London Tower loomed beneath moonless skies.

  In the shadowed colonnades, spectral sentries glared as two psychic agents escorted a civilian toward the spire of their disfigured master. The shadow guardians' molten eyes burned with protective fury — not toward the hypnotized mortal, but at cruel fate itself. For they'd watched young Spindle, once radiant as the sun god, warp into this crumbling waxwork through self-sacrificial rites. Yet through physical ruin, his compassion remained undimmed — nobility persisting where lesser souls would curdle.

  By the Thames, boatmen crossed themselves as anguished wails drifted from the Tower's stones.

  "Ghaists o' the walled-up princes!" declared a Cockney oarsman to his shivering Scot companion. "Murdered bairns keening through time!"

  Unaware of the living drama above, Spindle received his visitors with characteristic grace. The espers explained their dilemma: a destroyed cultist, a mesmerized academic, and forbidden knowledge's untraceable source.

  "My sight only shows connections, not contexts," Spindle cautioned, observing the entranced scholar. Normally, espers could comb memories like archive halls, but this mind presented bricked-up passages — expertly sealed.

  "His star charts revealed an Avatar's cyclical descent," an esper said. "We must know who schooled him in dark astronomies."

  Spindle's Void-darkened eyes became starfields. Threads of fate emerged — among them, a thick corrupted cord recently severed. Recognition struck: the same anomaly he'd annihilated weeks prior at Sir Ullysses' behest. His obliteration incantation had not merely killed, but unwoven the target from reality's tapestry.

  "The source perished recently," Spindle reported. No need mentioning their brotherly psychic's role in that execution.

  As the agents departed, Spindle studied his disintegrating hand — bones like desiccated coral, flesh alternated between wasting and grotesque swells. Each sacrificial working brought closer the day his form would collapse into necrotic pudding.

  He remembered healthier ancestors, when the Order boasted both Seers of Destinies and Oracles of Chronometry. To young Miss Fisher, he'd likened their complementary gifts to recipe and timer — one listing a dish's components, the other ensuring perfect execution. United, they'd been invincible; divided since the Schism, both orders faltered.

  Spindle's lips twitched recalling another thread observed in his vision — a golden strand connecting today's mortal to Miss Fisher. Curious, that woman collected strange contacts: first the painted horror, now this...

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her own fate-web fascinated him. Previously all icy misfortunes, now she spun warm benedictions to others. Phoenix-like, rising from ashen destiny to radiate hope.

  Deliberately, he stilled these thoughts. His brother's clairvoyant senses might detect such sentiments, and that mercurial sadist needed no excuses to torment virtuous souls.

  Yvette stood in her bedroom, the crackling fire warding off London’s autumn cold. At these northern latitudes, nighttime temperatures had already dipped to near freezing.

  As Alison removed the bed warmer—its copper pan no longer needed—Yvette stopped her maid: “Any milk left? I’d like a nightcap.”

  “At once, Master Ives.”

  “Leave it on the table. The cup can wait till morning.”

  Rolling up her sleeve, Yvette examined the fading dart wound. By dawn, even this faint redness would vanish.

  But sleep wasn’t her goal. The previous night’s hunt had left her weary enough to collapse unaided. No—the milk served a darker purpose.

  The red-haired heretic’s blood had stained her hands during his beheading. By now, the visions would be coming.

  If tonight’s dream proved as violent as before, warm milk might soften the aftershocks.

  The Vision

  Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

  In the nightmare kitchen, a cleaver rose and fell. Crimson arced across white tiles like morbid calligraphy.

  The severed head watched, eyes tracking every chop. Its own limbs lay scattered—gruesome ingredients in this perpetual feast. Soon, the nightmare’s “digestion” would reset the scene. Until next time.

  “I see you, jailer of false gods!” The head spat bloody foam, gums dyed feral red. “May worms feast on your—”

  Thunk. The blade never slowed.

  “You think yourself righteous?! My ancestors burned your kind when yours groveled in muck! We’ll rip open this prison! We’ll be gods—”

  Thunk. A final strike. The butcher—faceless, nameless—reached for the cursing head.

  …

  The Memory

  Yvette drifted through impossible geometries. Staircases inverted; hallways coiled like M?bius strips. This place—half real, half madness—mirrored the dead fanatic’s memories.

  His perspective overwhelmed hers. Taller, coarser. Twenty paces in, she realized distances lied. Glancing back, the entrance hall now clung upside-down to the “ceiling,” furniture defying gravity.

  The corridor ended at a warped door. Beyond it crouched a nightmare: an enormous aged head grafted to a fetal mummy, its shriveled tail twitching.

  “Leadbetter.” The elder-head’s voice dripped false warmth. “Proceed to Room 136. Your ascension awaits.”

  The red-haired man—once brash, now sycophantic—bowed. “Your wisdom illuminates us, Holy Father.”

  “Our agents retrieved a relic: Longinus’ Spear, buried with Charlemagne. Handle it well.”

  “The true Holy Lance? But the Church’s lies—”

  “—hold kernels of truth. What if we turn the weapon against their so-called saints?”

  Room 136 reeked of blood and rust. Chains anchored a shape-shifting horror to a crimson sigil. A gilded spear pinned it mid-transformation—though only its iron core held power.

  “Talk, and I remove the blade,” the man prodded the ooze with his stolen relic.

  Black tendrils surged up his legs. His pulse quickened… then steadied. The spear’s chill whispered promises: Control.

  As the slime engulfed his face, Yvette saw through its eyes—a universe where stars writhed like maggots, and geometries birthed screaming truths.