Lord Montague remained unruffled, his manner the picture of antiquated Albion elegance. "Naturally, insights into one’s gifts are guarded secrets. My inquiry was imprudent."

With those words, his form dissolved into a swirl of inky pitch. Tendrils of shadow hissed through the air toward the hearth, coalescing beneath an oil painting into his familiar aristocratic silhouette.

The portrait loomed in Renaissance grandeur—a stiff-collared noble with Shakespearean whiskers, bearing the Marquis’ haunting likeness. Three centuries old, at least, Yvette realized. Against such ancient power, resistance seemed folly.

The valet, Randall, sneered silently, his contempt clear: You dare threaten His Lordship?

Had his master not stayed the servant’s hand, Randall might have struck. Instead, he withdrew, simmering.

“You serve the Holy See’s shadow arm, do you not? Though it dons modern labels,” Lord Montague observed.

Yvette tensed. How could he know?

“Do not marvel. We old bloods dance with Rome’s agents through the ages. I sought your counsel and learned of you: a sudden noble arrival in London, embroiled in uncanny affairs while the Yard cloaks your steps. Old allies in the Templar ranks taught me their ways.” The Marquis raised a placating hand. “I masked my nature, as is our custom. Yet my plea is sincere—I require your aid.”

With the “hostage” unharmed and no blades drawn, Yvette holstered her pistol. “State your need.”

“A wayward daughter of my line has eloped with a blackguard to London. Track her discreetly. My men will fetch her home for chastening.”

This trifle demands me? Yvette nearly scoffed. What game did this elder vampire play?

“—Or so I meant to claim. Truth holds darker hues.”

“Elaborate.”

“It begins with our making. Your Order knows the rite: drain half a mortal’s vitae, replace it with our own. Three days hence, the wretch shuns bread, thirsts for blood—completed as one of us. This Embrace births our progeny.”

His lip curled. “Some argue to overbreed—herd mankind as cattle. Fools. We moderates leash such instincts, blending old honor with mortal governance. Long ago, the blood-mad fell to Templar blades fed by our own betrayals. We survivors endure through restraint—sip lightly, veil our kills, and Rome turns its blind eye.

My sire held this creed. We balance the hunt: only when a vampiric line extinguishes may new blood rise.”

The Marquis’ voice thickened. “Two I’ve sired: Randall here”—he nodded at the dissimilar valet—“and Aurora, my vanished thorn. She loved a mortal knave.

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I’d have allowed her decade of dalliance ere faking her demise. But she sought to Embrace the rogue.

I interrupted the profane rite, silencing her paramour. A mercy. I pretended her crime mere intent—the Embrace unfinished.

Weeks passed. Aurora fled. Her lover’s grave lies violated, and now London’s lanes teem with vampiric whelps and mongrel curs.” His nose wrinkled at “狼人”—werewolves. “My enforcers return empty-handed. Find her trail—we shall deliver justice.”

Grief flashed, then drowned beneath regal composure.

“Why not enlist the Order?” Yvette pressed. Hadn’t Wensley claimed the Church tolerated discreet vampires?

“Rome shelters both friends and firebrands sworn to burn our kind. I’ll not parley with pyres. Besides”—a wry smile—“zealots flock to Mass. My spies say you shun pews.”

Yvette wavered. Refusal meant mind-wiping, their secrets preserved. Yet accepting vampiric patronage...

“Ponder over supper.” The Marquis gestured.

Supper unfurled as Albion abundance: grouse bursting with chestnuts, venison steeped in claret, golden-crusted tarts. Servants paraded platters fit for twenty, though only Yvette lifted silver. Randall, now frostily correct, carved dainty portions—a lady’s meal on a gilded plate, each course vanishing after but three bites.

Such waste, she thought, even as the marrow-rich stew warmed her. Above, the portrait’s eyes—those ageless, knowing eyes—watched every mouthful.

During the solitary feast's interlude, a severe-faced woman who could pass for fifty entered bearing a silver tray, her hair scraped into merciless coils that screamed "head housekeeper."

The tray's lone crystal chalice swirled with ominous crimson liquid.

Blood, naturally, Yvette noted. Even civilized vampires needed their fix.

His Lordship secured his napkin with ceremonial precision before sipping. "Astounding vitality!" Lord Montagu's eyes glazed with pleasure. "Sunday already? Of course - only Ada achieves this symphonic harmony of forbidden flavors."

Yvette's brows knotted. Weren't bloodsuckers supposed to crave fresh virgins? This spinster housekeeper clearly hadn't been fresh for decades.

"Born during the 1791 Grand Celestial Alignment," His Lordship explained. "Planetary convergences blessed her sanguine essence."

"You keep her chained here as cattle?" Yvette challenged.

"Madam guest." The housekeeper's pinched lips betrayed decades of suppressed retorts. "I choose service over marriage. My wastrel father..." Her shudder spoke volumes. "Here I command wages and respect. My blood bought freedom - why exchange it for some man's collar?"

Yvette recalibrated. Not all women dreamed of domestic cages. With wealth and purpose, why risk fortune-hunting suitors and marital chains?

Lord Montagu's restraint proved admirable - Sunday sips maintained Ada's rosy vigor. A sustainable vintage, this bloodstock.

Dessert abandoned for business, His Lordship proposed terms: "Help hunt Aurora, earn our gratitude. Refuse freely - no ill will."

The rogue vampire's bastard-spawning spree demanded containment. "Cooperation serves peace," Yvette agreed.

"Randall accompanies you," Lord Montagu decreed. "None surpass his nose for tainted blood."

The brooding vampire's earlier hostility still lingered, but Yvette needed his tracking skills.

Their midnight train compartment thrummed with unspoken friction. Yvette eyed Randall's mysterious case. "Weapons?"

"Medical kit." He displayed gleaming phlebotomy tools. "Unlike fictional brutes, we don't gum our meals from sweaty necks."

The clinical approach reassured Yvette. Blood via syringe seemed almost respectable compared to fang-and-collar savagery.

Homecoming complications arose when housekeeper Alison discovered them. Randall's improvised "tutor" role required choking down supper with silverware that blistered his palms. Only after Alison retreated did he spew gory chunks into the sink.

Yvette recoiled. "Internal bleeding?"

"Silver bullets work better," Randall rasped, nursing scorched lips. "Remember that."