Yvette decided life had become far too complicated. Her so-called allies were a troupe of busybodies, each tangled in webs not of their own making.

  “Let’s drop the pretense,” came the dry reply. “I’ve made peace with my role as your nominal superior. Not that you listen—unless my orders happen to suit your whims.” His voice carried the practiced neutrality of someone fluent in irony.

  Resentment practically oozed from the man. Ulysses, ever the sloth, had been yanked from leisure by their organization and tossed onto a night train to mop up another city’s supernatural mess. The ordeal had left him radiating displeasure like a fuming teakettle.

  “Files say my cover identity’s a swordsman of some renown. Yet you’re unsullied by blood. Smooth skirmish?”

  “His gifts blended martial skill with celestial force. Potent against certain creatures, less so against mortals…” She remembered Eddie’s trembling weight on her back—the raw terror of a werewolf facing hallowed power.

  Ulysses’ nostrils flared abruptly. His languid gaze sharpened. “Since when do you douse yourself in perfume? No—this scent—”

  He seized her wrist before she could blink, grip ironclad.

  The mark on her palm transfixed him. “The Gate’s Path… You dreamed. What did you see?”

  Never had she seen urgency crack his composure. His fingers bit into her flesh as she groped for fragments of memory—a nap, a strangeness at the edge of sleep…

  “I… don’t recall any dream.”

  “You would. This sort of dream brands itself.”

  “Perhaps I woke too soon—stirred by your footsteps?”

  He studied her, unblinking, before relenting. “Possibly. True entanglement would’ve left deeper scars.”

  “How dire is this mark? Malcus called it a stigmata—symbol of sainted ones.”

  “Sainted ones…” Ulysses’s laugh held an edge. “A title claimed by charlatans since Babylon. ‘Divine right’ is but an old song sung by kings and priests.”

  “Yet our order houses devout followers. The Trinity Faith’s virtues are purely human—no eldritch taint.”

  Malcus had deemed the mark safe enough, a relic of holy myth to be cross-checked in London’s archives. But Ulysses’s implications rattled her—what if saints and pagan godspawn were kin beneath the skin?

  “Modern faiths sprouted from the Trinity’s roots. But its growth demanded compromise. Open any scripture and you’ll find grafted myths. Take the Eucharist—bread and wine turned holy flesh. A ritual borrowed from Dionysian rites, where bulls were devoured raw to commemorate a god’s rebirth. Sound familiar? The Holy Child’s Last Supper mirrors it.”

  Layers of lies. What truths hide in these coded parables?

  Moonlight wove silver between them as Ulysses unearthed heresies. Yvette’s mind teetered on the edge of revelation, a breath from plunging into mist-shrouded depths.

  “Why a rose? Why here?” She pressed her marked palm between them. “Does the Holy Mother share roots with older gods?”

  The air thickened with petals’ perfume.

  “Roses once adorned pagan altars. The Trinity’s early Mother wore lilies.”

  A silent truth crystallized: if roses now crowned the Holy Mother, ancient divinity pulsed beneath her saintly robes. Gods wore many names; this one had simply swapped skins. The mark on Yvette’s palm—a sigil of resurgence—felt suddenly alien.

  Scholars claimed some gods slept lightly. Ireland’s forest spirits, once anathema to the Church, now parlayed with its agents. Perhaps this goddess—masked as Mother—belonged to their number. Yet unease prickled Yvette’s nape.

  “Can it be removed?”

  “Why discard a key?” Ulysses tilted her hand. “This mark opens gates. Through dreams, whispered secrets await.”

  “Gifts unearned come shackled. I’ll decline.”

  Approval warmed his gaze. “Prudent. Traversing such paths remakes the traveler.”

  He cradled her marked hand. His canines elongated—hollow needles glinting wet.

  The rose twitched.

  It skittered spider-like up her arm. Ulysses struck, fangs spearing the fleeing sigil.

  Painless. As if the flesh weren’t hers.

  Venom flowed. A moth’s sigh brushed her mind as the rose blackened on Ulysses’s lips. When rot set deep, he wrenched the fangs free—dragging out a many-legged shadow. A gulp, and it vanished down his throat.

  “Was that… safe?”

  “Necessary evil.” He displayed her unmarked wrist. Only twin punctures remained, swiftly fading under his tongue’s pass.

  The change was profound. Where voracious curiosity once gnawed, now lay hollow calm. Danger, whispered reason. Turn aside.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Moths know the flame burns. Yet deeper hungers drive their fatal dance.

  Had the rose remained, Yvette might have spiraled into its labyrinth. Now, scrubbed clean, she saw clearly: some doors stay sealed.

  When the illusory glow in her mind faded, Yvette was reminded anew of the supernatural realm’s treachery. Ancient deities could corrupt one’s very soul without notice—a truth that struck her as Ulysses severed the rose sigil from her being. Its absence left a hollow ache, as if part of her essence had been carved out.

  The notion dissolved like snowflakes on water, leaving no trace in her thoughts. Yet unease lingered. The mark had fused with her in mere hours. Given more time, would she have remained herself at all?

  Did the serpent-god granting her powers also reshape her silently? Was the woman she’d become unrecognizable to her past self? Could she even claim ownership of her soul anymore?

  “The danger has passed,” Ulysses assured her.

  “Sir...” Whether from moonlight or latent wounds of the Path, Yvette’s smile seemed ethereal. “Sometimes I question—is my ‘self’ an illusion? Layer by layer, I’ve shed my past. What remains? None can say. Even if I morph into something else, would I—or anyone—notice?”

  “Enough.”

  His lips brushed her forehead—lighter than moonbeams.

  “You’ve grown stronger since we first met.” His voice, steady above her, continued, “Clarity is a blade that cuts its wielder. You grip too tight. Let your mind wander these waters awhile. I’ll keep you from drifting too far.”

  Now she understood Winslow’s occasional emptiness. Ascending through mystical ranks estranged one from the world—a lone lamp in endless night. Yet Ulysses became an anchor, his presence a still pond inviting surrender.

  The man is an enigma.

  Had he sensed her mutation? They shared an unspoken pact as supernatural conspirators—each aware the other hid truths, neither confronting it.

  Ulysses excised a higher being’s mark with ease, belying his reputation as a mere enforcer. The Order’s scrutiny hinted at secrets darker than her corruption.

  But why dwell on it? If the mundane realm was a sheltered isle in lightless seas, then mystics were fools sailing paper boats into the abyss. Distance bred loneliness... till spotting another craft, deeper into forbidden waters, kindled hope.

  When Ulysses moved to embrace her, her palm met his chest—gentle but firm.

  “Shifting my burdens to your ship would sink us both.” Her tone brightened, shadows retreating.

  “What ship?” He stepped back smoothly.

  “Don’t you see? Bearing another’s fate changes everything. Your distant sails on the horizon suffice—I’ll chart my own course.”

  Her gaze cut through the smogged moonlight.

  Ulysses knew humanity’s fatal pattern: discover elder gods through reason, then grovel before them. Later, some weaponized “benign” deities, repeating the cycle of subjugation.

  Creation and ruin—the world’s endless dance. Humans never learned. Yet scattered through the darkness, bright souls still fought to soar.

  “If only your extra tasks were as self-aware,” he quipped, feigning weariness. “They’d leap from my shoulders.”

  “Ridiculous! You’ve barely worked! Those broad shoulders could bear ten silk shawls. The Order might even praise your diligence.”

  Ignoring her, Ulysses rifled through Father Franz’s wardrobe.

  “Can I help?” She leaned in.

  “Hold these.” He tossed vestments at her—ceremonial robes reeking of incense.

  How does he know where everything is?

  Soon armed with the full regalia, Ulysses vanished to change. The plan: impersonate Franz, fake a retirement, and vanish the priest properly.

  But rituals required specific knowledge. Could Ulysses, a church absentee, manage?

  She pondered his earlier kiss—here, a chaste familial gesture, unlike her past life’s intimacies. The Black Death’s legacy birthed glove-clad formality; nobles avoided touching commoners’ coins. Yet with Ulysses, it felt... natural.

  Odd, how he steadies me. Even Winslow, stern as iron, relied on his unshakable resolve.

  Suddenly, Ulysses reappeared—transformed into Franz through some trick of flesh. The ornate robes radiate divine authority, flawlessly convincing.

  “Why that smirk?”

  “Just thinking—you’d have made an excellent bishop.”

  “Spare me fantasies. Adjustments?” He fiddled with a sash.

  “Broader build. Sword arm’s thicker.”

  As his body shifted, Ulysses mock-prayed: “Oh Lord, bind me with thy sacred cord.” Role-playing to perfection.

  Once satisfied, Yvette slipped into the night. Franz’s last murder was a day past. Before meeting Trackers, she’d soothe worried friends and a frantic young werewolf.

  A cab carried her through soot-stained streets. As wheels clattered, a shadow flickered at the window—

  [We will meet again.]

  The whisper hung in the air as the carriage rolled on.

  Meanwhile, Ulysses—now a perfect replica of Father Franz—stood rigidly in the room’s center, wrestling to suppress the chaos writhing beneath his skin.

  All things rise and fall—this world’s eternal rhythm, though not the universe’s true cadence. Humanity dismisses star-born horrors as aberrations, unaware their own fragile existence is the cosmos’ true anomaly. Numbers decree the cold, silent immortals as rulers, their mindless spawn clinging to eternal stagnation—no dreams, no change, existing merely to exist.

  Yet this world’s tiny lives defied the void. Through eons of death and rebirth, they carved color from chaos. No god’s gift—this miracle was earned by every creature that ever drew breath.

  Such radiance in the cosmic dark? A beacon. Hungry eyes watch. Even eternal beings tread cautiously here, for this realm grants them mortal peril.

  The Doorway bridges realities. Through its fissure, eldritch truths seep into chosen minds—knowledge that shatters reason. Accept it and kneel; reject it, and madness follows. To close this rift, one must wield forces alien to mortal laws.

  His robes hid a squirming horror. Something pressed against his flesh, serpentine, hungry—

  Downstairs, a novice monk cursed his luck. Investigating noises in the pantry, he’d expected rats. Instead, he found grape juice frothing like a witch’s brew, cork launched like cannon shot. Fermented. Blasphemy.

  The Church split centuries ago over leavened bread and wine—Catholic purity demanded unleavened wafers and unspoiled juice. Now this spoiled batch meant coins from his own pocket. But as he mopped purple stains, his woes multiplied: mold devoured cheeses; meats soured. Ruin everywhere.

  “Why, Lord?” He trembled, wallet already weeping.

  ———

  At Birmingham’s Shirley Gardens Inn, Eddie stared at walls Fisher’s coin had rented. Memories blurred—save the ache. Nightmares stalked him: snowfields, phantom sisters, claws scraping ice. Awake, he burned to hunt her killer. Yet deeper terror pinned him down.

  His senses sharpened. Whispers through doors:

  “Midnight Killer’s latest—whore butchered on Garth Street.”

  “Smythe, from Daffodil. Paid her rent, then…”

  Eddie lunged. Claws sheared the handle. A beast-shape loomed on wood—

  Kobelev filled the doorway, silver blade spinning. “Going somewhere, pup?”

  “My sister—”

  “Is dead. You knew.”

  Fur rippled up Eddie’s arms. Snarling muzzle. Kobelev barred escape, dagger poised.

  “Who killed her?” Eddie’s claws twitched, hungry. That cloaked figure Fisher fought—reeking of ancient hate—

  “An Awakened. No name.”

  “Awakened?”

  “Fairytale monsters? Real. You’re one—a moon-cursed wolf. Those dreams? Your soul snarling at the chain.”

  Eddie flexed talons. Proof of hell.

  “Rage fuels the beast. Calm, and it retreats. Most Awakened beg powers. You? Born with fangs. Your First Moon looms—no cure, only cages. Lock yourself in darkness when the full glow comes. Chains thick enough for elephants. If they snap…” Kobelev tossed a vial. “Silver nitrate. Photographer’s poison. A drop in your veins—agony, but it tames the wolf. Do it before the moon steals your mind.”

  “Ms. Fisher—”

  She’d won in the rain. Killer dead. Yet Eddie’s gut churned: I stood close, yet let her die.

  Weak. Pathetic.