It was a searing pain in his left eye that startled Anger Hastings awake.

  He jolted upright from the narrow cot, his hand flying instinctively to his coat pocket. The die and the lady's notebook were gone. Fragments of memory surfaced—hazy, disjointed: Red Brick Lane, an apothecary, chains, a sackcloth bag, the rumble of a cart. The rest was a blank.

  He scanned the room. A spartan garret. On a small table sat something. Anger swung his legs over the side and walked over. A cup of cold tea, with a note tucked underneath.

  "Awake? Come downstairs. Perkins is at the door. — Carter"

  He picked up the cup, bringing it to his lips, then paused. The surface of the tea reflected his face—and the anomaly in his left eye. The pupil held a faint, unnatural green hue, encircled by delicate, shimmering gold filaments. The image lasted only a second before fading back to normal.

  When did that appear? In Red Brick Lane? At the Spindle of Oblivion? Or earlier?

  Footsteps sounded outside the door. It opened, and a young constable peered in, his face a mix of nervousness and attempted solemnity.

  "Detective Hastings? You're awake." He pushed the door wider and stood at attention. "I'm Perkins. Inspector Carter asked me to bring you to the division house."

  "My things," Anger said, his voice rough.

  "Sir?"

  "A die. About this big. And a leatherbound notebook." Anger gestured with his hands.

  Perkins shook his head. "I didn't see them, sir. Inspector Carter only brought you. They might have been... lost in Red Brick Lane." He cleared his throat, adding, "We've notified the Central Division. Told them you've volunteered to assist with the Martha case investigation here in Whitechapel. That you'll be staying a while."

  Anger fixed him with a stare. "Who notified them?"

  "Inspector Carter made the call himself," Perkins said, his gaze skittering away. "Said you were very committed to the case. Insisted on staying to dig deeper."

  A lie. But what was Carter's purpose in keeping him here? Unclear.

  "Let's go," Anger said, snatching the soft felt hat from the table and pulling it low over his brow.

  Perkins led the way downstairs, glancing back frequently as if to ensure his charge hadn't evaporated. The air smelled of damp wood and old river.

  "Where is this?" Anger asked.

  "Edge of Whitechapel. Near the docks," Perkins replied without turning. "A safe house. Inspector Carter sometimes uses it for... special witnesses."

  'Handles.' A neutral word. In Whitechapel, it could mean many things.

  Perkins gestured towards a waiting hansom cab. Anger climbed in, settling against the worn leather upholstery as the cab lurched into motion over the cobblestones. The searing pain in his left eye had subsided to a dull, persistent throb.

  ******

  Anger broke the silence first. "Constable Perkins."

  The young constable immediately straightened up. "Sir!"

  "How long have you been under Carter?"

  "Nearly three years now."

  "How many deaths have you seen?"

  Perkins swallowed. "Whitechapel sees its share every month. Brawls, robberies, drunkards frozen in the gutter... but ones like Martha Tabram?" He shook his head. "Not many."

  "Why did Carter assign you to me?"

  "The Inspector said you'd need a guide," Perkins answered too quickly. "Outsiders get lost easy in Whitechapel."

  "Just a guide?" Anger fixed him with a stare.

  Perkins was silent for a few seconds before speaking again. "The Inspector also said to keep you from... poking into places you shouldn't."

  "Like Red Brick Lane."

  Perkins whipped his head around. "You know about—"

  "I nearly died there," Anger said calmly. "Listen. I don't care what private arrangements Carter has with the Apothecary. I have my own case to solve. Anyone who gets in the way of that is my enemy. Understood?"

  After hearing this, Perkins' Adam's apple bobbed. He fidgeted in his seat until the cab jolted to a halt and the driver's voice called out, "Division house!"

  Perkins practically jumped out in relief. "I'll take you in, sir."

  He led Anger through a grimy lobby and pushed open a door marked with a lopsided placard.

  Carter Fellows sat behind a desk buried in paperwork, an unlit pipe in his hand.

  "Out. Shut the door," Carter said to Perkins, his eyes never leaving Anger.

  The door closed. The room held only the two of them now.

  "Sit," Carter gestured with his pipe towards the opposing chair.

  Anger remained standing. "Where are my things?"

  "What things?" Carter frowned, pipe stem between his teeth as he groped for matches.

  "The die. The notebook."

  "Haven't seen them." Carter struck a match; the flare lit half his face. "The Red Brick Lane lot would've gone through your pockets. Might be with the Apothecary. Might be in a rubbish heap by now." He drew on the pipe, the bowl glowing faintly. "You should be grateful you only lost trinkets, not your life."

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  Anger stared at him. "Why did you pull me out?"

  Carter took a slow drag, exhaling smoke. "Because you dying on my patch would be a monumental headache. Central Division would send more men down, asking questions, digging up old bones." Another puff. "Whitechapel can't stomach that kind of scrutiny."

  "So it's to maintain the status quo."

  "It's to maintain order," Carter corrected. "The order here is fragile, Hastings. Idealists from Central like you come stirring the pot, the balance breaks. And then it won't be just one Martha Tabram dying."

  "Then you should have let me die in Red Brick Lane."

  Carter chuckled, a dry sound. "I thought about it. But the Apothecary's thugs were clumsy. They stuffed you into a cart in front of a flower girl. She knows Perkins." He tapped ash into a tray. "Word reached me after the cart had already left. Had to chase it down. To negotiate."

  "Negotiate what?"

  "A trade." Carter leaned back in his chair. "I told him I knew who really killed Martha. Knew where and when the next one would happen. Let you go, and I'd wrap the case up in a week. Central Division stays out. His business goes undisturbed."

  "You were lying," Anger said, watching him.

  "Obviously. But I know the Apothecary. He doesn't care about the real killer. He cares about his enterprise running quietly. I offered him the path of least resistance: make you, the problem, disappear, and I handle the mess."

  "And he believed you?"

  "He believed me," Carter paused, "because he knows I can deliver. A death in Whitechapel? I say who did it, it's done. There's always a suitable body to fill the role—a vagrant, an addict. We're not short on spares."

  The room grew quiet. Anger finally sat down.

  "And now?" he asked. "You really intend to find a scapegoat?"

  "Perhaps." Carter's gaze drifted to the grimy window. "Perhaps not. Depends on you."

  "Me?"

  "You owe me, Hastings." Carter planted his elbows on the desk. "I saved your neck. I smoothed things over with Central. That's your first debt to repay."

  Anger said nothing, waiting.

  Carter, no longer discussing the matter between them, pulled a file from beneath the desk and slid it across. "Followup on the Martha case. My men canvassed the neighborhood."

  Anger opened the folder. Inside was a handwritten statement.

  Witness reports seeing Martha Tabram speaking with a redhaired woman at the alley mouth three evenings prior to the incident. Conversation lasted approximately five minutes. Martha accepted a small cloth bundle. The redhaired woman left humming a lullaby.

  Mrs. Hopkins states she saw the same woman again later, buying something from Old Samuel's stall.

  "Old Samuel?" Anger looked up.

  "Street peddler. Old cripple." Carter took his hand off the desk. "Sells junk. Lucky charms made from old bits and bobs. Claims they transfer bad luck. A shilling each."

  "The socalled 'bone tokens'?"

  Carter shrugged. "Charlatan's wares. Probably factory scrap pressed into shape, dusted with silver powder to give it a shine. Desperate people will believe anything." He paused. "The point is, this redhaired woman had contact with Martha before she died. And she bought one of these oddities. Possibly—"

  "Possibly the killer," Anger finished.

  "Or the next victim." Carter stood and walked to the wall, taking down his coat. "I had your clothes from the pub fetched. Old Morgan was your mentor; I can afford him that much courtesy." He shrugged into the coat. "Come on. I'll take you to see Old Samuel. If the redhaired woman is connected to Martha's case, she might know something."

  Anger folded the statement and pocketed it. "Why didn't you follow this lead earlier?"

  Carter was already at the door, his hand on the knob. His back was to Anger. "Because following it leads to trouble. Some things are safer not to know."

  He pulled the door open.

  Hurried footsteps echoed in the corridor. Perkins rushed towards them, out of breath.

  "Sir! There's been—something's happened!"

  Carter frowned. "Spit it out, man."

  "The Sunken Bell Priory—the derelict one behind Riverbank Street," Perkins panted. "The caretaker says... a nun's sealed herself inside a wall. And the wall... it's weeping blood. Forming an inverted crucifix."

  Carter and Anger exchanged a glance.

  ******

  The moment Carter heard “inverted crucifix,” he knew this was no ordinary affair. This wasn’t mere crime—it wasn’t even ordinary madness.

  An inverted cross. In twenty years in Whitechapel, he’d only ever seen that symbol in two contexts: one was the organtrafficking graffiti scrawled by street thugs; the other was those damned ritual sigils.

  Meanwhile, Anger’s mind flashed to the bronze bell in the Mute Tower—the last thing Greffin had seen: that same invertedcross sword pattern. Were they connected?

  “How many?” he asked Perkins.

  “The old caretaker says at least four nuns. Maybe more. The wall’s newly built—rubble and mortar from the priory’s backyard.” Perkins swallowed. “But he says… the wall is still weeping blood. Real blood.”

  Carter shot a glance at Anger. Just when the Martha business was starting to boil over, now this. The universe really does love giving our Central Division detective here a proper workload.

  “Fetch Harris and Thomson. Bring the full kit,” Carter ordered. “And two stretchers. There might still be someone alive.”

  “Alive?” Perkins’ eyes widened. “Sealed inside a wall? How—”

  “Just do it,” Carter barked.

  Perkins scurried off. Down the corridor, other constables peeked out from doorways—one sharp look from Carter sent them ducking back inside.

  He turned, pulled a leftwheel pistol from his desk drawer, checked the cylinder, and tucked it into his coat pocket. Then he took out a shorthandled axe.

  If it’s a homicide, the killer might still be there. If it’s something… unnatural… He glanced at Anger again. Of course. Just what we needed.

  Anger walked over. “I’m coming with you.”

  “This isn’t a Central Division case,” Carter said, not looking up.

  “It is now.” Anger drew his badge from an inside coat pocket. “Connected incident to a serial homicide—I have authority to investigate. Or would you prefer I call the Home Office now and request a special task force to turn all of Whitechapel inside out?”

  Carter stared at him. There was something in the Central Division detective’s eyes that made him uneasy. He couldn’t name it, but it set his teeth on edge.

  “You’ll slow us down.”

  “I survived Red Brick Lane.”

  “That was luck.”

  “Or maybe I have skills you don’t know about.” Anger slid his hands into his pockets. “Carter, whatever’s in that wall—it might be tied to the Martha case. Redhaired woman. Bonetokens. Now an inverted cross and nuns sealed alive. You know what these pieces might add up to.”

  The hair on Carter’s neck prickled. He did know. This kind of strangeness was coming too thick and fast—two major aberrations in as many days, after more than a decade of relative quiet.

  “Fine,” he finally said. “But this is my patch. You follow my lead.”

  “As long as the orders make sense.”

  As they stepped out of the office, Perkins was already wheeling a handcart loaded with crowbars, picks, lanterns, folded stretchers. A few other dutyready constables stood waiting.

  “Armed?” Carter asked.

  Harris patted the bulge at his waist. The others nodded.

  “Right.” Carter scanned the men. “Listen. Where we’re going… things might feel off. If you see something strange, don’t touch it. Don’t wander off. Report to me. And if I say run—you run. Don’t look back. Understood?”

  Three constables nodded, their expressions grim.

  ******

  As the carriage traveled along Riverbank Street, the Sunken Bell Priory stood at the road's end, isolated in a stretch of barren land. No other buildings neighbored it—only rampant weeds and skeletal, longdead trees.

  Like many old priories, it clung to its Gothic bones: the spire had slumped into collapse, stained glass lay in shattered teeth, and stone walls were veined with moss and clutching ivy. The iron gate hung crookedly open, its rusted chain long since snapped and discarded on the ground.

  From a distance, Anger saw an old man crouched by the entrance, smoking. Only when the carriage drew near did he scramble to his feet.

  “The caretaker. Old Jerome,” Carter said, alighting first. “Jerome. Start from the beginning.”

  Old Jerome’s teeth chattered. “I make my rounds every morning, sir. Today, when I reached the back wall of the chapel… I thought it was some lads’ prank. Red paint, I reckoned.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “I got closer. Dipped a finger in it. Tasted it.” He swallowed convulsively. “It’s blood, Inspector Carter. Real blood.”

  Carter seized his wrist. “Did you go inside? See anyone?”

  “No! I saw the mark on the wall—a cross, but upsidedown. Drawn in the blood. I ran. Straight to the station.” Old Jerome looked near tears. “It’s a curse, ain’t it? When the priory was shuttered, the old Mother Superior said this place wasn’t clean. Said there were things buried under—”

  “Enough.” Carter released him and turned to the others. “You two, stay here. No one comes close. Perkins, with me.” His eyes flicked to Anger. “Hastings. Look if you must. But don’t get in the way.”

  Anger offered no reply, simply followed.