"Next time, I'll send Allison away earlier and make sure she stops using the silverware," Yvette informed Randall.

"Unnecessary," the vampire replied with icy pride. "Consuming mortal fare before human eyes forms the bedrock of our Masquerade. The Marquis endures entire banquets without faltering not through strength of arms or ancestral pedigree, but iron discipline - the true mantle by which kings conquer and command. Retreat is for cowards; those who shy from trials lose all."

Baffling creatures, Yvette mused. But his words sparked realization - just as other supernatural beings used rituals to retain humanity, perhaps vampires clung to these concepts of honor to leash their darker urges.

From beneath his gruesome "utensil kit", Randall produced a photograph. The monochrome image showed a lovely woman whose dark lips suggested ebony tresses and rosebud mouth in life.

"Aurora. Silverplate cannot capture our kind - this required the Marquis' pet inventors. Learn her whereabouts. Leave the rest to me."

"The Marquis claims she's consorting with werewolf outcasts and spawning bastard get. If true, can you retrieve her surrounded by allies?" Yvee inquired. Vampire potency depended on generation - each Embrace halving the sire's power. As Aurora's contemporary, Randall should be her equal.

A contemptuous sniff. "I was groomed as Successor. The heretic is no match."

Immortals needing succession? Before she could question further, Randall continued: "As for those mongrel curs... Even among beasts they're scum. Breeding with humans veils their stench. Bastards born of incest turn madder than rabid dogs. Cast out for savagery, they skulk as tinkers and thieves - creatures of chaos."

His lips curled in distaste. "Seek Aurora in the warrens. But mind the strays - starved brutes in mangy fur or human rags. Let none scent your purpose."

Dawn's glow creeping through the drapes drew a hiss. "Daybreak. Damned summer's abbreviated nights. Rest and deploy your agents. We hunt at dusk."

Agents. Servants. Yvette suppressed a wry smile. All she commanded were dust motes and daydreams.

Yawning, she confiscated the household silver despite the housekeeper's protests, retreating to her workshop. Six hours later, molten silver filled bullet molds beside measured powder charges - silver tongues for speaking with monsters.

While Randall's coffin lay silent (sunlight leeching even nocturnal vitality, leaving immortals as waxen corpses by day), she headed to the Iris Café where ink-stained newshounds traded gossip over whisky and Turkish tobacco.

"Clever innuendo boosts circulation better than tawdry exposés," argued a red-faced editor. "Remember the Coppersmith scandal? Moral outrage peddles better than whorehouse menus."

Empty leads. Yvette turned towards Scotland Yard. Superintendent Altman might have darker truths to share.

Yvette presented Superintendent Alto’s card at Scotland Yard, where a crisp-nodding sergeant ushered her into the chief’s wood-paneled office.

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“Yves! To what do I owe the pleasure?” Alto stood, his walrus mustache twitching with genuine warmth.

“Following up on some… unusual gang activity,” Yvette replied, sidestepping the vampire affair. The Marquis had warned her—the Special Missions Bureau’s Puritan exorcists saw no difference between his law-abiding kin and rogue monsters like Aurora. Exposing the truth risked unleashing their zealous purge.

The gang lead itself came from the Marquis. His agents had pried whispers from London’s gutters: a striking woman consolidating brutal crews, some rumored to shelter werewolf castoffs.

Alto thumbed through leather-bound dossiers. “Petty theft’s down, but brawls and protection rackets hold steady. Nothing extraordinary.”

No spikes? How to dig deeper?

Logical, Yvette realized. If rational, Aurora would avoid Special Missions’ watchful eyes. Yet London’s teeming masses offered ideal hiding—too vast for even the Marquis’s agents to comb.

A flaw in the Bureau’s vaunted network: fixated on educated elites dabbling in occult tomes, it ignored the unwashed underbelly. Aurora’s quiet predation left no trail for bobbies to trace.

Time for bold measures.

“Superintendent—could you… imprison me briefly?”

She recalled the “Iron Brotherhood Code” from her past life’s lore—shared jail time forged unshakable loyalty among men. Thugs clammed up around peelers but might gossip freely with a fellow convict.

Alto paled. “In theory, a sound stratagem. But those cells are vipers’ nests! They’ll treat a fair youth like—"

“I’ve handled worse. Besides—” She smirked, flexing a hand. “Doesn’t brute strength rule your prisons?”

The superintendent stared at her delicate frame—more porcelain doll than pugilist.

“Please, sir?” Yvette deployed wide-eyed supplication.

Alto crumbled. “…Not a word to Sir Ulysses.”

“Scout’s honor!”

…

Processed through booking with theatrical formality, Yvette stood before a jaded jailer.

“Yves Peterson. Drunk and disorderly. Twelve shillings bail.”

“Can’t pay.”

“Sure about that, lad?” The jailer’s tone implied offer a bribe.

“Not a farthing, sir.”

“Cell 217, then.” The jailer crossed himself. 217 housed beasts even seasoned warders feared—killers denied bail. What grudge had this angelic youth provoked?

Catcalls erupted as Yvette passed cells:

“217? Saints preserve ’im!”

“Dainty arse’ll be tenderized proper!”

Inside 217, five brutes closed in. Their ringleader licked cracked lips. “Pretty mouse. Need teachin’ the pecking order?”

Yvette rolled up sleeves. “Actually, let’s skip to where I rearrange your order.”

Adjoining cells pressed ears to walls, anticipating moans. Instead:

Thud. Crack. Howls.

Minutes later, Yvette perched on a bunk, idly buffing nails. Around her, groaning men clutched fractured ribs.

“Your turn. Crimes. Now.”

The confessions—petty thuggery—earned her derisive snorts. “Pathetic. No proper villainy?”

One sneered through split lips: “You, then?”

She leaned close, voice velvet menace. “Pulped a rival’s skull. Boss had lawyers spin it self-defense. Honestly?” A grin slithered across her face—pure psychopathy. “I liked the crunch.”

A convict scoffed. “Murderers swing at Newgate! Liar!”

“Ah, but talent gets perks.” Yvette produced Havana cigars—unthinkable luxury. “Boss plants evidence, palms judges… Could walk tomorrow. You lot? Forgotten trash.”

Hoodlums scrambled for smokes. “Christ—these cost a fortune!”

“How’d you smuggle ’em? Your guv’nor must own the bleedin’ courts!”

“Prove your worth, reap rewards.” Yvette surveyed them scornfully. “Your bosses? Small-timers. My crew? Empire-builders.”

“My knobhead capo left me rotting!”

“Take me on, boss! I’ll gut anyone!”

All but one. A hulking brute glared silently.

“You. Doubting me?” Yvette jabbed a finger.

“Me guv’nor’s got bigger plans,” he growled. “New leader—a prophetess! Soon, all London’ll bow to Mother!”

Bingo. Female leader.

Yvette yawned. “Prove it. Name your crew’s best fighter. I’ll break him.”

“Glasgow Casino. Woolworth Street. Bring your fists.”