Victor and Lorenzo wheeled the corpse into the forensics room under the flickering lights of the old station. The doctor—a grizzled man with greying temples and tired eyes—stepped forward, his expression tightening the moment the sheet was pulled back.
He studied the lifeless body in silence, then let out a long, uneasy breath.
"This… this doesn't make sense," he murmured. "For someone to drain this much blood in an open space like a graveyard? It's beyond human. And the skin—cold, pale, almost embalmed. Just like the last two bodies found near the cemetery."
Victor crossed his arms, his eyes narrowed.
"That path near the graveyard's been deserted for weeks. Too many rumors about spirits haunting the place."
Lorenzo piped up quickly, voice slightly shrill,
"They're not rumors, sir. My cousin swears he—"
Victor shot him a look.
"Lorenzo," he muttered in warning.
"Right, sorry, sir," Lorenzo cleared his throat and turned to the doctor. "So, uh… how exactly was he killed?"
The doctor shook his head, his frown deepening.
"That's just it. There are no wounds. No bruises. Just… those."
He gestured at the faint but distinct bite marks trailing down the neck and collarbone.
"And this."
He handed Victor a photo—etched into the skin near the ribcage was a phrase in curling, almost serpentine letters.
Victor's brow furrowed as he leaned in.
"Latin," he whispered. "Sanguinem vocat umbras."
The room dropped into silence.
"What does that mean?" Lorenzo asked, his voice suddenly small.
Victor looked up, his expression unreadable.
"The blood calls the shadows."
A chill wrapped around the room like a sudden winter draft. Lorenzo took a nervous step back, and even the doctor paled slightly.
"Victor," the doctor said gravely, "I know you pride yourself on logic. On reason. But three deaths with the same pattern? No blood, no struggle, no sound? You have to admit something else is at play here."
Victor didn't respond. His gaze lingered on the photo.
"You need to talk to Eliza Wormwood."
At her name, Lorenzo blinked.
"The folklore historian?"
The doctor nodded.
"Yes. She's… unique. And if anyone can help you understand what this is, it's her."
Victor's jaw tightened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes.
"I know her," he said quietly.
"And if she gets involved—things are about to get difficult than we imagined."
As Victor and Lorenzo stepped out of the cold, sterile walls of the forensics lab, the night seemed even heavier. Their carriage awaited outside, wheels creaking slightly as the horses shifted restlessly.
Lorenzo climbed in and called out,
"To the outskirts of Thornfield, near the old Marigold Lane."
The coachman gave a curt nod, flicked the reins, and the carriage lurched forward.
Inside, silence stretched between the two men except for the rhythmic clatter of hooves on cobblestone. Lorenzo hesitantly broke the silence.
"Sir… if you don't mind me asking… do you know Eliza Wormwood?"
Victor sighed, his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked window.
"We went to school together," he said, voice distant. "She was… a good friend."
He paused, then a smirk tugged at his lips.
"Well, I was her personal tormentor, actually. Used to snatch her lunch and run."
Lorenzo's eyes widened and he let out a loud laugh.
"You? A bully? You, the man who looks like he reads people's sins with a single glance? That's priceless sir !"
Victor shook his head, amused despite himself.
"I have my reasons for how I am now. But yes… I smile. I get scared. I'm human, Lorenzo, not a statue."
Lorenzo nodded, more serious now.
"So… meeting her after how long?"
"7 years," Victor murmured. "She was transferred away."
Moments later, the carriage slowed to a stop in front of a quaint, ivy-wrapped house glowing softly with warm lanterns. They stepped out, boots crunching against gravel, and approached the door. Lorenzo knocked, but no answer came.
Victor looked around.
"Check the neighbors. See if she's in."
As Lorenzo walked away, a sudden gust of wind danced through the narrow lane. One of the lanterns near the doorway flickered violently before going out, casting the porch in an eerie half-darkness.
Then the door flew open.
"You nasty little devils!" a voice shrieked. "Knocking and running and now blowing out my lanterns? When I catch you—!"
Eliza Wormwood stormed out, rod in hand,in a white dress, hair a chaotic tumble of chestnut waves. She looked like an avenging pixie, eyes flashing,swearing like a boatswain.
She marched forward, eyes squinting in the dim light, and ran straight into Victor's chest.
"Who the hell—?" she raised the stick instinctively, but Victor caught it before it could land.
"Eliza," he said calmly.
She blinked up at him, confused for a moment. Then, recognition sank in.
"Victor Casello?" she said, her voice sharp with disbelief.
He gave a small smile. "Still threatening to hit people first and ask questions later, I see."
Eliza scoffed and stepped back, lowering the stick. "Well, if people stopped showing up at my door like thieves in the night, I wouldn't have to."
Victor shrugged. "Some habits don't change."
She crossed her arms. "What are you doing here?"
Before he could answer, Lorenzo came jogging back. "Sir! Found out she's—oh." He froze. "You found her."
Eliza rolled her eyes. "Found me? You mean harassed me in the dark like a bunch of hooligans."
Victor smirked. "We need to talk. It's about the murders."
Her expression shifted slightly."those happening near the graveyard?"