"Illegal activities? What exactly?" Yvette pressed.

  "Oh, the usual—back-alley abortions, black-market drugs, corpse trafficking... He pored over them, looking equal parts horrified and thrilled, muttering, 'This will ruin him.'"

  The industrial age had crammed people into cities faster than sanitation could keep up. Disease spread, doctors were in demand, and fresh cadavers for training became gold. Years back, Albyon’s leaders had passed the Anatomy Act—Church be damned—letting hospitals claim paupers' unclaimed corpses. Still, bodies ran short. Graverobbing flourished. Some poor souls now feared hospitals, knowing death might land them on a dissection slab. Selling the deceased became routine.

  Yvette shrugged. Expected gray areas—like modern clickbait or fake news.

  "Dr. Leptun’s wife is aristocracy. Didn’t her family object to his... hobbies?"

  "Hardly." The archivist smirked. "The marriage brought him no titles or connections. He could ignore their opinions. Besides, her lot are pragmatists. Not your typical blue-bloods." He leaned in. "A baron’s daughter, that one. New money—only a century old. Too recent to whitewash the stains. Word is, they clawed their way up with dirty tricks. But cunning alone doesn’t build empires. That family’s always been... skilled at pruning."

  Yvette arched a brow. "Pruning?"

  "Not gardens." He chuckled. "Ever seen those perfect trees in noble estates? Straight as spears? They start as saplings—every stray branch cut early, so the trunk grows strong. Let one branch go wild, and the whole tree weakens." His smile turned sharp. "Same with bloodlines. The Leptun in-laws excel at trimming excess kin. Offshoots get nothing—not land, not coin. Dowries? Ha! The baron wouldn’t waste pennies on daughters. No wonder she married a wealthy butcher."

  Before leaving, Yvette asked, "That doctor who asked about Leptun—did he publish anything?"

  "Not that I saw. He wanted newspaper contacts. I sent him to an editor. Watched for weeks—nothing printed."

  The clinic surprised her. No lines of pregnant women—just regular patients. Maybe the darker services required referrals.

  But locals whispered: Leptun’s place had an unusual number of amputations.

  Home again, Eddy greeted her urgently. "We’re being watched!"

  "Three men," he said. "Taking shifts at the café across the street—staring here for hours. One knocked earlier, fake salesman. Alison turned him away, but he left too easy... And he smelled funny."

  Yvette’s pulse quickened. They’d moved faster than expected. Thank God for Eddy’s sharp eyes—and her house’s high windows.

  "Track them tonight," she ordered. "Wear a hat."

  Eddy’s tail practically wagged. "Yes, sir!"

  Alison flinched when questioned about the Leptuns.

  "Picture-perfect couple," she murmured. "Him—successful. Her—flawless hostess. Guests always praised her decorations. Only odd thing... he was rarely home."

  Yvette frowned. "And she tolerated his... appetites?"

  Alison reddened. "Here, ladies aren’t supposed to... enjoy that. Madame disliked it. After the heir was born, she encouraged him to... seek elsewhere. Her waist was so tiny—birth hurt terribly."

  Different countries, different morals. France reveled in affairs; Albyon worshipped chaste Madonnas while husbands strayed.

  "What kept him out so late?"

  "Work? Society? Middle-class wealth needs maintaining. But servants gossiped—how could one man juggle both? Even tycoons retire before playing lord. Yet Leptun thrived—two hours of sleep, nights carousing, then precise surgeries at dawn." Her voice dropped. "Sir, he wasn’t human. A predator. Madame loved him, but... he was a void. Always hungry—for gold, status, flesh. I was just... another scrap tossed in."

  Two-hour sleeps? Madness.

  Eddie gestured to a pitch-dark alleyway. "They went in there, looped around, then came back this way."

  A deliberate detour—classic counter-surveillance. These men knew their craft.

  "If you didn’t follow them in, how do you know they circled back?"

  Eddie hesitated. "Since that night… I’ve had this… ability. If I concentrate, I can see smells. Like wet footprints on dry pavement, but in color. Fresh ones hang in the air, spreading like ink in water when the wind blows."

  Unknowingly, he’d described a werewolf’s "scent sight"—a gift he’d mastered frighteningly fast.

  Despite the watchers’ maze-like route, Eddie cut straight to their hideout.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Inside, two men gnawed on greasy lamb and bread, washing it down with ale.

  "Thought babysitting some maid would be easier than digging up corpses," one grumbled. "Should’ve charged double."

  His partner nodded vigorously. "Bobby on every damn corner whistled at me just for loitering! And grave-robbing’s gone to hell—Vincent cracked a coffin yesterday, and the bastard inside rigged it with a cannon! Blew his head off like a firework."

  "Why’s Lepton got us stalking a maid anyway? If he weren’t a regular, I’d think he was taking the piss."

  "The kid’s the prize, you idiot! Snatch the brat if you get the chance—who cares about the woman?"

  A sudden knock interrupted them.

  "Grove’s back early? Shift’s not over—"

  "That lazy sod’s only good with a knife."

  Still, the man grabbed his weapon before answering—a necessary habit when the penalty for your trade was the noose.

  Outside, Grove stood rigid, a knife at his back.

  Hiding behind the hulking man, Eddie’s small frame went unnoticed. No one would suspect a child could cow a hardened criminal.

  The grave robber inside swung the door open, cursing—then froze as steel pricked his kidney.

  "You traitorous—" He spun, gaping at the knife-wielding child. Grove stood petrified, unarmed.

  "A kid disarmed you?!"

  "Weren’t my fault!" Grove’s voice trembled. There’d been something unnatural in the boy’s gaze—worse than London’s deadliest cutthroats. Like staring into the eyes of a born killer.

  Then the boy looked at their leader.

  Legs turned to jelly. Sweat soaked his shirt.

  It was primal fear—the kind etched into human bones since the days of caves and wolves. Before fire or iron, monsters like this hunted in the dark.

  One child. One blade. Two killers, reduced to trembling wrecks.

  Upstairs, the third robber frowned at the delay. A chill breeze snapped him alert—odd, since the windows were shut.

  Then cold metal touched his skull. The click of a hammer cocking raised every hair on his neck.

  Whatever gun this was, it could drop an elephant. One shot, and his head would vanish like Vincent’s.

  Hands rose slowly.

  Soon, all three sat bound before Yvette.

  She examined their loot first: grave-stolen jewelry; tools; spice-lined masks (likely to block corpse fumes); and a ledger tallying sales to doctors and medical staff.

  The pieces fit.

  "Lepton sent you to rob graves here? My house isn’t near any cemetery." Yvette spun her revolver’s chamber lazily. "Unless you’ve started making fresh merchandise?"

  "We ain’t murderers!" they yelped. "Lepton’s pay ain’t worth that!"

  "Why spy on me, then?"

  "He… wanted your maid’s child. Figured you wouldn’t miss a servant’s by-blow—"

  "That child is mine." Her voice turned glacial. "Eddie—fetch liquor and rags. Tonight, three drunkards ‘accidentally’ burn alive. The police won’t investigate."

  Their blood turned to ice. This fop talked arson like ordering wine!

  "Lepton lied to us!"

  "Watch your mouth." Yvette’s fists clenched like a proper Frenchman. Ask them to fight for duty, and they’d shrug, "No rush." But insult their lover’s honor? Duels at dawn.

  She let them sweat before smiling. "Luckily, I blame the hand, not the tool. Prove useful, and you might survive the night."

  Naturally, Yvette wasn’t interested in purchasing exhumed corpses from these grave-robbers—she sought darker anomalies. After all, buying corpses, while distasteful, wasn’t strictly illegal. Physicians and medical students acquiring cadavers of questionable origin was an open secret. A gang once hanged for murdering people to sell their bodies had counted doctors among their clients—men who’d never questioned why so many "donors" bore axe-split skulls. At trial, those buyers feigned ignorance and walked free.

  The robbers exchanged uneasy glances before one spoke up haltingly.

  "Dr. Lepton... implied he wanted us to remove a rival—another doctor. Had it been some nobody, we might’ve obliged. But a man of standing? Too risky. Police might’ve brought in someone like Chevalier. Next thing, the Holy Eye’s on us. So we refused. But the payoff haunted us—we nearly reconsidered... until that rival turned up floating in the Thames at dawn. I swear we didn’t touch him! Just a... convenient accident." His smirk suggested otherwise.

  A suspicious doctor’s death? This matched the archives clerk’s account. The victim was likely the colleague compiling evidence against Lepton.

  "Afterwards," the robber added, "Lepton paid us to ransack the dead man’s home—wanted every scrap of recent writing."

  Proof the victim had secrets worth killing for.

  "Find anything linking back to Lepton?"

  "Nothing. He made us sweep the place twice—searched every crack."

  Meaning either the evidence didn’t exist yet... or it was hidden elsewhere.

  "Excellent. What else? Think beyond crimes—anything odd about Lepton?" Yvette pressed.

  "Well... There was an odd delivery. We’d stashed a fresh corpse in a wine cask, hauling it to his sanitarium disguised as provisions. Nearly trampled an old hag in a headscarf—she screeched curses like a harpy. Would’ve throttled her if not for our... cargo. Watched her scuttle inside carrying a dog-sized bundle, blood seeping through the cloth."

  "A month later, the papers called her ‘London’s Lamia.’ Shot resisting arrest at her baby farm—police found bloodied swaddling clothes. No infants, though."

  Yvette knew the tale: Lamia, the child-devouring demon of myth. The woman had run a "charity" where desperate mothers paid to abandon babies to "loving homes." In truth, most infants starved—or were murdered outright to quiet their cries. When authorities raided her farm, only bloodstained cloths remained. People whispered she’d eaten them. Now it seemed the truth was worse—Lepton had been her buyer.

  Amputations. Illegal abortions. Infant cadavers. What unholy work demanded such materials?

  Gagging the robbers, Yvette locked them in the cellar—insurance against lies.

  Dawn neared. Her young werewolf companion twirled a stolen knife, eyes bright. "Did I help, sir?"

  "Immensely." She tousled his fur. "They meant to harm Sister Alison. You defended her—that makes you brave."

  Eddie beamed. The battle-fever had stirred something wild in him—a hunger for violence soothed only by her praise, now curled dormant like wintering bears.

  Protecting Alison... helping Mr. Fisher... felt good.

  ——

  Next morning, Yvette found The Herald’s most beleaguered editor agonizing over headlines, his pince-nez fogged with stress. Known for accepting sob-story submissions ("My wife needs coats! My child has ague!"), his section languished from dull prose.

  The chief editor’s latest scolding had him desperate for inspiration.

  "‘Mr. Blank Shares Success Tips’?" he muttered. "Too pedestrian..."

  After minutes of dithering, Yvette offered:

  "Turn ￡1000/year Into Pocket Change"

  "Why You Earn in a Year What He Makes in a Month"

  "Skills That Make Investors Chase You"

  The editor’s glasses slid off his nose.

  "Magnificent! Are you seeking employment? I’ll recommend you!"

  "Actually, I’m here regarding Dr. Martin Chandler’s correspondence."

  "Oh! His letter! I’d stuffed it in a book and—oh dear." Mortified, he unearthed the sealed missive (likely the doctor’s death warrant).

  "No need for apologies. He requested its return for... revisions."

  Taking the letter, Yvette vanished into the foggy streets.