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 – 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 – what's your take?"

  She deduced his tracking ability – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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 – 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?

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  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 – no wonder they cost a laborer's yearly wage). But the real pièce de résistance? 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 – 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 – 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—" He stroked chin hairs stained with squirrel blood. "Ah! Your family heirlooms must boast legendary histories! Fear not – 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–"

  "I’m talking serial killings! Mutilated bodies drained of blood!"

  "Darling, in Birmingham, mutilation’s called Tuesday." Burgard yawned. "Check with Father Fran?ois – 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—Hungarians, 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—a 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—a mark of the arcane—but 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—dressed as a prim clerk—hauled 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—that 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—a 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 symposium with the city’s muses!"

  Their carriage rattled past night-time streets where shivering women loomed—skirts 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—gas 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 – 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 – 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—”

  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 – 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 – 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—”

  “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 – and her lambs might yet survive.