For generations, Vienna University's medical school had shone as the brightest jewel in its academic crown, standing at the zenith of global medicine. In Yvette's original world, this institution had produced four Nobel laureates in medicine. Here, nurtured by the Germanic tradition of scholarly rigor, it maintained equal prestige as Europe's foremost center of medical research.

  The grand auditorium still buzzed with excitement following Dr. Walter Moniz's masterful demonstration of frontier neurosurgery. Students lingered in animated clusters, dissecting every detail of the groundbreaking procedure, while journalists—like sharks scenting blood—converged on the side exit where the celebrity doctor would emerge.

  Soon appeared Dr. Moniz himself, having exchanged his surgical whites for an elegant tailcoat and top hat, his gentlemanly cane tapping against marble floors as professors flanked him. Camera flashes erupted in staccato bursts, magnesium powders flaring like miniature fireworks.

  Not that the public cared particularly for academic rigor—more accomplished scholars existed—but none matched Moniz's showmanship. He possessed an uncanny sense for spectacle, whether inventing his controversial "ice pick lobotomy" to cure madness and deviance, or that macabre Paris experiment where he'd briefly revived a guillotined traitor's corpse. The press adored him for guaranteed headlines.

  As chemical smoke cleared, the interrogation began:

  "Doctor, your phrenology breakthrough—how precisely do skull shapes reveal mental faculties?"

  "Through five hundred cranial measurements," Moniz replied smoothly, unfazed by the invasive flashes, "I've mapped twenty-seven cortical zones correlating to personality and ability. Dominant traits manifest as physical bulges—a scientific physiognomy."

  Another reporter hesitated: "Your book suggests even our souls are fragmented... frankly, most readers find this baffling."

  "Consider Russian nesting dolls," Moniz smiled. "Our outermost self is but a shell—the face we show society. Didn't we all loathe school yet play the dutiful child for parents? As adults, we still shift masks: decorous before ladies, yet bawdy in gentlemen's clubs. Such performative multiplicity defines civilization itself—the alternative being vulgar savagery."

  "So no one's truly... undivided?"

  "Rarely. The 'honest' brute is usually insufferable—though some masks fuse permanently with wearers." His voice dropped dramatically. "When wounded, minds may fracture entirely—not temporary roles, but distinct identities sharing one flesh. Imagine seeing alternate versions of yourself in life's branching paths!"

  The journalists exchanged uneasy glances; this metaphysical tangent wouldn't sell papers. One redirected: "Colleagues like Sir Ulysses dismiss your work as—forgive me—'gypsy fortune-telling.' He compares lobotomy to medieval charlatans who duped patients with fake 'brain stones.'"

  Moniz's affability vanished. "An epidemiologist disparaging neurology? Perhaps his own mind requires corrective ice-picking." The sudden venom silenced the room.

  Satisfied with their sensational quotes, the press dispersed.

  ...

  Meanwhile, Yvette prepared a blood sample—leeched to prevent clotting—from little Mary. If vampires could detect werewolves, might they identify ghouls too?

  Dr. Lepton's cannibalistic urges toward kin couldn't be ignored. Winter's early darkness and coal-smogged London nights would suit Randal's annual visit from Warwickshire.

  "Mr. Westminen!" Yvette had barely entered the appointed café when she spotted the long-absent Randall seated by the window corner in his wool tailcoat and top hat, perusing a newspaper.

  Vampire reproduction worked differently from humans. Though he descended from the Marquess of Montague's line, he didn't bear the title. Thus, Yvette addressed him only by his human name: Randall Westminen.

  At her greeting, Randall's dark eyes lifted from the paper with amusement—until she drew near. His face stiffened, nostrils flaring as he inhaled sharply.

  "That stench clinging to you... Did those curs from last time mark you?"

  He smelled that? Next laundry day, she'd insist Eddy carry fewer bundles.

  "No wild dogs. Just... Well, I took in an outcast werewolf pup. He had nowhere else to go."

  "Reckless," Randall said flatly, forcing down his ancestral hatred for their kind. "Reconsider this."

  "I deliberated for days. My mind's made up."

  "The Church won’t approve."

  "They didn’t sanction befriending vampires either."

  Silenced by her logic, Randall exhaled through his nose and took a protracted sip of tea.

  "I know you mean well, but that child suffered cruelly. While I pursued a case near him, my oversight got his sole caretaker murdered by the suspect. The trauma prematurely awakened his Spirit Rage—that's why his clan exiled him." Her seafoam-green eyes dimmed. "He didn't choose his birth, nor the brutality dealt him. Yet he's still kind-hearted. Caring for him eases my guilt too. Had I caught the killer sooner..."

  Randall's irritation melted at her crestfallen expression.

  "Always shouldering others' burdens. It wasn't your failure. You solved the case—his kin can rest now."

  "Perhaps. Speaking of..." She propped her chin on one hand. "What brings the Prince of Albion's vampires to London? Surely not for pleasure?"

  The so-called "prince"—overlord of Britain's vampiric bloodlines—ordinarily stayed cloistered in Warwickshire. Incognito, he masqueraded as the marquess's attendant, lodging in middling boarding houses to avoid suspicion despite owning lavish London properties. Pathetic, really, being reduced to café meetings.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  Randall's chest warmed at her tilted-head curiosity. No trace remained of the gun-sword-wielding warrior—just a kitten retracting her claws.

  "Annual estate affairs. Post-harvest grain sales, pelt procurement before winter..." He listed agricultural concerns with surprising expertise.

  "You manage this personally? I assumed servants handled it."

  "Mortals can't be trusted with our secrets. Besides..." His gaze turned distant. "I was a shepherd’s son before the prince turned me. Fifty years of this—even an imbecile would learn."

  Yvette studied him. Behind those crimson-tinged pupils flickered centuries of solitude. What was half a decade of human life to an immortal? Less than a dream.

  The vampire family cursed with "Blood Spiritualism" were outsiders, seldom venturing beyond their homeland. Only this exiled kinsman remained under the protection of the Montague family—a favor owed from an old alliance, though even the current Marquis knew little of the arrangement. As Randall had explained to Yvette, the debt traced back to his grandfather’s generation.

  The afflicted vampire had to be ancient, one of the high-blooded elders. Over centuries, his condition had deteriorated. Each transformation into a new persona eroded his memories until he no longer recalled his own past. The Montagues sheltered him in a secluded estate, where a clan member delivered fresh blood at intervals—an ancestral obligation, but hardly a burden. Elder vampires spent most of their time dormant, requiring little sustenance. A handful of servants could sustain him indefinitely.

  With the blood sample at risk of spoiling, Yvette and Randall departed at once for the reclusive vampire’s haven.

  Their destination was a postcard-perfect Albion village, tucked in a mist-wreathed valley where a brook whispered through the grass. Isolated from the modern world, the hamlet sprawled across harvested fields, its ancient brick cottages smothered in ivy, their rooftops crowned with wrought-iron weathervanes. The church bell’s toll reverberated through the dale like a heartbeat.

  "Mind your step—the roads here haven’t seen maintenance in years," Randall cautioned as they walked, though it was evident he, too, was reacquainting himself with the path. Thankfully, rural landscapes changed slowly. After verifying directions with a passing shepherd, they pressed onward.

  Yvette waved off his concern. "I’m a Transcendent. A little mud won’t slow me. But we should hurry. Dawn’s approaching."

  They’d boarded the train late the previous night. Now, the eastern horizon blushed with first light—soft though it was in winter, even diluted sunlight would discomfort a vampire.

  Randall adjusted his cloak. "The mountain fog will shield me. I’ll manage." Still, he matched her quickened pace.

  The so-called "town" was merely a cluster of cottages around a square. A tavern’s lanterns dimmed as they arrived; the apothecary and smithy Readied for the day. Villagers paused—children mid-game, women hauling water—to stare until the squire’s land agent arrived in a carriage, whisking the strangers from view.

  "Master Syming," the agent began stiffly, his gaze darting to Yvette. He’d been notified of Randall’s visit, but her presence was unexpected.

  Randall cut through the tension. "She’s a friend of the Prince. No disguises necessary."

  "Of course, Your Highness." The agent’s grip tightened on the reins. "Might I ask the purpose of this visit?"

  "How is he?"

  The agent hesitated—discussing him before a human?

  Randall clarified, "She accompanies us to see him."

  "Ah. No change, then. Feeds every third day; dormant otherwise."

  "Any deterioration since your last report?"

  "I’ve only tended him eight years. But compared to my predecessor’s notes? Stable."

  Yvette studied the agent. He looked scarcely twenty-five. "You’ve overseen this estate eight years?"

  "Aye. The villagers chalk my youth up to ‘good breeding’—but that excuse won’t hold forever. In two years, another will replace me. The squire’s family are our clan’s longstanding servants. Assignments here rotate per the elders’ designs."

  Efficient, Yvette noted. Unlike solitary vampires who scraped by in hiding, Albion’s clans operated with orchestrated precision. Elders cycled younger members through their holdings, ensuring seamless transitions when identities needed discarding—or when "deceased" patriarchs reemerged under new names to reclaim their assets.

  The carriage soon halted before a looming Tudor-era manor, its crenellated silhouette a relic of fortresses past.

  Deserted. The squire’s family dwelled in London now; only the agent and a skeleton staff remained. As Yvette followed him across the barren courtyard, the crunch of gravel underfoot echoed starkly. A hound’s distant bay underscored the isolation.

  An ideal refuge for one who shuns daylight.

  Randall’s reticence about this elder’s condition now made sense. Unlike his kin, who moved undetected among humans, this vampire had succumbed to something... irreversible.

  The agent pressed a hidden carving near the dried-up fountain. Gears groaned; a slab shuddered aside, unveiling a cramped stairwell.

  He descended first. When Yvette moved to follow, Randall blocked her path—only to fetch a lantern from the carriage and enter ahead of her.

  From below, the agent’s chagrined voice rose: "Forgive me, miss. I forgot humans need light."

  An honest oversight, but Randall’s intervention struck the agent as uncharacteristic. The Prince’s heir had always seemed principled to a fault—book-smart, socially rigid. This newfound tact was... unexpected.

  The tunnel’s damp air carried a stale tang. Weekly feedings couldn’t purge centuries of must.

  "My lord... Prince Randall has come," the agent announced before a stone sarcophagus.

  A rasp answered—less a voice than the groan of a rusted hinge.

  "Ran...dall?" The syllables dripped like tar. "No... Another scent... Human? Do you bring live tribute now?"

  The agent winced at Yvette. "My lord, she’s His Highness’s associate. We seek your counsel."

  Randall stepped forward, presenting the blood sample. "A child may be ghoul-tainted. We need your discernment."

  The coffin lid screeched open a crack. A skeletal claw emerged—flesh hanging in rotten ribbons—snatched the vial, and vanished.

  Silence. Then, a wet gulp.

  "Healthy babe’s blood... rich... sweet... but tainted." The voice turned nostalgic. "Ah... I remember... Playing doctor once... feeding on leeches after bloodlettings..."

  Another swallow. The sound echoed grotesquely.

  At last, the verdict: "A child... Normal... hu-man... child..."

  The drawn-out cadence lulled like a lullaby.

  Yvette exhaled. Little Mary was safe.

  Yet that languid inflection reminded her of Mary’s own babbling.

  Randall touched her arm. "His condition flares. We should go."

  As they turned, the coffin erupted in frenzied scratching—then a chilling wail. Not the elder’s voice this time, but a near-perfect mimicry of a baby’s cry.

  CRACK.

  The lid flew open. A mumm

  "Flo... flowers..." His dust-choked voice rasped from a gaping mouth.

  The estate agent hesitated for only an instant before darting away. When he returned, wisps of smoke still curled off his coat—sunlight had clearly scorched him—yet he clutched an armful of freshly plucked blossoms from the garden, their petals beaded with morning dew.

  "My lord, your flowers," he offered.

  The ragged monster snatched one clumsily, the gesture oddly reminiscent of little Mary tugging at arranged bouquets when Alison wasn’t looking.

  "Flo... flowers..." It grinned, its skeletal fingers extending toward Yvette.

  "He won’t harm you," Randall said, well aware how ghastly the elder appeared. He moved to block Yvette—

  But she sidestepped him. "It's alright," she murmured, meeting the creature’s eager gaze.

  She’d seen that look before. Little Mary would fetch anything within reach and present it proudly to her mother—or to Yvette, if she happened by. Ignored, the child would sulk, equal parts heartbreaking and adorable.

  Here, though, such innocence took on a grotesque shape. A nightmare incarnate.

  But he’s just a lonely child now, Yvette thought. Denial would crush him.

  Without flinching, she took the proffered bloom. Then, disregarding the creature’s filth-encrusted hide—dirtier than any mop—she bent and brushed a kiss against its forehead.

  "Thank you. I love it."

  Randall’s lantern hit the floor with a clatter. The agent’s jaw swung open, hinges squeaking.

  The monster sighed, smiling. Then it curled up like a contented infant and slept.