When Durand departed, Antiaris sighed irritably. "Must you interrogate suspects so bluntly every time? That man’s a landed gentleman — not some common laborer to badger."

"I thought," Oleander protested, "if guilt truly plagued him, my questions might startle a confession. Country squires always play the villain in mystery tales."

"Enough," Strychnine cut in, patting Yvette’s shoulder. "We’ve weathered worse — remember when that banker nearly broke Oleander’s nose? At worst, a libel lawsuit. Datura’s the shaken one, but really, it’s nothing."

You fools. You’ve no idea.

Yvette’s gaze lingered on her three oblivious companions. If Durand’s occult identity surfaced, he’d silence them without hesitation. Worse, the Bureau’s protocols mandated psychic scrubbing for civilians exposed to supernatural violence — a procedure whispered to fray the mind itself.

Should’ve brought the raven to summon reinforcements... but how to explain how I identified him?

Oleander’s voice interrupted her thoughts. "We’ll lodge at the village’s finest inn! Tomorrow’s 6 o’clock train offers twilight vistas across the downs. A perfect bookend to our rustic idyll!"

Though every instinct screamed to flee, Yvette stayed. To leave without cause would insult the group.

Durand’s study door locked with a click. Beneath the oil lamp’s glow, his cultured features warped into something reptilian.

"Vermin. To dare question me..."

An unfamiliar bloodlust surged through him. When had he last killed? Months? Years?

Memory fragmented oddly — childhood details crisp, recent years blurred. Two murders lingered vivid: the cousin whose fortune he’d inherited; the fiancé whose death freed Elisa to marry him. (How dully her throat had opened compared to the feral joy of that first elimination.)

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Natural order, he thought, touching the mirror. My divine heritage elevates me above mortals. They’re but game to my hunter.

The glass briefly rippled — a remembered nightmare where his jaw elongated into equine bones, teeth crowding like gravestones. Gone now, he reassured himself. “Hydra” purged those visions.

Yet sometimes... sometimes he heard voices beneath his thoughts. Did another consciousness wear his skin like a glove?

"No!" He smashed the mirror. Glass shards framed his trembling smile. "I command this flesh. I chose every death."

In the shards’ mosaic, his eyes gleamed feral.

"The detectives... they’ll dream themselves to death tonight."

Dinner brought an unexpected witness — a stableboy mournfully begging kitchen scraps for "the Colonel," a lame gelding bound for slaughter.

"Durand’s men neglected him," the boy sniffled. "Four months ago, they yanked his shoes, worked him raw. Now the leg’s rotten through."

Four months. Yvette’s pulse quickened. In her vision as "Hydra," she’d glimpsed a limping horse — this very beast.

Durand’s occult nature now confirmed, her friends’ earlier confrontation grew lethally reckless. Paranoid, he’d likely surveil them for weaknesses.

No sleep tonight.

Pistol under pillow, sword oiled and gleaming, she feigned reading until midnight.

Oleander’s cigar lighter flared in the hall. "Nightmares," he admitted when pressed. "A leech the size of an oak trunk chased me. Then I remembered — giant leeches can’t move fast. Realized I was dreaming and woke myself."

Bruises flowered on his knee by morning.

At Strychnine’s panicked knock, Yvette found Datura semi-conscious, vomit staining his sheets. The village doctor paled at his symptoms: internal bleeding with no visible cause, a leg wound resembling animal bites.

"M...m...lion..." Datura rasped. "Dreamt... a lion..."

Dreams again.

By afternoon, Yvette had pieced the puzzle: Durand’s uncle’s family died screaming of hallucinations decades prior. Now her friends suffered night terrors that scarred flesh.

"Poisoners never stop," Strychnine muttered when consulted. "Their arrogance demands repeated attempts."

Yvette’s blade whispered from its scabbard. "Then this poisoner dies tonight."

Midnight. Chimney heat blazed against Yvette’s skin as she dropped into Durand’s parlor. The house creaked with unnatural sleep — footmen snoring through imagined dangers.

Third-floor lamplight bled under a door.

She lunged — sword piercing featherbed as Durand rolled aside. Steel flashed again, but he vanished through a secret panel.