Although Anger was holding Billy's silver badge and wearing the East End uniform, the apothecary deliberately didn't expose him. He wanted to see just what Anger was up to.

  So, when he served up the "Southern Rest," he paired it with the finest smoking apparatus in the house. This was no ordinary piece.

  The pot itself gleamed silver, etched with intricate patterns. The tube connecting to the mouthpiece was semitransparent, revealing a thick, white fluid slowly circulating within.

  Anger had never paid it any mind before, so he certainly didn't notice now that this pipe was rigged with a mechanism. If one didn't lie back, press the small button near the mouthpiece junction, and draw the smoke through, the vapors from the resin would find their own way out.

  In the end, the exhaust vent at the top of the pipe erupted without warning, blasting out a dense cloud of fragrant smoke.

  Damn it.

  The white fumes had already flooded Anger's nostrils. Trying to cough them out now was far too late.

  ******

  [Darkness. A jarring, relentless motion.]

  His body was being shaken violently. Rough wooden slats pressed into his back; every jolt sent a searing fire along the length of his spine.

  The smell of damp earth and an unbearable, cloying stench of sweat filled his nostrils, yet the pain rendered these sensations almost trivial.

  His line of sight was low, fixed on the countless pairs of mudcaked ankles shuffling slowly ahead. Iron rings encircled those ankles, linked by heavy, clanking chains. The chains felt horribly real, their metallic clatter marking each labored step.

  "Move it, you sluggards! This cart must be full before sundown!"

  A roar from above, followed by a whistle in the air.

  Thwack!

  The lash struck his back. Pain sparked a violent tremor through his frame, and his body stumbled forward of its own wretched accord.

  His head lifted a fraction. Ahead lay a vast, yawning pit, its walls a pale, silvery sand that glimmered dully under a somber sky. At the bottom, countless figures toiled. They shoveled that same silvery ore into large baskets strapped to their backs, then began the agonizing climb up the precipitous slopes.

  "What are you gawking at? Fill your basket! Your quota's doubled today!"

  Another shove sent him lurching forward.As he moved, his gaze turned to the others alongside him, each burdened with a basket of absurd size. The baskets themselves were crudely woven from thick vines, the shoulder straps reinforced with the same material. They looked ready to snap under the weight if one didn't strain constantly to hold them up.

  He saw a youth beside him, his hands a mess of calluses and fresh, bloody welts. The boy’s grip on the shoulder straps trembled violently. He heaved, the weight settling, and for a moment it seemed the straps would cut straight through to the bone. His knees buckled, nearly sending him to the ground.

  "Get up, you waste!"

  The whip rose again.His vision swam, forced back toward the pit.

  This time, he saw more clearly. Those laboring below... their eyes. Or rather, the eyes of many among them caught the faint light with a distinct, metallic sheen.

  Exactly like the pupils of the addicts Anger had seen.

  A thought, belonging to the owner of this memory, surfaced: Another one gone mad today. Dragged away. Said the raw ingredient's purity was off... What 'ingredient'?

  Just ahead, another figure bearing a massive basket suddenly swayed, then pitched forward facefirst. The basket overturned, spilling its silvery contents, some of it cascading over his head. He did not move.

  An overseer stomped over, cursing.

  He nudged the man's cheek with the toe of his boot. No reaction. He crouched, pried open an eyelid, and peered.

  "Another one spent. Drag him off to the Refinery. Look lively now, don't hold up the works."

  Two other ragged men moved forward in silence. One took the shoulders, the other the feet, and they hauled the limp corpse away, leaving a long, smeared trail in the mud.

  As the overseer walked off, his low mutterings, caught by the wind, drifted to his ears in fragments:

  "...bloody Southern Border sand... dreamdust content's always unstable... still have to rely on the living filters for manual purification... pressure from above..."

  Dreamdust. Living filters...

  The scene then shuddered violently, before finally shattering into fragments.

  ******

  [An enclosed space. An unnatural, white light.]

  His body was strapped to an operating table, wrists and ankles secured by manacles. The glaring white lamp above was painfully bright, forcing his eyes shut.

  With great effort, he turned his head. Rows of identical tables stretched beside him, each bearing a restrained figure. Some twitched faintly; others lay utterly still. None had the strength to resist.

  "Subject D47, Phase Three." A woman's voice sounded nearby, reciting terms halfunderstood.

  "Proceed." An aged male voice granted approval.

  Terror, artesian and primal, erupted from the depths of memory. His body began to tremble uncontrollably. The manacles binding his arms strained as if to snap, setting up a furious clangor—a dissonant symphony of clangs, rustles, and clatters.

  "No... no, please... I can still work! I can carry more sand!" The boy's voice, thick with tears, was squeezed out through gritted teeth. It met only silence.

  Footsteps approached. A hand sheathed in a white rubber glove reached into view, holding a syringe filled with a luminous green fluid.

  "Hush now, child." The aged voice was close now, its tone unnervingly benevolent. "You shall become something far more useful. Your slumber shall nourish a grander purpose. Sleep. Forget this. Forget who you are."

  The needle pierced his skin. The fluid entered. His vision bled into blankness, into void. Sounds receded. Sensation fled his body. Even the fear began its slow dissolution.

  Just before the boy's last shred of consciousness was swallowed whole, a voice—utterly alien to this place—sounded, impossibly close:

  "Brother... don't forget!"

  Back in the apothecary's den, the two strands of white smoke that had invaded Anger's nostrils now seeped back out from the corners of his eyes and the folds of his ears. The vapors coalesced and shot upwards towards the ceiling, vanishing into the gloom. From those same eyes and ears, blood began a slow, viscous trickle. Then, his head slumped forward with a heavy, final thud against the floorboards.

  The apothecary, hearing the noise, stepped back into the room. He took in the scene with a single, dispassionate glance, then turned on his heel and left without a word.

  This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  ******

  The door to the Whitechapel sergeant's office flew open without so much as a knock.

  Carter looked up to see the young patrolman, Perkins, stumble in, his face ashen and his helmet askew.

  "Sir, sssomething's happened!"

  Carter's stomach dropped. "Steady on, man. What is it?"

  "Over at the Spindle of Oblivion, on Red Brick Lane... I heard... unusual noises from inside," the patrolman stammered, words tumbling out. "The two lookouts at the mouth of the alley got jumpy all of a sudden. One ran inside. I waited a bit, then circled round to the other end..."

  He swallowed hard. "I heard shouting inside. Then... the sound of carriage wheels."

  A vein began to throb at Carter's temple. "What carriage?"

  "A deadcart!" Perkins nearly shouted. "Two brutes carried out a long sack, stuffed it in the back!"

  Carter shot to his feet. "Perkins. Did you see what was in that sack?"

  "Not... not clearly, sir. But..." The patrolman's voice was thick with dread. "A foot was sticking out one end. Wearing a boot. Standardissue from the Central Division."

  Carter's mind raced, piecing it together in seconds. Hastings. It has to be. Just reported Billy's missing uniform, the damn fool. Went poking around the Spindle on his own initiative. And now he's poked a hornet's nest.

  "Blast it all," Carter swore under his breath. "Told him not to get involved. Went and 'investigated' himself right into a bag." Aloud, his voice was level, cold. "The Central Division must not hear of this. Not yet." He fixed his gaze on Perkins. "Anyone else know?"

  The patrolman shook his head vigorously. "No, sir. I heard the commotion and ran straight here. Told no one."

  "Good." Carter leaned forward, his tone leaving no room for question. "Listen closely. You were never on Red Brick Lane. You heard no commotion. You saw no deadcart. This afternoon, you were on patrol in the docks, breaking up a brawl between a pair of sots. Is that understood?"

  Perkins nodded so forcefully his helmet threatened to slide off. "Yes, sir!"

  "Back to your post. And if anyone so much as whispers about the Spindle, you know nothing."

  The patrolman fled the office as if pardoned from the gallows.

  ******

  Carter walked to the window, pushed it open a crack, then knocked out his pipe. He moved to the coat stand in the corner of the office, shrugging on his plain clothes jacket. Inside were a few emergency silver coins and a shorthilted dagger.

  He entered the duty room where the old patrolman was. "Duncan. Wake up. You're with me."

  Duncan sat up slowly, rubbing his face. "Official business? Or personal?"

  "Bit of a mess down Red Brick Lane," Carter said. "Need to take a look. Just the two of us. Keep it quiet."

  Duncan's sleepbleared eyes fixed on Carter for a moment, noting the civilian jacket. He nodded, asking nothing more.

  This was why Carter brought him. Duncan knew when to keep his mouth shut and when to use his fists. In his forties, with twenty years on the East End beat, he'd seen things.

  The two men slipped out of the station.

  Through the smog, the outline of Red Brick Lane loomed. The shapes of the two backdoor sentries were just visible at the mouth of the alley.

  Carter halted. "You stay behind me," he said to Duncan. "If I raise my hand, fall back. If I shout 'bring him', come up and help carry. Otherwise, just watch."

  Duncan nodded, pulling a short truncheon from his coat and gripping it.

  Carter took a deep breath of the foul, foggy air. Damn Central Division toffs. Damn their bloody curiosity.

  He cursed inwardly, his face a mask of calm.

  As he appeared, the sentries at the alley mouth took notice. Seeing Carter's plain clothes, they knew this meant trouble. Their hands went to the hard objects at their waists.

  Carter raised a hand, showing no hostile intent. "I'm looking for Billy," he said, his voice level. "Seems a friend of his had a few too many, took a wrong turn."

  ******

  Carter knew what was in the sentry's pocket. A sawedoff shotgun.

  One sentry, a mute, took half a step forward. His fingers traced a few quick gestures near his waist. Carter couldn't understand them, but he could guess the meaning. Who are you? What do you want?

  "Carter Fellows," Carter gave his name, simultaneously drawing the Whitechapel Sergeant's badge from his coat.

  The mute considered this for a moment, then waved them through.

  Inside, Carter immediately saw the gaunt man in the white coat standing just beyond the door.

  "Apothecary."

  "Inspector Fellows," the Apothecary replied with a courteous smile. "A visit at this hour. To what do I owe the... rarity?"

  "Where's my man?" Carter cut straight to the point.

  The Apothecary raised an eyebrow. "Your man?"

  "The one from Central. Sent to assist with the case." Carter's gaze was steady. "Came in wearing an East End uniform, carrying Billy's silver star. Don't tell me you didn't know."

  The smile on the Apothecary's face thinned slightly. He turned and walked down a corridor. Carter followed, leaving Duncan by the door.

  The corridor ended in a large room, outfitted as a rudimentary laboratory. A distillery and other apparatus sat on a central table. In the corner, several burlap sacks were piled, stamped with the insignia of the Southern Border Mining Consortium.

  "Sit," the Apothecary indicated a rickety chair by the table, taking a perch on a high stool himself. "Something to drink? Tea? Or perhaps something that truly... unwinds the coils?"

  "Not needed." Carter remained standing. "I want the man. Now."

  The Apothecary sighed. "Inspector Fellows. We have had an understanding for, what, five years now?"

  "Six," Carter said flatly.

  "Six, then." The Apothecary's tone was deliberate. "You provide a certain... buffer. This place remains stable. And your share is always forthcoming. It has been a mutually agreeable arrangement."

  "So?"

  "So," the Apothecary leaned forward slightly, "you should understand. There are... lines that are not to be crossed. Your Central Division friend. He did not come here for recreation. He came to investigate."

  Carter's heart sank. Hastings, you damn fool. You've no idea what nest you've been poking.

  "I gave him an opportunity," the Apothecary continued. "I served him a pipe of 'Southern Rest'. The finest grade. Enough to lay him in sweet oblivion for three days, waking with no memory of it. But he didn't smoke it. Pretended to." He paused, picking up a gleaming silver pipe from the table. Carter recognized it, could see the thick, white slurry slowly circulating within. "Then he triggered the safety mechanism." The Apothecary set the pipe down. "He inhaled what was meant for the ceiling. Now he is experiencing a... different kind of dreamlessness."

  Carter's fingers tightened around the dagger hilt in his pocket.

  "So you're silencing him," he stated.

  "No. Not silencing. That would be wasteful." The Apothecary shook his head. "A 'Living Filter' can still be utilized. The Commission is always collecting such materials for their... next phase of experiments."

  ******

  "Let him go," Carter said.

  The Apothecary smiled. "Why should I?"

  Carter took a deep breath. "There have been several murders in Whitechapel lately," his voice was unnervingly calm. "One of them was particularly strange. The body bore burn marks, a bizarre way to die. The Central Division has taken notice. Chief Schneider is under considerable pressure. If this case isn't solved, the Central Division will send more men. And then it won't just be Red Brick Lane; every underground operation in Whitechapel will be turned inside out."

  The Apothecary's expression didn't change.

  Carter continued. "I know who the killer is." He paused. "Or rather, I know where and when the killer will strike next."

  The Apothecary fell silent. The only sound in the room was the liquid bubbling in the distiller.

  "And what does that have to do with me?" the Apothecary finally spoke.

  "Both the Commission and the Church want Whitechapel to remain stable," Carter said. "If Whitechapel descends into chaos because of a serial killer—with police patrols round the clock and the press buzzing like flies—and they pin some official label on the mess, the Central Division will definitely send more men. Do you think the Spindle Alley can remain as peaceful as it is now?"

  The Apothecary considered this. "Who is the killer?"

  "I can't say. Not yet." Carter shook his head. "But this case will be closed soon. I can send the Central Division people packing. Business won't be disturbed for anyone."

  "The condition?"

  "Detective Hastings." Carter said. "He's from the Anomaly Investigation Bureau. The Central Division values him highly. I want him alive, and I want him out of here. Now. The cart hasn't gone far. You can send someone to retrieve it. If he doesn't back off... I have my own ways of dealing with it. After all, I don't want the business here to go belly up either."

  The Apothecary stared at Carter for a long time. Carter could feel sweat trickling down his back, but he forced himself to remain calm, projecting an air of being in complete control—even though he himself wasn't entirely sure about the details of Martha's case.

  Finally, the Apothecary stepped down from the high stool, walked to a shelf by the wall, took down a copper bell, and rang it three times.

  A moment later, Scarface pushed the door open.

  "Go after the cart," the Apothecary said. "Bring the man back. Alive."

  Scarface nodded and left.

  The Apothecary walked back to the table. Half an hour later, his men returned, supporting a figure between them. It was Anger Hastings.

  He was still wearing the illfitting East End uniform, but his hat was gone. His eyes were halfopen, the pupils holding a faint metallic sheen. Traces of blood were visible at the corners of his mouth, eyes, and ears.

  "He inhaled too much," the Apothecary stated. "There will be memory loss. His hearing might be temporarily impaired. In the coming days, he may experience hallucinations and nightmares. These are normal aftereffects. Not fatal."

  Carter walked over and patted Anger's cheek. "Hastings? Can you hear me?"

  Anger's lips moved, emitting a slurred sound. "The pit... sister..."

  "He won't be coming back to himself for a while," the Apothecary said. "Take him. Remember, this is a onetime exception. It won't happen again."

  Carter gestured for Duncan to come help. The two of them flanked Anger, supporting him as they walked out of the laboratory, through the corridor, and into the alley. As they moved, a strange die and a small journal fell from Anger's pocket.

  Carter casually picked them up and put them in his own pocket, then they left.

  Duncan, struggling with Anger's weight, said, "Boss, if he goes back to the Central Division in this state, it'll cause trouble."

  "He's not going back to the Central Division," Carter said. "Head to the old dock warehouse. I have a safe house. Let him lie low there for a couple of days until he can string a sentence together."

  "And then?"

  "Send word to the Central Division. Say there's a new development in the Martha case, and we need their detective to stay in Whitechapel for a while longer."

  Carter tightened his grip on Anger. They found a carriage and sent the man off to the safe house.