Hemp mandrake, an herb from the Fertile Lands, is recorded by scholars under a more familiar name: mandragora. In truth, these two herbs are not the same. Common mandrake is a well-known hallucinogenic plant, used as an anesthetic by local natives and now a component of the rampant hallucinogens flooding the Lower City.

  The hemp mandrake rolled into Burton’s cigarette was different—a “spirit medium” meticulously cultivated by local witches, who believed inhaling it forged a bridge to the unknown, a vessel for touching the mysterious. They typically used it to communicate with the dead.

  With steam technology so advanced, superstitions had long been forgotten, but remnants of the old world still clung to such beliefs.

  Burton discovered its properties in an ancient text and, with Boro’s help, obtained some from smugglers. Initially testing it out of curiosity, he found it useful in investigations over time.

  What he saw was more than simple hallucinations; part of it was real, and that real part was what Burton needed.

  As the lights died one by one, the cold air in the dark grew damp. Burton smelled seawater again, countless raindrops pounding the deck—he was back on that ship.

  In the darkness, the corpse twitched slowly, coming alive. Though the cigarette’s glow was faint, every detail was stark: internal organs shrinking until stomach and intestines were mere stumps, bones twisting to stretch fragile skin, dark red veins visible beneath.

  A hoarse moan escaped the shriveled throat, a death rattle.

  It was a scene to inspire dread, but Burton felt nothing—fear seemed absent from his emotional repertoire.

  Half the cigarette had burned.

  Hemp mandrake tied him to the mysterious world; the tobacco’s burn time dictated how long he could linger in this realm of the dead.

  Not enough. It was never enough.

  Suddenly, the sensation of being watched returned, familiar as in the carriage—the thing in the dark. Burton spun, trying to find the eerie figure, but the next second, a twisted body slammed into him, reeking of blood.

  It was Vohl, or what remained of him.

  The corpse knocked Burton from his chair, pinning him down with clawed hands crushing his skull, ribs splaying like a predator’s maw, dried blood caking its grip.

  Look at me!

  A voice echoed, and in the grim face, clouded black eyes flickered with faint green light.

  Agony surged through Burton’s body, but he ignored it, staring into those eyes—deep in the darkness, he saw a flicker of truth.

  A lighthouse rising in glowing emerald light.

  The cigarette burned to ash, and light returned.

  Burton emerged like a hibernator waking, movements stiff, gaze vacant. The butt fell from his hand as he sat stunned, taking ages to regain focus.

  This was the aftereffect—after each use, a brief period of weakness, like mental fog.

  Everything had felt real: Vohl’s corpse rising, the pain of its grip, yet now the body lay still, Burton unharmed in his chair. A hallucination, yet with kernels of truth—like the lighthouse.

  He couldn’t determine the lighthouse’s role, but now he had a direction: eerie physiology and a lighthouse.

  Rising slowly, the stiffness annoyed him—a side effect growing worse with frequent use. Maybe he’d visit Director Buscalo for a checkup later; the man owed him, after all.

  Time to leave, but then came the click of a gun being cocked.

  “Hands up!”

  Eve aimed her pistol at Burton, her intuition as sharp as ever. In the mist, she’d sensed someone pass, and now she’d caught this prowler in the morgue.

  “What’s happening, Detective?”

  Turning, Burton wore a perfect mask: panicked yet composed, the image of a wronged citizen. In Old Dunling’s all walks of life, a detective like him needed to be a chameleon.

  “What are you doing here?”

  Eve was a rookie, first time aiming a gun at someone. Burton’s demeanor made her doubt herself.

  “That’s my nephew. He was murdered this morning, and I—” Burton choked, covering his face.

  Eve stepped closer, still wary.

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  “Your nephew… was a Viking?”

  The corpse’s face was unrecognizable, but the Viking-style braids remained.

  Burton’s sob hitched. Eve saw the nameplate on the drawer—it was her case.

  Sympathy vanished, her voice cold: “You’ll need to come with me, sir.”

  Awkward silence.

  Burton had once infiltrated the Royal Academy of Arts, studying acting for over a year to perfect his disguises. At first mistaken for a tourist, then an auditor, then a student—even professors praised this “excellent scholar” named Burton, inviting him to perform at the Royal Opera.

  Then he vanished. No record of a “Burton Holmes” existed—attendance lists, student records, nothing. A phantom, remembered but unrecorded.

  No matter the performance, hard evidence couldn’t be denied. Burton smiled awkwardly.

  Eve stayed serious, but inwardly thrilled—her first case had teeth. Why else would someone sneak into a morgue for a nobody’s body?

  “Turn around!”

  She threatened, gun raised. Burton complied slowly. As Eve lowered her gun to fetch handcuffs, he struck.

  His knee-length black coat whipped up, blocking her view. She fumbled, one hand on the gun, the other with cuffs. The rookie panicked, pulling the trigger—recoil sent the bullet wide, tearing a hole in the coat.

  A Winchester emerged from beneath the fabric, Burton’s hand on the iron lever, chambering a round.

  “Detective, don’t move.”

  The tide turned instantly. Eve could only stare.

  This was too much for a rookie—her first case pitting her against a seasoned rogue of Old Dunling, a wolf in the sheep’s pen of law enforcement.

  “This is a morgue. No one comes here. I could kill you, and no one would know,” Burton said.

  Eve nodded quickly—her revolver was no match for his shotgun.

  Then realization hit: “You killed him?”

  Though his shotgun was finer than most, the shot wounds matched Vohl’s death. Combined with his suspicious presence, Eve was certain.

  She should’ve called Price, but even he might not help now.

  “Don’t accuse me, Detective. I’m a law-abiding Inverwegian citizen.”

  Technically true—Boro had forged him a legitimate identity, not a fake, but an officially recognized one.

  Burton’s mind raced, planning his next move, as Eve weighed her odds of survival.

  Then, a translucent yellow liquid spilled at Burton’s feet, stinking, flowing from beyond the morgue door.

  “What do you think this is, Detective?”

  “Oil, maybe?”

  “I think… you’re right.”

  As the words fell, fire roared through the door, a hellish inferno igniting everything. The morgue’s cold gave way to searing heat.

  A dead end—the only exit engulfed in flames, the blaze intensifying.

  “What’s happening—”

  Burton yanked Eve back just in time; the door would’ve incinerated her.

  “Clues.”

  His voice thrilled with morbid excitement.

  Eve looked at him, firelight painting his face, a wild blaze in his eyes.

  Vohl’s death had drawn attention—they didn’t want his secrets unearthed, hence the arson.

  “Help me if you don’t want to die, Detective.”

  Burton kicked over the metal drawers, stacked and detachable.

  “What are you doing?”

  Eve couldn’t fathom his actions as the fire closed in.

  “Surviving. You don’t want to be cremated with these corpses, do you?

  “One pile for you, one for me—eternal togetherness?”