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—only 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—executed?"

  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—lightproof rooms, adamant chains.

  "Easily arranged."

  "And you? How long until..."

  "Days only."

  "Then heed this—" 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—or 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—well-thumbed manuals on witch detection underlined in frenzied strokes.

  How medieval—adoring 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—gaunt 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—an 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—complete with suppurating facial sores. From the back pew, Yvette cringed through his sonorous Latin.

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  "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—a 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—silver 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—same 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—like 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—especially 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—partly 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—“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—Albion’s elite often enjoyed eccentric decor.

  "Alison, meet Eddie. He’ll assist with heavy chores."

  "A footman? I shouldn’t command—"

  "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—charade 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—another 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—though oblivious to the term "IP"—recognized 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—uncharacteristically amiable—escorted Faulkner (a nervous Wolfsbane in disguise) and Yvette to front-row seats.

  "An absolute privilege, Mr. Lawrence! And Mr. Faulkner, might I—" 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—methodical 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—it’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—clues to a death by knowledge. The Stigmata’s secrets grew darker, and time was running out.