he first thing Anger did upon returning to the precinct was head to the laboratory tucked in its corner.

  The only sound there was a faint, precise rustling.

  The bald forensic examiner, Edgar Watson, was bent over his work.

  "Disturbing," Anger said.

  He walked to the lab bench and placed the damp pieces of bark and leaves from his pocket onto the stainless steel surface.

  Watson's tweezers paused midair. He turned his head and looked down, taking in the dripping hem of Anger's trench coat. Droplets fell from the fabric, hitting the floor tiles and spreading into dark circles.

  "The docks," Anger said tersely, undoing his coat buttons. The soaked cloth clung to his arms.

  He rolled his stiff shoulders. "From a smuggler's crate. Have a look first. I'm changing."

  He didn't wait for a reply, turning towards the changing cubicle in the corner of the precinct.

  A few clean uniforms were always kept there, illfitting but preferable to working in wet clothes.The cubicle door closed, and silence reclaimed the lab.

  Watson set down his tweezers.

  his hands perpetually clad in rubber gloves—and regarded the foliage on the bench.

  He didn't begin immediately. First, he leaned in and sniffed, his brow furrowing. Then he retrieved a magnifying glass from a drawer and adjusted the angle. Under the light, the minute grooves on the bark's surface magnified into a crosshatch of ravines.

  He sliced off a piece the size of a grain of rice and placed it in a glass dish.

  Just as Anger emerged, changed, he saw the moment a drop of reagent fell.

  "Cinchona bark. Not low purity. Processed, dried, and then remoistened. You fished it out of water," Watson observed, not looking up.

  "The crate took a dip in dock runoff," Anger said, approaching the bench. He wouldn't mention the body directly; otherwise, the good doctor might grab his magnifying glass and sprint for the crime scene.

  Watson nodded. He cut another small fragment, this time moving it over an alcohol lamp.

  The flame licked the edge of the bark. It didn't ignite immediately, but first emitted a pungent white smoke that sharpened the already bitter odor.The smoke curled in the air, forming brief, distorted shapes before dissipating.

  "I recall a relevant entry in the archives," Watson said, blowing out the flame and tapping the charred bits into a waste tray. "A cold case. Ten years ago, perhaps earlier."

  "I need to find the source."

  "My apologies," Watson said, removing his gloves. "That is outside my domain. My expertise lies with corpses, not pharmaceutical smuggling rings."

  He looked at Anger. "This was found near the scene of Lady Vinter's death, correct?"

  Anger remained silent.

  "I thought as much," Watson said, fishing a pocket watch from his white coat. He checked the time. "The archives room should still be open. Young Hendrick is on duty today. He remembers the index number of every file."

  "He's not here."

  ******

  The words had barely left his mouth when hurried footsteps echoed outside the lab.

  The door was pushed open with a gust of air.

  Hendrick rushed in, his chestnut curls plastered to his forehead from running. The boy leaned against the doorframe, panting, his face flushed with excitement.

  "Detective! I found out—" He saw Watson and cut himself off, lowering his voice. "About the Lady... A week before she died, she inquired about purchasing NightBlooming Jasmine."

  "NightBlooming Jasmine," Anger repeated the term. He walked to the sink on the wall, turned on the tap, and rinsed off the grime from the docks. "Certain?"

  "Yes," Hendrick said, then his gaze landed on the bark on the bench. The Detective always brought surprises. "Is that...?"

  "Found at the docks. Cinchona bark," Anger said, turning off the water and shaking his hands dry.

  "Cinchona..." Hendrick thought for a brief moment, his eyes lighting up. "I've seen it in the archives."

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Watson raised an eyebrow.

  "The East End slum serial murders. Fifty years ago," the boy spoke faster. "Seven victims, throats torn out, viscera showing bite marks. The last victim had his mouth stuffed with cinchona leaves. The coroner's report at the time said it could have been placed deliberately by the killer, or the victim did it himself. It also mentioned cinchona being a folk remedy for malaria."

  Anger stopped drying his hands.

  "But there was another note," Hendrick continued, less certain now. "In the remarks column of the file, it said cinchona could 'suppress the wolf's advance'. I didn't understand what that meant then, thought it might be a transcription error."

  "The wolf's advance," Anger tossed the towel back onto its rack.

  "It was marked as a 'special case' because of that. Never solved. "

  "Is the file still there?"

  Hendrick's excitement faded at the question. He shook his head.

  "Gone. Missing for three days. Don't know who requisitioned it." The boy clenched his fist. "But I remember most of the contents."

  He stopped then, suddenly aware of the absurdity in his own words, his cheeks flushing.

  "I'm just recounting the file, Detective. I'm not sure..."

  "Lycanthropy legends," Anger interrupted him. He walked back to the bench, picked up a cinchona leaf with tweezers, and held it up to the light, observing the vein pattern.

  Watson began cleaning his instruments. His workday could reasonably conclude here.

  "I don't know," Hendrick finally said quietly. "But the file disappearing is too coincidental, isn't it? Right after you started investigating the Lady's death."

  Anger set the leaf down.

  "Keep digging. Trace the blackmarket flow of cinchona. Which clinics use it. Where the supply comes from. Who's buying."

  "I can make inquiries," the boy straightened his spine. "The street children... they know the routes of the blackmarket medicine trade. Sometimes better than adults."

  Anger studied him for a few seconds, then nodded.

  "Be careful. Don't say who you're working for. Say someone at home is ill and needs medicine."

  "I understand." Hendrick turned to leave, then looked back. "Detective... if it really is connected to werewolf legends?"

  Anger stood still for a moment before replying, "Investigate. If you sense danger, run."

  ******

  When Hendrick left the precinct, mist was creeping up from the river.

  The boy had swapped his uniform jacket for a plain one and pulled up his hood.

  'Just pretend someone at home is sick' he repeated to himself as he hit the streets.

  The East End lanes were already growing dim at this hour. The gas lamps weren't lit yet. In an alley, his foot landed on half a decomposing rat. He quickly averted his gaze.

  He knew where to find those children.

  On the fringes of the factory district stood a cluster of abandoned warehouses. There were always a few gaps wide enough for a skinny frame to slip through. It was one of the gathering spots for street urchins.

  He'd read the related patrol reports while organizing files. As long as they didn't cause major trouble, the police rarely bothered.

  When he found the warehouse, eyes were on him.

  "Who's there?" a child's voice asked.

  "I need to buy medicine," Hendrick said, even pulling a few coppers from his pocket. "My sister's sick. Fever. The shakes."

  Silence. No response.

  Then a weak light flared in a corner. A boy who looked no older than twelve held an old storm lantern. His face was dirty, but his eyes were sharp.

  "What medicine?"

  "Cinchona. Or anything that treats similar symptoms. Heard there's a clinic in the West End that sells it."

  The boy stared at the coppers in Hendrick's hand, licking his chapped lips.

  "Not enough."

  "This is all I have for information," Hendrick said, pulling out two more coppers—his last savings. Inquiring about Lady Vinter had nearly drained him. "Enough to point the way?"

  The lantern light swayed. More shadows emerged behind the boy—other children, dressed in rags, bare feet on the damp ground.

  "The biggest black clinic in the West End," the boy finally spoke. "Called the Viper's Breath. In the old sewer area. Go down the entrance, turn left three times, see the door with the red mark."

  He reached for the money. Hendrick pulled his hand back.

  "How do I recognize the way?"

  "Entrance's in the alley behind the ironworks. A paintedover number. Down there..." The boy gestured impatiently. "Chalk marks on the wall. Triangle arrows. Follow them. Don't take the wrong turns."

  "What's in the wrong turns?"

  The boy fell silent. Instead, a girl behind him spoke up. "Shadows that grab people. Billy didn't come back last time."

  Hendrick paused, then handed over the coins. The coppers disappeared into the boy's palm, which instantly clenched shut. The group scattered, melting into the gloom.

  "Go after dark," the boy called over his shoulder as he ran. "Guards during the day. And don't say we told you."

  "I won't."

  ******

  After Hendrick left, Anger didn't immediately exit the lab. He stood before Watson and asked.

  "What's your take?"

  "Scientifically, lycanthropy is myth," the forensic examiner said. "Medically, rabies, porphyria, certain schizophrenic syndromes—all can produce beastlike behavior. Add drug influence to that, and you have potential perpetrators aplenty."

  "So, not supernatural."

  "I didn't say that," Watson said, settling into his uniquely cluttered chair. "I merely said there are explanations within existing medical knowledge. As for who wrote 'the wolf's advance'... you'll have to ask them yourself."

  He looked at Anger. "Much of this lies outside my professional purview. You've handled more anomalous cases than I have. Surely you have a better sense of the truth of such matters than I do."

  Anger turned away.

  "But you'll still help me analyze."

  "Certainly. I've been a doctor for thirty years, a coroner for ten. Seen too many deaths. Most are dull as ditchwater. Gunshots, stabbings, poison, asphyxiation. Repeat, repeat. Monotonous. Devoid of imagination."

  A faint, dry smile touched his lips. "But the cases you bring sometimes... they're different. They seem like works from another system of rules. I'd like to see what that system looks like."

  Anger didn't directly acknowledge this candor.

  "Hendrick's gone to probe the black clinic."

  "Dangerous."

  "I know."

  "Then why send him?"

  Anger was silent for a long time.

  "Because he sees things I might miss. He's a diligent boy. Came here from the orphanage, worked hard to make a life."

  A bell tolled outside the window—eight o'clock. The curfew bell of the misty capital.

  "I'm heading out," Anger said.

  "To follow the boy?"

  "To the Vinter estate." Anger fastened the buttons of his trench coat and pinned on his badge. "Some questions need asking directly. Of Lord Arthur Vinter. "

  "Regarding NightBlooming Jasmine?"

  "Regarding what his wife was truly afraid of before she died."

  Anger pulled open the door.

  Watson remained seated, watching it close again.

  Meanwhile, Hendrick stood in the alley behind the ironworks, staring at the paintedover, yet faintly visible number.