"Mr. Alto, let’s hold off on arrests until after their ritual. A few days’ observation could reveal far more."
"But they’ve crossed into forbidden territory. Every moment wasted risks catastrophe."
"We’re hunting shadows. Startle one rat, and the nest scatters."
Alto conceded grudgingly. The supernatural pulse still hung unnamed—a chess piece of eldritch forces? A self-aware heretic? Or another Winslow, blindly channelling horrors? Answers bred more questions.
But Yvette—
She’d become the target. That cursed "invitation" reeked of sacrificial rites. He’d seen enough butchered informants to know: occultists out-gruesomed gangsters tenfold. And this slip of a girl playing revolutionary...
"Station watchers at the inn," she insisted. "Between your eyes and mine, nothing escapes."
Reluctance etched his face, but Yvette’s resolve hardened. "I can act the part. Trust me."
"Swear you’ll take no risks."
"Oh, I’ll be immaculate," she vowed, suppressing laughter. Since when did Alto inherit Winslow’s mother-henning?
Winslow. Guilt pricked her. He’d have barred this gambit outright, proxy puppets at the ready. But only she could parse the Star-Maiden’s whispered truths.
Apologies later. Survival first.
Darzatt’s carriage rattled onward, James’ sycophancy thick as fog.
"...The boy all but wept at your generosity! A zealot shaped for your hands..."
Good. Pendulum’s choice seemed pliant. James’ ￡60 prize (month’s wages for most) bought one final errand:
"Guard our French saint from London’s pox-ridden charms."
James’ mind veered to brothels. Jealous old crow. "On my life, Professor! Not a vice shall touch him!"
Leaping into sunlight, he winced. Pox-ridden indeed. Failures gnawed—the lecture’s snubbed sycophants, this gutter-tier guest list. Still, gold soothed all.
Inside the gloom, Darzatt’s pulse quickened. Decadent James had refused transcendence. Fools clung to mortal dross.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
No—his Chosen were the unseen cogs: threadbare suits, cheap stationery. The vanished poor raised no flags.
Moses unchained slaves. I’ll free minds from greed’s shackles.
At the Green Isle Inn, a constable’s shaky fingers slid Alto’s warning beneath Yvette’s door: James’ face sketched beside "WATCHED."
She smirked. The "lurker" had blundered into her sights hours prior—haplessly "disguised," drawing servers’ mockery.
Amateur. But overconfidence killed. Whetting steel, she calculated the ritual’s variables.
Pages away, telegraphist Julie frowned at unprecedented verbosity:
[RAVEN EYES BLIND. BUSINESS UNHARMED. CONFLICT AVERTED IF POSSIBLE. CONTINGENCIES READY. P.S.: PARTNER SILENT. ASSUME DEAD.]
Too posh for penny-pinchers. But the clattering machine offered no answers.
The afternoon of the 18th—Stellar Observation Day—found Dazat’s carriage waiting outside the Green Island Inn. Yvette emerged, her pistol discreetly holstered, while her rapier remained in Alto’s care. No gentleman of fashion carried blades openly these days.
She paused at the carriage door, catching a coded flicker of curtains from Alto’s vantage point: tracking initiated. His gifts required no line of sight—scents and traces would suffice. Five minutes later, he followed on horseback through London’s tangled alleys, invisible to the unsuspecting driver.
To pass the journey, Yvette feigned wide-eyed curiosity. “What sort of man is Master Dazat? I’m nervous—being invited after just one lecture…”
“Ha! No need for nerves.” The coachman chuckled. “Not one of those puffed-up prigs, our master. Pays fair, never raises his hand. As for quirks—bad sleeper since his adventuring days. Orders all lights out by nine. Servants aren’t allowed near his room after dark, and they’re glad for it!”
Yvette stored every detail. Adventurer. Nighttime isolation. Classic markers from the Society’s watchlist. Alto’s detection of occult energy near Dazat’s lecture hall now seemed damning.
The coachman himself showed no signs of supernatural influence—calloused hands, ragged nails, teeth worn by hard bread. Empowered souls rarely endured such poverty. Even zealots like Keegan supplemented scarce rations with forest game.
Dazat’s estate stood in London’s bleakest hinterlands—no Hampstead heath or Richmond gardens here. Wheels thudded over rutted tracks as the coachman explained, “Master claims city lights ruin stargazing.”
Liar, Yvette thought. Without Alto’s supernatural tracking, any mortal follower would’ve been spotted instantly in this emptiness—a highwayman’s paradise.
The manor’s aged steward led her to a parlor where Dazat held court. Wrapped in a coat too large for his shriveled frame, he resembled a twisted bonsai—wrists knotted, eyes sunken like punctures in parchment. Yet those eyes kindled when Yvette entered.
“Mr. Monk!” He struggled upright, trembling. “Never dreamed of youthful readers!”
“True wisdom transcends age,” Yvette parroted, noting his feverish gaze—not mentor’s pride, but a collector’s hunger. What does he want? Had her signature on that ritual diagram revealed something?
Dazat’s questions grew peculiar. “Your deepest wish?”
She adopted a student’s bashful tone. “Two hundred a year… enough to court my professor’s girl.”
“Hold that wish close tonight!” Dazat’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Pray to Gungnir—Odin’s spear never misses its mark.” His eyes gleamed with manic conviction.
By nightfall, the stars pressed low—an astral pantheon looming ominously. On a windswept hill, admirers erected telescopes while Yvette inhaled the acidic tang of cut barley.
Moore’s dream. That same scent had filled the air when star-spawn descended in her vision. Now, beneath this magnified sky, she felt it again—the prickle of otherworldly eyes.
They’re coming.
