The copper kept to a rigid timetable—every 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—keepin' 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—they’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—we’ll keep nix outside then—"

  "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—especially 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—until 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—Bastet’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—shows 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—course, 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.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  "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—jewelry 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—how 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—or 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.”

  ———

  Next morning found Yvette at a parish workhouse school—Kobalev’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—ideal for narrow flues!”

  Yvette’s jaw tightened. These “schools” supplied child labor to Albion’s grimmest industries. Sweeps died young—crushed, 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—show 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—”

  “Done. Name your price.”

  Paperbacked, the man spat: “I’ll notify his sister. Parents dead—she’s all he’s got.”

  Of course, Yvette mused. Only the desperate sell children here.

  When Eddie arrived—grubby but bright-eyed—the 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—you’re leaving this place.”

  The boy whooped, unaware his purchaser pondered darker truths:

  Werewolf younglings appeared human until their Breaking—when 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—all 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—pop ’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—same 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—ones 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—werewolves 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—if their blood’s clean."

  "All turn? His sister’s human?"

  "Her? Mortal. Not all awaken—some 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—strong 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—East 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—if one hair on a mortal’s head is harmed—drive us out. But his foster family will want for nothing. This city’s our refuge. I’ll not lose it."