Once the neurotoxin took effect, Yvette and Ulysses charged into the chaotic assembly. Though these cultists reveled in depravity, their human frailty betrayed them—muscles locked, they crumpled to the floor, twitching and babbling incoherently.

Yvette trussed them like game hens, ensuring they’d stay subdued post-toxin. Lantern lit from the bonfire’s embers, she approached the coffin.

The stench hit first—a tidal wave of fish-rot and decay. Eyes watering, she pressed a rag (torn from a captive’s shirt by Ulysses) to her face and peered inside.

The thing within defied nature. Its moist, segmented hide glistened like a lamprey’s. A bulbous head fused fish and human traits, while its torso split grotesquely: quasi-human above, blistered fish-flesh below. Tubular growths spilled from its abdomen like fungal tentacles. Putrefaction had ruptured the belly, spewing gelatinous eggs, necrotic organs, and slime across the coffin’s velvet lining. The reek—ammonia and sulfur, searing as poison—clung to Yvette’s throat.

This was the “delicacy” Earl Grey had raved about at dinner? His words echoed in her mind:

“My prize hails from the ocean’s abyss, gentlemen. Last week’s caviar—harvested from a specimen beyond your wildest nightmares—made Kiev’s ‘black gold’ taste like sawdust.”

Yvette gagged. Had this… creature’s eggs truly been served as food? She turned to Ulysses—only to watch him pluck a thumbnail-sized egg and swallow it whole.

“Relax,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I’ve built… immunities.”

“…How was it?” she managed.

“Sulfuric aftertaste. Notes of gangrene. Three out of ten.”

Unbelievable. This man wrinkled his nose at blood pudding yet chewed nightmare-fuel with sommelier poise.

Progeny, Ulysses declared. Unlike vampires—parasites who “convert” hosts—these beings birthed stillborn young unless sustained by dark rites. The eggs’ advanced decay proved the creature’s offspring had died in utero long before its own demise.

“But why would Earl Grey ingest this filth?” Yvette pressed.

“His club’s tastes exceed hunting,” Ulysses mused. “Forbidden flesh, exotic agonies—they sample everything. This specimen’s no local. Antifreeze proteins in its tissue mark it as Arctic-born. Smuggled here, perhaps?”

Yvette’s mind raced. Ancient texts spoke of Old Ones’ hybrid offspring—some with humans, others with beasts. This abomination, adapted to polar depths, had no business in Albion’s waters. Who’d transported it?

But contingencies came first. Guests and staff—some tainted by supernatural influence—needed quarantine. Her Nightmare Ring could induce sleep, yet the estate’s sprawl demanded precision.

Ulysses’ preternatural hearing mapped the manor’s hotspots: card games in the parlor, kitchen scrubladies, gardeners trimming hedges. Two strategic activations later, silence gripped the halls. Stragglers—a scullery boy, a groom—fell to Ulysses’ toxin-dipped pins.

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“Conserve your artifact,” he advised. “Needles suffice for vermin.”

Seven chances—that was all the nightmare ring offered. One used against Black Jack, another tidying the Moore affair’s loose ends, two more today... Three remained. A twinge of reluctance pinched Yvette, but practicality overruled sentiment. The ring hailed from Duran, a Second Layer Source soul. Against mundanes, yes, effective enough—but even First Layer novices shook off its haze in moments. Higher-tier transcendents? Laughable. And now? She’d ascended to the Third Layer herself. Squashing First Layer fledglings required no crutches. At best, the ring bought time to mop up messes. Today’s chaos qualified. Not wasted.

Still, contingencies needed planning.

“Your paralytic toxin—could we stockpile it? Handier than the ring for witness reduction when I’m solo.”

“Anything I bioforge degrades minutes post-separation. No shelf life. Otherwise, you’d get crates of blood ampoules. Useless once they revert,” Ulysses sighed.

Pity. Had Duran been their ally, his knack would’ve simplified cleanup. Vampires could erase minds, but their shadows lurked too deep. With Winston reporting this mess, dragging bloodsuckers in now? Recipe for disaster.

Mulling over transcendents’ powers, Yvette noted Ulysses’ uniqueness. Others bent reality: Winston puppeteered limbs, Keegan whispered to nature’s spirits, Saul exorcized phantoms, Jack and Duran toyed with minds. Even she twisted energy’s threads.

Not Ulysses. His gifts turned inward. Even his miracle blood dulled outside his veins. Odd.

“If your powers evolve outward one day—heavens. Imagine battlefield clerics radiating healing auras...” Yvette mused.

“Perhaps,” Ulysses demurred. His smile—polished, distant—masked truths like stained glass.

Days later, at Hampstead’s Fisher Manor, Yvette observed Winston churn ice cream while dissecting Earl Grey’s scandal.

“Reinforcements arrived promptly, I trust? After depositing His Grace, I dispatched alerts immediately.”

“Ordinary fools playing with a dead kin-beast. Harmless.” She shrugged. “Shame the puppetmaster skipped the party. We’d have bagged them. Now? Pray for luck.”

“Psychics will crack the earl’s mind soon,” Winston soothed.

Yvette shook her head. “The mind-scourger checked on-site. Earl’s psyche’s mush—raving mad. No leads.”

Today’s paper beside her showed Earl Grey at a charity gala. A lie. The true earl rotted in the Tower under interrogation. Ulysses wore his face.

Yvette had watched the metamorphosis—grisly, clinical. Ulysses smashed his nose; cartilage knit into the earl’s hook. Muscles slithered under skin for hours. Final tweaks birthed a mirror image, mustache completing the fraud. Not even kin would spot the ruse.

It begged a question: If Ulysses could rebuild faces, was his own angelic visage engineered? Vanity, sure—but transcendently-enhanced Narcissism?

Disgusting.

“Your vacant stare insults my craft. Critique the voice.” Ulysses rasped the earl’s bass.

“Just speculating—did you sculpt your real face too? Suspiciously divine...”

Flick.

“Petty vanity beneath me.” Ulysses snorted. “Natural, this face. Mimicry’s a vise. Pray the earl’s ‘accident’ happens fast.”

“Didn’t it...hurt?” She recalled the bone-crunching.

“Numbed nerves. Maintenance aches, though. Sensory deprivation’s unwise long-term.”

Hence, Ulysses endured the masquerade, while Yvette and Winston charaded through press duties.

Albion’s summer social season—cooler than her Chinese past life’s infernos. Locals wilted, craving iced luxuries.

Winston crafted ice cream sans modern tech: nested pails, salt triggering ice melt. He churned the tin pot’s cream-jam blend till frost crept in. Serve with fresh mint and blackcurrants.

“Why lurk here? I’d have delivered it chilled.”

“Fascinated by the alchemy.” She spooned silky sweetness.

“Well?”

“Velvet. Perfection.”

“His Grace’s recipe—egg yolks prevent grit.” Winston glowed. “But ladies shouldn’t overindulge.”

“My gut’s sturdier.” Past life’s 50°C pavements haunted her. “Albion’s mild. Extra scoop won’t bite.”

Plucking an ice lens, she scanned headlines through its clarity:

Christie’s Charity Auction July 19: Viscount’s heirloom emeralds for Salvation Army...

Sir John Mayne juggles racing, homeless housing fundraisers...

Baroness Swansea nets £6k for injured laborers...

Philanthropy was seasonal sport, but this year’s frenzy felt odd. Earl Grey? No—old-blood elitist, allergic to commerce. Not a penny-pincher’s ally.