Had Kobelev been born in a later era, he’d have made a fortune as a silver-tongued salesman—or 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—retired kingpin of pickpockets. His ‘cormorants’ still filch watches and lace hankies. His craftsmen scrub ownership marks better than repentance.”

  “Redbeard Ramsay’s den—bastion 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—unsurprising, 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—got 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—either 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—trivial 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—greasy apron, stank like slaughterhouse runoff. Skulked outside forever, drawing peelers’ eyes!”

  Yvette hid a grim smile. Graying-brown hair, gaunt face, leather apron—perfect 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—fabricating 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—abusing 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—probably a supernatural entity!

  Society remained oblivious that vivid crime reporting awakened latent monsters in susceptible minds.

  Police files showed mid-case shifts in MO—from 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—I 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—barely manifesting. I scared off his tormentor. Family details escaped me."

  "His sister cared for him. Bring her when relocating him—a debt repaid."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  "Where is she?"

  Yvette hesitated. Eddie claimed she refused contact—possibly 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—tools 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—safe 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—this 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—trollop keeps unholy hours."

  "Dominican monks here?"

  "Heretic." The door slammed.

  Yvette sighed. Church factions mattered little—finding the girl did.

  It was Sunday—the Lord’s Day—and 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—calloused hands still gripping the raving man—struggled 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—Catholicism’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—their faces mirrored ruin.

  “Next Mass is at six,” Father Franz told Yvette.

  “What’s this ritual?”

  “A donated statue—believed 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—Eddie’s sister! Her rebuking him years ago—likely 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—but 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—Yvette 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—“near the Crescent Theatre”—from 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—its 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—slum 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—rain 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—a 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—

  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—

  The grease.

  In their old flat, his sister would bring home congealed fat from the butcher’s grill—free 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—

  The alley. The blood.

  Yvette crouched over the body, fury a live wire in her veins. Whispers slithered through the downpour—her own primal rage threatening to unravel. She willed calm, fingers brushing still-warm viscera.

  A wounded cry tore the night—half-human, half-wolf.

  Eddie writhed at the alley’s mouth, jaw cracking as it elongated. Claws sprouted, fur rippling over muscle—a monstrous silhouette against the storm.

  Yvette’s hand flew to her revolver—silver 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—the wolf’s roar became a ripple of heat, unheard.