirror twisted toward her. An eyebull floated up, pupil locking onto Yvette.


    Veins squirmed around the mark, creeping toward her skull.


    Ulysses dropped from the shadows, smashed the glass, and crushed the eye in his fist.


    ¡°Got you.¡±


    Across London, a man screamed into a shattered mirror.


    ¡°Payment due for damages!¡± a servant chirped outside.


    ¡°SCREW OFF!¡±


    Cheap hotels were miserable, but safer. His right socket gaped, nerves squirming toward nothingness.


    His stolen eye never regrew. They took it. Made it theirs.


    He fled into the night, hat low, heading for the lawless outskirts where feuding factions might lend aid. The Diamond of Strife kept London¡¯s hunters divided¡ªbut beyond its glow, alliances flickered.


    By the time the one-eyed fugitive reached London''s outskirts, another rider pounded toward the Tower under a moonless sky.


    The guardian materialized from shadowed arches like ink spilled from a nightmare, his obsidian cloak rippling. Recognition flashed through him as torchlight caught the visitor''s golden mane. "Halt, Sir Ulysses! Even old comrades don''t wake sleeping oracles at this unholy hour!"


    A casement screeched open above. "His Lordship receives the knight," droned a maid''s voice. "And Otto - stop bellowing like a guttersnipe."


    The shadow warrior shrank. "As... as you say, madam."


    In the tower''s crown chamber, Ulysses faced a creature resembling a melting candle - Spindle, once human, now a quivering mass of necrotic tissue. Each forbidden divination exacted its toll, transforming flesh into tumorous growths that pulsed like diseased fruit.


    "S-straight to business, then?" Spindle''s voice bubbled through collapsing airways. The knight''s outstretched palm answered - an eye staring up from raw meat, capillaries squirming like parasitic worms.


    "This one''s missing. Track him."


    Protocol demanded refusal. Peering beyond the Veil required council seals and voting quorums. Yet how could he deny the man who''d saved Lancaster''s line? During Spindle''s youth, he''d rashly probed Ulysses'' fate-strands - and recoiled from the vision. Where common souls showed tangled threads, the knight blazed like molten silver, cords as thick as anchor chains binding him to Spindle''s ancestors across centuries.


    "Confirmation first," Spindle wheezed as visions coagulated. The eye''s owner emerged through mists - a pamphleteer distributing treatises in St. Giles, whispering heresies in a Lambeth opium den. "Doomsday Clock?"


    Ulysses nodded. "So the rumors hold."


    Spindle''s gelatinous form rippled. Every council member knew the schism - after the Trinity Reformation cracked, the radicals had fled underground. These Doomsday Clock apostates saw mortal morality as chains, believing true power lay in embracing cosmic indifference. Their bombings and assassinations targeted not just churches, but Enlightenment values themselves.


    "Then protocol requires purification." Spindle''s eyes transformed - pupils dilating into black oceans where galaxies drowned. "No pursuit needed. My report ensures his execution by dawn." The stars in his gaze shifted coldly. "You must withdraw. Their ideas corrupt through mere exposure."

 Chapter 70

    Greek myths speak of three sisters governing destiny: one spinning life''s thread, another weaving its joys and sorrows, the eldest holding shears to end it.


    To mortals, crafting life and fate remains the gods'' arcane privilege¡ªbut Spindle, a Transcendent of the seventh sephirah, defied this law. For a fleeting moment, he stole Death¡¯s shears and snipped a soul¡¯s thread forever.


    Starlight kindled in Spindle¡¯s eyes¡ªOlympian wisdom blazing through his frail frame. Unseen energies pulsed into his veins, whipping gales that smashed tower windows and hurled papers into chaos.


    At the storm¡¯s core, his voice dropped to a world-silencing whisper. It became a hurricane screeching cosmic truths only madness comprehends. The words crossed miles, muted London¡¯s waking rumble, and drilled into a Doomsday Clock agent awaiting his train¡ªa man clutching a ticket, unaware of his erased future.


    The language was alien, yet its malice penetrated his marrow. Light drained from the world. An abyssal ocean swallowed him¡ªno sound, no foothold, only infinite dark.


    Something lurked in that void: colossal, ravenous, the shadow of desire itself. He struggled¡ªbut physics had fled. Trapped in vacuum, he hung like a fly in amber.


    A scream died in his throat. Now came the whispers¡ªsibilant, derisive¡ªshredding reason, exposing his mind¡¯s flimsy walls.


    Sanity crumbled. Gibberish phrases boiled behind his eyes. Grinning vacantly, he shut his eyes and embraced oblivion.


    The train screeched in. The platform stood empty, a ghostly smudge where the man had been. Crowds brushed past, blind to the vanishing, their memories already crumbling.


    Severed from fate¡¯s weave, he became a phantom: unseen, unheard, intangible. Even sunlight forgot him. His borrowed time would expire with the last fading memory.


    Spindle slumped on his divan, wheezing. Bulbous tumors pressed his atrophied muscles¡ªhis body¡¯s price for godlike power.


    "Point me to him. I¡¯ll cut his throat. This ritual¡¯s too costly," growled Ulysses.


    "...But certain," Spindle rasped. "Never...miss."


    He couldn¡¯t explain the dread coiling his gut¡ªthat any meeting between Ulysses and Doomsday Clock would unravel catastrophe. Fate¡¯s threads whispered warnings; he, a weaver of destinies, obeyed intuition.


    Yet voicing this fear might manifest it.


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    "You saved Arthur and me...Let me repay that debt."


    "Ancient history. Burn it."


    "Never." Spindle¡¯s breath hitched. "My brother...shoulders my power¡¯s poison. Each surge of the Tide¡ªeach spell I cast¡ªI feel his soul scream. Still, I reach for more...Useless brother. Guard him, Ulysses. His mind fractures as my flesh rots. But mending minds...harder than stitching wounds."


    Ulysses stared through time itself. Finally: "Done. Even unsaid."


    ......


    The dream-house lay storm-wrecked¡ªsplintered wood, ceramic shards, tables upended. Yet slowly, debris levitated, rejoining broken vases; chairs righted themselves...


    All but the blood trail: thick, serpentine, leading from stairs to the scullery¡¯s cracked door.


    Beyond it: thuds of cleavers, steel scraping bone. A woman¡¯s giggle recited recipes: "...descale...dice...hehe..."


    Deep dreams leave no scars on waking minds.


    Yvette awoke clutching two visions. In one, salt wind stung her face¡ªshe strode a battle-wrecked pirate ship as the fishman, hauling a prisoner toward blood-drunk crewmates. Curved blades mirrored a younger face¡ªstill human, scales barely smattering his skin.


    Wild cheers erupted as dream-Yvette shaved the captive¡¯s scalp bare, exposing tattoos: barbaric rites and glyphs circling a mermaid-god idol¡ªthe same pearl effigy she¡¯d pried from that cultist¡¯s slime.


    Post-skinning, the fishman butchered his foe, flaunting the dripping scalp like a trophy. Now awake, Yvette grasped the truth: this gruesome canvas held the idol¡¯s ritual secrets. She burned the images into memory, the glyphs still foggy.


    Scrabbling for paper, she scrawled the symbols before dawn stole them.


    Both fishman and victim were pirates. Both served the same deep god. War between? The idol¡¯s centrality hinted why¡ªits power worth slaughter, worth the fishman¡¯s London hunt.


    Pirates settled scores with rivals in rivers of blood, yet even their brutality paled against Yvette¡¯s second nightmare.


    The Tree of Life¡¯s Ten Sephirot glowed like constellations, linked by twenty-two Pathways. Each unlocked Sephirah burned brighter, but its secrets risked madness¡ªas Yvette discovered.


    In abyssal blackness, ghostly jellyfish illuminated a nightmarish chase. A gargantuan mermaid-fish hybrid¡ªpart slug, part ancient oak¡ªfled upward. Fleshy tendrils lashed beneath its disturbingly human face: a Renaissance beauty twisted in primal terror. What hunted this leviathan?


    The answer came with earthquakes.


    Something older awoke¡ªa cancerous mass oozing tumors into tentacles. Jellyfish scattered. The monster¡¯s claws snatched its prey effortlessly. As light died, Yvette heard wet crunching.


    She awoke gasping. Shoving the horror aside, she sketched the tattooed scalp from her first vision instead.


    ...


    ¡°Explain this midnight intrusion.¡± Queen Margaret IV frowned over her ivory fan. Her Transcendent agent Leanna bowed deeper.


    ¡°Your Navy intercepted a traitor fleeing overseas. Regrettably, we impersonated an admiral to commandeer a ship. Supernatural complications occurred. The crew requires... official silencing.¡±


    ¡°You stole my warship?¡± The queen¡¯s voice sharpened.


    ¡°An agent... altered his appearance, Your Majesty.¡±


    Margaret skimmed the report, then froze. ¡°The thief took ironclad battleship plans?¡±


    Leanna blanched. ¡°A clumsy cover story¡ª¡±


    ¡°Those plans exist.¡± The queen¡¯s whisper cut like steel. ¡°Known only to two men. How did your spy learn this?¡±


    A sleepy servant fetched Yvette. Her answer arrived swiftly: Shipping notices. Factory deals. Engineer hires. Commercial newspapers¡¯ dry reports, stitched into military truth.


    Margaret memorized ¡°Yves de Fische¡± inside her fan¡ªa royal honor. Without realizing, the girl had earned the Crown¡¯s eye... and future courtiers¡¯ bitter envy.

 Chapter 71

    At dawn, Ulysses traced the spindle¡¯s guiding pull to the inn where the Doomsday Clock¡¯s fallen agent had lodged. He combed the vacated room but found nothing¡ªno journals, no artifacts. Whatever the man possessed had likely vanished when the spindle snipped his thread of fate.


    By mid-morning, he returned home to find Yvette prodding listlessly at her breakfast, a hand pressed to her temple.


    "The Crown¡¯s interrogator unsettled you?" he asked.


    "Not the questioning¡ªHer Majesty¡¯s man was civil enough." She winced. "I¡­ forged a new channel between aether layers last night. The visions left me raw." She omitted the dreams of dead adepts¡¯ memories, those stolen glimpses that sometimes cracked open her mind like lockpicks. Best to stick to half-truths.


    "Malacath¡¯s library," she offered. "All that time among esoterica must¡¯ve sharpened my senses." A flimsy lie. In reality, she¡¯d spent hours there feeding mackerel scraps to the resident cat while skirting actual study. Books were landmines compared to purified aether¡ªan irony, given last night¡¯s transgression.


    Sketching the pirate¡¯s scalp runes had been reckless. The tattoo¡¯s spiraling vortex crowned by a Pearl Idol, encircled by malformed worshippers¡ªit reeked of sacrificial rites to some drowned abyss-god. Even now, recalling her drawing made the air taste of salt. When phantom bloodstains crept across the page, she¡¯d slammed the sketchbook shut, only to gag on her suddenly briny drinking water.


    Forbidden knowledge warped reality. A lesson she¡¯d intellectually grasped, but experiencing it? That left her trembling. She¡¯d locked the page away, resolving never to reopen it.


    "Ease your studies," Ulysses warned over coffee. "Those who ascend too swiftly often drown."


    His own night¡¯s labor showed in the shadows beneath his eyes. Yet here he was, caffeine in hand, shrugging off sleep. "Kent business," he deflected when pressed.


    "Canterbury¡¯s reliquaries?" Winslow arched a brow. "Seeking absolution or just morbid curiosity?"


    "Medical codices. The Church¡¯s old plague notes hold¡­ insights."


    As Ulysses beat a hasty retreat, Yvette mentioned her missing mirror¡ªstolen, she realized, by some klutzy intruder who¡¯d left glass shards as calling cards. She¡¯d slept through it all, drugged into oblivion. Surviving merrow-kin only to be offed by a common cutpurse¡ªwhat a farcical epitaph that¡¯d make.


    Winslow¡¯s glare could¡¯ve frozen the Thames. "Sir. I trust you¡¯ll confess this transgression thoroughly. The angels might spare you¡ªI shan¡¯t be so lenient."


    Ulysses¡¯ toast-dangling escape¡ªso much for dignified esquires. Yvette shook her head. Between cryptic eldritch perils and domestically challenged mentors, normality seemed a foreign shore.


    When Ulysses returned to Canterbury Cathedral, the porter¡ªwho remembered him vividly from before¡ªhastened to deliver the Holy Seat¡¯s message.


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    ¡°His Holiness instructed that you needn¡¯t wait hereafter. Proceed directly to his chambers.¡±


    Ulysses followed the arched Romanesque passage. Before reaching the office, the aged pontiff¡¯s voice carried through the door, intoning scripture:


    ¡°And God said, Let us make man in our image¡­ male and female He created them.¡±


    It was a passage from Genesis, cornerstone of the Trinity faith¡ªa doctrine claiming humanity¡¯s divine origin, shaped by a rational God¡¯s wisdom.


    Yet this was illusion. The Trinity religion, the Holy Seat knew, was mankind¡¯s mirror: a shield of idealized morals against the Old Gods¡¯ encroachment. A necessary lie.


    Without it, the dread reflections of immortal horrors from higher realms would have shattered his sanity long ago.


    The higher one climbed the Sefirot ladder of the Tree of Life, the truer¡ªand crueler¡ªthose reflections became.


    Ulysses¡¯ knock halted the recitation. Only one man bypassed protocol. The Holy Seat¡¯s smile didn¡¯t waver as the door opened.


    ¡°Twice in a week? This must be glad tidings.¡±


    ¡°The Doomsday Clock agent is dead. Stand down the alert.¡±


    The Holy Seat¡¯s mirth faded. ¡°Your doing?¡±


    ¡°No. I tasked ¡®Spindle¡¯ with tracking him. He chose¡­ drastic measures. Severed the target¡¯s worldly ties entirely.¡±


    Unexpectedly, the Holy Seat relaxed. ¡°Frederic acted wisely. Our mandate demands extreme measures against that cult. He shares his power¡¯s toll¡ªyes, it¡¯s dire, but no leader would risk your exposure over it.¡±


    Europe¡¯s high clergy often hailed from aristocratic second sons. The Holy Seat¡¯s own blood tied distantly to the Lancasters; he addressed their kin with familial ease.


    ¡°So you approve?¡± Ulysses arched a brow.


    ¡°Human minds are brittle. Awakened ones wage war against the Old Gods¡¯ marks festering within. Isolation breeds rot. We are reeds in the fissure¡ªtoo blind to ascend, too scarred to return. Some rebels lash out, but their hatred is directionless. Be grateful they don¡¯t know of you.¡±


    ¡°And your own fear of death, Pagitt?¡±


    ¡°Death terrifies all mortals. You, perhaps, can¡¯t fathom it¡ªyour kind transcends endings.¡± The Holy Seat shut his Bible, eyes clear as springwater. ¡°Life and death are entwined. Our fleeting existence gives the world its beauty. The Old Gods¡¯ undying spawn? Mere husks split from hollow deities. I fear death¡­ yet without it, I would never have been. So I cherish this fragile spark.¡±


    Though aged, the old man¡¯s spirit burned undimmed¡ªa prerequisite for leading the Special Missions Bureau. Wisdom, not raw power, steered their order.


    ¡°I depart Albion after the Season. Two months at most.¡±


    ¡°So soon? Ten years was your custom. Where next?¡±


    ¡°Travel.¡± At the Holy Seat¡¯s skeptical glance, Ulysses amended: ¡°Private matters. I return by autumn.¡±


    ¡°Safe journeys, then.¡±


    ¡­


    London¡¯s Season ended. Balls and dinners ceased; Mayfair¡¯s grand homes emptied. Nobles retreated to estates like autumn swallows, while lovestruck youths clung to letters, dreaming of hunts and reunions.


    Yvette bid Alison farewell, urging her to seek aid from Club allies if trouble arose. Trunk in hand, she joined Ulysses.


    Even the ever-dapper peacock adapted to travel. This age demanded sartorial sacrifice: no quick changes, no army of valets to launder lace trims. Ulysses donned a practical cloak, though it hardly dulled his radiance.


    Winslow, duty-bound, stayed behind. Yvette vowed souvenirs.


    They boarded Cunard¡¯s SS Silver Star¡ªa hybrid steamer-sailer boasting 14 knots and 500 berths. Speed trumped luxury; maritime contracts fined delays ¡ê1 per minute. Blue Riband honors crowned the fastest Atlantic crossings¡ªa trophy Cunard clutched tightly. Though outclassed by newer ships, Silver Star¡¯s crew still preened over her maiden voyage ribbon.


    No grand ballrooms here. First-class meant narrow cabins and set menus.


    As summer skies gilded the horizon, London dissolved behind them. Sails billowed, propelling the steamer into open waters. Two weeks to a new continent.

 Chapter 72

    Decades later, luxury liners would dominate the seas¡ªoutfitted with swimming pools and opulent Turkish baths for the elite. But aboard this modest vessel, passengers killed time in smoky bars or at gaming tables.


    Yvette neither drank nor gambled. Two weeks of oceanic emptiness yawned ahead. Remembering books in Ulysses¡¯ luggage, she trudged to the stern deck.


    True to habit, he was fishing.


    Fishing.


    In an era of telegraphs and steam engines, the pastime seemed quaint. Yet Ulysses embraced it with monastic focus, ignoring chitchat. Ladies who¡¯d approached him left scowling¡ªa shock, given Frenchmen¡¯s reputation for flirtatious politesse.


    Salon-bred gallants knew: Even disinterested, one must flatter. Ulysses broke every rule.


    The crowd around him buzzed. A sailor spotted Yvette: ¡°Mr. Fisher landed a 360-pound tuna! Bloody marvel!¡±


    Memories flashed¡ªdocumentaries of Tokyo¡¯s predawn fish auctions, million-dollar bids for such leviathans. Her hospital meals suddenly haunted her.


    ¡°Mount it in your hall!¡± urged a gentleman. ¡°Proof you bested nature!¡±


    Yvette¡¯s hope deflated. Stuffed fish couldn¡¯t be eaten.


    Catching her crestfallen look, Ulysses intervened: ¡°We¡¯ll feast. My share¡¯s the belly cut¡ªventresca.¡±


    Sailors grinned. That fatty pink strip, seared crisp with lemon¡ªRoman emperors¡¯ fare.


    At lunch, Yvette cut into her portion. Outer crust gleamed ivory; the center blushed like spring orchards.


    ¡°Divine,¡± she sighed.


    Ulysses nodded. ¡°English avoid fish¡ªexcept clergy. Fridays forbid meat, but fish ¡®dies naturally.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Semantic loopholes?¡±


    ¡°Holy ones.¡±


    Later, she asked for books. He reluctantly produced The Decameron from a plague-ridden stack.


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    ¡°Scholarly works¡­¡± He cleared his throat. ¡°This¡­ has stories.¡±


    "The Decameron?" Yvette mused, turning the volume in her hands. Though unread by her, its title carried less morbidity than The Black Death of Constantinople or A Journal of the Plague Year. Accepting Ulysses'' loan with thanks, she sought the ship''s brightest lounge to begin.


    ["In the year of Our Lord 1348, the fairest of Italian cities¡ªnoble Florence¡ªwas visited by a deadly pestilence."]


    The opening lines confirmed her suspicion. Of course the physician would choose plague literature¡ªeven for fiction.


    ["Men and women alike abandoned homes, fortunes, even kinfolk to flee infected cities. As if God''s wrath halted at city gates..."]


    ["...some formed ascetic brotherhoods in sanitized estates, supping on delicate meats and vintage wines. Others embraced debauchery, carousing through emptied taverns..."]


    The ink-stamped words blurred into memory. During her Kabbalistic ascents through the Sephirotic paths, elemental visions came: Oceanic nightmares during Water''s trial; London''s Great Fire blazing through Fire''s initiation. But before flames, she''d wandered plague-rotted streets¡ª1666''s prelude to purification.


    Historical records mirrored her visions. Contemporary accounts told of egg-sized buboes flowering in armpits and groins, subcutaneous hemorrhages blackening corpses¡ªhence "Black Death." She''d stood where London''s purifying inferno began at Pudding Lane, now commemorated by a gilded flame sculpture. How ironic that apocalyptic fire proved gentler than pestilence.


    Boccaccio''s Florentine horrors merged seamlessly with her London nightmares through his bureaucrat''s crisp prose. Through his words, she revisited self-flagellants lashing raw backs for divine mercy, plague-swollen dancers jerking to a city''s death rattle¡ªcivilization unraveling as Florence became asylum and charnel house.


    Like Poe''s Masque of the Red Death, where revelers perished behind walls meant to shield them, Boccaccio''s villa-bound nobles now struck her as deluded as sandcastle kings. Their merry tales curdled when juxtaposed with Yvette''s memories of bricked-up homes where families screamed forgotten behind quarantined doors.


    Plague, the great equalizer: wealth couldn''t buy caregivers when Death came knocking. Millionaires died alone, their funeral procesions empty of former sycophants. The harder Boccaccio''s characters laughed, the more macabre their mirth¡ªlike grapeshot tearing through carnival silks.


    Yvette slammed the book shut, nausea rising.


    "Pardon, sir..."


    A tremulous voice broke her trance. A young woman hovered nearby¡ªMiss Hettie West, companion to the ship''s pearl-drenched dowager.


    "...we''re short a whist player."


    Normally Yvette despised cards, but tonight human chatter seemed vital antidote.


    Mrs. Palmer''s oyster-parlor court proved insufferable. The merchant''s widow held sway over fawning attendants, while Hettie''s fianc¨¦ lingered conspicuously absent from the card table.


    "Your uncle lacks decorum," Mrs. Palmer sniffed, still nettled by Ulysses'' earlier rebuff.


    "Overcome by London''s Season," Yvette deflected smoothly, earning a seat. Yet as cards snapped like bones, she wondered¡ªwhy seek outsiders when family idled nearby? The unspoken question lingered like funeral lilies.

 Chapter 73

    Mrs. Palmer had invited Yvette to join a game of Whist¡ªan early form of bridge with similar rules. The foursome included two of Mrs. Palmer¡¯s closest friends: Mrs. Braine and Mrs. Jones.


    Nearby sat Miss West and her fianc¨¦, Mr. Anderson, who endured not so much conversation as sardonic remarks aimed their way by the two ladies.


    Through their barbs, Yvette learned Mrs. Palmer was the sole heiress among them. Her banker husband had died young, leaving her childless but fabulously wealthy through bonds and properties. She¡¯d sworn off remarrying, instead globetrotting on her fortune.


    Miss West, her niece, stood to inherit it all¡ªa prospect motivating her father to plant her as Mrs. Palmer¡¯s companion. Officially, this was ¡°caring for her aunt¡±; unofficially, it was to block any ¡°gold-diggers¡± from the widow¡¯s path.


    Yvette guessed Mrs. Palmer saw through this ploy. Miss West¡¯s awkward shyness hardly charmed her aunt, explaining why Mrs. Braine and Mrs. Jones felt free to mock her. Within two hours, Yvette had mapped their tangled dynamics.


    While Miss West stayed quiet, her fianc¨¦ retaliated against the ladies¡¯ snipes. Both women, Yvette noted, were middle-class; their voyage funded entirely by Mrs. Palmer¡¯s largesse.


    But as an unmarried suitor, Mr. Anderson remained socially vulnerable. The ladies insinuated he courted Miss West solely for the inheritance¡ªwhy else would a notorious flirt chase such a bland girl?


    Their accusations rang partly true. Mr. Anderson glared daggers at Yvette after she charmed Mrs. Palmer, as if warning: I see your game, you little thief.


    Trapped in this viper¡¯s nest, Yvette stifled regrets. The simmering tension¡ªverbal jabs and clashing agendas¡ªproved morbidly fascinating.


    Does Mrs. Palmer even enjoy this? Yvette wondered. Surrounded by leeches playing courtiers¡­


    ¡°How do you spend your days, Mr. Fisher?¡± Mrs. Palmer trilled. ¡°A striking lad like you must have sweethearts galore!¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve¡­ niche interests. Few ladies share them.¡±


    Yvette¡¯s routine involved swordsmanship, honing her powers, and casework. Her sole leisure was the Maze of Thoughts club¡ªa haven for male logic enthusiasts. She did lack ordinary female friends.


    ¡°Niche interests?¡± Mrs. Palmer pressed. ¡°What youth eschews theaters and pubs?¡±


    ¡°Mystery novels, mostly. And fencing¡ªa family tradition. My elders demand excellence.¡±


    The ladies cooed over this image: a noble, brooding swordsman straight from a penny dreadful.


    ¡°Mysteries! I devour them!¡± Mrs. Palmer gushed. ¡°Mr. Faulkner¡¯s Chevalier series is divine¡ªThe Vampire Murders hooked me instantly! And the dashing Chevalier¡­ why, he¡¯s a French swordsman like you, Mr. Fisher!¡±


    Oh no.


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    Yvette¡¯s blood ran cold. She¡¯d stumbled into a fan of her own pseudonymous novels.


    ¡°Your family must be saints,¡± Mrs. Braine simpered, rescuing the silence, ¡°to raise such a¡­¡±


    ¡°A proper gentleman,¡± Mrs. Jones cut in, eyeing Mr. Anderson. ¡°Not some tavern-haunting wastrel. More boys should emulate Mr. Fisher!¡±


    The officer reddened but bit his tongue¡ªMrs. Palmer¡¯s fondness for Yvette stayed his fury.


    ¡°Since you¡¯re loafing, Mr. Anderson,¡± Mrs. Jones sniffed, ¡°fetch our cocktails. They¡¯re an American novelty, Mr. Fisher¡ªfar better than punch. Amaretto sours: almond liqueur, lemon, perfectly tart¡­ though ladies prefer them.¡±


    At Mrs. Palmer¡¯s nod, Mr. Anderson fetched the drinks. The tray arrived, brimming with golden glasses fragrant with citrus and almonds.


    He served Mrs. Palmer first, then Yvette and Mrs. Braine. Mrs. Jones, served last, thirstily gulped hers.


    ¡°Divine!¡± she sighed. ¡°The almond and lemon sing!¡±


    A breach of etiquette¡ªdrinking before the hostess¡ªbut Mrs. Palmer merely chuckled, toasting Yvette: ¡°Try it, dear boy!¡±


    The widow sipped¡ªthen gagged. Her glass shattered as she clutched her chest, retching.


    ¡°Poison¡­¡± she rasped, staring hopelessly at the spill.


    Amaretto sour¡­ Cyanide!


    Yvette¡¯s mind flashed to mystery tropes: cyanide¡¯s almond scent masked in treats, killing within moments.


    Pandemonium followed. Corseted ladies¡ªtheir organs crushed by tight lacing¡ªfumbled for smelling salts. But no ammonia could save Mrs. Palmer. Thirty seconds later, she lay still.


    Dead.


    Yvette blinked, then sprang onto a table: ¡°Everyone stay seated! The doctor¡¯s coming. This is murder¡ªthe killer¡¯s here. Do nothing suspicious!¡±


    Aboard the Silver Star, murder shattered the voyage¡¯s tranquility, jolting even the seasoned captain into action. The Cunard Line, already locked in rivalry with three other Albion-based shipping giants, could ill afford scandal. Crewmen were dispatched to placate passengers, but whispers spread¡ªa poisoning, no less, with the victim collapsing mid-lounge before witnesses.


    Transatlantic liners often concealed such horrors. Overboard "accidents" were discreetly logged; rival firms traded unspoken truces to bury mutual shame. But this death defied silence. Ladies¡¯ screams drew crowds, and Albion¡¯s appetite for intrigue¡ªpoisonings! secret plots!¡ªensured the mob¡¯s fervor. Sailors strained to hold them back, yet excited murmurs pierced the lounge¡¯s oak doors.


    Ruined. All ruined¡­


    The captain¡¯s grip tightened on his hat. This ship had been his life¡¯s work since her maiden voyage. She¡¯d clinched the Blue Riband, crossing the Atlantic in two weeks and nine hours¡ªa record that held for years. Now, legacy teetered on catastrophe.


    If the killer slipped ashore in the New World, beyond Albion¡¯s reach, the Silver Star¡¯s name would rot. Steeling himself, he shouldered through the throng.


    Inside the lounge, chaos reigned. Amid brawny deckhands and a ship¡¯s doctor knelt over the body, three passengers¡ªtwo women and a gaunt ex-soldier¡ªhurled venomous accusations. A youth stood apart, composed.


    "Order!" The captain¡¯s bark cut through the din. "Cunard assures utmost diligence. Now¡ªnames, connections to the deceased, reasons for being here. Start with you," he nodded to the youth, whose poise stood out.


    "Ives de Fisher, Royal University, classical studies." The young man¡¯s voice stayed steady. "Miss West invited me an hour ago to make up a card game. I¡¯d never met Mrs. Palmer before."


    Beside him, a golden-haired man drew the captain¡¯s ire next¡ªuntil the ship¡¯s doctor gasped.


    "Sir Ulysses Josu¨¦? The cholera reformer?!" The doctor near-groveled. Consultant Physicians, after all, dwarfed mere ship surgeons in prestige.


    Ulysses acknowledged the praise with a nod. Typical, Ives thought. Uncle¡¯s flair for understated theatrics.


    Reluctantly, the captain enlisted Ulysses¡¯ aid.


    Next came Jasper Anderson, the dead woman¡¯s niece¡¯s fianc¨¦¡ªand debt-ridden ex-soldier. "He brought the tainted drinks!" Mrs. Jones shrilled.


    "Lies!" Anderson shot back. "You owed her money! And you¡ª" he wheeled on Mrs. Breen, "¡ªyour shop¡¯s debts could bury you!"


    Mrs. Jones retaliated with a bombshell: Mrs. Palmer¡¯s "young lady friend" Nelly was, in fact, a male actor from the Royal Strand Theatre¡ªa scandalous affair.


    As motives tangled¡ªgreed, jealousy, blackmail¡ªthe captain grimaced. Every soul in that lounge, save Ives, had means and malice aplenty.

 Chapter 74

    As tensions mounted between the quarreling passengers, Captain Graves of the Silver Star began assembling the puzzle¡¯s jagged edges. Across the room, Sir Ulric concluded his examination of the corpse beneath the ship doctor¡¯s awed stare.


    ¡°Cyanide,¡± he pronounced, stripping off his gloves. ¡°Cherry-red mucosae, spasms¡ªtextbook symptoms.¡±


    Yvette nodded. Just as she¡¯d thought.


    The captain puffed his pipe, gaze lingering on the disgraced officer Jasper Anderson. A indebted gambler, Jasper had weaseled onto this voyage to dodge creditors. Desperation made men dangerous¡ªand he¡¯d served the deadly drink. Yet only Mrs. Palmer¡¯s cocktail proved fatal. Tests on poultry confirmed it: poison targeted her alone.


    Circumstantially, Jasper fit. By angling the tray, he¡¯d steer guests toward specific glasses. Yet Yvette¡¯s instincts prickled. Would a killer truly gamble on such visible methods? A subtler mind might choose arsenic, letting time blur evidence.


    ¡°Sir Ulric,¡± she whispered, elbow brushing his sleeve. ¡°Could the poison be on the rim?¡± She knew his uncanny ability to discern substances by taste.


    A derisive chuckle answered. ¡°I don¡¯t lick dead women¡¯s lipstick, dear detective.¡±


    Heat rose to her cheeks. Sir Ulric¡¯s nonchalance toward mortal affairs was legendary¡ªthieves could rob a market under his nose unless police loitered conveniently nearby. Only her stubborn morality ever drew him into heroics.


    She¡¯d relied on him too freely, she realized. Childhood austerity¡ªendless hospital stays draining her family¡ªhad taught her to swallow desires. Now, she mustn¡¯t presume.


    ¡°The spill,¡± Sir Ulric murmured, gloved finger dabbing the tainted tablecloth. He sampled it discreetly. ¡°Not cyanide. Magnesium sulfate.¡±


    Yvette blinked. Epsom salts? Harmless unless consumed by the bucket.


    Then¡ªepiphany.


    ¡°Mrs. Jones,¡± Yvette approached the meek-seeming widow. ¡°Might I use your smelling salts? The air here¡­¡±


    ¡°Oh, but mine has¡­ feminine additives.¡± Mrs. Jones clutched her ornate silver vial. ¡°Quite unsafe for men.¡±


    ¡°Unsafe indeed.¡± Yvette¡¯s tone sharpened. ¡°Or lethal?¡±


    Panicked, Mrs. Jones hurled the vial toward the window. Sir Ulric snagged it mid-air, tossing it to Yvette.


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    A taste of the cocktail dregs confirmed her theory. ¡°Bitter as gall. Not the bar¡¯s doing.¡±


    To the captain, Yvette unraveled the plot: ¡°The drinks held Epsom salts¡ªharmless, but Mrs. Palmer, a mystery fanatic, mistook the taste for poison. Panic, corset pressure, and age caused her collapse. Mrs. Jones then offered cyanide-laced salts, ensuring inhalation. The real poison wasn¡¯t drunk¡ªit was breathed. She volunteered to drink first to feign innocence, knowing Mrs. Palmer would react visibly to the salt¡¯s bitterness. Your game ends here, Mrs. Jones.¡±


    The widow sagged, complexion ashen, as truth anchored the room.


    "Madeline?! Have you gone mad?" shrieked Mrs. Breen. "Mrs. Palmer favored you above all others! What possessed you to poison her? Was it truly some twisted passion for that painted boy-tart Nellie?!"


    Of all present, none resisted Mrs. Jones'' guilt more vehemently than Mrs. Breen. The two companions lived parasitically upon the widow''s generosity - indolent moths fluttering about their cashmere-clad flame. Their shared contempt for the timid Miss West and her gold-digging fianc¨¦ had been performance art calibrated to their patroness'' prejudices. But with their meal ticket expired, Mrs. Breen''s calculations turned icy.


    Had Miss West inherited through patricide? Easily disinherited. If Mr. Anderson''s work - well, the simpering heiress could be coaxed to leniency. But a middle-aged lady-in-waiting turning murderess? The reptilian fianc¨¦ would seize the estate and grind them beneath his Italian heels.


    "Nellie?" Mrs. Jones'' laugh was broken glass. "That creature? He wasn''t even our quarrel''s false pretext."


    "Then why¡ª"


    "Debts. Fourteen hundred pounds sterling."


    Mrs. Breen blanched. Fourteen hundred! At a time when ¡ê100 annually sustained bourgeois dignity? Even considering their patroness'' wealth, this sum bordered on fantastical...


    "The country estate," the murderer confessed through salt tears. "She tasked me with purchasing that accursed farm. I meant to invest temporarily... The racetrack seemed sure profit. Nutcracker never lost! With the royal stables in mourning, victory was certain. A hundred pounds from wagers would''ve¡ª"


    Nutcracker. Yvette recalled Goodwood''s fateful derby - the snapped leg, the Duke''s near-death. Not even Oleander''s expertise predicted that tragedy. The crowd''s despair had amused the blue-blooded gambler... and now enabled this fresh corpse.


    When creditors came knocking, Mrs. Jones spun tales of a cross-dresser''s charms to mask financial ruin. Death became preferable to debtor''s prison. But her "perfect scheme" shattered against a youth''s scrutiny.


    "Where did I err?" The hollow-eyed woman demanded as sailors seized her arms.


    Yvette''s glance implored Ulysses - the physician who''d casually identified magnesium sulfate through taste. But her mercurial mentor now feigned marble indifference. Typical.


    "Cyanide''s immediacy betrayed you," Yvette explained. "Arsenic hides in face-powder. But fast-acting poison narrows suspects to whoever handled her smelling salts." A shrug. "You panicked when I asked to borrow yours."


    As comprehension drained Mrs. Jones'' remaining spirit, Mr. Anderson erupted into grating jubilation. "I knew innocence would prevail! You''re a marvel, Mr. Fisher!" His arms spread for theatrical embrace.


    Sir Ulysses materialized like blond armor. "Your gratitude," he purred with wintery courtesy, "is acknowledged."


    Behind this living shield, Yvette observed frozen tableau - playboy statuesque mid-lunge, Viking captain retreating from Ulysses'' dagger-glare, crewmen strip-mining the death chamber for future museum exhibits. For she understood the Silver Star''s enterprising captain would monetize this tragedy into luxury cruises for murder enthusiasts, where teacups touched by poisoners sold at auction.

 Chapter 75

    From the cabin window, Yvette watched the protective ring of crewmen steadily retreating. The captain barked orders to secure the ship''s interior, his men too occupied to assist. Her pulse quickened as she imagined the mob of passengers breaching the door.


    Beside her, Ulysses abruptly dropped to one knee.


    "Rouse yourself, miss. Up you go." He jerked his head toward his extended arm.


    The implication froze her. He wanted her to perch on his forearm?!


    The man''s considerable height would lift her upper body beyond grasping hands while his free arm safeguarded her legs. A practical solution, she conceded, though one she''d only witnessed used with toddlers.


    "Surely there''s... another way..." Heat flooded her cheeks. To be carried like a babe by a man who''d minutes ago commanded the room with razor-sharcraft... The indignity! Though doubtless his enhanced strength could support her as easily as one might cradle a hunting falcon.


    But onlookers would whisper - imagine the great detective weighed no more than a child! Her reputation...


    Ulysses followed her anxious gaze to the swelling crowd. Without ceremony, he scooped her legs and rose just as the barricade failed.


    Faces pressed close, fingers clutching at her skirts. The mob''s collective breath formed a visible haze. Higher vantage revealed grasping hands like mangrove roots, pale faces floating beneath like drowned corpses. Her vision tunneled.


    Had she been solitary, the human tide would have swallowed her whole. But Ulysses plowed through like a schooner splitting waves, indifferent to curses and jostling elbows.


    They reached sanctuary as the cabin door slammed. Guards hurried after, citing trespass laws. Neither spoke until breath steadied.


    "Are you injured?" She turned to assess the damage.


    Ulysses stood disheveled - tricorn missing, queue unraveled, greatcoat rent by grasping fingers. Yet he flashed his customary smirk. "Scars fade, mademoiselle. Unlike trauma. Did those gawping jackals frighten your composure?"


    "Promise never to reference this incident again, sir."


    His laughter rasped as torn fabric. "When next we meet fanatics, I''ll hire sedan chairs. More dignified."


    Four days later, the murder''s fever abated. Yet Yvette remained cabin-bound, avoiding curious stares. Sailors reported landfall approaches. Their true purpose awaited - tracking fire salamanders said to surface only during volcanic eruptions. The organization''s prophets had mapped coordinates: An Atlantic islet along their route where the Silver Star would dock for fresh water.


    The Captain''s disapproval boomed across the deck. "Madness! That rock''s accursed! Sailors hear whispers in its mists!"


    Ulysses hoisted equipment crates containing tripwire, tents, and a glossy raven that watched with unsettling focus. "Our return''s secured. No need for nursemaids."


    When persuasion failed, the Captain gaped as uncle and niece hoisted impossible weights. Cargo that should require four men swayed gently in their grip as they descended the gangplank.


    Last he saw, the mismatched pair appeared like Atlas and a bookish angel carrying the world''s burdens.


    The islet''s salt-crusted docks framed their first glimpse of the main island - primal green mountains steaming faintly. As the Silver Star''s smokestacks vanished over the horizon, Yvette shivered at the silence. Only seabirds cried over endless waves.


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    Ulysses snapped her from reverie. "Shelter first. Tropical squalls soak powder caches."


    As they rigged tarpaulins, Yvette voiced her doubt. "This... pickup arrangement with Mr. Ordinary..."


    The name conjured memories of her initiation exam, the man''s features already blurred. His gift - absolute forgettability. She''d kill for such anonymity during mob frenzies.


    "New World''s criminal networks answer to the man," Ulysses explained. "We tread where crowns hold no sway. Who better than our unremarkable spymaster with his web of informants?" He indicated the raven preening in its cage. "Should volcanic smoke delay ships, Corvus here bears messages."


    Typical Ulysses. Yvette smiled. With such contingency planning, her role was merely to survive the wilderness. A passenger on someone else''s adventure.


    They camped amidst a palm grove on the smaller islet, their tent pitched against a rocky outcrop where the ground stayed dry. Ulysses had dug a drainage trench around the site. "Rainwater''ll follow the ditch instead of flooding us," he''d explained, though the waterproof tarp beneath offered little defense against rising tides.


    Against the island''s harsh winds, they anchored each tent corner with iron stakes driven deep into the earth, stones weighing down the billowing fabric.


    Their kerosene and flint made fire-building straightforward¡ªdriftwood and shrub clippings fed the flames. Stones from the beach formed a makeshift hearth, its iron grate supporting a copper pot. A functional, if crude, kitchen.


    For Yvette¡ªwho''d spent her previous life either studying or bedridden¡ªcampcraft proved utterly foreign. Ulysses delegated simple tasks until her fumbling became more hindrance than help, finally shooing her off to explore.


    Lounge-about aristocrat turns survival expert? Unfair.


    She wandered the islet, marvelling at its split personality. The northern half wore a crown of tropical foliage, while the southern cliffs displayed nature''s geometry¡ªbasalt columns stood in military precision, hexagonal pillars stretching skyward like a giant''s staircase.


    Magic!


    She recognized the geological art from documentaries¡ªcolumnar jointing. Molten rock crystallizing under seawater''s kiss, fracturing into perfect hexagons. Ireland''s Giant''s Causeway had similar grandeur.


    Volcanoes birthed this wonder.


    Scaling the tallest column, she drank in the view.


    Nietzsche''s words surfaced: "Man measures beauty through his own lens." Before her supernatural awakening, the concept felt abstract. Now, having glimpsed cosmic horrors in dreams, she understood¡ªhumans crave patterns, hence these mathematical stones please our eyes. To elder gods, such order means less than dust.


    Yet here she stood, healed by nature''s majesty after peering into the abyss...


    Ulysses hunted firewood inland. Yvette''s earlier attempts yielded green branches that smoked horribly. He''d forbidden her from venturing beyond the beach¡ªbetter to risk snakes and leeches himself than endure her complaints about bug bites.


    Camp secured, provisions stowed, he sought dry timber for the night fire.


    The jungle hummed with life. Adjusting his armload of wood, Ulysses flicked a blade upward. A green snake¡ªmid-strike from an overhanging branch¡ªthudded against a tree, knife through its skull.


    Even decapitated, the viper twitched¡ªtriangular head, jade scales, crimson eyes. Asian bamboo viper. Common enough, though this stretched two meters where half that length was standard.


    Island gigantism at work. He skinned the serpent, adding it to his haul. Hardtack could wait¡ªfresh meat tempted. Englishmen might recoil from snakeflesh, but colonial experience taught him better.


    No birds, though... Should''ve brought a rod.


    He found Yvette at camp juggling four coconuts. "Treacherous things!" she panted as he relieved her top two¡ªone shell brimming with clams.


    "Clever¡ªseabirds are scarce here. Take the shellfish. I''ll manage the snake."


    She gaped. "You''d keep snake all to yourself? Barbarian!"


    "...Must you defy every feminine stereotype?"


    Dusk found them by the fire. Clams sizzled on the grill, popping open like pearly purses. Yvette blew on a steaming morsel before slurping it down¡ªbriny sweetness perfumed by woodsmoke.


    "For you, sir?"


    Ulysses rotated snake kebabs over coals, sleeves rolled up, hair tied high¡ªmore frontiersman than dandy tonight. "Patience. Overload your stomach now, regret later."


    "My dessert stomach''s separate," she grinned. In her past world, snake had been rare¡ªgamey, tender, a forbidden treat. This viper? Juicier, richer, perfect campfire feast.


    Earlier, she''d noted other oddities¡ªlocusts the size of mice, an abandoned tortoise shell large enough to bathe in.


    "Insects here double-sized. That shell suggests a three-meter beast."


    "Island syndrome," Ulysses said. "Isolated ecosystems breed giants... or shrink them. Ever seen dwarf elephants?"


    Wandering sailors likely ate the local megafauna, leaving only shell fragments and gnawed bones. Yet the birdless quiet puzzled him¡ªhis caged raven shuffled nervously as he covered its cage.


    "Monster turtle shell could be our bath!" Yvette''s holiday spirit remained unbroken, her scientist''s curiosity overriding volcanic threats. For now, magic held darkness at bay¡ªthere would be time enough for dread when the earth itself began to scream.

 Chapter 76

    A makeshift bath took shape: a shallow pit cradling half of an enormous turtle shell, its rim reinforced by canvas sheets. The two-meter-long carapace curved like a deep basin, allowing Yvette to fully submerge herself within its obsidian embrace.


    The tiny copper kettle could never heat such a colossus, but Yvette''s supernatural gifts offered better solutions. By diverting heat from the campfire through esoteric means, she conjured steaming baths even in this wilderness¡ªluxury defying their crude tools.


    After filling the shell with heated seawater, she offered the first soak to Ulysses. The man had labored through the sweltering afternoon¡ªbuilding shelters, coaxing flames from damp wood¡ªyet declined with a casual wave, ambling into the dusk for his "evening constitutional."


    She didn¡¯t protest. Sinking into the bath, Yvette sighed as tropical sweat and salt crust melted away. Her fingers traced the shell''s fractured edge¡ªjagged clefts from axes, not time. Some hungry crew had butchered this ancient creature.


    Turtle soup, she recalled, required no flour thickener. Its natural gelatin made it aristocracy''s darling. Merchant ships hauled live specimens to Albion despite massive losses; ten thousand still reached noble tables yearly. Middle-class kitchens mimicked it with veal-head "mock turtle soup"¡ªtestament to its prestige immortalized in Alice''s Adventures in Wonderland.


    This island must have once swarmed with megafauna¡ªtortoises ballooned by island gigantism. But centuries of passing ships'' appetites left only "useless" insects. Anything valuable¡ªgiant tortoises, plump rodents¡ªwere surely extinct.


    Her transcendent visions during ascension flashed: primordial epochs where warmth birthed titans, later starved by cooling eras. This island''s isolation birthed stranger mutations. Now under a star-crammed sky that seemed to sag low, cricket song boomed from ferns. Palm-sized insects she¡¯d seen earlier, bold as sparrows, thrummed bassoon-deep choruses.


    A wrongness prickled her neck.


    Such hefty bugs would sustain entire bird colonies... yet she¡¯d seen no birds. Had avian giants evolved? Pterosaur-like behemoths?


    Absurd. Aerodynamics doomed oversized fliers¡ªunless magic intervened...


    Ulysses returned near midnight, hair dripping. A stream bath, then. Sensible¡ªhad he used the shell, she¡¯d have taken her own prolonged "walk." Behind his cavalier mask lay considerate precision. A curious duality in the man.


    Aboard the Silver Star, night watch relieved day crew. The captain exchanged gruff camaraderie with his men. A grizzled rigger voiced the unspoken: "Cap¡¯n... them Fishers. They alright?"


    "Gone since noon. To the watering island."


    "But¡ª" The sailor blanched. "The main isle¡¯s cursed! Old Crenshaw''s crew went there¡ªstorm-stranded, provisions spoiled. Five went ashore; one returned mad. Sang crazed hymns, jumped at whispers. Died in some ironworks later, ears bleeding from the din. Never spoke of what he saw..."


    The captain frowned. "Believe in spooks now, Jory?"


    "Cap¡¯n." The man leaned close. "My fosterdad saw him die. Hardest tar to sail the Carib. But when he told it... his hands shook."


    Legends of Salamanders flickered in Yvette¡¯s notes¡ªfire elementals glimpsed in magma flows, contradictorily described: flaming newts, phoenix-like birds, even winged hounds. Librarian-cat Mr. Tibbs had relented (after fish-bribes) to point dusty tomes detailing these cryptids. Most accounts were alchemical allegories, but one matched her needs: "black-scaled lizards glowing like embers, scarlet markings searing like brands."


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    The volcanic peak loomed across the channel. Prophetic visions promised gentle eruption¡ªsyrupy lava oozing through ravines, nothing like Pompeii''s ashen doom. If fools could grill steaks on lava flows as TV chefs boasted, she could harvest specimens safely.


    Moreover, salamanders reportedly swarmed eruption skies¡ªvisible for leagues. The satellite island might suffice.


    Boredom set in after days exploring the atoll. Then¡ªat last¡ªthe ground shivered. Insects hushed. Yvette and Ulysses froze mid-tic-tac-toe in tidal sands, sticks hovering over their grid as the mountain stirred.


    For ten shuddering minutes, the ground quaked before deep roars erupted from the volcano¡ªa slumbering titan stirring to life.


    Nature¡¯s fury unveiled its opening act: plumes of ash and steam exploded skyward, sculpting a grim mushroom cloud. From the summit¡¯s fractures surged smoke so dense, it seemed Hell itself had yawned wide.


    To the west, twilight clung stubbornly to the horizon. Eastward, stars prickled a flawless sapphire expanse. Between them loomed the volcanic haze¡ªa demarcation line drawn by deities.


    Perched on basalt columns akin to the Giant¡¯s Causeway, Yvette surveyed the seascape. Beneath the heavens stretched only ocean and smoke¡ªthe latter smoldering intermittently, like coals buried in ash. The crater¡¯s baleful glow burned brighter against smoke-choked skies, while jagged lightning bolts¡ªviolet-tinged and vicious¡ªwove through sunset and starlight, crafting an apocalypse frozen in time.


    "Stars... lightning... dusk... coexisting..." she breathed. The volcanic shroud resembled some primeval leviathan, its crackling electricity clawing at the firmament. Each lightning burst drenched the world in cold brilliance, opposing the volcano¡¯s hellish radiance. Yvette shivered under this kaleidoscopic glare.


    "Pliny the Younger witnessed Vesuvius¡¯ wrath," said Ulysses beside her, golden eyes narrowed. "Miles from Pompeii, yet nearly consumed. He described ¡®a frenzied cloud, lightning-torn, revealing flame giants.¡¯ Volcanic storms may be nature¡¯s grim habit."


    Pompeii had died in superheated ash. Here, lighter plumes ascended, cooling into gray snowflakes.


    As Yvette watched, lava oozed from the crater¡ªsinuous rivulets like serpents escaping Hades. Embers spiraled above, fiery petals heralding an infernal triumph.


    "Those sparks¡ªsalamanders," Ulysses declared.


    Squinting, Yvette saw only mundane sparks¡ªuntil she turned. His eyes now gleamed avian and alien: golden irises, pupils knife-thin slits. Hawks¡¯ vision... she realized. He¡¯s reshaped his sight.


    The embers rode thermal winds, arcing toward their isle. Their paths defied physics¡ªgliding, pivoting, alive. "Two neared the mussel-rich beach," Ulysses directed. "Their glide paths hold true... One veers toward our woods¡ªclosest. Hurry¡ª" He stumbled mid-stride, kicking a buried stone.


    "Ulysses?"


    He stared through her, gaze distant.


    "You... can¡¯t focus nearby?"


    "Irrelevant. Speed is paramount¡ªthey¡¯ll scatter."


    Yvette recalled raptors¡¯ telescopic vision¡ªthe trade-off being blurred immediacy.


    Determined, she grasped his hand, navigating safer slopes. He tensed, then yielded.


    Ulysses¡¯ coordinates proved exact. A singed trail snaked ahead¡ªvegetation desiccated, branches crackling with residual heat.


    Fifty paces farther, the creature lay dying¡ªa foot-long lizard, crimson and obsidian, winged like a drake. Bioluminescent patches dimmed as necrosis crept through its scales.


    "A child of lava..." Yvette murmured. The cold was murdering it.


    Ulysses proffered asbestos gloves. "My touch suffices," she insisted, recalling her gifts.


    He unveiled a copper case with corundum vials. "Salamander blood scalds ordinary glass."


    Hence artisans¡¯ extortionate rates, she mused, resolving to compensate Masgin fairly henceforth.


    Clasping the critter, she hesitated¡ªits death-writhen beauty tugged at her conscience.


    "Shall I?" Ulysses offered.


    [Use gratefully, not wantonly. No evil done, no life desecrated.] Keegan¡¯s ghost counseled.


    Steeling herself, Yvette slit its throat. Molten blood filled three vials before the creature blackened into coal.


    They perish fast in cold, she understood. No wonder they¡¯re myths.


    Three vials secured, she hurried onward¡ªmore salamanders awaited.

 Chapter 77

    Seven fiery salamanders had soared toward Sub-Island. Two plunged into the sea; another lay dead as cold coal. Yet Yvette harvested blood from four, filling her brass-latched case to near capacity¡ªa prize worthy of celebration.


    The creature¡¯s blood¡ªvolatile essence for alchemical brews¡ªwould sustain her potioncraft long after returning to Albion.


    Who would¡¯ve thought she¡¯d grow reliant on such draughts? Yet the allure proved undeniable...


    As Yvette secured her haul, Ulysses stiffened, gaze locked on the smoldering peak.


    ¡°What is it?¡±


    ¡°The winds reek of death.¡±


    Following his stare, she glimpsed a living storm above the jungle¡ªlocusts, beetles, moths¡ªdisgorged from foliage in panicked flight. Yet their escape proved futile. Row by row, the swarm crumpled mid-air like parchment beneath a fist.


    ¡°Fumarolic poison,¡± Ulysses muttered. ¡°Our seers foresaw flames, not vapors. The wind delivers both. Move.¡±


    Ravens might alert their ship, but outpacing the toxic tide was impossible. Their backup plan¡ªa waiting vessel to retrieve survivors¡ªnow felt cruelly distant.


    Yvette¡¯s memory flashed to submerged grottos she¡¯d spied at dawn¡¯s ebb tide¡ªa submerged tunnel to safety. But the plan demanded swimming through rising waters.


    ¡°Ulysses¡ªdo you swim?¡±


    His arched brow prompted explanation. The cave¡¯s flooded entrance, she reasoned, would block gas while air pockets inside preserved breathable refuge.


    The flaw? Yvette had never swum a stroke. Pre-illness academe left no time for pools; sickness stripped leisure. Yet pain-riddled treatments paled against what awaited without shelter.


    Ulysses knotted a rope between them, testing each loop. ¡°Loose knots drown us both.¡±


    Sulfurous rot clawed at their throats as they waded through the strait¡ªbasalt pillars shielding their brief respite. Ulysses dove, yanking Yvette into brine. Salt buoyed her until the submerged cave mouth gulped them down.


    Darkness relented as salamander-blood warmth bled into Yvette¡¯s palm, casting amber light over dripstone teeth. Ulysses shook seawater from an oil lamp. ¡°Dry this. Breeze whispers of other exits.¡±


    Echoes rippled through the ascending tunnel as crimson embers lit their path¡ªflickering hope in the gut of stone.


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    The additional passageway meant airflow¡ªa relief, as lighting a lamp wouldn¡¯t suffocate them. But if the cave truly functioned like an upturned bottle submerged at the mouth, igniting their kerosene lamp remained perilous without knowing how long the toxic fumes would linger.


    Ulysses had braced for worse: a cramped, airtight cavity forcing him to mimic gills underwater, reserving the cave¡¯s stale air for Yvette. Now, such extremes seemed avoidable.


    ¡°Lord Ulysses,¡± Yvette summoned him in the dark, cradling a box.


    He traced her voice until warmth prickled his skin. She¡¯d harnessed residual heat from the Fire Salamander¡¯s blood, circulating it to dry their soaked clothes. Steam curled faintly from his sleeves¡ªfifteen minutes, he guessed, until fully dry.


    ¡°Don¡¯t waste the blood¡¯s warmth,¡± he cautioned, thermal sight revealing the box¡¯s crimson glow dimming under her relentless extraction. ¡°I¡¯ll dive again soon to check the gas.¡±


    He stepped back, but she closed the gap, halting inches away.


    ¡°I¡¯ve got this.¡±


    Heat siphoned moisture into the air, draining energy. Ingeniously, Yvette created an overhead absorption field, recycling steam¡¯s heat downward¡ªprecision work needing proximity. The adjusted system conserved energy; even post-drying, the box remained burning hot.


    Her exhausted sigh drew a ghost of a smile from him, lost in blackness.


    Beside her, the disassembled lamp parts had dried. Ulysses rebuilt it deftly¡ªbase, chimney, wick¡ªand sparked a flame. Weak amber light spilled through sooty glass.


    They tallied supplies: his tools (lamp, rope, knife); her Fire Salamander¡¯s blood and soaked rations. The prophet¡¯s vision of benign lava had misled them; toxic gas left no time for resupply.


    Grimacing at the brine-ruined food, Yvette recalled Bear Grylls¡¯ seawater workaround (rectal tubing, mortifying even solo).


    Seizing the rations, Ulysses said, ¡°Inedible. Seawater¡¯s salt demands more water to flush it¡ªand its poisons compound the harm.¡±


    ¡°If the gas lasts days, water¡¯s our crisis.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll dive for fish or coconuts,¡± he assured.


    A subterranean roar shook stalactites. Ulysses pinned Yvette to the wall as obsidian plates erupted across his collarbones¡ªa bestial exoskeleton, barbed and eldritch.


    Some metamorphic mimicry? She eyed dagger-like stalactites, doubting even those grotesque plates could withstand their fall.


    Quiet returned, then a barrage of splashes at the entrance.


    ¡°Landslide,¡± Ulysses spat. ¡°Pray the mouth isn¡¯t sealed.¡±


    The cave, nested beneath unstable cliffs opposite basalt columns, had succumbed to eruption tremors.


    ¡°At least it didn¡¯t bury us on entry,¡± Yvette offered.


    His dive confirmed the worst¡ªexit blocked. ¡°We track the drafts to another way out.¡±


    Yvette peered into the tunnel¡¯s lightless gullet, imagination conjuring horrors. Shaking it off, she gripped practicality: Find escape before thirst cripples us.


    ¡°I¡¯ll lead,¡± Ulysses said, night-adapted eyes glinting felinely. ¡°Take the lamp.¡±


    She obliged, observing his reverted form¡ªonly claws and tapered ears hinted at his battle-readiness. Regret pricked her: seawater had ruined her revolver¡¯s ammunition.


    Sword in hand, she trailed him into the claustrophobic crawl.


    Minutes of silent progress through stooped passages favored her compact frame over his height.


    Emerging into a crude ¡°hall,¡± her relief faded. Uncanny pillars loomed, their rough-hewn forms casting monstrous shadows. Primitive statues radiated ancestral dread¡ªa genetic memory of predators that once stalked humanity¡¯s nights.


    Even laughably crude, their silhouettes triggered atavistic panic. Yvette¡¯s instincts screamed: Danger.

 Chapter 78

    During her social season, Yvette attended an exhibition at the Royal Academy, where the Barbizon School¡ªforerunners of the Impressionists¡ªhad begun challenging tradition. The academic artists, with their flawless techniques and photographic precision, crafted works so focused on form they felt sterile, leaving little room for imagination. In contrast, the Barbizon painters, though rougher in execution, captured nature¡¯s essence through raw, heartfelt observation. Their art breathed life.


    Like prose: academic pieces were gilded but hollow; the Barbizon works, though unpolished, pulsed with authenticity.


    The statues here echoed this ethos. Grotesquely distorted, carved with primal roughness, they exuded a feral menace no words could capture.


    Holding her lamp close, Yvette traced a statue¡¯s contours. Unbidden memories surfaced¡ªa nightmare of falling, chased by shapeless dread, yet eerily familiar.


    She stepped back, glass crunching underfoot. A shard glinted in her palm.


    ¡°We¡¯re not the first,¡± she whispered.


    Across the chamber, Ulysses crouched, feline eyes glowing as he tinkered with a corroded artifact. Metal clinked.


    ¡°Thirty years prior,¡± he said, lifting a broken Argand lamp. Its glass shade was splintered, the brass base green with age. ¡°1880s design¡ªbrighter than oil lamps, once a luxury. Even American presidents gave them as gifts. This one¡¯s sloppy craftsmanship. Mass-produced, surely.¡±


    Had another soul wandered these shadows decades ago, lamp trembling before these horrors? The shattered glass suggested panic.


    But the intruder¡¯s fright might¡¯ve been fleeting. Yvette spotted gold leaf clinging to a statue¡¯s ear¡ªmore flecked hidden crevices.


    Did they scrape the gold off? The idea sparked revelation: the statues¡¯ eyes and limbs bore jagged grooves, as if gemstones had been pried loose¡­


    ¡°Natives here smelted gold and worshipped these idols,¡± Ulysses observed.


    Yvette nodded. Gold was simple to refine¡ªstreams yielded nuggets, melted easily. Even cavemen mastered it.


    No natives lurked now, but even if they did, Spanish steel had toppled empires. Primitive spears posed scant threat.


    They pressed deeper into narrow tunnels, silence broken only by dripping stalactites.


    A scorch mark stained the wall ahead. Ulysses froze, staring at rubble¡ªshattered stalactites.


    ¡°Not natural,¡± he muttered. Each bore hairline fractures. Nearby, lead pellets peppered the stone¡ªlike those shot at Yvette by Heather¡¯s merrow crew.


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    A sailor¡¯s pistol lay ahead. Its cherrywood grip, carved with nautical motifs, bore dark stains. Blood.


    The battle¡¯s remnants unfolded: multiple lead shots, a single-shot blunderbuss. Reloading required minutes¡ªpowder, wad, pellet¡ªforcing close combat after one volley. At least four sailors had fought here.


    Who won? The abandoned, bloodied gun hinted at their defeat.


    What were they fighting? Tribesmen should¡¯ve fled gunfire. Yet the sailors¡¯ panicked shots¡ªone even striking a stalactite¡ªsuggested terror beyond reason.


    ¡°Survivors escaped,¡± Ulysses said, revisiting the scorch marks. He lifted another Argand lamp. ¡°Oil reservoir removed¡ªunlike the hall¡¯s intact one. Deliberate. They dumped fuel, set a firewall.¡±


    Yvette pictured it: a traitorous sailor igniting allies¡¯ retreat path, sacrificing comrades to flee.


    Only certain doom could justify such betrayal. Else, surviving allies would¡¯ve hanged the deserter.


    The tunnel¡¯s tight confines should¡¯ve favored defenders. With staggered reloading, they could¡¯ve held the line. Yet they¡¯d collapsed.


    Unless the enemy wasn¡¯t human.


    ¡°Sir, ahead might be¡ª¡±


    ¡°We go on,¡± Ulysses cut in.


    ¡°I know. Just¡­ be careful.¡±


    Logic dictated Ulysses scout ahead¡ªhis night vision surpassed her lamplight. Still, unease gnawed at Yvette. If ambushed, saving him demanded flawless execution¡ªno second chances. Like her old shooter games: if the pointman fell to a camper, teammates had one shot to counterattack. But here, failure meant death.


    Catching her anxiety, Ulysses smiled. ¡°Don¡¯t fret. I won¡¯t die.¡±


    Yvette wondered if his words hid deeper meaning¡ªbeyond tonight¡¯s peril.


    They pressed deeper into the caverns until they discovered another chamber¡ªits walls unnervingly smooth, as if shaped by hands long gone. Rows of niches honeycombed the stone, each cradling skeletal remains no taller than a child. The skulls wore eerie masks of carved bone; around their necks lay necklaces of polished stone, now scattered like fallen stars where frayed threads had failed.


    ¡°Children?¡± Yvette ventured, though doubt tinged her voice. The bones were small¡ªunder a meter¡ªyet oddly proportioned. A child¡¯s skull outpaces its growing frame, but these skeletons balanced head and limbs like adults shrunk by some alchemy of time.


    ¡°Adults,¡± Ulysses corrected. ¡°Their growth plates fused. You recall island dwarfism? Predators shrink when resources dwindle. These might¡¯ve been priests.¡± He gestured to ritual blades and beaded talismans among the bones. ¡°Imagine¡ªknee-high shamans threatening armed sailors. Unless¡­¡±


    ¡°Unless their magic was real,¡± Yvette finished. A chilling thought, yet the bones predated any recent terror. Decades of decay hadn¡¯t touched these relics. If the tribe survived, newer graves would mark their lineage. But the niches held only dust.


    No huts. No tools. No trace of fires or forage. The island lay barren, its dwarf inhabitants erased save for this tomb.


    The walls told their story in lurid pigments. Crude yet alive, the paintings writhed with half-seen shapes¡ªa goddess monstrous in her fecundity: a nest of swollen breasts, eyes vast as moons. Early murals showed humans favored, kneeling closest to her gaze. But later works warped perspective¡ªbeasts swelled, men shrank, and the goddess stared emptily upward, deaf to desperate sacrifices.


    ¡°Delusions¡­ or an Old One?¡± Yvette breathed. The painted eyes followed her.


    ¡°Artemis. Isis. Durga.¡± Ulysses recited names like a grim liturgy. ¡°One entity, many masks. The temple¡¯s tide-linked chambers suggest lunar ties.¡±


    As they descended, bones littered the passage¡ªgiant avians, their wings atrophied; reptiles like scaled nightmares. All bore strange pitting, as if nibbled by stone teeth.


    Then¡ªa skitter. A whisper through rock.


    ¡°Did you hear¡ª¡±


    ¡°Nothing yet,¡± Ulysses cut in. ¡°But this place hungers. Stay sharp.¡±


    His blade gleamed faintly as shadows pooled ahead.

 Chapter 79

    Yvette tried to dismiss the unsettling noise as imagination. For nearly an hour, only their footsteps echoed through the winding cave.


    As they descended deeper, the chill gave way to unnatural warmth. The scattered bones increased until Ulysses stopped at every crevice, nostrils flaring like a hound on scent.


    "Find anything?" she ventured.


    "A partial signature..." His brow furrowed. "Rodent, but warped."


    She didn''t press further. Rounding a bend, they found the sailors'' remains ¨C bones scattered wildly, leathers shredded by teeth marks matching those in fossilized beasts upslope.


    "Size says ratkin," Ulysses crouched by a gnawed boot. "Yet atypical."


    Yvette pried a gutted pouch from debris. Gold nuggets and uncut gems rained out. Her blade tested one crystal''s edge against stone ¨C flawless scratch. "The temple robbers," she concluded, holding up jeweled proof.


    That''s when the scraping chorus resumed. Both froze as the wave hit ¨C monstrous rats flowing like furred magma. Their naked tails lashed whip-like behind distended bellies and oozing eyes burning crimson.


    Yvette''s sword became a fiery brand as she channeled lamp heat through steel. Sizzling corpses piled around her, yet their onslaught focused solely on the gem-bearer until Ulysses'' shout cut through chaos: "The stones! Shed them!"


    The flung treasure galvanized the swarm. Lamp extended like talisman, Yvette fought toward her embattled ally. Rodents recoiled from amber light ¨C save one kamikaze attacker skewered mid-leap.


    Their merged lantern-light carved sanctuary in verminous darkness. Ulysses lifted a twitching specimen by its wormlike tail. Blade-like nails parted swollen viscera. "Gastric capacity exceeds functional need," he diagnosed. "But observe ¨C no musk glands. No reproductive organs. Asexually replicant."


    Yvette''s mind raced ¨C the fertility idol, these engineered brood... Then came the cranial crack revealing embryonic brain matter. "Instinct-drone. Collective-controlled via pheromones."


    When Ulysses abruptly withdrew, she thought fast: "Hymenopteran model. Queen specialization." The revelation chilled more than cave drafts.


    His sudden command surprised her: "Turn. What follows isn''t for your eyes."


    Memories of ballroom teasing surfaced. "Still smarting over the gavotte?"


    "Merely preventing future mockery." The wet gulp of rodent flesh consumption confirmed his warning. The sounds ¨C too fluid, too effortless ¨C conjured serpentine imagery. When permitted to turn, Ulysses'' blood-daubed silhouette raised primal doubts: Had the true Ulysses ever resurfaced after diving alone?


    He met her gaze while cleaning claws with fastidious tongue-swipes, the crimson streaks disappearing unnaturally. The unsaid question hung like cave moisture between them.


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    The sound alone was enough to freeze one¡¯s blood, yet when Yvette witnessed Ulysses calmly wiping his hands, doubt crept in¡ªhad she imagined it all?


    For those touched by the Extraordinary, strangeness came with the territory. Her own secrets were no exception: visions of a slumbering deity so vast it frayed the edges of reason, stolen memories of the dead¡­ She wandered these alien recollections like a phantom adrift in an endless mansion, its rooms shifting from one uncanny configuration to another.


    The neon-bright dreams had taught her the truth long ago¡ªshe inhabited a realm of exquisite madness, herself included.


    I am the Anomaly. The Aberration.


    ¡°Something on my face?¡± Ulysses licked a speck from his thumb.


    Yvette jerked her gaze to the rat carcasses. He¡¯d told her to turn away earlier, yet she¡¯d somehow pivoted back too soon. Though she¡¯d missed the actual swallowing, the grotesque remains told their own tale¡ªbodies the length of cats, though starved sleek as ferrets. How did any throat accommodate them?


    She wrestled the image down.


    ¡°Sir, why¡­ eat them raw? If you¡¯re hungry, I could roast¡ª¡±


    ¡°That would defeat the purpose. Their fresh tissue carries clues.¡± He held up a mangled paw. ¡°In this lightless hive, they navigate by scent. If I smell like kin, I become kin.¡±


    Understanding dawned. The tunnels, honeycombed by generations of digging, sprawled into a nightmare maze. Fighting through endless rodent hordes in claustrophobic passages? They¡¯d collapse from thirst before escaping.


    ¡°We¡¯ve time,¡± Ulysses added, reading her face. ¡°The rats sustain me. Their plagues mean nothing to this flesh. And should provisions run low¡­¡± He smiled faintly. ¡°I can always spare some meat.¡±


    Her mind painted the scene¡ªher teeth sinking into his palm. Human flesh. Abruptly, she felt intensely motivated to hasten their escape.


    ¡°Then why delay?¡±


    ¡°First, a field test.¡±


    Ulysses stepped beyond the lantern¡¯s glow. Blind rats scented the air, naked snouts quivering. No alarm spread. Soon he walked among them freely, giant rodents scampering from his boots like wary children avoiding a parent¡¯s tread.


    ¡°As predicted.¡± Returning, he rolled up his sleeves. ¡°Their scent glands secrete recognition markers. A little sweat, and we become ghosts in their midst.¡±


    Better than the alternative, Yvette thought, eyeing the glistening droplets on his arms. But he frowned at her bloodstained hand.


    ¡°The right one. Now.¡±


    She obeyed. ¡°It¡¯s just rat blood¡ª¡±


    ¡°Starving colonies cannibalize the weak. Blood draws scavengers.¡± Before she could protest, his tongue rasped over her knuckles¡ªrough as a cat¡¯s, stripping away every crimson fleck.


    The alien sensation lingered. Ulysses wore a human mask, yes, but this small imperfection betrayed him. Like the Spindle¡¯s mockery of flesh, it whispered of truths better left unacknowledged.


    How much humanity do we shed with each Ascension? What remains at the summit? The question chilled her more than any crypt.


    ...


    Cloaked in rodent musk, they traveled undisturbed. Rats still recoiled from their lantern¡ªlight being the last relic of vision their shrunken eyes retained¡ªbut numbers swelled as they penetrated deeper. Soon Yvette¡¯s boots crunched through carpets of whiskered bodies, their hibernating forms rising and falling like a fungal sea.


    Here lay the island¡¯s grim conclusion. Dog-sized monstrosities slept in heaps, their ancestors having devoured pygmy settlements long ago. Shattered skulls littered alcoves, bite marks telling their own history.


    Only sea turtles had escaped the rats¡¯ hunger¡ªuntil man completed nature¡¯s extinctions.


    Their biology now made sense. She recalled studies: lifespan traded for fertility. Trout in lean streams lived decades without spawning; starved mice outlived glutted kin. These rats had weaponized pseudo-hibernation, trading individual survival for eternal proliferation.


    A sound prickled her awareness¡ªthe whispering of countless legs, louder now. Not hallucination, but compass. The rage accompanying it held no human concern, only loathing for the rats¡¯ polluted existence.


    For they were perversions. Blasphemies against Creation¡¯s symmetry. How dare the Polygalous Matriarch graft termite hierarchy onto mammals? Thieves! Parodies!


    They will burn. Every last one.

 Chapter 80

    Yvette moved through the shadows with a primal hatred burning in her veins - a fury older than memory. Following the skittering echoes through twisting passages, she emerged into a cathedral-like cavern.


    The chamber yawned vast, barnacled with dagger-like stalactites pointing accusingly downward. At its heart gaped a chasm filled with bones. A blue-white phosphorescence rose from rotting remains - humans, beasts, even the skeletons of giant rats lay jumbled in profane communion. Yvette''s torchlight glinted on ribs spearing through skulls, leg bones wedged between vertebrae. The ossuary stank of decay, its broken anatomy writhing with scuttling vermin.


    There, enthroned upon a bone mountain, coiled the queen.


    Even curled in foetal position, the bloated horror exceeded an elephant''s bulk. Patchy skin hung slack where fur had rotted away, its faceless head crowned by shriveled rat-like ears. The monstrous abdomen stretched translucent, revealing clusters of fetal rats squirming in amniotic fluid - a twitching sac of cannibal spawn. Each embryonic rat tore at siblings, devouring the weak. This was no creature, but a blasphemous womb extruding endless nightmares.


    Her blade hand itched. Then Ulysses gripped her arm.


    "Listen."


    The warning came as chittering tides erupted from every crevice. Hundreds... thousands... a tsunami of fanged fur swarmed the bone pit. The guardian rats ignored fire and pheromone disguise, scarlet eyes blazing. Yet when the intruders retreated, the horde reluctantly withdrew.


    "Barrier," Ulysses murmured. They watched smaller rats cross the bonefield unmolested - workers provisioning their queen. One exit tunnel''s promising darkness beckoned beyond.


    Yvette surveyed the chasm. "We kill it. The hive breaks." She proposed madness: Gunpowder detonation catapulting her onto the queen''s nest.


    Ulysses countered with calculated insanity. "My arms for your wings." They armed a makeshift grenade, split between Greek fire and shrapnel. No time for fear - Yvette became the spark.


    Ulysses'' boost hurled her over darkness as guardian rats erupted in black waves. Mid-flight, she ignited oil-drenched clothes - brief human comet repelling leaping foes. Flame kissed flesh. She crashed rolling, blade plunging into the queen''s pulsing belly. Ripping downward screamed her fury: bowels spilled like burst cyst, amniotic filth drenching bone throne. The hive mind shrieked.


    Yvette''s grenade found the gullet. Detonation painted the walls. Headless, the queen thrashed in final paroxysm as guardian rats froze leaderless.


    Another abyss closed. There would be more.


    The island''s aberrant rat colony functioned through grotesque hierarchy, with sterile underlings stripped of reproductive and cognitive abilities. Their insectoid reflexes instinctively avoided geothermal hazards across the volcanic terrain, mindlessly executing commands from their Queen. Her demise left them deranged - twirling automatons bereft of programming, performing endless pirouettes and backwards tumbles. Though "Disorder Syndrome" commonly afflicts rodents, the epidemic-scale outbreak following the Queen''s death carried ominous undertones.


    Humanity would shudder at such collective madness, but witnessing it in vermin invoked only macabre absurdity.


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    Yvette observed the waltzing rodents in their subterranean ballroom, knowing they''d soon join the ossuary beneath their paws. The realization kindled perverse elation within her - a symphony of annihilation resonating through her nerves.


    She choked back giddy laughter.


    Success... Wait. Something eludes me...The tainted Seeds...I purified them...Before the descent, I... The dawn comes...Lesser beings return to dust...Must remember...I am the Blade of Vengeance, reaping tainted souls...


    Dual consciousness sparked through her mind. From the depths of Essence flowed rapturous enlightenment - her psyche refracting cosmic wisdom from an Elder Entity. Knowledge and spirit fused perfectly: Total surrender to this radiance promised emancipation from mortal shackles.


    This was Apotheosis.


    Yet her mortal remnant screamed rebellion, fixated on trivial worldly concerns.


    "Sir..."


    Spiritual influx should have consummated her ascension - gaining passage to higher planes, shedding earthly attachments to evolve into sublime perpetuity. But mundane distractions anchored her to filthy reality.


    No answer came. Terror jolted her from divine euphoria - like awakening into icy rapids.


    Her nape prickled.


    With maddened rats offering no resistance, she scrambled from the pit. There sprawled Ulysses upon a mound of rodent carrion, limbs savaged to bone. His ravaged left orbit cradled a shattered eyeball.


    Icy realization struck like a blizzard.


    Why hadn''t she reconsidered? Had she been the flaming decoy while Ulysses struck the fatal blow... No. Obsessive compulsion to personally execute the Queen had overridden reason.


    The gory tableau paralyzed her. Numbness spread. The neck-itch intensified. Shadows swelled. Primordial frenzy erupted.


    Schlick. Her spine ruptured like a bursting peapod. Crimson tendrils bloomed weightless - vascular marionette strings or phantom wings. Neural extensions magnified her powers beyond recognition. If this was strength, what pitiful imitation had she wielded before?


    Aberration. The Organization''s condemned metamorphosis. Salvation or Termination awaited such transformations.


    So be it. All existence trends toward oblivion. Omnipotent yet ignorant. Deathless yet profoundly alone.


    Yvette willed reality to dissolve, but blood-stench anchored her in grim wakefulness. The dream died. Darkness reclaimed her.


    In void, someone daubed her tear-stained face.


    "No tears...Told you...Immortal..."


    Through bruised lips, the words reeled her earthward. Despair was luxury she couldn''t afford.


    Her body moved before conscious thought, clasping Ulysses'' limp hand. His pulse hammered stronger than nature allowed.


    When relocating him, she discovered fibrils extruding from his wounds - feeding tendrils plumbing rodent carcasses.


    Survival ensured...But what manner of being healed through necrotic vampirism? His morphing flesh suggested protean slime mold over human biology.


    Yvette traced her own spine''s fissure and floating tendrils. Neither qualified to judge.


    She resembled some coral monstrosity...


    Only when Ulysses'' filaments retracted did she erect stone barriers against deranged rats. Evacuation loomed critical - rescue ships depended on his cryptic contacts. Volcanic fumes required verification.


    Poorly controlled self-immolation left her scorched and barely dressed. Precautionary rat sacrifices would test for residual toxins.


    Fortunately, sea winds scoured the lethal haze. The spinning rodents might dance themselves to death before starvation.


    Ensuring air safety, she retrieved Ulysses through labyrinthine caves. Their sub-island camp lay across the channel - problematic without swimming aptitude or dry passage for his wounds.


    Metamorphosis offered solutions.


    Normal thermal regulation merely shifted existing heat. Now, she could create energy voids.


    Facing the strait, her tendrils siphoned oceanic warmth. Ice bridges crystallized underfoot - each step extending the frozen path.


    The returning camp appeared untouched save the asphyxiated raven. Ulysses slept on, compelling her into desperate busywork. Foraged seafood proved useless until coconut trials.


    Attempting oral feeding, a pseudopod extruded from his cheek to drain a coconut - discarding its sweetness while absorbing sugars.


    Understanding struck. She scrubbed the turtle-shell basin, creating a saccharine bath where his tendrils actively fed.


    The hydroponic gardener analogy amused despite everything.

 Chapter 81

    Yvette drowned herself in mundane chores¡ªsharpening knives, mending gear, anything to avoid stillness. She pushed her body raw, muscles screaming without a flicker of supernatural aid. Better exhaustion than confronting the void within.


    Dawn¡¯s amber light roused her on the beach. Salt crusted her lashes. The campsite fire had died to embers, same as yesterday¡¯s madness.


    In the turtle-shell bath, Ulysses floated like a half-carved saint. Meat and bone knitted beneath coconut-scented waters. His chest rose steady. Soon, he¡¯d wake.


    She reached for a fresh coconut. Something scritched down her back¡ªa nest of desiccated tendrils, crimson as dried viscera. Their touch raised no shudder; the parasites had perished when her skin sealed smooth.


    Memories surfaced¡ªthe kill-fever singing in her veins as the Rat Queen fell, divine sapience coursing through neural pathways. A communion severed mid-ascent, crimson tendrils retracting like umbilical cords.


    Gods were storms: some distant, some landfall-bound. Most demanded blood tribute or flesh gateways. Her patron broke rules¡ªno altars, no manifestos. Only endless war against rival deities. A blessing? The black library¡¯s scrolls whispered warnings.


    Miss Sarr once called her righteous. Was that virtue... or some deity¡¯s curated taste?


    Yvette shook off thoughts. She stripped her ragged clothes¡ªmelted sleeves from yesterday¡¯s blaze, every stitch reeking of rat ichor. The stream¡¯s embrace washed over burns and doubts alike.


    Weightless, she floated. Mind adrift. Winslow¡¯s face surfaced¡ªthat man cradled by abyssal wings. Now she understood his drift. Each step up the Source ladder brought thicker fog.


    What were they? Where bound? Mortal anchors rusting away...


    She surfaced. Shattered reflection danced underfoot.


    ...


    Two mornings later, sails breached the horizon¡ªa lean schooner, shallow-drafted. No merchant would moor here. Reinforcements.


    Ulysses still slept. She carried his cocooned form past jungle ferns, toward the anchored ship.


    A bear of a man descended the gangplank, reeking of cured tobacco. ¡°Oi! Seen two blokes ¡¯round here, lass?¡±


    "Mister Ordinary¡¯s man?" Yvette¡¯s glare chilled.


    The brute¡¯s smirk faltered. "Aye. Suppose you¡¯re the package?"


    "One. The other¡¯s wounded."


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    His eyes raked her shirt¡ªtoo-tight across unbound curves. "Papa sent me for gentlemen."


    Ice crackled her words: "Shall I report your... diligent inquiry?"


    ¡®Papa¡¯¡ªgodfather to New World¡¯s Italian mobs. The ¡®Faceless¡¯ legend made toughs piss themselves.


    De Luca backtracked fast. ¡°Japes! Name¡¯s De Luca. Our sort, eh?¡± He tapped his temple¡ªsubtlety wasted here. ¡°Need hocus-pocus arrangements? This ain¡¯t starchy Albion. We shoot first here!¡±


    Lawless frontier indeed.


    She demanded sugar, a bathing cask, and a locked cabin. Sailors jeered at the shrouded bundle in her arms¡ªuntil Yvette trod the rocking gangplank with a corpse¡¯s equilibrium. Their catcalls died mid-breath.


    Unseen beneath wraps, Ulysses¡¯ regenerating flesh pulsed.


    ¡°The cabin,¡± Yvette ordered. ¡°No disturbances.¡±


    De Luca swallowed his smirk. Dead girls shouldn¡¯t glare like executioners.


    Yvette drowned herself in mundane chores¡ªsharpening knives, mending gear, anything to avoid stillness. She pushed her body raw, muscles screaming without a flicker of supernatural aid. Better exhaustion than confronting the void within.


    Dawn¡¯s amber light roused her on the beach. Salt crusted her lashes. The campsite fire had died to embers, same as yesterday¡¯s madness.


    In the turtle-shell bath, Ulysses floated like a half-carved saint. Meat and bone knitted beneath coconut-scented waters. His chest rose steady. Soon, he¡¯d wake.


    She reached for a fresh coconut. Something scritched down her back¡ªa nest of desiccated tendrils, crimson as dried viscera. Their touch raised no shudder; the parasites had perished when her skin sealed smooth.


    Memories surfaced¡ªthe kill-fever singing in her veins as the Rat Queen fell, divine sapience coursing through neural pathways. A communion severed mid-ascent, crimson tendrils retracting like umbilical cords.


    Gods were storms: some distant, some landfall-bound. Most demanded blood tribute or flesh gateways. Her patron broke rules¡ªno altars, no manifestos. Only endless war against rival deities. A blessing? The black library¡¯s scrolls whispered warnings.


    Miss Sarr once called her righteous. Was that virtue... or some deity¡¯s curated taste?


    Yvette shook off thoughts. She stripped her ragged clothes¡ªmelted sleeves from yesterday¡¯s blaze, every stitch reeking of rat ichor. The stream¡¯s embrace washed over burns and doubts alike.


    Weightless, she floated. Mind adrift. Winslow¡¯s face surfaced¡ªthat man cradled by abyssal wings. Now she understood his drift. Each step up the Source ladder brought thicker fog.


    What were they? Where bound? Mortal anchors rusting away...


    She surfaced. Shattered reflection danced underfoot.


    ...


    Two mornings later, sails breached the horizon¡ªa lean schooner, shallow-drafted. No merchant would moor here. Reinforcements.


    Ulysses still slept. She carried his cocooned form past jungle ferns, toward the anchored ship.


    A bear of a man descended the gangplank, reeking of cured tobacco. ¡°Oi! Seen two blokes ¡¯round here, lass?¡±


    "Mister Ordinary¡¯s man?" Yvette¡¯s glare chilled.


    The brute¡¯s smirk faltered. "Aye. Suppose you¡¯re the package?"


    "One. The other¡¯s wounded."


    His eyes raked her shirt¡ªtoo-tight across unbound curves. "Papa sent me for gentlemen."


    Ice crackled her words: "Shall I report your... diligent inquiry?"


    ¡®Papa¡¯¡ªgodfather to New World¡¯s Italian mobs. The ¡®Faceless¡¯ legend made toughs piss themselves.


    De Luca backtracked fast. ¡°Japes! Name¡¯s De Luca. Our sort, eh?¡± He tapped his temple¡ªsubtlety wasted here. ¡°Need hocus-pocus arrangements? This ain¡¯t starchy Albion. We shoot first here!¡±


    Lawless frontier indeed.


    She demanded sugar, a bathing cask, and a locked cabin. Sailors jeered at the shrouded bundle in her arms¡ªuntil Yvette trod the rocking gangplank with a corpse¡¯s equilibrium. Their catcalls died mid-breath.


    Unseen beneath wraps, Ulysses¡¯ regenerating flesh pulsed.


    ¡°The cabin,¡± Yvette ordered. ¡°No disturbances.¡±


    De Luca swallowed his smirk. Dead girls shouldn¡¯t glare like executioners.

 Chapter 82

    <div>


    The steamship docked at Norfolk, Virginia ¡ª gateway between the Federal States and the Old World. Salt-tinged winds carried the mingled scents of coal smoke and Southern jasmine as Yvette disembarked onto teeming wharves.


    "Every European delicacy awaits here, my lady," De Luca remarked, sweeping a gloved hand toward the bustling port city. "Should you desire local companionship, a whispered mention of Continental nobility would summon admirers like hounds to the hunt."


    Yvette adjusted her traveling cloak. "I sail tomorrow. Today requires only rest."


    Her inquiries about Ulysses had gone unanswered during their voyage. The knight had barricaded himself in his cabin, voice emerging thin and strained through oak panels. Whatever supernatural processes sustained him clearly demanded recovery. With both travelers declining shore excursions, they''d secured immediate passage home ¡ª Ulysses to his mysterious convalescence, Yvette to reluctant social obligations.


    Norfolk''s transient nature provided ample lodging. While Ulysses vanished into self-imposed solitude, Yvette ventured through streets echoing with polyglot voices. Mediterranean olive-skinned traders haggled beside Nordic-blond sailors; freedmen in rough-spun shirts unloaded crates while tribal-marked natives sold woven baskets. The aromas of French bisque mingled with Italian garlic oils and Chesapeake crab boils ¡ª a dizzying collage of immigrant legacies.


    Yet beyond the clapboard storefronts and cobbled seafront, another Virginia lurked. Plantation fields stretched inland like ragged green quilts, stitched together by mud tracks. Carriages bearing plantation wives in Lyons silk passed fieldhands plodding in homespun ¡ª no Burgundy-gowned merchant class to bridge the divide.


    "Eighty percent of Albion¡¯s mills hunger for our cotton!" declared a planter at the dockside tavern, whiskey sloshing his crystal tumbler. Yvette¡¯s journalistic pretense ¡ª feigning interest in agricultural economics to avoid discussing her actual voyage ¡ª peeled back the Federal States'' paradox. With land transport costs prohibitive, raw bales flowed seaward while finished cloth returned priced beyond yeomen farmers¡¯ reach. The wealthy imported Italian marble for garden statuary; their workers patched shirts with local cotton thread.


    Yvette stored these observations for future debates with Winslow, though cosmic horrors likely rendered such mortal struggles trivial. She purchased gifts ¡ª a fox fur muff for her maid, Havana cigars for the club members ¡ª from merchants hawking pirated books beside cured hams. There, prominently displayed, glowered The Vampire Murders ¡ª Hemlock¡¯s garish retelling of their Parisian misadventures.


    He¡¯s made us both characters in his penny dreadfuls, she realized, unaware this literary fame would soon manifest in more disconcerting ways...


    London¡¯s drizzle greeted their return. Ulysses departed with uncharacteristic haste, hiring a carriage directly to King¡¯s Cross Station. When Yvette called after him ¡ª "If I can aid your affairs, beyond the paper..." ¡ª his rare smile held winter sunlight¡¯s fragile warmth: "Noted."


    The exchange lingered as she absently fingered the vials of eldritch ichor in her breast pocket ¡ª trophies from an expedition that had veered from specimen collection into realms beyond reason.


    Alison¡¯s tearful welcome at Covent Garden momentarily dispelled darker thoughts. "Your room¡¯s been aired thrice weekly, sir! Mrs. Beeton¡¯s latest menus attempted, though the beef Wellingtons still... That is..." The maid¡¯s prattle ceased when Yvette produced the silver-fox muff.


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    "Federal flea market find. No use to me ¡ª you¡¯ll spare me the dandy¡¯s reputation."


    The maid¡¯s protests dissolved into gratitude ¡ª and urgent news. "Letters! So many! Half of Mayfair¡¯s written! And Mr. Faulkner¡¯s own man delivered this!" She brandished a leather-bound tome. Gold-leaf letters proclaimed: THE SPECTER OF BELL STREET ¡ª Complete Edition.


    Yvette¡¯s sandwich turned to ashes. Society pages, club stationery, even Montagu¡¯s crested parchment spilled from the mail pile ¡ª all praising/alarming/pondering Hemlock¡¯s magnum opus. His serialized thriller ¡ª its detective protagonist "Chevalier" clearly mimicking her ¡ª had concluded to unprecedented frenzy. The Marquess¡¯ annotated critique suggested multiple rereadings; Randall¡¯s blunt note declared: Your fictional self¡¯s too dashed handsome ¡ª lacks your rabbit-in-lantern-light demeanor.


    "Editorial begs interviews about the Chevalier phenomenon," Yvette read acidly. "Shall I invite the plagiarist himself for tea? Hemlock¡¯s theatrics could sell broadsheets by the ton..."


    As autumn shadows lengthened across first editions and unanswered letters, Yvette foresaw the coming storm. The true adventure, it seemed, lay not in eldritch battles, but in surviving literary celebrity.


    <div>


    <div>


    Yvette sifted through a stack of letters, many penned by debutantes impressed by her debut at this year¡¯s social season. Invitations piled up for country estate visits¡ªa post-season tradition where nobility retreated to hunt and forge closer bonds beyond London¡¯s stifling formality. Autumn¡¯s relaxed atmosphere promised easier camaraderie than the ballroom¡¯s ritualistic pageantry.


    To society, "Yves de Fisher" was a prize: a handsome French exile with distinguished lineage, a confirmed bachelor uncle¡¯s fortune awaiting inheritance, and ties to ducal houses like Lancaster and Montagu. Mothers schemed; daughters blushed. None guessed the truth¡ªthat this eligible bachelor was, in fact, a woman. With practiced diplomacy, Yvette declined most offers.


    One letter stood apart, perfumed with lily water¡ªa note from Julie, her former mentor¡¯s daughter. During Yvette¡¯s university days, the professor had pushed courtship until realizing "Yves¡¯" indifference. Now Julie wrote sparingly, this time inviting classmates to farewell drinks before she started work as a telegraph operator.


    The telegraph¡¯s novelty lingered. In Albion, cables snaked only between vital rail depots and London¡¯s periphery. Yet once tasted, instant communication spoiled merchants on sluggish pigeons. Operators pounded Morse keys in sweaty offices, queues of impatient brokers snaking down pavements. Women found rare empowerment here: high wages, cerebral work, no bustles hindering desk chairs. Julie, middle-class and marriageable, needed the income¡ªbeauty alone wouldn¡¯t secure a titled match without dowry gold.


    Yvette penned warm regrets and encouragement, sanding ink as she mused: Ulysses had once explained why their shadowy order shunned telegraphs. Each click passed through a dozen hands between Birmingham and London¡ªtoo many ears for secrets. Even ciphers risked cracking. Ravens sufficed for clandestine trysts; trusted mouths carried graver whispers.


    A letter crackled¡ªnot Julie¡¯s, but a vampire contact¡¯s. The telescope inventor she¡¯d sought was in town, eager to meet patrons. Yvette¡¯s interest wasn¡¯t lenses, but astronomers in his orbit. Since dreaming of the Star-Maiden¡ªa frozen comet trailing eldritch spawn¡ªshe¡¯d hungered for cosmic insight.


    The dream had shown her an Elder God¡­ or had it planted the very obsession? Cold doubt prickled. Am I hunter or puppet? Memories of Moloch¡¯s warped form steeled her: humanity¡¯s outrage burned brighter than eldritch whispers. She¡¯d cling to that flame.


    Resolved, Yvette departed for the Labyrinth Club, where members pounced.


    ¡°Mandrake! Your absence left our coffee cups barren of omens!¡± Oleander swooped for a hug.


    Scabbard raised, Yvette parried. ¡°Spare me, monsieur. Childhood¡­ incidents left scars.¡± A fabricated priestly predation explained her distaste¡ªtrustworthy for Catholic France¡¯s scandals.


    Chastened, Oleander gestured to their tea spread. ¡°To Curare¡¯s latest triumph!¡±


    The haggard author grinned. ¡°Your escapades inspired it. But wait¡ª¡± He described a new plot: murder on the Silver Star, bound for Virginia..."


    Yew gasped. ¡°Mandrake¡¯s holiday haunt! He brought me Virginian leaf!¡±


    A trap. Yvette edged toward the exit.


    Curare pounced. ¡°The sleuth had a doctor uncle¡ªlike Sir Ulysses! Admit it¡ªyou¡¯re my mystery¡¯s muse!¡±


    The club roared. Cornered, Yvette cursed her souvenir tobacco.

 Chapter 83

    ¡°Let me explain¡ªthere¡¯s context to all this¡­¡± Yvette met the piercing gazes of the Thought Labyrinth Club members and reluctantly recounted a sanitized version of events.


    ¡°¡­So you understand¡ªmy uncle detests notoriety. Had you dug elsewhere, you¡¯d have found no mention of his role in this affair. Yet without him identifying the bitter salt in the wine and the cyanide poisoning, the case would¡¯ve gone unsolved. Out of respect for his privacy, I kept silent. It wasn¡¯t meant to deceive you.¡±


    Absence forfeits the right to protest. She blamed Ulysses without composure, confident none would challenge the club¡¯s least-liked figure.


    The perfect patsy~


    ¡°Ah, Sir Ulysses¡­ eccentric as ever, God forgive my frankness,¡± Aconite murmured, nodding.


    ¡°Unfair,¡± objected Strychnine, once Ulysses¡¯ fiercest critic, now softened by owing the man his life during the Moulin Rouge debacle. ¡°Reclusive, yes¡ªbut honorable.¡±


    ¡°With Mandrake¡¯s firsthand account, my novel shall brim with authenticity! Sit¡ªspare no detail about the Silver Star!¡± Curare slapped down fresh parchment, quill dancing across the page.


    Yvette obliged, relieved the murder lacked supernatural complications. Only Ulysses¡¯ uncanny deductions required omission.


    Hours later, five ink-glazed sheets dried beside Curare¡¯s cramped hand. Flexing his fingers, he halted Yvette¡¯s retreat.


    ¡°A moment, Mandrake! Another matter!¡±


    He produced a cheque for over ¡ê1,000¡ªa king¡¯s ransom.


    ¡°Miss Fisher,¡± he intoned, invoking her true name. ¡°My books owe their success to your exploits. The proceeds rightly belong to you.¡±


    Too generous.


    Yvette knew Curare¡¯s earnings barely matched this sum. Yet here he stood, a baron¡¯s heir untouched by pecuniary instinct, offering her windfall. Mrs. Palmer had died for less aboard the Silver Star.


    She declined. His labor¡ªthe sleepless drafting, the obsessive edits¡ªdeserved reward. Moreover, his fiction masquerading truth sanitized London¡¯s strangeness, covertly aiding the Special Missions Bureau.


    Let Faulkner keep writing. Tame the rumors, spare the masses.


    If only she weren¡¯t his muse¡­


    ¡°Keep it,¡± she insisted, then unveiled her gambit. ¡°Let¡¯s found a Consulting Detective Agency. Wealth in amusement, if not coffers.¡±


    ¡°Consulting¡­ detectives?¡± The club savored the exotic phrase.


    ¡°Precisely. Physicians have their consultants¡ªexperts guiding common practitioners. Why not detectives advising their lesser peers? London swells with crime, yet most ¡®detectives¡¯ chase lost terriers and pilfering maids. We shall tackle enigmas beyond their grasp.¡±


    The notion¡ªlifted from Sherlock Holmes in her past life¡ªelectrified the room. ¡°Detectives¡¯ detective¡±¡ªhow deliciously elitist! Profit paled against prestige.


    Better still, the agency served her covert aims. Curare¡¯s literary fame would draw clients aplenty. Yvette could feed them trivial cases, reserving eldritch horrors for herself, then veil solutions in plausibility. After Moulin Rouge, Bell Street, and the Silver Star, the club worshipped her deductive genius¡ªthey¡¯d swallow any tale.


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    As the members bickered over agency names and newspaper ads, Yvette slipped away. Let them squabble¡ªshe¡¯d return to harvest their labors.


    At Canterbury Cathedral, the doorman recoiled. That Frenchman again¡ªhat on in the Holy Seat¡¯s sanctum!


    As he lunged to reprimand, the interloper vanished toward the archbishop¡¯s chambers.


    Impertinent wretch! His grace shall revoke your liberties!


    Indeed, the Holy Seat startled¡ªnot at the intrusion, but at Ulysses¡¯ bared head.


    Blood crusted his scalp. Amid the gore, twin spurs of bone protruded.


    ¡°Contained,¡± Ulysses rasped. ¡°No breach. I¡¯ll convalesce here.¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t about civility!¡± The Holy Seat glowered. ¡°Any lapse risks catastrophe. Explain yourself!¡±


    ¡°An omen led me to heretics defiling life¡¯s sanctity. Took a novice agent. Contained without its aid. Lingering¡­ residue.¡±


    ¡°A novice? Madness! Seasoned hands abound!¡±


    ¡°Novelty ensures loyalty,¡± Ulysses retorted. ¡°Without treachery, the Great Fire of ¡¯66 might¡¯ve been spared.¡±


    The Holy Seat winced. London¡¯s inferno¡ªa festering wound.


    ¡°Your gamble endangered us all.¡±


    ¡°An isle adrift. Had things soured, the damage was quarantined.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll dispatch Mr. Mundane to verify.¡±


    Ulysses exhaled inwardly¡ªthe ruse held.


    The Fire¡­


    Embers haunted him still. Fetid smoke, furnace winds, timber screaming¡ªa purgatory etched in memory.


    It taught him trust¡¯s frailty. Confronting the abyss¡¯s secrets could twist comrades into foes. Thus, he¡¯d breathe no word of the omens now whispered to two souls.


    The world was Pandora¡¯s artifice¡ªa gilded lie caging mortal and mystic alike. This fractured reality could ill survive another schism¡­ or another toll of the Doomsday Clock.


    With Ulysses away, the newspaper had fallen under Yvette''s charge. She haunted Fleet Street each afternoon these past weeks, schooling the editors in modern media tactics from her former life ¨C strategic leaks, celebrity exclusives, the machinery of public persuasion.


    The caf¨¦ hummed with the clatter of typewriters and heated debates. Through its frosted windows, Yvette watched Fleet Street''s daily ballet: ink-stained compositors darting between printshops, newsboys shouldering paper avalanches, starry-eyed scribes ambushing critics with manuscripts. Above it all, St. Paul''s dome watched like a stony patriarch.


    Today''s triumph sat sweet as the lemon cake on her plate. She''d bagged Faulkner ¨C current darling of the literati ¨C for an interview peppered with juicy teases about his next novel. Let competitors scrabble for scandal; "FAULKNER EXTRA!" blazing across tomorrow''s mastheads would empty newsstands by noon.


    The editors, liberated from their usual deadline frenzy, debated everything from Browning''s verse to the Mars-Jupiter conjunction. Their sudden dive into star charts and birth signs made Yvette stifle a laugh. Grown men arguing astrological houses with academic rigor ¨C it was like catching one''s uncle at a s¨¦ance.


    "Since when did Fleet Street hire sibyls?" she teased.


    "Join the celestial conclave, Fisher!" Cocker brandished his horoscope manual like scripture. "The stars don''t lie."


    "Neither do charlatans."


    Her skepticism only fired Cocker''s evangelism. "This isn''t crystal-gazing nonsense! Kepler himself¨C"


    Yvette tuned out, marveling at the age''s contradictions. Steam-powered presses churned out starry prophecies; learned men worshipped both slide rules and zodiac charts. Even Newton wasted years seeking alchemical gold. Truth and folly danced their eternal waltz.


    Stars... She''d humor them. Tomorrow brought a meeting with inventor von Stein ¨C and perhaps more pressing matters at college.


    The university quad felt ghostly without Julie''s laughter. Her latest letter described telegraph wires buzzing with secret camaraderie ¨C operators flirting in dots and dashes, sharing jokes no censor could decode. But the veteran she''d replaced had left traps: sudden codebarrages meant to overwhelm rookies. Julie''s solution remained mysterious, though her tone hinted at delicious vengeance.


    Only Gary haunted the rose garden now, jerking upright when Yvette materialized beside him. "Easy there! Where''s the brigade?"


    "Carol''s blue-deviled." The scholarship boy who traded Latin translations for opera tickets had lost his muse ¨C prima donna Soret struck by mysterious ailment. Yvette needed his polyglot talents to trace serpent gods across mythologies: Egyptian chaos dragons, plumed Aztec spirits. With Ulysses vanished and colleagues dodging divine talk, dusty tomes offered her only compass.


    "I''ll roust him!" Gary vowed. "Ale and Aristotle ¨C best cure for lovesick scholars."


    "You''ll both earn silver for this," Yvette insisted. Gary''s protest died at her raised palm. "Knowledge exacts its price. Consider it tuition from Dame Wisdom herself."

 Chapter 84

    Beneath the spectral glow of a pallid moon, shadows stretched across the lonely cottage outside London.


    Midnight had long passed, yet lamplight still bled through heavy curtains fluttering at the window¡ªtheir crimson velvet whispering secrets to the night wind with every flicker of candle flame within.


    Had any soul glimpsed that accursed chamber, they''d have fled screaming of warlocks and damnation. Blood sigils crusted dark on oaken tables. Ancient grimoires¡ªtheir pages fat with decay¡ªlined sagging shelves. A yawning chest disgorged jars of unnatural preserves: desiccated wings, coiled reptile tails, floating digits with nail beds black as sin.


    The cottage''s master scratched at parchment with a quill dipped in ichor. His twisted arm¡ªknit crooked after some forgotten fracture¡ªjutted at unnatural angles. Chapped lips recited half-remembered litanies between phlegmy coughs that bubbled like swamp gas.


    Autumn''s bite gnawed through England, yet the man''s overlarge coat threatened to bury him. Beneath scratchy wool lurked a tally of wounds he could trace blind: the forearm shattered by a mummy''s crumbling shield in Luxor''s dust; lungs ruined by jagged bones when tumbling down a sacred mound fleeing formless horrors; the calf still oozing where ghoul-teeth had torn meat from bone in some nameless European crypt.


    On breathless dawns after surviving the unspeakable, he sometimes wondered why he courted these eldritch truths. But the answer lay in ancestral manuscripts yellowing in their iron-banded chest¡ªmanuscripts proclaiming no merciful gods watched over mankind, only idiot deities writhing in celestial madness. Through decades of forbidden study, he''d glimpsed Things that curdled sanity, heard whispers from Between that promised power... and doom.


    Fear and hunger warred in his soul. To remain mortal meant helplessness before cosmic terrors. Yet despite ritual scars and stolen lore, his veins lacked the tainted blood of true sorcerers. Only stolen knowledge and desperate gambles remained¡ªadvancing his game of damnation inch by inch.


    Tonight, perhaps, checkmate.


    The ritual had worked¡ªafter a fashion. The Mist-Dweller from Beyond took his flesh like a ill-fitting glove, its alien voice rasping through his ruined throat of paths to power. Then departed... but left stains on his soul. Now shadows whispered behind mirrors. Something watched from moonlit corners with eyes that weren''t eyes.


    His trembling hand adjusted the brass telescope¡ªits lens trained on stars that shouldn''t exist. Equations sprawled across paper¡ªhyperbolic geometries that hurt to contemplate. Just days more...


    An owl shrieked mockery. There came a wet click behind him¡ªlike claws on stone. He didn''t turn. Couldn''t. The kerosene lamp flared brighter, its light cold as the void.


    Meanwhile, in Bloomsbury''s respectable streets, a hired cab deposited Yvette before a Georgian townhouse. Her gloved hand rang Stein''s bell.


    The maid''s suspicious eye assessed her through the door-crack. "No unscheduled callers, sir."


    Yvette bit back a smile¡ªin men''s attire, even servants missed the truth. "Mr. Stein expects me. We corresponded."


    Moments later, a florid-faced inventor wrenched the door wide. "Mr. Fisher! Forgive Martha''s caution¡ªthese days, journalists swarm like wasps about my work!"


    The foyer''s centerpiece explained his pride¡ªa brass telescope scarcely taller than a walking stick. "My own design," Stein preened at Yvette''s interest. "Flint and crown glass in counterposed lenses. Brings Orion''s belt near enough to touch!"


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    Yvette''s finger brushed cold metal. "Marvelous craftsmanship. Tell me, has anyone... unusual... inquired about such devices recently?" A vision flashed¡ªthe cottage''s crooked stargazer, his corrupted scope drinking in forbidden constellations.


    From the Church''s perspective, astronomy stood as the most accursed of sciences. The ancient Europeans had long intertwined stargazing with astrology, much like China''s seasonal calendar derived from celestial movements. As Earth journeyed through its eternal cycles, the firmament''s shifting tapestry heralded summer''s warmth and winter''s frost¡ªpatterns our ancestors discerned in Babylon''s ziggurats and Rome''s marble forums. Where stars governed harvests, they must influence mortal fates¡ªthus the forbidden art of astrology took root.


    Holy writ declared providence solely God''s domain. Astronomers and stargazers threatened divine order with their charts and prophecies. Worse still lurked in Church whispers¡ªentities older than Scripture traversed the void, their dreadful secrets best left veiled by ignorance. Though Renaissance fires rekindled pagan learning, pyres still consumed star-mad heretics... until necessity triumphed dogma.


    A century past, Enlightenment pragmatism prevailed. Coffee and spices from New World colonies proved sweeter than theological disputes. Navigators needed stars; kings demanded treasure fleets. Reluctantly, the Church unchained astronomy. Telescopes multiplied, lenses grinding faster than scripture could forbid them. Royal observatories welcomed scholar-priests, while amateurs formed stargazing clubs¡ªnone more passionate than the Star Seekers Society.


    Herr Stein''s new telescope model exemplified this democratization¡ªcompact enough for gentleman''s libraries, yet sharp enough to chart lunar craters. His first shipment sold to Society members within days. "Portability meets precision," the inventor boasted, polishing his sole remaining sample.


    Yvette studied the brass instrument without interest. Her quarry wasn''t metal and glass, but a phantom from fevered dreams¡ªa leprous star pulsing with monstrosities, unseen yet omnipresent. No tome mentioned purple comets. Perhaps mortal eyes required mechanical augmentation... or a touch of divine sight granted by darker patrons.


    "Mr. Stein," she inquired, affecting dilettante enthusiasm, "since Piazzi spotted Ceres, how many minor planets have emerged? I dream of christening one¡ªYvette''s Comet has such flair!"


    The inventor coughed diplomatically. "Ah, the Star Seekers discuss such matters. But discoverers must use female names. Ceres was harvest goddess. Sir Isaac''s star becomes Newtonia. You''d need..." He gestured apologetically. "Yvette, perhaps."


    Her teacup rattled. This cruel mirror of her double life¡ªmale alias "Yves" forged from her true name¡ªnearly shattered composure. Coincidence, surely? Stein showed no suspicion. Church-sanctioned sexism permeated even the stars'' nomenclature.


    Returning home, Yvette leafed through a Star Seekers pamphlet acquired en route. Meteor showers, jupiter''s moons... then a footnote about childhood wishes upon falling stars.


    Memory struck like lightning. Moore''s dream¡ªchildren chanting desires as violet death fell. Black Jack coveting wealth, becoming a murderer drunk on stolen champagne. Two peasant children granted twisted wishes through alien intervention. Mathematical impossibility... unless the stars themselves answered.


    At her desk, quill hovering over the Society''s address, wings beat against glass. A raven''s obsidian eye glinted¡ªAlison, feathered spy and occasional snack-thief.


    "Fetch biscuits, would you?" Yvette murmured. The stars could wait; this omen demanded feeding.

 Chapter 85

    As the raven Click rattled peanuts in its dish, Yvette unrolled the message from its leg band. Shar''s elegant script announced the resolution of their "little problem" - the lingering curse from their last case, a scourge that should have taken six months to fade, yet dissipated in barely two.


    The organization''s standard ciphers couldn''t mask her unease. Between fire salamander hunts that nearly claimed her humanity and clandestine alchemy orders through Keegan, every survival felt borrowed. Even this meeting reeked of risk - potion delivery through Shar now that Keegan sailed distant shores.


    Flaming Cloak Elixir''s completion should bring comfort. Without its protective heat simmering in her veins, she''d be half the warrior. Yet the New World''s nightmares still twitched beneath her eyelids - not just the scaled horrors, but the creeping sense of flesh disobeying bone.


    "Ulysses lies," the walls whispered as the masked inquisitor spoke. Fabric roses bled into ocular tumors under her heat-distorted vision. Her reply flowed smooth as poisoned honey - yes, routine beasts; no, Doctor showed no strain. Let them hunt shadows. Beneath London''s smog-choked skies, only Shar''s offered berry tart pierced the gloom.


    In the botanist''s caf¨¦ sanctuary, between mouthfuls of cloud-soft cheesecake, normality reasserted itself. The logistics officer''s suspicion still itched like ill-fitting skin, but Shar''s Gothic gentleness balmed the paranoia. Here, amidst prize orchids and death magic discussions, humanity''s fragile threads held fast - camaraderie stronger than any cursebreaker''s art.


    "The caster''s gone," Shar stirred her coffee, a necromancer''s shrug in the clink of silver spoon. "Final breaths make potent hexes, but ours never drew last."


    Yvette licked raspberry glaze, choosing not to wonder whose knife found that dark heart. Some questions burned brighter unanswered.


    The man who had targeted Miss Shar was dead¡ªa stroke of luck that allowed her to exit the safehouse ahead of schedule.


    Shar implied the organization had traced and eliminated the assailant with ruthless efficiency. Not surprising, she mused¡ªthose who wielded curses, like Lord Spindle, often lacked physical fortitude. Why, the man might collapse after a single flight of stairs.


    "My curse has lifted, yet questions remain," Shar said deliberately. "Normally, I¡¯d keep this quiet, but you may be involved¡­"


    "Involved?"


    "The curse struck while I investigated a supernatural victim per orders. As a necromancer, I commune with the dead¡ªbut someone planted a trap in the victim¡¯s lingering consciousness. A triggered snare, crude yet effective¡­ like rigging a mousetrap in a lockbox. Petty spite. ¡®The Doctor¡¯ handled the case with Royal Navy support. Though your role is unclear, you should be aware."


    Royal Navy¡­ The merman from Heather Isle?


    Yvette recalled the aquatic foe¡¯s sea-bound powers, while Shar¡¯s attacker seemed rooted in another domain. Unlikely allies.


    When had Shar¡¯s curse lifted? Yvette cross-referenced the date with the Heather Isle clash. Close, but not overlapping.


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    An accomplice, then? But if the organization neutralized another target, they must possess intel.


    "Who are these people, Miss Shar? What do they want?"


    Yvette frowned. Human-led supernatural plots usually had clear aims¡ªwealth, power, vengeance. This shadowy agenda defied logic.


    "That¡¯s the enigma," Shar admitted. "As the victim, I deserve answers to safeguard myself. Yet the organization claims my clearance is inadequate. I¡¯m left blind."


    "Unbelievable¡­" Yvette whispered. It was akin to surviving an ambush only to have the assailant¡¯s identity sealed away.


    "The organization has its burdens," Shar said dryly. "We drape the world in peaceful illusions. Who¡¯s to say we aren¡¯t veiled ourselves? Perhaps some truths are too corrosive for mortal minds."


    Abruptly aware of her cynicism, Shar sipped her coffee and pivoted.


    "You seemed distressed earlier. Trouble?"


    "¡­Visions. They¡¯ve haunted my mornings. It¡¯s¡­ draining."


    "Reviewing archives, I noticed ¡®the Doctor¡¯s¡¯ unit has been unusually productive since you joined. Multiple major incidents resolved¡ªno credit to that sluggard. Is the strain of rapid ascension fracturing your mind?"


    "Third Zenith now¡­ Perhaps it¡¯s too quick¡ª"


    Clank! Shar¡¯s cup clattered against its saucer.


    "A year ago, you were a novice."


    "Time flies¡­" Yvette sighed theatrically.


    "A year is not ¡®time flying¡¯¡ªyou sound like a septuagenarian!" Shar snapped. Inexplicably, I want to flick her. "Ascending so recklessly? At your age, you couldn¡¯t have surpassed the Second Zenith initially. Burning mission rewards on crystallized energy? Folly. A decade in, I¡¯ve barely reached the Fourth. And never disclose your Zenith tier lightly!"


    Yvette dipped her head meekly.


    Only she knew crystallized energy was the least of her secrets.


    "How else does one ascend, Miss Shar? If crystallization¡¯s safest but restricted¡ªwhat paths remain?"


    "Power springs from comprehending reality¡¯s fabric. Crystals offer curated glimpses of higher truths, teaching us to wield Zenith-tier forces. Other paths? Visions themselves are shards of mad wisdom¡ªaccumulate enough, and you¡¯ll ascend naturally. Most linger at the Second Zenith unless they court forbidden knowledge. Ancient grimoires tempt some, though the organization hoards the worst tomes. What slips through? Raving nonsense that warps the mind. Others perform rites to sync their souls with Elder Gods, receiving power as offerings please them. Or feast on souls¡ªswifter, but damning."


    Sacrificial rites¡­


    Yvette remembered her dream after slaying Duran¡ªthe Hydra¡¯s taunt that the Bureau had erased eldritch communion rites. Banished faiths like Dagon¡¯s were recast as demonic in scripture, yet fragments hinted at primal horrors.


    The Hydra had crooned scripture: "The Creator rejected Cain¡¯s grain but blessed Abel¡¯s blood. All gods thirst for it."


    And: "The sacred blood in your veins¡ªits whispers are keys to realms unseen."


    Yvette once unmasked a cult¡¯s coded letters but scorned their contents. Now, the truth chilled her.


    The Elder Gods demanded tribute. I paid. They rewarded.


    That giddy rush when her prey¡¯s blood sprayed her¡ªwas that the rite¡¯s approval? Hadn¡¯t ancient priests painted their faces with sacrifice-blood?


    Of course. The gods¡¯ hunger for blood was no secret. Humanity had known since the dawn of fire.


    That same night, the Bureau envoy hurried back to Canterbury Cathedral.


    "Your Grace, ¡®Libra¡¯ asserts all¡¯s well."


    The Archbishop brooded. Earlier, the New World colony reported no abnormalities on the island. A relief¡ªyet his true concern was the occupant¡¯s psyche. Stability now, yes¡­ but after the 1666 calamity, vigilance was paramount. Should forbidden signs emerge, he¡¯d act ruthlessly.


    "The rat matriarch in their report¡ªconfirmed?"


    "Decomposition obscured details, but blade wounds align with ¡®Libra¡¯s¡¯ relic sword. ¡®The Doctor¡¯ bore no relics¡ªthough he might¡¯ve borrowed ¡®Libra¡¯s.¡¯"


    If mere steel slew the beast, their report held weight. A lethargic monstrosity, easily ambushed¡ªa feat within ¡®Libra¡¯s¡¯ means. ¡®The Doctor¡¯s¡¯ involvement changed little.


    So long as ¡®the Doctor¡¯ didn¡¯t act. Restraint implies control. No instability detected¡­ Perhaps I worried needlessly.


    With a sigh, the Archbishop ordered jam and scones¡ªa rare indulgence to soothe his nerves.

 Chapter 86

    After exchanging pleasantries, Shar turned to business. From her handbag emerged a slender case, which she presented to Yvette.


    Inside lay a dozen vials of crimson-orange elixir. ¡°The alchemist conserved some salamander blood,¡± Shar explained, ¡°but shortages forced this partial shipment.¡±


    Yvette understood. The clandestine world mirrored remote hamlets¡ªtoo small for steady trade. Mages hoarded ingredients for annual black-market exchanges. That this batch existed at all impressed her.


    Payment demanded no gold, just obscure botanicals and creature parts. ¡°These sound as dangerous to collect as the blood itself,¡± Yvette protested.


    ¡°Common reagents,¡± Shar assured. ¡°Request them through channels. Your service record guarantees priority.¡±


    Duty called Shar away¡ªtwo paranormal leads demanded attention. Alone again, Yvette departed for Scotland Yard.


    Past familiar guards, she found Chief Superintendent Alto buried in papers. ¡°Yvette! Your visits always precede marvels,¡± he grinned, summoning tea. ¡°What riddle brings you today?¡±


    Flushing at his praise, she outlined her query: missing children cases in western villages, multiple victims, adolescent focus.


    ¡°Ah! My specialty.¡± Alto paraded her through archive catacombs, plucking files blindfolded. Dossiers piled high¡ªsatanic panics, mass hysterias, unsolved vanishings.


    Then¡ªnames from her dream: Leon Acheson. Sabina Moore. Goathorn Village, 7 children lost. Artist sketches matched her visions.


    Pieces aligned: Moore¡¯s grafted limbs likely belonged to other star-touched children. The Starspawn needed power. Blackjack¡¯s rootless luxury hinted at flight¡ªhunted by what he¡¯d helped create.


    When Alto pressed, Yvette wove her theory: not found, but made. A factory farm for young supernaturals.


    ¡°Brilliant!¡± Alto breathed. ¡°If they¡¯re breeding awakened...¡±


    The horror hung unspoken. Somewhere, a forge crafted children into parts¡ªand London¡¯s shadows hid its smith.


    ¡°An organization¡­ mass-producing supernaturals?¡±


    The idea chilled Arturo to the core. For centuries, forbidden rituals had promised mortals a taste of the Ancient Ones¡¯ power¡ªbut most such rites had been eradicated or locked away by the Organization. Even when successful, these gambits were Russian roulette: at best, the cosmic entities ignored the summoner¡¯s pleas; at worst, their gaze reduced human minds to splintered madness.


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    If some rogue cabal outside the Organization¡¯s grip was transforming ordinary folk into supernaturals, it would leap to the top of their annihilation list.


    ¡°This reeks of Starspawn, not mere humans,¡± Yvette asserted.


    Unlike the volatile rituals targeting the Ancient Ones, channeling power through manifested Starspawn proved safer¡ªif ¡°safe¡± meant enduring gruesome hybridization. Their essence, diluted through this world¡¯s natural order, allowed rituals like vampire siring or lycanthropic infection, albeit with strict limitations: a vampire¡¯s lineage dictated their potency, while werewolf bloodlines carried similar curses.


    ¡°Out with it, Yvette¡ªwhat did you uncover?¡±


    ¡°Speculation only,¡± she cautioned. ¡°In the sewers, those vampiric-werewolf abominations muttered about ¡®Apostles of the Stars¡¯ and the ¡®Daughter of the Firmament.¡¯ The walls bore constellations twisted into blasphemous sigils. Context suggests the ¡®Apostles¡¯ are the Starspawn that escaped Moreau, while the ¡®Daughter¡¯ might be a high-tier entity¡ªpossibly an Ancient One.¡±


    (She omitted Aurora¡¯s role in deciphering these terms; the disgraced noblewoman now languished under Marquess Montagu¡¯s judgment. Still, the celestial clues fit.)


    Yvette flipped open the Astral Seekers¡¯ journal to its meteor forecast. ¡°This article felt¡­ wrong. No known comet aligns with their predicted shower. Every major meteor event¡ªthe Leonids, the Lyrids¡ªties to a documented celestial body. Yet here?¡± She shrugged. ¡°Scholars confirm no such comet exists. So why the confidence? Either reckless conjecture¡­ or something sinister.¡±


    Arturo stared, dumbstruck.


    ¡°I know it sounds outlandish¡ª¡±


    ¡°Outlandish? This is inspired!¡± Arturo laughed incredulously. ¡°First you dismantle that poisoner case aboard the Silver Star¡ªhalf my men want your autograph¡ªand now this? Were you not indentured to that insufferable Ulysses, I¡¯d recruit you for the Yard myself!¡±


    (His astonishment was justified. In an era when universities barred women, Evette¡¯s intellect humbled Oxford dons.)


    ¡°Beginner¡¯s luck,¡± Yvette deflected.


    In truth, her past life¡¯s memory of the overhyped Leonid ¡°meteor storm¡±¡ªwhere she¡¯d shivered through a frostbitten night for three fleeting streaks¡ªhad taught her astronomy¡¯s fallibility. If modern scientists could blunder, how dared these amateur stargazers prophesy with such certitude?


    Arturo dispatched inquiries to Goat Hollow. Within days, his raven arrived: two nights before the abductions, villagers witnessed a violet meteor cratering the valley¡ªa hue no natural celestial body emitted.


    ¡°You anticipated this!¡± Arturo marveled as Yvette entered his office.


    She shrugged. ¡°An educated guess.¡±


    ¡°Modesty doesn¡¯t suit you. Were Ulysses here¡ª¡±


    ¡°He isn¡¯t.¡± The marquis had secluded himself since their return from the Americas, and his absence gnawed at her.


    ¡°He¡¯s a ¡®Physician¡¯¡ªhe¡¯ll survive. Meanwhile, I¡¯ve contacted Greenwich: their telescopes confirm no violet stars exist. That meteor was engineered. The Astral Seekers may be puppets¡­ or puppeteers.¡±


    Yvette proposed infiltrating the Society¡¯s public lecture. Arturo bristled: ¡°My face is too recognizable.¡±


    ¡°Then watch from the shadows.¡±


    On lecture day, Evette melted into the crowd wearing a frayed Petticoat Lane dress. Across the street, Arturo¡¯s silhouette haunted a high window, curtain drawn but alert.


    Unseen, a young academic wheeled his frail mentor backstage.


    ¡°You¡¯re certain, Professor? The audience expects your wisdom.¡±


    The old man coughed wetly. ¡°These lectures¡­ drain me. The spotlight is yours, James.¡±


    ¡°A shame,¡± the prot¨¦g¨¦ lied, eyes gleaming. ¡°I¡¯ll compile the stargazing guest list as usual.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­ filter the curious from the committed. Our work requires¡­ dedicated participants.¡±

 Chapter 87

    The Star Seekers Society hosted public lectures, though entry was hardly unconditional. Two guards flanked the doors, barring those deemed "unpresentable"¡ªa label encompassing wrinkled tunics, soiled cuffs, or ill-fitting waistcoats. In an age where gentlemen¡¯s fashion differed only in tailoring and threadcount, Yvette¡¯s thrifted Petticoat Lane attire¡ªskillfully altered by Winslow¡ªmarked her as scholarly youth from respectable stock. The guards waved her through but halted a patched-coat man and another whose belly threatened his vest buttons.


    Snobbery? Perhaps. But this was Albion, where parks turned away the shabby.


    The filtered crowd glittered with gilded walking sticks, gem-studded timepieces, and pipes carved from ivory-hued meerschaum. Beside Yvette, a man dabbed his gold-rimmed spectacles with lace-edged silk¡ªa portrait of affluence.


    "Walker Osborne," he introduced, catching her glance. "Securities."


    Naturally. Smells like new money.


    "Ives Monk, Royal University¡ªclassics." She feigned eager naivety.


    "Astrology? Thought undergrads preferred taverns to telescopes."


    Yvette noted the room¡¯s demographics¡ªmostly thirtysomething gents. Her boyish disguise made her conspicuous.


    "Astrology¡¯s rational beneath the mystique," she parroted an editor¡¯s line. "Kepler called it ''astronomy¡¯s handmaiden.'' The stars chart nature¡¯s laws."


    "Wisdom beyond your years! Astrology¡¯s a science¡ªpractical, unlike university fripperies." Osborne adjusted his glasses. "Today¡¯s speaker, Master Dazzat¡ªhis essays transformed my trade. Fools brand me a gambler, but they¡¯re tone-deaf to heaven¡¯s tongue. Listen closely¡ªthis is alchemy for wealth."


    "Securities and... star signs?"


    Divine stock tips?


    "Zodiacal alignments steer markets. Master Dazzat deciphers the code." His eyes shone fanatically as a gangly youth stumbled onto the stage.


    "Master Dazzat¡¯s young," Yvette muttered, probing for eldritch taints.


    "His lackey, James Webster. A social climber sucking Dazzat¡¯s prestige."


    James¡¯ announcement of Dazzat¡¯s "sudden illness" drew groans. Wealthy attendees began gathering belongings until he blurted: "Master Dazzat seeks companions for a meteor watch on the 18th! Sign here¡ª"


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    Osborne, halfway risen, thudded back into his seat.


    "At last! I¡¯ll have my proofs reviewed by the master himself¡ª"


    "Cant fortune buy a meeting?" Yvette asked. Nobility used titles; "Master" suggested Dazzat was approachable... for the right price.


    "He spurns gold. A true ascetic." Osborne grimaced as James unfurled a star-chart petition¡ªradiating zodiac glyphs and elemental seals.


    Yvette¡¯s instincts prickled. The sheet buzzed with latent magic.


    "Sign anywhere. The stars will guide Master Dazzat¡¯s selection."


    Osborne scribbled his name in Leo¡¯s quadrant. Yvette, noting overcrowding, scrawled "Ives Monk" by the chalice emblem¡ªwater¡¯s symbol, sacred to feminine intuition.


    None noticed.


    In a backroom, Dazzat swung a meteoric-iron pendulum over the parchment. Days of stillness broke as the lodestone jerked toward a peripheral signature:


    Ives Monk¡ªnestled by the chalice.


    Water. Femininity. Creation.


    "The Blessed One!" Dazzat trembled. Europa¡¯s blind sexism hid the truth: his chosen catalyst was no gentleman.


    After the interminably dreary lecture¡ªa performance so lackluster the master¡¯s apprentice might¡¯ve moonlighted as a circus jester¡ªthe hapless pupil slunk offstage, only to return bearing a list that hushed the murmuring crowd.


    ¡°By Master Darzatt¡¯s esteemed judgment,¡± he announced, ¡°the following gentlemen are invited to his lunar observatory on the 18th: Taylor Raymond, Davies Martin¡­¡±


    Each name sparked muted celebrations¡ªthe chosen clasping hands in glee while the rejected leaned forward, breath held.


    Yvette studied the crowd. Despite the silk cravats and diamond stickpins denoting a third of attendees as thousand-pound-a-year men, every selectee wore the threadbare pride of clerks and tradesmen.


    ¡°¡­and Yves Monc.¡±


    Her pseudonym hung in the air. Chosen? She blinked, feigning bewilderment.


    ¡°How enviable, Mr. Monc!¡± A portly financier pressed a ¡ê100 check and scribbled queries into her palm. ¡°Pose these to the master¡ªtriple the sum awaits his wisdom!¡±


    Yvette palmed the note but rejected the bribe. ¡°If time permits, sir.¡±


    The man¡¯s jowls quivered approvingly. ¡°Principle before profit! Mark my words¡ªyou¡¯ll go far, lad.¡±


    Farther than you know. Her current occupation¡ªpart occult detective, part vigilante¡ªlacked the panache of penny dreadful heroes but shared their shadow-warrior ethos.


    Exiting into gaslit streets, she wove a paranoid path to shake imagined tails. Safely home, she encountered Altair¡ªthe Agency¡¯s legendary tracker¡ªmuffled like a wintering bear.


    ¡°Occult signature surfaced during the lecture,¡± he barked. ¡°What transpired?¡±


    As they stealthily reentered the abandoned hall, Altair¡¯s lockpicks danced. ¡°Acquired these from Newgate¡¯s finest,¡± he muttered, deflecting her amazement.


    Within, he daubed walls with a luminous tincture. ¡°Reveals recent magic. Medieval witch-hunters¡¯ brew.¡± The reagent bloomed ethereal green across a backroom desk.


    ¡°Darzatt¡¯s sanctum.¡± Yvette recalled the selection theatrics. ¡°He secluded himself here¡ªsupposedly too frail to attend.¡±


    Altair reached for his revolver. ¡°We¡¯ll detain¡ª¡±


    ¡°Wait.¡± Her hand stayed his. ¡°The purple star omen¡­ If Darzatt¡¯s linked, we need the stargazing event exposed. Let me play chosen disciple.¡±


    After hissed debate¡ªa chess match of risks and revelations¡ªAltair relented. ¡°But at the first whiff of sorcery, you bolt. Understood?¡±


    She nodded, already mentally revising her hotel¡¯s escape routes.

 Chapter 88

    "Mr. Alto, let¡¯s hold off on arrests until after their ritual. A few days¡¯ observation could reveal far more."


    "But they¡¯ve crossed into forbidden territory. Every moment wasted risks catastrophe."


    "We¡¯re hunting shadows. Startle one rat, and the nest scatters."


    Alto conceded grudgingly. The supernatural pulse still hung unnamed¡ªa chess piece of eldritch forces? A self-aware heretic? Or another Winslow, blindly channelling horrors? Answers bred more questions.


    But Yvette¡ª


    She¡¯d become the target. That cursed "invitation" reeked of sacrificial rites. He¡¯d seen enough butchered informants to know: occultists out-gruesomed gangsters tenfold. And this slip of a girl playing revolutionary...


    "Station watchers at the inn," she insisted. "Between your eyes and mine, nothing escapes."


    Reluctance etched his face, but Yvette¡¯s resolve hardened. "I can act the part. Trust me."


    "Swear you¡¯ll take no risks."


    "Oh, I¡¯ll be immaculate," she vowed, suppressing laughter. Since when did Alto inherit Winslow¡¯s mother-henning?


    Winslow. Guilt pricked her. He¡¯d have barred this gambit outright, proxy puppets at the ready. But only she could parse the Star-Maiden¡¯s whispered truths.


    Apologies later. Survival first.


    Darzatt¡¯s carriage rattled onward, James¡¯ sycophancy thick as fog.


    "...The boy all but wept at your generosity! A zealot shaped for your hands..."


    Good. Pendulum¡¯s choice seemed pliant. James¡¯ ¡ê60 prize (month¡¯s wages for most) bought one final errand:


    "Guard our French saint from London¡¯s pox-ridden charms."


    James¡¯ mind veered to brothels. Jealous old crow. "On my life, Professor! Not a vice shall touch him!"


    Leaping into sunlight, he winced. Pox-ridden indeed. Failures gnawed¡ªthe lecture¡¯s snubbed sycophants, this gutter-tier guest list. Still, gold soothed all.


    Inside the gloom, Darzatt¡¯s pulse quickened. Decadent James had refused transcendence. Fools clung to mortal dross.


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    No¡ªhis Chosen were the unseen cogs: threadbare suits, cheap stationery. The vanished poor raised no flags.


    Moses unchained slaves. I¡¯ll free minds from greed¡¯s shackles.


    At the Green Isle Inn, a constable¡¯s shaky fingers slid Alto¡¯s warning beneath Yvette¡¯s door: James¡¯ face sketched beside "WATCHED."


    She smirked. The "lurker" had blundered into her sights hours prior¡ªhaplessly "disguised," drawing servers¡¯ mockery.


    Amateur. But overconfidence killed. Whetting steel, she calculated the ritual¡¯s variables.


    Pages away, telegraphist Julie frowned at unprecedented verbosity:


    [RAVEN EYES BLIND. BUSINESS UNHARMED. CONFLICT AVERTED IF POSSIBLE. CONTINGENCIES READY. P.S.: PARTNER SILENT. ASSUME DEAD.]


    Too posh for penny-pinchers. But the clattering machine offered no answers.


    The afternoon of the 18th¡ªStellar Observation Day¡ªfound Dazat¡¯s carriage waiting outside the Green Island Inn. Yvette emerged, her pistol discreetly holstered, while her rapier remained in Alto¡¯s care. No gentleman of fashion carried blades openly these days.


    She paused at the carriage door, catching a coded flicker of curtains from Alto¡¯s vantage point: tracking initiated. His gifts required no line of sight¡ªscents and traces would suffice. Five minutes later, he followed on horseback through London¡¯s tangled alleys, invisible to the unsuspecting driver.


    To pass the journey, Yvette feigned wide-eyed curiosity. ¡°What sort of man is Master Dazat? I¡¯m nervous¡ªbeing invited after just one lecture¡­¡±


    ¡°Ha! No need for nerves.¡± The coachman chuckled. ¡°Not one of those puffed-up prigs, our master. Pays fair, never raises his hand. As for quirks¡ªbad sleeper since his adventuring days. Orders all lights out by nine. Servants aren¡¯t allowed near his room after dark, and they¡¯re glad for it!¡±


    Yvette stored every detail. Adventurer. Nighttime isolation. Classic markers from the Society¡¯s watchlist. Alto¡¯s detection of occult energy near Dazat¡¯s lecture hall now seemed damning.


    The coachman himself showed no signs of supernatural influence¡ªcalloused hands, ragged nails, teeth worn by hard bread. Empowered souls rarely endured such poverty. Even zealots like Keegan supplemented scarce rations with forest game.


    Dazat¡¯s estate stood in London¡¯s bleakest hinterlands¡ªno Hampstead heath or Richmond gardens here. Wheels thudded over rutted tracks as the coachman explained, ¡°Master claims city lights ruin stargazing.¡±


    Liar, Yvette thought. Without Alto¡¯s supernatural tracking, any mortal follower would¡¯ve been spotted instantly in this emptiness¡ªa highwayman¡¯s paradise.


    The manor¡¯s aged steward led her to a parlor where Dazat held court. Wrapped in a coat too large for his shriveled frame, he resembled a twisted bonsai¡ªwrists knotted, eyes sunken like punctures in parchment. Yet those eyes kindled when Yvette entered.


    ¡°Mr. Monk!¡± He struggled upright, trembling. ¡°Never dreamed of youthful readers!¡±


    ¡°True wisdom transcends age,¡± Yvette parroted, noting his feverish gaze¡ªnot mentor¡¯s pride, but a collector¡¯s hunger. What does he want? Had her signature on that ritual diagram revealed something?


    Dazat¡¯s questions grew peculiar. ¡°Your deepest wish?¡±


    She adopted a student¡¯s bashful tone. ¡°Two hundred a year¡­ enough to court my professor¡¯s girl.¡±


    ¡°Hold that wish close tonight!¡± Dazat¡¯s voice dropped to a whisper. ¡°Pray to Gungnir¡ªOdin¡¯s spear never misses its mark.¡± His eyes gleamed with manic conviction.


    By nightfall, the stars pressed low¡ªan astral pantheon looming ominously. On a windswept hill, admirers erected telescopes while Yvette inhaled the acidic tang of cut barley.


    Moore¡¯s dream. That same scent had filled the air when star-spawn descended in her vision. Now, beneath this magnified sky, she felt it again¡ªthe prickle of otherworldly eyes.


    They¡¯re coming.

 Chapter 89

    A windless autumn night stretched endlessly, the cloudless sky a sprawling void studded with stars like baleful eyes peering hungrily at the earth.


    ¡°Magnificent skies tonight!¡±


    ¡°Positively transcendent!¡±


    The stargazers exclaimed, intoxicated by the dizzying spray of pale constellations.


    Yvette¡¯s breath hitched. The oppressive starlight seemed to coalesce into an invisible force crushing her chest. How could the others not feel it? These fragile mortals should be paralyzed with dread¡ªyet they gaped enraptured at the very stars whose demonic glimmer pulsed with maddening secrets.


    Murmurs swirled around her¡ªdisjointed at first, like untuned strings, then merging into a single chilling chant. Faces upturned, the crowd swayed like sun-drunk flowers, voices slurring in unison:


    ¡°Hail, Star-Maiden, traveler of celestial roads! Beacon in darkness, heaven¡¯s delirium! Time withers at thy feet¡ªunchanging, unyielding! Ascend! Illuminate! Glory eternal to she who rouses us from mortal stupor!¡±


    The drone of their fanatic chorus flooded Yvette¡¯s senses, thick as tar.


    Air turned viscous. Breath stalled.


    Then¡ªa violet streak.


    The meteor traced a low arc northwest, a harbinger of the Star-Maiden¡¯s will. Its passage warped the sky: every star now blazed with ghostly coronas, haloed infernos swirling like Van Gogh¡¯s tortured brushstrokes.


    Madness? Or truth? Yvette clenched her jaw. The Dutchman¡¯s twisted skies suddenly felt frightfully literal.


    The violet intruder loomed closer, trailing spirals of eldritch fire that defied earthly physics. Altol would be here soon¡ªhe¡¯d seen the signal. She followed the entranced mob toward the impact zone, their stumbling pilgrimage accompanied by ceaseless chanting.


    A flash. A bone-shaking roar.


    ¡°Thy radiance conquers eternity! Grant us passage through thy astral wheels¡­¡±


    The meteor lay ahead, its psychic virulence dwarfing prior encounters. Yvette tallied mental casualties¡ªthen froze.


    On the ridge, a red-haired figure in a trench coat manhandled a writhing, multi-limbed horror into a steel case. Its waxy flesh bore burns from atmospheric entry¡ªa Starspawn, newly birthed from its stone womb.


    The man scraped the creature against crude metal edges, ignoring its agonized shrieks.


    ¡°Brute! You¡¯ll harm the Maiden¡¯s herald!¡± A besotted stargazer lunged.


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    Mid-stride, his throat split like ripe fruit. Blood fountained.


    An Adept.


    Yvette groped for her absent sword, cursed, then palmed her pistol.


    Altol staggered over the crest, heaving. The bleak terrain had hindered pursuit. He¡¯d tracked the redhead since the meteor¡¯s appearance¡ªno mortal moved that fast.


    ¡°Stand down!¡± Altol tossed Yvette his blade and leveled an odd, stubby pistol. ¡°Next bullet finds your cerebellum.¡±


    Yvette recognized the design¡ªher own compact sidearm, trading range for alchemical payloads.


    The redhead¡¯s laugh dripped scorn. At this range, even proper firearms missed. ¡°A crow with a popgun!¡±


    He tugged his collar, exposing lips smeared crimson. Not blood¡ªlipstick, savagely erased.


    CRACK. The Adept teleported¡ªbut not fast enough. A bullet tore through his thigh.


    ¡°Hollow points track their mark,¡± Altol said coolly, reloading.


    The redhead grinned through pain. ¡°Cute trick. Should¡¯ve aimed higher.¡±


    As Altol slid in a fresh round, a spectral clown head materialized behind him¡ªjaws unhinged, needle-teeth glinting.


    ¡°¡®Hound¡¯! Your six!¡±


    The apparition¡¯s bite left no mark¡ªbut Altol blanched. ¡°My ability¡­ Gone.¡±


    The Adept flourished grotesque shurikens. ¡°The Fool steals what he covets!¡±


    He vanished. Reappeared.


    THWACK. A blade sprouted from Altol¡¯s thigh¡ªmatching the redhead¡¯s wound.


    ¡°Your turn, crowling,¡± the madman crooned, licking bloodied lips.


    "A power thief among Transcendents?!"


    The revelation chilled Yvette¡ªthis foe operated on another level.


    But marveling at his predatory skill wouldn''t save them. All supernatural gifts had rules; she needed to crack his.


    "Your other abilities¡ªstill functional?" she murmured to Alto, though his grimace confirmed the stolen tracking bullet crippled their offense.


    Her mind dissected the puzzle piece by piece:


    Why spare Alto initially? The red-haired killer had ample chances. Yet he''d waited, taken the leg shot... then retaliated identically. Not mercy¡ªcalculated preservation.


    Pattern Clicked: He needs to experience an attack to claim its power. Alto''s demonstrated abilities¡ªcausality manipulation, tracking, photographic recall¡ªexplained his rank. But the stolen homing bullet specifically countered teleportation... and nullified their advantage.


    Fatal contradictions emerged:


    <ol>


    <li>The thief radiated confidence targeting that one ability, not random selection.</li>


    <li>Alto''s essence remained intact¡ªthe theft was temporary.</li>


    </ol>


    Predator''s Calculus: Killing Alto risks losing the borrowed power. Against Yvette''s unknown capability, he couldn''t afford asymmetry. Hence the theatrics¡ªtesting vulnerabilities.


    "Run! I''ll stall him!" Alto hissed desperately.


    Signaling fear would be death. Instead, Yvette leaned into stereotype. "Y-You... heroic sacrifice!" she warbled in performative falsetto, retreating with trembling steps. The killer''s sneer deepened¡ªmere woman. Perfect.


    Swift maneuvers positioned her triangularly. Flame Cloak activation bathed her in flickering shields. Sword raised ritualistically, she intoned:


    "I am the bone of my sword.


    Forged steel, burning blood...


    Unbound by Death''s grasp,


    Unaffected by Life''s clasp..."


    The red-haired man twitched¡ªdamned sorceress rites! Desperate dart throw... diverted through her covert energy tweak and golem charm. Pain lanced her arm; the chant continued.


    Swordlight hummed with piercing enchantment. Through slitted eyes, she tracked his staccato teleports¡ªinjured leg limiting movement to linear approaches. Close the gap, finish the chant... He obliged recklessly.


    True Pivot''s geometric intuition took over. Eyes shut; heartbeat synced to his blink-step rhythm. One opening.


    His dagger gleamed¡ª


    Her blade fell.


    Crimson arc.


    A head bounced twice before stillness.


    Cold steel dripped as Yvette observed impassively. "Deception," she whispered to the dead man, "isn''t exclusively your craft."

 Chapter 90

    <div>


    Alto could only gape as events spiraled with lethal swiftness. The red-haired madman''s desperate charge became his undoing ¨C Yvette''s blade flickered like argent lightning, leaving his head spinning through the air even as his body stumbled forward.


    Her swordsmanship startled Alto more than the grotesque spectacle. Every movement sang of deadly grace; a serpent''s strike given human form. He''d never imagined that slender wrist could channel such brutal force. The cleanness of the severance suggested supernatural strength, the spinal column parting like wet parchment beneath her edge.


    Shaking himself from reverie, Alto watched Yvette kneel beside the catatonic stargazers. Her expression softened as she checked pulses, an unlikely gentleness from the girl who''d just orchestrated such clinical slaughter. "Best stash them in the carriage until Minders arrive," she murmured, more to herself than him. "The memory-erasure crews should be en route."


    "Sorcerous blood explains much," Alto blurted, torn between awe and irritation. "Yet you let me prattle about protection arrangements as if¨C"


    "Ill-gotten gifts from nameless powers," Yvette cut in briskly, stripping a blood-caked dirk from her forearm. Crimson droplets pattered the grass as she inspected the wound. "No gods or bloodlines ¨C just stolen tricks through ritual chicanery. The lightshow earlier? Parlor theatrics to spook a cautious foe into closing distance."


    Alto stared at the fist-sized hole in her sleeve, suddenly queasy. The nonchalance of her wound-prodding seemed... unnatural. Young ladies of breeding didn''t shrug off impalements with such stoicism.


    "Sorcery and parlor tricks," he echoed dubiously. "So the pentagrams and chants¨C"


    "Were lifted from penny dreadfuls!" she interjected with uncharacteristic shrillness, cheeks coloring. "Mock Latin and borrowed theatrics to sell the ruse! Must we dwell on this?"


    The abrupt shift startled him. Moments before, she''d been battlefield aristocracy ¨C all icy precision and detached lethality. Now she squirmed like a schoolgirl caught plagiarizing. Alto found himself unexpectedly charmed by the dichotomy.


    Their cleanup collaborators arrived in a clatter of lead-lined trunks and weary professionalism. "Ah, the Minders," Yvette observed as a harried clerk-type bustled forward. "Bleary-eyed as ever. How does one apply for that posting? Chronic sleep deprivation appears mandatory."


    The subsequent operation proved illuminating. The stargazers proved puppets to something nested within the red-haired man''s metal coffer ¨C a thing whose psychic resonance compelled obedience like the Pied Piper''s cursed flute. Merely cracking the chest''s seal sent the captives jerking like marionettes.


    "Lead dampens certain emissions," the Minder explained through clamped teeth, resealing the box with shaking hands. "Not perfect shielding, but serviceable. Full isolation requires..." He mimed decapitation with gruesome jocularity.


    Yvette''s answering smile didn''t reach her eyes. "How practical. I''ll commission an armored helm posthaste ¨C neck included." Her blade sang from its scabbard as she turned toward the carriage. "Shall we relocate your puppeteered guests, maestro? Before their strings tangle further?"


    As the Minders scrambled to comply, Alto studied his young companion anew. Moonlight limned her blood-flecked profile; battlefield pragmatist and blushing innocent woven into perplexing harmony. The way her fingers lingered on the sword''s hilt spoke of hard-earned familiarity ¨C a lifetime''s dedication compressed into stolen weeks.


    Dread kindled like cold embers in his gut. Forces beyond ken were molding this girl into something... preternatural. And he dreaded the shape she might take when fully forged.


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    <div>


    <div>


    The steam locomotive erupted from the tunnel like a wrathful leviathan, belching clouds of white smoke. Daylight flooded the carriages, wrenching passengers from subterranean blackness into sudden brilliance¡ªa spectacle that drew murmurs of wonder from those unaccustomed to tunneling¡¯s visceral theater.


    This pioneering passage beneath the Thames had been clawed from the earth by shield-drills modeled after insatiable shipworms. To Victorian Londoners, such marvels still felt alchemical. Few had journeyed through a mountain¡¯s belly only to be reborn into sunlight, and the novelty ignited spirited debates about progress among the travelers.


    Ulysses reclined in first class, thin compartment walls doing little to muffle the human chorus outside. The babble felt¡­ comforting.


    He¡¯d spent recent weeks sequestered in a lightless vault beyond the city¡ªan organizational precaution while his temper stabilized. Rejoining the living world now, even through this iron dragon¡¯s bowels, carried an odd nostalgia. That final lightburst before emergence? It recalled breaching waves after deep-sea dives, sunlight fracturing through surface tension.


    Home again, he caught Winslow mid-stride toward the study, a letter bearing a covert branch seal in hand.


    ¡°Business concluded, sir?¡± The steward¡¯s smile held relief. ¡°This arrived from Worlingham¡ªtwo field agents injured during¡­ anomalous events. Given your unexpected return...¡±


    No need for elaboration. Ulysses swept his barely-hung hat from the stand and was gone before Winslow finished apologizing for the opened correspondence.


    Miles away, Yvette prodded at her bandages in a safehouse parlor. The discreet flat¡ªtucked among mistresses¡¯ love-nests in a fashionable district¡ªstored essentials for sudden disappearances: tinned meats, carbolic disinfectant, even decent Darjeeling.


    Worlingham¡¯s overtaxed team had shipped them back to London post-incident. Now they waited, wounds slathered in phenol, for some mysterious medic.


    ¡°Shame Ulysses is abroad,¡± Yvette mused. ¡°Mourning Dove mentioned healers who shift injuries onto themselves. Wonder if any do instant miracles like RPG clerics?¡±


    Alto grunted. ¡°Middle Ages priests bashed heads with maces. Save the chanting for stage magicians.¡±


    A bell jingled.


    Yvette answered, heart stuttering at the silhouette beyond frosted glass¡ªOh bloody hell, it¡¯s him.


    ¡°Miss Vaisseau.¡± Ulysses¡¯ voice could frost brandy. ¡°I see my absence failed to curb your talent for chaos.¡±


    To her credit, he spared only that one barb before inspecting her arm.


    ¡°It¡¯s Alto¡ªhis leg¡¯s punctured clean through. Mine¡¯s just a graze.¡±


    Her thrown dart had met resistance¡ªslowed by defensive abilities, blunted further by a proxy golem. Alto had taken his assailant¡¯s strike square: a stiletto-wound through the thigh, the sort that festered if neglected.


    ¡°That sepulchral expression suggests he hasn¡¯t bled out yet. Where¡¯s the carbolic?¡±


    Deep stab wounds required debridement. Ulysses favored scalpel work paired with London¡¯s latest marvel: coal-tar disinfectant.


    ¡°Distillery closet. I diluted a batch¡ª¡±


    He pressed her into an armchair. ¡°Rest. I¡¯ll fetch it.¡±


    The acrid reek led him straight to the flasks. Returning, he eyed the bandages.


    ¡°Your assailant¡ªhuman?¡±


    ¡°Redhead. Knew our codenames. Hated us enough to spit ¡®Ravens¡¯ like a curse.¡±


    Ulysses¡¯ pause lasted half a heartbeat.


    ¡°Context?¡±


    He knew the Randall case. She briefed him: sewer sigils, Aurora¡¯s abomination, star-cult propaganda. How tracing Moore¡¯s roots led to celestial charting¡ªand that damnable meteor.


    ¡°Their falling star struck near Worlingham?¡±


    ¡°Close enough. Doubt he worked alone, but...¡± She¡¯d catalogued the attacker¡¯s kit¡ªno companion¡¯s cigar ash, no stray blond hairs.


    ¡°Unlikely,¡± Ulysses mused. ¡°Obsession with our kind breeds lone wolves. The diamond¡¯s legacy necessitates¡­ discretion.¡±


    Cull the isolated. Quarantine outbreaks. Unspoken rules hung between them.


    Her arm healed in minutes under his care¡ªscar fading like ink in solvent.


    Alto¡¯s turn came. They found him armed and clammy, lowering his pistol with visible shame.


    ¡°Morning, Alto.¡± Ulysses¡¯ smile chilled wine.


    The agent typically matched him barb for barb. Today, caught between duty and blunder, he radiated schoolboy guilt.


    ¡°Sir Ulysses¡ªthank you for¡ª¡±


    ¡°I require coffee. And sustenance.¡±


    Yvette leapt up. ¡°There¡¯s a caf¨¦ nearby! Smoked salmon for you? Alto prefers beef, yes?¡±


    Albion¡¯s gentry favored mutton, but Ulysses¡¯ tastes ran maritime. She¡¯d noted it during their Hampstead Heath stakeouts.


    ¡°If¡­ if it¡¯s no trouble...¡± Alto¡¯s protest died as the door clicked shut.


    Footsteps faded down the stairwell.


    Ulysses lifted his scalpel.


    Gods, let her return before he skins me.


    Alto swallowed hard.

 Chapter 91

    London Tower loomed beneath moonless skies.


    In the shadowed colonnades, spectral sentries glared as two psychic agents escorted a civilian toward the spire of their disfigured master. The shadow guardians'' molten eyes burned with protective fury ¡ª not toward the hypnotized mortal, but at cruel fate itself. For they''d watched young Spindle, once radiant as the sun god, warp into this crumbling waxwork through self-sacrificial rites. Yet through physical ruin, his compassion remained undimmed ¡ª nobility persisting where lesser souls would curdle.


    By the Thames, boatmen crossed themselves as anguished wails drifted from the Tower''s stones.


    "Ghaists o'' the walled-up princes!" declared a Cockney oarsman to his shivering Scot companion. "Murdered bairns keening through time!"


    Unaware of the living drama above, Spindle received his visitors with characteristic grace. The espers explained their dilemma: a destroyed cultist, a mesmerized academic, and forbidden knowledge''s untraceable source.


    "My sight only shows connections, not contexts," Spindle cautioned, observing the entranced scholar. Normally, espers could comb memories like archive halls, but this mind presented bricked-up passages ¡ª expertly sealed.


    "His star charts revealed an Avatar''s cyclical descent," an esper said. "We must know who schooled him in dark astronomies."


    Spindle''s Void-darkened eyes became starfields. Threads of fate emerged ¡ª among them, a thick corrupted cord recently severed. Recognition struck: the same anomaly he''d annihilated weeks prior at Sir Ullysses'' behest. His obliteration incantation had not merely killed, but unwoven the target from reality''s tapestry.


    "The source perished recently," Spindle reported. No need mentioning their brotherly psychic''s role in that execution.


    As the agents departed, Spindle studied his disintegrating hand ¡ª bones like desiccated coral, flesh alternated between wasting and grotesque swells. Each sacrificial working brought closer the day his form would collapse into necrotic pudding.


    He remembered healthier ancestors, when the Order boasted both Seers of Destinies and Oracles of Chronometry. To young Miss Fisher, he''d likened their complementary gifts to recipe and timer ¡ª one listing a dish''s components, the other ensuring perfect execution. United, they''d been invincible; divided since the Schism, both orders faltered.


    Spindle''s lips twitched recalling another thread observed in his vision ¡ª a golden strand connecting today''s mortal to Miss Fisher. Curious, that woman collected strange contacts: first the painted horror, now this...


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    Her own fate-web fascinated him. Previously all icy misfortunes, now she spun warm benedictions to others. Phoenix-like, rising from ashen destiny to radiate hope.


    Deliberately, he stilled these thoughts. His brother''s clairvoyant senses might detect such sentiments, and that mercurial sadist needed no excuses to torment virtuous souls.


    Yvette stood in her bedroom, the crackling fire warding off London¡¯s autumn cold. At these northern latitudes, nighttime temperatures had already dipped to near freezing.


    As Alison removed the bed warmer¡ªits copper pan no longer needed¡ªYvette stopped her maid: ¡°Any milk left? I¡¯d like a nightcap.¡±


    ¡°At once, Master Ives.¡±


    ¡°Leave it on the table. The cup can wait till morning.¡±


    Rolling up her sleeve, Yvette examined the fading dart wound. By dawn, even this faint redness would vanish.


    But sleep wasn¡¯t her goal. The previous night¡¯s hunt had left her weary enough to collapse unaided. No¡ªthe milk served a darker purpose.


    The red-haired heretic¡¯s blood had stained her hands during his beheading. By now, the visions would be coming.


    If tonight¡¯s dream proved as violent as before, warm milk might soften the aftershocks.


    The Vision


    Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.


    In the nightmare kitchen, a cleaver rose and fell. Crimson arced across white tiles like morbid calligraphy.


    The severed head watched, eyes tracking every chop. Its own limbs lay scattered¡ªgruesome ingredients in this perpetual feast. Soon, the nightmare¡¯s ¡°digestion¡± would reset the scene. Until next time.


    ¡°I see you, jailer of false gods!¡± The head spat bloody foam, gums dyed feral red. ¡°May worms feast on your¡ª¡±


    Thunk. The blade never slowed.


    ¡°You think yourself righteous?! My ancestors burned your kind when yours groveled in muck! We¡¯ll rip open this prison! We¡¯ll be gods¡ª¡±


    Thunk. A final strike. The butcher¡ªfaceless, nameless¡ªreached for the cursing head.


    ¡­


    The Memory


    Yvette drifted through impossible geometries. Staircases inverted; hallways coiled like M?bius strips. This place¡ªhalf real, half madness¡ªmirrored the dead fanatic¡¯s memories.


    His perspective overwhelmed hers. Taller, coarser. Twenty paces in, she realized distances lied. Glancing back, the entrance hall now clung upside-down to the ¡°ceiling,¡± furniture defying gravity.


    The corridor ended at a warped door. Beyond it crouched a nightmare: an enormous aged head grafted to a fetal mummy, its shriveled tail twitching.


    ¡°Leadbetter.¡± The elder-head¡¯s voice dripped false warmth. ¡°Proceed to Room 136. Your ascension awaits.¡±


    The red-haired man¡ªonce brash, now sycophantic¡ªbowed. ¡°Your wisdom illuminates us, Holy Father.¡±


    ¡°Our agents retrieved a relic: Longinus¡¯ Spear, buried with Charlemagne. Handle it well.¡±


    ¡°The true Holy Lance? But the Church¡¯s lies¡ª¡±


    ¡°¡ªhold kernels of truth. What if we turn the weapon against their so-called saints?¡±


    Room 136 reeked of blood and rust. Chains anchored a shape-shifting horror to a crimson sigil. A gilded spear pinned it mid-transformation¡ªthough only its iron core held power.


    ¡°Talk, and I remove the blade,¡± the man prodded the ooze with his stolen relic.


    Black tendrils surged up his legs. His pulse quickened¡­ then steadied. The spear¡¯s chill whispered promises: Control.


    As the slime engulfed his face, Yvette saw through its eyes¡ªa universe where stars writhed like maggots, and geometries birthed screaming truths.

 Chapter 92

    Yvette jolted awake, her pulse drumming like a trapped bird. She lit a candle with an ember from the dying fire, its honeyed glow spilling across the chamber. Mechanically, she warmed the bedside milk¡ªan estate-bred luxury in this age of chalk-diluted swill¡ªand drank deep. Sugar-sweet cream coated her tongue, steadying frayed nerves.


    The nightmare clung like cobwebs. That foolhardy redhead, guzzling forbidden knowledge straight from the Kin¡¯s poisoned cup! Madness¡ªyet the elder-headed oracle¡¯s prophecy held. No mutations marred the zealot¡¯s frame as he groveled before his... patron? Teacher? The monstrosity¡¯s ghastly form¡ªputrid stillborn limbs beneath a wizened human face¡ªshould¡¯ve repelled. Yet logic seeped through revulsion, a paradox she¡¯d only felt once before...


    Spindle.


    Yvette banished the heresy. Comparing that courtly gentleman to this abomination? Preposterous. Still¡ªFate versus Chronos. Spindle saw branching paths; the oracle claimed certainty. Were the redhead¡¯s faction harnessing Time itself?


    Apples rolled across the kitchen below¡ªthe estate¡¯s weekly delivery. She thought of baby Mary, plump from untainted milk while gutter-raised infants withered. Of Alison¡¯s waning lactation. A note to the steward: double the dairy ration.


    Three dawns later, hobnails clacked in the foyer. Alastor stood dripping, grin too wide for propriety.


    "Breakfast, sir?" Her maid¡¯s scandalized glare could curdle cream.


    "Business, Ives." He dismissed Alison with a nod. When Yvette praised Ulysses¡¯ healing arts, the Hound shuddered like a wet terrier.


    "The Tower wants silence." His graveled whisper carried dread. "Same as Shire¡¯s curse-case. Stitched lips all around."


    Rewards, though¡ªoh, the spoils! That captive Kin would birth artifacts to make kings weep. Alastor¡¯s sacrifice¡ªgifting her the lion¡¯s share¡ªreeked of honor-bound Hound logic.


    "Dead Kin make safest relics," he growled at her queasy protest. Alive, specialist butchers might flay stranger powers from the thing¡¯s twitching carcass. Either way¡ªprizes incoming.


    She watched him limp into hazy sunlight, a question gnawing: What terrors bind the Tower¡¯s tongue twice over?


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    The Hound¡¯s shadow stretched long¡ªa blackened sundial counting secrets.


    Following Alto''s departure, Yvette welcomed another veiled visitor by midday¡ªa masked interior operative resembling the prior agent who''d questioned Ulysses'' affairs on Rat Island. Though the voice differed, disguise methods left identities uncertain.


    This interrogator''s scattered questions¡ªsome echoing Alto''s report, others trivial¡ªconcealed surgical probes about the crimson-haired man''s associates. To Yvette''s sharpened perception, their pattern betrayed institutional awareness of an underlying cabal behind recent events, including Miss Shar''s curse. Yet the Organization apparently hoarded this knowledge like misers guarding coins.


    Her musings yielded no epiphanies. By afternoon, academic obligations summoned her to a gathering honoring Julie¡ªtheir professor''s daughter home from telegraphic labors. In an era when campus hierarchies remained fluid, Julie''s tales of workplace tribulations and triumphs drew eager audiences. Yvette also sought Gary''s promised research on serpent myths¡ªa hunter ever gathering threads for the loom of truth.


    En route, newspapers filled carriage hours¡ªthis world''s sensory tendrils where wireless waves couldn''t reach. Faulkner''s latest detective serial thrived in Ulysses-controlled rags, while bootleg sheets scraped crumbs from analytical parodies. Yvette tracked literary currents; she knew Faulkner''s clique had scattered when Ulysses scuttled their Mind Labyrinth journal, some washing ashore at rival presses.


    Her own editors, sniffing opportunity in Faulkner''s friendship with young Ives, had badgered Yvette to leverage their bond¡ªa request she''d refused, knowing the author''s compulsive gallantry would override his will. Their eventual success in poaching him stirred professional admiration laced with unease.


    But today''s anomaly lay in the classifieds¡ªthat alphabetic car wreck of jumbled letters between matrimonial pleas:


    [Gxntlqzn, 30 qrx...]


    Editors detested these cipher ads requiring Talmudic scrutiny. Lately they''d metastasized in tabloids like inkblot rashes¡ªmalignant or meaningless?


    At the restaurant, Julie''s embrace carried platonic warmth where once romantic embers glowed. Months prior, Yvette had gently parried the girl''s affections with tales of unrequited love for some icy noble matron¡ªchivalric pretense preserving her secrets behind courtly metaphor.


    Now steel showed in Julie''s bearing¡ªthe telegraph clerk''s taffeta armor declaring workplace conquests. "Those bullies?" She laughed, recounting her savior colleague''s elegant vengeance: mirroring her tormentors'' speed until their fingers tangled, then skewering them with Morse-code mockery about "using the other foot."


    As they chatted, Julie''s eye caught the cipher ad''s telltale chaos.


    "My handiwork!" She decrypted it swiftly¡ªvowels anchored, consonants marching +1 down the alphabet. "Lovers use these for penny-pinching telegrams, but this viper cozens a maid into becoming his mistress. My rebuttal lifts the veil."


    Yvette marveled at the scheme¡ªclandestine sweethearts conversing through newspaper cryptograms, their dalliance hidden behind society''s blind eye toward female literacy. Even now, Eve''s daughters wore their wit like forbidden fruit, sweetness laced with peril.

 Chapter 93

    Julie¡¯s fury was justified. In this age, that man¡¯s recklessness bordered on homicide. An unwed mother cast out by her family faced two fates: the brothel or the grave. Industrialization had sharpened society¡¯s cruelty. Once, even landless women could subsist on spinning or needlework. Now machines devoured livelihoods. Alone with a child in London? Hopeless.


    Yvette prayed the girl would swallow her pride and heed Julie¡¯s warning.


    Dinner unfolded lavishly¡ªcarrot soup, lobster pies, veal roasted to perfection. When Julie departed (propriety demanded young ladies retire early), two classmates offered escort.


    The real feast began post-meal. Gary arrived, clutching a swollen leather notebook¡ªthe serpent lore compendium Yvette had commissioned.


    Its pages burst with scholarship. Citations bristled with footnotes; translated myths nested beside exotic scripts. Color-coded tabs partitioned regions: Norse \ Egyptian \ Indian.


    "Exquisite work, Gary. Far beyond our agreement!" Yvette¡¯s gratitude warmed the gaslit room.


    "Just... thoroughness." He grinned, sunlight caught in his lashes.


    Stars in his eyes. Literally.


    Her carriage ride home prickled with anticipation. Eldritch rituals had once turned freshwater briny at her touch. Even "safe" texts now risked unraveling reality. She¡¯d resisted scrutinizing Gary¡¯s notes in public. But here, alone...


    Snakes symbolized rebirth¡ªskin-shedding metaphors. Familiar tales followed:


    <ul>


    <li>J?rmungandr: earth-circling ouroboros destined to drown gods in venom.</li>


    <li>Ouroboros: Gnostic paradox, death birthing life.</li>


    </ul>


    Then¡ªAnanta Shesha.


    Colonial Sanskritists had decoded Hindu scrolls: this thousand-headed leviathan slept beneath creation. At each kalpa¡¯s end¡ªwhen rulers turned tyrants and wealth corrupted souls¡ªthe serpent would uncoil. Purification through fire. Then, renewal.


    Yvette¡¯s breath hitched. Thousands of eyes in the void¡­


    India¡¯s fractured past intrigued her. Split between Mughals and Maratha warlords, its mystics seemingly impotent against Albion¡¯s cannons. Ulysses¡¯ warning echoed: "Occult kingdoms always fall." Pharaohs marrying sisters to keep power divine? Their inbred lines crumbled. Tutankhamun¡¯s shriveled heirs exhibited in horror shows proved it.


    Albion¡¯s shadow governance¡ªwizards whispering to MPs, not seizing thrones¡ªhad birthed railroads and factories. Progress, yes. But at what cost?


    She reread the Purana prophecy:


    False prophets. Virtue measured in coin. Lifespans halved.


    Manchester mill girls rarely saw twenty. Industrial barons sucking port in mansions skewed the "average." The apocalypse wasn¡¯t coming¡ªit festered in Albion¡¯s soot-choked heart.


    The notes suddenly reeked of ash.


    In the coal-choked heart of 19th-century Birmingham, where smog clung like a shroud and steam-powered leviathans growled through the night, danger prowled unseen.


    Workers stumbled through their shifts, deafened by machinery, blind to the shadows. One such shadow stalked a drunken woman now¡ªher lantern swaying, her laughter slurred. She never heard Death¡¯s breath behind her.


    A blade flashed. Fog swallowed her screams.


    ¡­¡­


    ¡°Meet the White Rabbit,¡± declared the wiry man in stained linen, his eyes gleaming behind smudged spectacles. ¡°A memory sculptor. Feed it curiosities¡±¡ªhe tossed a flawed coin into the doll¡¯s maw¡ª¡°and it rewrites minds. Elegant, no?¡±


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    Yvette frowned at the abomination: leather stitched like corpse flesh, guts squirming within.


    ¡°Instructions are simple,¡± the Artist crooned, producing a rusty scalpel. The Rabbit gulped it, its watch ticking. ¡°Rarity fuels time. A royal¡¯s secret? Worth hours. Common trash?¡± He smirked at the ignored gold coin. ¡°Worthless.¡±


    Her nose wrinkled. ¡°And the cost?¡±


    ¡°Cost?¡± He chuckled. ¡°Genius defies cost! Now, let¡¯s discuss customization¡­¡±


    ¡°To Mr. White Rabbit, human notions of value are... irrelevant. King Arthur¡¯s fabled sword? Merely a weapon steeped in blood. A common executioner¡¯s blade from London¡¯s past might earn you more time than such a relic.¡± The Aberrant known as the ¡°Artist¡± spread his hands in a theatrical shrug.


    Mortals cling to history and wealth, but such things hold no meaning for the Kin. To the rabbit, a holy sword and a butcher¡¯s tool are one and the same¡ªutilitarian curiosities.


    Think of it like gaming achievements. The gear used matters less than the act itself.


    ¡°He can only consume items equal to his own size each day. Notice the dial on his watch? The hand shows how much memory-altering time he¡¯s accrued. Use it, and the dial ticks down. Unlike ordinary timepieces, his resets every twelve hours. No hoarding¡ªlong-term memory edits are impossible.¡±


    ¡°Only twelve hours? Even if I tweak five minutes of someone¡¯s breakfast memory, reality would betray the lie. Say I make them recall a sandwich instead of macaroni. The sauce-stained plate in the kitchen would contradict it, wouldn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°The alteration nudges their logic. They¡¯d invent excuses¡ªMaybe the chef ruined the macaroni, so I tossed it and grabbed a sandwich. But contradictions pile up. If others insist they saw macaroni, cognitive dissonance kicks in. They¡¯ll trust whichever narrative aligns with their biases... or question everyone¡¯s sanity.¡±


    Like fans rationalizing their idol¡¯s scandals until the evidence overflows, Yvette mused. Some loyalists break; others delude themselves to the end.


    ¡°You comprehend his mechanics admirably. This prototype¡¯s potential fascinates me. As his first user, your feedback would be invaluable. My workshop in Birmingham is always open.¡± He offered a card: William Bogard. 23 St. Philip¡¯s Church Street.


    The Artist¡¯s true name laid bare. They¡¯d met in a rural chapel¡¯s confessional¡ªcodename-only protocol discarded for Bogard¡¯s zeal. Normally, intermediaries would handle such exchanges to protect identities. Yet here he was, risking exposure for Yvette¡¯s insights.


    She reciprocated with her card. ¡°Should Mr. White Rabbit reveal new quirks, I¡¯ll be in touch.¡±


    ¡­


    Rattling home in the carriage, Yvette studied her new acquisition. The rabbit-shaped artifact squished like a gore-stuffed beanbag, its button eyes absurd yet unsettling.


    Aberrants like the Suicide Club¡¯s ¡°Angel¡± or the Star Apostle became such artifacts upon death¡ªobjects thrumming with false life.


    But this ¡°life¡± was mere reflex, she knew. Like a decapitated snake¡¯s twitching. The Kin themselves existed beyond morality. The Star Apostle, a spore from the Old One Star Daughter, hungered mindlessly. To it, cruelty had no meaning¡ªonly instinct. Such innate, oblivious malice made coexistence impossible.


    Hybrids born of Kin and mortals, however, inherited emotions. Vampires straddled this line. Closer to Kin than humans, they spiraled into madness with age. Marquis Montagu once remarked, ¡°Only when a vampire ends their curse may the clan embrace anew.¡± Yvette had asked Randall how vampires die. Not by blade or poison¡ªwhen eternity¡¯s weight crushes them, they greet the sun and burn.


    Seeing Aurora¡¯s sewer massacre, Randall had muttered that the Marquis himself grew weary of immortality. Hence his grooming of successors.


    In her past life, Yvette witnessed depression¡¯s toll¡ªsaved suicides hollow-eyed as abused circus beasts.


    Did the Star Apostle ever contemplate its purpose? Could such beings fathom death?


    Yvette shook off the thought, exiting the carriage early.


    London¡¯s geography conspired to shield the elite. The wealthy northwest¡¯s villas connected to downtown shops via broad avenues lined with middling storefronts¡ªa buffer masking the industrial squalor beyond. One street over, alleys twisted into workers¡¯ slums.


    Yvette navigated these cramped lanes until reaching a tenement. A gaunt man loitered outside, coughing into his palm, clutching a battered suitcase.


    ¡°Trouble, sir?¡± She played the part of a benevolent bourgeois youth.


    ¡°Evicted... nowhere...¡± His words dissolved into phlegmy coughs.


    A window slammed open above. ¡°Scram, lung-rot! Scaring off tenants earns you a thrashing!¡±


    The man scuttled into the alley, scanning peeling walls for workhouse ads. He startled when Yvette followed.


    ¡°Dire straits indeed.¡±


    Her gaze dissected him.


    ¡°Dye-stained sleeves¡ªyou used to pay laundresses. Penniless now, you botch the washing. Leeches left scars, but funds ran dry. Turned to crude bloodletting. Futile.¡±


    ¡°Mockery?!¡± He sputtered, face mottled with rage and shame.


    Albionians wore poverty like sin. The recently destitute clinked pockets full of copper farthings to feign wealth, shivering sans coat while praising ¡°bracing¡± cold. This man¡¯s threadbare pride wouldn¡¯t outlast his consumptive cough.


    Yvette sighed, swinging Mr. White Rabbit¡¯s watch.


    Mid-rant, the man¡¯s fury dissolved.


    ¡°...A loan?¡±


    She¡¯d overwritten seconds: her cruel analysis became charitable aid.


    ¡°An investment in brighter days.¡± Twenty pounds changed hands¡ªno name, no contract.


    The dial shed eight seconds. The man forgot her condescension, his own outrage. Reality bent, then stitched itself anew.

 Chapter 94

    Having aided the destitute stranger, Yvette sought more test subjects¡ªall visibly struggling souls whom she compensated for their cooperation. By infusing her Awakened essence into the brass pocket watch and swinging it within arm¡¯s reach, she harnessed "Mr. Rabbit¡¯s" power to rewrite memories.


    The process unveiled a phantom reel in her mind¡ªfragmented but vivid, like recollections of a haunting film. She could skim twelve hours of a target¡¯s life as though flipping through a picture book, selecting moments to reshape. The watch¡¯s cost: time itself. Five seconds was the minimum edit; interruptions risked warping memories beyond repair.


    Trials revealed its subtler rules. A blind beggar proved sight unnecessary¡ªproximity triggered the effect. A shivering flower girl showed even concealed movement worked. Relieved (no one would suspect a hypnotist¡¯s prop), Yvette grew bolder, testing covert activations beneath her coat.


    Four trials later, euphoria gripped her¡ªa rush surpassing any earthly delight. Then the gaslamps¡¯ glow began to swirl like Van Gogh¡¯s stars. The vision jolted her awake. This was why Borgard, the watch¡¯s maker, had eyed her like a prized lab rat. Walked right into his trap¡­


    At home, she pondered the rabbit-shaped holder¡ªa lifeless plush with button eyes. You¡¯re just a battery. The watch¡¯s the real power. Rifling through drawers, she offered it Otherworldly shards (relics from the Ship of Fools debacle). No luck. Prodding the toy, she recoiled as it lurched forward and pawed her chest.


    ¡°Hands off!¡± She threatened to box its ears and fetched a lockbox¡ªmissing its eerie mutterings: ¡°Ain-Soph¡­ Veils¡­ Devour¡­¡± Returning, she caught it devouring a moth-eaten handkerchief, a memento from a murdered girl¡¯s mother.


    ¡°(Munching) Twice-blessed cloth,¡± it squeaked. True¡ªthe girl¡¯s spirit and dying mother had both found peace through Yvette. Though gutted, she noted the watch now held fourteen extra minutes¡ªrare karma earned through compassion.


    As she locked the mischief-maker away, Yvette sighed. You¡¯re trouble. But useful trouble.


    Dawn broke earlier than usual when Yvette rose to fasten her cravat before the floor-length mirror. After days of investigating the meteor incident in Albion''s trending attire, she finally resumed her preferred French aristocratic ensemble.


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    The intricate outfit unfolded in layers: a white blouse with delicate lace cuffs, a cream waistcoat embroidered with golden threads, and a gray frock coat adorned with silver buttons. Snow-white stockings contrasted sharply with fitted breeches matching her coat''s subtle hue. A black cravat would perfect today''s look, she decided.


    Her wardrobe mirrored a treasure vault. Drawers overflowed with cravats sorted by color, gloves arranged by occasion, even buttons classified by material ¨C silver filigree beside brass clasps and gem-studded brooches. Bespoke tailors ensured every garment in her adjoining dressing room carried Ulysses'' signature muted grays, effortlessly elegant and endlessly versatile.


    Cinching the black cravat around her throat, Yvette appreciated how its ruffles disguised her lack of an Adam''s apple ¨C and allowed looser breast-binding beneath her layered frills. After tucking the Mad Hatter''s brass watch into her waistcoat, she traded slippers for heeled leather boots whose authoritative click echoed through the marble foyer. How ironic that what later became feminine footwear once symbolized martial prowess, she mused, recalling the cavalry officers who popularized heeled riding boots.


    On St. James Street, murmurs followed her exit from the carriage. Ladies admired the youth''s willowy legs in white stockings; gentlemen envied his tailored silhouette. Such svelte figures remained rare in sugar-gluttonous London, where many peers resorted to hidden corsets, derisively dubbed "whalebone Bastilles" by commoners. Oblivious to admirers, Yvette vanished into the "Mind Labyrinth" clubhouse.


    Her arrival sparked instant animation. "Mandrake graces us at last!" members called from velvet armchairs. Eager voices overlapped:


    "Upas'' new serial leaves me parched for answers! Who poisoned the magistrate''s wine?"


    "Withhold spoilers, friends." Yvette chuckled, joining the central discussion group.


    Nux Vomica spun toward her. "Thank heavens! Gentleman Thief Robin''s struck in London ¨C three nights past!"


    Blankness met the proclamation. Oleander gaped. "You don''t know Europe''s most notorious art thief? He''s plundered a hundred mansions from Madrid to Vienna!"


    "Sparing lives doesn''t earn my notice," Yvette shrugged. "Let insurers handle it."


    "Insurers hired us." Upas adjusted his spectacles. "Baron Pedro''s stolen Titian could ruin their firm. Families face destitution unless we recover ''Golden-Haired Lady at Her Toilette.''"


    Nux Vomica clasped dramatic hands. "Only you can apprehend this phantom, Chevalier!"


    Yvette repressed an eye-roll. These theatrics! Last week they''d bemoaned London''s "dull peace." Now they cast her as moral champion? Still, the club''s infectious enthusiasm proved irresistible.


    "Schedule the inquiry," she relented. Delighted whoops erupted. Oleander jerked back mid-embrace, recalling her aversion to touch.


    As members dispersed to gather case files, Yvette caught Nux Vomica''s starry-eyed murmur: "Robin leaves clues like poems... A true artist of crime!"


    Art or not, the thief had unwittingly signed his capture warrant. Yvette''s fingers drummed the watch in her waistcoat ¨C tock, tock, like a detective''s mind clicking into motion.

 Chapter 95

    Within the smoke-filled office, the insurance manager''s bloodshot eyes lit up like a castaway spotting rescue. Curare shifted uneasily as the desperate man pumped his hand. "Bless you, Mr. Faulkner! You''re our last hope against that cursed Robin!"


    Yvette catalogued the signs of distress¡ªyellowed collar, ink-stained cuffs, the reek of cigars and stale coffee. This man had been marooned in his office for days, clinging to paperwork like flotsam.


    "The Baron''s policy demands triple indemnity," the manager croaked. "Twenty-one thousand pounds! It''ll sink us faster than a cannonball through a dinghy."


    Around them, the club members exchanged glances. Twenty-one thousand¡ªenough to buy three Mayfair townhouses. No wonder this decent man resembled a tortured soul from Dante''s circles.


    "Coppers found nothing?" Curare ventured.


    "Scotland Yard''s finest spent three days taking tea with housemaids," the manager spat. "By the time they finish their crumpets, that painting''ll be gracing some American robber baron''s privy!"


    Yvette''s question sliced through the cigar fog. "Why pin it on Robin? No witnesses, no traces¡ª"


    "The blackguard leaves calling cards!" The manager''s jowls quivered. "Cut-up newsprint glued like ransom notes, signed with that damned alias. Mocking verses about outwitting plodding policemen¡ªthe man''s a peacocked-up devil!"


    As they crossed London''s gaslit streets toward Scotland Yard, Yvette pondered the dual possibilities¡ªmundane thief versus flamboyant trickster. Or something... other. The latter made her palm itch toward her concealed revolver.


    At the Yard, constables moved through fogbanks of paperwork. Testimony transcripts piled like autumn leaves¡ªhousemaids'' timetables, footmen''s alibis, cooks'' market receipts. Nothing spoke of sorcery.


    She found Aubetroostered in a leatherbound office, spectral light from leaded windows etching his sharp features. "Mind Maze, eh?" His chuckle held no mirth. "Last year they published proofs that Westminster Abbey''s Black Prince was moldy cheese. Almost caused a duel between the Archbishop and Prime Minister."


    Yvette smothered a smile. Leave it to bored intellectuals to unravel history''s sacred cows. "They''re manageable if you redirect their... enthusiasm."


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    "Like giving chess puzzles to rabid terriers?" Aubeter''s smile faded. "No whispers of power at the crime scene. This reeks of mortal mischief¡ªthe flashy sort."


    At the rented Mayfair mansion, servants parted like the Red Sea before their investigative battalion. The absent Baron''s parlor stood frozen¡ªgilded frames gaping empty on damask walls, like sockets after eyes were plucked.


    Curare prowled, magnifier glinting. "No sign of forced entry. Either master locksmith or inside help."


    "Or both," Yvette murmured. Beyond the windows, London''s golden haze softened the ruthless economics of real estate. Even foreign nobility balked at buying here. To steal from such a man required brass balls or death wishes.


    As dusk painted the room in crime scene shadows, the club members'' voices rose in scholarly debate. Yvette leaned against a marble mantel, absently noting the faint outline where some ancestral Pedro face had glared for centuries. Gone now¡ªspirited away by a phantom thief into London''s hungry maw.


    Baron Pedro¡¯s butler greeted the unexpected delegation from the Thinking Maze Club¡ªdesignated "insurance assessors" for the occasion. Though taken aback by their numbers, he ushered them through the manor¡¯s opulent halls.


    "The theft occurred here," the butler announced, gesturing to a lavishly appointed parlor. Every wall bore artworks save one, its naked surface studded with forlorn nails. "The thief¡¯s note rested there," he added, indicating a side table.


    Yvette recalled the police¡¯s evidence¡ªanonymous cut-out letters from periodicals. Beside her, Strychnine adopted an investigator¡¯s brusque manner: "Entry points? Locked windows? Footprints? Our liability hinges on whether negligence occurred."


    "Impossible!" The butler stiffened. "Every servant was cleaning the ground floor that evening. No mortal could¡¯ve passed unseen!"


    Strychnine muttered to Oleander, whose study of police records confirmed no signs of forced entry.


    The club bifurcated¡ªsome interrogating servants, others hunting for the Gentleman Burglar''s fabled infiltration artistry. Yvette drifted with Oleander¡¯s faction through dust-shrouded guest chambers.


    In a disused room, her fingers traced greasy soot in a fireplace¡ªoddly fresh. The rug bore a peculiar depression, as from a smuggled object.


    Their ascent to the attic revealed Oleander crowing beneath a dormer window. Scattered at his feet lay telltale paint scales¡ªthe golden hue of Titian¡¯s stolen masterpiece.


    "Transport damage!" Oleander exulted. "The brute cracked tiles escaping!" The butler marveled at this "solution," while others combed the grounds fruitlessly for vanished traces.


    At twilight¡¯s gathering, Oleander preened: "His tricks are exposed! Capture looms!"


    A contrarian voice muttered, "Chevalier¡¯s disciple should¡¯ve triumphed..."


    "Fate favors vigilance!" Oleander retorted. "Perhaps the Chevalier needs a rival¡ªan English sleuth to match his wits."


    Yvette slipped away mid-celebration, her carriage veering west to Hampstead Heath.


    Ulysses received her in reptilian repose. Since Rat Island, unspoken questions hung between them¡ªhad he seen her mutation? Why did Albatross monitor him? Yet their dance of avoidance continued.


    "Another supernatural misadventure?" he drawled.


    "Am I truly such a magnet for the uncanny?" She proffered a paint-flecked handkerchief.


    The serpent uncoiled. "Conclusively."

 Chapter 96

    Ulysses¡¯s blunt reply caught Yvette off-guard.


    ¡°Well? Not another supernatural affair this time?¡± He unfolded the handkerchief cradling paint fragments, examining a fleck between his gloved fingers.


    ¡°Must every mystery involve the occult?¡± she retorted, then flushed¡ªmost of her visits did revolve around Veil-related troubles. ¡°¡­This is merely a theft. A mundane one.¡±


    Mr. Artois had verified it, after all. Surely nothing lurked beneath.


    ¡°¡­Most likely.¡± She hastily amended, wary of tempting fate.


    ¡°Splendid. What thief merits your interest, then?¡±


    ¡°The so-called ¡®Gentleman Bandit¡¯¡ªhis London debut, it seems. Even the rags haven¡¯t sniffed it out. Disappointed it¡¯s not eldritch horrors, Lord Ulysses? Such a work-shy attitude! Consider it a public service¡ªwe avert disasters before commoners blunder into them. Each resolved case makes the world safer, yes?¡±


    ¡°Hmph. Rogue occultists multiply like rats. Spot one, a dozen nest nearby. I¡¯d prefer they emulate their discreet kin and stay hidden.¡± He crumbled a paint speck, inhaled its scent. ¡°Oil paint residue. Requiring analysis?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Found at the crime scene. With other evidence¡­ if we could date these flakes¡­¡± Modern labs used carbon dating, but Ulysses¡¯s uncanny methods prioritized composition over chronology. Without proof, her theory remained speculation.


    ¡°An experiment, then.¡± He touched the fragment to his tongue, eyes closing as if deciphering a vintage wine.


    Moments later: ¡°No earlier than 1809.¡±


    ¡°Precisely!¡± Her deduction confirmed. ¡°But how the year? You said yourself it required testing¡ª¡±


    ¡°Chromium yellow. Synthetic pigment¡ªFrench chemists concocted it in 1809. Earlier, artists relied on orpiment, antimony¡­ or less savory sources.¡±


    ¡°Such as¡­ mummy dust?¡±


    ¡°Ever encounter ¡®Indian yellow¡¯? Sun-baked cow urine. Thank your stars the forger chose modernity over tradition.¡±


    Yvette bit her lip. Had this been a Titian original, bovine extracts might¡¯ve tainted the palette. Poor Ulysses.


    Yet he¡¯d sampled the fragment without complaint¡ªdespite risks¡ªthough no supernatural threads entangled this case.


    He really is kindness itself.


    Midnight shadows swallowed Baron Pedro¡¯s estate. As scullery maids snored exhaustedly, his inner cadre¡ªthe butler, valet, and fellow Iberian conspirators¡ªhuddled in conspiratorial whispers.


    ¡°The puppet?¡± the butler demanded.


    ¡°Distracted by rented companionship,¡± the valet drawled. A habitual ruse.


    ¡°No mishaps. These next days are pivotal.¡±


    ¡°The dolt¡¯s besotted with some actress,¡± the valet sneered. ¡°Terrified we¡¯ll revoke his role.¡±


    Their ¡°baron¡± was a penniless rake, groomed for aristocratic mimicry. Funds flooded his facade¡ªextravagant parties, gifts for gullible bluebloods¡ªto bait merchants into extending credit.


    Nobles lived on tick, debts mounting like Beau Brummell: that arbiter of fashion who¡¯d exiled duchesses on whims, yet fled creditors when royal favor waned. His possessions¡ªauctioned as ¡°a gentleman¡¯s effects¡±¡ªembodied their scheme¡¯s endgame.


    ¡°Baron Pedro¡± owed thousands, but merchants trusted the silver-tongued exotic ¡°noble.¡± Soon, an ¡°irreplaceable masterpiece¡± would ¡°vanish¡±¡ªwhile the genuine article, bought with prior scams¡¯ dwindling profits, awaited discreet foreign sale. The forgery aging by fireplace heat? A prop. Insurance would cover the ¡°loss,¡± pure plunder.


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    Nerves frayed even their stoic butler.


    ¡°The English revere titles. They¡¯ll never see through it!¡± the housekeeper chuckled.


    ¡°Insurers begged to underwrite ¡®His Lordship¡¯!¡±


    In France or Spain, merchants distrusted threadbare nobles. But Albion¡¯s sparser aristocracy retained mystique¡ªbankrupt lords married merchant heiresses, retaining haughty airs while lining pockets. A perfect mark.


    ¡°Today¡¯s inspectors troubled me. Poorly disguised¡ªfine tobacco, unweathered pipes. One examined the fireplace.¡±


    ¡°Private detectives hired by insurers, no doubt! Thankfully, they ¡®solved¡¯ our planted clues. Without proof of the ¡®Gentleman Bandit,¡¯ courts might blame our negligence. Now, the phantom thief steals the narrative¡ªand the payout!¡±


    ¡°All proceeds smoothly,¡± the butler conceded. Litigation delays would bleed funds on their decoy¡¯s antics. ¡°A few days more. Should the puppet overstep¡­¡±


    ¡°¡ªa sack, a stone, the Thames,¡± the valet finished. ¡°He¡¯s infatuated, docile. More afraid than we are.¡±


    As the conspirators huddled to finalize their schemes, the rattling of carriages shattered the quiet¡ªmultiple vehicles approaching.


    The housekeeper glanced through the window. The lead carriage bore Baron Pedro¡¯s crest; those following displayed the London Police insignia.


    "Why are they here?" he murmured, uneasy. "Did those meddling detectives report the rooftop ''clue''?"


    "Stay sharp. Don¡¯t slip up."


    When the carriages halted, the fraudsters watched their unwitting puppet, Baron Pedro, descend under police escort, his bluster echoing through the halls:


    "This is an outrage! I¡¯ll have the House of Lords flanking my letters to Scotland Yard! You¡¯ll rue this harassment!"


    Pedro¡¯s ignorance made him the perfect pawn¡ªa brash aristocrat lookalike. His interrupted evening escapades now fueled his dragon-like wrath, much to the conspirators¡¯ relief: The police know nothing.


    "Your complaints may proceed after the investigation, Baron," an officer countered coolly.


    The operation, ordered by Chief Superintendent Alto, stemmed from Mr. Fisher¡¯s tip-off. Fisher¡¯s uncle, Sir Ulysses¡ªa confidant of the Duke of Lancaster¡ªheld true power. A foreign baron¡¯s threats meant little against such influence.


    As Pedro raged onward, the housekeeper spotted a youth alighting from the last carriage. Though differently attired, he recognized the shrewd investigator who¡¯d scrutinized the fireplace earlier.


    "You¡¯re¡ª"


    "Merely an advisor," the youth interjected with a disarmingly polite smile¡ªone that chilled the housekeeper¡¯s bones.


    Steady now, he told himself.


    The original painting had been relocated pre-"theft," its existence known only to inner-circle members. The forged copy, after being aged by fireplace heat, had been incinerated that very night. Without evidence, investigators would only find a phantom crime. Even if Pedro¡¯s identity unraveled, the worst outcome was his expulsion from society¡ªa trivial consequence for the conspirators.


    Meanwhile, Yvette strategized.


    The attic¡¯s false clue and the carpet¡¯s frame-shaped indentations pointed to forgery via fireplace. The housekeeper¡¯s claim about "dampness" rang hollow¡ªthe room was dry, ventilated, and under his omnipresent watch.


    Confronting him with modern pigment analysis? Futile. He¡¯d blame the "Gentleman Thief," and Ulysses¡¯ advanced methods couldn¡¯t be disclosed.


    Thus, a gamble¡­


    "Officer, sequester each foreign servant for questioning. The thief needed an insider."


    "Starting with whom?" The officer eyed the housekeeper.


    "Not him. His cooperation speaks volumes. I¡¯ll question him myself." Yvette¡¯s friendly shoulder squeeze made the ringleader¡¯s pulse spike.


    For thirty agonizing minutes, Yvette paraded the housekeeper through the mansion, lobbing trivial questions while his paranoia about loose-lipped accomplices crescendoed.


    Nearing the interrogation room¡ªthe fireplace chamber¡ªmuffled voices leaked through the door. The housekeeper panicked: Does he know?


    "Let¡¯s discuss Spain elsewhere. I adore Iberian ham¡­" Yvette steered him away, grip firm.


    Suddenly, the housekeeper¡¯s mind blanked¡ªthen flooded with a damning false memory: his valet¡¯s voice, crackling through the door, confessing to forgery and blaming a shadowy mastermind.


    Treachery!


    Whirling toward Yvette¡¯s serene smile, he cracked: "Officers! I¡¯ll confess everything!"


    ¡­¡­


    Days later, the club roasted Oleander over newspaper headlines:


    "Bravo, Oleander! Wolfsbane¡¯s casting you as the blundering detective in Phantom Thief!"


    "¡®A pompous fool whose errors require Chevalier¡¯s corrections.¡¯ Fitting, no?"


    Oleander gulped his tea, sputtering: "Vultures!"


    "We didn¡¯t nearly wreck the case," Monkshood sneered. "Thank Chevalier¡ªand Wolfsbane¡¯s doctor character¡ªfor salvaging it!"


    Wolfsbane cornered Yvette: "How¡¯d you confirm the forgery? The fireplace wasn¡¯t proof. You visited Sir Ulysses, didn¡¯t you?"


    "Modern pigments contain chemicals. My uncle identified them. He¡¯d prefer anonymity."


    "Intriguing." Wolfsbane scribbled, ignoring Henbane¡¯s remark about the fraudsters¡¯ baffling mutual betrayal¡ªa rift sown by Yvette¡¯s implanted memory.


    "I¡¯m adding two recurring roles," Wolfsbane declared. "An envious rival detective and Chevalier¡¯s coroner ally¡ªperfect for grisly scenes unbecoming of a noble."


    A detective-doctor duo? Yvette¡¯s eye twitched. Wolfsbane, you¡¯re plagiarizing the future!

 Chapter 97

    Imagine drawing a ruler-straight line on paper, then folding the sheet. To us, the line bends - but for flatlanders confined to two dimensions, the path remains unchanged. What we see as overlapping points separated by a paper''s thickness becomes an insurmountable void for creatures without height perception.


    Such is our limitation regarding higher dimensions.


    From celestial vantage, the Infinite Corridor resembles monstrous entrails - countless chambers packed in dimensional casings, twisted into grotesque neural patterns.


    Mortals perceive normal geometry here. Only the awakened sense spatial wrongness.


    This was the eldritch stage from Ivette''s vision. The abomination - a giant elder''s head on shriveled infant limbs - sat festering in its den. Oil-black cysts now mottled its form like bloated leeches gorging in repulsive banquet.


    A brawny attendant carved at growths with the shattered Holy Lance. Each incision spewed vile sludge and squirming parasites. The man trembled, pallid and drenched.


    "Cease, Ren¨¦," the elder-head rumbled. "This foulness strains even your resolve."


    "Let me persist!" The man''s determination outweighed revulsion.


    "If I retained human form..." The monster turned to a ginger-haired subordinate. "Lederbate''s status?"


    "Gone silent after Sporefall, Beloved Father." The man''s choked voice betrayed kinship to Ivette''s victim. "His last message claimed stealth in London..."


    "My old pupil''s loss pains us all, Edwin."


    "Now I burn only for enforcer blood!"


    "Too narrow," the elder-head chided. "Hate Creation itself. The masses cling to their illusions, obstructing truth''s ascent."


    "My shame... We lost a true starspawn..."


    "Occult Police took him. The Starseekers'' dissolution proves it."


    "Our guided stargazer?"


    "Severed ties post-descent. Wisely - his quarters likely swarm with enforcer spies now."


    "So the Emissary''s destroyed?"


    "Enforcers purge all Dominated beings. We nearly claimed two prizes - first a madman fleeing his pregnant ''mother'', who died mysteriously. From his crumbling mind, we calculated celestial cycles..."


    "Actual Old One''s flesh! And we lost-"


    "The Creator bars easy escape. Three centuries yielded one stillborn godling - yet its rotting power sustains me beyond mortal limits. Past allies crumbled to mush wielding such forces. But this corpus breaches creation''s ceiling."


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Edwin trembled. "Can''t we wrest it back?"


    "Enforcers hold primal relics. Even my Divine Carcass rots from Creation''s bite. Their new Fate-Warden troubles me - perhaps they''ve mastered backlash suppression."


    "We endure defeat?"


    "Transcendence opposes gods. But vengeance?" The elder''s lips curled. "That''s merely killing men."


    "Sir! Over here!" Yvette had barely descended the carriage step when a familiar voice called out. She turned to see Master Dazart, the astrologer, hastening toward her. The man clutched his celestial charts like a lifeline, eyes darting nervously.


    "Pardon the intrusion," Dazart began with hesitant curiosity. "But have we crossed paths before?"


    "I fear not," Yvette replied with a smile so politely detached it could frost glass.


    "Ah. A trick of memory then." He worried his brass stargazing pendant, muttering, "Perhaps the recent ordeal..."


    Yvette observed his agitation. The Organization''s mind-weavers scrubbed his memories clean, she deduced. But Dazart¡¯s breed¡ªthe twitchy, obsessive sort prone to occult dabblings¡ªalways left psychic residue. A few blurred edges remained, though insufficient to threaten her disguise.


    They stood beneath the ivy-crowned archway of the Labyrinth Club. As Dazart fidgeted, she continued the charade: "A new patron, sir? I don¡¯t recall your presence at our gatherings."


    "I sought consultation," he confessed. "Rumors claimed your club resolved even the ''Gentleman Burglar'' affair. But..." His shoulders slumped. "My questions... went unanswered."


    Yvette suppressed a smirk. No surprise there¡ªthe Labyrinth¡¯s amateur sleuths thrived on "artistically macabre" mysteries, not messy highway killings. They''d dismissed Dazart¡¯s doubts over brandy and cigars.


    "Three nights past," Dazart continued, voice fraying, "I led students to observe Saturn¡¯s rings. Brigands ambushed our caravan. A colleague... was slaughtered before our eyes. Police named his killer some wanted rogue, shot dead days later. Yet..." He tapped his temple. "It feels... staged. Like a theatre tragedy I watched, not lived!"


    "Trauma rewrites memory," Yvette offered solemnly, mimicking textbook diagnoses. "The mind sands sharp recollections into bearable fictions. Consider it nature¡¯s anodyne."


    Dazart exhaled a decade¡¯s worth of tension. "Anodyne¡­ Yes. Perhaps you¡¯re right."


    As he shuffled away, Yvette marvelled at her growing knack for falsehoods. Lies draped her like mist now, obscuring truths that might shatter lesser minds.


    Inside the club''s oak-panelled hall, Strychnine supervised artisans mounting a brass-framed document. A scarlet Scotland Yard seal glinted below.


    "What''s this?" Yvette inquired.


    "An official commendation," Strychnine grinned. "For solving the Gentlemen Burglar case! Though they addressed it to the ''Labyrinth Club'' collectively. Should¡¯ve named you, Mandragora!"


    Yvette shrugged. Letting authorities obscure her role suited perfectly¡ªavoiding vengeful criminal attention outweighed fleeting fame.


    "Brilliant, really," Strychnine continued. "If every two-bit thug knew our members¡¯ identities? We¡¯d need armed guards!"


    As if cued, Yvette produced a banknote bundle: "Then let''s hire some. My ¡®consulting fee¡¯ from Lloyd¡¯s insurance."


    Strychnine gaped at the sum¡ªenough to fund six guards annually. "But this is yours¡ª"


    "Club donations built our library. Consider this my contribution."


    Before he could protest, Strychnine steered her upstairs. "Come! A new case from Birmingham¡ªhorrific killings in the slums!"


    Birmingham? Yvette stiffened. She had business there already with ¡°The Artificer¡±¡ªan Organization craftsman whose "memory-altering rabbit" kept escaping its box to gnaw at her pendant. A consultation was overdue.


    "Three women butchered monthly," Strychnine narrated theatrically. "Corpses mutilated in ways that¡¯d shame Beelzebub! A madman or demon stalks those gaslit alleys¡ª"


    Yvette¡¯s breath caught. Nighttime murders... sex workers... visceral desecration...


    Jack the Ripper? The thought leapt unbidden. But here, in this smoke-choked Victorian mirror-world? Coincidence seemed unlikely. Unless...

 Chapter 98

    To a devotee of detective fiction, ignorance of Jack the Ripper would be as unthinkable as a Christian never hearing Gabriel¡¯s name. The shadow of that butcher still looms¡ªa specter who slithered through Whitechapel¡¯s fog in 1888, carving his legend into five women¡¯s flesh. His taunting letters to Scotland Yard birthed the modern serial killer archetype, inspiring countless imitators and fictional horrors. Though his identity remains entombed in history, the macabre allure of his unsolved crimes transformed Whitechapel into a grisly Mecca for mystery lovers.


    When Yvette overheard Strychnine mention a prostitute-slaying killer, her brow furrowed. ¡°Birmingham? I thought it was Whitechapel.¡±


    ¡°Whitechapel?¡± Strychnine scoffed, pipe smoke curling like a dismissive wave. ¡°Mandrake, while Whitechapel¡¯s denizens aren¡¯t saints, even they¡¯d balk at this brand of madness!¡±


    Save that quip for 1888, Yvette mused silently. Here in 1839, the Ripper¡¯s grandfather might still be in leading strings. Her past-life memories knew the ending¡ªmodern forensics had exhumed the truth from a bloodstained shawl. The Whitechapel fiend was no Londoner, but an Eastern European barber whose trade granted him a surgeon¡¯s intimate knowledge of viscera.


    ¡°Is Birmingham¡¯s constabulary consulting us?¡±


    ¡°Hardly. They¡¯re too busy dodging pitchforks. The plea comes from a¡­specialized guild.¡± Strychnine¡¯s pause spoke volumes. ¡°A union for women in certain trades. Let¡¯s convene with the others.¡±


    They found the team in the club¡¯s opulent meeting room. ¡°Mandrake!¡± Oleander crowed, flourishing a newspaper. ¡°The ¡®Baron Pedro¡¯ charlatans cracked like eggs! A dozen continental swindles, yet undone in glorious Albion before earning a farthing!¡±


    Yvette accepted a teacup from a liveried servant. ¡°A dozen? I¡¯d heard tales of a ¡®gentleman thief¡¯ with hundreds of heists.¡±


    Antiaris chuckled. ¡°A farce sustained by crumbling aristocrats. Imagine¡ªfamilies selling heirlooms invent a phantom thief to mask their shame. Scotland Yard¡¯s burying it to spare Europe¡¯s blushes.¡±


    Ah. The glamorous ¡°gentleman thief¡±¡ªa fiction woven by threadbare nobility. Yvette filed the revelation away, mental quill noting potential plot twists.


    ¡°And Birmingham¡¯s troubles?¡± she prompted.


    Oleander¡¯s humor vanished. He brandished a letter thick with dread. ¡°¡®Troubles¡¯? These are abominations. Only a hellspawn could¡­Christ. The victims¡­¡± His voice shrank. ¡°They found¡­seed on the bodies.¡±


    The House of Magdalene¡ªthe letter¡¯s elegant script clashed with its grotesque contents. Magdalene: the redeemed harlot turned saint. A fitting patroness for a union of fallen women.


    Strychnine exhaled a smoke ring. ¡°The killer hunts Birmingham¡¯s streetwalkers. The police falter. The women despair.¡±


    Yvette skimmed the hysterical prose. Beneath the lurid adjectives lay a pattern¡ªbodies defiled beyond Ripperesque butchery, marked by the killer¡¯s perverse...enthusiasm. She swallowed bile.


    ¡°Mandrake!¡± Oleander pressed. ¡°Surely you¡¯ve deduced something?¡±


    ¡°The killer¡¯s male.¡±


    ¡°By Jove, a revelation!¡± Oleander threw up his hands. ¡°Next you¡¯ll tell us water¡¯s wet!¡±


    Strychnine¡¯s pipe clinked against his teeth. ¡°Patience. Mandrake trades in facts, not fancies¡ªunlike some who¡¯d spin webs from thin air.¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    The familiar bickering continued, but Yvette¡¯s mind raced. A Ripper copycat? Here? Yet this world pulsed with darker rhythms. What if this wasn¡¯t mere madness, but a cult¡¯s offering? A vampiric appetizer? Meddling in another cabal¡¯s domain risked more than embarrassment¡ªit risked war.


    Birmingham itself posed another riddle. Unlike London¡¯s intimate gaslit murders among gentlemen, this industrial labyrinth thrived on anonymity. How does one hunt a shadow in a city of shadows?


    Three Days Later


    Birmingham greeted them with a phlegmy cough of coal smoke. Even London¡¯s soot seemed refined compared to this grime-choked crucible. The station stairs oozed black mud, a mosaic of¹¤Òµfilth.


    Oleander hissed as his Hessians sank to the buckles. ¡°This is not in the brochure.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps trade those for Wellingtons,¡± Yvette suggested, nodding at her own practical boots. Around them, wheezing workers shuffled through the miasma¡ªa living indictment of progress.


    Antiaris murmured, ¡°One wonders if the killer does these women a mercy, sparing them this¡­.¡±


    A coal cart rumbled past, baptizing Oleander in gritty spray. As he spluttered, Yvette¡¯s hand drifted toward her concealed pistol. Shapes moved in the fog¡ªhungry shapes.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± she said quietly, ¡°I suggest we blend in before Birmingham blends us.¡±


    "There wanders through our mortal realm a monarch called King Steam, Who tramples human hosts beneath his iron-shod reign. His fiery heart breeds endless woes, devouring children''s breath, Mocks fathers'' tears and mothers'' cries that echo unto death. This soulless tyrant, vile and base, spreads death where''er he treads, In his cursed kingdom''s blighted realm, the reaper''s scythe he weds..."


    A shuffling mob of tattered men closed in on Yvette''s party, their threadbare coats hanging like scarecrow rags. Sunken eyes burned with feral hunger in skeletal faces as they chanted the bitter rhyme, the cadence of theirñÜñÚ cadavers'' march syncing with the rhythmic condemnation.


    "By Jove! These vagrants flout the law brazenly! Where''s the constabulary?" Strychnine exclaimed, aghast at the organized beggar company.


    Under Albion''s Vagrancy Act, the homeless, beggars, and street charlatans risked imprisonment - left to rot on starvation rations in dark cells. London''s paupers slunk through shadows like sewer rats, but here in Birmingham they swarmed openly, demanding alms through menace rather than mercy.


    "...The gilded parasites shall fall, crushed ''neath our righteous heel! Down to perdition''s flames they''ll plunge, to death''s cold kiss they''ll kneel!"


    The mob tightened their circle, stinking of desperation. Yvette noted their matching jackets - factory-issue uniforms marking former mill workers.


    The Industrial Revolution devoured workforces entire: mills shuttering upon owners'' whims, men replaced by clattering looms or cheap child labor. Police turned blind eyes to their plight - whether from corruption or compassion mattered not. These walking dead had transformed textbooks'' dry "Luddite riots" into visceral reality, each word now blood-stained truth.


    Her hand drifted from pistol grip to coin purse. The muffled clatter of stacked sovereigns drew lupine stares. Though banknotes circulated, tangible coins still ruled daily trade. This pouch held a small fortune in gleaming metal - more than commoners saw in years.


    The ringleader''s cracked lips parted at the offered bounty, then narrowed spyed the golden chain at Yvette''s throat. "The necklace too," he rasped.


    Cold steel answered. "Charity, not tribute," Yvette corrected, pistol unwavering. "Test this distinction at your peril."


    The pocket pistol''s appearance sent ripples through the crowd. While blunderbusses plagued rookeries, such refined firearms signaled wealth and lethal intent. Pale but swift, the leader snatched the purse, fleeing with pack mates who cast backward glances like beaten curs eyeing unexpected meat.


    "Ingrates!" Oleander hissed at their graceless retreat.


    "A beggar bearing calfskin invites arrest," Yvette shrugged. "Had constables come, our testimony would''ve stretched their necks at Newgate. Now gentlemen - shall we continue this sartorial advertisement? By nightfall we''ll have made every cutpurse''s acquaintance."


    As her companions hastened tailors'' ward, Yvette struck out alone - her officer''s riding habit (gray whipcord jacket, garish plaid waistcoat, and gleaming Hussar boots) projecting rakish swagger rather than aristocracy. Sword at hip and concealed pistol dissuaded most threats... perhaps too effectively she mused, watching a glossy-coated mastiff pad after her through Birmingham''s refuse-choked lanes.


    Past feeding friendly strays with butcher scraps, she noted her shadow - too robust for common strays in dog-eating Europe. Cornering it in a reeking alley, she leveled her pistol. "State your business, wolf."


    The beast cocked its head. "No treats for good doggos?"


    "Your tail betrays you," she countered, noting its unnatural droop. "Shall we converse as equals?"


    The hound''s golden eyes glinted with disquieting mirth. "As milady commands..."

 Chapter 99

    Before Yvette could form a reply, the beast began its metamorphosis. The elongated jaws retracted into a chiseled human face, coarse fur melting into tanned skin as the creature''s spine crackled into upright posture. Within heartbeats, where a wolf had stood now loomed a broad-shouldered Slav with tousled chestnut hair - gloriously unclad.


    "My apologies for the indecency, milady," the man drawled with a smirk better suited to tavern pranksters, only to pause mid-chance. "No blushes? No modestly averted eyes? Most irregular for a Church hunter."


    Yvette''s revolver didn''t waver as its aim transitioned from four-legged threat to two-legged nuisance. Through narrowed eyes, she noted how light warped around his midsection - her ability filtering anatomical indecencies into an innocuous shadow void.


    "Why should nakedness shock me?" Her voice carried the frost of January winds. "Though I confess, the proportions are... unimpressive."


    The werewolf''s cocky grin faltered. "Defective eyesight explains much," he muttered, hastily changing tack. "You''re hunting the Midnight Butcher, yes? Perhaps we might parley."


    Footsteps echoed nearer the alley mouth. The man''s bravado cracked. "Might we continue this discussion clothed?"


    With an eye-roll, Yvette raised her left hand. Damp linens fluttered five meters above as her power plucked a relatively dry workman''s outfit from the maze of clotheslines. Coins materialized between her fingers, arcing upward to nestle in neighboring coats - payment rendered with flair.


    "Ten Commandments, was it?" She arched an eyebrow at the muttering werewolf now struggling into rough-spun trousers. "Theft implies absence of compensation."


    The sudden arrival of teenage sweethearts spared further debate. "Kobelev!" cried the youth, arm possessively around his blushing companion. "Catching criminals, are we?"


    "Teaching manners to brats who skivvy work," the werewolf retorted, though his growl lacked heat. When the couple scampered off, Yvette filed away every nuance - the Russian-inflected banter, the easy familiarity revealing Kobelev''s integration into human society.


    This explained much. The Silver Throne''s iron-fisted melding of church and state had never welcomed moon-cursed kin. Albion''s pragmatic tolerance offered sanctuary... provided bloodshed didn''t reignite old prejudices.


    "Tolerance has limits," Yvette warned, though her weapon now hung loose at her side. "Explain your stalking."


    Kobelev''s posture shifted - the streetwise trickster replaced by a weary strategist. "The killings reek of human madness, not moon frenzy. No wolf keeps such neat trophies. Yet when bodies pile up, hunters see only fangs and claws."


    His golden eyes tracked a rat scuttling past. "And now Special Mission Bureau''s hounds sniff our trails. To your friends'' credit, they took three hours to notice missing purses - my little foxes left breadcrumb trails to your door. The Church''s angel walks in man''s garb, leaving faint jasmine traces..."


    Realization struck. The werewolf tapped his nose. "Catmint and gun oil - unique bouquet for a hunter. Though the ginger tom you fed this morning nearly cost you everything."


    Yvette''s pulse quickened. A simple kindness, that tin of sardines for the alley cat... and in that moment, her adversary had glimpsed her soul.


    "How many?" Her thumb caressed the revolver''s hammer.


    At this, Kobelev flashed fanged confidence. "Enough to vanish if provoked. But their strongest stands before you." He spread empty hands in mock surrender. "So... partnership or pistols, milady hunter?"


    He certainly radiated confidence, though his wolfish appearance justified it ¨C glossy pelt, formidable stature, and muscles sculpted like a champion hound. An uninformed observer might mistake him for a pedigreed showdog.


    With clues served on a silver platter, Yvette cut straight to the chase: "What intel do you have on the killer? Supernatural predator or common murderer ¨C what''s your take?"


    She deduced his tracking ability ¨C having trailed her scent from the station meant he already harbored concrete suspicions about the Midnight Killer''s identity.


    "Truth be told, my knowledge barely surpasses yours."


    "Don''t play coy ¨C even human criminals leave traces. We''re talking about fluids smeared on butchered corpses here!" Yvette narrowed her eyes. "Your nose can''t sniff out something that blatant?"


    Kobelev raised a paw in patient explanation: "Think of body odors like fermented bread ¨C identical ingredients yield distinct loaves per bakery. Human aromas aren''t just sweat and grime, but unique bacteriological cocktails. Each person''s microbial cauldron brews an irreplicable signature."


    He leaned against a brick wall, shadows accentuating lupine features. "Fresh corpses tell different stories. I inspected two bodies pre-police contamination. No ''fermentation'' process evident ¨C just inert proteins and dead skin. Without living bacterial colonies, every corpse smells equally bland beneath the metallic blood reek."


    Yvette''s eyes flashed with dawning understanding ¨C that explained why fevers left sheets unstained by odor, while gym clothes could melt paint. Heat-activated microbes must transform waste into chemical identifiers. "So the killer doesn''t... sweat?"


    "Or the fluids we found aren''t sweat at all." Kobelev''s muzzle twitched. "I''m a mere gang affiliate by daylight ¨C can''t waltz into Scotland Yard demanding dossiers. More intel from morgue reports and eyewits falls under your jurisdiction now. Find me at White Lion Court should you require... unconventional assistance." His golden eyes gleamed. "Payment? Just keep the Order off our tail."


    "The Vatican''s hounds won''t bite unless you''re involved," Yvette promised.


    The werewolf dipped his head and retreated down the alley, back fearlessly exposed ¨C a calculated display of trust. Earlier observations had noted this strange Templar''s compassion: coins tossed to beggars at the station, scraps shared with gutter cats, even dry clothes offered to a soaking wet vagrant. Predatory instincts detected no malice in her. Still...


    As the lupine shadow dissolved into mist, Yvette''s mind churned. A scentless murderer? Either a veiled supernatural entity, artifact-cloaked killer... or lycanthropes running interference for their own. Regardless, this reeked of otherworldly involvement.


    Abandoning feline distractions, she hastened towards St. Philip''s Church Street.


    "23 St. Philip''s ¨C William Burgard''s workshop... a hat shop?!" Yvette stared at the storefront''s absurd facade. Floral patterns and gilded cherubs adorned bay windows displaying top hats alongside... dressed animal puppets?


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Steeling herself, she entered a taxidermist''s wonderland.


    "Ah! The anticipated Mr. Fisher!" A clerk ushered her past cash registers and taxidermied owls. "Mr. Burgard''s expecting you upstairs."


    Albion''s classic merchant-residence layout spared her further surprise. Burgard''s reputation as an eccentric "artist" now made perfect sense.


    The showroom proved dangerously tempting. Velvet-lined cases showcased beaver felt bowlers (learned through painful research that Victorian headwear required hammering pelts into waterproof felt ¨C no wonder they cost a laborer''s yearly wage). But the real pi¨¨ce de r¨¦sistance? Mouse scholars engrossed in miniature books, rabbit knights mid-joust, even a crow presiding over doll-sized sacraments.


    Fisting her palms to resist retail temptation, Yvette ascended into chemical stenches.


    "Don''t hover ¨C enter or leave!" Burgard''s irritated growl preceded entry. The scene froze her mid-step.


    Blood. So much blood.


    Pinned beneath dissection lamps lay a splayed squirrel, its tiny ribcage pried open like gruesome origami. Forceps and bone saws glittered beside labeled jars containing... Yvette averted her eyes.


    Then she remembered the adorable dolls downstairs. Preservation required complete organ removal ¨C these cuddly mascots were literally skin-deep. Suddenly, the bunny knight''s embroidered surcoat seemed less charming.


    "Feedback time! How''s Mr. White Rabbit performing?" Burgard flung off his gore-caked apron, oblivious to his guest''s queasiness.


    "Your automaton attempted to pilfer my relics!" Yvette blurted. "It sneaks about at night!"


    "Impossible!" The taxidermist''s bewilderment seemed genuine. "That construct cares about objects'' provenance, not possession. Unless¡ª" He stroked chin hairs stained with squirrel blood. "Ah! Your family heirlooms must boast legendary histories! Fear not ¨C I''ll forge a warded container. Collect it Friday, or have it couriered to London."


    Seizing the opportunity, Yvette inquired about local murders. Burgard''s response stunned her.


    "Murders? Oh, the street scuffles?" He waved a dismissive tweezers. "Tuesday¡¯s Bulgar vs. Belfast brawl left three gutted in butcher alley. Wednesday¡¯s Russian smugglers ambushed by¨C"


    "I¡¯m talking serial killings! Mutilated bodies drained of blood!"


    "Darling, in Birmingham, mutilation¡¯s called Tuesday." Burgard yawned. "Check with Father Fran?ois ¨C he handles dreary Order business. Now if you''ll excuse me, my marten ballerina awaits stuffing."


    Yvette exited, concerns mounting. If Birmingham''s resident expert remained engrossed in rodent taxidermy while predators stalked streets, this investigation rested squarely on her shoulders.


    Yvette left Bogarde''s company before his patience frayed, the sky still pale with afternoon light. Time enough for a detour to St. Philip''s Church.


    Birmingham thrived as a city of exiles¡ªHungarians, Irish, Welsh, all drawn to the factories'' mechanical heartbeat. Faiths clashed and mingled here. When Yvette reached the church, its cruciform shadow marked it as Catholic territory.


    A dangerous affiliation. In Albion, the Anglican Church reigned, branding Rome''s followers heretics.


    She passed apostles frozen in stone and the Fourteen Stations'' sorrowful tableaux, finding a priest at the austere altar. His cassock, black and hooded, whispered of Benedictine vows, not parish duties.


    "How may I serve, my child?'' The priest''s voice resonated like a cathedral bell, warm yet commanding.


    "Father Franz?"


    "I am he."


    "Mr. Bogarde sent me. He suggested¡­ organizational matters might be discussed here."


    The priest''s gaze sharpened. "Inside."


    In the deserted sacristy, votive candles flickered as Yvette introduced herself: "Fisher. From London''s branch."


    "A fellow traveler. Welcome. What brings you?"


    "A confession," Yvette admitted. "I belong to a¡­ detective society. Well-meaning, but reckless. They hunt crimes like hounds after foxes. Before my involvement, they plagued London''s constabulary. I''ve since curbed their worst impulses, but Birmingham''s murders have stirred them anew. They¡¯ll descend here soon. I apologize in advance for any disturbances."


    Father Franz raised a hand. "Your warning is kindness enough, Mr. Fisher. Foreknowledge softens surprise."


    "Still, I share blame. The Detective Consultancy was my notion." She leaned closer. "But let me make amends. I''ve some skill in investigation myself. Any insights you might offer?"


    The priest''s face darkened. "Little to share. One killing happened yards from this door, yet I sensed nothing. The police name a suspect¡ªa local man blaming immigrants for stolen work, now preying on the weak. May God damn his soul."


    "A suspect?" Yvette''s instincts prickled. She nearly spoke of the werewolf''s scentless killer¡ªa mark of the arcane¡ªbut bit her tongue. Kobelev''s warnings echoed: Beware Trinity zealots. The Special Mission''s agents viewed all supernatural beings as targets.


    "May justice find him," Franz murmured, crossing himself.


    "Mandrake! Behold our metamorphosis!"


    Back at the rented rooms, Oleander¡ªdressed as a prim clerk¡ªhauled Yvette inside. Curare perched like a hack journalist in beret and ink-stained cuffs; Nux Vomica embodied a threadbare academic, clenching an unsmoked pipe.


    "Adequate," Yvette judged. "Nux Vomica¡ªthat pipe''s too new. Beggar''s props should look used."


    "I''ll not mouth another man''s dregs," the writer sniffed.


    Curare writhed, clawing his sleeve. "Fleas! This gutter-rag came infested."


    Ah, the cost of authenticity. Yvette''s own secondhand wardrobe had required pest control¡ªa discreet flare of supernatural heat sufficed.


    "I''ve news," she announced. "Police claim a suspect."


    "Farce!" Nux Vomica expelled smoke scornfully. "Their sort exists to blunder and obfuscate. Standard detective-narrative protocol."


    Wrong method, right conclusion.


    "Enough theatrics." Oleander flourished a pamphlet: The Birmingham Belle''s Companion, its cover adorned with gaudy women. "Tonight''s education begins!"


    Yvette paled. "You can¡¯t mean¡ª"


    "A symposium with the city¡¯s muses!"


    Their carriage rattled past night-time streets where shivering women loomed¡ªskirts abbreviated, legs bare and mottled by cold. Rouged cheeks and chalky pallor made ghastly masks. Mill-workers'' daughters, Yvette thought, selling what factories stole.


    Their destination was no street-corner hovel but a gabled house aglow with ruby light¡ªgas mantles tinted by gold-infused glass.


    So this is where ''red light'' began¡­


    Yvette trailed her companions into Birmingham¡¯s upscale brothel, ¡°Eden.¡± The Parlor glowed under magenta walls, its Rococo opulence showcased through velvet-draped chaises where a dozen courtesan, draped in silks, artfully posed like living oil paintings.


    ¡°Welcome, gentlemen. New to our establishment?¡±


    By the doorway, a matronly woman reclined with a serpentine pipe, exhaling fragrant smoke. Pearls clustered at her throat, a beauty mark flirtatiously placed ¨C remnants of youthful allure clung to her fuller figure.


    ¡°Assuming our driver was sober, this must be Eden,¡± Yvette¡¯s companion said. ¡°We¡¯re expected by Madam Cleland.¡±


    ¡°Cleland at your service,¡± the woman purred, setting aside her pipe. ¡°Londoners, yes? Devouring your ¡®Chevalier¡¯ series kept me awake many nights. Which of you pens these tales?¡±


    The group nudged forward a flustered gentleman. ¡°The honor is shared, madam. My circle plots the intrigues ¨C I merely transcribe.¡±


    ¡°Modesty ill suits you, Mr. Faulkner! Your latest Gazette interview revealed uncommon familiarity with the Red Mill case. Word is, the scene matched your fiction perfectly. Dare I hope your visit heralds another such¡­adventure?¡±


    Faulkner¡¯s collar seemed to tighten. ¡°Flattery, madam! Mere literary conjecture¡ª¡±


    Yvette intercepted his discomfort. ¡°We¡¯re here regarding darker matters. Your letter mentioned a predator?¡±


    Cleland¡¯s coquetry dissolved. ¡°A butcher stalks Birmingham¡¯s daughters. Five murdered since spring. The constables grasp at straws ¨C first blamed Slavic vagrants, then pagan miners. Now? A disgraced knacker named Pierce.¡± She produced a pistol from beneath the bar. ¡°My girls fear stepping outdoors. The Magdalene House sisterhood pleads for aid.¡±


    ¡°Why not Scotland Yard?¡± Yvette pressed.


    ¡°Pride. The police commander seeks redemption after botching prior inquiries. He¡¯ll brook no meddling ¡®amateurs.¡¯¡± Cleland leaned close. ¡°Yet my salon¡­attracts certain officers. Wine loosens tongues. Evidence against Pierce? Thin, but compelling ¨C vanished after his dismissal, seen bloodstained near a killing.¡±


    ¡°Plausible,¡± Yvette mused. ¡°A knacker¡¯s accustomed to carcasses. But why linger in the city?¡±


    ¡°To taunt!¡± Cleland¡¯s fist clenched. ¡°He struck again as police ransacked his flat! You¡¯ll help, yes? The Magdalene¡¯s girls can offer¡­resources.¡±


    Oleander, the group¡¯s brooding philosopher, stiffened. ¡°We¡¯re no libertines, madam. Justice first.¡±


    ¡°Speak for yourself!¡± His peer, Nux Vomica, grinned, shoving Yvette forward. ¡°Our fledgling here might fancy¡ª¡±


    ¡°Enough.¡± Yvette stepped clear, addressing Cleland. ¡°Access police files discreetly. Could your¡­patrons assist?¡±


    Monkshood, their moralist, groaned. ¡°You propose burglary?¡±


    ¡°Investigation,¡± Yvette countered. ¡°Laws shielding killers are unjust. We¡¯ll balance the scales.¡±


    As the debate spiraled into ethics, Cleland watched, faintly smiling. London¡¯s wolves had arrived ¨C and her lambs might yet survive.

 Chapter 100

    The copper kept to a rigid timetable¡ªevery Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at nine sharp, he¡¯d darken the doors of the "Pleasure Garden." Seeing as today fell on schedule, Madam Clareland stashed us in her upstairs parlour to ambush him during his nightly ritual.


    Half-nine chimed when one of Clareland¡¯s doves fluttered in, cheeks flushed with news.


    "Got the lay of it. Archivin'' room¡¯s past the left corridor in the station lobby. They¡¯ve upped patrols, but nights? Only one rozzer minding the shop."


    "Our thanks," Yvette inclined her head, wheels already turning.


    "Bless you, Mr. Fisher," the girl dipped a curtsey. "Knowing Old Bailey¡¯s watching over Brummagem firms the spine. Best I scarper now¡ªkeepin'' our gent waiting might queer the pitch."


    Nerium crackled with energy the moment the door clicked shut. "Pinched the archives¡¯ location! Slip in, nip the files¡ªthey¡¯re practically begging us!"


    "Black cloaks first," Strychnos rumbled. "Blend with shadows."


    "Masks!" Belladonna added. "Full shrouds."


    "Why¡¯re you lot kitting up?" Yvette¡¯s arctic tone froze the chatter.


    "Partners share the risks, love," Nerium beamed.


    "Back to the inn. Now."


    "Right, right¡ªwe¡¯ll keep nix outside then¡ª"


    "Don¡¯t. Bother."


    ¡­


    Ten-thirty found a bobby lounging in the station¡¯s toasty lobby, savoring his horlicks and Mirror. Chilly nights made desk duty a plum gig¡ªespecially with some maniac carving up tarts.


    The bell tinkled. A lad approached bearing a billfold. "Found this round the corner, guv. Hung about, but..."


    Pocketing the purse (a quid inside), the officer returned to his paper¡ªuntil the dying fire¡¯s chill drove him to the coal closet. His retreat masked scampering footsteps.


    In a reeking close nearby, Yvette daubed unguent on her brow¡ªBastet¡¯s blessing bought from Keegan¡¯s May Day mob. On cue, a chimney-smudged malkin slinked down, stamping her forehead like a customs agent.


    Nightvision hit like a drug. Through luminous shadows, she ghosted into the archives, fingers dancing across horror-stained pages:


    Ramona White, 28


    July ¡®39. Throttled, then butchered. Baubles nicked.


    Belinda Wright


    August. Back-alley job.


    Barbara Joy


    Butchered by the poorhouse...


    Sally Mills


    New Street Station. Throat cut standing. Even her shoes pinched¡ªshows the blighter¡¯s brass. Leather¡¯s dearer than Sunday best these days.


    Daisy Johnson


    Father Franz¡¯s failure.


    Camella


    White Lion Close. Finder: Some Slav cove caught sniffing the carcass. Rozzers thought him a wrong ¡®un¡ªcourse, they didn¡¯t know about wolfmen.


    Yvette pored over the case files, each victim more horrifically mutilated than the last. The killer''s evolution chilled her - from frenzied stabbings to methodical dissections. Early victims were strangled prostitutes, their corpses desecrated in rage. Later, he slit throats just enough to silence screams, carving women alive with surgical precision.


    The forensic report''s metaphor stuck in her mind - "the blood-soaked street resembled crushed pomegranates." Crimson seeds, membranous flesh... Myth and biology intertwined. Persephone''s underworld fruit. Biological viscera. She shuddered, slamming the dossier as if the words burned.


    Sweat dampened her collar. Words trapped psychic imprints, she realized. The clerk''s terror had seeped into dry ink. For ordinary readers, mere discomfort. For those attuned to aetheric currents like her, a poisonous draft.


    Marcus''s chained library made sense now. Knowledge required containment. Her heightened sensitivity - a double-edged sword since ascending aetheric tiers - made her vulnerable.


    Analyzing patterns, she noted the killer''s grisly consistency amidst evolving methods: a woman flayed in spread-eagle position, organs inverted, ring finger bearing pale band where jewelry was ripped off. Meticulous theft. Perverted trophies. If this was reclusive Piers liquidating assets, fences might hold clues.


    Recalling werewolf Kebilev''s gang connections, Yvette decided to investigate pawnbrokers catering to thieves. She jotted notes for Nightshade colleagues - less for assistance than keeping their mischief contained.


    Blindness crept in as her salve wore off. She memorized remaining details - the Nightshade crew would get edited truths anyway.


    Slipping from the precinct under fog''s cover, she navigated gaslit gloom. 11pm Birmingham dissolved into amber mist - perfect hunting ground. Lords bragged of fog-shrouded dalliances on London bridges; why not murder here?


    Colton Street''s White Lion Yard emerged through murk - crumbling brick tenements housing twitchy guards. Sunflower shells crunched beneath her boots as Ruthenian curses gave way to theatrical English: "Boss! Some French doxy''s here!"


    Kebilev descended creaky stairs, scattering nosey residents. Boarded windows caught her eye - moonlight precautions amidst drying laundry. A werewolf ghetto resembling haunted houses.


    Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    "Eager for my help, miss?" His grin revealed sharp canines.


    "Fences handling stolen goods?"


    "You''ve made progress?" Surprise flickered across his face.


    "Police released you despite suspicion."


    "Another murder during my interrogation. They think my pack staged it." He gestured at patrolling constables. "Full moons make us... testy. Cops poking around during wolfnights? Bad recipe."


    Yvette grasped the stalemate - lawmen saw monsters-in-waiting while Church enforcers would purge first, ask later. The Midnight Killer''s spree endangered both humans and paranormals. Time grew short.


    ¡°You sought me out just to find black-market fences?¡± Kobalev¡¯s tone dripped skepticism.


    ¡°Have a better proposal?¡±


    ¡°Does this connect to the Midnight Killer case?¡±


    Yvette paused before confessing: ¡°I examined police records. The killer strips victims of valuables¡ªjewelry torn so violently it deforms the metal. Common thieves wouldn¡¯t risk such brutality with the constabulary on high alert. Only established fences with powerful patrons would handle such marked goods.¡±


    Kobalev clicked his tongue. ¡°A decent theory, fatally naive. Do you think underworld merchants let strangers rifle through their shadow inventories?¡±


    ¡°Not usually. But I can charm my way in.¡±


    ¡°Charm? These are cutthroats! Wait¡ªhow did you access police files? Those Blue Devils don¡¯t hand records to pretty Church mice.¡±


    Unlike Huaxia¡¯s modern civic guardians, Albion¡¯s constables served crown and coin, bullying drunks and vagrants in navy uniforms that earned them the nickname ¡°Blue Devils.¡±


    Yvette shrugged. ¡°I reviewed them... expediently. Before objections arose.¡±


    Kobalev blinked. Church agents weren¡¯t supposed to bypass rules¡ªor smirk while admitting it.


    Having fled Kiev Rus¡¯s theocratic prisons, he¡¯d expected Albion¡¯s clergy to mirror its decadent bishops: preaching morality while waltzing in silk waistcoats. Instead, this girl operated like a seasoned rogue.


    Collecting himself, the werewolf growled: ¡°Must you grovel through gutters? There¡¯s a swifter path.¡±


    ¡°Enlighten me.¡±


    ¡°Our interests may... intersect.¡±


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª


    Next morning found Yvette at a parish workhouse school¡ªKobalev¡¯s price for underworld introductions.


    ¡°Prime stock, sir!¡± barked a whip-wielding instructor. ¡°Just last month, five lads apprenticed to Birmingham¡¯s top chimney firm! Starts at four years¡ªideal for narrow flues!¡±


    Yvette¡¯s jaw tightened. These ¡°schools¡± supplied child labor to Albion¡¯s grimmest industries. Sweeps died young¡ªcrushed, burned, or lungs clogged with soot.


    ¡°I need no sweeps.¡±


    ¡°Ah! An errand boy, then!¡± The instructor yanked a trembling child forward. ¡°Sammy here¡¯s quick as a hare¡ªshow your legs, boy!¡±


    Yvette¡¯s stomach turned as the man hawked children like livestock.


    ¡°I want Eddie Smurf.¡±


    The instructor¡¯s smile curdled. ¡°That devil¡¯s spawn? Returned for attacking his master! He¡¯ll hang before eighteen. Choose wisely, sir¡ª¡±


    ¡°Done. Name your price.¡±


    Paperbacked, the man spat: ¡°I¡¯ll notify his sister. Parents dead¡ªshe¡¯s all he¡¯s got.¡±


    Of course, Yvette mused. Only the desperate sell children here.


    When Eddie arrived¡ªgrubby but bright-eyed¡ªthe instructor hissed final threats: ¡°Fail this gentleman, and I¡¯ll sell you to quarry slavers!¡±


    Eddie bounded in, scattering fleas from his nest-like hair. Yvette masked a shudder, incinerating the pests with a discreet heat spell.


    Kneeling, she met his curious gaze. ¡°Eddie Smurf? I¡¯m Yves de Faucher. Gather your things¡ªyou¡¯re leaving this place.¡±


    The boy whooped, unaware his purchaser pondered darker truths:


    Werewolf younglings appeared human until their Breaking¡ªwhen years of abuse ignited monstrous rage. Will this child slaughter his captors someday?


    As a Veil Guardian, she ought to warn them. Instead, she led Eddie outside, leaving the slaver to his fate.


    Yvette emerged from the workhouse school with Eddie Smurf in tow. The boy practically bounced with joy. "This is great! No more beatings from that Devil Riley! Thanks for taking me in, kind sir. I¡¯ll make it up to you, I swear! And if you let me sleep by the fireplace in the parlor at night, I¡¯ll do anything you ask!"


    Even well-off homes rarely lit fires for servants, but the lingering warmth of a brick hearth was better than nothing. The boy¡¯s optimism was as practical as it was heartbreaking.


    "You¡¯ll have a proper bed," Yvette said firmly. "And why do you look healthier than the others? Was Riley truly so harsh?"


    Eddie¡¯s wiry frame crackled with restless energy. He reminded her of a stray pup¡ªall sharp angles and feral spark.


    "Oh, I found ways to eat! When Riley¡¯s off hollering at someone, I sneak into his office to use the hearth. Grasshoppers cook up quick¡ªpop ¡¯em in, crunch ¡¯em out! Rats take longer. Burn off the fur, tear into the skin¡­ greasy and chewy. Better than moldy bread!" He flashed needle-like canines.


    Yvette¡¯s stomach lurched. After Rat Island, you¡¯d think I¡¯d be immune. Apparently not.


    "What of your family?" she asked, steering the conversation elsewhere. "Shall we tell your sister you¡¯re safe?" She doubted the schoolmaster had bothered.


    "Dad disappeared. Mom raised us till she died. My sister took over after¡ªsame mum, different dads. Hers croaked young too."


    "Did she send you here?" The question left a bitter taste. What choice did a girl have, selling her brother to survive?


    Eddie¡¯s ever-bright eyes darkened. "We lived together at first. She¡­ entertained gentlemen. Guess I ate too much? Folks said I gobbled three kids¡¯ worth. Then she took rougher clients¡ªones who left bruises. I figured if I fed myself, she could ditch ¡¯em. But when she caught me roasting a rat¡­" He kicked a pebble. "She sobbed for days. Then Riley came. Promised meat stew, but school slop¡¯s worse than bugs. Riley didn¡¯t care¡­ as long as I didn¡¯t get caught."


    Yvette swallowed pity. "Shall we visit her? Let her know you¡¯re safe?"


    For a heartbeat, Eddie¡¯s face lit like fractured sunlight. Then he shrugged. "She cursed me last time. Said never come back."


    They rounded a corner. Leaning in a soot-stained alley, Kobylev watched them approach.


    "Good Uncle!" Eddie beamed.


    "You¡¯ve met?" Yvette raised an eyebrow.


    "Every Sunday, Riley made us pick lice into goose quills. Fall short, and he¡¯d strip you bare in the cold. Once, Good Uncle punched him! Later, Riley came back with a black eye¡­"


    The werewolf leader tousled Eddie¡¯s hair. "Not without cost. The wretch called the law on me. Banned from the street now."


    "Bathe him first," Yvette advised, eyeing fleas leap toward Kobylev.


    "Worry not. Their teeth can¡¯t pierce hide."


    At White Lion Yard, a wild-haired woman hauled Eddie off for scrubbing¡ªwerewolves scoffed at fleas, but human skin suffered.


    "You¡¯ve questions," Kobylev said as they walked.


    "The boy¡¯s one of yours? Why involve me?"


    "We mark our young at birth. Let them grow among humans until the Change. Imagine a lad waking as a beast! We guide them¡ªif their blood¡¯s clean."


    "All turn? His sister¡¯s human?"


    "Her? Mortal. Not all awaken¡ªsome die human. But he reeks of full moon blood. The wolf will claim him."


    "Why?"


    Kobylev¡¯s grin turned sly. "What¡¯s in your Church archives? What¡¯s not¡­" He paused, baiting curiosity. Yvette stayed silent.


    "Ah, well." He relented. "Birth moons shape us. Full moons breed brutes¡ªstrong but wild. Crescents slink in shadows, brooding. Half-moons like me¡­ balance. Lead. Now, having spilled secrets¡­ humor a favor?"


    "Depends."


    "Watch the cub briefly. I¡¯ll find him keepers."


    "Why not keep him?"


    "He¡¯s too green. Our presence accelerates the Change. A full-moon cub with untamed power? Like handing a pistol to a toddler."


    "Then why leave him among mortals?"


    "We monitor. Choose caretakers wisely, and we control the awakening. His scent will scream warnings long before the claws burst. I¡¯ll retrieve him in time." Kobylev¡¯s voice hardened. "London crawls with our kind¡ªEast End docks, Southwark slums. When¡¯s the last humans noticed? Only the bastard half-breeds cause trouble¡­ consorting with vampires."


    His snarl dripped venom. Yvette said nothing.


    "Trust me. If I fail¡ªif one hair on a mortal¡¯s head is harmed¡ªdrive us out. But his foster family will want for nothing. This city¡¯s our refuge. I¡¯ll not lose it."

 Chapter 101

    Had Kobelev been born in a later era, he¡¯d have made a fortune as a silver-tongued salesman¡ªor a propaganda maestro. Either way, he defied Yvette¡¯s stereotype of Russians as brash simpletons.


    For now, she¡¯d rented an inn room to stash their orphaned charge until the werewolf alpha found foster parents. With logistics settled, it was time to hunt.


    True to his word, Kobelev proved invaluable. He¡¯d marked a map with shops of interest, annotating each with colorful details:


    ¡°Old Hank¡¯s Pawnshop¡ªretired kingpin of pickpockets. His ¡®cormorants¡¯ still filch watches and lace hankies. His craftsmen scrub ownership marks better than repentance.¡±


    ¡°Redbeard Ramsay¡¯s den¡ªbastion of cat burglars. If Birmingham¡¯s coppers weren¡¯t dozing, these rats¡¯d be crow-food by now¡­¡±


    Yvette selected targets, charting a course.


    ¡°Razor himself! Here to spend Blood Cap¡¯s treasury?¡± jeered their third shopkeeper. Earlier proprietors had similarly recognized Kobelev¡ªunsurprising, given his infamy.


    Immigrant werewolf clans thrived in gangs here. Albion¡¯s underclass distrusted outsiders, yet lycanthropes¡¯ feral moods barred respectable careers. Brutal enforcer roles fit them like bloodstained gloves.


    ¡°An old debt calls,¡± Kobelev lied smoothly, clapping the man¡¯s shoulder. ¡°This lad¡¯s kin saved me from Tsarist mines. Now he¡¯s touring Birmingham¡ªgot tangled with some doxy. Played knight-errant for her stolen trinkets. Let¡¯s see your black-market baubles. Coin¡¯s no object.¡±


    The shopkeeper produced crates of suspect jewelry. Kobelev sniffed each piece. Their killer left no scent¡ªeither masking it magically or scrubbing it entirely. Either way, abnormally ¡°clean¡± items warranted scrutiny.


    Bloodied hands had handled these goods post-murder. Even polished, dried gore lurked in settings¡ªtrivial for a werewolf¡¯s nose.


    ¡°Your lady¡¯s ring?¡± Kobelev passed dubious items to Yvette, who cross-checked against police reports.


    ¡°Close enough. We¡¯ll let her decide.¡± She set aside a ring and mangled earrings.


    Transaction concluded, Yvette probed casually: ¡°Who sold these? I¡¯ll flay the brute who mauled my dove¡¯s ears!¡±


    The shopkeeper, pockets heavier, divulged: ¡°Sniveling newbie¡ªgreasy apron, stank like slaughterhouse runoff. Skulked outside forever, drawing peelers¡¯ eyes!¡±


    Yvette hid a grim smile. Graying-brown hair, gaunt face, leather apron¡ªperfect match for Piers, the butcher suspected by police.


    Kobelev sniffed again. ¡°These reek of blood¡­ but the last victim¡¯s corpse was scentless.¡±


    Yvette¡¯s eyes narrowed. ¡°Today¡¯s haul belongs to earlier victims. Coincidence?¡±


    ¡°Meaning?¡±


    ¡°Copycats, Kobelev. Ever heard the term?¡±


    It was the golden age of print journalism, with newspapers competing fiercely to captivate readers. To feed public curiosity, most publications ran sensational society columns. Unscrupulous reporters and scribes employed every trick¡ªfabricating colonial officers'' identities while spinning tales of savage tribal rituals during slow news days, posing as scholars to translate imaginary ancient texts... When crimes occurred, they descended like famished vultures to feast upon victims and perpetrators alike.


    Every microscopic detail of cases spread through lead type across Albion''s empire. Such collected accounts could form a veritable criminal''s handbook.


    Yvette recalled a modern-era copycat case: needles found in Australian supermarket strawberries. Media coverage caused this low-effort crime to replicate like wildfire. Within weeks, over a hundred needle-in-fruit reports paralyzed the industry. Ultimately, sewing needle sales were banned nationally to stop the hysteria.


    This current case had similar anomalies. Suspect Pearce''s disappearance and the fencing of only early victims'' belongings raised questions. Prostitutes carried little beyond pawnable jewelry. If Pearce kept killing, why stop selling? Pawnshop rates could hardly sustain him.


    Likely he''d fled the city. Even common criminals would panic under police pursuit and media scrutiny. Testimony painted Pearce as a coward¡ªabusing prostitutes instead of confronting his slaughterhouse boss, buckling to gangsters'' demands. Such a man couldn''t taunt authorities through continued killings.


    The real perpetrator now mimicked Pearce''s reported crimes¡ªprobably a supernatural entity!


    Society remained oblivious that vivid crime reporting awakened latent monsters in susceptible minds.


    Police files showed mid-case shifts in MO¡ªfrom vengeful strikes to sadistic rituals. This indicated a copycat maintaining just enough similarities to appear as one killer. Sudden methodology changes might have split the case files otherwise.


    The copycat mightn''t need money, possibly connected to underworld fences. Yvette kept this from Kobelev, noting only his appropriate confusion. His criminal record and police scrutiny made active killings improbable, though vigilance remained.


    "Never mind¡ªI have what''s needed." Yvette changed subjects. "Did you know Eddie has a half-sister?"


    "At the poorhouse school, I sensed ancestral rage as he was bullied. Younger then¡ªbarely manifesting. I scared off his tormentor. Family details escaped me."


    "His sister cared for him. Bring her when relocating him¡ªa debt repaid."


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "Where is she?"


    Yvette hesitated. Eddie claimed she refused contact¡ªpossibly fearing renewed burdens. If estranged, money might suffice.


    "Consult Eddie yourself. My clansmen lack subtlety."


    After settling the boy at the inn, Yvette joined returning Mind Labyrinth members.


    "Ives! Your absence?" Oleander pressed.


    "Tracking leads. You?"


    "Pearce''s abandoned home¡ªtools missing. He''s our man!"


    "Clumsy police scared him off!" Nux Vomica growled.


    Upas disagreed: "The hunt begins! We''ll redeem their failure."


    "Your ''comfort zone'' theory holds." Oleander said. "Early crimes centered near his home¡ªsafe for nightly escapes."


    "Newer crimes break the pattern."


    "He''s mobile! A cunning fiend!"


    Yvette hid a smirk. Profiling techniques from her time saw through the ruse¡ªthis copycat was likely supernatural, best handled discreetly.


    Next morning, Yvette approached St. Philip''s Church vicinity. At ramshackle Daffodil Apartments, a sour-faced landlady sneered: "Bonita? Churching with Dominicans¡ªtrollop keeps unholy hours."


    "Dominican monks here?"


    "Heretic." The door slammed.


    Yvette sighed. Church factions mattered little¡ªfinding the girl did.


    It was Sunday¡ªthe Lord¡¯s Day¡ªand the air hummed with devotion. At St. Philip¡¯s Church, Father Franz¡¯s voice carried past the weathered doors as he led the congregation:


    ¡°Behold the Lamb of God, who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to His feast.¡±


    The response rippled through the pews: ¡°Lord, I am not worthy, but speak the word, and I shall be healed.¡±


    Even the sternest factory owners permitted workers this half-day reprieve, for scripture decreed the Sabbath sacred. To serve the flocks, three Masses were held each Sunday. Yvette timed her arrival as the second neared its end, lingering until the Eucharist concluded.


    A violent shout shattered the calm:


    ¡°Why won¡¯t You strike down that poison-blooded harlot, Holy Spirit?! Thief! Witch! Devil¡¯s whore! Where¡¯s her punishment? Where are hell¡¯s chains?!¡±


    Inside, congregants¡ªcalloused hands still gripping the raving man¡ªstruggled to restrain him. His face bloomed with pustules, spittle frothing at ulcerated lips. Father Franz lay nearby, his rosary torn, beads skittering across stone.


    A cloaked woman fled past Yvette, her hood slipping to reveal a nightmare visage: oozing sores, patchy scalp, teeth rotted to stubs. Yet her fleeing form seemed heartbreakingly young.


    ¡°Father, are you hurt?¡± Yvette helped him rise.


    ¡°Unscathed, thanks to kindness.¡± He smiled as parishioners reassembled his rosary¡ªCatholicism¡¯s emblem of Marian devotion, its fifty-nine beads tallying prayers to the sinless Virgin.


    ¡°That witch gave me the pox!¡± the pustuled man spat, now subdued.


    Father Franz approached, gentle. ¡°Do you curse this affliction, child?¡±


    ¡°¡­Yes.¡±


    ¡°Give thanks. The Lord allows your suffering to forge grace.¡±


    Chastened, the man joined others kneeling before a guaiac-wood Virgin statue¡ªtheir faces mirrored ruin.


    ¡°Next Mass is at six,¡± Father Franz told Yvette.


    ¡°What¡¯s this ritual?¡±


    ¡°A donated statue¡ªbelieved to cure their illness.¡±


    ¡°Syphilis.¡±


    Yvette knew too well. Europe¡¯s plague, imported from the New World alongside colonial greed. ¡°Cures¡± like mercury rotted bones before killing. The wealthy guzzled guaiacwood tonics; the desperate clutched at wooden icons.


    ¡°That man blamed the woman who fled?¡± Yvette pressed. ¡°Miss Smouffe?¡±


    ¡°Possibly. Nightfall brings many wretched souls trading flesh for crumbs. May they repent.¡±


    Miss Smouffe¡ªEddie¡¯s sister! Her rebuking him years ago¡ªlikely to shield him from infection.


    Yvette faced the priest. ¡°Scripture¡¯s miracles won¡¯t feed the hungry. When survival demands sin, the fault lies not with the sinner, but the world that forces their hand.¡±


    Father Franz stared, speechless.


    Muttering an apology, Yvette dashed out¡ªbut the diseased girl had melted into the labyrinthine streets.


    ¡°You again?!¡± snapped the landlady of Narcissus Apartments, squinting at the figure who¡¯d recently inquired about the syphilitic tenant.


    Yvette wedged her boot against the door before it slammed shut, slipping shillings into the woman¡¯s palm. ¡°My apologies. Any news of Miss Smurf¡¯s return?¡±


    ¡°She¡¯s months behind on rent. I¡¯d have tossed her out years ago if she weren¡¯t reliable. This barely covers the trouble.¡± The landlady pocketed the coins, relenting. ¡°Out ¡®working,¡¯ I¡¯d reckon. Won¡¯t be back till past midnight. Come back tomorrow if it¡¯s not urgent.¡±


    Useless.


    Every client deepened Miss Smurf¡¯s torment¡ªYvette knew the searing pain syphilis inflicted. Waiting until dawn was unthinkable.


    Eddie might know where she plies her trade.


    She raced by cab to the inn, extracted a location¡ª¡°near the Crescent Theatre¡±¡ªfrom the boy, and sped toward the glow of gaslit marquees.


    Drizzle matted her wool coat as she stepped onto the curb. Fur-clad courtesans drifted into the theater like moths, their ¡°season tickets¡± granting access to wealthy prey. Under dripping awnings, rougher trade beckoned:


    ¡°A pretty lad like you ought to warm my bed tonight!¡±


    ¡°Terrible weather¡­ I¡¯ll trade an evening¡¯s company for a hot meal!¡±


    Rain rarely deterred desperation. The street glittered despite the gloom¡ªits brocade shops and perfumeries haloed in gold. The women here were comely enough. Eddie¡¯s sister might once have thrived here, her youth a commodity. But diseased?


    Yvette veered to Madame Cleland¡¯s den.


    ¡°Hunting gutter snipes?¡± The madam exhaled smoke. ¡°Dark corners where faces blur? I¡¯ll mark the alleys.¡±


    Her map led Yvette to a warren of cramped passageways, reeking of sewage and unwashed stone. Streetlamps flickered weakly beneath decades of grime¡ªslum infrastructure crumbling beneath the weight of rural migrants drawn by factories and famine.


    Few braved the downpour. Most streetwalkers had likely traded a night¡¯s work for a dry attic or a laborer¡¯s cot.


    Is she here? Or curled in some stranger¡¯s sheets?


    Albion¡¯s autumn rain gnawed through layers, sharper than winter¡¯s bite. Yvette ached for her armchair, tea steaming beside crackling logs¡­ yet she trudged onward, boots sinking into muck.


    The alley yawned ahead, its horror stark even in shadow.


    A corpse sprawled like a gutted stag, blood swirling in rainwater. The stench struck late¡ªrain had washed the air. A sodden cloak nearby confirmed the victim.


    ¡­


    Umbrellas bobbed past the sprinting boy, their owners cursing as he splashed through puddles. Eddie barely heard them. Dread gnawed his ribs¡ªa beast clawing its way out.


    Lately, his instincts had sharpened to a predator¡¯s edge: sensing rats cowering in walls, smelling rage beneath the orphanage director¡¯s honeyed lies. In dreams, wolves called him to moonlight. When he woke, his bruises faded faster¡­ but if he succumbed to the howling dark¡ª


    He shook himself beneath an awning, scattering rain and nightmare.


    Why run?


    Mr. Fisher¡¯s questions about his sister¡­ The man¡¯s grimness earlier¡­ That familiar scent of roasting meat¡ª


    The grease.


    In their old flat, his sister would bring home congealed fat from the butcher¡¯s grill¡ªfree scraps for their bread. Eddie missed that greasy feast more than the orphanage¡¯s stale stew.


    Now that butcher-shop reek clung to Mr. Fisher. Had he gone to their old home? Why did the smell curdle Eddie¡¯s gut?


    The beast inside him snarled, tracking Fisher¡¯s trail through the rain¡ª


    The alley. The blood.


    Yvette crouched over the body, fury a live wire in her veins. Whispers slithered through the downpour¡ªher own primal rage threatening to unravel. She willed calm, fingers brushing still-warm viscera.


    A wounded cry tore the night¡ªhalf-human, half-wolf.


    Eddie writhed at the alley¡¯s mouth, jaw cracking as it elongated. Claws sprouted, fur rippling over muscle¡ªa monstrous silhouette against the storm.


    Yvette¡¯s hand flew to her revolver¡ªsilver rounds always chambered since learning of the city¡¯s lycanthropes. She hesitated.


    Instead, she unsheathed her blade and charged. Arcane energy hummed, leaching sound from the air¡ªthe wolf¡¯s roar became a ripple of heat, unheard.

 Chapter 102

    Within moments, the boy¡¯s bones cracked and twisted, morphing into a towering werewolf with grizzled fur that shimmered like quicksilver beneath the moon¡¯s chill gaze.


    Yvette hesitated. Had this been any ordinary beast, her blade would have severed its spine without remorse. But the pleading eyes of the ragged street urchin ¡ª the child who had clutched her coat while recounting his sister¡¯s disappearance ¡ª lingered in her mind.


    Her fingers brushed the engraved surface of Mr. White Rabbit¡¯s watch. There might be another way.


    Sword abandoned, she let her fists fly. Her strikes lacked killing intent, thudding harmlessly against the werewolf¡¯s barrel-thick ribs. Eddie reeled clumsily, not yet acclimated to his elongated limbs. The creature¡¯s hide resisted even steel ¡ª a trait Yvette exploited, aiming to subdue rather than maim.


    Pain quickened the beast¡¯s instincts. By the third exchange, its swipes gained predatory precision. Yvette ducked beneath a scything claw and pivoted, her enhanced strength propelling a kick that sent the hulking wolf skidding through sludge.


    It rose snarling, frost steaming from its maw. Patches of mud matted its pelt, revealing scrawny haunches belying its feral might. For an instant, Yvette faltered beneath the primal hunger in its amber eyes.


    The air crackled. Ice needles sprouted across the wolf¡¯s back, glinting like a thousand shattered mirrors. The frost-coated creature lunged.


    Far enough from the body now. Yvette drew her blade in a rasp of steel, bracing as the wolf charged on all fours before rearing upright ¡ª half-tactic, half-instinct. Her thrust pierced its shoulder, pinning it against brickwork.


    Through the watch¡¯s fractured-glass surface, she dove into the fevered mind. Recent memories flickered like damaged film reels ¡ª rain-soaked alley, a pale arm protruding from trash, silver hair matted with blood. Yvette severed the thread of that horrific image before surfacing.


    The werewolf stilled briefly¡­ then erupted in fresh fury, ripping free of the sword.


    Church doctrine demanded discretion, yet how long until some drunk stumbled upon this duel? Her blade trembled.


    ¡°Require assistance, hunter?¡±


    Kobelev¡¯s voice cut through the downpour. The Urals-born werewolf dropped a pair of antlers into the muck. ¡°Drive it here. Two seconds¡¯ contact.¡±


    What followed was a grotesque ballet. Yvette parried with her blade¡¯s flat, herding the snapping creature over Kobelev¡¯s totem. The antlers exploded into knotted bone, snaring the wolf in a cage of ivory thorns.


    ¡°Silver nitrate solution,¡± Kobelev answered her unspoken question, injecting the thrashing beast. ¡°Cheaper than bullets.¡±


    Eddie emerged human ¡ª shivering, sweat-drenched. His widened eyes fixed on Kobelev¡¯s half-transformed claws creeping toward the cage.


    ¡°Full-moon spawn sense death coming,¡± Kobelev murmured. His grin revealed lengthening canines. ¡°A shame... but necessary.¡±


    Yvette¡¯s hand flew to her sword. ¡°Wait¡ª¡±


    The boy pressed against the bone bars, whimpering. Frost still clung to his eyelashes.


    Yvette¡¯s grip tightened around Kobalev¡¯s wrist the instant his claws emerged¡ªa hairbreadth from slaughter.


    ¡°Explain.¡± Her voice cut through the rain.


    The alpha werewolf bared yellowed teeth. ¡°Spare the dramatics. Our pact stands¡ªI¡¯ll still help catch your killer. But this¡­¡± He jerked his chin toward the cowering boy. ¡°¡­is clan business. Moonborn whelps go mad. You¡¯d thank me later.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why you called him a ¡®pity¡¯ earlier?¡± Her fingers dug into his pulse point. ¡°Protect him if useful, butcher him if not. How efficient.¡±


    ¡°Survival isn¡¯t pretty.¡± Kobalev¡¯s chuckle rasped like gravel. ¡°In the woods, we¡¯d exile him. Here? Your Church executes rabid dogs. I¡¯m doing us both favors.¡±


    Logic ice-cold. Flawless. Yvette¡¯s hand stayed locked.


    Different rules for different monsters, she knew. Vampires purged bloodline flaws. Wolves culled unstable cubs. She¡¯d never mourned their casualties before¡ªnames without faces, tragedies too foreign.


    But this trembling boy¡­


    Somewhere, a dying girl had cherished him. Made him irreplaceable.


    ¡°How noble.¡± Kobalev leaned close, breath reeking of wet fur. ¡°Leave. I¡¯ll make it quick once you¡¯re gone. Out of sight, out of conscience¡ªeh?¡±


    Yvette didn¡¯t blink. ¡°Mark him exiled. Walk away.¡±


    ¡°And risk him howling through Parliament Square?¡±


    ¡°London. My territory.¡±


    The alpha¡¯s amusement faded. ¡°¡­Your funeral. Frostwolf blood¡¯s wildfire¡ªeach frenzy burns his mind. Keep him? You¡¯ll raise a beast.¡±


    ¡°Noted.¡±


    As Kobalev¡¯s claws retracted, the boy¡ªEddie¡ªwhimpered. The werewolf mock-petted air where he¡¯d flinched away. ¡°Lucky little mongrel.¡±


    Yvette knelt in the mud, extending a hand. The child shook like a soaked sparrow. Silver nitrate poisoned his veins; she carried him through the downpour, tarp draped over them both.


    Eddie hid his face against her nape. A floral scent¡ªbergamot and gunpowder soap¡ªflooded his sharpened senses. Memories surfaced: frostbite nights clutching his sister¡¯s patched shawl. Why did Mr. Fisher smell like¡­ like¡­


    Raindrops blended with salt on Yvette¡¯s skin. White Rabbit¡¯s memory-warping watch couldn¡¯t erase grief¡¯s ghost.


    Lantern light speared the dark ahead.


    ¡°Miss Fisher!¡± Father Franz¡¯s umbrella glowed like a halo. ¡°Out assisting strays, I see?¡±


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    Her spine stiffened. His cassock¡¯s back is soaked¡ªas if kneeling recently.


    ¡°An orphan,¡± she lied. ¡°I¡¯m fostering him.¡±


    ¡°The Lord smiles on kind hearts. Come dry at the rectory?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re expected home.¡±


    As they edged past, the priest¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes. Yvette counted heartbeats¡ª


    One. Two.


    ¡ªwhen the trap sprung.


    The moment her quarry twitched suspiciously, Yvette reacted¡ªblanket fluttering like a raven¡¯s wing as steel gleamed coldly. Her guard-positioned blade clashed against the ambush, rhombus forte resonating with a metallic shrill.


    The strike hadn¡¯t aimed for her, but for Eddie strapped to her back.


    Father Franz, now wielding an impossible weapon, stood transformed. The silver crucifix¡ªformerly pendant-sized around his neck¡ªhad unfurled into a two-handed sword, its hilt clutched in his fist while a solidified beam of holy light formed the shimmering blade. Yvette¡¯s relic-steel met the sanctified edge in a shower of sparks.


    ¡°That creature must remain here.¡±


    Muscle corded beneath the priest¡¯s cassock as he pressed downward. Yvette¡¯s boots scuffed against flagstones, her thermokinetic gifts converting air¡¯s warmth into raw force to match him.


    ¡°By what madness do you judge him?¡±


    ¡°The lantern¡¯s glow shriveled his pupils¡ªbestial corruption.¡± Though the priest¡¯s voice retained its honeyed calm, something slithered beneath its cadence. ¡°But you¡¯ve been deceived, child. Repent, and mercy awaits.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s under my protection now.¡± Crushing a concealed vial, Yvette felt flame-cloak energies surge through her veins.


    Their brief clangorous exchange revealed the priest¡¯s swordsmanship¡ªmethodical bind-and-strike forms meant to exhaust opponents. Time to escalate.


    A pyroclastic ring erupted around her boots. Empowered, Yvette hammered Franz¡¯s guard backward. Their locked blades shrieked like tormented spirits, sparks cascading where sanctified steel met alchemical alloy.


    ¡°Heresy propagates as mycelia through rotten fruit...¡± Franz¡¯s eyes glazed over, lips moving with catechismic fervor. ¡°Each spore begets apocalypse. Thus we burn the orchard.¡±


    Yvette probed for weaknesses, finding none. She pressed harder.


    By rights, their duel defied logic¡ªher nimble rapier overpowering his brutish holy blade through arcane augmentation. Yet even dominating the exchange, she circled cautiously, edge skating across his guard in testing feints.


    The priest¡¯s serenity unnerved her.


    At their next clash, her blade met empty air. Training overruled thought¡ªa burst of supernatural strength launched her backward as Franz¡¯s blade phantomed through space... then solidified where her neck had been.


    Severed hair spiraled downward. Yvette¡¯s breath caught¡ªthe sanctified steel could phase through defenses. A near-fatal lesson: materializing after bypassing her guard. Had she stood firm, mutual impalement might¡¯ve occurred. Did holy flames mend such wounds?


    Three gunshots cracked.


    Two bullets sparked against Franz¡¯s blurring blade. The third grazed his forearm¡ªand golden fire geysered from the wound, licking stonework to ash before subsiding. Yvette memorized the combustion range.


    ¡°Through tribulation, resolve.¡± Franz¡¯s wound still glowed ominously. ¡°The Spirit¡¯s blade knows no fatigue.¡±


    ¡°He... reeks of crypts...¡± Eddie whispered, trembling. Where others exuded sweat and life-stench, the priest emitted nothing¡ªa void to Eddie¡¯s predator senses.


    Medieval protocols flooded Yvette¡¯s memory: Church assassins bred to destroy night-creatures, their presence masked from prey. Franz¡¯s lineage once stalked werewolves through shadowed keeps¡ªnow turned upon a frightened boy.


    ¡°Surrender the beast.¡±


    ¡°Declined.¡±


    Regret softened Franz¡¯s marble features. ¡°Then I must risk harming you. No cost outweighs purging monsters.¡±


    Yvette measured her disadvantages: Eddie¡¯s weight restricted movement; her swordsmanship couldn¡¯t account for two bodies. To free him meant leaving him defenseless. One path remained¡ªmake herself the primary threat.


    ¡°A wager, Father. The boy as prize.¡±


    ¡°Unnecessary odds. Presently, I hold advantage.¡±


    Yvette¡¯s smile cut like her blade. ¡°What if London¡¯s Midnight Butcher stands before me?¡±


    No pupil dilation. No twitch. Only serene inquiry: ¡°You presume?¡±


    ¡°Daisy Johnson¡ªseventh victim¡ªdied blocks from your chapel. Her murderer left no trace. Coincidence? Or when you caught Pierce mid-kill and silenced him? How much stolen jewelry lies buried in your sacristy?¡±


    ¡°Baseless speculation.¡±


    ¡°Your cassock¡¯s soaked.¡± Her blade-tip traced his damp shoulders. ¡°An umbrella-user with drenched back? Out praying in horizontal rain earlier... or butchering number eight?¡±


    Hot rage threatened her mask of calm. Those women¡ªthe poorest, most broken¡ªdeserved vengeance.


    Father Franz inclined his head. ¡°To prosecute me, you must prevail. Otherwise¡ª¡±


    ¡°Otherwise Eddie dies, and I¡¯ll vanish into gaslit streets where you dare not unleash holy flames. The Met will hear of a murderous priest. The Society¡¯s enforcers will attend.¡± Her blade leveled at his heart. ¡°But offer me this: Stand. Down.¡±


    Father Franz¡¯s lips twisted into a ghastly rictus. Moonlight bleached his features into a death-mask, the jagged slash of his smile oozing with rabid loathing.


    ¡°Corrupted by monsters, I see. By the Holy Virgin¡¯s grace, I name you heretic! Let heaven¡¯s fire purge your taint¡ªthe sword obeys angels, flames scourge abominations, and judgment falls upon you!¡±


    His voice rang with zealous delirium, eyes glazed as if drowning in visions. Yet his sword arm moved with lethal precision, fiercer than before.


    This lunatic¡¯s even madder than I guessed, Yvette realized.


    She lowered the boy and drew her rapier. Two bullets left¡ªno time to reload. Save them.


    Steel shrieked as they collided. Their earlier clash had laid bare their strengths: her brute force against his holy blade¡¯s phasing trickery. Every parry risked his weapon ghosting through hers¡ªa mutual stab would favor him. Her slender rapier faltered in slashes, and god knew what the blessed steel¡¯s touch might do.


    Sparks flew like molten hail, holy flames hissing in the rain. A human advantage, that¡ªvampires would¡¯ve been cinders by now.


    ¡°Why...no effect? Ah! Your soul¡¯s half-sold to devils. The light can¡¯t burn you...not yet.¡±


    Father Franz slashed his palm, blood smearing his blade. ¡°Life-blood bears sacred fire¡ªdeath to the corrupted!¡±


    Golden flames curdled crimson. His broadsword swung with renewed fury, each strike echoing damned souls¡¯ screams in Yvette¡¯s skull.


    Visions assailed her: rotting flesh peeling, sanguine fruit bursting, an ocean of blood¡ª


    Focus!


    She jerked back as the sanguine blade grazed her chest, shredding cloth. Bandages peeked through the rent. Almost spilled my guts.


    ¡°Witch!¡± Father Franz howled, face contorting between piety and madness. ¡°Satan¡¯s harlot! Spreading ruin with your cursed wiles!¡±


    His berserk assault drove her backward, blade emitting psychic static she had to dodge. Step by step, she yielded, hunting an opening. But desperation frayed her guard. A jarring slam from his blade¡ªamplified by spectral shrieks¡ªsent her reeling.


    She ¡°stumbled¡± right. The priest pounced, shark-like, targeting her airborne form.


    A feint.


    Her true power lay in her mind¡ªpsychic strings overriding flesh. Even mangled muscles obeyed.


    From her feigned fall, she twisted under his swing and rammed into his chest, inhumanly swift.


    Grappling his sword arm, she skewered his heart.


    The blade slid in cold. No pain¡ªjust an arctic gust hollowing him out. His holy sword clattered down, a silver cross now.


    ¡°Death...won¡¯t...stop...God¡¯s work...¡±


    Yvette recoiled. The wound gaped dry¡ªdusty rags in a bellows. As he spat curses, she tried wrenching free, but his free hand vise-gripped her wrist.


    Trapped. She clawed for her gun.


    Too late. The priest¡¯s eyes whitened, mouth unhinged. Writhing roots burst from his skin, forming a clawed monstrosity lunging for her face.


    BAM! BAM!


    Her final shots: a hollow-point obliterated half his mutated skull; the second snapped his neck, head dangling backward.


    No blood. No stink. Just cloying roses.


    The corpse shriveled, flesh dissolving. Thorned vines sprouted from orifices, sprouting leafless stems heavy with blood-red roses that bloomed and withered in seconds.


    Beneath the priest¡¯s robes: a papery husk over bones webbed with desiccated roots.


    Yvette retrieved her blade. A rustle¡ªbone crevices bristled with dead tendrils, some drilled into marrow.


    Backlash? Parasite? Or a curse from his victims?


    Sheathing her sword, a sting bit her palm¡ªa black thorn. When did that¡ª? She plucked it. A bead of blood.


    After stashing the bones in a coal cart and a derelict shed, she returned to Eddie. The boy gaped at her torn shirt.


    ¡°Miss Fisher! You¡¯re¡ªyou¡¯re hurt!¡±


    ¡°Scratches.¡± She adjusted her scarf. ¡°Rest. We¡¯ll talk tomorrow.¡±


    Hoisting him up, he yelped. ¡°You¡¯re bleeding bad!¡±


    She glanced down. Her palm wept a steady rivulet. A thorn prick...why won¡¯t it clot?

 Chapter 103

    After ensuring Eddie¡¯s safety at the inn, Yvette slipped into St. Philip¡¯s Church as dawn approached. Father Franz¡ªthe parish¡¯s beloved priest and a pillar of the community¡ªnow lay dead. His daily public appearances meant his absence would soon raise alarms among the clergy. She had to act before his brethren grew suspicious.


    She¡¯d left her messenger raven behind but knew Franz¡¯s study housed one. Though Birmingham had telegraph lines, their lack of secrecy deterred her; even a coded message might spark dangerous gossip among local operators.


    Cloaked in fading darkness, she scaled the dormitory wall. A humble rose garden below made her wounded palm throb anew¡ªblood seeped through its bandage.


    The priest¡¯s chambers occupied a tranquil third-floor perch. Perched on the rooftop behind a chimney, Yvette watched friars shuffle into the dining hall below for morning prayers.


    ¡°Where¡¯s Father Franz?¡± someone asked. ¡°Late again. I¡¯ll rouse him.¡±


    She tracked the friar¡¯s footsteps upward. At the third-floor door, three methodical knocks echoed. Activating her silence magic, Yvette shattered the window and rolled inside. By the final knock, she stood breathless behind the door.


    ¡°Father? Are you ill?¡± The friar¡¯s voice tightened. ¡°I¡¯m coming in on three.¡±


    Yvette twisted the White Rabbit¡¯s pocketwatch. Memories rewound twelve seconds. When knocking resumed, she fed him fabricated sights: a crack in the door revealing Franz¡¯s pockmarked face, his rasping voice declaring, ¡°Contagion¡­ handle services without me.¡±


    ¡°Of course!¡± The friar retreated swiftly, oblivious to the empty room.


    A temporary fix. By tomorrow, worried colleagues might send physicians¡ªa scenario her time-altering trinket couldn¡¯t sustain.


    Albieon¡¯s railways offered hope. Two hundred kilometers between Birmingham and London meant envoys could arrive by afternoon if her raven flew swiftly.


    Franz¡¯s chambers¡ªa serial killer¡¯s den¡ªsurprised her with its banality. Beside theology tomes, a caged raven cocked its head as Yvette offered stolen grain. She drafted her report:


    First, instinct guided her pen to ¡°Ulysses¡±¡ªuntil practicality intervened. Franz¡¯s bird didn¡¯t know Hampstead Heath. Bureaucratic forwarding risked delays, and recent tensions within the Order made Ulysses¡¯ involvement perilous. Better address headquarters directly.


    Her final letter omitted werewolves, framing events as a club investigation gone awry: midnight corpse discoveries, a damp-cloaked priest hurling ¡°witch¡± slurs, self-defense necessitated. A postscript inquired about her mysteriously bleeding palm.


    Airborne wings faded as Yvette turned to Franz¡¯s bookshelf. Malleus Maleficarum. Witches¡ªSatan¡¯s Lovers. Medieval witch-hunting manuals crowded alongside anatomical sketches depicting female anatomy as rosebuds. His diary oscillated violently:


    [...The Virgin¡¯s grace remakes unworthy flesh...]


    [...Streetwalkers defile God¡¯s image! May Hell consume them!]


    [...O perfect Mother! Your roses shame mortal gardens!]


    Recent entries fixated on horticulture:


    [...Rescued a plucked rose¡ªdivine fragility...]


    [...Scent of rusted iron intoxicates...]


    [...Moonlight pales the scarlet...]


    Yvette¡¯s blood ran cold. These weren¡¯t flowers¡ªthey were victims. Roses threaded through his madness: the Virgin¡¯s emblem perverted into slaughter. Her stained fingers left crimson smudges across the pages.


    Yvette huddled in Father Franz¡¯s chambers, maintaining her charade of sickness through a gauntlet of concerned monks delivering bland meals. At dusk, as she forced down another bite of flavorless sausage, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap startled her. Peering through the study¡¯s gloom, she found a black silhouette on the windowsill¡ªa feline figure sporting a checkered bowtie, rapping the glass with impatient swipes.


    Even through the tension, she noted the velvety pink pads beneath its paws. Charming, despite the circumstances.


    "Cease your blasphemous daydreaming, insolent child! Unlatch this portal!" The cat¡¯s muzzle wrinkled in a most un-catlike snarl.


    Yvette obliged. Marcus¡ªfor it was he¡ªstreaked inside like shadow given momentum, alighting on the desk to primp his obsidian fur.


    "St. Philip¡¯s problem has been... remedied?" The cat¡¯s tone carried false nonchalance.


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    "Done." Recognition dawned: This fastidious creature was her designated liaison. The Order¡¯s logistics truly scraped the barrel¡ªsending a housecat as backup after that nightmare? Though admittedly, the soft purr radiating from the fluffball did calm her racing thoughts.


    Her fingers twitched toward those tempting ears.


    "Reign in your impertinence!" His tail lashed like a metronome gone rogue. "We¡¯ve graver matters than your feeble human cravings. A psi-Oracle comes to dissect your motives."


    Her breath hitched. Psychics. The Tower¡¯s most feared interrogators, rumored to extract secrets directly from synaptic sparks. During her initiation, Ulysses had exploited a relic¡¯s malfunction to bypass deep scans¡ªbut now...


    "Take heart, mouse." Marcus¡¯s rasp dropped conspiratorially. "Even mind-pluckers avoid psychic overreach. Your inquisitor will sniff for lies, not ransack memories. Answer crisply, plant plausible doubts, and..." A paw performed a magician¡¯s vanish.


    The strategy crystallized: truth, but not the whole truth.


    Apprehension lingered. "What if¡ª"


    "Fools who invite mental violation deserve their fractured sanity!" Marcus suddenly hissed, claws scoring the oak. The outburst felt... rehearsed. Yvette recalled his file: A scholar cursed into felinity by pharaonic guardians, sanity crumbling like ancient papyrus. How many psychic audits had he endured before being deemed "eccentric but harmless"?


    Tentatively, she scratched beneath his jaw. The rumbling purr that followed shook his entire frame. "My... associate nears. A puppeteer who¡¯ll glide past witless gatekeepers."


    As if summoned, footsteps soon approached. Outside, honeyed words coaxed the attending priest into vacant-eyed compliance: "The confessional awaits, does it not?"


    Moments later, a knock. The man at her threshold wore threadbare tweed but exuded authority¡ªa lion in a sheep¡¯s shabby clothing. "Libra, I presume? They call me Mind Reader."


    His gaze lingered on Marcus, now ostentatiously poring over Father Franz¡¯s journals. "My lord Marcus! To what do we owe your unprecedented alacrity?"


    The cat didn¡¯t glance up. "The Dominicans¡¯ stink clings to this carrion. 15th-century witch-burners, these zealots. Their ilk fixates on fallen women."


    Mirroring Marcus¡¯s tactful misdirection, Yvette wove her testimony¡ªemphasizing the priest¡¯s sodden cassock, her aborted invitation, the ambush¡ªall facts steering toward self-defense.


    Mind Reader¡¯s lids lowered in scrutiny. When they lifted, verdict shone within: "No falsehood detected. Gardener¡¯s fate was earned."


    Her marrow turned to warm butter.


    "Now, the wound." Marcus materialized on her knees, invasive as a surgeon. "Let¡¯s see what poison our heretic brewed..."


    Through the window, Birmingham¡¯s fog thickened¡ªa veil hiding darker shadows yet unmasked.


    Yvette opened her palm as directed. The cut still glistened wetly, its blood unnerving¡ªit refused to clot, retaining a lurid freshness even after leaving her veins.


    But that wasn¡¯t all. The wound had changed. Radiating from its center were dusk-red crescents beneath the skin, forming a rose-shaped bruise.


    ¡°This wasn¡¯t here before¡­¡± She vividly remembered it being a mere pinprick earlier.


    Marcuse the black cat circled her hand, whiskers twitching. ¡°Curious¡­ most curious, meow¡­¡±


    ¡°Because it looks unusual?¡±


    ¡°This isn¡¯t rot or a curse-mark,¡± he declared, tail swishing. ¡°It bears the hallmarks of Stigmata¡ªdivine favor, meow.¡±


    ¡°Stigmata?¡±


    ¡°Indeed! Holy wounds that bleed perpetually. The Church has records: St. Francis¡¯s crucifixion scars, St. Elizabeth¡¯s bleeding crosses¡­ Even the doubter¡¯s darling, St. Teresa¡ªwhen they cut her open, five wounds adorned her heart, meow. Some saints were born transcendents; others ascended after receiving these marks.¡±


    Yvette shifted uncomfortably. Divine favor? That seemed¡­ improbable.


    ¡°Alas, this strays beyond my expertise, meow~ Wait here, child. I¡¯ll consult London¡¯s archives!¡± The cat sprang onto the windowsill.


    ¡°But London¡¯s 200 kilometers! If the mind-reader¡¯s busy with cleanup¡ª¡±


    ¡°Pah! Fares are for mortals, meow! I roam as freely as a spirit!¡± Marcuse chortled. ¡°Besides, you must stay. The cleanup crew arrives soon¡ªplay nice, meow~¡±


    With a flick of his tail, he vanished into dusk.


    Alone, Yvette studied the rose-shaped mark seeping fresh blood.


    Stigmata. A god¡¯s blessing¡­


    If this represented favor from an Elder God¡ªFather Franz¡¯s patron deity¡ªwhy mark his killer? Elder Gods rarely intervened, but this? Unheard of.


    What did it want?


    Exhausted, she fell into feverish dreams.


    She wandered an ancient grove, drawn by phantom whispers and rose-scented breezes. The trees watched; the air hummed with secrets.


    Closer¡­


    Her palm throbbed. Blood dripped, fragrant as roses.


    Unhealed wounds are doors¡ªgateways to revelation. To open them, you must first open yourself.


    The forest parted. A rose garden sprawled endlessly.


    A woman in blue satin stood there, face blurred yet familiar¡ªa mirror merging her two lives¡¯ features.


    ¡°Who are you?¡±


    ¡°You made me. Must you ask?¡± The voice ached with sorrow.


    Moonlight sharpened. The woman¡¯s shadow loomed monstrously as she stepped closer.


    ¡°Gods love their creations. You¡¯re my deity¡ªmy architect. You brought me here weeping before machines and masked men¡­ my first memory. Painful, yes, but yours. I exist because of you. Do you love what you¡¯ve made? Even these wounds¡­¡±


    Lace sleeves fell back, revealing forearms scarred like pincushions.


    Wounds are portals. Once, tubes pierced your veins¡ªpathways for monsters.


    As bony fingers neared Yvette¡¯s face, a gale shredded the garden. Roses blackened; branches crumbled to mold.


    ¡°Until next time.¡± The figure dissolved.


    Yvette awoke feverish, head pounding. Nightmares had devoured hours.


    Footsteps creaked upstairs¡ªvoices on the dormitory stairs.


    ¡°¡­Father Franz¡¯s room. Apologies¡ªwho visits at midnight?¡± A drowsy priest led the way. ¡°¡­Mr. Fisher¡­ Mr. Leslie said you¡¯re London¡¯s finest physician. His illness¡­ contagious¡­?¡±


    Sir Ulysses¡¯ voice ice-cut the gloom: ¡°Unseen, but described symptoms suggest a virulent plague.¡±


    ¡°Plague?!¡±


    ¡°Quarantine the upper floors. Burn contaminated garments.¡±


    ¡°At once!¡±


    The priest¡¯s panicked footsteps retreated.


    Yvette sighed. He¡¯s terrorizing clergy again.


    Steady footsteps climbed to her door.


    Her dizziness lifted. Moonlight framed Sir Ulysses¡ªa figure too celestial for these dingy halls. How had the priest missed it?


    The illusion shattered as he spoke, suddenly every bit the overworked clerk:


    ¡°Should¡¯ve known. Since when does Birmingham fall under our purview?¡±


    A revered priest¡¯s death required London¡¯s touch¡ªdiscreetly faking an illness, perhaps. Yet here she was, tangled in divine riddles.


    ¡°It¡¯s¡­ complicated, Sir.¡±

 Chapter 104

    Yvette decided life had become far too complicated. Her so-called allies were a troupe of busybodies, each tangled in webs not of their own making.


    ¡°Let¡¯s drop the pretense,¡± came the dry reply. ¡°I¡¯ve made peace with my role as your nominal superior. Not that you listen¡ªunless my orders happen to suit your whims.¡± His voice carried the practiced neutrality of someone fluent in irony.


    Resentment practically oozed from the man. Ulysses, ever the sloth, had been yanked from leisure by their organization and tossed onto a night train to mop up another city¡¯s supernatural mess. The ordeal had left him radiating displeasure like a fuming teakettle.


    ¡°Files say my cover identity¡¯s a swordsman of some renown. Yet you¡¯re unsullied by blood. Smooth skirmish?¡±


    ¡°His gifts blended martial skill with celestial force. Potent against certain creatures, less so against mortals¡­¡± She remembered Eddie¡¯s trembling weight on her back¡ªthe raw terror of a werewolf facing hallowed power.


    Ulysses¡¯ nostrils flared abruptly. His languid gaze sharpened. ¡°Since when do you douse yourself in perfume? No¡ªthis scent¡ª¡±


    He seized her wrist before she could blink, grip ironclad.


    The mark on her palm transfixed him. ¡°The Gate¡¯s Path¡­ You dreamed. What did you see?¡±


    Never had she seen urgency crack his composure. His fingers bit into her flesh as she groped for fragments of memory¡ªa nap, a strangeness at the edge of sleep¡­


    ¡°I¡­ don¡¯t recall any dream.¡±


    ¡°You would. This sort of dream brands itself.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps I woke too soon¡ªstirred by your footsteps?¡±


    He studied her, unblinking, before relenting. ¡°Possibly. True entanglement would¡¯ve left deeper scars.¡±


    ¡°How dire is this mark? Malcus called it a stigmata¡ªsymbol of sainted ones.¡±


    ¡°Sainted ones¡­¡± Ulysses¡¯s laugh held an edge. ¡°A title claimed by charlatans since Babylon. ¡®Divine right¡¯ is but an old song sung by kings and priests.¡±


    ¡°Yet our order houses devout followers. The Trinity Faith¡¯s virtues are purely human¡ªno eldritch taint.¡±


    Malcus had deemed the mark safe enough, a relic of holy myth to be cross-checked in London¡¯s archives. But Ulysses¡¯s implications rattled her¡ªwhat if saints and pagan godspawn were kin beneath the skin?


    ¡°Modern faiths sprouted from the Trinity¡¯s roots. But its growth demanded compromise. Open any scripture and you¡¯ll find grafted myths. Take the Eucharist¡ªbread and wine turned holy flesh. A ritual borrowed from Dionysian rites, where bulls were devoured raw to commemorate a god¡¯s rebirth. Sound familiar? The Holy Child¡¯s Last Supper mirrors it.¡±


    Layers of lies. What truths hide in these coded parables?


    Moonlight wove silver between them as Ulysses unearthed heresies. Yvette¡¯s mind teetered on the edge of revelation, a breath from plunging into mist-shrouded depths.


    ¡°Why a rose? Why here?¡± She pressed her marked palm between them. ¡°Does the Holy Mother share roots with older gods?¡±


    The air thickened with petals¡¯ perfume.


    ¡°Roses once adorned pagan altars. The Trinity¡¯s early Mother wore lilies.¡±


    A silent truth crystallized: if roses now crowned the Holy Mother, ancient divinity pulsed beneath her saintly robes. Gods wore many names; this one had simply swapped skins. The mark on Yvette¡¯s palm¡ªa sigil of resurgence¡ªfelt suddenly alien.


    Scholars claimed some gods slept lightly. Ireland¡¯s forest spirits, once anathema to the Church, now parlayed with its agents. Perhaps this goddess¡ªmasked as Mother¡ªbelonged to their number. Yet unease prickled Yvette¡¯s nape.


    ¡°Can it be removed?¡±


    ¡°Why discard a key?¡± Ulysses tilted her hand. ¡°This mark opens gates. Through dreams, whispered secrets await.¡±


    ¡°Gifts unearned come shackled. I¡¯ll decline.¡±


    Approval warmed his gaze. ¡°Prudent. Traversing such paths remakes the traveler.¡±


    He cradled her marked hand. His canines elongated¡ªhollow needles glinting wet.


    The rose twitched.


    It skittered spider-like up her arm. Ulysses struck, fangs spearing the fleeing sigil.


    Painless. As if the flesh weren¡¯t hers.


    Venom flowed. A moth¡¯s sigh brushed her mind as the rose blackened on Ulysses¡¯s lips. When rot set deep, he wrenched the fangs free¡ªdragging out a many-legged shadow. A gulp, and it vanished down his throat.


    ¡°Was that¡­ safe?¡±


    ¡°Necessary evil.¡± He displayed her unmarked wrist. Only twin punctures remained, swiftly fading under his tongue¡¯s pass.


    The change was profound. Where voracious curiosity once gnawed, now lay hollow calm. Danger, whispered reason. Turn aside.


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Moths know the flame burns. Yet deeper hungers drive their fatal dance.


    Had the rose remained, Yvette might have spiraled into its labyrinth. Now, scrubbed clean, she saw clearly: some doors stay sealed.


    When the illusory glow in her mind faded, Yvette was reminded anew of the supernatural realm¡¯s treachery. Ancient deities could corrupt one¡¯s very soul without notice¡ªa truth that struck her as Ulysses severed the rose sigil from her being. Its absence left a hollow ache, as if part of her essence had been carved out.


    The notion dissolved like snowflakes on water, leaving no trace in her thoughts. Yet unease lingered. The mark had fused with her in mere hours. Given more time, would she have remained herself at all?


    Did the serpent-god granting her powers also reshape her silently? Was the woman she¡¯d become unrecognizable to her past self? Could she even claim ownership of her soul anymore?


    ¡°The danger has passed,¡± Ulysses assured her.


    ¡°Sir...¡± Whether from moonlight or latent wounds of the Path, Yvette¡¯s smile seemed ethereal. ¡°Sometimes I question¡ªis my ¡®self¡¯ an illusion? Layer by layer, I¡¯ve shed my past. What remains? None can say. Even if I morph into something else, would I¡ªor anyone¡ªnotice?¡±


    ¡°Enough.¡±


    His lips brushed her forehead¡ªlighter than moonbeams.


    ¡°You¡¯ve grown stronger since we first met.¡± His voice, steady above her, continued, ¡°Clarity is a blade that cuts its wielder. You grip too tight. Let your mind wander these waters awhile. I¡¯ll keep you from drifting too far.¡±


    Now she understood Winslow¡¯s occasional emptiness. Ascending through mystical ranks estranged one from the world¡ªa lone lamp in endless night. Yet Ulysses became an anchor, his presence a still pond inviting surrender.


    The man is an enigma.


    Had he sensed her mutation? They shared an unspoken pact as supernatural conspirators¡ªeach aware the other hid truths, neither confronting it.


    Ulysses excised a higher being¡¯s mark with ease, belying his reputation as a mere enforcer. The Order¡¯s scrutiny hinted at secrets darker than her corruption.


    But why dwell on it? If the mundane realm was a sheltered isle in lightless seas, then mystics were fools sailing paper boats into the abyss. Distance bred loneliness... till spotting another craft, deeper into forbidden waters, kindled hope.


    When Ulysses moved to embrace her, her palm met his chest¡ªgentle but firm.


    ¡°Shifting my burdens to your ship would sink us both.¡± Her tone brightened, shadows retreating.


    ¡°What ship?¡± He stepped back smoothly.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see? Bearing another¡¯s fate changes everything. Your distant sails on the horizon suffice¡ªI¡¯ll chart my own course.¡±


    Her gaze cut through the smogged moonlight.


    Ulysses knew humanity¡¯s fatal pattern: discover elder gods through reason, then grovel before them. Later, some weaponized ¡°benign¡± deities, repeating the cycle of subjugation.


    Creation and ruin¡ªthe world¡¯s endless dance. Humans never learned. Yet scattered through the darkness, bright souls still fought to soar.


    ¡°If only your extra tasks were as self-aware,¡± he quipped, feigning weariness. ¡°They¡¯d leap from my shoulders.¡±


    ¡°Ridiculous! You¡¯ve barely worked! Those broad shoulders could bear ten silk shawls. The Order might even praise your diligence.¡±


    Ignoring her, Ulysses rifled through Father Franz¡¯s wardrobe.


    ¡°Can I help?¡± She leaned in.


    ¡°Hold these.¡± He tossed vestments at her¡ªceremonial robes reeking of incense.


    How does he know where everything is?


    Soon armed with the full regalia, Ulysses vanished to change. The plan: impersonate Franz, fake a retirement, and vanish the priest properly.


    But rituals required specific knowledge. Could Ulysses, a church absentee, manage?


    She pondered his earlier kiss¡ªhere, a chaste familial gesture, unlike her past life¡¯s intimacies. The Black Death¡¯s legacy birthed glove-clad formality; nobles avoided touching commoners¡¯ coins. Yet with Ulysses, it felt... natural.


    Odd, how he steadies me. Even Winslow, stern as iron, relied on his unshakable resolve.


    Suddenly, Ulysses reappeared¡ªtransformed into Franz through some trick of flesh. The ornate robes radiate divine authority, flawlessly convincing.


    ¡°Why that smirk?¡±


    ¡°Just thinking¡ªyou¡¯d have made an excellent bishop.¡±


    ¡°Spare me fantasies. Adjustments?¡± He fiddled with a sash.


    ¡°Broader build. Sword arm¡¯s thicker.¡±


    As his body shifted, Ulysses mock-prayed: ¡°Oh Lord, bind me with thy sacred cord.¡± Role-playing to perfection.


    Once satisfied, Yvette slipped into the night. Franz¡¯s last murder was a day past. Before meeting Trackers, she¡¯d soothe worried friends and a frantic young werewolf.


    A cab carried her through soot-stained streets. As wheels clattered, a shadow flickered at the window¡ª


    [We will meet again.]


    The whisper hung in the air as the carriage rolled on.


    Meanwhile, Ulysses¡ªnow a perfect replica of Father Franz¡ªstood rigidly in the room¡¯s center, wrestling to suppress the chaos writhing beneath his skin.


    All things rise and fall¡ªthis world¡¯s eternal rhythm, though not the universe¡¯s true cadence. Humanity dismisses star-born horrors as aberrations, unaware their own fragile existence is the cosmos¡¯ true anomaly. Numbers decree the cold, silent immortals as rulers, their mindless spawn clinging to eternal stagnation¡ªno dreams, no change, existing merely to exist.


    Yet this world¡¯s tiny lives defied the void. Through eons of death and rebirth, they carved color from chaos. No god¡¯s gift¡ªthis miracle was earned by every creature that ever drew breath.


    Such radiance in the cosmic dark? A beacon. Hungry eyes watch. Even eternal beings tread cautiously here, for this realm grants them mortal peril.


    The Doorway bridges realities. Through its fissure, eldritch truths seep into chosen minds¡ªknowledge that shatters reason. Accept it and kneel; reject it, and madness follows. To close this rift, one must wield forces alien to mortal laws.


    His robes hid a squirming horror. Something pressed against his flesh, serpentine, hungry¡ª


    Downstairs, a novice monk cursed his luck. Investigating noises in the pantry, he¡¯d expected rats. Instead, he found grape juice frothing like a witch¡¯s brew, cork launched like cannon shot. Fermented. Blasphemy.


    The Church split centuries ago over leavened bread and wine¡ªCatholic purity demanded unleavened wafers and unspoiled juice. Now this spoiled batch meant coins from his own pocket. But as he mopped purple stains, his woes multiplied: mold devoured cheeses; meats soured. Ruin everywhere.


    ¡°Why, Lord?¡± He trembled, wallet already weeping.


    ¡ª¡ª¡ª


    At Birmingham¡¯s Shirley Gardens Inn, Eddie stared at walls Fisher¡¯s coin had rented. Memories blurred¡ªsave the ache. Nightmares stalked him: snowfields, phantom sisters, claws scraping ice. Awake, he burned to hunt her killer. Yet deeper terror pinned him down.


    His senses sharpened. Whispers through doors:


    ¡°Midnight Killer¡¯s latest¡ªwhore butchered on Garth Street.¡±


    ¡°Smythe, from Daffodil. Paid her rent, then¡­¡±


    Eddie lunged. Claws sheared the handle. A beast-shape loomed on wood¡ª


    Kobelev filled the doorway, silver blade spinning. ¡°Going somewhere, pup?¡±


    ¡°My sister¡ª¡±


    ¡°Is dead. You knew.¡±


    Fur rippled up Eddie¡¯s arms. Snarling muzzle. Kobelev barred escape, dagger poised.


    ¡°Who killed her?¡± Eddie¡¯s claws twitched, hungry. That cloaked figure Fisher fought¡ªreeking of ancient hate¡ª


    ¡°An Awakened. No name.¡±


    ¡°Awakened?¡±


    ¡°Fairytale monsters? Real. You¡¯re one¡ªa moon-cursed wolf. Those dreams? Your soul snarling at the chain.¡±


    Eddie flexed talons. Proof of hell.


    ¡°Rage fuels the beast. Calm, and it retreats. Most Awakened beg powers. You? Born with fangs. Your First Moon looms¡ªno cure, only cages. Lock yourself in darkness when the full glow comes. Chains thick enough for elephants. If they snap¡­¡± Kobelev tossed a vial. ¡°Silver nitrate. Photographer¡¯s poison. A drop in your veins¡ªagony, but it tames the wolf. Do it before the moon steals your mind.¡±


    ¡°Ms. Fisher¡ª¡±


    She¡¯d won in the rain. Killer dead. Yet Eddie¡¯s gut churned: I stood close, yet let her die.


    Weak. Pathetic.

 Chapter 105

    When Yvette stepped into the inn''s courtyard, there stood Kobylev leaning against the gatepost, thumbs hooked casually in his pockets. She shifted position to bar his exit, eyes narrowing to slits.


    "Explain your business here."


    "Merely paying respects to departing friends." The werewolf alpha bared teeth in that vulpine smile she''d come to distrust.


    Her pulse quickened. This brute had nearly slaughtered Eddie¡ªonly her intervention preventing it. Had he seized this opportunity...?


    The crackle of lethal energy around her stilled as a small face peeked from the doorway. "M-Mr. Fischer''s gone..."


    Yvette exhaled silently. Alive. Thank the saints.


    Kobylev''s grin widened at her visible relief. "The pup''s embarking on a grand journey," he drawled, examining his cuticles. "Naturally, his elder must impart wisdom. Save your appreciation."


    Eddie''s timid nod from the shadows confirmed the truth of it.


    Know your place, cur...


    Leaning closer, she murmured, "Your contagion is contained. Birmingham sleeps safely tonight."


    "You killed the killer?" Kobylev recoiled, sharp nostrils flaring at the iron-scent clinging to her gloves. "Not arrested¡ªexecuted?"


    Surprising steel in this convent-raised lamb. To dismantle the midnight scourge within days... Small wonder cautionary tales warned against meddling Templars.


    He adjusted his cravat. "We... appreciate the warning about your hunters."


    "There''s more. An unstable corpse defies explanation. My associates will claim Pierce acted alone. Keep your pack leashed until official bulletins."


    Vital intelligence. Kobylev inclined his head, the werewolf equivalent of kneeling. "Our gratitude. Regarding the cub..." He outlined full moon precautions¡ªlightproof rooms, adamant chains.


    "Easily arranged."


    "And you? How long until..."


    "Days only."


    "Then heed this¡ª" For once, silver-tongued Kobylev faltered. He who''d charmed drunken captains and outwitted mercenaries found himself tongue-tied. "Should you return... White Lion Yard. Ask for me."


    Her nod held more warmth than expected. "I shan''t forget."


    He watched her ascend the inn stairs, hands jammed deeper into pockets. Long after her silhouette vanished, he remained staring at empty air.


    Damn their cross-marked collars and bells...


    ...


    Borgard''s workshop reeked of camphor and quicksilver. The hatter presented a lacquered box with pride. "Tortoiseshell exterior, mother-of-pearl inlay, lead lining. Precisely as specified."


    Yvette resisted noting they might''ve saved three days had he simply mentioned needing lead. Nearby, Borgard prattled about improved hat stiffeners, oblivious to recent bloodshed.


    Fortunate fool. Not every scholar ends like poor Franz, gibbering over grimoires.


    They''d buried Franz yesterday¡ªor rather, interred him beside his victims. Trackers deduced the sequence: Pierce''s throat-slashing whore caught the pastor''s eye, awakening hungers better left dormant. His bookshelves told the rest¡ªwell-thumbed manuals on witch detection underlined in frenzied strokes.


    How medieval¡ªadoring the Virgin while burning lonely spinsters. Regarding women as either saints or succubi. Yvette shook her head, watching townsfolk stream toward the courthouse.


    The "Midnight Killer" on trial bore Ulysse''s expertly crafted face¡ªgaunt cheeks and hollow eyes suggesting months in hiding. Through political machinations, sentencing would conclude before nosy reporters noted discrepancies. By tomorrow dusk, "Pierce" would swing from gallows¡ªan event His Lordship anticipated with macabre relish.


    ("Distinguished way to spend an afternoon," he''d quipped, practicing noosed neck contortions. "Far livelier than embassy dinners.")


    Earlier theatrics included impersonating Franz during Sunday Mass¡ªcomplete with suppurating facial sores. From the back pew, Yvette cringed through his sonorous Latin.


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    "Credo in unum Deum, Patrem omnipotentem..."


    The idiot overachiever! As if any backwater priest declaimed like Vatican choir. Mercifully, the ersatz Franz''s disfigurement emptied the front benches before anyone noticed.


    Now, with fussy bureaucrats appeased and mobs soon to cheer faux-execution, Yvette permitted herself rare satisfaction. This dance of corpses and costumes neared its finale.


    Wandering toward the gallows, she mentally composed Ulysse''s commendation letter. Perhaps a leather-bound Burbage edition alongside expected medals. The Service''s phantom thespian deserved recognition.


    Eddie nibbled his grimy bread on the empty street, eyes fixed on the ashen clouds above.


    This district usually bustled with hagglers picking through crooked vegetables and cheap meat at open-air stalls¡ªa place he and his sister visited whenever coins jingled in their pockets. Today, however, the stalls stood abandoned. Everyone had likely flocked to the courthouse for the "Midnight Killer" trial.


    The real killer was dead, slain by Mr. Fisher. The man in chains today? A puppet to calm frightened crowds. Werewolves, ghosts, ghouls... All real. Including himself.


    Days earlier, Mr. Fisher had pressed coins into his numb hands. Now Eddie clutched a small bottle of murky crystals bought from a chemist¡ªsilver nitrate. The same poison that man had injected into his veins. Agony beyond words, but necessary. Without it, the beast within might emerge and shame Mr. Fisher.


    He pocketed the bottle. The soot-stained street stretched silent, brick walls bleeding into the smoggy horizon. No sun pierced the coal-cloaked sky¡ªsame as every day. A cold breeze tousled his unkempt hair.


    In dreams, he raced across snowfields under piercing sunlight, breathing air sharp as knives. Reality? A damp attic where his sister once sewed and smiled through his nightmares.


    "Where¡¯s the sun?" he¡¯d asked.


    "A princess cursed to vanish in daylight," she¡¯d answered, her gentle smile brighter than any fable.


    Tears salted his bread. He choked it down, vowing to live fiercely¡ªlike the wolf she¡¯d wanted him to be.


    At noon, Alison opened the door to sweep leaves and froze. A carriage halted before the house.


    Master Yvette emerged, travel case in hand, followed by a shabby boy.


    "Welcome home, sir."


    "Complicated trip," Yvette deflected. Birmingham had been a nightmare¡ªespecially for Eddie, now orphaned. Thankfully, the boy showed no reaction to Alison¡¯s greeting.


    The Labyrinth Society remained clueless until Yulian¡¯s arrival. Together, they¡¯d staged a farcical arrest, pinning the "Midnight Killer" title on some poor drudge named Pierce. The group clinked glasses over their "brilliant" deduction, oblivious to the truth.


    With the fake killer en route to the gallows, the thrill-seekers abandoned the grimy city. Yvette gladly followed¡ªpartly to sneak Eddie home unnoticed.


    Monkshood, their vain novelist, had deadlines. His Almond Cocktail Mystery serial neared its climax, and new crimes begged for ink. Worse, the Wyndham Theatre demanded his presence to cast their stage adaptation¡ª¡°Falconer¡¯s Chevallier! Author-Approved!¡±


    Thus, Yvette retreated to London early, Eddie in tow.


    The basement needed work. Pre-sewer days left London¡¯s cellars reeking of waste; now they stored mothballed junk. A few iron chains bolted to the walls? Nothing unusual¡ªAlbion¡¯s elite often enjoyed eccentric decor.


    "Alison, meet Eddie. He¡¯ll assist with heavy chores."


    "A footman? I shouldn¡¯t command¡ª"


    "Help her when needed," Yvette told Eddie, ignoring servant hierarchies. Ordinary households employed armies of staff, but secrecy demanded simplicity. Alison already worked miracles alone.


    Yvette never grasped how merciful she was. Previous employers made servants disassemble staircases to scrub cracks, or walk on parchment to protect rugs. Alison¡¯s old mistress forced maids into stiff uniforms for market runs¡ªcharade of generosity.


    Compared to that, fetching tea felt blissful.


    Locking Mr. White Rabbit in her jewelry case, Yvette sighed. Adopting a werewolf? Reckless... but she couldn¡¯t abandon him.


    School posed problems. Elite academies mimicked Hogwarts; grammar schools bred clerks via cane strikes; charity schools trained factory fodder. None suited a moon-cursed boy. Homeschooling it was¡ªanother chore on her list.


    Basement renovations. Primers. Props from Maskelyne... She scribbled reminders.


    And Malcus? The Rose Stigma had "faded naturally." No need mentioning Yulian¡¯s... dietary habits.


    Tomorrow brought Monkshood¡¯s casting call for his play.


    "Pick someone nothing like me," she muttered. Theatrical egos be damned.


    The Chevalier Investigations series, penned by famed novelist Diburu Faulkner, had become the literary world''s crown jewel. Playwright Lawrence¡ªthough oblivious to the term "IP"¡ªrecognized gold when he saw it. After doggedly securing adaptation rights, he partnered with the illustrious Weinhamm Theatre to stage The Almond Cocktail Affair alongside the novel¡¯s grand finale.


    For Weinhamm, the stakes were existential. Lawrence¡¯s sway with newspaper critics could make or break their reputation. Conversely, success promised dominance over rival theaters. Thus, every actor was summoned, schedules upended, priorities reshuffled.


    The theater crackled with tension that afternoon. Actors in full stage makeup clustered beneath empty spotlights as Lawrence¡ªuncharacteristically amiable¡ªescorted Faulkner (a nervous Wolfsbane in disguise) and Yvette to front-row seats.


    "An absolute privilege, Mr. Lawrence! And Mr. Faulkner, might I¡ª" The theater director extended a novel for signing, only to be silenced mid-grovel.


    "Art waits for no man," Lawrence declared, slashing through the casting list. "We¡¯ll screen your leads first." His tone turned sycophantic toward Wolfsbane: "Only actors embodying Chevalier¡¯s essence merit your time. Consider Riddle¡ªmethodical genius. Or Hughes: Adonis incarnate. His acting¡¯s passable, but that jawline? Pure box-office."


    Yvette blinked. "The widow¡¯s niece fancied Chevalier?"


    "Subtextually!" Lawrence pontificated. "Damsel in distress, rescued by dashing detective¡ªit¡¯s chekhov¡¯s romance! Every reviewer agrees!"


    Exchanging weary glances with Wolfsbane, Yvette motioned toward preening actor Hughes. "Him."


    "Looks like Ulysses¡¯ less-talented cousin," Wolfsbane muttered.


    "Exactly," Yvette grinned.


    Post-auditions, Lawrence erupted over absent actress Solay until a whispered "consumption" deflated him.


    Elsewhere, as dusk bled through windows, the alchemist¡¯s feline familiar Marcus prowled his desk. A corrupted money order lay amid forbidden texts¡ªclues to a death by knowledge. The Stigmata¡¯s secrets grew darker, and time was running out.

 Chapter 106

    Marcus hunched over the desk, utterly engrossed in his research. Unnoticed, a looming shadow inched closer¡ªa hunter savoring his oblivious prey.


    "Meow!"


    A nudge against his spine made the black cat leap a foot in the air. Fur bristling, he spun around, claws unsheathed.


    "Impertinent child!" he hissed, ears flattened like fighter jets. "No knock? No courtesy? How dare you manhandle Lord Marcus!"


    Adorable even when furious¡­


    "I did knock," Yvette protested. "You must¡¯ve been too absorbed."


    "Excuses won¡¯t spare your insolence!"


    She produced her peace offering: sun-gold codfish crisps flecked with catnip¡ªhandmade using her thermal gifts. Tailored for pampered felines, each boneless morsel emitted an irresistible aroma.


    Marcus¡¯s pupils dilated. He sniffed greedily but maintained a sneer. "Treacherous human! What devilry compels such lavish bait? Lord Marcus won¡¯t be duped!"


    Yvette bit her cheek. The tiny tyrant¡¯s drool betrayed his posturing.


    "You once offered to research my Stigmata. Consider these a token for your troubles."


    "Hmph." His ears relaxed marginally. "So it¡¯s that trifle."


    "All this for the search?" She gestured at the felt-draped mountain behind him. Instantly, Marcus became a sputtering fluffball.


    He pancaked himself over the documents, paws splayed in vain to conceal them. Overwhelmed, he gnawed the felt¡¯s edge and yanked like a kitten wrestling a carpet.


    Yvette observed the pitiful pantomime: a miniature voidling heaving a desk-sized blanket, growling at her every twitch.


    Once the papers were safely entombed, Marcus crumpled atop the heap. "State secrets! Burn them from your mind, dullard!"


    "Your mysteries are safe with me."


    The cat exhaled¡ªthen eyed the fish pouch with prickly guilt.


    "Store your¡­ trinkets¡­ temporarily."


    "But you adore cod!" Yvette frowned. His longing clashed with stubborn pride.


    "Lord Marcus is indisposed! Petty errands must wait, meow!"


    Ah. The Bureau had burdened him with other duties¡ªand honor forbade accepting unearned tributes.


    "Nevermind. The mark¡¯s vanished anyway." She revealed her unmarked palm.


    Marcus pounced, nose scrunched in inspection. "Pain? Night terrors? Odd humors? Meow?"


    "Gone without a trace."


    "Fool! Vigilance, always! Report the slightest oddity!" Finding nothing, he resorted to bluster.


    Yvette proffered a crispy cube. "A respite, Lord Marcus?"


    Purring erupted as he devoured it. Post-feast, he groomed lazily¡ªthen froze mid-lick.


    "Fortune favors you. Lord Marcus requires a service."


    [...]


    "¡ªthus Marcus demands our newspapers blame the fire on chemical spills."


    At Hampstead Heath, Yvette had aimed to brief Winslow for Sir Ulysses¡¯ return. Instead, she found the gentleman himself fidgeting with his cravat¡ªa man still haunted by gallows duty.


    She trailed him inside, where Winslow served tea. Between sips, she relayed Marcus¡¯s tale.


    Her Birmingham absence coincided with London strangeness: a customs clerk¡ªcovert field agent¡ªrenting rooms from a doting landlady.


    One breakfast delivery provoked a phlegmy roar: Stay away! Meals ceased. Rent day brought a stinking ¡ê100 note (validated reluctantly) and demands for isolation.


    Corn Laws inflated food prices; saving a tenant¡¯s meals thrilled her. Yet her model lodger vanished. Footsteps above thickened, slowed¡­


    A week later, nightmare-born thuds shook the ceiling. Fetid ooze dripped¡ªreeking like the cursed banknote.


    She crept upstairs. Yellow froth gushed from door cracks. Beyond it, something massive slithered.


    Her scream echoed as she fell, ribs cracked. Constables cowered until Althorp¡¯s occult police intervened.


    The tenant? A stinking goo-blob wearing a suit, digesting its own room.


    "In short, the house was almost completely submerged in a sea of foam and mucus. At the center, a massive, feeble, and mindless monstrosity squirmed, splitting apart like a worm. Fortunately, it wasn¡¯t aggressive. Still, it took the dispatched team considerable effort to finally kill it. It was later confirmed that the creature was, in fact, the customs employee who had rented the house. His supervisor in the organization had noted that the man hadn¡¯t been in touch for some time.


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


    Though the monster had been eradicated, the room still bore the horrific scars of its presence. The walls and floors were soaked with unmanageable, stinking seepage. The field operatives recommended staging a fire. The neighbors had already heard rumors from the landlady about the tenant¡¯s strange behavior, and her cries for help had drawn quite a bit of attention. Tales of a ''foam-filled room'' and ''a recluse tenant'' had spread too widely to simply erase memories. The best course of action was to paint the tenant as an eccentric chemistry enthusiast who¡¯d accidentally caused a fire with leftover volatile substances¡ªperhaps even from a covert alchemical experiment. The plan was to act tonight, with our newspaper being the first to report the incident and steer public opinion.


    Yvette shared the information she¡¯d gathered from Marcuse with Ulysses, and she agreed that this was the most practical solution. After all, the fire would be blamed on the police¡¯s ''oversight'' in cleaning the scene, leaving behind hidden chemical residues. This way, the landlady would also receive compensation to cover some of her losses. If left unchecked, no one could guarantee that the foamy, foul-smelling seepage in the walls and ceiling wouldn¡¯t pose a health risk.


    ''I¡¯ll ensure the editorial department handles it as they wish,'' Ulysses said with a nod. ''But his supervisor clearly failed in his duty. Typically, mutations are a gradual process. It¡¯s unusual for things to escalate so quickly without some significant catalyst. His supervisor should have noticed the signs long before.''


    ''Exactly,'' Yvette replied. ''Marcuse suspects someone deliberately pushed him over the edge¡ªperhaps even orchestrated it. When I found Marcuse in the library basement, he was going through transcripts of materials taken from the customs employee¡¯s desk. It seems the man had recently acquired some sinister literature¡ªtexts that hinted at the terrifying truths hidden beneath the lies of the world. Marcuse was wary of me seeing the contents, fearing I might lose my sanity.''


    Yvette had long learned to control her curiosity. In this world, unlike the last, knowledge could truly kill.


    ''Utter foolishness,'' Ulysses muttered. ''He should have known that delving into forbidden texts is as dangerous as playing Russian roulette. Yet he still accepted that poisoned gift and lost his mind. I can¡¯t imagine any sane person doing such a thing. After all, the final step of sanity is realizing there are things beyond our understanding.'' He paused, then asked, ''And the person who supplied him with the forbidden text¡ªhave we found any leads? They must be a dangerous figure, capable of wielding knowledge that drives others mad, yet they remain unaffected.''


    ''No trace of them yet,'' Yvette admitted.


    ''Then why assume such a person exists? Forbidden knowledge doesn¡¯t have to come directly from the supernatural. He could have inherited it from some oblivious book collector or stumbled across it in an ancient tomb or manor.''


    ''We found a completed but unsent money order on his desk for a large sum. Investigators confirmed he hadn¡¯t made any recent purchases, so it¡¯s likely meant as payment for that deadly, poisonous treasure.''


    ''Was the address and name on the money order legible?''


    ''Yes, though it was stained with a foul-smelling mucus that resembled coffee. The name was a pseudonym¡ªTalley Onis. The investigator checked the address, but no one by that name had ever lived there.''


    ''Talley Onis...'' Ulysses mused. ''It seems our mutated customs employee must have recently crossed someone.''


    This was the first Yvette had heard of it. Even Marcuse hadn¡¯t made this connection. ''How do you figure?''


    ''It¡¯s obvious. Talley Onis isn¡¯t just a random pseudonym. Remove the space, and you get Talionis, a term derived from the Code of Hammurabi, meaning "an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth." It refers to the ancient practice of lex talionis¡ªa form of violent retribution where harm done to one is repaid in kind. In short, it¡¯s a name that screams revenge.''


    Yvette couldn¡¯t help but silently roll her eyes. Lord Ulysses¡¯ idea of "obvious" seemed to differ greatly from most people¡¯s.


    ''According to Marcuse, the customs employee was a cautious, unremarkable man. He¡¯d been with the organization for six years without making any notable achievements. Hardly the type to provoke such vengeance.''


    ''Oh?'' Ulysses replied, his tone laced with curiosity. ''Then perhaps it¡¯s just a coincidence. In the end, this is all speculation. Let others worry about it. I¡¯ll focus on managing my newspaper. Hopefully, there¡¯ll be nothing more for me to do, and I can finally get some rest.''


    Yvette couldn¡¯t help but laugh. ''I wonder if the gallows in Birmingham are comfortable? What¡¯s it like to sway up there like a string of sausages?''


    ''Dreadful,'' Ulysses said, his smooth demeanor cracking as his face twisted in disgust. ''The noose was damp and sticky, reeking of sweat and grime from the last poor soul who hung there. And before I was even hoisted up, they pelted me with rotten eggs. Worse still, someone tried to sneak up and cut off my hand as I feigned death. Thankfully, he didn¡¯t succeed.''


    ''Well, the Midnight Killer did terrorize the entire city. It¡¯s no wonder they hated your character so much. Still, you¡¯ve had a rough time,'' Yvette said sincerely.


    ''Hmph. They hated the murderer, yes, but the man who tried to sever my wrist wasn¡¯t acting out of hate. I suspect he wanted to craft a "Hand of Glory"¡ªa black magic talisman made from the hand of a hanged man, cured and smoked with herbs. It¡¯s said to grant invisibility when the fingers are lit. Of course, the true method is likely known only to a few ancient families. What¡¯s out there is mostly superstition. I doubt someone who truly knew the art would attempt such a crude act. Regardless, four of my associates were in the crowd. He was swiftly apprehended, and whether he was guilty or not, he¡¯ll regret it for the rest of his life.''


    Ulysses¡¯ tone was thick with satisfaction. It seemed the ordeal of being hung like smoked meat had left him simmering with anger, and the would-be Hand of Glory thief had walked right into it.


    For some reason, seeing Ulysses exhibit moments of frustration and vulnerability like any other person gave Yvette a sense of reassurance. Though she felt a bit guilty for it, she couldn¡¯t help but hide her small amusement.


    As she left in better spirits, Ulysses seemed to forget the gallows and the rotten eggs, lost in quiet contemplation.


    Lex talionis, indeed.


    A cautious, unremarkable man like the customs employee wouldn¡¯t have provoked the wrath of someone so powerful. The use of such a name suggested the other party had lost someone dear and sought to kill one of the organization¡¯s members in return.


    Combined with the use of forbidden knowledge, this pointed to three things: first, the foe was likely a member of a secret group, seeking vengeance for a fallen comrade; second, they knew of the customs employee¡¯s ties to the organization; and third, they possessed forbidden knowledge¡ªperhaps of a caliber that rendered the secrets of mere books uninteresting or they possessed extraordinary self-control, resisting the lure of such dangerous texts. Few outsiders had such discipline. Most would either gain enlightenment or descend into madness.


    Such a person was a formidable threat¡ªsomeone with both high levels of power and immense self-control.


    Though within the Chime of Doom, individuals like this were not uncommon¡ªdangerous, obsessive, calm yet unhinged geniuses.


    Ulysses couldn¡¯t help but connect this incident to the red-haired man Yvette had killed earlier. The other party¡¯s blind revenge suggested they hadn¡¯t discovered her identity, but it was best she remained unaware. Otherwise, she might blame herself for the customs employee¡¯s death.


    Though the moment the man¡¯s identity had been exposed to the organization, his fate had been sealed. It was only a matter of time.


    He gazed into the flickering fireplace, his thoughts dancing with the flames.


    Even among the organization¡¯s core members, few knew that the Chime of Doom had recently lost not one member, but two.


    The first had been severed from the world by the spindle of fate, his connection to this reality cut entirely

 Chapter 107

    A few days later, in the dimly lit workshop of Master Maskin, a handful of apprentices hunched over their workbenches, meticulously polishing pocket watches and fastening delicate chains. Their employer¡ªa man known as much for his craftsmanship as his fondness for drink¡ªlay sprawled in his backroom quarters, deep in an alcohol-induced slumber.


    The industrializing spirit of Albion brooked no idleness¡ªyet Maskin''s apprentices never begrudged their master''s midday stupors. By tradition, apprentices toiled like indentured servants for nearly a decade¡ªenduring harsh treatment while their masters jealously guarded trade secrets. But Maskin, for all his gruff demeanor, proved a rare exception, freely sharing knowledge and even slipping coins to diligent students. One senior apprentice had even chosen to stay beyond his term, unwilling to compete against the man who''d treated him fairly.


    Yvette remembered the proud apprentice who''d first boasted of Maskin''s skills¡ª"Be it timepieces or firearms, there''s none finer in all London." That same young man now squinted at ledger books by the sunlit display window. Recognizing her, he hurried forward with a shopkeeper¡¯s smile.


    "Mr. Fisher! Come to browse our wares or speak with the master?"


    "Has he been drinking again?"


    "You know him too well," chuckled the apprentice. "He''s in the back¡ªand woe betide any man, lord or laborer, who disturbs him now. Though for you, he''d make an exception."


    After Maskin had once misplaced a ghost-revealing camera¡ªonly realizing his error after catastrophe struck¡ªit had been Yvette who recovered the artifact and smoothed things over with the investigating Undertaker. Were it not for her intervention, the master artificer might have faced severe sanctions¡ªincluding cuts to his precious material allotments.


    This debt ensured Maskin would rise¡ªhowever reluctantly¡ªwhen Yvette came calling. Following the apprentice to the backroom, she waited through a full minute of insistent knocking before a slurred grumble answered.


    "Blast it¡ªwho dares¡ª?"


    "It''s Mr. Fisher, Master."


    "The younger one?"


    "Yes sir. Waiting outside as we speak."


    "Confound you, why didn''t you say so?!"


    A tremendous crash erupted within, suggesting Maskin had upended half his furniture in haste. The door finally creaked open to reveal the disheveled horologist, his breath reeking of juniper spirits.


    "Mind the clutter," he muttered as Yvette navigated past teetering stacks of tools¡ªher sharp eyes catching a mechanical spider skittering into shadow. No mortal smith could craft such a construct¡ªproof that rumors of Maskin''s supernatural talents held truth.


    "Those lads know better than to trouble me here," Maskin said defensively, though his chief apprentice''s recent "discoveries" made Yvette suspect otherwise.


    "So, Scales¡ªwhat brings you to my humble den?"


    Yvette nodded¡ªthen asked abruptly: "Do you keep cats about the workshop?"


    Maskin scratched his stubble. "Strays, mostly. Horrid creatures¡ªalways caterwauling when decent folk try to sleep."


    Producing a vial of Bastet''s Ointment, Yvette daubed her forehead. Within moments, a tortoiseshell cat appeared at the window, picking its way through the mechanical debris to press one velvet paw against her brow. The ritual complete, the bewildered feline fled as suddenly as it came¡ªleaving Yvette''s irises slit-pupiled like a predator''s.


    "The elixir grants night vision¡ªbut alters my eyes." She lied smoothly. "Is there a way to conceal this?"


    In truth, the ointment''s two remaining uses hardly warranted specialized artifacts. Her true purpose concerned young Eddie.


    Vampires and werewolves¡ªprolific and dependent on human proximity¡ªhad warred with the Church for centuries. Consequently, hunters could spot their tells effortlessly: icy seats left by vampires; the bestial dilation of a lycanthrope''s pupils. Since manifesting his curse, Eddie carried these marks¡ªuntenable for London residence.


    Of the two artificers Yvette knew, Maskin¡ªspecializing in metalworks and blessedly gullible¡ªseemed the better choice over the elusive "Artist" who crafted leatherbound horrors.


    "Trifling matter!" Maskin boomed. "Spectacles with illusion-fitted lenses¡ªnone shall note the change!"


    When Yvette inquired about materials, he scribbled a list swiftly. The organization granted her requests without scrutiny now¡ªher reputation preceding her like an academic laureate securing grants. Last month, Sage Keegan had concocted Flamecloak potions for her using institutional reserves¡ªshe''d only needed to supply the prized Salamander''s Blood.


    List in hand, Yvette returned home¡ªwhere a trembling Alison awaited.


    "Master Yves... I''ve failed you."


    The story unfolded haltingly: For years, local vintners had pawned off adulterated swill as fine wine¡ªexploiting Alison''s untrained palate. Earlier, Eddie''s keen nose had exposed their fraud, leaving the merchants scrambling with refunds¡ªand fat bribes to buy her silence.


    Temptation had whispered: take the money, hide your incompetence. But Alison¡ªthe girl Yvette had pulled from darkness¡ªrefused. Even terrified of dismissal, she chose truth over comfort.


    A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.


    And thus, upon entering the parlor, Yvette found her maid standing stiffly¡ªnot with guilt, but quiet resolve.


    "There¡¯s no need to be so hard on yourself, Allison. You were never trained to spot counterfeit wine¡ªhow could this be your fault?" Yvette reassured her gently.


    "But... because of my mistake, you¡¯ve been drinking swill for months!" Allison¡¯s eyes welled with tears, her voice thick with shame.


    "If I didn¡¯t notice, how could you? This should¡¯ve been the butler¡¯s job, but I forced it on you. If anyone¡¯s to blame, it¡¯s me¡ªespecially since I still owe you a proper salary."


    Yvette¡¯s words softened Allison¡¯s frown. Honor was everything in Albion, from lords to laborers. Poor nobles starved to keep up appearances, and even servants clung to pride. A century ago, a chef had killed himself after serving a late dish at a royal feast.


    At least Allison wasn¡¯t that extreme¡­


    Yvette turned to Eddie, the young werewolf cowering by the stairs. "Mr. Fisher... did I mess up?" he whispered. "I said something normal today, but the wine-seller and Sister Allison got really upset. She even cried! I swear I¡¯ll keep my mouth shut from now on¡ªd¡¯you think she¡¯ll forgive me?"


    Despite his short time here, Eddie adored Allison. Her kindness reminded him of his late sister. Now, with his ears drooping like a kicked pup, he looked positively wretched.


    Yvette sighed, tweaking one furry ear upward. ¡°Ears down, Eddie. Someone might see.¡±


    ¡°S-sorry, Mr. Fisher¡­¡±


    His watery eyes were downright pathetic.


    ¡°You didn¡¯t do wrong. Allison¡¯s upset because the merchant scammed her, not because of you. Next time someone shady tries selling her stuff, sniff it out for her.¡±


    ¡°Yes! I¡¯ll protect Sister Allison from swindlers!¡±


    Eddie lit up like a pardoned puppy, barely stopping his tail from wagging.


    ¡°And stop wiggling your ears!¡±


    ¡°Yip! Er¡ªI mean, yes, sir¡­¡±


    Note to self: Expose that fraud in next week¡¯s paper. Unlike in modern times, a ruined reputation meant ruin, period.


    Days later, Yvette eyed the third new tablecloth that week. ¡°Burned it ironing,¡± Allison mumbled before hurrying off, clearly distracted.


    Odd. Ironing newspapers took seconds¡ªAllison never slipped up.


    Frowning, Yvette flipped through the morning paper. A scorch mark obscured part of page three¡ªa half-iron shape suggesting it¡¯d been left there ages.


    The seared section? Mostly ads. But above it:


    ¡°John Leptons, Surgeon & Mountaineer: ¡®Conquer Life as You Would the Alps!¡¯¡±


    His photo showed a burly man¡ªimpressive for pre-oxygen-tank climbs. His smug interview oozed industrial-era ambition, the kind Albion ate up.


    Was Allison so engrossed she forgot the iron? Suspicious, Yvette noted his name.


    ¡ª¡ª


    ¡°¡ªThe killer is YOU, Mrs. Wilkins! That ¡®almond liqueur¡¯ was POISON!¡±


    Onstage, the actor playing the Chevalier (chosen for his Ulysses-esque pomposity) struck a heroic pose. The audience erupted¡ªladies included.


    Good grief. I don¡¯t sound like that.


    From her private box, Yvette watched the crowd through her opera glasses. Mostly women.


    Figures. They¡¯d faint if they knew the real Chevalier¡¯s a shrimp.


    A glint caught her eye. The masked man in the next box was watching her through his own glasses.


    He lowered his mask¡ªjust briefly.


    Lancaster?!


    ¡°Darling Ives!¡± The Duke grinned like summer. ¡°Come hunting with me!¡±


    ¡°Hunting?¡±


    ¡°Mm. Autumn¡¯s slipping away, and my prey still runs free.¡±


    Yvette¡¯s smile froze. He wasn¡¯t talking about deer.


    The Duke of Lancaster''s smile was warm and earnest¡ªthe picture of a friendly invitation. But in Yvette''s mind, he¡¯d already been stamped as untrustworthy.


    "It¡¯s an honor to receive Your Grace¡¯s invitation..."


    "Marvelous! Ives, I knew you wouldn¡¯t leave a delicate soul like me to face those dreadful beasts alone! As thanks, I¡¯ll introduce you to the most thrilling diversion. You¡¯ll adore it, I promise~" The Duke¡¯s grin widened.


    "...I should inform Uncle Ulysses of my plans. Given Your Grace¡¯s generosity, I¡¯m sure he¡¯d approve."


    The Duke¡¯s smile stiffened. Only as Yvette turned to leave did he snap back to life, grabbing her arm.


    "¡ªWait! A true gentleman acts on his own counsel, Ives. No need to consult others for every little whim."


    "Actually, I thought I¡¯d invite Uncle Ulysses too. Aren¡¯t you two close? He¡¯d double the fun."


    The Duke groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. "A terrible idea. We¡¯re barely acquaintances¡ªsoon to be strangers... Tell him, and I¡¯m a dead man. For pity¡¯s sake, pretend this conversation never happened¡ªand never mention it to Ulysses!"


    Is Uncle Ulysses that frightening? Even this buffoon¡¯s terrified of him...


    A smirk flickered across Yvette¡¯s lips¡ªone the Duke spotted between his fingers.


    "Darling Ives... Are you enjoying my torment?" he whined.


    "Perish the thought¡ªyou¡¯re imagining things." She paused, twisting the knife. "Sure you won¡¯t invite Uncle Ulysses? He¡¯s very free these days~"


    His sulk lasted until she left. Then, the pout vanished. His lips curved, eyes gleaming like polished sapphires.


    That smile¡ªsharp as a sickle moon¡ªbore no resemblance to his usual sunny charm. This was darker. Hungrier.


    "So be it... I¡¯ll wait. However long it takes."


    <hr>


    "Move it! Order 40,000 more copies¡ªnow!"


    "Fifth reprint?! This is insane!" The protest dissolved into laughter.


    "Insane? It¡¯s the finale of The Almond Cocktail Murders! Readers are ravenous! The SS Silver Star alone bought 5,000¡ªto resell in the Americas! Cunard¡¯s running a ''pilgrimage cruise'' retracing the novel¡¯s route. Tickets cost triple! They¡¯re auctioning the cabins tied to the story!"


    "Madness..."


    At the editor¡¯s office, Yvette found chaos¡ªexhausted staff buzzing over the frenzy.


    The Silver Star¡¯s bulk order made sense. The ship¡¯s captain had a nose for profit, and America devoured Albion¡¯s trends (legally or otherwise). Even The Times, among the nation¡¯s top papers, usually sold 20,000 copies¡ªa steep seven pence, half a laborer¡¯s daily wage.


    Yet the finale had shattered records. The latest print run: 40,000. Readers who¡¯d shared copies or haunted libraries now scrimped to own the ending.


    Yvette rapped the doorframe.


    "Fisher! This issue¡¯s gold!"


    "Your doing? Please¡ªit¡¯s Faulkner¡¯s serial, thanks to Fisher," another teased.


    She shrugged. "Credit the team. You¡¯ve earned a round at the pub tonight¡ªmy treat."


    Cheers erupted.


    Once the reprint orders stabilized, she cornered a veteran editor. "Got time for research?"


    The old-timer, eyeing his free drinks, grinned. "Your wish, my command~"


    "John Lepton. Any interviews? Or insights?"


    "Ah! The ambitious Dr. Lepton." He launched into tales of the man¡¯s youth in revolution-riddled Gaul, assisting a neurologist in gruesome experiments: stitching a guillotined head to a dog¡¯s body, reviving its twitching snarl with bull¡¯s blood and electricity.


    "Papers called it ¡®resurrection¡¯¡ªthough it was just nerves firing. Still, imagine stitching arteries that fast!"


    Lepton had parlayed that infamy into wealth¡ªpatrons, a clinic, even entry into the elite Alpine Club. "But no one climbs so high cleanly," the editor winked. "Rumors say his clinic discreetly aided women ''in trouble.'' Nowadays, he¡¯s too rich to dirty his hands."


    (Abortion was illegal, yet every class needed it: poor mothers, courtesans, even nobles hiding infidelities.)


    Modern-minded Yvette barely blinked. "Moral panic" bored her.

 Chapter 108

    Pouring rumors collected from fellow reporters into Yvette''s ears, the editor-in-chief then produced several yellowed newspaper clippings about Dr. John Lupton from his prodigious memory. Among them was a pictorial spread showing the doctor grinning boyishly alongside an Alpine Club lord, both clad in expedition gear before some snow-crowned peak¡ªthe very image of rugged masculinity.


    Europe''s obsession with physical prowess dated back to ancient Greece. Though Albion had briefly succumbed to Frenchified decadence¡ªthat treasonous nation waving libertine banners while preaching fraternity¡ªher sons now scorned such effeminate nonsense, reaffirming their reverence for manly vigor.


    In this epoch of exploration and empire, what demonstrated virility better than conquering nature''s grandeur? The photograph''s subject¡ªwith his impeccable sideburns, commanding presence, and aura of relentless ambition¡ªpersonified Albion''s aristocratic ideal: the archetype gentlemen aspired to emulate and ladies schemed to wed.


    Whereas pretty, smooth-cheeked French fops like Ulysses¡ªor herself¡ªmight secure fleeting popularity as dashing paramours, nothing more.


    Accepting her social limitations, Yvette frowned at the photograph, puzzling over Alison''s peculiar reaction.


    Undeniably prime matrimonial material by conventional standards, but such calculations reflected mere aggregate scores¡ªlike how gentlemen preferred demure wives yet invariably fantasized about sultry mistresses.


    Even discounting Alison''s probable disinterest in pretty youths, both Ulysses and Randall were undeniably handsome grown men who''d never provoked such intense scrutiny.


    Unless... the household where Alison had previously served before being cast out after her master''s violation had been... Dr. John Lupton''s?


    At Covent Garden''s bustling produce market, Alison stood examining artichokes with the precision of a jeweler appraising diamonds. These¹Å¹ÖµÄÊ߲ˡªresembling lotus buds armored in green scales¡ªrequired painstaking preparation: stripping away fibrous outer leaves to reveal the tender heart within, sweet and crisp as young bamboo shoots, commanding prices that rivaled meat in this era though dwarfed by their future Michelin-starred status.


    Having only encountered them in culinary documentaries before, Yvette had developed an instant addiction upon arriving in this world¡ªa preference Alison accommodated with inventive preparations ranging from soups to salads.


    Settling her purchase, Alison froze at hearing her name called in a voice she''d never forgotten.


    "...Alison? Merciful heavens, it is you!"


    Spinning around, Alison barely recognized the wraithlike figure before her¡ªDoreen, her former fellow housemaid and mentor during those dark days. The vibrant chestnut mane Alison remembered now clung in sparse, lifeless strands beneath the woman''s cap, her face aged a decade since their parting eighteen months prior.


    "Sweet Providence... you''re unchanged!" Doreen clasped her hands like a drowning woman. "We all assumed the worst¡ªa pregnant woman cast onto London''s merciless streets... but you''ve thrived!"


    Alison returned the desperate grip while studying her friend''s ravaged features. "Doreen, you''re ill!"


    "I misplaced the dosage," Doreen whispered cryptically, touching her hollowed cheeks. When comprehension dawned in Alison''s eyes, she added, "The child went first. I nearly followed."


    Most abortion draughts being arsenic-laced poisons, survival often meant trading fertility for life. Doreen''s depleted frame and yellowed skin testified to heavy metals'' lingering kiss.


    "Come away with me!" Alison urged. "My current master is kindness itself¡ªbarely two servants for a spacious house¡ª"


    "No." Doreen''s voice acquired steel. "I''ll witness their downfall first."


    Learning the household''s subsequent tragedies¡ªboth children dead, the mistress gone mad, the master''s lineage extinguished¡ªAlison crossed herself. Some called it misfortune. Doreen called it divine justice.


    Alison and Doreen had only a brief moment to talk before parting ways¡ªboth had errands to run. As they said their goodbyes, Doreen¡¯s gaze lingered on Alison¡¯s attire, neat and clean, yet entirely unlike a maid¡¯s uniform.


    Most households clothed their servants in deliberately mismatched garments, ensuring visitors could tell master from servant at a glance. Only a lady¡¯s maid might receive decent hand-me-downs from her mistress. But Alison wore the same fashions as any modest woman¡ªproof that her new employer was generous enough to buy her proper clothes.


    ¡°Bless the Holy Spirit¡­ I¡¯m glad you¡¯re well. I¡¯ll let the others know¡ªthey¡¯ll be so pleased.¡± Doreen squeezed her hands before stepping back with a wave.


    Alison watched her go before paying for her vegetables. Basket in hand, she walked home, lost in thought.


    The past two years felt surreal. Cast out for her pregnancy, she¡¯d nearly starved before finding work¡ªany work¡ªto keep herself and her baby alive. Nothing could have prepared her for life under Master Yves¡¯ roof.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    Her own room. A cradle for little Mary. Meals eaten from clean plates, not guests¡¯ leftovers. Even fresh milk delivered for them. More startling was the kindness he showed her¡ªnot the performative charity of pious gentlewomen, but genuine regard, as if she were a person.


    Yet she knew the world would condemn his decency. Every household manual preached strict separation between master and servant. Treat them as equals, and they cease to be servants at all.


    That was why she dismissed Doreen¡¯s talk of ¡°divine punishment.¡± If cruelty to servants invited retribution, half of London would be in ruins. No, she suspected the Holy Spirit had punished Dr. Leptun for his many abortions¡ªa sin even priests once deemed worse than murder.


    And now both his children were dead. How unpredictable fate could be¡­


    The thought weighed on her through dinner.


    ¡°Alison,¡± Yvette said, noticing her distraction, ¡°is something wrong?¡±


    ¡°No, Master. Just¡­ thinking.¡±


    ¡°If there¡¯s anything troubling you, you can tell me.¡±


    Alison merely nodded, saying nothing.


    Days passed quietly. Yvette was often out¡ªfencing, shooting, managing the newspaper, or visiting the club. That afternoon, with Eddie studying upstairs, Alison was polishing the stove when the doorbell rang.


    She opened the door to find an unexpected visitor: Miss Karen, Mrs. Leptun¡¯s lady¡¯s maid.


    ¡°May I come in?¡± Karen¡¯s tone brooked no refusal. ¡°This isn¡¯t a conversation for the doorstep.¡±


    Old instincts made Alison step aside. As Karen entered, her sharp eyes assessed the furnishings¡ªthe polished hardwood, the matching set. This was no ordinary household.


    ¡°Congratulations on your child,¡± Karen began smoothly. ¡°I¡¯ve come to discuss your future.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m staying here,¡± Alison said.


    ¡°And the girl?¡±


    Alison hesitated. Master Yves spoke of sending Mary to school someday, of women working beyond the home.


    Karen misinterpreted her silence. From her purse, she produced a document.


    ¡°Madam offers you a cottage in the countryside¡ªland, livestock sheds, everything. All you must do is leave London and never return. Sign this, and you¡¯ll be free of service forever.¡±


    To Karen, the offer was absurdly generous. After the Enclosures, farmland was a treasure. Laborers displaced by machines now crowded cities, starving on factory wages. A self-sufficient life? Most could only dream of it.


    Yet Alison handed it back. ¡°No.¡±


    ¡°Have you lost your senses? Think of your child! No respectable¡ª¡±


    A baby¡¯s cry cut her off.


    Alison hurried to her room and returned with little Mary.


    Karen stared. ¡°She lives here?¡±


    ¡°The Master allows it.¡±


    ¡°¡­He knows?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    After a long pause, Karen stood. ¡°I¡¯ll inform Madam.¡±


    She left without another word. The offer had been refused.


    After Miss Karen departed, Alison lingered in disbelief.


    Madame Leptun was offering her a cottage and farmland¡ªjust to leave London. Why would the lady make such an offer?


    ["No bastard shall inherit in our father¡¯s house"]¡ªso decreed the Holy Codex.


    By Roman tradition, illegitimate children had no claim. Her daughter threatened no one¡¯s inheritance, and Madame was still young enough to bear heirs. Was she truly so fearful of scandal undermining her husband¡¯s reputation?


    The mystery plagued Alison until laundry chores demanded her attention, the mundane labor temporarily washing away her unease.


    That evening over tea, young Eddie whispered conspiratorially to Yvette: "A lady came today¡ªwanted Sister Alison gone from London."


    "What? Explain."


    When Alison entered with the teapot, Yvette intercepted her. "Visitors? Were you threatened?"


    Only one scandal shadowed this quiet maid¡ªher refusal to abandon the child forced upon her. Yvette¡¯s mind conjured gothic tableaus of aristocratic vengeance.


    Alison¡¯s hands fluttered like startled birds. "Madame¡¯s maid came... with an offer. A cottage in the countryside."


    "You declined?"


    "Unless you dismiss me, sir, I wish to stay."


    "Any hidden motives?" The proposal reeked of absurdity. Under Albion¡¯s inheritance laws, estates passed solely to legitimate male heirs. An illegitimate daughter couldn¡¯t possibly¡ª


    "No" pulsed in Alison¡¯s throat.


    Yvette frowned. "Then take Karl when you go out. Extra caution won¡¯t hurt."


    The brawny coachman would suffice¡ªthough truthfully, the unassuming Eddie was likely their best fighter, were it not for his unfinished tinted spectacles keeping the young werewolf housebound.


    Yet within days, the Leptuns dispatched another envoy¡ªthis time, their butler, undoubtedly conveying the doctor¡¯s own stance.


    "Good afternoon, Mr. Fisher." The butler¡¯s polished shoes creaked as he bowed. "My master wishes to atone for... an incident two years past. His conscience burdens him deeply."


    "How touching," Yvette deadpanned. "A cottage hush-money absolves all guilt?"


    "That was the madame¡¯s vulgar notion! My master knew nothing of it!" The butler dabbed his brow. "Grief clouds her judgment¡ªhaving so recently lost two sons¡ª"


    "She lost¡ª?"


    "Indeed. Which is why the master proposes... proper recompense." Here the butler gestured toward Alison, now pale as bleached linen. "Not as servants, but as family. The child would want for nothing."


    "Absolutely not." Yvette recalled Alison¡¯s tales of bruises and locked cupboards. "Your master¡¯s ¡®atonement¡¯ comes far too late."


    Yet the butler pressed on, switching tactics: "Perhaps just the child, then? Presented as his late brother¡¯s orphaned daughter¡ª"


    Alison¡¯s breath hitched.


    Yvette saw the bait¡¯s cruel brilliance: legitimacy, a dowry, escape from service. The dilemma contorted her maid¡¯s face¡ªfear of her abuser versus a mother¡¯s desperation to uplift her child.


    "¡ªwhat future has she here?" The butler¡¯s velvet gloves tightened. "Scrubbing floors? Or¡ªwith education¡ªgrowing old as some family¡¯s governess, praying her mistress dies so she¡ª¡±


    "Enough." Yvette¡¯s snarl sent the man stumbling back. "She¡¯ll consider your offer. Now leave."


    But the seed was sown. That night, Alison wept into her apron: "What should I do, sir?"


    A question Yvette couldn¡¯t answer. Two years in this world hadn¡¯t dulled her disgust at its hierarchies. By society¡¯s lights, a gentleman acknowledging his bastard was charity so saintly, Alison ought to kiss his boots in gratitude.


    "Sleep on it," was all she could offer.


    Yet the exchange left her unsettled. The proposal was rational¡ªa childless father reclaiming his blood¡ªyet something curdled in her gut. Like encountering a wax figure too lifelike¡ªthat eerie valley between human and almost-human triggering primal revulsion.


    Next morning found her in a newspaper §Ñ§â§ç§Ú§Ó, bribing the clerk for Leptun¡¯s press coverage.


    [Surgeon Survives Alpine Tragedy... miraculous 14-day entombment during Mont Blanc ascent...]


    [Whispers of Unethical Experiments During Foreign Tenure... unnamed sources allege¡ª]


    [Revolutionary 30-Second Tumor Extraction Performed at St. Bartholomew¡¯s...]


    The clerk accepted her bonus with a wink: "You¡¯re the second to ask after him lately. Last fellow smelled of carbolic¡ªhospital chap. Seemed awful keen on those experiment rumors..."

 Chapter 109

    "Illegal activities? What exactly?" Yvette pressed.


    "Oh, the usual¡ªback-alley abortions, black-market drugs, corpse trafficking... He pored over them, looking equal parts horrified and thrilled, muttering, ''This will ruin him.''"


    The industrial age had crammed people into cities faster than sanitation could keep up. Disease spread, doctors were in demand, and fresh cadavers for training became gold. Years back, Albyon¡¯s leaders had passed the Anatomy Act¡ªChurch be damned¡ªletting hospitals claim paupers'' unclaimed corpses. Still, bodies ran short. Graverobbing flourished. Some poor souls now feared hospitals, knowing death might land them on a dissection slab. Selling the deceased became routine.


    Yvette shrugged. Expected gray areas¡ªlike modern clickbait or fake news.


    "Dr. Leptun¡¯s wife is aristocracy. Didn¡¯t her family object to his... hobbies?"


    "Hardly." The archivist smirked. "The marriage brought him no titles or connections. He could ignore their opinions. Besides, her lot are pragmatists. Not your typical blue-bloods." He leaned in. "A baron¡¯s daughter, that one. New money¡ªonly a century old. Too recent to whitewash the stains. Word is, they clawed their way up with dirty tricks. But cunning alone doesn¡¯t build empires. That family¡¯s always been... skilled at pruning."


    Yvette arched a brow. "Pruning?"


    "Not gardens." He chuckled. "Ever seen those perfect trees in noble estates? Straight as spears? They start as saplings¡ªevery stray branch cut early, so the trunk grows strong. Let one branch go wild, and the whole tree weakens." His smile turned sharp. "Same with bloodlines. The Leptun in-laws excel at trimming excess kin. Offshoots get nothing¡ªnot land, not coin. Dowries? Ha! The baron wouldn¡¯t waste pennies on daughters. No wonder she married a wealthy butcher."


    Before leaving, Yvette asked, "That doctor who asked about Leptun¡ªdid he publish anything?"


    "Not that I saw. He wanted newspaper contacts. I sent him to an editor. Watched for weeks¡ªnothing printed."


    The clinic surprised her. No lines of pregnant women¡ªjust regular patients. Maybe the darker services required referrals.


    But locals whispered: Leptun¡¯s place had an unusual number of amputations.


    Home again, Eddy greeted her urgently. "We¡¯re being watched!"


    "Three men," he said. "Taking shifts at the caf¨¦ across the street¡ªstaring here for hours. One knocked earlier, fake salesman. Alison turned him away, but he left too easy... And he smelled funny."


    Yvette¡¯s pulse quickened. They¡¯d moved faster than expected. Thank God for Eddy¡¯s sharp eyes¡ªand her house¡¯s high windows.


    "Track them tonight," she ordered. "Wear a hat."


    Eddy¡¯s tail practically wagged. "Yes, sir!"


    Alison flinched when questioned about the Leptuns.


    "Picture-perfect couple," she murmured. "Him¡ªsuccessful. Her¡ªflawless hostess. Guests always praised her decorations. Only odd thing... he was rarely home."


    Yvette frowned. "And she tolerated his... appetites?"


    Alison reddened. "Here, ladies aren¡¯t supposed to... enjoy that. Madame disliked it. After the heir was born, she encouraged him to... seek elsewhere. Her waist was so tiny¡ªbirth hurt terribly."


    Different countries, different morals. France reveled in affairs; Albyon worshipped chaste Madonnas while husbands strayed.


    "What kept him out so late?"


    "Work? Society? Middle-class wealth needs maintaining. But servants gossiped¡ªhow could one man juggle both? Even tycoons retire before playing lord. Yet Leptun thrived¡ªtwo hours of sleep, nights carousing, then precise surgeries at dawn." Her voice dropped. "Sir, he wasn¡¯t human. A predator. Madame loved him, but... he was a void. Always hungry¡ªfor gold, status, flesh. I was just... another scrap tossed in."


    Two-hour sleeps? Madness.


    Eddie gestured to a pitch-dark alleyway. "They went in there, looped around, then came back this way."


    A deliberate detour¡ªclassic counter-surveillance. These men knew their craft.


    "If you didn¡¯t follow them in, how do you know they circled back?"


    Eddie hesitated. "Since that night¡­ I¡¯ve had this¡­ ability. If I concentrate, I can see smells. Like wet footprints on dry pavement, but in color. Fresh ones hang in the air, spreading like ink in water when the wind blows."


    Unknowingly, he¡¯d described a werewolf¡¯s "scent sight"¡ªa gift he¡¯d mastered frighteningly fast.


    Despite the watchers¡¯ maze-like route, Eddie cut straight to their hideout.


    Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    Inside, two men gnawed on greasy lamb and bread, washing it down with ale.


    "Thought babysitting some maid would be easier than digging up corpses," one grumbled. "Should¡¯ve charged double."


    His partner nodded vigorously. "Bobby on every damn corner whistled at me just for loitering! And grave-robbing¡¯s gone to hell¡ªVincent cracked a coffin yesterday, and the bastard inside rigged it with a cannon! Blew his head off like a firework."


    "Why¡¯s Lepton got us stalking a maid anyway? If he weren¡¯t a regular, I¡¯d think he was taking the piss."


    "The kid¡¯s the prize, you idiot! Snatch the brat if you get the chance¡ªwho cares about the woman?"


    A sudden knock interrupted them.


    "Grove¡¯s back early? Shift¡¯s not over¡ª"


    "That lazy sod¡¯s only good with a knife."


    Still, the man grabbed his weapon before answering¡ªa necessary habit when the penalty for your trade was the noose.


    Outside, Grove stood rigid, a knife at his back.


    Hiding behind the hulking man, Eddie¡¯s small frame went unnoticed. No one would suspect a child could cow a hardened criminal.


    The grave robber inside swung the door open, cursing¡ªthen froze as steel pricked his kidney.


    "You traitorous¡ª" He spun, gaping at the knife-wielding child. Grove stood petrified, unarmed.


    "A kid disarmed you?!"


    "Weren¡¯t my fault!" Grove¡¯s voice trembled. There¡¯d been something unnatural in the boy¡¯s gaze¡ªworse than London¡¯s deadliest cutthroats. Like staring into the eyes of a born killer.


    Then the boy looked at their leader.


    Legs turned to jelly. Sweat soaked his shirt.


    It was primal fear¡ªthe kind etched into human bones since the days of caves and wolves. Before fire or iron, monsters like this hunted in the dark.


    One child. One blade. Two killers, reduced to trembling wrecks.


    Upstairs, the third robber frowned at the delay. A chill breeze snapped him alert¡ªodd, since the windows were shut.


    Then cold metal touched his skull. The click of a hammer cocking raised every hair on his neck.


    Whatever gun this was, it could drop an elephant. One shot, and his head would vanish like Vincent¡¯s.


    Hands rose slowly.


    Soon, all three sat bound before Yvette.


    She examined their loot first: grave-stolen jewelry; tools; spice-lined masks (likely to block corpse fumes); and a ledger tallying sales to doctors and medical staff.


    The pieces fit.


    "Lepton sent you to rob graves here? My house isn¡¯t near any cemetery." Yvette spun her revolver¡¯s chamber lazily. "Unless you¡¯ve started making fresh merchandise?"


    "We ain¡¯t murderers!" they yelped. "Lepton¡¯s pay ain¡¯t worth that!"


    "Why spy on me, then?"


    "He¡­ wanted your maid¡¯s child. Figured you wouldn¡¯t miss a servant¡¯s by-blow¡ª"


    "That child is mine." Her voice turned glacial. "Eddie¡ªfetch liquor and rags. Tonight, three drunkards ¡®accidentally¡¯ burn alive. The police won¡¯t investigate."


    Their blood turned to ice. This fop talked arson like ordering wine!


    "Lepton lied to us!"


    "Watch your mouth." Yvette¡¯s fists clenched like a proper Frenchman. Ask them to fight for duty, and they¡¯d shrug, "No rush." But insult their lover¡¯s honor? Duels at dawn.


    She let them sweat before smiling. "Luckily, I blame the hand, not the tool. Prove useful, and you might survive the night."


    Naturally, Yvette wasn¡¯t interested in purchasing exhumed corpses from these grave-robbers¡ªshe sought darker anomalies. After all, buying corpses, while distasteful, wasn¡¯t strictly illegal. Physicians and medical students acquiring cadavers of questionable origin was an open secret. A gang once hanged for murdering people to sell their bodies had counted doctors among their clients¡ªmen who¡¯d never questioned why so many "donors" bore axe-split skulls. At trial, those buyers feigned ignorance and walked free.


    The robbers exchanged uneasy glances before one spoke up haltingly.


    "Dr. Lepton... implied he wanted us to remove a rival¡ªanother doctor. Had it been some nobody, we might¡¯ve obliged. But a man of standing? Too risky. Police might¡¯ve brought in someone like Chevalier. Next thing, the Holy Eye¡¯s on us. So we refused. But the payoff haunted us¡ªwe nearly reconsidered... until that rival turned up floating in the Thames at dawn. I swear we didn¡¯t touch him! Just a... convenient accident." His smirk suggested otherwise.


    A suspicious doctor¡¯s death? This matched the archives clerk¡¯s account. The victim was likely the colleague compiling evidence against Lepton.


    "Afterwards," the robber added, "Lepton paid us to ransack the dead man¡¯s home¡ªwanted every scrap of recent writing."


    Proof the victim had secrets worth killing for.


    "Find anything linking back to Lepton?"


    "Nothing. He made us sweep the place twice¡ªsearched every crack."


    Meaning either the evidence didn¡¯t exist yet... or it was hidden elsewhere.


    "Excellent. What else? Think beyond crimes¡ªanything odd about Lepton?" Yvette pressed.


    "Well... There was an odd delivery. We¡¯d stashed a fresh corpse in a wine cask, hauling it to his sanitarium disguised as provisions. Nearly trampled an old hag in a headscarf¡ªshe screeched curses like a harpy. Would¡¯ve throttled her if not for our... cargo. Watched her scuttle inside carrying a dog-sized bundle, blood seeping through the cloth."


    "A month later, the papers called her ¡®London¡¯s Lamia.¡¯ Shot resisting arrest at her baby farm¡ªpolice found bloodied swaddling clothes. No infants, though."


    Yvette knew the tale: Lamia, the child-devouring demon of myth. The woman had run a "charity" where desperate mothers paid to abandon babies to "loving homes." In truth, most infants starved¡ªor were murdered outright to quiet their cries. When authorities raided her farm, only bloodstained cloths remained. People whispered she¡¯d eaten them. Now it seemed the truth was worse¡ªLepton had been her buyer.


    Amputations. Illegal abortions. Infant cadavers. What unholy work demanded such materials?


    Gagging the robbers, Yvette locked them in the cellar¡ªinsurance against lies.


    Dawn neared. Her young werewolf companion twirled a stolen knife, eyes bright. "Did I help, sir?"


    "Immensely." She tousled his fur. "They meant to harm Sister Alison. You defended her¡ªthat makes you brave."


    Eddie beamed. The battle-fever had stirred something wild in him¡ªa hunger for violence soothed only by her praise, now curled dormant like wintering bears.


    Protecting Alison... helping Mr. Fisher... felt good.


    ¡ª¡ª


    Next morning, Yvette found The Herald¡¯s most beleaguered editor agonizing over headlines, his pince-nez fogged with stress. Known for accepting sob-story submissions ("My wife needs coats! My child has ague!"), his section languished from dull prose.


    The chief editor¡¯s latest scolding had him desperate for inspiration.


    "¡®Mr. Blank Shares Success Tips¡¯?" he muttered. "Too pedestrian..."


    After minutes of dithering, Yvette offered:


    "Turn ¡ê1000/year Into Pocket Change"


    "Why You Earn in a Year What He Makes in a Month"


    "Skills That Make Investors Chase You"


    The editor¡¯s glasses slid off his nose.


    "Magnificent! Are you seeking employment? I¡¯ll recommend you!"


    "Actually, I¡¯m here regarding Dr. Martin Chandler¡¯s correspondence."


    "Oh! His letter! I¡¯d stuffed it in a book and¡ªoh dear." Mortified, he unearthed the sealed missive (likely the doctor¡¯s death warrant).


    "No need for apologies. He requested its return for... revisions."


    Taking the letter, Yvette vanished into the foggy streets.

 Chapter 110

    Even as the carriage jolted beneath her, Yvette tore open the letter. The late Dr. Chandler¡¯s words leaped from the page with his shocking revelation: London¡¯s infamous "Lamia," the child-killing crone, had once been a nurse at Dr. Lupton¡¯s clinic. A old photograph from the clinic¡¯s staff showed the Lamia¡ªthen merely a middle-aged woman¡ªlurking in the back. Worse, when her foundling home first opened, Lupton and other society elites had donated generously to her charity.


    Chandler was certain the orphanage had been a sham. The Lamia had been hailed as a living Madonna cradling babes, but in truth, she¡¯d been pocketing donations while murdering infants to cut costs.


    His murder proved he¡¯d uncovered something Lupton wanted buried¡ªwas it the orphanage¡¯s horrors? Grave robbers swore they¡¯d seen the hooded Lamia near Lupton¡¯s sanatorium, clutching a bloodstained bundle the size of a terrier. If this was just about money, why involve infant corpses? She could¡¯ve weighted sacks with stones and dumped them in the Thames.


    One thing was clear: Lupton¡¯s plans for Alison and their child were anything but kind. Tonight, Yvette would infiltrate his home to uncover why his wife¡¯s stance differed from his¡ªand what secrets she might know.


    ¡­¡­


    Albion¡¯s gentry, like many cultures, revered land over finance, seeing country life as pure escape from urban grime. Those trapped in the city aped rural charm where they could.


    The Lupton manor occupied a genteel borough where every townhouse flaunted manicured gardens¡ªoases of color in London¡¯s soot.


    But stepping indoors was like walking into grief itself. Instead of seasonal blooms, funereal lilies and chrysanthemums yellowed in vases, untouched for days. Silver frames displayed the couple holding their sons¡ªsix and two years old, eyes forever closed in death-portraits, the latest Albion mourning trend.


    Every clock in the house stood frozen at 11:17¡ªthe moment their youngest died. Some believed stopped clocks tethered souls longer. Custom demanded only three days; the lady had insisted on six months. Servants told time by church bells now, tiptoeing lest they disturb her sorrow.


    A black-gowned woman carrying supper and a candle passed housemaids rolling up a soiled rug.


    "The master¡¯s been gone days¡ªlonger than ever."


    "Would you stay? I¡¯d wager he¡¯s got a mistress by now."


    They didn¡¯t see Karen, Lady Lupton¡¯s lady¡¯s maid, frown. Normally above such tasks, she¡¯d become her mistress¡¯s sole conduit to the world since the children¡¯s deaths.


    Entering the pitch-black bedroom, Karen winced as light spilled in.


    "Close it!" croaked a voice like a rusted gate.


    Candlelight revealed the nightmare opposite the bed: a slashed family portrait. The children¡¯s images bore ghostly lipstick kisses. Even Lupton¡¯s knife-gouged face bore smeared red marks¡ªkissed through torn canvas with demented fervor.


    Karen¡¯s hands shook. That painting always unnerved her.


    "Did the candle help you read?" she asked brightly. "There¡¯s a new French detective novel everyone¡ª"


    "Niobe." The bed¡¯s shrouded figure ignored her. "Apollo and Artemis slaughtered her fourteen children before her eyes. She begged for one to live¡­" The voice cracked. "They left her a stone weeping forever."


    Karen recoiled. She¡¯d brought that book.


    "I lost two. What was my crime?"


    The candle trembled in Karen¡¯s grip, illuminating the lady¡¯s face¡ªone empty eye socket, the other bloodshot. Laudanum was the only thing that brought sleep now.


    Once the drug took effect, Karen fled.


    From the balcony, Yvette slipped inside.


    Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    The defaced painting struck her first¡ªlove and hate woven into the very brushstrokes. Alison swore the Luptons adored each other. Then why¡ª


    Peeling back the covers, Yvette gasped.


    One eye, one arm, one leg¡ªthe rest severed neatly.


    Abortion carved life away. Amputation erased limbs. But this¡­ This was his wife.


    Yvette steadied her nerves and carefully rearranged the quilt. But as she turned to leave, a frigid hand clamped around her wrist.


    From the shadows of the four-poster bed, Lady Lepton''s voice cut through the darkness¡ªawake, strained, and oddly eager. "What manner of creature are you? Some sorcerer? A fae? Or perhaps a dream-walking phantom?"


    "Your pardon, my lady," Yvette replied smoothly. "An uninvited guest, certainly¡ªthough I may simply be a common thief."


    She flexed her fingers near the White Rabbit''s watch, ready to erase this inconvenient witness. The laudanum should have held.


    "I''ve built a tolerance to that wretched tonic," the woman hissed, her voice quivering like an overtightened violin string. "Else I''d have screamed for the constables. But you... you move like shadow, and there was light dancing at your fingertips just now." A desperate chuckle. "The old tales say creatures like you grant wishes¡ªfor a price. What''s yours?"


    Yvette studied her in the gloom. This broken noblewoman knew something. "Name your desire."


    "Kill my husband. Cleanly."


    "You despise him?"


    "Love and loathing share the same bed in my heart," she whispered. "Just as they do in his. Only his love carries... a hunger. The more of me he takes, the hotter it burns."


    A chill crept down Yvette''s spine as understanding dawned. "You think him¡ª"


    "Oh, he''s no changeling," Lady Lepton interrupted bitterly. "I''d know after twenty years."


    And so the story spilled out¡ªof her family''s notorious penny-pinching that left her marrying beneath her station; of Dr. Lepton''s razor-sharp ambition that first drew her admiration; of their rise as London''s golden couple until the Alps changed everything.


    "That damned mountain stole the man I knew. Survivors speak of the White Maiden''s curse¡ªhow it reshapes those it doesn''t kill. After his rescue, I saw the change in his eyes when our youngest sickened... and then our eldest..."


    Her voice broke. Moonlight caught the tears tracing her ruined face¡ªone eye gone, an arm missing, her body whittled away piece by sacrificial piece.


    "He doses my wine with opium, but I''ve learned to feign sleep. Last winter I woke mid-amputation. Saw the reverence in his gaze as the saw bit through bone." Her remaining knuckles whitened on the bedsheet. "I won''t let his worship end me like some pagan offering. Nor let him turn that devotion to another."


    Yvette''s fingers found the maid''s name like a blade. "Alison''s child¡ªwas it his?"


    A dismissive flick of maimed fingers. "A servant''s bastard meant nothing then."


    "Yet everything now." Yvette turned toward the window. "I''ll end this¡ªbut not for your sake, nor any price you offer. Tomorrow you''ll recall nothing but a bad dream. That, madam, is your punishment."


    The ragged laughter that followed her out sounded more unhinged than triumphant. Behind the billowing curtains, glass clinked against teeth as Lady Lepton downed her hoarded poison¡ªa final act of control in a life stripped bare.


    The ending sob was lost in the wind as Yvette melted into the night.


    <div>


    The St. Norbert Sanatorium had once been an aristocrat''s country seat until the line died out and the Crown reclaimed the lands. Dr. Lepton, ever the opportunist, purchased the estate and its mineral springs to capitalize on the era''s obsession with "hydropathic cures." Soon, London''s wealthy flocked to soak in waters rumored to remedy everything from gout to melancholia.


    Half a mile from the main house, shrouded in oaks, stood a crumbling chapel¡ªa relic from when nobility paid hermits to pray for their souls behind walls of self-imposed silence and filth. Leaded glass now lay in colored shards underfoot, vines throttling the broken arches where devout whispers once echoed.


    Yet tonight, the chapel hosted an unholy sacrament.


    "Life is flux," murmured Dr. Lepton, carving a rosy morsel on silver. The knife parted flesh with surgical precision, releasing only a ghost of pink essence. "To receive the intangible requires a vessel. Mediocre cups overflow. The worthy vessel is bottomless¡ªforged by hunger itself."


    He brought the meat to lips grown strangely loose.


    Tasteless. Like unbottled wine.


    He knew better fare: miners with flinty afternotes, harlots stewed in cloying decay, stillborns crisp as mountain snowmelt. But hunger made any meal gourmet¡ªespecially when seasoned with love.


    Ever since the Alps, an itch had gnawed beneath his skin. The more he adored his wife, the sharper his craving to... ingest that affection. His devotion hollowed her limb by limb, yet each amputation only intensified his hunger.


    The sanatorium''s back rooms accommodated society ladies seeking "therapeutic irrigations" for inconvenient pregnancies¡ªhis proprietary method left no evidence, unlike butcherous coat hangers. Grave robbers supplied cadavers, though putrefaction often spoiled the meat. How he missed that hanged midwife''s fresh offerings...


    A floorboard creaked.


    By the door stood a girl¡ªpale as the moon glinting off his scalpel.


    Drool slicked his chin as transformation seized him: jaw unhinging, teeth serrating, pupils dilating to pits. No matter. Witness or wanderer, she''d quiet the gnawing.


    For a heartbeat, Yvette felt the chapel''s shadows coil inside her¡ªan answering hunger, black and bottomless. Then discipline reasserted.


    She leveled her pistol. The Bureau trained her to end abominations, not philosophize over shared monstrosities.


    "From one hunter to another," she said softly, "let me show you mercy."


    The hammer clicked back.


    Mercy, after all, was also a form of consumption.

 Chapter 111

    The transformed Dr. Lepton stared hungrily at his unexpected guest.


    For too long, he had starved. Now, it was time to feed. How had he never realized it before? A world of flesh and blood lay ripe beyond his doorstep. The moment he yielded to his urge to hunt, his body twisted to match his desires¡ªand he felt the tantalizing life pulsing within this stranger.


    What succulent meat¡­ If only he could peel away the skin like a peach, sip the nectar beneath, then scrape clean every tendon before sinking his teeth into the muscle beneath. What shade would it be?


    The mere thought of rosy, glistening flesh made his stomach howl. He burned to consume this man, to make him part of himself.


    Yvette stood rigid, eyes clenched shut.


    Every inch of her radiated tension¡ªfrom her furrowed brow to the tremors wracking her frame.


    Too long had passed since her last offering. Tonight was the Hunt, the Night of Slaughter, when she was to mete out the sleeping Creator¡¯s wrath upon His enemies.


    Blood. I need blood. If I surrender to instinct, the god and I will both be satisfied.


    No¡ªthat whisper¡ªwas that truly her voice?


    Her right hand barely clutched her sword, just shy of dropping it, while the other pressed against her face, fingers quaking.


    The ghoul seized its chance. With a guttural snarl, it lunged, talons slashing toward the seemingly defenseless woman.


    Yvette¡¯s grip on her blade looked laughably weak; the steel wavered like a wounded bird in her grasp. Yet the instant those claws neared her, her body tilted¡ªimpossibly, unnaturally¡ªsidestepping the attack before snapping back upright as if jerked by unseen strings.


    Then, with deceptive laziness, her sword carved an arc through the air¡ªslipping under the ghoul¡¯s shoulder blade, slicing through tendons with surgical precision.


    Ghouls were smarter than zombies but frailer. Disable key limbs, and their threat vanished.


    ¡°Guh¡­ No pain¡­ I feel nothing!¡± Dr. Lepton¡¯s grin remained feverish, his right arm now limp. Fear was beyond him. Hunger was all that mattered¡ªhis sole purpose now.


    Yvette didn¡¯t pause. The ghoul had been no match even with both arms. Now, she dismantled him with ease.


    Ten seconds. That was all it took. Dr. Lepton¡¯s limbs hung useless, disarticulated¡ªhis left arm severed at the elbow, a stroke born of Yvette¡¯s slipping control. Blood sheeted from the stump, splattering across upturned stones before vanishing into the undergrowth.


    A crimson streak smeared Yvette¡¯s cheek. Her face was ice, but her voice writhed like a thing caged:


    ¡°Speak. When did this change happen?¡±


    A cough-wracked chuckle. ¡°After a failed climb, I think¡­ Ah, Mont Blanc¡ªthe Alps¡¯ crown. Every mountaineer¡¯s dream¡­¡±


    Bit by lurid bit, his story spilled forth¡ªtrapped in a blizzard, his guides perishing one by one, starvation driving him to eat the last survivor.


    A fever-dream showed him truth: Meat was life.


    Back in ¡°civilization,¡± he¡¯d smuggled home cadavers¡ªthen fresh kills¡ªeach bite restoring vitality. His peers marveled at his ageless energy, begging for his secrets¡­


    Through it all, no remorse. Not for victims, nor even the infants he¡¯d devoured.


    Yvette¡¯s head throbbed. Was this madness hers or his?


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    The ghoul¡ªno, the thing wearing Dr. Lepton¡¯s face¡ªleered.


    ¡°All rivers flow to the sea¡­ Come, consume me!¡±


    Whispers swelled in Yvette¡¯s skull:


    Life feeds on death. The devoured wait within the devourer, craving rebirth.


    A doorway creaked in her mind¡ªone never meant to open.


    She remembered.


    This was her right.


    The sword fell.


    5:00 AM, South Bank, London


    Yvette¡¯s unsteady footsteps echoed through the cobbled streets of the shabby district. Few constables patrolled here at this hour, and those who did barely glanced at the lone figure swaying in the predawn gloom. One approached, sniffed for liquor, then dismissed her with a wave. No drunkard. No obvious distress. Not their problem.


    Autumn in Albion meant darkness clung stubbornly until half past eight. The gaslights cast long shadows, her only companion the rhythmic tap of her own boots.


    That blade never pierced Leptorn¡¯s heart.


    Would killing him have been worse? The question gnawed at her as she¡¯d struck downward¡ªnot at the doctor, but at the chapel floor. Her sword had sliced through tendril-covered tombstones embedded like paving stones, a morbid fixture in Albion¡¯s houses of worship.


    Three tiers of burial existed in this age. Paupers filled churchyards in layered graves until the earth bulged like rising dough. The moderately privileged rested beneath chapel floors, their memorials reduced to footnotes under worshippers¡¯ heels. Only the elite warranted full coffins on display, marble effigies frozen in pious repose.


    This particular chapel held no lords. After cleaving through the roots, Yvette had pried up a slab, shoved Leptorn into the waiting void, and sealed it like a macabre pantry.


    ¡°My arm,¡± he¡¯d pleaded when she refused to devour him, eyes gleaming with something between shame and hunger. ¡°I¡¯ve never tasted... myself.¡±


    She kicked the severed limb into the crypt. Before the slab settled, wet crunching sounds rose¡ªteeth meeting phalanges. The noise didn¡¯t revolt her. What chilled her blood was the realization: This is what happens when the Tree of Life¡¯s higher branches touch mortal minds.


    Reason anchored the Tree¡¯s roots. Madness bloomed in its canopy. The Enlightenment had turned men toward logic, yet place a logician on a crumbling bridge, and suddenly he¡¯d imagine the abyss in exquisite detail¡ªevery splintering plank, every shattered bone awaiting below. Imagination, the mind¡¯s own ghoul, would feast on his composure.


    Now she stood on such a bridge. Forward meant embracing truths that might unmoor her sanity. Retreat offered false safety. And paralysis? A slow surrender to creeping dread.


    Leptorn couldn¡¯t be killed, nor handed to the Order. His transformation predated his daughter¡¯s conception¡ªshould they learn of ghouls¡¯ hereditary taint, little Mary¡¯s life would be forfeit. Yet a missing physician of standing would raise questions no knife could silence.


    Lost in thought, Yvette barely noticed the footsteps behind her¡ªuntil a woolen cloak settled over her shoulders, still warm from its owner.


    ¡°Your Gr¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Arthur,¡± corrected the Duke of Lancaster, gloved finger to lips. The gaslight carved shadows under his cheekbones, emphasizing a smile too sharp for dawn¡¯s gentleness.


    ¡°Mr. Glossmort,¡± she acquiesced, using the simplified form of his ludicrously hyphenated name. This dockland slum was no place for dukes, yet here he stood in tweeds, reeking of conspiracy.


    ¡°Cruel, to deny me familiarity after all we¡¯ve shared.¡± His sigh fogged the air. ¡°Now, why does my dear Yves haunt the South Bank at this ghastly hour?¡±


    Says the aristocrat playing vigilante. She eyed the lump beneath his coat¡ªsword? Pistol? Both? ¡°Your presence is far more noteworthy.¡±


    ¡°Hunting.¡± His grin widened. ¡°A lord¡¯s ancient duty: patrolling his demesne, protecting the weak from marauders and, ah... wild beasts.¡±


    No wolves prowled London¡¯s streets. His ¡°beasts¡± wore human skin. This was a thinly veiled admission of meddling with the supernatural, likely hoping to stumble upon some horror to sate his twisted curiosity.


    ¡°Autumn¡¯s end nears,¡± he lamented, ¡°and my trophies case yawns empty. My ancestors would brand me a sloth.¡±


    They¡¯d brand you an idiot, Yvette thought, recalling the Duke¡¯s infamous entanglement with a werewolf last winter. His club of thrill-seeking aristocrats treated the occult as sport, collecting teeth and scars like boyhood marbles.


    ¡°No quarry is better than dead quarry,¡± she said flatly.


    ¡°Spoken like a true professional.¡± He leaned in, breath fogging her ear. ¡°But suppose I told you my carriage contains tools to handle any specimen? Discretion guaranteed. Why, just last month, a colleague¡¯s unfortunate ¡®hunting accident¡¯ required certain edits to the parish registry...¡±


    A solution presented itself. Leptorn¡¯s disappearance could be laundered through this reckless noble¡¯s resources.


    ¡°There¡¯s... a creature,¡± Yvette murmured. ¡°Contained. But if word escapes¡ª¡±


    ¡°I swear.¡± His voice dripped honeyed venom. ¡°No whispers. No traces. Just vanish¡ª¡± his fingers mimicked steam dissipating ¡°¡ªlike morning dew.¡±


    She gave the chapel¡¯s location and slipped into an alley, leaving the Duke staring at the pavement. In his cursed vision, crimson footprints glistened where she¡¯d stood¡ªanother cryptic omen only he could see.


    Cloak flaring, Lancaster turned toward his unmarked carriage. The footprints intrigued him less than the mask.


    Always, always, he¡¯d seen it stitched to Yvette¡¯s face: nails rusted with age, sutures black with old blood. Yet tonight, one thread had frayed loose.


    The Duke licked his lips.


    At long last, the mask was cracking.

 Chapter 112

    For generations, Vienna University''s medical school had shone as the brightest jewel in its academic crown, standing at the zenith of global medicine. In Yvette''s original world, this institution had produced four Nobel laureates in medicine. Here, nurtured by the Germanic tradition of scholarly rigor, it maintained equal prestige as Europe''s foremost center of medical research.


    The grand auditorium still buzzed with excitement following Dr. Walter Moniz''s masterful demonstration of frontier neurosurgery. Students lingered in animated clusters, dissecting every detail of the groundbreaking procedure, while journalists¡ªlike sharks scenting blood¡ªconverged on the side exit where the celebrity doctor would emerge.


    Soon appeared Dr. Moniz himself, having exchanged his surgical whites for an elegant tailcoat and top hat, his gentlemanly cane tapping against marble floors as professors flanked him. Camera flashes erupted in staccato bursts, magnesium powders flaring like miniature fireworks.


    Not that the public cared particularly for academic rigor¡ªmore accomplished scholars existed¡ªbut none matched Moniz''s showmanship. He possessed an uncanny sense for spectacle, whether inventing his controversial "ice pick lobotomy" to cure madness and deviance, or that macabre Paris experiment where he''d briefly revived a guillotined traitor''s corpse. The press adored him for guaranteed headlines.


    As chemical smoke cleared, the interrogation began:


    "Doctor, your phrenology breakthrough¡ªhow precisely do skull shapes reveal mental faculties?"


    "Through five hundred cranial measurements," Moniz replied smoothly, unfazed by the invasive flashes, "I''ve mapped twenty-seven cortical zones correlating to personality and ability. Dominant traits manifest as physical bulges¡ªa scientific physiognomy."


    Another reporter hesitated: "Your book suggests even our souls are fragmented... frankly, most readers find this baffling."


    "Consider Russian nesting dolls," Moniz smiled. "Our outermost self is but a shell¡ªthe face we show society. Didn''t we all loathe school yet play the dutiful child for parents? As adults, we still shift masks: decorous before ladies, yet bawdy in gentlemen''s clubs. Such performative multiplicity defines civilization itself¡ªthe alternative being vulgar savagery."


    "So no one''s truly... undivided?"


    "Rarely. The ''honest'' brute is usually insufferable¡ªthough some masks fuse permanently with wearers." His voice dropped dramatically. "When wounded, minds may fracture entirely¡ªnot temporary roles, but distinct identities sharing one flesh. Imagine seeing alternate versions of yourself in life''s branching paths!"


    The journalists exchanged uneasy glances; this metaphysical tangent wouldn''t sell papers. One redirected: "Colleagues like Sir Ulysses dismiss your work as¡ªforgive me¡ª''gypsy fortune-telling.'' He compares lobotomy to medieval charlatans who duped patients with fake ''brain stones.''"


    Moniz''s affability vanished. "An epidemiologist disparaging neurology? Perhaps his own mind requires corrective ice-picking." The sudden venom silenced the room.


    Satisfied with their sensational quotes, the press dispersed.


    ...


    Meanwhile, Yvette prepared a blood sample¡ªleeched to prevent clotting¡ªfrom little Mary. If vampires could detect werewolves, might they identify ghouls too?


    Dr. Lepton''s cannibalistic urges toward kin couldn''t be ignored. Winter''s early darkness and coal-smogged London nights would suit Randal''s annual visit from Warwickshire.


    "Mr. Westminen!" Yvette had barely entered the appointed caf¨¦ when she spotted the long-absent Randall seated by the window corner in his wool tailcoat and top hat, perusing a newspaper.


    Vampire reproduction worked differently from humans. Though he descended from the Marquess of Montague''s line, he didn''t bear the title. Thus, Yvette addressed him only by his human name: Randall Westminen.


    At her greeting, Randall''s dark eyes lifted from the paper with amusement¡ªuntil she drew near. His face stiffened, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply.


    "That stench clinging to you... Did those curs from last time mark you?"


    He smelled that? Next laundry day, she''d insist Eddy carry fewer bundles.


    "No wild dogs. Just... Well, I took in an outcast werewolf pup. He had nowhere else to go."


    "Reckless," Randall said flatly, forcing down his ancestral hatred for their kind. "Reconsider this."


    "I deliberated for days. My mind''s made up."


    "The Church won¡¯t approve."


    "They didn¡¯t sanction befriending vampires either."


    Silenced by her logic, Randall exhaled through his nose and took a protracted sip of tea.


    "I know you mean well, but that child suffered cruelly. While I pursued a case near him, my oversight got his sole caretaker murdered by the suspect. The trauma prematurely awakened his Spirit Rage¡ªthat''s why his clan exiled him." Her seafoam-green eyes dimmed. "He didn''t choose his birth, nor the brutality dealt him. Yet he''s still kind-hearted. Caring for him eases my guilt too. Had I caught the killer sooner..."


    Randall''s irritation melted at her crestfallen expression.


    "Always shouldering others'' burdens. It wasn''t your failure. You solved the case¡ªhis kin can rest now."


    "Perhaps. Speaking of..." She propped her chin on one hand. "What brings the Prince of Albion''s vampires to London? Surely not for pleasure?"


    The so-called "prince"¡ªoverlord of Britain''s vampiric bloodlines¡ªordinarily stayed cloistered in Warwickshire. Incognito, he masqueraded as the marquess''s attendant, lodging in middling boarding houses to avoid suspicion despite owning lavish London properties. Pathetic, really, being reduced to caf¨¦ meetings.


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    Randall''s chest warmed at her tilted-head curiosity. No trace remained of the gun-sword-wielding warrior¡ªjust a kitten retracting her claws.


    "Annual estate affairs. Post-harvest grain sales, pelt procurement before winter..." He listed agricultural concerns with surprising expertise.


    "You manage this personally? I assumed servants handled it."


    "Mortals can''t be trusted with our secrets. Besides..." His gaze turned distant. "I was a shepherd¡¯s son before the prince turned me. Fifty years of this¡ªeven an imbecile would learn."


    Yvette studied him. Behind those crimson-tinged pupils flickered centuries of solitude. What was half a decade of human life to an immortal? Less than a dream.


    The vampire family cursed with "Blood Spiritualism" were outsiders, seldom venturing beyond their homeland. Only this exiled kinsman remained under the protection of the Montague family¡ªa favor owed from an old alliance, though even the current Marquis knew little of the arrangement. As Randall had explained to Yvette, the debt traced back to his grandfather¡¯s generation.


    The afflicted vampire had to be ancient, one of the high-blooded elders. Over centuries, his condition had deteriorated. Each transformation into a new persona eroded his memories until he no longer recalled his own past. The Montagues sheltered him in a secluded estate, where a clan member delivered fresh blood at intervals¡ªan ancestral obligation, but hardly a burden. Elder vampires spent most of their time dormant, requiring little sustenance. A handful of servants could sustain him indefinitely.


    With the blood sample at risk of spoiling, Yvette and Randall departed at once for the reclusive vampire¡¯s haven.


    Their destination was a postcard-perfect Albion village, tucked in a mist-wreathed valley where a brook whispered through the grass. Isolated from the modern world, the hamlet sprawled across harvested fields, its ancient brick cottages smothered in ivy, their rooftops crowned with wrought-iron weathervanes. The church bell¡¯s toll reverberated through the dale like a heartbeat.


    "Mind your step¡ªthe roads here haven¡¯t seen maintenance in years," Randall cautioned as they walked, though it was evident he, too, was reacquainting himself with the path. Thankfully, rural landscapes changed slowly. After verifying directions with a passing shepherd, they pressed onward.


    Yvette waved off his concern. "I¡¯m a Transcendent. A little mud won¡¯t slow me. But we should hurry. Dawn¡¯s approaching."


    They¡¯d boarded the train late the previous night. Now, the eastern horizon blushed with first light¡ªsoft though it was in winter, even diluted sunlight would discomfort a vampire.


    Randall adjusted his cloak. "The mountain fog will shield me. I¡¯ll manage." Still, he matched her quickened pace.


    The so-called "town" was merely a cluster of cottages around a square. A tavern¡¯s lanterns dimmed as they arrived; the apothecary and smithy Readied for the day. Villagers paused¡ªchildren mid-game, women hauling water¡ªto stare until the squire¡¯s land agent arrived in a carriage, whisking the strangers from view.


    "Master Syming," the agent began stiffly, his gaze darting to Yvette. He¡¯d been notified of Randall¡¯s visit, but her presence was unexpected.


    Randall cut through the tension. "She¡¯s a friend of the Prince. No disguises necessary."


    "Of course, Your Highness." The agent¡¯s grip tightened on the reins. "Might I ask the purpose of this visit?"


    "How is he?"


    The agent hesitated¡ªdiscussing him before a human?


    Randall clarified, "She accompanies us to see him."


    "Ah. No change, then. Feeds every third day; dormant otherwise."


    "Any deterioration since your last report?"


    "I¡¯ve only tended him eight years. But compared to my predecessor¡¯s notes? Stable."


    Yvette studied the agent. He looked scarcely twenty-five. "You¡¯ve overseen this estate eight years?"


    "Aye. The villagers chalk my youth up to ¡®good breeding¡¯¡ªbut that excuse won¡¯t hold forever. In two years, another will replace me. The squire¡¯s family are our clan¡¯s longstanding servants. Assignments here rotate per the elders¡¯ designs."


    Efficient, Yvette noted. Unlike solitary vampires who scraped by in hiding, Albion¡¯s clans operated with orchestrated precision. Elders cycled younger members through their holdings, ensuring seamless transitions when identities needed discarding¡ªor when "deceased" patriarchs reemerged under new names to reclaim their assets.


    The carriage soon halted before a looming Tudor-era manor, its crenellated silhouette a relic of fortresses past.


    Deserted. The squire¡¯s family dwelled in London now; only the agent and a skeleton staff remained. As Yvette followed him across the barren courtyard, the crunch of gravel underfoot echoed starkly. A hound¡¯s distant bay underscored the isolation.


    An ideal refuge for one who shuns daylight.


    Randall¡¯s reticence about this elder¡¯s condition now made sense. Unlike his kin, who moved undetected among humans, this vampire had succumbed to something... irreversible.


    The agent pressed a hidden carving near the dried-up fountain. Gears groaned; a slab shuddered aside, unveiling a cramped stairwell.


    He descended first. When Yvette moved to follow, Randall blocked her path¡ªonly to fetch a lantern from the carriage and enter ahead of her.


    From below, the agent¡¯s chagrined voice rose: "Forgive me, miss. I forgot humans need light."


    An honest oversight, but Randall¡¯s intervention struck the agent as uncharacteristic. The Prince¡¯s heir had always seemed principled to a fault¡ªbook-smart, socially rigid. This newfound tact was... unexpected.


    The tunnel¡¯s damp air carried a stale tang. Weekly feedings couldn¡¯t purge centuries of must.


    "My lord... Prince Randall has come," the agent announced before a stone sarcophagus.


    A rasp answered¡ªless a voice than the groan of a rusted hinge.


    "Ran...dall?" The syllables dripped like tar. "No... Another scent... Human? Do you bring live tribute now?"


    The agent winced at Yvette. "My lord, she¡¯s His Highness¡¯s associate. We seek your counsel."


    Randall stepped forward, presenting the blood sample. "A child may be ghoul-tainted. We need your discernment."


    The coffin lid screeched open a crack. A skeletal claw emerged¡ªflesh hanging in rotten ribbons¡ªsnatched the vial, and vanished.


    Silence. Then, a wet gulp.


    "Healthy babe¡¯s blood... rich... sweet... but tainted." The voice turned nostalgic. "Ah... I remember... Playing doctor once... feeding on leeches after bloodlettings..."


    Another swallow. The sound echoed grotesquely.


    At last, the verdict: "A child... Normal... hu-man... child..."


    The drawn-out cadence lulled like a lullaby.


    Yvette exhaled. Little Mary was safe.


    Yet that languid inflection reminded her of Mary¡¯s own babbling.


    Randall touched her arm. "His condition flares. We should go."


    As they turned, the coffin erupted in frenzied scratching¡ªthen a chilling wail. Not the elder¡¯s voice this time, but a near-perfect mimicry of a baby¡¯s cry.


    CRACK.


    The lid flew open. A mumm


    "Flo... flowers..." His dust-choked voice rasped from a gaping mouth.


    The estate agent hesitated for only an instant before darting away. When he returned, wisps of smoke still curled off his coat¡ªsunlight had clearly scorched him¡ªyet he clutched an armful of freshly plucked blossoms from the garden, their petals beaded with morning dew.


    "My lord, your flowers," he offered.


    The ragged monster snatched one clumsily, the gesture oddly reminiscent of little Mary tugging at arranged bouquets when Alison wasn¡¯t looking.


    "Flo... flowers..." It grinned, its skeletal fingers extending toward Yvette.


    "He won¡¯t harm you," Randall said, well aware how ghastly the elder appeared. He moved to block Yvette¡ª


    But she sidestepped him. "It''s alright," she murmured, meeting the creature¡¯s eager gaze.


    She¡¯d seen that look before. Little Mary would fetch anything within reach and present it proudly to her mother¡ªor to Yvette, if she happened by. Ignored, the child would sulk, equal parts heartbreaking and adorable.


    Here, though, such innocence took on a grotesque shape. A nightmare incarnate.


    But he¡¯s just a lonely child now, Yvette thought. Denial would crush him.


    Without flinching, she took the proffered bloom. Then, disregarding the creature¡¯s filth-encrusted hide¡ªdirtier than any mop¡ªshe bent and brushed a kiss against its forehead.


    "Thank you. I love it."


    Randall¡¯s lantern hit the floor with a clatter. The agent¡¯s jaw swung open, hinges squeaking.


    The monster sighed, smiling. Then it curled up like a contented infant and slept.

 Chapter 113

    ¡°Miss¡­ you¡­¡± The vampire¡ªwho had been posing as a real estate agent¡ªstammered helplessly as they stepped out of the secret passage.


    ¡°I understand his appearance is¡­ difficult for ladies to accept,¡± the agent said, bowing slightly. ¡°But His Lordship means no harm. Thank you for keeping your composure and soothing him.¡±


    ¡°It was nothing,¡± she replied. ¡°I came seeking his help, and my request clearly disturbed him. The least I could do was offer some comfort. You, on the other hand, risked the sun to gather flowers for him¡ªthat¡¯s far more commendable.¡±


    Vampires revered their sires with the reverence of children honoring ancestors¡ªa primal instinct. Yet the one entombed here was no kin of the agent¡¯s bloodline, despite his age. No ancestral authority bound him. His aid was given freely.


    ¡°It¡¯s different,¡± the agent insisted. ¡°I am Kindred¡ªI understand his suffering. But you, a mortal, faced him without flinching. That takes courage and kindness alike. Truly¡­ thank you.¡±


    Randall murmured agreement, though his thoughts had already strayed.


    The Kindred boasted of their immortality, claiming superiority over transient humans. And yet¡ªwhere were the eldest among them? The oldest living vampires dated only to the Medieval Ages. What of those from Rome? The Iron Age? They had not vanished. They could not.


    Few knew the truth: Rome¡¯s adoption laws were a vampire¡¯s invention, designed to pass wealth to those who truly bore the cursed blood.


    Immortality came at a price. Though their flesh endured, their souls withered. Some elders chose the sun before madness took them. Others rotted into monstrosities¡ªslain by witchers or their own desperate progeny.


    Even the Prince had grown weary. Aurora¡¯s execution had only deepened his solitude. Soon, perhaps, he too would seek the dawn, crumbling beneath his roses.


    And yet¡ª


    Randall¡¯s fists tightened as he watched Yvette, radiant with joy over the agent¡¯s pastries.


    Her time was even shorter.


    What was eternity worth, without those who gave it meaning? It was no blessing. Only a curse.


    Now, at last, he understood the Prince¡¯s melancholy. And in understanding, he felt its weight settle upon himself.


    Once, gazing from the castle¡¯s heights, he had watched villagers celebrate a wedding¡ªmusic and laughter drifting on the wind. The sight had twisted his heart with envy for the man who would someday stand at her side.


    But now¡­ now he imagined something far darker.


    Her death.


    Marriage might not be the worst fate. At least she would leave descendants¡ªchildren with her blood, her fire.


    And when the time came¡­ perhaps he would Embrace one.


    Their blood would merge.


    Would that not make them his child too¡ªhers and his?


    That evening, Yvette returned to her Covent Garden apartment. After a soothing bath, she curled up in an armchair by the fireplace, cradling a warm mug of cocoa. A notebook lay open on her lap¡ªpages filled with Chinese characters documenting recent mysteries that still eluded her.


    Her mind churned with unsettling questions from the past days. The ghoul who''d used wealth and status to hide among humans, feeding on corpses in plain sight. The ancient vampire lurking in catacombs, adopting the personalities of his victims through their blood.


    The ghoul''s target had clearly been his own daughter. Dr. Leptun had confessed everything, yet even he couldn''t explain his unnatural craving to consume his own family¡ªa compulsion most ghouls didn''t share. His grotesque transformation was equally puzzling. In this age, supernatural beings rarely displayed such obvious mutations. Had his mountain guide''s flesh poisoned him? Or had the Alpine caves where he hid contained some eldritch influence?


    And then there was the vampire...


    Beyond the reasons she''d voiced for sparing him, Yvette harbored a secret she''d never share. Against all logic, she''d felt an eerie kinship with the creature¡ªlike patients sharing the same hospital ward. In her past life, fellow sufferers had been her only outlet for fears and despair. Family would only worry. Doctors were too busy¡ªand she''d noticed how asylum windows were designed to prevent escapes. No need to burden them with dark thoughts.


    But why identify with a monster? Perhaps events had simply overwhelmed her senses. As sleep claimed her, dreams blurred reality''s edges. The waking world might be the true illusion¡ªits madness only visible in dreams.


    Her mind built labyrinthine corridors, endless halls lined with locked doors concealing unspoken horrors. Rain-smeared windows showed misty towers looming through storms, while abyssal fog coiled like living mist below.


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    She waited. He would come. Their bond pulsed through shared blood¡ªhis murderer''s mark upon her. Though she hadn''t slain him, if his desire remained, he''d find her.


    Footsteps approached through rain. At the knock, ravenous hunger surged through her¡ªserpentine and trembling with excitement. She knew her guest''s craving matched her own. No need for pretense now.


    Born from sin, corrupted by temptation, he offered himself as sacrifice. She would feast, yet grant absolution in return¡ªthe Primordial Serpent''s mercy for debts repaid. Dagger in hand, she descended spiraling stairs toward dark communion...


    Yvette jolted awake at dawn, the coppery tang of blood flooding her mouth. Despite delivering Dr. Leptun to justice, the dreams had returned.


    Stumbling to the washroom, she spat into the basin¡ªand for a heartbeat, the water ran pink, like a ghoul rinsing away evidence. Blinking cleared the illusion. Just fatigue.


    Two dream types visited her: memories stolen from slain supernaturals through their blood, and rarer visions of the world''s hidden truths¡ªperhaps divine rewards. Dr. Leptun''s memories confirmed his grisly confession: chewing his own child''s stiffened flesh from his wife''s portrait, a horror still twisting her stomach.


    But the followIng vision chilled deeper¡ªthe half-fish monsters he''d described, swarming over a rotting mountain of flesh. Sometimes eating each other. She''d seen this grotesque "flesh-god" before when slaying fishmen aboard the Trident. Back then, its tumorous tentacles hunted the hybrids. Now the roles reversed¡ªthe festering deity lay dead, gutted by its offspring gorging on its putrid innards.


    These hybrids were its children. The primordial being had preyed on its own¡ªjust as Leptun craved his family''s flesh. Was this the infection''s source? Some blasphemous mimicry of ancient rites?


    Yet countless cannibals existed without transforming. What made Leptun different? Her thoughts turned to the Alps¡ªwhere miners found ocean fossils in peaks Leonardo once theorized were seabeds. Modern science knew of the Tethys Ocean, crushed between colliding continents to birth the Alps and Himalayas. Could this be the deity''s burial site¡ªa cosmic "whale fall" where sea-life feasted for eons?


    If primordial gods never truly died, what had slain this one? Those weeping wounds, organs boiling with disease...


    And the hybrids spawned new dread. Dagon¡ªthe fish-god of Mediterranean cults¡ªmight he be one such offspring, gaining divinity by gorging on his progenitor''s corpse?


    The terrifying thought struck Yvette like a blow¡ªonce again, she felt as though she stood at the brink of a bottomless abyss, balancing on a rotted plank barely a foot wide. Any moment, it might splinter, sending her tumbling into madness.


    If even the faintest echo of an ancient past could hold such power¡ªif some bumbling mortal¡¯s clumsy imitation could stir the remnants of a forgotten feast and ensnare minds with visions of horror¡ªthen what unimaginable beings must the true Old Gods have been? What force could have cast down these eternal titans to the ocean¡¯s depths?


    Had the Old Gods warred among themselves? Or...


    Yvette recalled the blind hatred she¡¯d felt under the Serpent¡¯s influence¡ªthe visceral loathing for other Chosen, the divine approval when she sacrificed them.


    What role had the Serpent played in the fall of its kin? Had it watched? Or had it struck the killing blow?


    Shaking off the thoughts, Yvette steadied herself and inventoried the gifts from the Slumbering Creator.


    This time, her dream had shown her a triumph.


    Rose petals rained over a city as toga-clad crowds cheered their Imperator¡ªa conqueror returning in glory.


    Bathed in the adoration of senators and commoners alike, the warlord rode a golden chariot, his face smeared with crimson, his body adorned with jewels. He gripped a scepter and laurel branch as armored soldiers escorted him up the Sacred Way to the marble temple atop the hill. Noble households lined the path, offering wine and feasts for his troops.


    Behind him came wagons groaning with plunder¡ªidols of foreign gods buried under gold and silk. Chained prisoners stumbled alongside: enemy officers, nobles, and their weeping families, dragged toward the mountain shrine.


    At the temple¡¯s base, priests replaced the crowd, their incense and hymns guiding the procession inside.


    In the Pantheon, stolen gods of conquered nations stood enshrined. The Imperator knew even heathen deities held power; he¡¯d placed their idols here to be worshiped before the sacrifice began.


    At his nod, priests slit the prisoners¡¯ throats, spilling their blood into the sacred flames.


    Fed by carnage, the fire burned unnaturally¡ªits light twisting the Imperator¡¯s face into something less than human. His eyes elongated like a goat¡¯s, his feet hardening into hooves.


    Then, a slave stepped from the shadows.


    Scarred and starved, the man shoved a jagged golden crown¡ªwoven with thorned roses¡ªonto the Imperator¡¯s brow, hissing in his ear:


    "Remember, you are mortal!"


    Thorns pierced flesh, blood blurring vision.


    Whether it was the slave¡¯s degradation or the pain that broke the spell, the Imperator¡¯s rapture shattered. He drew a shuddering breath, and when his eyes reopened, they were human again.


    With a gesture, he halted further sacrifices. He¡¯d paid the gods their due in blood; the rest would be enslaved.


    The feast began. Soldiers drank and roared his name, praising the divine-blooded conqueror. Yet the Imperator tore off his royal purple, stalking toward the captive women. He seized the fairest priestess and took her atop the temple steps, reveling in her terror.


    The dream shifted¡ªpast the towering columns, Yvette saw the throne room empty but for a single figure.


    A nude woman sat upon the central dais, her hair unbound, crowned only by crimson roses. In her hands glowed a lamp so bright it burned through shut eyelids, searing into the mind.


    The Light of Arcane Wisdom. Only those who sought truth beyond the veil could perceive it.


    In mystic tradition, such visions¡ªthe triumph, the rose-crowned woman¡ªwere symbols. A new Sephirah opened its doors.


    Netzach¡ª[Victory].


    The fourth Sephirah, where mortal will reached its zenith. The final step before surrendering humanity for higher realms.


    In the dream, the Imperator had nearly lost himself¡ªuntil a whip-scarred slave stabbed his brow with a crown of golden thorns.


    His eyes, full of fear and hunger, had said it all: Reason is no match for the abyss.


    Yvette had lived that dream. She¡¯d been the conqueror, drunk on wine and bloodlust. She¡¯d felt the crown¡¯s bite, heard the slave¡¯s voice:


    "Remember, you are mortal!"


    The ecstasy of conquest was the lure of power. The scarred slave¡ªhuman frailty, wounded yet unbroken.


    But what of the next Sephirah? Would a godlike conqueror still heed a slave¡¯s warning? Would he spare the voice that might drag him back from the edge?


    Yvette plunged her face into freezing water, scrubbing away the dream.


    Drying her fingers first, she felt static crackle at her fingertips¡ªa flicker of lightning.


    The power of Netzach?


    She tried to hurl it like a spell¡ªLightning Javelin¡ªbut it refused. Within three meters, she could shape the current like clay. Release it, and it vanished. Air itself resisted, thick as a wall.


    No ranged strikes. Not yet.


    Electricity had a mind of its own¡ªslippery, drawn only to metal. Fine control was possible, but brute force? Futile.


    There had to be another way.

 Chapter 114

    Though auctions date back to Ancient Rome, sellers personally conducted them back then. The modern practice of professional third-party auctioneers is barely a century old.


    Sotheby¡¯s pioneered this trade. In 1744, bookseller Samuel Baker¡ªinspired by London¡¯s high-society salons¡ªenvisioned a refined bidding arena for the wealthy. His inaugural auction made history, securing his reputation and fortune.


    The event¡¯s success cemented Baker¡¯s image as a trustworthy connoisseur. Collectors entrusted him with rarities, unveiling countless priceless manuscripts to the world.


    Generations later, despite rivals like Bonhams and Christie¡¯s, Sotheby¡¯s remains the gold standard for books and documents.


    Per tradition, daytime previews allowed bidders to inspect the offerings. At dusk, attendees gathered in a library-like hall, awaiting the auctioneer¡¯s chant.


    Among them, a smoke-wreathed observer studied the crowd.


    To most, he appeared just another affluent collector. In truth, he belonged to a clandestine order: an Arcane Constable tasked with intercepting occult relics before civilians unwittingly purchased cursed artifacts.


    Sotheby¡¯s often traded in family diaries and cryptic manuscripts. His duty was to screen such items¡ªlike the grotesque book now displayed, its copper-wired binding crusted with verdigris, resembling a padlocked prison door.


    A loose parchment protruding from its pages caught his eye. Strangely, it seemed older than the book itself.


    The sight triggered his memory. The Book of Azrael¡ªa malevolent compendium where each page described a ritual drug requiring sacrificial ingredients. Merely possessing a page could transform mundane organs into magical conduits¡­ until separated.


    His order¡¯s scholars believed Azrael¡¯s true purpose was ceremonial, its "recipes" mere pretexts for dark rites.


    Centuries of fragmentation had scattered its pages across secret hoards. Most discoverers dismissed them as lunatic scribblings¡ªa mercy that spared the world disaster.


    Yet this book¡¯s owner had clearly feared its power, sealing it inside another volume with obsessive care.


    The Constable resolved to claim it.


    On the auction floor, bids erupted as the showman-auctioneer worked his magic:


    "Three hundred pounds! Do I hear three-twenty?"


    The price skyrocketed, thinning the competition to two determined tycoons. When the numbers surpassed his budget, the Constable yielded¡ªbut not his mission.


    If money failed, magic would suffice.


    Sotheby¡¯s security¡ªmultiple exits, armed escorts¡ªmeant nothing to beings like him. He¡¯d track the buyer, then retrieve the book through other means.


    Shadowing the carriage, he trailed his target into London¡¯s squalid underbelly, where crumbling alleys forced the buyer to proceed on foot, clutching his prize.


    The man¡¯s furtive manner confirmed suspicions. He knew what the book held.


    The Constable ghosted after him.


    ......


    "Your prediction proved accurate." The Canterbury See¡¯s messenger laid a leather-bound tome on the table, its spine still indented from copper bindings.


    Ulysses examined it as the messenger explained:


    "Our agent vanished near the slum where this was found. The scene suggested a depraved ritual. We recovered only his bloodied clothes, a¡­ cleaned skull, and this."


    The opened page revealed a passage about blood feuds¡ªthe sole bloodstained section in an otherwise pristine journal.


    Vengeance again.


    Previously, a customs officer turned informant had acquired forbidden knowledge, melting into a foamy monstrosity. The prime suspect: "Tally Onis," a pseudonym invoking Babylonian lex talionis¡ªan eye for an eye.


    Yvette¡¯s report had alerted Ulysses. Now, history repeated.


    "¡­Just the skull? The rest?"


    The messenger shuddered. "Gone. The bone bore tool marks¡ªknives, forks, sharpened spoons. As if¡­"


    "Other at-risk operatives?"


    "Evacuated to Kievan Rus. Once we confirm they¡¯re untracked, the Flesh Sculptor will remake their faces. Their old lives end today¡ªeven their families must believe them dead."


    For those touched by the occult, survival meant severing every earthly tie.


    A grim necessity¡ªbut better than the alternative.


    "That slum¡¯s a mess¡ªtoo many traces, no way to track his killer. The Holy See sent me to ask: Got any leads?"


    "What kind of blades left those marks on the skull? Rough work¡ªinconsistent shape and size?"


    "Dinner knives, forks, that sort of thing. Some fork prongs were even bent."


    "Then look for his eaters among women¡ªlikely all women¡ªheavy drinkers who gather drunk, fluting and dancing. Probably holed up in brothels or textile mills."


    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.


    "You¡¯re saying¡ª"


    "Sounds like Dionysus cultists. In myth, he was reborn thrice¡ªonce torn apart and eaten. His followers repaid the favor. King Pentheus of Thebes mocked Dionysus, but his own mother and sisters were Maenads. They ripped him apart¡ªleft just his head on a staff. Orpheus too¡ªonly his skull washed ashore."


    "Brilliant! I¡¯ll alert the Holy See¡ªthese fanatics must be purged!"


    Ulysses shook his head. "I only identified the eaters. The mastermind¡¯s still out there¡ªhere or fled. Either way, tread carefully."


    "I will."


    Alone, Ulysses stirred cold coffee, lost in thought.


    The Church had stamped out Dionysus cults in the witch hunts¡ªyet the creed survived. Someone had resurrected it, using those madwomen as expendable tools.


    He started with Dionysian rites too. Hardly surprising...


    The tale of the Titans feasting on Dionysus¡¯s predecessor had enthralled him. Without that obsession¡ªwould things be different?


    The Albion Church¡¯s leaders: Canterbury and York archbishops. The Special Missions Bureau often held one¡ªsometimes both.


    Aristotle wrote: All men desire to know.


    Years back, the traitorous Archbishop of York told Ulysses:


    "The masses under lies¡¯ veil are dregs. Those with powers? Only slightly better. True men of spirit pierce through all illusion!"


    He lived those words¡ªpursuing knowledge at any cost.


    The bird fights free of the egg. The egg is its world. To transcend, one must shatter a world.


    ...


    Late sun slanted through the window as Yvette stroked Marcus. The black cat rolled, purring for more.


    "Who knew you¡¯d be decent at this, meow?"


    Thick carpets and fleece-draped furniture kept the library cozy¡ªbut dry air sparked static, frizzing Marcus¡¯s fur. Yet Yvette¡¯s touch banished it.


    "Practice helps¡ª" Marcus¡¯s tail smacked her hand.


    "Filthy stray-touching hands on Lord Marcus?!" Ears flattened, he glared betrayal.


    "I barely pet strays now!" She smoothed his fur, feeling absurdly guilty.


    "Why read Asia Minor¡¯s Occult today, meow?"


    "Just... thoughts."


    "Ask Lord Marcus instead!"


    "Do gods die?"


    "Old Ones are beyond life¡ªlike storms! Can you kill wind?"


    "Right, just wondering." In her dream: a god¡¯s corpse, eaten by fish-faced children, empowering them.


    Dagon¡ªman-fish god¡ªascended by devouring an Old One¡¯s flesh. If so... could humans too?


    Does the Bureau know? Suppress it? Otherwise, power-hungry agents might invite the Old Ones over...


    At Malkin¡¯s workshop, Yvette collected glasses to hide wolf-boy Eddie¡¯s pupils. She also ordered grappling wires¡ªher energy-conversion power could electrify weapons at will, even shoot currents through wires. Deadly or nonlethal¡ªan edge either way.


    "Know any electricians, Mr. Malkin?"


    "Professor Wheatstone¡ªRoyal Society, telegraph magnate. Bought parts here, but he¡¯s an odd duck. Can¡¯t stand his type."


    Wheatstone. Remember that.


    Home again, Eddie tried the glasses¡ªillusion magic masked his light-sensitive eyes perfectly.


    "Feel alright?"


    "Perfect! Thanks, Mr. Fisher!"


    "Remember¡ªno ear-twitching in public." She¡¯d raise him right¡ªteaching London¡¯s ways. But eventually, he¡¯d leave. Better that way.


    (Besides¡ªher dreams whispered she might not last long.)


    She¡¯d even prepared for Alison: a letter to Ulysses, money enclosed. If I turn monster¡ªstop me. Help them.


    No ghoul-doctor fate for her. No public horror like that melted customs officer.


    Let Ulysses end it cleanly.


    How sane am I, really?


    Unanswerable.


    Another quiet afternoon at the Labyrinth Club found Yvette surrounded by fellow members before the Honor Wall. Standing beside Antiaris and Nerium, they collectively held a worn execution rope while posing for the photographer''s lens.


    "That''s it - Mr. Fisher, eyes here. Mr. Faulkner, tilt left slightly... Perfect. Ready? Smile gallantly now - one, two, three!"


    Under the black hood of his antique camera, the photographer fussed over their arrangement until satisfied, then ignited the magnesium flash powder.


    A bright flare and soft pop later, their likenesses were captured on the silver plate.


    Applause erupted as waiters produced champagne for the celebration.


    "Months ago, Birmingham trembled under the ''Midnight Killer'' - a butcher preying on vulnerable women until our members Yves de Fisher, Dubhe Faulkner and Riley Dickinson helped authorities end his reign. This very noose delivered justice. Today, Birmingham sends both rope and gratitude."


    As the city''s commendation letter concluded, attendants mounted the grim relic alongside its parchment in a glass display for the Wall.


    The rope''s grimy fibers still clinging with prisoners'' hair made Yvette shudder. Those once hanged upon it included some lord left dangling like market fish - a thought prompting silent pity.


    Her companions quickly discarded their gloves afterward, aristocratic noses wrinkling at contact with criminal residue.


    Conversation naturally turned to Birmingham''s ordeal:


    "Exciting material," Antiaris mused, "but too adventurous for proper detective fiction. True Albion murder requires familiar settings where upstanding souls prove capable of villainy. A killer appearing only at resolution lacks dramatic tension."


    "Then write it as supplemental adventure!" countered Strychnos. "The immigrant slums'' lawless exoticism fascinates our readership more than London''s gritty districts. Chevalier navigating such terrain compensates for lighter deduction."


    Nerium clasped hands dramatically: "And romantic elements! Picture some fallen gentlewoman-turned-courtesan slated for slaughter until Chevalier''s eleventh-hour rescue. What delicate heart could resist loving her savior? Yet society''s chains forbid confession - such delicious torment!"


    The group enthusiastically outlined this new direction.


    Alas, Chevalier failed to save this fictional damsel. Yvette sighed internally, relieved Eddie showed no distress at the parallel. She deftly redirected:


    "Enough sequels - how progresses The Vanishing Phantom Thief? Following The Almond Cocktail Mystery''s success, all expect brilliance from your next serial."


    "Already published." Antiaris flourished the newspaper. "You''ve clearly been too occupied for current events."


    Indeed - between ghoul doctors and contingency plans, newspapers went unread.


    Scanning the page, she admired Antiaris'' suspenseful opening... until page two''s factory disaster: iron roof beams snapping "like shirt buttons," crushing workers before steam boilers exploded into infernos.


    Unlike typical sensationalism, the report clinically detailed structural flaws before condemning iron''s overuse in architecture - citing bridge collapses to support its thesis. Impeccable journalism... in suspiciously familiar prose.


    Those intricate subordinate clauses and scholarly flourishes evoked Ulysses'' authoritative voice - from food safety treatises to toxic pigment warnings in his study.


    If he authored this, the accident might conceal supernatural elements. What else transpired beyond her awareness?


    "Mandragora," a member whispered, "rumor claims Her Majesty attended The Almond Cocktail Mystery incognito! My friend''s earl father spotted royal attendants near the Duchess of Argyll''s box - the ''young lady'' inside could only be the Queen!"


    Though officially mourning, Victoria resisted ministers'' matrimonial schemes. Yet theater excursions hardly suited grieving daughters.


    Only Yvette knew the Queen orchestrated her mad father''s demise without remorse - having a competent monarch outweighed sentimentality.


    "How splendid!" Yvette teased. "Now the whole court knows Albion''s newest literary luminary! Prepare for invitations, our modern Shakespeare."


    Antiaris reddened: "Spare me. Should Her Majesty inquire about Chevalier''s real identity... well, patriotism might outweigh friendship."


    "You betrayed me to Montague once!"


    "That ended favorably! You''re practically cordial now - shame he lacks daughters for advantageous marriage."


    (If only he knew Montague had ordered his daughter''s execution over this...)


    "Joking aside - disclose nothing to Her Majesty." Being remembered by that cunning monarch felt ominous - especially recalling her wallpaper poison plot.


    A waiter approached bearing a silver tray:


    "Sir, a visitor awaits with this card."

 Chapter 115

    Honestly¡ªwhat an appalling breach of etiquette. These days, visits weren¡¯t conducted so brusquely.


    The custom was straightforward: first-time visitors left their carriage before the estate gates, sent their calling card inside via a servant, then withdrew with dignity¡ªwhether the host was available or not.


    If the host accepted, they returned their own card, arranging a formal appointment at a later time. Even among friends, the same protocol stood¡ªthough usually, a close friend¡¯s card prompted the host to pay a return visit instead.


    Noblefolk in Albion kept frantic schedules, their days consumed by social calls, their evenings spent sorting the latest stack of accumulated invitations. Lingering uninvited outside a man¡¯s house? Absurd. Unless one had an excellent reason, it was the quickest way to earn contempt.


    "Let us hope this is urgent," muttered Strychnine, plucking up the card and eyeing the feminine name.


    "Lady Margie Ansorpe. She¡¯s scribbled a note¡ªbegging our assistance with a dire matter."


    "That name rings a bell," mused Henbane, exhaling pipe smoke. "She was Margie Darlington once¡ªa stage singer. Saw her perform before she wed some widowed squire and retired. Last I heard, her husband shot himself, leaving her tangled in an inheritance feud."


    "So that¡¯s her crisis?" Strychnine shrugged. "She needs a solicitor, not us."


    "Hear her out¡ªthere¡¯s often more beneath such tales." Oleander sniffed the card theatrically. "Ah, the sweet stench of an Albion murder¡ªinheritance, greed, all the classics."


    Moments later, a veiled widow in black swept into the parlor.


    Though visibly tense initially, she steadied herself well¡ªevidently no stranger to high society.


    "Mr. Faulkner," she began, voice trembling just so, "I¡¯m an admirer of your work. As both your reader and a grieving woman, I¡¯m indebted you¡¯d receive me so abruptly. My late husband, Robert Ansorpe, and I wed two years past. He¡¯d been widowed once¡ªhis first wife and child lost in childbirth. Had he died without issue, his nephew Henry stood to inherit everything.


    Then Robert saw me perform. Love struck, and soon we wed. Henry opposed it instantly. But Robert, bless him, refused to let a spiteful nephew dictate his happiness. He even threatened to cut Henry off if the slander didn¡¯t cease.


    Henry owns some shabby little portrait studio¡ªhardly funds his vices. So he bit his tongue¡­ though his hatred festered.


    And when I announced my pregnancy last month? It must¡¯ve been the last straw. Then last week¡ªoh God¡ªRobert was found shot through the skull! The police called it suicide. Suicide! When we were expecting a child! What madness!" Tears welled, dabbing at them with lace.


    "You suspect Henry orchestrated it?"


    "I can¡¯t prove it¡­ but who gains most? Robert¡¯s wealth is land, not coin. With our babe unborn, Henry inherits the lot."


    Strychnine leaned forward. "We¡¯ll inspect the scene. Tell me¡ªis it preserved?"


    "Exactly as found. The police chalk marks remain. Only his body¡¯s been moved. Help me, Mr. Faulkner!"


    "We¡¯ll try. Though we¡¯ll need access to any evidence the police hold¡ªincluding the weapon."


    "Anything¡ªI¡¯ll have it all brought here."


    Once she left, the others turned to Yvette.


    "Well, Detective Chevalier? What¡¯s your verdict?"


    Verdict? Hardly supernatural.


    "Too soon to say. We¡¯ll need those police reports."


    "Ever cautious, Mandrake!" Oleander teased. "But we all know you¡¯ll dazzle us yet."


    Yvette smiled absently, her mind snagged on that factory disaster in the papers.


    A dozen dead seamstresses¡ªyet the Labyrinth of Thought barely blinked. Albion¡¯s class divides ran deep. Her friends, for all their warmth, were aristocrats first. The plight of the poor simply didn¡¯t register.


    And the law agreed. No charges filed¡ªjust an ¡°act of God.¡± The mill owner got compensation. The victims¡¯ families? Nothing.


    But why had the Viscount intervened? What tied a factory collapse to the occult?


    Unable to shake the thought, Yvette headed to Hampstead Heath.


    After sending Eddie home, she arrived at Ulysses¡¯ estate. The butler guided her inside¡ªHis Lordship wasn¡¯t due back yet.


    In the parlor, Winslow stood by the balcony, feeding birds. The flock had grown¡ªsparrows, tits, pigeons¡ªall jostling for crumbs.


    "Winslow," she greeted.


    "Master Ives." He smiled warmly. "Here for His Lordship?"


    "Partly." She held up the paper. "This piece bears his mark. Something serious?"


    Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.


    "My role was merely quelling labor unrest. The press wasn¡¯t my concern."


    Ah, the labor factions¡ªrabble-rousers demanding rights and votes, in the gentry¡¯s eyes.


    Yet despite the deaths, no outcry. An article alone couldn¡¯t explain the hush.


    "How does one ¡®quell unrest¡¯¡­?"


    Winslow¡¯s smile didn¡¯t falter. "Oh, diverse methods."


    His tone was mild, but the autumn light through the window lent his usual warmth a pallid chill.


    Yvette stiffened¡ªjust slightly.


    Winslow noticed.


    "Something amiss?"


    "Nothing."


    "No? For a moment, you looked at me as if I were a stranger. Or something¡­ callous." He scattered the last crumbs. "Master Ives, I follow chivalry, not morality. The latter requires too much tedious pondering. Point me where I¡¯m needed¡ªI¡¯ll act. No second-guessing.


    Overthink, and the Old Gods¡¯ snares await. Simpler to cleave to the code."


    Chivalry¡­


    She thought of knights in her homeland, pledging to defend the weak¡ªthen slaughtering cities in holy wars.


    The contradiction unsettled her. Winslow, so kind¡ªcould he too turn ruthless?


    That was Winslow''s decision in the end. Though Yvette felt it didn''t quite align with the man she knew, she wouldn''t interfere.


    Truth be told, she wasn''t entirely certain about the validity of her own doctrines and pursuit of discernment either.


    "I wonder when the gentleman will return. Fancy some reading in the study? Master Ives mentioned the collection was stuffed with Latin tomes, Greek texts and specialized works - terribly dull stuff. He had a bookseller deliver more recent popular novels instead. Haven''t seen those yet, have you?"


    "Oh? He never mentioned it, but how thoughtful!" Surprised by this, Yvette decided some light reading might be pleasant after all.


    "I''ll prepare tea and pastries then. Recently mastered these French souffl¨¦ pancakes - might I have the pleasure of your opinion?"


    "I don''t mean to trouble you... but I''d be delighted."


    Seeing her enthusiasm, Winslow permitted himself a small smile: "No trouble at all. Quick to make - similar to cakes but airier. Our Albion desserts rely on whipped butter for volume, while souffl¨¦s use frothed egg whites - much lighter on the palate. The gentlefolk ladies seem to prefer this modern approach."


    "That must please the gentleman. He always complained our pastries were just bricks of butter and sugar."


    "Actually, he doesn''t know about these yet," Winslow said with a conspiratorial wink. "An idle mind makes a dull student - his current studies don''t warrant such indulgences."


    "...Can''t say I agree entirely. Lately I''ve come to think him rather dedicated."


    In Ulysses'' study, Yvette found the promised novels - freshly bound and conspicuous beside the usual dreary academic volumes. Among them sat the first three Chevalier detective stories, though other titles occupied the shelf as well. Gothic fiction lingered like a dying ember, its predictable formulas failing to excite. The golden age of detective stories had yet to dawn - to her critical eye, only the Chevalier series showed merit. And who knew Chevalier better than she?


    Romance novels proved equally disappointing - page after page of fragile, swooning heroines that left her cold.


    Setting these aside, her attention was caught by an odd box near the shelves.


    The contraption featured a hand crank and wire terminals - unmistakably one of those electrotherapy devices physicians were so fond of.


    Now that she understood electricity, its workings might prove interesting.


    Opening the case revealed simple components - a rotating shaft, coiled wire and magnets. Turning the crank spun the coils through the magnetic field, generating current.


    Electricity produced magnetism just as magnetism created electricity. During her hospital days, she''d undergone MRI scans - the medical staff''s strict warnings about metal objects still fresh in memory. Over tea, a friendly resident had shared horror stories - how activated MRI machines could hurl oxygen tanks across rooms, even crushing patients with wheelchairs.


    That terrifying force was just a byproduct of the scanning process. The principle was simple enough. If electricity proved too unwieldy as direct weapon, perhaps converting it to magnetic energy might serve better purposes?


    She was deep in contemplation when Ulysses'' voice startled her.


    "Find anything interesting? I should mention that gadget''s useless for what they claim - nerves, pains or hallucinations. Expecting it to stabilize supernatural abilities is pure fantasy."


    "Just examining the mechanism... wait a moment! Last winter you recommended electrotherapy to me!"


    "..." His gaze slid away uncomfortably.


    "So that''s it. You''d grown tired of me and suggested that ridiculous treatment..."


    "Another time. You''re here about next week''s assignment, I presume?"


    She recognized the deflection, but professional curiosity won out.


    "What assignment?"


    "Apparently not informed yet... We''re accompanying the Duke of Lancaster''s hunting party."


    "Merely hunting? Or is there more to it?"


    "Her Majesty remains unmarried despite Parliament''s wishes. A suitable foreign candidate arrives next week with several noble companions - officially guests of various aristocrats. Some have... connections to our world. To prevent unfortunate incidents during their stay, our presence is required."


    Ah. A royal matchmaking event, then.


    Selecting a monarch''s spouse was no simple matter. The candidate must possess royal blood - some minor European prince, perhaps - but stand sufficiently distant from succession to avoid complications. Family history, temperament and appearance all factor in, then Her Majesty''s approval atop it all.


    No formal announcement yet - just preliminary evaluations. Should the candidate prove unsuitable, the visit could pass as ordinary.


    But those accompanying foreign nobles presented concerns. Old bloodlines occasionally awakened supernatural talents, necessitating both protection and surveillance from their hosts.


    "That''s the situation. You''ll receive particulars shortly... Normally one operative would suffice, but Lancaster''s taken liberties..."


    "Oh?"


    "He invited us both, contrary to my instructions. Should you prefer to decline, plead illness and maintain low profile to avoid gossip."


    "No other engagements next week. Might prove useful should complications arise."


    She understood his meaning. Vile rumors already circulated among Albion''s elite - whispers that Sir Ulysses and the Duke shared more than friendship.


    Unsurprising, really. The eligible Duke kept no known paramours, yet showed marked favor to this foreign knight - a rank barely noble at all. That Ulysses had amassed such disproportionate influence could only mean one thing to the aristocracy - scandalous favors granted rather than earned.


    Were she to decline this public invitation while Ulysses attended? The implications were painfully clear: only Sir Ulysses'' jealousy could explain refusing the Duke''s summons.


    No - she wouldn''t have him suffer such slights on her account.


    Still, why her inclusion? She recalled that ghoul doctor recently delivered to the Duke''s care. Though the good doctor had vanished weeks ago, London''s papers merely noted financial troubles forcing his abrupt departure.


    Never mind that everyone knew his practice flourished. When numerous noble agents testified to his debts - their word being credit itself in Albion''s stratified society - who could argue?


    Was this the Duke demonstrating his club''s reach?


    Yvette pondered this while Ulysses contemplated darker concerns.


    Personally, he cared nothing for idle gossip - in mere years he''d shed this identity anyway. But London''s underworld had grown restless of late, its shifting factions difficult to track. The monitored countryside estate offered security amidst this foreign delegation''s visit.


    At least it might shield her from any remaining Doomsday Clock agents still lurking in the capital.

 Chapter 116

    "Ah, one more thing about the Duke of Lancaster¡¯s invitation¡ªthe event spans three days. Make sure you pack enough formalwear."


    Yvette nodded dutifully. She knew the drill for high-society gatherings: never repeat outfits, or risk becoming the laughingstock.


    "...Also, there¡¯s a masquerade on the second night. Greek mythology theme. You catch my drift?"


    "Understood, I¡¯ll prepare¡ªwait, what?!"


    She¡¯d answered automatically, but Ulysses¡¯s smirk made her freeze.


    Masquerades¡ªthose scandalous Italian imports¡ªpaired perfectly with Greek myths. The catch? The costumes: flimsy silks clinging to every curve, more suggestive than outright nudity.


    Impossible for someone like her, trussed up daily in a corset.


    "Can I... rescind my RSVP?" Forget salvaging the man¡¯s reputation¡ªhis notoriety as a sycophantic foreigner was beyond repair anyway.


    "Denied," Ulysses said, eyes gleaming with mischief.


    "...Why must you torture me?"


    Apparently satisfied, he relented. "Fine. Go as King Midas¡ªhood included. No one questions a man hiding donkey ears."


    Brilliant!


    In the myth, Midas¡¯s foolish musical judgment earned him ass¡¯s ears. Forced into perpetual hoods, his secret was eventually spilled by a talkative barber.


    Perfect cover to lurk in corners.


    "Off to the tailor, then!" Relieved, Yvette stabbed her fork into a souffl¨¦¡ªa Versailles invention designed to let gluttonous nobles feast without fullness.


    Ulysses narrowed his eyes. "Since when do we serve souffl¨¦s?"


    "Winslow spares you the sin of gluttony, given your idleness."


    "To be slighted in my own home! Perhaps I¡¯ll dismiss this thieving butler¡ª"


    Winslow entered with another souffl¨¦. "Master Yves, should you wish, I¡¯m happy to seek employment at Covent Garden."


    "...You¡¯re reinstated," Ulysses muttered, seizing the dessert.


    Days later, the Labyrinth Society stood in dead banker Robert Ansorp¡¯s study, studying the chalk outline.


    "Henry found him shot at 9 p.m.," sobbed widow Maggie. "I¡¯d been out shopping, napped till evening¡ª"


    "No servants noticed?"


    "Robert banned unsupervised access after a rival bribed a maid."


    The police report confirmed:


    Three visitors that day. Two subordinates left cleanly. Nephew Henry departed by 3 p.m.¡ªverified by a neighbor who¡¯d seen Robert alive at 4:30 p.m.


    Time of death: ~7 p.m., via Colt revolver (a merchant¡¯s choice, not a noble¡¯s). No witnesses.


    "Likely suicide," droned the sergeant. "Bankers have been jumping lately."


    Henry interrupted: "Or murder. My uncle¡¯s ¡®widow¡¯"¡ªhe sneered¡ª"was spotted canoodling with her lawyer on King¡¯s Road when she claimed to be at a charity event. The Golden Rose Theatre fire? She supposedly attended¡ªyet returned without a singed glove."


    Maggie flushed. "Coincidences! My friend can verify¡ª"


    "Save it for the unborn child¡¯s paternity test." Henry summoned his lawyer. "Seal the art and jewels before they... disappear."


    "A Locked-Room Murder."


    "A flawless alibi!"


    "Both had motive."


    The members of the Labyrinth Society whispered among themselves, their debate growing increasingly heated.


    "This reeks of a mechanical murder¡ªthe kind I despise," declared Dianthus, the detective novelist, his sharp eyes gleaming with conviction. "Both suspects knew the victim¡¯s habits well enough to predict he¡¯d be in his study at this hour. They could¡¯ve rigged a delayed trigger¡ªsay, a rubber band frozen in ice that released when melted, or a thread tied to the door to fire the gun remotely. The proof? This photograph."


    He pointed to a close-up of the bullet wound in the victim¡¯s temple, his tone dripping with certainty.


    "Left temple, hm? Already noted," sneered Oleander. "Inkwell on the desk¡¯s right, writer¡¯s callus on his right hand¡ªhe was right-handed. Why shoot himself with his left?"


    "No powder burns either," added Strychnine, tapping his meerschaum pipe. "A contact shot would¡¯ve scorched the skin. This wasn¡¯t suicide."


    The police officer gaped at them. "Gentlemen, which firm do you work for? How have such brilliant minds escaped my notice?"


    "We¡¯re preoccupied with actual deduction," Dianthus snapped. "Spare us the pleasantries."


    Meanwhile, in the kitchen...


    Eddie, Yvette¡¯s werewolf assistant, grunted as he hefted half a roast pig onto the table¡ªa comical display, given his strength. Mr. Fisher (or rather, Miss Fisher, though he¡¯d been told to keep up the charade) had insisted he "play human."


    Yvette loaded bullets into a revolver. "You¡¯re sure Henry¡¯s scent is on this gun?"


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "Positive," Eddie nodded. "He handled it often."


    Interesting.


    Henry had claimed he¡¯d been too shocked to touch anything after finding his uncle¡¯s body. Yet the gun bore his smell¡ªa discrepancy, albeit not courtroom-proof.


    But Yvette had a better lead.


    She fired into the pig. Bang! A clean, slightly singed hole. Then, muffling the gun with cloth: pop! The muted sound resembled a champagne cork¡ªand left no burns.


    Just like the victim¡¯s wound.


    Carving open the pig, she examined the bullet. Sunlight revealed rifling marks¡ªunique striations from the barrel¡¯s grooves.


    Aha.


    The "evidence" gun was pristine; the fatal bullet¡¯s rough grooves matched a neglected firearm. Two different guns.


    Upstairs, chaos reigned.


    "It has to be here!" Oleander wailed, upturning furniture.


    The officer sighed. "I¡¯ve indulged this farce long enough¡ª"


    "What¡¯d I miss?" Yvette strolled in.


    "Mandala!" they cried in relief. "Find the murder device!"


    "What device?"


    "The one that proves it wasn¡¯t a contact shot!"


    Yvette smirked. "There isn¡¯t one."


    ¡°How can there be nothing?! Did an invisible demon kill him?!¡± Oleander wore the bewildered look of a child who¡¯d just been told Santa Claus wasn¡¯t real.


    Maggie Ansorp didn¡¯t bother hiding her disappointment anymore. She felt like a fool for expecting novelists to be of any practical help. They spun tales¡ªthey didn¡¯t solve real-life mysteries.


    A policeman cleared his throat, choosing his words carefully to avoid offending the gentlemen present. "Gentlemen, reality rarely matches fiction. Perhaps Providence played a cruel joke¡ªcoincidences often defy logic. But at least we¡¯ve confirmed Mr. Ansorp¡¯s death as suicide, putting certain rumors to rest."


    Now that he mentioned it, the eccentric theories had seemed plausible at first. But upon closer inspection, they fell apart. The victim always carried his pistol¡ªso how could someone have taken it, built a makeshift murder device in front of him, and escaped his notice without a normal man raising suspicion?


    It was like the old jest:


    How do you fit an elephant into a drawer?


    Open the drawer.


    Put the elephant in.


    Close the drawer.


    Simple in theory¡ªutter nonsense in practice.


    ¡°Then explain the lack of powder burns on his temple! And why shoot himself with his left hand?!¡± Arrow Poison Wood protested weakly, though even he seemed unsure of his own argument now.


    "Mere coincidence. The bullet may have had insufficient powder, dulling its heat. As for the left hand¡ªperhaps he strained his right. Muscle pain, tendinitis... Who knows?"


    "Those explanations only hold if this pistol was the murder weapon," Yvette remarked at last, having spent the last while silently inspecting the revolver.


    The officer turned to the slender youth who¡¯d just reappeared¡ªnow regarded with reverence by the room¡¯s eccentrics.


    "Proof?" he asked. "We found no other weapon, and the bullet matches this gun¡¯s caliber."


    "It begins with this gun¡¯s origin." Yvette spun the cylinder, its mechanisms grating compared to her own finely-tuned weapon. "Notice its simpler, sturdier frame¡ªthis is a Federal design. Ours are master-crafted, but theirs are mass-produced, built for utility."


    The French adored duels¡ªtheir pistols, their protocol. And before she''d ever stepped into London¡¯s ballrooms, she¡¯d learned firearms inside and out.


    "Federal manufacturers don¡¯t craft guns¡ªthey manufacture them. Every part interchangeable. If a barrel fails, you simply slot in another. A revolutionary concept for a lawless land where reliability matters more than artistry."


    "In 1819, an engineer at Harper¡¯s Ferry Armory designed breechloaders with standardized parts¡ªidentical guns, identical mechanisms. Then Colt followed. They made a thousand ¡®Walker¡¯ revolvers for the military¡ªthen a hundred civilian models, numbered 1000 to 1100. This one is 1045."


    Her voice carried none of a scholar¡¯s pomp¡ªjust quiet certainty, unshakable as bedrock.


    "Brilliant, Yves! Utterly brilliant!" Oleander crowed.


    The officer blinked. "Then another ¡®Walker¡¯ could¡¯ve fired the shot?"


    "Why don¡¯t we ask Mr. Henry Ansorp?" Yvette¡¯s gaze sharpened. "I hear you own one."


    "I¡ªwhat? I might¡¯ve, years ago. Can¡¯t recall where I put it¡ª" Henry¡¯s voice wavered. He didn¡¯t know how she knew, but her detail¡ªthe numbering, the maker¡ªwent beyond his own knowledge.


    A bluff. And it worked.


    "The box you carried out that day¡ªwas that in it?!" Oleander gasped.


    The officer shook his head. "We searched it. Only photography tools inside."


    "Then the household stands accused!" Nux Vomica thundered. "Someone smuggled in a Federal gun, shot him at seven, and staged the scene!"


    "No," said Yvette. "By seven, the room was empty. He died hours earlier."


    The officer frowned. "The coroner placed death around five. Rigor mortis begins at two hours¡ª"


    "Not always." Her voice cut through. **"Stronger men stiffen slower¡ªsometimes seven or eight hours. Mr. Ansorp was robust.


    Albion in this era was a place where death loomed at every corner. Filthy air, polluted water, and squalid living conditions bred diseases like cholera, typhoid, and tuberculosis¡ªailments that would baffle future generations with better hygiene. Fewer than half of all children lived to see their fifth birthday, and even youths often dropped dead without warning. Noble families weren¡¯t spared either¡ªwhile each king ennobled dozens, the peerage count hovered around five hundred, their lines extinguished as swiftly as commoners¡¯. Despite couples bearing five children on average, London¡¯s population grew not by birth but by sucking in villagers like a voracious beast, its streets littered with nameless casualties.


    Londoners, hardened by loss, developed a morbid fascination. Serpent motifs adorned their belongings, symbolizing the cycle of death and rebirth. They devoured tales of murders, public hangings, and grotesque anatomical displays. Lockets cradled strands of hair from the departed; post-mortem photographs preserved loved ones¡¯ final moments in eerie stillness.


    The crowd present, mostly London-born, understood this grim culture¡ªand thus immediately grasped Henry Ansorpe¡¯s macabre artistry. As a photographer, he¡¯d have used hidden metal armatures to pose his uncle¡¯s corpse: braces to stiffen the back, clamps to lock limbs. A lifeless body could then "stand" obediently before the lens.


    "Hands where I can see them¡ªslowly!" The constable¡¯s revolver gleamed as he advanced on Henry.


    Henry paled. Unarmed and outnumbered¡ªwith even Toxifer and Nerium aiming their ornate pistols¡ªhe stood no chance. Unless he could outdraw a Wild West legend, any move would be suicide. And with Yvette three paces away, his gun would likely "misfire" anyway.


    Defeated, he obeyed.


    "What about the odd bullet wound?" voices clamored once he was restrained. "A long-range shot, or¡ª?"


    "He silenced the gun with fabric," Yvette interjected, waving the murder weapon. "I tested it¡ªmuffled, it sounds no louder than a champagne pop. Right, Henry?"


    "A scarf," he rasped, confessing in broken whispers.


    At three that afternoon, he¡¯d shot his uncle with his own "Walker" revolver¡ªa twin to Robert¡¯s, bought years ago from a shop boasting interchangeable parts. Bitter over his uncle¡¯s unborn heir (and the wife¡¯s infidelity, which Robert ignored), Henry had posed the corpse by the window, counting on the neighbor¡¯s piano lesson for an alibi.


    He¡¯d killed the fire, too. Years photographing corpses taught him rigormortis timelines¡ªRobert¡¯s study, servant-free, and his wife¡¯s affair bought enough leeway to return later, remove the supports, and feign shock at the "fresh" death.


    "God above!" Nerium gaped. "Did an angel whisper this to you?"


    Not an angel, Yvette mused, producing two bullets. One, dug from Robert¡¯s skull; another, test-fired from his gun.


    "See the rifling? Robert¡¯s gun left crisp grooves¡ªbarely used. The killer¡¯s? Ragged, degraded from frequent firing. Henry didn¡¯t use his uncle¡¯s pristine pistol¡ªhe used his own."


    Cries of awe erupted. "A genius!" "The Chevalier incarnate!"


    Henry wept in a heap. Maggie swooned into the constable¡¯s arms, revived by salts. "A Frenchman!" she gasped suddenly. "You¡¯re Faulkner¡¯s Chevalier¡ªthe detective from the novels!"


    As the room dissolved into chaos, Yvette resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

 Chapter 117

    Based on Henry''s confession, the police recovered a second "Walker" pistol from his nearby home. On the day of the murder, he''d rushed off in a panic with the weapon, too afraid to ditch it elsewhere, so he''d stashed it back in his drawer. Though he''d considered destroying it¡ªfirst worried his servant would notice the missing expensive gun and grow suspicious, then fearing someone else might find it and cause trouble¡ªhe eventually decided to hide it until things blew over.


    After securing the murder weapon, the police test-fired it and compared the bullet markings, confirming it nearly matched the slug extracted from the victim''s skull.


    "Astonishing!" everyone marveled.


    "The killer test-fired it repeatedly recently to muffle the shots, so the rifling has distinct lead deposits. Even two brand-new guns from the same mold wouldn''t leave identical marks¡ªthough you''d need closer inspection. Try coating a bullet in ink, wrapping it in paper to transfer the grooves, then comparing the imprints. That''ll highlight any differences."


    "Brilliant! This eliminates misidentifying guns of the same caliber." The officer jotted furious notes in his pad.


    Yvette also shared future forensic ballistics techniques, confident they''d spark further innovations.


    "One more thing," Yvette added, glancing at Maggie''s flushed face. "This lady guessed correctly¡ªparts of the Chevalier''s story are based on my experiences..."


    The room hushed.


    "I''d prefer that stays private."


    "Why?!" The officer gaped. Surely such genius deserved acclaim¡ªthis could launch her into high society, even secure her a government post!


    "Because it helps no one. The police''s reputation would suffer for the initial mistake, reporters would hound us, Mrs. Alsop''s name would be dragged through the mud, and I''d lose my freedom to prying eyes. I want none of that."


    Maggie paled¡ªshe''d be branded an adulteress, even if high society discreetly condoned such affairs.


    "But..." The officer wavered. Their botched suicide ruling would disgrace the force.


    "Let the Chevalier take credit," Yvette said softly. "In my mind, he''s my unrestrained counterpart."


    The crowd buzzed with theories¡ªwas "Mr. Fisher" some noble''s bastard? His melancholy surely hinted at a dark pedigree!


    ...


    Later, the officer briefed his superintendent.


    "Sorted. We told the press we spotted inconsistencies in the ''suicide,'' worked with the Labyrinth of Thought Club, and cracked the case. The killer¡¯s in custody. No one can fault us now."


    The superintendent skimmed the press clippings. Even the harshest papers focused on the mystery, not police errors. "Thank heavens. If only all citizens were as accommodating as Mr. Fisher. Drinks are on me tonight."


    "Oh¡ªhis friend requested the two guns as trial mementos."


    "Granted!" The superintendent clasped the officer''s shoulder. "Dave, how¡¯d you like to investigate thefts at Windsor Castle? Lord Granville¡¯s stumped."


    "Me?!" The officer gulped. "But... it was Mr. Fisher who actually solved the case!"


    The superintendent smirked. "Good luck, Dave."


    Left alone, the officer groaned. "Fisher... sir... you''ve doomed me."


    The Duke of Lancaster¡¯s invitation led them to his family¡¯s estate in Hampshire, a verdant paradise southwest of London. As Yvette¡¯s carriage rolled through the countryside, she admired the dreamlike beauty of ivy-clad walls and red-brick cottages peeking through emerald foliage¡ªscenes so picturesque they seemed plucked from an artist¡¯s canvas.


    The contrast to soot-choked London was staggering. With winter¡¯s approach, coal fires blackened the city air, forcing Alison to scrub soot-streaked surfaces daily. Even laundered shirts, once pristine, turned gray when hung to dry in London¡¯s grimy atmosphere. Yvette now relied on Winslow¡¯s doll, which spirited her laundry away weekly to be cleansed in the countryside¡¯s purer air.


    Today, she wore a pale-blue embroidered gown, every button studded with gems, her calfskin shoes fastened with gold buckles crafted by master jewelers. The lace at her cuffs gleamed spotless¡ªa sartorial feat near London, announcing her as wealth personified. The cost of maintaining such attire could feed a family for months.


    Beside her, Ulysses had outdone himself in a navy-blue coat edged with gold, his platinum hair glowing like spun silver against the finery.


    Paris might dictate fashion, but even Parisians dismissed their provincial countrymen as rustics. Within the city, Versailles¡¯ courtiers reigned supreme, sneering at lesser mortals. Yet Ulysses carried himself with the effortless grace of Versailles¡¯ elite¡ªonly a true aristocrat could wear such opulence without descending into gaudiness.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    European high society was a battlefield of whispers and veiled daggers. As new money blurred old hierarchies, nobles clung to lavish rituals and brutal etiquette to gatekeep their world. Tonight¡¯s gathering was no exception¡ªa silent scoring of status where missteps meant exile.


    Their carriage bypassed lesser guests, rolling straight to Ferndown Estate¡¯s doorstep. The mansion loomed ahead, a gray-white marvel framed by obelisks and fountains, its grounds sprawling with deer parks and glasshouses. It wasn¡¯t grandeur¡ªit was obscene wealth.


    Ugh. That smirking devil¡¯s face flashed in her mind, now thrice as irritating.


    Yvette smoothed her cravat and stockings¡ªarmor for the coming fray. Ahead, Ulysses disembarked like a peacock in full plumage.


    Louis XIV¡¯s reign had popularized breeches and stockings to showcase royal calves. Ulysses, leggy and poised, wore the style to perfection. Yvette checked her own legs¡ªshorter, but slender. If the Sun King managed to look regal in this getup, she¡¯d survive.


    "Relax," Ulysses murmured. "You¡¯re not here to grovel or scheme. Enjoy the show."


    Their privileged access¡ªcarriage to the doorstep¡ªmarked them as the Duke¡¯s inner circle. Lesser nobles tramped across the gravel in boots, changing shoes at the door.


    Two fops greeted each other with effusive charm, their veneer of camaraderie hiding gladiatorial scrutiny. They weighed each other¡¯s jewels and tailoring like wolves testing for weakness. Reassured, they swapped tales of mistresses.


    The women were worse. Their chatter about fashion was mere noise¡ªtonight¡¯s true purpose was to be seen. Months of cold baths and torturous hair regimens culminated in this battlefield. Every lingering gaze was a point scored.


    Through the pillared archway Yvette glided, her smiles calculated¡ªwarm but not eager, dignified but not cold. Nobles responded in kind, recognizing both her polish and the whispers of her closeness to the Duke.


    Ulysses played the aloof Frenchman to perfection, his selective attention spawning gossip even as it set hearts aflutter.


    The grand hall stole her breath. Gods and muses danced across frescoed ceilings while lavender-clad footmen¡ªnoble-looking enough to pass as guests¡ªushered luggage upstairs.


    The Duke¡¯s wealth wasn¡¯t just vast; it was vulgar. Legends claimed a Lancaster ancestor once boasted he couldn¡¯t outspend his fortune¡ªgold tossed from carriages always returned via mines or trade.


    If the Duke¡¯s brother was Spindle, perhaps precognition ran in the blood, their coffers eternally overflowing.


    Yet for most attendees, tonight was no mere party¡ªit was an audition. Whispers hinted the Duke¡¯s guestlist was a proving ground for Windsor¡¯s inner circle. Behind every compliment lurked rivalry.


    Yvette exhaled. They were here as royal safeguards, not players.


    Still, the spectacle fascinated. A baroness, rumored near ruin, was encircled by "concerned" friends eyeing her jewels for paste replicas. In this pit of sharks, weakness invited a feeding frenzy.


    In an age ruled by appearances, Brummell¡ªthe architect of Albion¡¯s modern fashion and a tastemaker of his time¡ªleveraged his sartorial genius to become the prince¡¯s style advisor. This earned him influence far beyond his station as a secretary¡¯s son, even allowing him to threaten the exile of a duchess who dared cross him. Across the Channel, Madame de Pompadour¡¯s impeccable taste defined French elegance until her dying day, reigning as the uncrowned queen of Versailles.


    Fashion was power. To be deemed ¨¤ la mode meant every door swung open, every drawing room welcomed you, every lady¡¯s bedchamber lay within reach. Women coveted such men as trophies to flaunt¡ªproof of their own desirability. The same held true in reverse, making the pursuit of beauty a shortcut to status.


    Even among aristocrats, looks were armor in the unspoken wars of social rank. No one dared neglect them.


    Amid the gilded splendor of the hall, Yvette glimpsed the Duke of Lancaster, resplendent as any masterpiece. As host, he wove through guests with practiced charm. For a heartbeat, his crescent-moon smile seemed to flicker toward her¡ªor had she imagined it?


    ¡°My dearest friend!¡± The Duke¡¯s voice was honeyed as they approached. ¡°And the ever-dashing Yves! Soon you¡¯ll eclipse that tactless uncle of yours as London¡¯s most sought-after bachelor~¡± A sweep of his hand encompassed the estate. ¡°Ferham¡¯s galleries, sculptures, and library await your pleasure¡ªask any footman. Ladies have already ravaged the greenhouse strawberries¡ªripe for plucking, much like their lips, non? Or join the gentlemen angling by the lake or gaming in the card room¡­¡±


    Strawberries tempted Yvette¡ªuntil she pictured the greenhouse: a jungle of predatory smiles where ¡°Darling Duchess¡± hid daggers. These women bent propriety into art, lacing every gesture with innuendo. She¡¯d be devoured alive.


    She melted into the shadows instead.


    ¡°Ulysses!¡± The Duke snagged his arm. ¡°Billiards? I thirst for a real challenge~¡±


    ¡°Your Grace honors me.¡± Ulysses¡¯ tone could¡¯ve frosted the champagne.


    ¡­¡­


    ¡°Challenge,¡± it turned out, was wishful thinking. Ulysses annihilated the game in one ruthless streak, his focus as razor-edged as his cue¡¯s precision. Noblewomen gasped¡ªnot for the humiliated Duke, but the Frenchman¡¯s hypnotic grace. Their practiced hearts, usually calculating like ledger books, fluttered like debutantes¡¯. What price wouldn¡¯t one pay for a night under that gaze?


    Shame sobered them fast. Fans fluttered, masking whispers:


    ¡°The Duke¡¯s too kind tolerating such arrogance.¡±


    ¡°Unless¡­¡± A smirk. ¡°Certain tastes enjoy defiance¡­¡±


    Mid-game, Ulysses cornered the Duke: ¡°Your scheme?¡±


    ¡°Why, showcasing our bond!¡± The Duke¡¯s smile didn¡¯t reach his eyes.


    Their ¡°friendship¡± was mutually exploitative theater. Ulysses, as the Organization¡¯s watchdog, kept the Duke¡¯s moods from destabilizing the Spindle¡ªwhile borrowing his clout to bypass London¡¯s petty obstructions.


    Yet that smirk at the door¡­ Had Ulysses slipped?


    ¡ª¡ª


    Yvette lost herself in the manor¡¯s legendary library¡ªa tower housing treasures hoarded by generations of Lancasters. Medieval gem-bound psalters rubbed spines with heretical gospels, like the apocalypse text before her:


    [The Lamb unseals doom:


    First, Conquest on a white steed, trailing venomous blossoms;


    War on crimson follows, drenching earth in gore;


    Famine¡¯s black mount treads fertile fields to dust;


    Then the Pale Rider¡ªDeath, omnipresent, his name etched in every shadow¡­]


    Defaced pages swallowed the rest.


    Her fingers traced queerer finds: rituals veiled as allegories (missing key phrases), a Nibelungen variant where the dragonslayer grew scales¡ª¡°Who usurped whom?¡±¡ªand a gardener¡¯s ode: ¡°Death wears a crown of flowers.¡±


    The dressing bell startled her. Beyond the windows, lit lancets glittered like Cinderella¡¯s castle. She shut the book, its secrets humming in her veins.

 Chapter 118

    By the time dinner was served, every guest invited by the Duke of Lancaster had arrived.


    Yvette, clad in her evening gown, stepped into the dining hall and was immediately enveloped in warmth. The banquet space had been flawlessly prepared¡ªcountless high-quality smokeless candles bathed the room in a glow as bright as noon, the heat making it feel like early summer. No wonder the servant had advised her against heavy fabric; even ladies in plunging necklines wouldn¡¯t feel a chill here.


    Their lavish skirts whispered against the floor as they moved, their bare arms and necks adorned with gleaming pearls and faceted jewels that sparkled under the candlelight like miniature chandeliers. The grand dining hall, its walls adorned with frescoes of the war god¡¯s triumphant chariot pulled by wolves, held silver pitchers filled with drinks¡ªboth chilled and warm¡ªwhile the table groaned under tiers of French pastries, out-of-season fruits, and candied delicacies, all artfully displayed in crystal goblets.


    ¡°The strawberries served tonight were handpicked this afternoon by the ladies,¡± the Duke announced, lifting one to inhale its scent. ¡°I must thank these divine creatures¡ªyour fingertips carry a fragrance more intoxicating than the fruit itself.¡± The ladies demurely averted their eyes, their practiced reactions as choreographed as his gallantry.


    This was high society¡¯s unspoken script: men played the charming suitor, lavishing attention like chivalrous knights; women feigned flustered modesty, their pale skin and blushes serving as calculated weapons. Desire was both flaunted and concealed, a game of push-and-pull where innuendo reigned supreme. These were nobles bred for such performances, experts in the art of social seduction, where victory meant reigning as the most dazzling star in the room.


    The Duke¡¯s a real smooth operator, Yvette mused. No wonder he¡¯s the center of attention¡ªaristocracy through and through. Half the men here will probably dissect his flirting techniques later like it¡¯s a manual.


    She, however, had no intention of emulating such shameless finesse. Instead, she leaned into her role as the awkward debutante, reacting to any flirtation with exaggerated nervousness. It served a dual purpose: it flattered the ladies¡¯ egos while shutting down further advances. After all, if she played the bumbling novice, any real pursuit would require their initiative¡ªhardly proper at such a high-profile event.


    Step on their path before they even take it, she thought smugly, then cast a sideways glance at Ulysses. He sat stiffly, exuding an air of disdain¡ªa peacock among doves. His wooden demeanor had earned him a dismal reputation; if he possessed even a shred of her social agility, he wouldn¡¯t be the subject of endless gossip. Only his absurdly handsome face spared him from total ostracism.


    If social standing were a chart, the Duke would be a perfect hexagon¡ªimpeccable in wealth, pedigree, looks, and charm. Ulysses? A statistical anomaly: one extraordinary trait (his beauty) and a pile of zeros everywhere else. As for herself? Middling across the board, with confidence lagging notably behind.


    But tonight was the Duke¡¯s arena, a clash of the elite¡ªSSRs and URs battling for dominance. As a humble SR, she¡¯d stay quietly on the sidelines, out of the fray.


    Etiquette demanded strict seating: married couples were separated, seated beside unmarried nobles of the opposite sex. A tradition that practically encouraged affairs¡ªnot that anyone minded, since most noble marriages were contractual. Once an heir was secured, spouses lived separate lives, occasionally dining together for appearances.


    The Albion aristocracy adored French cuisine, and the Duke¡¯s feast followed suit. Courses arrived with choreographed precision¡ªpheasant with roasted mushrooms, venison ribs, veal loin kissed with marjoram and citrus, all served on engraved silver platters. No peacock or swan here; the French had long abandoned medieval excess for the refined flavors of carefully bred livestock. Wild game, they argued, was gamy and tough, while castrated animals yielded superior fat and tenderness.


    Yet the meal was hardly modest. Out-of-season fruits¡ªcucumbers, peaches, tender lettuce¡ªgraced the table, a luxury even for the upper crust.


    Suppressing a sigh, Yvette sliced into a perfectly cooked piece of fowl, her movements precise, her napkin untouched. Most guests merely sampled dishes, lest they be labeled gluttons. But the flavors were exquisite¡­ especially the strawberries. She fantasized about sneaking into the greenhouse later for more.


    After each course, servants offered linen cloths¡ªa redundant gesture for this crowd, whose hands never bore a smudge.


    Conversation flowed like champagne: light, bubbly, and strategically empty. But the mood shifted when the lobster arrived, its buttery surface blanketed in truffle shavings.


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    Truffles¡ªthe so-called aphrodisiac of the aristocracy. Their musky scent was said to stir uncontrollable lust, like Eden¡¯s forbidden fruit. One noblewoman had once confessed that after a truffle-laden meal, she¡¯d slept with a man she despised, claiming the fungi had ¡°bewitched¡± her. Naturally, their infamy made them the perfect scapegoat for scandal. By serving them tonight, the Duke had all but issued an invitation to sin.


    Nearly every guest helped themselves, their willingness to indulge an unspoken proclamation: I am ripe for romance.


    Sure enough, after dinner, pairs drifted into shadowed alcoves, murmuring behind potted palms. Fluttering lashes, smoldering glances¡ªa dance of mutual narcissism, where each sought validation of their own allure in another¡¯s gaze.


    They played at being lovers, yet in truth, they were Narcissus, enthralled by their own reflections.


    Most dalliances ended harmlessly, the participants soon parting to chase new flirtations. But sometimes, the game spiraled into reality.


    Not that spouses minded. The ton¡¯s finest couples often aided each other¡¯s affairs. Only the jealous made scenes¡ªand they swiftly became the butt of jokes.


    The hall was utterly silent, save for the soft strains of blindfolded minstrels echoing through the pillared corridors. Noble couples played at romance, generating sparks with each intimate touch and kiss, their passions transcending the need for words. The very air seemed thick with ripe anticipation, like fruit ready to burst at the slightest pressure.


    This atmosphere left Yvette acutely aware of her alienation. As someone touched by the transcendental, she often felt separate from this world - but never more so than now, surrounded by these so-called peers whose values diverged so completely from her own. The sensation clung to her thoughts like stubborn sediment stirred from still waters.


    "I am but a wanderer seeking my soul," she mused, "What meaning have these worlds for me? The truth I seek lies at their furthest edges."


    Her gaze drifted across shadowy revelers to the moonlit balcony where a tall, fair-haired figure stood alone.


    He might have been the moonlight given human form - detached yet not disdainful of worldly affairs. Unlike moralists railing against aristocratic decadence, nor yet joining in their frivolities. He reminded her of some ancient sea-stack, enduring while waves of golden candlelight (heavy with sensuality) broke impotently against his shores.


    Compelled by some unnameable attraction, Yvette approached as naturally as she might select a fascinating tome from library shelves. The ancient manuscript''s cover bore no title, yet she''d known instinctively it contained hidden truths.


    And what drew her now?


    Brilliant moonlight streamed through the windows, illuminating Rothschild roses that climbed the balcony in sweet profusion.


    Roses - eternal symbols of secrecy. "Sub rosa" the Romans called it - "under the rose" - a phrase preserved through all the tongues of Europe.


    Too much moonlight now, distorting perception until dream and reality blurred. Yet paradoxically, Yvette''s thoughts burned clearer than ever.


    What was pursing her?


    "The rose''s secret," she concluded.


    "Your Lordship," she ventured, "Might I pose certain questions?"


    He turned gracefully against the balustrade. "Indeed?"


    "Consider how humans were once far lesser creatures - mere self-replicating genetic matter. For protection, it cloaked itself in protein, enabling movement, nourishment and advantageous unions. Over eons, these membranes grew complex, birthing nature''s infinite forms."


    She gestured toward amorous couples inside.


    "Yet fundamentally, we remain that ancient genetic matter, though now enslaved by the protective shells we grew. Those shells developed wills of their own. See how they pursue ideal mates, obeying primordial drives, yet restrain those urges - enjoying union''s pleasures while thwarting procreation''s purpose. Women even deform their bodies to attract mates, though corsets endanger childbirth."


    The Essence of things - here was revelation approaching! She knew she should stop these dangerous thoughts, these forbidden truths, but knowledge itself seemed to pursue her - hungry to be known, understood, reproduced in other minds. The luminous understanding swelled behind her eyes, threatening to overflow.


    "My Lord...which is the true self? The ancient genetic thread? The dominant protein shell? Or some divine breath animating my soul?"


    Ulysses abruptly drew her into an embrace, pressing her against a rose-wreathed pillar where none might observe two formally-attired figures locked in apparent passion.


    "You ascend too high, perceive too much."


    Though his breath warmed her neck like a lover''s, his words carried death''s chill as he recounted an ancient horror:


    A great emperor, besieged by plague, initially sealed his capital to protect the realm though it meant his own death. Then came the plague-herald with a ghastly bargain - spread the pestilence to weaken neighboring enemies, and in exchange, the herald would return to wreak vengeance when the empire next faced peril.


    The emperor accepted. Though half his people perished, his enemies suffered equally, ensuring his empire''s survival. Thus was signed history''s cruelest passport - by Justinian''s bloody quill in 542 AD - unleashing the Black Death across medieval Europe.


    Ulysses'' poisonous telling seemed to brush Yvette with death''s own fingers, chilling her ecstatic intellectual fever. Whether genetic essence or biological shell, all life rejects death''s touch.


    Shivering violently, she gasped, "Your Lordship¡ª"


    But he turned away. "You should rest," he murmured before departing.


    Dawn found Yvette waking beneath sunlit sheets, last night''s luminous revelations now dim and lifeless as the morning light upon her bed.


    What had provoked such strange clarity? Not merely forbidden texts about hidden histories - they required some catalyst.


    She recalled the balcony''s solitary figure, radiating silent truths more potent than any drunken revelry.

 Chapter 119

    Yvette rose leisurely from bed, her thoughts lingering on yesterday¡¯s strange episode¡ªparticularly the forbidden secrets she¡¯d recklessly revealed to Ulysses.


    Oh dear¡­


    Two minutes later, she burst from her room in disarray, struggling with her necktie.


    Please let those mad ramblings not have addled his mind.


    "Why the hurry? Being chased by monsters?"


    Ulysses stood near the staircase, eyebrows raised at her frantic state.


    "Mm¡ª" Hair tie clenched in teeth, hands wrestling her cravat¡ªhardly the picture of noble decorum.


    A quick retreat, five minutes¡¯ primping, and she emerged to find him unmoved.


    "Waiting for me, sir?"


    "Naturally. Had you not recovered, I¡¯d have summoned a replacement and made my excuses to leave."


    "My apologies¡­ I don¡¯t know why I¡­ Those things I said yesterday¡ªdid they¡­ affect you?" She flushed, recalling how the supernatural¡¯s honeyed whispers had eroded her caution.


    "Hardly. The concern is you¡ªhow do you feel?"


    "No ill effects, though my memory¡¯s foggy¡­"


    "Then leave it buried." His tone brooked no argument.


    As they descended, Yvette mustered courage: "What did you say to calm me? Some anti-madness spell?"


    "¡­Merely more esoterica. Forget it."


    "Eh?"


    "Forbidden truths can cancel each other¡ªlike balancing Machiavelli¡¯s cutthroat pragmatism with Plato¡¯s ideals. Yesterday¡¯s fleshly fever required the chill of the grave to wither those fevered fantasies."


    "Wait¡ªthat works?! Why don¡¯t they teach this?!"


    He smirked. "Fools who think they can flirt with madness and ¡®rebalance¡¯ later end up drowned in it. You wouldn¡¯t have realized you¡¯d lost control."


    True¡ªshe¡¯d felt terrifyingly omniscient.


    "Besides," he added, "this isn¡¯t a cure¡ªjust bailing water from a sinking ship. Self-discipline is the only real safeguard."


    "Ohh~" Nodding eagerly: "You¡¯re so learned¡ªyou could lecture at Headquarters! Why choose fieldwork?"


    Ulysses ignored her. A nobleman brushed past¡ªodd, given the empty corridor.


    "Discreet rooms for liaisons," he murmured. "His lady likely slipped out another way."


    Albion¡¯s priggish mansions had dedicated adultery staircases? How¡­ practical.


    "Be careful not to wander into such places."


    "As if¡ª"


    He spun suddenly, halting her mid-protest. The stairs put them eye-to-eye as he leaned in, all tragic blue eyes and sculpted cheekbones.


    "Yet last night, I could¡¯ve led you anywhere."


    "You wouldn¡¯t."


    "Hmm. Flattered by your faith in my virtue, or insulted you find me unappealing?" His sigh feigned heartbreak. "Which is it?"


    That face¡ªso close¡ªsent her stumbling back, cheeks burning.


    "The first! Obviously!"


    "Good." Deadpan again: "Now, my dear¡­ maybe skip the truffles."


    What was this act today? She trailed warily behind.


    Except¡­ this nonsense had started after she¡¯d praised his knowledge. A distraction?


    Hah! So the unflappable Ulysses could be flustered!


    As for truffles causing madness? Unlikely. Still, having tried the overpriced fungus, she¡¯d happily abstain.


    ¡­¡­


    The hunt commenced post-breakfast¡ªa proper, galloping affair unlike most nobles¡¯ scripted pantomimes.


    The Duke¡¯s boundless wealth showcased itself in manicured deer parks (stocked year-round) and sprawling hunt-worthy lands¡ªother lords sacrificed mere token acres before letting beaters drive prey to their guns.


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    Decadent parasites.


    Lunch was picnic-style. A whimsical moment: the Earl of Sandwich¡¯s descendant received nods over their eponymous meal¡ªhis ancestor had invented the portable snack to avoid leaving card tables.


    Men vied fiercely for kills, their prize-laden saddles bristling with game. Yvette, riding sidesaddle (and thus disadvantaged), had bagged nothing¡ªher attendant trailing uselessly.


    Ulysses sidled close in a thicket, offering spare fowl.


    She declined: "They¡¯re already smirking at my empty saddle. Sudden success would seem suspect."


    Not that anyone would gloat¡­


    ¡­Right?


    Yvette had dismissed such petty antics in her mind¡ªuntil an actual noble brat proved her wrong.


    Munching her sandwich, she watched a young lordling saunter over, ostentatiously eyeing her tethered horse.


    "They say in Versailles, pretty verses and wit charm the ladies. Such French frivolity won¡¯t fly here. Real Albion men hunt."


    "Your point being?" She recognized the preening viscount¡¯s heir.


    "Merely observing how odd it is¡ªreturning empty-handed from such abundant woods. Frenchmen clearly lack sporting blood~"


    His deliberately loud jibe drew onlookers. Unless countered, "little Fisher" would be branded craven.


    Nearby, the Duke of Lancaster nudged Ulysses. "Pity¡ªhis father bans ''frivolous French cuisine,'' serving that dreadful Albion fare. The apple didn¡¯t fall far, our ardent patriot~"


    Ulysses remained unmoved.


    "...Our Yves needs aid, dear friend!"


    "A minor squabble. He¡¯ll manage."


    Unprovoked malice deserved retaliation. Finishing her meal, Yvette approached the duke.


    "Your Grace, might you have a rabbit gun?"


    "Those popguns?" The duke chuckled. "Good for children hunting hare¡ªtoo weak for proper game."


    "Precisely what I need."


    An hour later, Yvette received the slender firearm where she¡¯d waited¡ªwhile the hunting party pressed onward.


    In the woods, the viscount¡¯s heir gloated to companions:


    "That French fop slunk off! Our ladies need proper Albion suitors¡ª"


    A sudden gunshot whizzed past his ear.


    Yvette leveled the smoking barrel as her hound retrieved a headshot rabbit¡ªthe tiny entry wound through its eye proving her marksmanship.


    "¡ªDevil¡¯s luck!" he spat, spurring away¡ªonly for Yvette to shadow him relentlessly.


    Thereafter, every animal entering his range fell instantly to her flawless headshots while she reminisced loudly about childhood hunts.


    By dusk, a mystified party beheld Yvette laden with pristine headshot trophies while the viscount¡¯s heir slunk like a whipped cur. Even the duke marveled at the improbable accuracy.


    Back at the manor, ladies whispered behind fans:


    "They¡¯re calling him ''le petit d¨¦mon'' now!"


    "How thrilling¡ªwho knew the quiet boy hid such fire? I do hope he attends the masque tonight!"


    Amid speculation about his costume (Eros? Narcissus?), one fact became clear¡ªnone would underestimate "gentle" Yvette again.


    <div>


    After tea, all the guests retired early to prepare their costumes for the masquerade that evening.


    Though the ball wouldn''t begin for hours yet, no one considered the time excessive¡ªespecially given the evening¡¯s Greco-Roman theme. The Olympians, dressed in flowing silk robes reminiscent of ancient sages, draped themselves in artful folds that accentuated graceful lines with effortless elegance.


    Effortless, of course, being anything but. Each pleat had been painstakingly arranged by servants, pinned and pressed into calculated perfection¡ªmuch like the deceptive "natural" fashions of later centuries, requiring far more labor to appear artless.


    Yvette, at least, had it easier. Swathed entirely in her hooded cloak, she spared herself the battle against fabric.


    While everyone else was preoccupied, she slipped into the greenhouse¡ªfinally getting her hands on those strawberries she''d been eyeing earlier.


    ...


    The Lancasters'' estate had been built during the Baroque heyday of the 17th century¡ªan era where artistry took inspiration from antiquity, then gilded and embellished it into dramatic grandeur.


    And if any space in this architectural masterpiece embodied Baroque opulence, it was the ballroom beneath its gilded dome. Fluted columns soared between intricate reliefs in white and gold, offering a feast for the eyes. The acoustics, calculated by a master¡¯s hand, wrapped the chamber in resonant harmony, making the orchestra¡¯s strings echo as if from celestial heights.


    For tonight, the duke¡¯s staff had outdone themselves: fountains cascaded beside fragrant roses; servants stood statue-still with trays of delicacies, blending into the decor.


    As music swelled, guests began arriving in dazzling array¡ªeach clearly having spared no effort. One man, playing the hero Peleus, wore only sculpted muscle beneath his armor; his lips had gone blue from the cold metal in the heated room until he hovered by the fireplace. Another, as Prometheus, sported shackles and perched a falcon on his wrist¡ªthough the poor bird, overwhelmed, left an unfortunate droppings streak down his sleeve.


    The ladies avoided such indignities, instead deploying every stratagem to shine. A buxom Aphrodite let her silks cling suggestively, her languid gaze promising delights. Twin sisters¡ªone radiant as Dawn in gold-speckled white, the other Night incarnate in star-studded black¡ªplayed on contrast, drawing admirers despite plain features.


    The true fun of a masquerade lay in embodying one¡¯s role, and Ulysses had chosen well: Hermes, trickster god of wit and alchemy, whose caduceus now jabbed pointedly into the ribs of ¡°Apollo.¡±


    The duke¡ªlaurel-crowned, dagger at his hip¡ªhad been scanning the room with a "jealousy glass": those spy-telescopes nobles used to covertly scrutinize lovers and rivals alike. Through its lenses, several guests had already noted the oddity skulking by the walls.


    Yvette, oblivious, dodged through shadows, hood pulled tight. The ballroom¡¯s scale usually meant one needed optics just to find acquaintances¡ªsurely no one would notice her?


    She was wrong.


    ¡°What on earth¡ª?¡±


    ¡°Did you see that gray thing dart behind the fountain?¡±


    ¡°Who comes to a duke¡¯s ball dressed like a vagrant?¡±


    Propriety was paramount. Louis XIV had once stormed out because a mistress repeated an outfit.


    As Yvette reached for a flamb¨¦ed dessert, Apollo¡¯s hand caught her hood, yanking it back.


    ¡°A rabbit?¡± The duke grinned. ¡°I don¡¯t recall inviting Wonderland.¡±


    Her face, dwarfed by the cloak, was all pointed chin and quivering ears¡ªadorably unlike any myth he knew.


    ¡°Unhand me, vengeful god!¡± She swatted him away. ¡°I am Midas! You cursed these ears after I judged your contest with Pan! I¡¯ll burn your temples for this!¡±


    This Midas¡ªpetite, sharp-tongued¡ªwas far finer than the oafish king in paintings. The duke¡¯s laughter drew stares; none expected tolerance toward such impudence.


    ¡°My dear king,¡± he purred, ¡°had you been this pretty, Apollo would¡¯ve pardoned you. What reparations might I offer?¡±


    A well-placed caduceus to his ribs cut short the antics.


    Apollo¡ªever the indiscriminate flirt¡ªwas soon whisked away by simpering goddesses, each more enticing than the last: perfumed, jeweled, trembling like goblets waiting to be tasted.

 Chapter 120

    To Yvette, every noblewoman in attendance was beautiful¡ªnot by accident, but by meticulous design. From the moment they awoke, their every action was choreographed to cultivate elegance. They dressed with care, entertained guests at noon, and in the afternoons, rode through town in open carriages, hunting for the latest French fashions. Returning home, they would study their reflections for hours, rehearsing smiles, practicing sorrowful gazes, adjusting angles to avoid unflattering shadows.


    The mirror was their strictest teacher, and their performances were flawless.


    When Yvette had first entered this world, she¡¯d found even the simplest social graces alien. Choosing to dress as a man had been her escape¡ªand now, seeing the effortless poise of true society ladies, she was grateful for that decision.


    Here, nobility played their parts like actors. On the dance floor, couples spun in waltzes, their hands lingering just a breath too long. In shadowed alcoves, whispered flirtations danced beneath polite words, eyes gleaming with unspoken promises.


    Didn¡¯t they realize they were being watched? Of course they did. This was all part of the spectacle¡ªa play where the audience was complicit in the illusion.


    Amidst the theatrics, Yvette was the sole attendee more interested in the food. Though called a ball, dancing was sparse¡ªmerely one per hour, with long stretches for mingling. Between songs, servants circulated with trays of sweets and wine. She¡¯d already sampled cakes at ten, punch at eleven, spiced wine at midnight¡­


    Thankfully, as a ¡°male¡± guest, she wasn¡¯t expected to seek out partners. Her plain cloak made her an unlikely suitor for the radiant debutantes, much to the dismay of a few noblewomen casting hopeful glances her way. Their flirtations melted against her indifference like snow on stone.


    Meanwhile, seasoned rakes prowled like wolves, their eyes flicking hungrily between targets. They¡¯d ensnare a lady with smoldering looks, feigning devotion until her pride swelled¡ªthen suddenly withdraw, compelling her to chase their gaze. When their eyes locked again, she¡¯d blush, caught in the game.


    Yvette stayed oblivious to these maneuvers, too busy enjoying her meal. Eventually, the ballroom''s stifling air drove her into the corridor, where she lingered by a painting¡ªuntil frantic footsteps interrupted.


    "My lord, this is¡ªtoo forward!" A woman¡¯s plea.


    "Miss Siles, you cannot deny what burns between us!" A man¡¯s fervent reply.


    Peering around a column, Yvette saw a distressed young noblewoman cornered by a baron¡ªhis grip on her hand far too intimate, his kisses too fervent.


    "Sir. The lady said no." Yvette stepped forward.


    The man spun, blanching at the sight of her¡ªespecially her infamous "Ass-Eared King" moniker. Mumbling apologies about "passion¡¯s folly," he fled.


    Miss Siles trembled as she smoothed her gown. "Thank you," she whispered.


    Yvette offered to escort her somewhere private to recover, but the girl recoiled. "I must return! My stepmother¡ªshe means to marry me off to some aging lord for my brother¡¯s advantage. If I don¡¯t find a match now¡­" Desperation edged her voice. "You¡¯re close to the Duke! Could you¡ª?"


    Yvette hesitated. Asking political favors wasn¡¯t her place¡ª


    A dry voice cut in. Ulysses, clad as Hermes, observed them coolly. "Gretna Green," he said. "Marry there, and no one can void it."


    The infamous elopement village. Under Scottish law, even disinheritance couldn¡¯t undo a Gretna Green union¡ªthough it would strip a noble of wealth.


    Miss Siles¡¯s face twisted from despair to disdain. "How common," she spat, then swept away.


    Yvette blinked. The transformation had been instant¡ªa wounded dove one moment, a haughty ice queen the next.


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    Yvette gaped at the retreating noblewoman, only for Ulysses to cut in with an "I told you so" look: "A few minutes later, and you''d have been spellbound."


    "Don''t be absurd! I was merely startled. When she spoke of her family troubles, her grief seemed genuine. Not that I could''ve helped anyway¡ªso this ''spellbound'' nonsense¡ª"


    "Yet you''d still pity your inability to aid her," Ulysses countered knowingly.


    "Oh... That''s normal, surely? At least I could''ve offered an ear." Yvette heard the feebleness in her own defense.


    "Her dissatisfaction with the arranged match likely stems from rivalry, not some yearning for freedom. Probably her sworn enemy¡ªa competing sister¡ªsecured a grander engagement, provoking her to scheme. Stepmothers rarely fuss over the first wife''s offspring¡ªunless said offspring lands a dazzling fianc¨¦ through her own efforts. No fool would refuse that windfall."


    "But surely some nobles desire genuine love over political matches?"


    "Trace any blueblood''s lineage, and you''ll find their fortune was built on loveless unions. Since medieval times, marriages hinged on the bride''s dowry and the groom''s prospects¡ªnever affection. Say a family''s trade goods must traverse a rival''s toll-road to reach the capital. If that rival includes the road in their daughter''s dowry, her suitor must wed her¡ªblind, deaf, or crippled¡ªto lift the toll."


    Miss Siles'' gilded ballrooms and exotic fruits exist because ancestors bartered freedom for power. If she seeks liberty, she must renounce everything her name commands¡ªa fair trade."


    Ulysses understated the case. Medieval nobles were highwaymen in silk. Beyond tolls, wrecked carriages and stranded ships became their plunder. Traps on roads, false lighthouses luring merchants to ruin¡ªall standard practice. Some led robber bands themselves. Any lord who prized children''s romantic whims over strategic marriages soon found himself too poor to arm knights¡ªand stripped of title and lands.


    Even now, a textile magnate must ally with colonial officers to ensure untaxed cotton and cloth sales abroad.


    Yvette conceded his point. Likely even the Queen must wed "suitably" or abdicate. No wonder adultery carried such muted scorn here¡ªwhen all marriages are shackles, who begrudges furtive keys?


    The ballroom''s mirrored walls and chandeliers turned the corridor into a glittering dreamscape. The Landler''s strains wafted from master musicians as Yvette realized noble offspring were caged birds¡ªso long confined, they mistook their prison for the world.


    ...


    Tedium...


    The Duke of Lancaster toyed with his wineglass, ignoring hopeful feminine glances. Skipping two dances drew audible sighs.


    Dance protocol favored men: they chose when and whom to ask, though ladies could refuse¡ªbut once refusing, none could accept further offers that eve without scandal.


    The Duke''s whims were legend. Neither beauty, birth nor wealth guided his selections¡ªprovincial debutantes, scandalous divorc¨¦es, bankrupt widows all received his hand. Some saw fortunes reverse from one dance, making his presence a high-stakes lottery where girls endured aching feet lest they miss their "winning turn."


    Perhaps he''s fatigued, some speculated, wavering between abandoning hope or lingering¡ªjust in case.


    Only the Duke knew: when Miss Siles kept eyeing Yvette, he''d marked her for observation. She''d once flirted with him ingeniously; he was curious what her clever mind plotted next.


    Now she''d switched targets¡ªtracking Yvette while fluttering lashes at a notorious rake. When Yvette excused herself, Miss Siles whispered to her besotted escort and followed.


    The Duke alerted "friend" Ulysses, who vanished mid-dance.


    Clever. Wish I could eavesdrop, mused the Duke¡ªbut his departure would draw stares.


    Miss Siles soon returned alone, wearing an inscrutable mask. Her Baron admirer avoided eye contact.


    Failed, then.


    He recognized this look¡ªlast seen when he''d foiled one of her schemes. Beneath her usual fragile-lily affect, defeat roused something reptilian: a coiled, calculating stare.


    "Vincent."


    His valet materialized silently. (Not truly named Vincent¡ªbut ducal tradition recycled the name for all valets, being too trivial to justify memorizing new ones.)


    "Strike Miss Siles from my list. Make no effort to conceal it."


    "At once, Your Grace."


    Nobles maintained "lists" of acquaintances¡ªthose introduced properly without subsequent offense. Removal signaled not just estrangement, but public repudiation. The higher the remover''s rank, the deadlier the snub.


    Last season, a lady eloped with a painter. Though Church annulled her unconsummated marriage (her sole legal escape), the Queen struck both from her list¡ªrendering them social phantoms who fled London in disgrace.


    The Duke''s rebuke wouldn''t exile Miss Siles¡ªbut with his rare disfavor known, aspirational hosts would shun her. Vincent''s side-hustle (selling harmless ducal tidbits to rival servants) would ensure this news spread like fire.


    Miss Siles, meanwhile, had donned a wounded-dove aura, snaring another nobleman. Noticing the Duke''s gaze, she flushed¡ªwas that jealousy? She wondered. Men prized hardest-won trophies. Accordingly, she flashed a flustered-deer glance before demurely pivoting.


    Her mother''s wisdom echoed: "Study all men¡ªbut dissect only the finest specimens. They''re your true education."


    The Duke was her chosen subject¡ªone she''d crack to elevate her own allure and station.


    "Enjoy your triumph," the Duke murmured at her back.


    Even detesting someone, he''d never eject them mid-gala. He''d kiss their knuckles at parting, flawless host to the last.


    But by dawn, Miss Siles would find her world inverted. The "indelible impression" she fancied she''d made would pop like soap bubbles¡ªwith no clue which misstep triggered her ruin.

 Chapter 121

    The house party at the Duke of Lancaster''s concluded swiftly. Alongside Yvette and Ulysses, several nobles were flattered to receive coveted invitations to Windsor Castle ¨C social currency to last them seasons.


    The Duke''s selections appeared meritocratic, favoring wit, social grace and French fluency ¨C the continent''s lingua franca. Paris set civilization''s trends and philosophies, its fashion so dominant that many foreign aristocrats spoke French better than their mother tongues.


    Naturally, native French speakers Yvette and Ulysses qualified easily.


    En route to Windsor, Yvette studied foreign noble etiquette intently.


    "...Other nationalities behave thus. Most notably, avoid political discourse with the French ¨C though don''t tolerate deliberate provocation."


    "Are they hostile toward French in Albion''s service?"


    "Worse," Ulysses said. "Expatriate French nobility are universally considered traitorous rebels."


    This stemmed from her world''s historical divergence ¨C where late 18th century France beheaded its monarchy, here the crown crushed revolutionaries.


    Only now did she grasp Paris''s vampiric dominance. The Sun King centralized France''s elite at Versailles. Where Albion''s lords prized sprawling country estates, French nobles measured worth by cramped Versailles chambers.


    They bankrupted themselves for royal proximity ¨C gem-encrusted gowns worn once then resold. This competitive pageantry made Paris luxury''s global capital. Even Albion''s peeresses slavishly copied Parisian designs arriving each season.


    Securing fashion-forward status meant dining nearer the Sun King ¨C Parisians'' existential purpose.


    She marveled at nobles'' druglike fixation on Versailles while their estates languished. They siphoned provincial wealth to fund capital decadence. Previously, tax revenues funded local craftsmen and servants; now, absentee lords drained regions to feed Paris'' excess, creating a grotesquely swollen metropolis as hinterlands withered.


    By 1740, Montesquieu observed: "France is Paris and distant provinces Paris hasn''t yet consumed."


    The revolution had essentially been provinces revolting against their parasitic capital.


    Uninvited nobles ¨C mostly rebellious "nobility of the sword" ¨C were replaced by loyal "nobility of the robe" bureaucrats. In both worlds, these old families joined commoner rebels, but here, defeat meant exile and forfeited lands.


    As Burgundian lineage accepting Albion''s ennoblement, Ulysses was doubly traitorous in Parisian eyes.


    "Why invite adversaries?" Yvette asked.


    "The crowns intermarry constantly," Ulysses explained. "Such entangled bloodlines caused the Hundred Years War ¨C Albion''s king claimed France through a French princess. For centuries afterward, Albion''s monarchs stubbornly styled themselves French kings... unrecognized by any Frenchman."


    "Now they marry distant heirs," he added. "Our fellow guests are fifth in line or lower ¨C statistically safer."


    Ulysses'' tales made the journey pass quickly. They''d await the queen''s arrival by royal train, when proper festivities would commence.


    ...


    Meanwhile, Constable David struggled with his reluctant assignment ¨C investigating Windsor''s thefts.


    The castle''s servant hierarchy bewildered him. Beyond the queen''s permanent staff, transient cleaners, scullery maids and laundresses cycled constantly ¨C dismissed for affairs or resigning to marry. Identifying thieves in this chaos proved impossible.


    Posing as steward Sir Granville''s nephew assisting household management, David lacked authority for proper investigation.


    Sir Granville hovered anxiously, hinting at his impatience.


    "Her Majesty arrives shortly after hospital visits and ship christenings," the steward fretted. "Two train cars of jewels, gifts and wardrobes accompany her. If thieves strike during festivities, my reputation perishes."


    David recognized the threat ¨C Sir Granville''s displeasure could end his career. He vowed faster progress.


    "Your banker murder solution showed remarkable insight," Sir Granville said diplomatically. But David sensed diminishing patience.


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    How he missed young Fisher''s genius ¨C that prodigy had cracked the banker case singlehandedly, pioneering ballistics analysis now revolutionizing police work.


    Sighing, he returned to examining charred wine corks among excavated bottle shards ¨C puzzling evidence of playful vandalism amidst theft.


    "One mischievous thief at least," he muttered, rubbing his chin.


    Windsor Castle traces its origins to an 11th-century stronghold, painstakingly expanded by generations of Albion¡¯s monarchs into a sprawling domain¡ªnow rivaling ten football fields in size. Though time and renovations softened its martial edge, this fortress remained no Versailles. Hewn from rugged granite instead of brick, its walls boasted arrow towers and angular bastions designed to unleash devastating crossfire upon attackers, rendering it all but unconquerable. Even during another world¡¯s Second World War, England¡¯s king sought refuge here from German bombers.


    The Albion royals maintained numerous palaces, each ruler favoring different retreats. Queen Margaret IV held special affection for Windsor. Since the 17th-century rise of constitutional monarchy, real governance had shifted to Parliament, leaving the Crown with symbolic duties¡ªand copious free time. Margaret annually enjoyed five months of holidays (Christmas, Easter, and seasonal breaks) where she escaped London¡¯s gilded cage to unwind at her country residences.


    Yet royal obligations lingered. This gathering of foreign nobility, ostensibly casual, served to shore up monarchical prestige. Yvette privately likened it to Lunar New Year matchmaking¡ªeven queens couldn¡¯t avoid social engineering during vacations.


    As hosts, the royals invited more than token guests. French-speaking nobles like Yvette were tapped to chaperone visiting dignitaries through weeks of orchestrated merriment.


    Preparations began months earlier. Royal Guards swarmed the castle, implementing exhaustive security protocols. Now, with the queen¡¯s arrival imminent, Yvette joined rehearsals for reception formalities. Young aristocrats received particularly exacting tutoring:


    "Should Her Majesty offer fruit," advised an elderly functionary whose starched collar could slice paper, "eschew oranges¡ªtheir juice betrays discretion. Grapes allow dignified consumption."


    Between drills, Yvette admired the scarlet-clad Guard¡¯s ceremonial drills¡ªtheir towering bearskin hats lending a whimsical martial air.


    Post-rehearsal, she wandered the graveled avenues until startled by a familiar voice: "Young Fisher?!"


    It was Constable David, last seen solving London crimes. "Transferred to Windsor¡¯s guard?" she inquired.


    "Special assignment," he hedged. "Involves a gentleman¡¯s honor¡­ Might your deductive talents assist?"


    Freed from days of banal pageantry, Yvette eagerly agreed.


    In a makeshift office, David revealed meager clues¡ªshattered bottles and peculiar charred corks. "The permanent staff¡¯s above suspicion," he fretted. "But transient laborers? Some quit after harvest season; others got dismissed for petty theft. The steward doesn¡¯t even know their names."


    Yvette inspected the shards. "Where were these found?"


    "Gardener Carbon¡¯s lilac bed. But days have passed¡ª"


    "Show me."


    They entered a courtyard where a florid-faced old man brandished shears at retreating nobility. "Off my lawn, you heathen!"


    "That¡¯s Carbon," David whispered. "Treats his plants like sacred relics."


    Approaching carefully, Yvette explained their investigation.


    The gardener eyed her noble attire skeptically. Lords didn¡¯t meddle in servant matters. (Even the queen, raised at Windsor, only met her lifelong chef during a post-banquet thank-you¡ªhaving eaten his meals for decades without knowing his name.)


    David intervened: "Young Fisher solves crimes¡ª"


    "Amateur hobby!" Yvette amended.


    Carbon scoffed. "Hang the fiend who murdered my lilacs at Tyburn, and I¡¯ll talk!" He gestured toward vibrant rhododendrons. "Beneath lay a lilac thick as four men. Withered overnight¡ªdug-up soil hid those glass abominations!"


    Yvette squinted. Artful transplanting masked the loss; only pruned branches betrayed new arrivals.


    "Why just the lilac?" she mused. "Rhododendrons thrive beside it."


    Carbon appraised her anew. "Clever girl. They demand different soils. My secret?" He leaned in. "Solid fertilizers¡ªwood ash for lilacs, coal soot for ¡¯dendrons. Filthy stove scrapings, but the shrubs adore them."


    Yvette listened, fascinated, as the gardener shared his theories. But David grew restless¡ªtime was running out. Sir Granville grew more impatient by the day, his warnings sharp as knives. With the Queen''s arrival looming, they couldn¡¯t afford delays. Steeling himself, David nudged the conversation back on track.


    "So the killer damaged the lilac roots while burying something¡ªthat explains the withered leaves! Mr. Capon, how soon would a plant show damage if its roots were harmed?"


    "I doubt it¡¯s the roots," Yvette cut in. "The disturbed area was small, and Mr. Capon¡¯s plants are hardy. The nearby rhododendrons are fine¡ªwhy only the lilacs?"


    The gardener gave her an approving nod, then shot David a withering glance. "The lad¡¯s right. Damaged roots don¡¯t yellow overnight¡ªthey wilt slowly. Trim the leaves, lighten the load, and the plant recovers."


    "Then what caused this?" Yvette pressed.


    "Like it was planted in wrong soil¡ªbut far quicker than normal."


    Wrong soil...


    Lilacs loved alkaline soil¡ªwood ash, specifically. Yvette remembered a comic where ash water made dough springy. Maybe the issue was acidity?


    Rhododendrons thrived in acidic soil. In mansions like hers, coal fires were banned from living spaces¡ªtheir sulfur dioxide ruined tapestries and paintings. Coal ash, then, must be acidic.


    Had someone buried something acidic with the lilacs? The half-charred corks returned to mind. Wood turned black without fire¡ªsulfuric acid could do that.


    "Mr. Capon, you¡¯ve been invaluable," Yvette said.


    "Just nail those thieves," the gardener muttered, shooing them off.


    David, still baffled, trailed her. "Where now, sir?"


    "The wine cellar."


    The cellar master snarled before she finished speaking.


    "Bleeding footmen! Next time, give ¡®em cheap swill upfront¡ªor they¡¯ll pinch the good stuff!"


    "Not here about theft," Yvette said calmly. "Those missing crates¡ªwere they ever stored horizontally?"


    "That¡¯s for fine wines! Cheap stuff stays crated until guzzled. But..." He scratched his chin. "New bloke delivered it. Mild as milk, till a footman tried grabbing a crate. He near scared the lad to death with a look."


    "Where¡¯s that man now?"


    "Gone. Quit days back."


    Too convenient. The staff ledger confirmed it.


    Six-tenths certainty became eight when Ulysses identified sulfuric acid on the corks.


    Dangerous. Rare.


    And now in the hands of conspirators still inside Windsor.


    But for what?

 Chapter 122

    If the plan was simply to throw sulfuric acid at the Queen, the security around her would make such an attempt nearly impossible. She was constantly surrounded by guards, and every visitor approaching her along the red carpet was scrutinized by a thousand watchful eyes. Success seemed unthinkable.


    Still, Yvette reported her findings to Lord Granville. When the steward of Windsor Castle learned that the broken wine bottle had poisoned the flowers, he nearly fainted¡ªreaching for his smelling salts in alarm. Knowing nothing of chemistry, he assumed sulfuric acid was some deadly toxin and grew frantic at the potential danger.


    ¡°What can we do? Is there any way to root out every suspicious person in the castle, Mr. Fisher? I pray your answer is yes.¡±


    ¡°I doubt it. Not with the Queen arriving so soon. Tracking a threat in a crowd this large would take time.¡± Yvette¡¯s past successes relied on narrowing down suspects, but here, hundreds of people milled about. No detective could sift through them all quickly.


    ¡°So we just wait for the villain to strike?!¡±


    ¡°Coordinate with the Royal Guard. Tightening security is our safest move for now.¡±


    Lord Granville reluctantly agreed, though he hated the idea¡ªmore people knowing meant more scrutiny on his own failures.


    With no further leads, Yvette was at a dead end. The wine bottle shards had been buried too long; any footprints were long gone, witnesses¡¯ memories unreliable. Solving this would require prophetic powers.


    Worse, she lacked backup. A recent wave of attacks on the Order in London meant all capable trackers¡ªlike Alto¡ªwere already hunting threats there.


    Thankfully, the Queen¡¯s safety wasn¡¯t in real peril. Ulysses had explained that her assigned protector, a supernatural operative codenamed ¡°Phase Witch,¡± was formidable. The Queen had survived assassination attempts before¡ªonce, a gunman fired point-blank at her head. Newspapers credited divine intervention when the shots ¡°missed.¡±


    In truth, the bullets passed through her harmlessly¡ªher protector had momentarily shifted her into another dimension, leaving only a phantom image. The shocked assassin went mad on the spot.


    Assured by this, Yvette relaxed¡ªuntil she casually asked Ulysses how he knew such details. He deftly sidestepped the question.


    Smooth evasion, she thought.


    With no immediate crisis, she settled into aristocratic leisure: reading, strolling, and chatting with visiting nobles. Remarkably, even the French contingent behaved. Their wit and charm, polished in elite salons, made them surprisingly agreeable company.


    One French nobleman lamented London¡¯s industrial gloom: ¡°Your countryside is divine, but the capital is a soot-choked beast. Factories belch smoke till the sun vanishes. No aristocrat should endure such air!¡±


    Nods followed¡ªmany Albion nobles fled London each winter, though they missed its luxuries.


    The Frenchman continued: ¡°Paris suffers too. A dye factory recently exploded¡ªleveled, with hundreds dead. A navy friend two streets away said it dwarfed cannon fire.¡±


    ¡°A dye factory? Surely you mean an armory?¡±


    ¡°I swear it! Or do you call me a liar?¡± He nearly challenged the skeptic to a duel before recalling diplomacy¡ªand the Queen¡¯s impending arrival. ¡°Ask your ladies: Paris¡¯ latest fashion is lemon yellow, yet none is to be had¡ªthe blast destroyed the supply.¡±


    Murmurs of confirmation rose¡ªuntil Yvette abruptly stood and left.


    A realization struck her:


    The conspiracy wasn¡¯t about acid. That dye factory explosion mirrored history¡ªpicric acid, a yellow dye later discovered to be a brutal explosive. Here, aristocratic demand had likely sped up its use. Conspirators must have noticed the blast¡¯s iron debris¡ªand recognized its potential.


    Picric acid, made from phenol (a disinfectant resembling sugar), was devastatingly powerful. Even the Phase Witch might not react fast enough to an unexpected detonation.


    Yvette mentally reviewed the missing inventory: sacks of sugar. Phenol could¡¯ve been smuggled as such. And last month, Lord Granville had rejected a shipment of ¡°mislabeled¡± yellow dye¡ªlikely picric acid.


    The plotters, thwarted, had switched to precursors. The real threat wasn''t acid¡ªit was a bomb.


    Yvette knew time was running out. The Queen¡¯s private train could arrive by afternoon, and Windsor Castle needed to be secured¡ªimmediately. Lord Granville had to be warned, the meeting postponed, and every inch of the estate swept for hidden explosives.


    But when she hurried to the butler, his news stunned her: they had a breakthrough in tracking the sulfuric acid conspirators.


    The truth was, Lord Granville had been terrified ever since discovering the stolen "wine" was no such thing¡ªit was a lethal chemical, corrosive enough to wither plants and char wood to cinders. Wisely, he abandoned any attempt at discreet damage control. Better to face censure for negligence than risk the monarch¡¯s safety by hiding the threat.


    He ordered an exhaustive search of the entire servant staff, personally leading trusted men through every room. The method was inelegant but effective.


    Servants in grand households lived cloistered within the estate, barred from marriage and dependent on their masters for life. This insular world bred endless gossip¡ªand Lord Granville exploited it. After floating the idea that a departed porter was suspect, whispers spread like wildfire.


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Amateur detectives among the staff soon recalled something vital: that porter had been seen speaking often with the distillery maid.


    Distillery rooms were common even in middle-class homes then, as store-bought goods were scarce. Candles were molded from wax, soap rendered from fat, and pest-killers brewed in-house. Windsor¡¯s distillery, however, resembled an alchemist¡¯s workshop¡ªglistening glassware, labyrinthine shelves, all the tools of chemistry (and perhaps magic).


    The previous maid, famed for her rosewater, had left abruptly after inheriting property from a newfound New World cousin. Her replacement¡ªhired through an agency (nobles like Granville seldom mingled with the pharmacist/medic class who bred such specialists)¡ªhad seemed unremarkable. Until now.


    With the distillery¡¯s endless bottles, hiding smuggled acid would¡¯ve been child¡¯s play.


    When Yvette found Granville, he was reviewing fresh rumors about the new maid.


    "Mr. Fishers! Come¡ªwe must inspect the distillery. I haven¡¯t the faintest how to identify such poisons," he breathed.


    "Gladly. But I suspect the plot runs deeper than acid attacks," Yvette warned.


    "Worse?! Speak, before my nerves fail me!"


    "First, the distillery. We may yet stop this."


    They entered flanked by guards¡ªonly to freeze.


    The maid lay contorted on the floor, lips peeled back in a rictus, eyes and nostrils streaked with blood.


    "Miss Ballaran! Is she¡ª?" The nobleman swayed, steadied by a soldier.


    "Don¡¯t touch anything," Yvette snapped. She examined the corpse. Warm, but pupils fixed; mucous membranes ravaged by hemorrhaging. "Arsenic."


    A footman recalled her breakfast: eggs, bread, bacon¡ªall served in the monitored servants¡¯ hall.


    Then Yvette spotted two teacups by a side table. Residual warmth, fading bergamot scent. "Brewed within three hours," Granville judged expertly.


    Arsenic acted fast¡ªunconsciousness in minutes, death in two hours.


    As she searched, the distillery¡¯s arcane shelves loomed like a sorcerer¡¯s trove. Testing vials with wood slivers, she pinpointed the sulfuric acid¡ªa jar half-full of amber liquid that carbonized wood on contact. Far stronger than household needs.


    No trace of phenol or picric acid remained. The explosives were likely finished and removed.


    Near the cooling hearth, she found scattered crystals¡ªphenol, perhaps? The killer might¡¯ve burned its packaging here, accidentally sprinkling residue. A hasty cover-up, assuming Granville only knew of the acid.


    But why murder? They could¡¯ve fled. A corpse guaranteed relentless scrutiny, dooming any further plans¡ªeven forcing the Queen to cancel.


    Unless... the conspirators weren¡¯t done.


    Yvette sat in silent contemplation while nearby, Lord Granville shook off his horror at the corpse and sprang into action. He demanded to know if any servants had spotted people moving to or from the distillery in the last few hours, and pressed the Royal Guard for reports of suspicious departures from Windsor Castle.


    With the Queen¡¯s arrival imminent, the household had been in chaos¡ªservants laying carpets, arranging flowers, dusting already pristine antiques. The distillery lay at the end of a corridor; while no one might recall exact comings and goings, any movement along that hallway would have been noticeable.


    The guards confirmed no one had left the castle since the maid¡¯s poisoning. Given Windsor¡¯s fortified security, the killer had to still be inside. Granville pored over a growing list of individuals with access to the distillery, his expression grim.


    "Your help has been invaluable, Mr. Fisher," he admitted reluctantly. "After recent events, I must advise Her Majesty against using Windsor as her retreat¡ªnot with a murderer loose among us. For her safety, I¡¯ll urge her to divert to Holyrood, Balmoral, or Osborne. When she arrives, I¡¯ll explain.


    We owe this to you. You saw through an assassin¡¯s plot where others saw only missing wine. Forgive me¡ªthere¡¯s much to do. Once this conspiracy is unraveled, I¡¯ll express my gratitude properly."


    Meanwhile, Yvette settled at the tea table where killer and victim had sat, reconstructing the scene.


    One teacup bore lipstick marks¡ªMiss Ballaran¡¯s. The other showed none, not even smudges. Wiped clean?


    She¡¯d secured the scene upon entry; nothing had been disturbed. Handling the suspicious cup with a handkerchief, she noted more oddities.


    The handle¡¯s position was off.


    Though placed conventionally to the right, it felt arranged for appearance, not use. Returning it after drinking would require an unnatural wrist twist.


    And¡ª


    A delicate tea stain trailed the rim, not from sipping, but as if liquid had been poured out, leaving a stray drip.


    Did the killer poison both cups, abstain, then discard his own after the maid¡¯s death? Unlikely. Poisoning every cup was a server¡¯s tactic¡ªbut here, the guest would¡¯ve prepared tea, not the hostess. And why not clean the cup to stage a suicide?


    The staged empty cup, discarded poison, phenol traces, locked doors¡ªthese disjointed clues suddenly aligned.


    "Young Mr. Fisher?" Lord Granville looked up as Yvette snatched test tubes, collected samples from the teapot and both cups, and bolted.


    ¡ª¡ª


    On Windsor¡¯s riding grounds, the Duke of Lancaster and Ulysses cantered, their privacy ensured by the open space.


    "Really, Ulysses," the Duke sighed theatrically. "There¡¯s no intrigue between me and your ''rabbit.'' I merely assisted with trifles¡ªrepaying a fraction of my life-debt. The hardest was buying that Royal Academy portrait..."


    "A portrait?" Ulysses¡¯ horse halted.


    "At the exhibition¡ª Oh." The Duke caught himself, then breezed on, "Hardly worth mentioning. Must you distrust old friends?"


    "A portrait," Ulysses repeated, cool. "You knew it was her."


    The Duke groaned, clutching his forehead. The painting depicted a girl unlike Yvette¡¯s current self¡ªyet instinct and features confirmed it. His usual feigned ignorance had allowed harmless teasing under the guardian¡¯s nose. Now, his mask had slipped.


    "If you knew she¡¯s a lady, adjust your conduct. Keep your distance." Ulysses¡¯ tone was arctic.


    "The Seraphim blundered," the Duke grumbled. "Raphael should¡¯ve guarded the Tree, not Eden¡¯s gate. Now Heaven stations Michael between me and the apple..."


    Spotting them, Yvette spurred her horse over.


    "Yves!" The Duke beamed. "We were just¡ª"


    "No time, Your Grace! Sir Ulysses¡ªwhich sample is poisoned?" She thrust forward the tubes.


    Ulysses sipped each impassively. "Ceylon tea. Ceylon tea. Arsenic." The toxic one matched Miss Ballaran¡¯s cup.


    Only the maid¡¯s drink was poisoned. The second cup, though harmless, was emptied¡ªbecause no one could drain two cups so quickly.


    Conclusion: the maid acted alone, imbibed poison, and planted the extra cup to fake an accomplice¡¯s presence, diverting scrutiny to the castle.


    The theatrics aimed to concentrate attention here¡ªbut the real threat lay elsewhere. Bombs required foreknowledge of the Queen¡¯s movements, easily gleaned from rehearsals. With the castle plot foiled, the assassins had pivoted.


    "Your Grace," Yvette asked urgently, "does the Queen always take the royal train?"


    "Not historically," the Duke said. "She favored carriages, shipping baggage separately. The late King adored trains, but she avoided them¡ªuntil this year. She privately refurbished a carriage; when work finished early, St. James¡¯s announced her rail arrival."


    "New interiors," Ulysses added. "Blue wallpaper replaced green."


    Yvette understood: a reference to the arsenic-laced wallpaper that killed the prior monarch. The Queen wouldn¡¯t board until toxins were purged.


    The assassins¡¯ initial plan¡ªa castle explosion¡ªhad failed. Now, with attention fixed here, they¡¯d switched targets: the Queen¡¯s train, unprotected and en route.


    She checked her watch. The conspirators might¡¯ve fled with explosives before the maid¡¯s staged death. Every second wasted here brought the train closer to disaster.

 Chapter 123

    There was no time to find Sir Granville or the Royal Guard now. Every second counted, and they had to ride toward the oncoming train immediately¡ªhopefully intercepting it in time.


    Yvette¡¯s gaze landed squarely on the Duke¡¯s chestnut stallion: a flawless thoroughbred, its powerful legs coiled like springs beneath rippling muscles.


    Fast. It might just be fast enough.


    "Your Grace, I need your horse," she said curtly. "I¡¯ll explain later¡ªjust know someone¡¯s trying to bomb the Queen¡¯s train." She seized the reins before he could object.


    "Easy, girl," the Duke drawled as he dismounted, visibly amused by her urgency. Under other circumstances¡ªsay, without her stone-faced guardian glaring daggers¡ªhe¡¯d have prolonged the charade for entertainment. Royal assassinations? A trifle. Replaceable figureheads bored him.


    "I¡¯ll accompany you," Ulysses cut in.


    His own horse, while sturdy, was no match for a racer built for brief, explosive sprints. But Yvette¡¯s slight frame wouldn¡¯t overburden the high-strung stallion¡ªunlike a full-grown man.


    She opened her mouth to argue¡ªhe should stay, alert Sir Granville, have Windsor¡¯s telegraph office warn the next station¡ªbut Ulysses was already redirecting the Duke toward the castle¡¯s steward. "I¡¯ll keep up," he assured.


    No further discussion. Yvette swung onto the prancing thoroughbred, dug in her heels, and shot forward like a bullet.


    Ulysses drew a syringe from his coat, punctured his forearm, and withdrew a vial of amber-hued serum. The injection struck the horse¡¯s neck. Instantly, the beast¡¯s eyes flooded crimson; froth bubbled from its nostrils as tendons stood taut beneath its skin.


    Then¡ªit erupted.


    Hooves tore earth with unnatural ferocity, matching the racer¡¯s breakneck pace through sheer, drug-induced frenzy.


    "The lengths people go to for killing a glorified stamp," mused the Duke as he mounted Yvette¡¯s discarded horse. Indifferent as he was, royal displeasure meant social exile¡ªand that simply wouldn¡¯t do.


    Across the windswept plains, rider and shadow raced the iron rails in silence. The Duke¡¯s cynicism lingered in Yvette¡¯s thoughts.


    Modern monarchy was theater. Albion¡¯s rulers signed speeches drafted by others, smiles frozen for cameras. No longer warlords commanding armies, they begged Parliament for palace repairs. Oh, they could ruin a noble¡¯s reputation or passively sabotage a PM¡ªbut hard power? Gone.


    Assassinating such a symbol made little sense. Feudal regicide delivered thrones; now, it handed killers a bureaucratic headache. Past attempts here (and in her own world) were laughable¡ªattention seekers, lunatics, radical pamphleteers. Most got light sentences, while bread thieves swung from gallows.


    Yet this plot bore none of that amateurism. A woman had died to conceal it. That spoke of fanaticism¡ªor something far worse.


    Her pendant¡¯s sudden warmth snapped Yvette alert. A projectile whizzed past¡ªnot a bullet, but something wet and organic. Without her doppelg?nger¡¯s deflection, it would¡¯ve struck true.


    She wheeled toward the attack¡¯s origin: Windsor¡¯s primordial forest, untouched by axes or poachers for centuries. Now, something prowled its shadows.


    The identification potion glowed faintly in her palm¡ªresidual energy. Alto had used these during the Star Seekers case.


    "Occult," she mouthed to Ulysses.


    A nod. He veered toward the trees without breaking stride¡ªhandling threats was his specialty. Her mission lay ahead.


    Queen Margaret IV despised smiling.


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    It wasn¡¯t the expression itself¡ªGod knew she¡¯d practiced it enough before mirrors¡ªbut the relentless demand for it. To subjects, an unsmiling monarch meant displeasure; to diplomats, a political slight. Even her childhood press clippings harped on her "serene solemnity" as some virtue.


    Paperwork offered rare respite. Alone in the gilded carriage (red boxes for secrets, black for parliamentary drivel), she could finally let her face rest.


    Then¡ªtap. Tap.


    Against the window loomed a familiar face¡ªupside-down, grinning like a lunatic.


    Recognition flickered. The man from Queen Charlotte¡¯s Ball, the night her father died.


    Now clinging to her speeding train.


    Now winking at her.


    Unbelievable.


    The forest swallowed Ulysses in its gloom¡ªa place too still, too quiet. Here, the rustle of a single fallen leaf was audible, and every snapping twig underfoot echoed like a gunshot in the hush.


    There were animals, of course. Birds perched in the branches, squirrels frozen mid-scuttle, rabbits crouched low in the brush¡ªall hushed, all watching. Their heads turned in eerie unison, tracking him as sunflowers followed the sun. It was enough to make a man¡¯s skin crawl.


    Like a moth blundering into a spider¡¯s web.


    And the spider was watching.


    "Closer¡­" whispered a voice that wasn¡¯t a voice, slithering into his skull. "Follow the path¡­ past the throat¡­ through the belly¡­"


    Not words. Just jagged fragments of thought, stitched together like a madman¡¯s scribbles or a child¡¯s babbling.


    Ulysses stepped over a lightning-split oak¡ªand there it was.


    The thing in the clearing might¡¯ve been human once. Now it was a grotesquerie of knotted limbs and jutting ribs, spine curled like a shrimp on a boiling pan. Its torso tapered into nothingness below the ribs, as if something had gnawed its guts clean away. Arms¡ªno, too many arms¡ªsprouted from its sides, spindly as spider legs, some gripping a hand-mirror, others braced against the trees.


    Its face was worse. A cluster of eyes, mismatched in size, swiveled to fix on him.


    "Frank has the prize," the telepathy hissed. "Frank keeps his bargains."


    Behind it, three ashen-faced men shambled from the trees, their steps puppet-stiff.


    Ulysses frowned. This wasn¡¯t how corruption usually worked. Monsters this far gone were supposed to be mindless¡ªslaves to elder gods or primal hunger. But this thing? It reasoned. It schemed. It hid from prying eyes.


    That made it dangerous in ways beyond claws and fangs.


    "Interloper¡­" The abomination¡¯s jaw unhinged, disgorging a swarm of black, squirming things. The same horrors that had attacked Yvette¡ªbut these didn¡¯t just fly straight. They hunted.


    And they cut off every escape.


    Minutes Earlier


    Yvette spotted the trap before she saw it. Freshly turned earth beneath the tracks. Gravel kicked onto the rails.


    In this era, bombs didn¡¯t detonate remotely. If someone triggered this manually, she¡¯d snuff the fuse mid-ignition. A tripwire? Useless¡ªshe¡¯d leave them cursing a dud.


    But picric acid was its own enemy. Strike it hard enough, and it exploded. That¡¯s why it had been abandoned after the Halifax Disaster¡ªtwo ships colliding, one packed with the stuff, and boom: two thousand corpses.


    Now someone had buried it under the rail line. The weight of a passing train would be trigger enough.


    She was already reaching for the buried device when the tremor came¡ªa faint shudder through the iron, subtle as a moth¡¯s wingbeat.


    Yvette swung back into the saddle, spurring her horse toward the oncoming train.


    Lucky for her, Victorian locomotives were slow. The Queen¡¯s private coach crept along at a snail¡¯s pace¡ªplenty of time to intercept it. That didn¡¯t mean armed guards would listen, though.


    So she played her card: recognition. The Queen would remember her from the Charlotte Ball.


    Margaret IV certainly did. This was the agent whose reports read like prophecy¡ªthe one who¡¯d deduced Albion¡¯s ironclad warship project from newspaper ads. A sharp mind wrapped in an unassuming package.


    Now that same agent was mouthing silent words against the window, drowned out by steam and steel.


    Yvette exhaled hard, finger tracing backwards in the fogged glass:


    "STOP. TRAP AHEAD."


    Then motion at the edge of her vision.


    Leanna¡ªthe Phase Witch¡ªentered the carriage bearing tea. From her angle, only the silhouette showed: a dark figure clinging to the window like an assassin.


    The teacup left her hand, flickering into translucency mid-air. By the time Yvette sensed the danger, it was piercing the train walls¡ªinsubstantial as a ghost¡ªonly to solidify inside her chest.


    Spatial displacement didn¡¯t discriminate. A leaf or a knife, it made no difference when matter phased through matter. Even the toughest monsters Yvette had faced wouldn¡¯t survive a teacup materializing in their lungs.


    She twisted aside just as the Queen¡¯s shout rang out:


    "Leanna¡ªstand down! She¡¯s one of ours!"


    Meanwhile, in the Woods


    Ulysses stood over his captive, boot pinning the creature¡ªnow mostly human again¡ªto the dirt. The spidery limbs had retracted, though not by choice.


    Desperation had made the thing use its mirror. A cursed relic, lost for centuries.


    Its power was a devil¡¯s bargain: pass your corruption to another, but each time, the madness returned faster. The Church had locked it away after realizing they were the ones being used¡ªlike a disease mutating to spread further.


    Now here it was, clutched in the claws of another pawn.


    "Who sent you?" Ulysses demanded, pressing harder. "Where¡¯s the detonator?"


    No answer. Just a wheezing chuckle and wet, clicking breaths.


    The Church¡¯s shadow-self was moving again. Worse,

 Chapter 124

    After channeling the corrupting essence of high-tier Source into Ulysses through the mirror, the spider-like abomination shed its many limbs. Though still gaunt, its flesh visibly regenerated, its form shifting from an eldritch horror to something resembling a starving wretch from famine times. While still unsettling to behold, its nightmarish mutations gradually reverted toward human features.


    This transformation came from purging his own corruption through the mirror''s power. He possessed an uncanny method to retain sanity despite staggering inner decay¡ªwhere others had used this relic merely to stave off madness, he weaponized it. Even adversaries far exceeding his power would mutate horrifically from absorbing such concentrated corruption. In fact, it proved deadlier against stronger foes, whose enhanced Source connections already teetered on madness''s precipice. The slightest push could break them.


    Yet impossibly, his target stood unaffected before him, showing no signs of the expected descent into frenzy.


    "Where''s the detonation trigger?" The demand came again.


    "No... my masterpiece... can''t fail... lies... all lies..."


    The transformation had been powering his abilities. Reverting to human form weakened him, apparently severing his psychic network. When he spoke aloud for the first time, his tongue and lips moved clumsily like a drunkard''s.


    Ulysses studied him intently. The creature clearly felt fear, but its mind seemed ravaged¡ªunable to process words, only babbling disjointed phrases with grotesque, twitching motions. Its entire being radiated nonsensical disorder, like chronic alcoholics with their permanent tremors and ruined coordination.


    This case was far worse than any he''d witnessed.


    To confirm this wasn''t an act, Ulysses administered adrenaline and stimulants before commencing interrogation. He began with finger joints, then wrenched the forearm into a grotesque spiral. The stimulants prevented unconsciousness, leaving only choked whimpers and delirious mutterings.


    "In Frank''s skull... curled tight there... Frank sees it... always watching... almost consumed now..." The creature wept like a wounded animal. "Frank''s head... wrong... hurts... dying... dying..."


    Auditory aphasia¡ªhearing without comprehension; conductive aphasia¡ªspeech without logic; apraxia¡ªintent divorced from action...


    Within minutes, Ulysses cataloged devastating neurological damage. How then had this wreck masterminded the queen''s assassination attempt?


    Then came realization¡ªthe watching animals when he entered the woods, the three ordinary humans accompanying the creature. Those puppets had perished in the fight, and with its human reversion, the psychic web dissolved. Birdsong returned to the previously silent forest.


    Had sensory failure forced the wretch to experience reality through its thralls? Using their eyes, their hands¡ªtheir very nervous systems as proxies? That explained the castle conspirators¡ªthey''d been puppets all along.


    Unnatural. Deeply unnatural...


    Early mutation typically erodes mind and senses together. The ancient mirror could transfer corruption, but only in initial stages. Someone this far gone shouldn''t possess the will to wield it. Yet this one had somehow compartmentalized the decay¡ªcorrupting his body while preserving calculation.


    A distant train whistle pierced the air. Birds erupted from the trees in panicked unison.


    Cough "The hour comes... Frank keeps vows... Secret Police... bang..." The creature''s ruined face couldn''t form expressions, but his eyes glittered with dark triumph.


    His mind remained clear enough to understand the torture¡ªand now he''d ensured his tormentor''s comrades would share his doom.


    The satisfaction was palpable.


    The queen stayed Leanna''s hand as the train hurtled toward Yvette''s discovered excavation site.


    "Bombs lie ahead!" Yvette urged. "Halt the engine immediately!"


    Queen Margaret IV asked no questions of her Special Missions allies.


    "Leanna, go with Mr. Fisher." She removed her traveling hat¡ªa royal token. "Take this."


    The two dashed forward, uncannily steady on the racing train''s roof. Guards gasped at the spectacle¡ªthe queen''s proper maid sprinting with scandalous haste, accompanied by some unknown youth!


    A youth who''d emerged from Her Majesty''s private car...


    Impossible! When had he boarded? Had he been concealed there all this time?


    The Frost Queen herself¡ªkeeping a secret passenger?!


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    Exchanged glances carried unspoken scandal.


    At the engine, the oblivious crew sang as they fed the furnace. Yvette seized a shovel, frantically scattering burning coal.


    "Royal command¡ªemergency stop! Bombs ahead!"


    Leanna''s authority brooked no doubt. The crew sprang into action, triggering the station-approach whistle.


    Yet the train''s momentum held.


    "Why aren''t we slowing?!" Yvette demanded as doom loomed nearer.


    "Sir, boilers don''t cool instantly, and this much steel won''t stop on command! The brakeman must¡ª"


    Newfangled braking systems couldn''t be front-mounted without derailment risk. The rear brake lever, when pulled, would safely tension-stop the train.


    The crew waited. Nothing.


    With an apologetic shrug: "Sometimes the mechanism jams..."


    Leanna gestured subtly. As a Phase Witch, explosions meant nothing¡ªshe could simply displace them all into the void. The rest aboard weren''t so fortunate.


    Ignoring the out, Yvette snatched the queen''s hat and sprinted rearward across the carriage roofs¡ªa reckless display leaving guards dumbstruck.


    At the brake compartment, she found the brakeman straining against a snapped lever.


    "Oh for¡ª!" She shouldered him aside, grasping the broken shaft. Strange power surged through her grip.


    Screeching metal. A cascade of sparks.


    Gradually¡ªagonizingly¡ªthe behemoth halted.


    "Saints preserve us!" The brakeman stared at her slender arms. "You''re Hercules in gentleman''s clothes!" His awe shifted to grumbling: "What fool orders full-stop without decel¡ª"


    Yvette cut him off. "Buy yourself two drinks tonight, my friend. You''d have needed them more had we reached that bend."


    With a thunderous rumble, the train gradually ground to a halt without any explosions occurring. Ulysses opened his hand, letting the severed limb slip from his grasp to thud heavily onto the leaf-strewn forest clearing.


    Creation and destruction - nature''s eternal cycle manifested a strange duality. At times a master artist, sculpting magnificent landscapes with divine skill - freezing molten lava into the Giant''s Causeway, uplifting pristine limestone into majestic peaks, painting the night sky with shimmering auroras... Yet in a petulant child''s whim, it could just as suddenly erase these masterpieces without reason.


    Ulysses too felt this dichotomy within himself. Mostly the artist - one who genuinely appreciated humanity and its works, though rarely any single individual. Like a poet praising a lavender field''s beauty, he appreciated the fragrant blossoms while seeing no contradiction in trampling a few underfoot during his stroll - provided it wasn''t excessive.


    Poets don''t mourn specific crushed flowers. A fair yet cruel perspective from the blooms'' standpoint. But moments ago, seeing the spider-creature''s vengeful gleam ignited the child within - methodically tearing it apart not out of necessity, but from sheer capricious desire.


    The artist embodied reason; the child pure whim. As the train stopped, this rare childishness faded. Surveying the mutilated remains, his artistic sensibility returned.


    Even diseased flowers in a field don''t inspire hatred in a poet - their removal being a clinical necessity for the garden''s health. He shouldn''t feel hatred.


    A brief confusion passed before Ulysses turned his attention to the corpse.


    Fortunately the head remained intact... With practiced care, he opened the skull.


    Within lay a grotesquely diseased brain - gray matter distorted into unnatural formations: wriggling worm-like growths, sponge-like perforations, clusters of translucent cysts resembling pomegranate seeds... Yet these malformations localized to specific regions - Broca''s area, Wernicke''s area, the writing center...


    Remarkably, regions governing personality and cognition appeared normal. It reminded Ulysses of ships'' watertight compartments - ingenious design ensuring limited flooding from any breach.


    This suggested someone had applied phrenology''s flawed brain-mapping concepts - however inaccurately - to supernatural experimentation.


    Troubling implications... Could this connect to the Mourning Lady''s recent reports of senior members emerging in European occult societies?


    Hopefully not.


    ...


    Queen Margaret''s royal train had withdrawn some distance along the tracks. Soldiers stood ready - some guarding her carriage, others inspecting ahead for dangers. Two scouts already galloped toward Windsor and the last station to summon reinforcements.


    Inside the carriage, Yvette and Phase Witch Raenna remained alert for further attacks. Moments later, a sample of yellow powder retrieved from a railside device was presented - innocuous-looking dye to the queen''s eyes, though Yvette had described its terrifying potential.


    "Let''s test Mr. Fisher''s theory," said Raenna. Isolating a fingernail portion in her pocket dimension, she introduced a spectral lit match.


    A silent explosion vaporized the match. "Incredible! Equivalent to a grenade''s blast from this tiny amount!"


    "Picric acid''s power exceeds black powder a hundredfold," Yvette explained.


    "Could we weaponize this?" the queen asked avidly, her strategic mind overriding personal concerns.


    "Unwise," Yvette replied, recalling Britain''s disastrous WWI experience with picric acid shells - their sensitivity causing premature detonations that turned British naval superiority at Jutland into a humiliating defeat despite German codes being broken and numerical advantages.


    Though picric acid boasted impressive specs (100x black powder, 10x TNT), combat proved its flaws - shells exploding mid-flight rather than on target like Germany''s reliable munitions.


    Yvette thoroughly explained these limitations with diagrams - knowledge that historically cost the Royal Navy dearly in blood and treasure now gifted decades early to Albion''s ruler, potentially altering future wars.


    "And how did you uncover this plot?" the queen inquired with her most disarming smile.


    Yvette recounted the trail - from Lord Granville''s stolen wine case to the garden''s glass-shard poisoned soil, the acid-eaten stopper, the murdered maid and suspicious cups...


    The queen''s reactions progressed from shock to dawning comprehension, her usual diplomatic mask slipping to reveal surprising genuineness. Yvette caught herself imagining how striking Her Majesty would look in gothic maid attire - quickly suppressing such lese-majeste.


    "Your counsel exceeds my ministers''. Pity supernatural talents like yours rarely seek political office... Though I must ask - would you accept a parliamentary seat?"


    "Eh?" Yvette blinked at the abrupt offer.


    "Preventing regicide and offering vital state advice merits reward."


    "Impossible," Raenna interjected with Yvette''s vigorous nod. "Our covert work requires anonymity - exposing Mr. Fisher''s identity would invite deadly attacks."


    The queen conceded modern monarchs couldn''t bypass Parliament so easily. "Then perhaps the Order of the Garter?"


    Britain''s oldest and most exclusive chivalric order - its membership royals and aristocrats with ridiculously long titles - required no parliamentary approval.


    "A sovereign''s prerogative alone," she added with a cunning smile.

 Chapter 125

    A Garter Knight? Seriously¡­


    Yvette was stunned. Admittedly, watching the knights in their time-honored regalia during last season¡¯s parade had been mesmerizing. This era straddled antiquity and modernity, and back then, the past had seemed to turn and wave at her in all its romantic glory¡ªnothing quite captured the imagination like castles, princesses, knights, and swordplay.


    Had it been a humbler honor¡ªsay, from the Albion Empire¡ªshe might¡¯ve accepted gracefully. But the Order of the Garter? That legacy stretched back to King Arthur¡¯s Round Table, with membership capped at two dozen, openings only arising when a knight died. Unless, of course, you were foreign royalty.


    ¡°Isn¡¯t this¡­ a tad abrupt?¡± The scrutiny she¡¯d face¡ªpeers dissecting her every move for the ¡°secret¡± to her sudden ascent¡ªalready made her skin crawl.


    ¡°Not in the least,¡± Queen Margaret IV replied. ¡°The Garter ceremony isn¡¯t till June. Plenty of time to make your appointment seem inevitable.¡±


    Huh. So she¡¯d soon be one of them. Funny¡ªshe¡¯d dreamed of that parade¡¯s grandeur, but now all she could think about was the stiff uniforms, the pomp, the awkwardness of performing like some costumed actor¡­


    How does a man as lazy as Sir Ulysses endure it?


    Her mind flicked to him¡ªthey¡¯d split up earlier when confronting a supernatural threat in the woods. The queen was safe now, but Ulysses¡¯ absence gnawed at her.


    ¡°I had a companion,¡± Yvette told Lianna. ¡°We were ambushed, so we separated. He never arrived¡ªI should check the forest.¡±


    ¡°Wait. If this is a trap¡ª¡±


    Outside, a guard barked, ¡°Halt! Another step, sir, and you¡¯ll regret it.¡±


    Peeking past the curtain, Yvette spotted Ulysses¡ªsplashed with blood¡ªflanked by redcoats.


    ¡°Your Majesty, that¡¯s him!¡±


    ¡°Stand down,¡± the queen ordered.


    Lianna verified his identity via code-phrase before permitting entry. Privately, she noted Yvette¡¯s occasional lapses in caution¡ªtrusting faces is na?ve in our line.


    But observing Ulysses, she saw something else: the usually unflappable young genius seemed to instantly drop his guard¡ªlike a battle-hardened knight relaxing at home.


    Gifted, yes. But still too trusting.


    ¡°The woods held a malform,¡± Ulysses reported. ¡°Beelzebub¡¯s line¡ª¡®Lord of the Flies.¡¯ Three thralls accompanied him, dressed as Windsor servants. Explains the castle¡¯s disturbances.¡±


    Lianna frowned. ¡°Beelzebub¡¯s ilk control vermin¡ªnot minds.¡±


    ¡°This one was deeply mutated. His corruption amplified his powers¡ªextending to humans.¡±


    ¡°Wait. If he was that far gone, how¡¯d he orchestrate a coherent plot?¡±


    ¡°That,¡± Ulysses said, ¡°requires explaining to the Order. Europe¡¯s occultists may have found a way to stall corruption¡ªsacrificing physical function but preserving reason. For a time.¡±


    Lianna tensed. Dead ends or not, this changes everything. ¡°Where are they?¡±


    ¡°Gone. Disposal took extra time.¡±


    Yvette noted Ulysses wasn¡¯t hurt¡ªhis bloodied clothes were pristine, like a surgeon¡¯s post-op coat.


    Thank heavens.


    Lianna, however, eyed the stains. No battle leaves patterns like that. What kind of ¡®disposal¡¯¡­?


    Ulysses, meanwhile, was studying Yvette. His wish for her survival wasn¡¯t sentimentality¡ªit was fascination.


    She was different.


    Few humans stood out to him. Like the Spindle brothers: the duke played the jolly ancestor¡¯s part, but the timid younger brother was that man¡¯s heir in spirit.


    Their forebear¡ªa bishop who¡¯d rather dance than preach¡ªhad abandoned pleasure when plague struck London, marching into hell to save it. He¡¯d died nameless, in ashes.


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


    At first, Ulysses barely noticed. Humans replaced prized hounds, after all. But watching the bishop¡¯s descendants, he¡¯d realized: none could fill that void.


    Now, Yvette had bloomed in his garden¡ªa flower unlike any other.


    Riding back, he asked out of nowhere: ¡°Thought of marriage? Children?¡±


    ¡°¡­Huh?¡±


    Ulysses shrugged. ¡°Children needn¡¯t require marriage. Though society makes it harder for women alone.¡±


    ¡°Who says I want kids?¡± She shuddered, picturing the eldritch nightmares lurking in her bloodline. No child deserved that.


    ¡°Your descendants could be¡­¡± Remarkable, he didn¡¯t add. A legacy worth tending¡ªlong after you¡¯re gone.


    Yvette almost snorted. Coming from him?


    ¡°You¡¯re the one who¡¯d better hurry. Men¡¯s hairlines flee after thirty. Yours still has dignity¡ªfind a kind lady before it deserts you.¡±


    Her imagination served up a balding Ulysses¡ªWould a receding hairline make him look regal, like some Elven lord? Or would a monk¡¯s ring ruin even his charm? The image of him sporting a tonsure sent her into helpless giggles.


    ¡°¡­Am I the butt of a joke?¡± he deadpanned.


    Aboard the departing train, Queen Margaret stirred her tea absently¡ªwatching the riders shrink toward Windsor.


    ¡°Your Majesty?¡± Lianna prompted.


    ¡°I¡¯d thought my distaste for men had faded,¡± the queen murmured. ¡°Turns out¡­ I simply don¡¯t dislike young Fisher. Perhaps because his sanity is nothing like my father¡¯s monstrosity.¡±


    Several days later, in a quiet Berkshire town not far from Windsor Castle, a tall red-haired man stood before the telegraph office window, waiting to dispatch an encrypted message.


    The telegraph operator, spurred by a generous two-shilling tip, took extra care with the transmission¡ªsending it painstakingly slowly, verifying it over and over. This wasn¡¯t due to incompetence; rather, the message, like many coded telegrams, was peppered with nonsensical words only its intended recipient could decipher.


    Merchants often used such encryptions¡ªfirstly, to conceal trade secrets, and secondly, to compress entire sentences into single fabricated words, slashing the exorbitant cost of telegraphs. Yet this system was far from foolproof. Unfamiliar letter combinations defied natural reading, and errors crept in. Not long ago, a single mistaken letter¡ªan a for a u¡ªhad cost a wool merchant over a thousand pounds. Though he¡¯d furiously sued the telegraph company, the courts only reimbursed him for the message fee¡ªa pitiful fraction of his losses.


    Still, despite the risks, people clung to cipher telegrams, paying premiums for accuracy in crucial communications.


    This customer had been particularly free with his coin. For months, each visit came with an extra two shillings, ensuring flawless service.


    "Sent and triple-checked, sir¡ªno errors, as always," the operator said cheerfully, eyeing the man¡¯s traveling cloak and case. "End of your holiday, then? Hope Berkshire treated you well."


    "Time to move on. As for memories¡­" The man smiled cryptically.


    No reply had come from The Spider in days. Had the plan succeeded, Berkshire would be swarming with troops by now.


    But plans could fail. So long as they stayed in the shadows, there¡¯d always be new ones. At least his brother¡¯s death had been avenged.


    One last letter, then. If the secret police traced it back through The Spider, who knew what might happen?


    "Life for life, eye for eye," he murmured from Deuteronomy, tightening his cloak against the autumn wind.


    ¡ª¡ª


    Much had transpired¡ªin shadows and in daylight. Three bodies, hauled from the woods, were identified as Windsor Castle¡¯s newest kitchen staff. One had quit earlier¡ªthe very man who¡¯d clashed with a servant over sulfuric acid. Of the others, one matched a local youth who¡¯d left home months prior.


    Meanwhile, London¡¯s hopes for a royal romance lay in tatters. None of Europe¡¯s eligible noblemen had sparked Queen Margaret IV¡¯s interest.


    "That one¡¯s family carries hemophilia. I won¡¯t taint Albion¡¯s bloodline."


    "Him? His valet¡¯s far too pretty¡ªdoubtless sinful tastes."


    Such reasons flowed easily, yet none cast suspicion on the Queen. After all, intimacy between women wasn¡¯t the scandal it was for men. Especially not when whispers placed a French youth¡ªone Monsieur Fisher¡ªfirmly in her favor. They rode together daily, took tea in the afternoons¡­


    Rumors blossomed. Since Yvette rarely attended society events, curiosity about "young Monsieur Fisher" swelled.


    "You must meet him¡ªUlysses¡¯ nephew, and just as divinely favored in looks! Only¡­ less like a wrathful archangel and more a Greek Adonis."


    As invitations flooded in, Yvette again found herself summoned to Windsor. The castle shone beneath royal banners. Servants guided her through courtyards and past guards to where a steward received her coat. Portraits of monarchs lined the halls¡ªby now, she recognized the Queen¡¯s chambers by the coronation painting outside.


    A plush sofa, thick carpets, and gilded drapes framed a sunlit haven overlooking the gardens.


    Yvette had noticed jealous glares lately. She¡¯d considered lying low¡ªbut then, the pastries...


    Scones studded with raisins, almond cakes, glazed souffl¨¦s¡ªeach bite was magnified by lemon zest, brandy, or mint. Resistance was futile.


    Even Sir Granville, initially fretful she¡¯d blunder before the Queen, now relaxed.


    And so Yvette sat, munching blissfully through a three-tiered dessert stand, stars in her eyes.


    Margaret IV watched, amused. She could¡¯ve spent hours just watching him eat. Odd, really¡ªshe¡¯d once only fancied women like Lady Delan, all dashing boots and hunting rifles. So why did this lace-clad youth strike her as¡­ adorable?


    Other powdered dandies made her want to toss them out. But him? His delicacy felt genuine, not foppish.


    Then¡ªoh. He¡¯d noticed.


    Young Monsieur Fisher froze mid-bite, swallowed carefully, then hesitated¡ªwas he¡­ checking his reflection in the butter knife?


    God help me, this is too much.


    Smiling, the Queen rescued him. "Do enjoy those. I¡¯m avoiding sugar, but watching you is delight enough."


    "You¡¯re perfectly healthy¡ªno need to diet!" Yvette replied cheerfully, deciding the Queen must be an early form of food-stream enthusiast.

 Chapter 126

    During her stay at Windsor Castle, Yvette found herself frequently in the Queen''s company after teatime, strolling through the castle grounds. Though these walks never lasted more than a few hours, such personal attention from the busy monarch was considered an extraordinary privilege.


    Queen Margaret IV personally escorted her to Windsor''s St. George''s Chapel. Among countless churches sharing this saint''s name across Christendom, the Windsor chapel stood apart as the historic seat of the Order of the Garter. Each Garter Day saw the knights assemble here in full regalia, inducting new members through solemn ceremonies.


    The Order''s great hall stretched before them, its crystal chandeliers already lit at the Queen''s command. Dozens of pillars lined the chamber, each topped with heraldic shields and banners. At the far end rose a massive round table encircled by high-backed chairs, nearly every seat flanked by its corresponding banner and an empty suit of armor.


    Yvette noted several empty spaces among the displays.


    "This shall be your station," Margaret IV indicated an unmarked chair. "You''ll need to settle on a new coat of arms before next season - the College of Arms requires time to prepare the proper heraldry."


    Though aware of Yvette''s supernatural nature, the Queen presumed her to be exiled French nobility - her family titles and lands revoked by the Sun King''s decree. The absence of personal crests suggested a desire to sever past connections, an assumption Margaret IV found convenient. Adopting Albionese heraldry would effectively make young Fisher one of her own aristocracy.


    "But surely I''ve accomplished nothing to merit such honor," Yvette protested.


    "Merit?" The Queen''s laugh carried an edge. "Our lords inherit parliamentary seats with their christening gowns. I''ve yet to meet one who earned his place through service."


    Margaret IV had proven herself a conscientious ruler - when attacked with picric acid, her first thoughts turned to its potential as weaponry rather than personal danger. Her father''s negligent reign had weakened the crown''s authority alarmingly. Parliamentary wags joked that should both Houses present her own death warrant, she''d have no choice but to sign it.


    Rebuilding royal influence required nurturing loyalists. Yvette''s remarkable talents and Margaret''s personal fondness made the young woman an ideal candidate for patronage.


    Beyond personal regard, political calculations shaped the Queen''s plans. Though largely reduced to ceremonial functions, moments arose - particularly during parliamentary deadlocks - when judicious intervention could expand royal prerogatives. The Koh-i-Noor diamond might yet prove useful in these maneuvers...


    Meanwhile, in London''s academic quarter...


    The tree-lined neighborhood near Albion Imperial University housed professors and their families in respectable comfort, each household acutely aware of its position in the city''s relentless social climb. After supper, Julie no longer lingered at the parlor piano as in her girlhood, but retreated directly to her chamber - her thoughts too troubled for music.


    As a telegraph operator, she now earned nearly as much as her university professor father. Combined with family savings, this constituted a respectable dowry. Her father''s recent introductions to minor nobility had improved their standing further. With her beauty and this social footing, securing an engagement to some baronet''s military son should have been assured.


    Yet her father grew increasingly agitated by rumors concerning his former student. "Young Fisher''s prospects were obvious from the start!" he lamented over dinner. "His admission bore the Duke of Lancaster''s own signature!" The unspoken implication hung heavy - if only they''d secured him for Julie when they had the chance.


    Julie bit her tongue. She knew the sacrifices behind their genteel facade - the professor''s patched shirts beneath his decent coat, the second-rate tobacco smoked when no guests called. Every economy served to enhance her marriage prospects.


    Once, in frustration, she''d challenged her mother: "Why must I wed some titled wastrel who divides his time between gambling hells and brothels?"


    "All young men sow wild oats," her mother soothed. "Marriage settles them. And consider - if the Queen indeed favors Fisher as they say, his wife would surely become ''Lady Fisher.'' Far better than some officer''s wife waiting years for her husband to distinguish himself!"


    The knowing look chilled Julie. Her mother actually approved of the Queen''s rumored interest in Fisher as a mark of favor. London society tolerated noblemen''s indiscretions, provided they occurred in sufficiently exalted circles.


    She dared not voice her secret thoughts - that she wanted no part of aristocratic hypocrisy, nor of Fisher''s complicated position. Her clandestine correspondence with a brilliant young machinist''s son (conducted through encrypted newspaper advertisements since her vacation began) would send her parents into apoplexy.


    For three days now, no replies had come. Had illness struck? Had trouble found him? Or had his affections cooled? With nothing to distract her, Julie sank into anxious speculation, dreading answers she couldn''t bear to learn.


    Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    In just a fortnight, Yvette had gone from being known as "Sir Ulysses¡¯ nephew" when she left London for the Duke of Lancaster¡¯s estate, to the whispered-about darling of the Queen¡ªa rising star upon her return. Her desk overflowed with invitations from high society¡¯s most prominent figures, as if titles were being tossed about in a carnival. Yet she turned most down. Her first stop back in London was to visit Professor Charles Wheatstone, a scholar, to discuss electromagnetism.


    An instrument-maker¡¯s apprentice with no formal education, Wheatstone had taught himself into the annals of science. In both worlds Yvette knew, he was a celebrated British physicist¡ªinventor of the telegraph, the stereoscope, and a groundbreaking method to measure electricity¡¯s speed through wires using rotating mirrors (later adapted to gauge light¡¯s velocity). Barely thirty, he already held a professorship at King¡¯s College London and was a Royal Society Fellow.


    Yvette had heard rumors: eccentric, introverted, stubborn to a fault. When a collaborator once offered him a one-sixth share of profits to commercialize his inventions, Wheatstone had refused¡ªnot because the cut was unfair (it was generous), but because it implied inferiority. He demanded an equal split. Never mind that the collaborator fronted all the capital and labor¡ªWheatstone would¡¯ve bled him dry. Eventually, he settled for the smaller share¡ªprovided his name always came first in credits.


    With social skills so poor he¡¯d given up teaching entirely, Yvette feared accidentally offending him. But she needn¡¯t have.


    Wheatstone¡¯s genius wasn¡¯t entirely devoid of tact¡ªelse he¡¯d never have risen so high. He understood Albion¡¯s power structure: aristocrats ruled; the bourgeoisie merely rode along. Investors got icy disdain, but nobles received deference. He even devised parlor experiments to charm them, so long as they championed his work.


    When Yvette arrived, he greeted her stiffly, mustering awkward praise for the now-famous "young Fisher." Sensing his discomfort, she swiftly shifted to science¡ªher modern knowledge impressing him far more than the usual clueless lords.


    The real breakthrough came when she acknowledged electrical resistance¡ªa heresy to most British scientists, who still rejected Ohm¡¯s Law. Wheatstone, secretly a believer, was overjoyed. Years later, he¡¯d invent devices proving Ohm right. For now, an aristocrat¡¯s validation was gold.


    Their talk stretched for hours, leaving both inspired. Wheatstone scrapped old blueprints, scribbling new ideas. Yvette, meanwhile, found a way to refine her electromagnetic powers: launching bullets at gunlike speeds.


    Past attempts had faltered¡ªa projectile would jam mid-coil due to opposing magnetic forces. Wheatstone¡¯s solution? Pulsed currents, cut off before the bullet reached the coil¡¯s end. And by layering electromagnetic bursts within her three-meter range, she could achieve terrifying velocity.


    Testing on gelatin dummies, she matched pistol firepower¡ªespecially when augmented by her Flame Cloak potion. Better yet, without gunpowder constraints, bullets could be redesigned for aerodynamics.


    (She¡¯d still carry a pistol¡ªsome specialty rounds required it, and it offered plausible deniability.)


    Exhausted but satisfied, she slept¡ªonly to be woken at 10 AM by a disguised Julie.


    Her mentor¡¯s daughter, eyes red, whispered of a missing colleague¡ªthe telegraph operator who¡¯d once defended her with the legendary quip, "Why not use the other foot as well?"


    "Police aren¡¯t taking it seriously," Julie pleaded. "Can you help?"


    Yvette first soothed Julie¡¯s frayed nerves before settling in to listen to her friend¡¯s story.


    Julie didn¡¯t mince words¡ªshe and the clever telegraph clerk, whom she playfully called her "little genius," had grown close after he defended her honor. But when his company expanded, they assigned him to a new station in Berkshire. Chatham wasn¡¯t just quick-fingered; he could handle two operators¡¯ workloads and fix machines like a tinkerer. A man of his talents was wasted in London¡¯s seasonal lulls, and with most clerks refusing countryside postings, the company sweetened the deal with double pay. Being a practical steam engineer¡¯s son, Chatham accepted.


    Though parted, love found a way. During quiet hours, their telegraph keys tapped out conversations¡ªa Victorian-era long-distance romance.


    Then winter brought smog-fleeing aristocrats and skeleton crews. Julie, desperate for shifts, mourned lost chat time¡ªuntil they devised a workaround: coded messages nestled in the obscure Hornet newspaper¡¯s classifieds.


    At first, it was exhilarating. Julie smuggled each edition upstairs, pulse racing, though her bookish father¡ªwho screened her mail like quarantine¡ªnever batted an eye at newspapers.


    But soon, Chatham¡¯s replies stopped. Had he fallen ill? Been ensnared by some rosy-cheeked shepherdess? Country girls were rumored to be forward, even indulging in premarital "trial unions." The thought made Julie shudder.


    Then¡ªa bombshell wedged between advertisements:


    Don¡¯t come after me. Be happy.


    Julie abandoned her leave. Fabricating an outing with friends, she raced to Berkshire¡ªonly to learn the telegraph office had been ransacked, Chatham vanished.


    The math was damning: newspapers took days from submission to print. Chatham had written this before disappearing.


    "Could someone else have sent it?" Yvette asked. "Like when you impersonated that cad¡¯s cipher?"


    "Never!" Julie scoffed. "Chatham lived for ciphers¡ªour code had layers. Crack one, and you¡¯d hit gibberish, thinking it nonsense."


    "The police?"


    "A robbery, they claim! Chatham¡¯s corpse dumped in a ditch!" Julie fumed. "Berkshire¡¯s officers are swamped¡ªprobably hunting remnants of the Queen¡¯s would-be assassin."


    Given the note¡¯s intimate tone, authorities would likely dismiss it as a lover¡¯s spat¡ªa clich¨¦ even scandal rags found tedious.


    Yvette agreed to investigate.


    "Oh, bless you, Yves!" Julie clasped her hands.


    "What of your parents?"


    "Tell Father? Are you mad?" Julie recoiled. The professor¡¯s resulting inquisition would dwarf the Second Coming itself.


    Yvette blinked¡ªperhaps she¡¯d misread his hints about Julie needing outings.


    Post-breakfast, they departed. Leveraging connections, Yvette secured access to Berkshire¡¯s records¡ªwithout burdening the overworked Althaus.


    Julie watched enraptured as officials tripped over themselves to assist the unassuming "Mr. Fisher." Here was nobility without pretense, a knight errant in a cynical age.


    Ascot¡ªnestled near Windsor¡¯s manicured racetracks¡ªboasted a police station in chaos. Two clerks drowned in paperwork while others chased leads.


    The file was damning:


    The remote telegraph office¡ªwedged between train tracks and village¡ªhad few witnesses. Staff confirmed Chatham worked alone that day, mask-clad (illness?), yet transmitted at his usual blistering pace. After hours, he¡¯d stayed to tinker. By dawn, the place was vandalized, the clerk gone¡ªlikely abducted or murdered.


    No body. No suspects. Case closed.