The silence that followed Eliza's declaration was heavier than the one left by the fight. Lutz gave a curt, grim nod, and they set to work.
Eliza, moving with a shaky but determined resolve, ascended the stairs to assess the damage on the second floor as she didn't want to see the worst part. Lutz was left alone with the corpse.
His first task was the most gruesome. He fetched a bucket, rags, as well as the strongest soap and lye he had in the house. Kneeling beside Yevgeny's body, the metallic smell of blood thick in his nostrils, he began the methodical process of cleaning the corpse. As he worked, wiping away the congealing blood from the fatal neck wound, what he'd been expecting began to happen.
From the edges of the cleanly sliced flesh, a substance began to materialize. It wasn't blood. It was a darker, thicker, almost viscous liquid that seemed to coalesce from the very essence, drawn forth by the death of the Beyonder. It pooled for a moment before solidifying, taking on a definite, chilling shape. It was a small horn, curved and sharp, the color of old, dried blood. It felt unnaturally cold to the touch.
The moment his fingers closed around it, a profound change swept over him. The lingering adrenaline, the pang of guilt over Eliza, the weary exhaustion—it all vanished. He felt… nothing. A cold, sterile emptiness filled his chest. The world seemed to lose its color and emotional texture. Simultaneously, dark, intrusive thoughts began to whisper at the edges of his consciousness. A cynical voice suggested simply killing Eliza to ensure her silence. Another mocked his "gentler person" vow as a pathetic weakness. The image of simply taking what he wanted, by any means necessary, felt not just possible, but sensible.
What the hell is this? The thought was analytical, devoid of the fear that should have accompanied it. He recognized the object for what it was: The solidified essence of Yevgeny's pathway. And it was clearly from a pathway steeped in malevolence and emotional suppression. With a surge of will that felt like moving through tar, he pulled his hand away. The moment he broke contact, the emotional void receded, and the dark whispers faded, leaving him shaken and cold, but himself again.
He didn't hesitate. He wrapped the horn in a scrap of cloth, descended to the basement, and locked it away in the safe with the other dangerous artifacts. It was a prize, but a deeply treacherous one.
Returning to the body, now cleaned of surface blood, he hoisted it onto his shoulder. He carried it down to the basement, laying it unceremoniously in the far corner, away from his workshop and alchemy table. The sight of the corpse lying on the stone floor, next to his carefully organized tools, was a jarring juxtaposition of his two lives.
'I'll need to make dissolving acid to get rid of the corpse' He thought, his mind already shifting to the next problem. 'It doesn't need to be as strong as the one I used to breach the safe of the Baron's treasury. The ingredients aren't too troublesome; I should be able to get them tomorrow.'
He mentally ran through the formula he'd studied in the book, The Verdant Crucible, a less esoteric but brutally effective concoction.
He would need concentrated sulfuric acid and hydrogen peroxide, which he could acquire from a chemical supply house or, more likely, the Winter Garden, mixed in a specific ratio to create a self-heating, hyper-aggressive oxidizing agent that would reduce organic matter to a slurry of carbon and liquid.
He would need a container unaffected by the solution to place Yevgeny's body in, after that, he would dispose of the remainings through the drain.
With the body temporarily stored, he returned to the first floor. Eliza had come back down and was already at work. She was picking up the overturned chairs, gathering the thrown dining knives, and using a damp cloth to wipe the flour and soot from the floor. She worked with a quiet, focused efficiency, her face pale but set.
Lutz joined her without a word. They worked in tandem, a silent, efficient team erasing the evidence of a battle. They scrubbed the blood from the floorboards until the water ran clear, righted the furniture, and returned the kitchen to a semblance of order. Three hours slipped by, the night bleeding into the pre-dawn grey.
The remaining evidence was structural. The knife slash on the upstairs doorframe, the hole in the plaster from Yevgeny's body, the smoldering marks on the wall, the stab marks from the thrown knives. These couldn't be washed away.
Lutz stood in the center of the dining room, his hands on his hips, surveying the damage. His mind, though weary, worked through the problem. We can't replaster and repaper the entire house before daybreak. We need camouflage.
"Eliza," he said, his voice hoarse. "We need to rearrange the art."
She looked at him, understanding dawning in her tired eyes. Together, they went through the house. A large, framed landscape painting that usually hung in the parlor was carefully taken down and carried to the corridor upstairs. It was perfectly sized to cover the searing marks in the dining room's wall that resulted from Yevgeny being kicked at full force into them while his veins were still burning. A heavy, ornate wall sconce was unscrewed from one wall and repositioned to cover the Stab mark on the second floor. The smaller stab marks from the knives were less conspicuous; a bit of colored wax, carefully rubbed in, would disguise them as minor imperfections in the woodwork until they could be properly filled.
It was a temporary, flimsy solution, but it would pass a casual glance from a visitor.
As the first hints of sunlight tinged the horizon, Eliza, still in her nightdress under a shawl, changed into her simple day dress. Lutz went to his safe and counted his remaining coins. The sight of the meager pile was a fresh wound. He took ten Gold Hammers, a significant portion of his remaining funds, and pressed them into Eliza's hand.
"Paint," he instructed her. "The exact colors for the walls and woodwork. And the best quality brushes and filler you can find. Be quick, but be discreet."
She nodded, her fingers closing around the coins as if they were red-hot. She understood the gravity. The money was for their survival now. She slipped out the front door just as the city was beginning to stir.
Lutz was left alone in the patched-up house, the scent of blood and smoke now mostly replaced by the smell of soap and lye. He had seven Gold Hammers left to his name. The sheer, terrifying precariousness of his situation threatened to overwhelm him.
Eliza returned within the hour, her arms laden with cans of paint, wood filler, and brushes. Without a word, they set to work again. Lutz, with a steady hand born of his dexterity, began mixing the paint to perfectly match the existing hues. Eliza, showing a surprising aptitude, carefully filled the smaller holes and knife marks with the wood filler. They worked with the frantic energy of those trying to outrun the dawn, brushing fresh paint over the patched plaster and the soot-stained walls, their movements a silent, coordinated dance of concealment.
By the time they finished, the weak morning sun was fully illuminating the room. It was 7 AM. The house at 17 Vesper Lane looked… normal. A little too clean, perhaps. The furniture was in slightly different positions. The art was rearranged. A keen observer might notice, but to the casual eye, it was just the well-kept home of a wealthy young noble. The night of blood and fire had been scrubbed, painted, and hidden away behind a facade of respectable normalcy.
Exhausted, covered in paint smudges, Lutz and Eliza looked at each other across the freshly painted room. No words were needed.
The frantic, paint-stained cleanup had left them both slick with sweat and trembling with a bone-deep exhaustion that went far beyond mere lack of sleep. Without a word, they retreated to their respective bathrooms, the sound of running water a welcome, normalizing noise in the unnervingly quiet house. The hot water stung Lutz's burns, but he welcomed the clean, simple pain, washing away the grime and the lingering psychic stench of the dark horn.
Half an hour later, he emerged in clean, simple home clothes, his damp hair plastered to his forehead. He felt raw, exposed. Needing a breath of air that wasn't tainted with the ghosts of the night, he moved to the front window, intending to peek through the curtains and gauge the mood of the waking neighborhood.
His blood ran cold.
Approaching from a few houses down was a carriage. And disembarking from it were three figures whose silhouettes were etched into his memory with the clarity of a wanted poster. Their coats were the characteristic beige-and-brass, the uniform of the Church of Steam. They were moving from door to door, speaking with neighbors. And their path was leading inexorably towards Number 17.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized him. It was a full-body reaction, a primal urge to flee. But there was nowhere to run. He acted quickly.
Spinning from the window, he sprinted through the house, his heart hammering against his ribs. He found Eliza in the scullery, meticulously storing the paint cans and brushes, her movements slow with fatigue.
"Eliza!" he hissed, his voice low and urgent. "They're here. The Church. Act natural. Now."
Her eyes widened, the color draining from her face once more. But she gave a sharp, terrified nod.
Lutz didn't wait. He took the stairs two at a time, bursting into his bedroom. His hands, usually so steady, fumbled with the buttons of his home clothes. He tore them off, his mind a frantic whirlwind. James Morgan. I need to be James Morgan. Frivolous. Annoyed. Innocent. He pulled on the bright, canary-yellow trousers, the garish waistcoat, the flamboyant frock coat. As he fastened the last button, he heard the firm, authoritative knock on the front door downstairs, followed by Eliza's voice, pitched higher than usual, "Just a moment!"
He took one last, steadying breath in front of the mirror, forcing the terrified Lutz Fischer down and pulling the vacuous, charming mask of James Morgan over his face. He descended the stairs with a deliberate, slightly put-upon air, as if annoyed at being disturbed so early.
"I'm coming, I'm coming!" he called out, his voice adopting the familiar, slightly petulant tone. He arrived at the door just as Eliza was opening it, revealing the three officers. Their faces were stern, professional, their eyes missing nothing.
"Good morning, Officers," Lutz said, flashing a brilliant, disarming smile. "I'm James Morgan. How can I help you on this fine morning?" He leaned against the doorframe in order to hide the burn on his hand, the picture of a man mildly inconvenienced.
The lead officer, a man with a neatly trimmed beard and eyes the color of weathered steel, spoke. "Mr. Morgan. Around an hour ago, we received reports from several of your neighbors. They mentioned hearing loud sounds emanating from this residence during the night. Sounds of a struggle. Do you have any idea what that might have been?"
Lutz's mind was a high-wire act. He layered his response with the Swindler's Charm, making his words seem utterly reasonable and trustworthy. He let a look of concerned realization dawn on his face.
"Strong sounds? Ah, yes, we did hear them as well! Dreadful noise, woke us both up." He gestured vaguely towards the street. "But they weren't from here, Officer. I believe there was quite the altercation going on out in the street. Shouting, things breaking… I didn't bring myself to look, of course—one must be cautious—but I'm fairly certain I even heard a gunshot!" He infused his voice with a blend of outrage and fear, the perfect response of a wealthy man whose bubble of safety had been punctured. "For the love of Steam, how can these problems even reach these respectable streets now? I was told this was a good neighborhood! Whatever happened to order?"
He saw the officers exchange a glance. His story was plausible. Street fights happened between drunks and gangs, even in nice areas.
"So, to be clear, nothing at all happened inside your residence?" the lead officer pressed, his steel-grey eyes scanning the foyer behind Lutz.
"Inside? Goodness, no," Lutz laughed, a light, airy sound. "Just a frightful night's sleep, that's all."
"Do you mind if we take a quick look inside? Just to make sure everything is in order. We don't mean to pry."
Shit. Here we go. Every instinct screamed to refuse, but that would be a confession of guilt. He had to project utter, bored compliance.
"Sure, of course! Come inside, gentlemen." He stepped back, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture of welcome, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Always making sure of having his left hand in his pocket or placed in an angle where the burn mark couldn't be seen.
The officers filed in. Their eyes, trained to notice anomalies, immediately took in the spotless floors, the rearranged furniture, the faint, lingering scent in the air.
"Smells… very clean in here, Mr. Morgan," one of the younger officers commented, his nose twitching. "Strong smell of paint and chemicals."
Lutz didn't miss a beat. "Yes, well, we had some people in yesterday doing a few touch-ups. I haven't been living here for long, and the place was in a bit of a state. Dreadful wallpaper in some rooms, scuffs everywhere. I finally got around to having it all seen to yesterday. A man's home is his castle, and all that!"
While he spoke, the lead officer subtly drew Eliza aside. Lutz's ears, still hyper-acute, strained to listen while he maintained his chatter with the other officer.
"And you, miss? You heard these sounds as well? Nothing unusual happened in the house?" the officer asked Eliza.
Lutz held his breath. This was the moment. If she broke, it was over.
Eliza, her face pale but composed, looked the officer squarely in the eye. "Yes, sir. It was very loud from the street. It scared me. But nothing happened in here. Mr. Morgan is a very kind employer." Her voice was steady.
The officers seemed satisfied. They moved through the study, the dining room, their boots echoing on the freshly scrubbed floors. They ascended the stairs to the second floor. Lutz followed, his smile fixed in place, his every muscle coiled like a spring. He watched as their gazes passed over the relocated landscape painting. They saw a slightly eccentric, newly decorated home. They did not see the slashed doorframe or the hole in the plaster hidden beneath.
They were about to head back down, and Lutz began to allow himself a sliver of hope. Then, the youngest officer, the one who had commented on the smell, paused at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes fell on the space behind the staircase, the area that was slightly darker, where a simple, unadorned door was set flush into the wall.
The entrance to the basement.
"Sir," the officer said, his curiosity piqued. "What do you have back here?" He took a step towards it, leaning closer to examine the door.
Lutz's world narrowed to that single point. His entire secret life. If that door opened, it was all over. Panic, pure and undiluted, threatened to short-circuit his brain. He couldn't physically stop him. He couldn't talk him out of it without raising immense suspicion.
There was only one tool left.
He focused his will on the officer. He wasn't trying to be subtle. This was a Hail Mary. He channeled the power of Mental Disruption to create a single, distracting hallucination.
He fixed his gaze on the wall to the officer's right, just at the edge of his peripheral vision, and pushed.
The officer, who had been about to reach for the basement doorknob, suddenly flinched. He jerked his head to the right, his eyes widening. "Whoa!" he exclaimed, taking an involuntary step back. "Did you see that? A huge spider! Right there!" He pointed at the blank wall.
The other officers turned, startled.
Lutz seized the opening. He didn't even look at the wall. He launched into a tirade, layering it with Charm to make it seem like the most important topic in the world.
"A spider? Good heavens, the pest control in this city! It's a disgrace! It reminds me, Officers, of the stories I've heard about the crime in the Kholm Quarter. Just the other day, a business associate was telling me about a break-in there, a real nasty piece of work. It makes you wonder where the city's resources are going, doesn't it? If they can't control the vermin or the criminals in the poorer districts, how long until it truly spills over into places like Vesper Lane?"
He was babbling, but he was babbling with purpose, redirecting the conversation, pulling their attention away from the non-existent spider and the very real basement door.
The lead officer's brow furrowed. The mention of the Kholm Quarter seemed to trigger a memory. He checked on his pocket watch. "Pierre," he said to the spider-spotting officer, his tone suddenly all business. "Everything seems to be in order here. We need to go. There's that report of a smashed window on Sokolov Street we're supposed to be investigating. It's a priority."
Officer Pierre, still looking slightly bewildered, glanced one last time at the blank wall and then at the basement door, now seemingly forgotten. "Right. Of course, Captain."
Lutz escorted them to the door, his heart still thundering. "Thank you for your diligence, Officers! I do hope you catch those ruffians in Kholm. A man needs to feel safe in his own home!"
The lead officer gave him a curt nod. "Good day, Mr. Morgan. Sorry to have disturbed you."
The moment the door clicked shut, the carefully constructed facade of James Morgan shattered. Lutz's legs gave way. He slid down the length of the door, his back against the solid wood, and landed in a heap on the floor. He drew in a huge, shuddering breath, then another, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of terror and exertion.
Eliza rushed to his side, her own face a mask of relief and fear. "Sir? Are you alright?"
Lutz looked up at her, his eyes wide, a hysterical laugh that was bubbling in his chest came out. He ran a hand through his hair, the brilliant yellow of his sleeve a grotesque contrast to the burn on his skin.
"Holy shit," he breathed, the words barely audible. "That was close."