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—too 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—two 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—satanic panics, mass hysterias, unsolved vanishings.

  Then—names 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—hunted 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—and 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—but 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.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  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—if “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—what 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—possibly 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—the Leonids, the Lyrids—ties 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—”

  “Outlandish? This is inspired!” Arturo laughed incredulously. “First you dismantle that poisoner case aboard the Silver Star—half my men want your autograph—and 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”—where she’d shivered through a frostbitten night for three fleeting streaks—had 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—a 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—”

  “He isn’t.” The marquis had secluded himself since their return from the Americas, and his absence gnawed at her.

  “He’s a ‘Physician’—he’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 protégé lied, eyes gleaming. “I’ll compile the stargazing guest list as usual.”

  “Yes… filter the curious from the committed. Our work requires… dedicated participants.”