Marcuse recounted tales of an elder age when celestial envoys crossed the stars to walk among mortals. The Servitor Races and Old Ones, wielding powers beyond mortal ken, became objects of reverence for ancient tribes. Across continents, cults arose—each civilization forging its own pantheon to these alien overlords.

But mortal minds, frail as candle flames, could scarcely fathom the visitors’ true essence. Modern scholars dissecting extinct beliefs found many "gods" to be mere Servitors. Even the Feathered Serpent faced skepticism—perhaps a lost Servitor, some argued. How else could Spain, lagging in naval supremacy, blunder westward to claim virgin lands? How crush mighty empires and rise on stolen gold to become history’s first eternal empire?

If divine, why did this serpent god permit its children’s slaughter? Their altars shattered, temples burned…

"In Egypt’s scrolls," the black cat mused, tail flicking Yvette’s ear, "dwelt Apophis—serpent of the Duat, bane of Ra himself. Every lore breeds such a beast: Canaan’s Lotan drowned by Baal, Leviathan coiled in primordial seas, Jormungandr encircling Midgard… Some lie dead by divine hand; others sleep, waiting. Mankind glimpsed their master through veils but heard no answer. The New World’s fools tried awakening what never slept." Marcuse nestled deeper into her hair, purring smugly.

Yvette frowned. Save the Aztecs, every culture cast serpents as apocalyptic foes. Coincidence? No. The slumbering Creator’s hatred for rival powers pulsed through history’s veins like poison.

"Choose your books, fledgling," Marcuse yawned. "Naptime beckons."

The handwritten tomes offered no titles. Without the cat’s guidance, Yvette would wander lost. Noted—afternoons suited library visits. Read, pet the feline, avoid troubling Sir Ulysses…

"Another day, Lord Marcuse. Sir Ulysses waits."

Fish treats next time, she vowed silently.

The cat scoffed. "That man…" It leaped onto dusty shelves. "Ten years I’ve guarded these stacks. Six since he arrived. Never once sought knowledge here."

Odd. Ulysses stood at the Fifth Principality—how, without the Bureau’s archives? Bought his ascension? Or stagnated by choice?

"Child!" Marcuse’s warning froze her exit. "The mirror—glance when entering, glance when leaving. Linger, and your reflection walks free… to steal your life."

Yvette gulped. Quick. Don’t stare.

……

Baron Chigwin’s soirée buzzed with trivia. Faulkner "Hemlock" pasted on a smile as his father approached with Reynolds—agent to the reclusive Marquess of Montague.

"Your novels intoxicate the Marquess," Reynolds declared, monocle gleaming. "The Specter of Bell Street—why, His Lordship skips breakfast Fridays to read your column!"

Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

Faulkner basked in the praise. The Baron, outmatched in literary banter, retreated to lesser guests.

"These tales borrow from reality, yes? The Marquess hungers to walk those grim sites."

Faulkner admitted his sources—Red Mill, Pyle Street horrors.

"Such vivid detail! One might think you’d wielded the scalpel yourself!"

"The credit belongs to another. Chevallier’s true face…" Faulkner hesitated. But what harm? Elevating Yves via noble patronage…

"Yves de Fisher," he confessed. "Nephew to Sir Ulysses, the Duke’s shadow."

Several days passed before Yvette found herself staring at the Marquess of Montague’s calling card, its embossed crest glinting ominously in her hand. The maid Alison had practically vibrated with nervous excitement when presenting it—alongside a letter that now lay open on the mahogany desk.

Marquess. The title alone prickled her neck like cold fog. Albion’s nobility played by labyrinthine rules she’d only half-learned since waking in this gaslit world. Dukes swanned about London’s ballrooms; earls toasted in gentlemen’s clubs. But marquesses? They lingered in shadows, their castles echoing with older, darker histories.

The letter’s looping script danced with compliments to her "acute intellect" and invitations to discuss a "sensitive affair." It reeked of honeyed traps, yet curiosity gnawed harder than caution.

Warwick’s station vomited smoke as Yvette stepped into waiting velvet-lined splendor. The carriage climbed through thickening mist until stone battlements clawed at the gloom—a brute of a castle straddling the river Avon. Arrow slits glared like a basilisk’s eyes; the portcullis hung rusted yet threatening.

"Gothic rot," she muttered, though her pulse quickened. Modern nobles built Italianate villas with proper plumbing. Only someone utterly mad—or immortal—would keep this drafty pile.

Inside was another world. Wax gleamed on ancestral portraits; ancestral swords crossed above hearths large enough to roast oxen. The valet who met her moved with unnatural grace, black hair oiled back save one errant tendril. His gloves stayed snow-white, his smile colder than the Brandy Punch at White’s.

"My lord will join you shortly," he intoned, proffering tea in Wedgwood so thin it sang.

Steam curled from the cup. Yvette’s little finger twitched—a nervous tic she’d nursed since discovering her... peculiar talents. Light bent at her whim now; heat whispered secrets.

And this man held none.

No flush to his cheeks. No candle-flicker reflection in pupils that drank light like tar pits. When he turned, Yvette twisted reality just so—viewing the world through thermal tongues only she could command.

The valet dissolved into void.

Dead flesh. Or undead.

Her Derringer dug comfortingly into her corset stays. Not enough for a rhino, but perhaps sufficient for... whatever masqueraded here.

The marquess entered with a aristocrat’s languid haste, beard trimmed to Hapsburg perfection. His outstretched hand froze mid-gesture as Yvette’s pistol found his temple.

"Clumsy theatrics," sighed the marquess. Behind him, the valet’s snarl revealed fangs like ivory needles.

"I’ve read Varney," Yvette snapped. "Sunlight myths. Stake through the heart. Care to test which bits Bram got right?"

The valet—Randall—hissed like a steam valve. "Filthy mongrel! I’ll—"

"—do nothing," interrupted his master, "while our guest explains how she pierced our little masquerade."

Yvette grinned without humor. "You hired a valet with worse circulation than Westminster’s corpses. Even Eton boys blush after tea service."

Randall tensed. "Liar! I never—"

"Enough." The marquess’s voice could’ve frosted Hell’s windows. "You smell of fear, Miss Ives. Or shall we acknowledge the charade?"

Her thumb tightened on the hammer. "What do you want?"

"Advice." He gestured to leather-bound tomes lining the walls. "On surviving an age where old blood dwindles... and new sciences breed hunters."

Yvette’s laugh held no joy. "Ask Darwin. Or the fellows at the Royal Society dissecting electric eels."

"We ask you." Red flickered behind his eyes—dim as coals, ancient as graves. "The blood sings of your gifts. Help us walk in daylight, and name your price."

Outside, dusk bled across the gardens. Somewhere, roses withered.