**Chapter 3**
Morning smelled of damp earth and the sickly-sweet perfume of lilies. The scent—official mourning—clogged the nostrils, settled on the tongue in a cloying film that made me want to spit.
I stood by the fogged window of my bedroom while Rose, sniffling, tried with trembling fingers to fasten the stiff, cardboard-crisp collar around my neck.
"Don't fidget, James," she whispered, blinking away tears. "You have to look perfect."
I froze, obediently lifting my chin.
Inside, it was strangely quiet. No splitting, no arguments with myself. Only a leaden weight pressing me into the ground. I—a grown fifty-five-year-old man who'd lived one life and seen hundreds of deaths—now felt myself drowning in a tsunami of utterly childish, helpless grief. These weren't borrowed emotions cribbed from a movie. They were mine. The body's memory and the soul's memory fused in the furnace of that night.
A picture flared before my eyes, eclipsing the dull gray outside. Living. Warm.
The library. Evening. Dry cherrywood crackling in the great fireplace. Father sat across from me at the chess table, rolling a white pawn between his fingers. He wasn't smiling; he was serious.
"You rush the attack again without covering your rear, son," his voice was deep, calm, enveloping. "See the board wider. Life isn't a cavalry charge with sabers bare. Sometimes you have to give up a piece—even a strong one—to keep position. It's called a gambit. A conscious sacrifice for a strategic win."
He placed the pawn under my knight's attack. I happily took it, missing how I'd opened my king to his queen.
"You're kind, James," he said, meeting my eyes with a pang of prophetic sadness. "But the world is cruel. Learn to see the threat before it strikes. Or you'll be eaten."
Now they'd eaten him. And I was left alone with a board full of black pieces—playing for two.
---
Cold Lake's church, a squat wooden building crowned with a cross, was bursting at the seams. It felt like the whole province had crammed inside.
The air could be cut with a knife—thick with the breath of hundreds, the cheap tobacco of lumbermen, incense, and the heavy perfume of city money.
I stood in the front row beside my mother, straight as a rod.
The crowd split into two camps. The line was invisible but tangible. On the left pressed the locals—farmers with weathered faces, their wives in faded dresses, mill workers. They cried. Quietly. Honestly. To them, John Howlett had been a shield, a man who gave work and bread. They'd lost their support.
On the right… oh, on the right stood a flock.
Gentlemen in immaculate frock coats, ladies under black veils. Edmonton businessmen, partners, some fourth-cousin uncles. They clustered, shifting, like ravens eyeing carrion.
They approached us in a conveyor belt of condolences—masks of grief, rehearsed phrases, clammy handshakes.
"What an irreparable loss…" "A true pillar of society…" "Elizabeth, dear, be strong—the Lord takes the best…"
And then, without changing their honeyed tone, they began screwing poison hooks into my mother's ears:
"If you need help sorting the papers, I'm at your disposal…" "Managing such a vast estate is too much for a fragile woman—consider a trust…" "The timber market is unstable—perhaps selling shares would be wise…"
I glanced at Mother.
She held. Pale to the blue, eyes utterly dry and glassy, she nodded like a wind-up doll with a dying spring. But I saw the white knuckles clenched around her handkerchief. Yesterday's hard lesson had landed.
I remembered cornering her in the drawing room when she tried to fall apart again. I'd spoken hard, mercilessly—because pity now would have killed us.
"Mother, look at me. Tomorrow they'll come. Vultures. They'll smile and kiss your hands, but they want one thing—to tear the inheritance apart. If you sign even one paper, your unborn child will be born poor. Do you want him to starve?"
She'd shrunk then, covering her belly in fear. "No… God, no…"
"Then say nothing. Nod. Blame grief. Faint if you must—but promise nothing and sign nothing. Your only ally now is me. The very 'monster' you fear. But I'm your blood. Your family. And I'm the only one who won't let them hurt you."
Now she played her role—the inconsolable yet unreachable widow, walled off by mourning.
"James…" A soft, weightless touch on my shoulder.
I flinched, surfacing from my thoughts. Rose. Small, inconspicuous in her gray servant's dress. Her eyes were red slits from crying.
"You're frozen," she whispered. "Go. Say goodbye. Everyone's watching."
I looked around. The murmur in the church had died. Hundreds of eyes drilled into my back, scorching my coat. Pity, idle curiosity, greed, cold calculation. They were waiting…
I took a deep breath and stepped toward the open coffin.
And then my hearing—gift and curse—cranked itself to maximum under stress. In the silence, the whispers that blended into a murmur for others split into clear, crystalline phrases.
It was like someone had twisted the volume knob on a radio tuned to human vice. I heard them all.
"…poor boy, so stiff, all alone…"—the sincere, wet sob of a farmer's wife.
"…Northern Railway shares will drop at opening, mark my words,"—the dry rustle of money to my right. "We should seize the sawmills while the widow's in shock. John held prices—this hysterical woman won't…"
"…pretty pup. Heavy jaw, like his grandfather—good stock,"—a woman's voice, not young, appraising. "Twelve? In five years he'll be the fattest match in the province. Louise, straighten up—we must invite them to tea as soon as mourning ends…"
"…the valley land is a gold mine—pressure them, buy for pennies…"
Voices, voices, voices.
A filthy, sticky web. They were dividing my father's hide while his body wasn't even cold. Pricing me like a prize bull at market.
"Scum," I thought with icy calm as cold fury kindled inside. Rage drained away, replaced by something dark, heavy, and dangerous. "I hear you. I remember every one of you. You think I'm prey? A lamb? How wrong you are…"
I reached the coffin.
It drowned in white lilies. John Howlett lay on white satin, calm, majestic as a sleeping king. Death had smoothed his worries, making his face younger, sterner. Hands folded on his chest—the same big, callused hands that once taught me to hold reins.
The air was thick with wax and wilting flowers.
I placed my small palm on his hand. Through the coat, an absolute, cosmic cold pressed back—hard as marble.
And then the dam broke. Adult cynicism cracked, spilling the raw, bleeding pain of a twelve-year-old who'd lost his father. My throat seized like a noose.
"Papa…" I whispered. My voice wavered, broke, rasped.
Tears ran hot and bitter down my cheeks. I let them fall. I didn't wipe them away. Let them see. Let them think I'm weak and broken. Underestimating the enemy is the first step to defeat.
I leaned closer, nearly brushing my lips to his icy brow, and whispered so fast and low only he could hear:
"I'm sorry I didn't save you. I wasn't in time… But I promise you. Hear me? I give my word as a man. I won't let those jackals tear your house brick by brick. I'll take care of Mother. And the little one to be born. No one will touch them."
I squeezed his cold hand.
"I'll become strong. Strong enough you'd be proud—or horrified. But the family will survive. At any cost."
My hands shook with a fine tremor—the pain draining, that black sludge of fear and loneliness James had carried for years.
"Sleep peacefully, Papa. Your game is over. My move now. And I'll flip this damn board."
I straightened—sharp.
Tears still ran, but my face had turned to stone. Slowly, sector by sector, I swept my gaze over the hushed crowd—polished faces, greedy darting eyes, false sympathetic smiles. I memorized them. Every one.
"Look," I told them silently, a mental blow. "Remember this day. Today you bury kind John Howlett. But you have no idea what you've awakened on his grave."
---
"Fuu—finally."
The last carriage creaked away beyond the wrought-iron gates, carrying with it cheap powder, booze, and counterfeit sympathy.
The feast during plague was over.
The week after the funeral turned our house into a revolving door. Delegations came nonstop—neighbors I'd never seen, backwoods relatives, forgotten partners—all suddenly remembered "poor Elizabeth" and "the poor boy," eager to "express condolences." And to eat for free, drink John's cellar dry, and sniff how bad things were and how soon we'd be ruined.
Enough.
I stood in the empty hall, crushing a handkerchief I no longer needed, feeling a thick, oily anger boil under my sternum.
The urge again.
Rage now surged not in waves but in tsunamis, blowing fuses. The mutation had twisted not just my body but my endocrine system, cranking "aggression" to eleven. I was a walking powder keg with a lit fuse. Five times I'd nearly lost it on particularly brazen bastards who shoved advice down our throats or tried to pat the "poor orphan" on the cheek.
One stood out. Mr. Piggott.
A fat bastard—name fits, pig. Managing director of Father's sawmills. A sweating, jowly mass in an ill-fitting coat, beady eyes sunk in fat. He owns ten percent and decided John's death was his golden ticket.
I'd watched him. A predator smelling blood. First he pawed at Rose, cornering her until I intervened—"accidentally" stepping on his foot. Then, emboldened by impunity and whiskey, he turned to Mother, looming, breathing booze, whispering about "a woman's burden," "the need for a firm hand," and "a strong man's shoulder."
"Your face…" I hissed through clenched teeth. "You're first on my vivisection list. I'll give you such a 'strong shoulder' you'll choke on your own guts, hog."
Stop. Brake.
I drew a deep breath, counted to ten, and slammed the Beast back into its cage. The mental bolt clanged shut. Not now. Emotion is a luxury. Snap—and I lose. Kill him—and I run to the woods, leaving Mother and Rose to the wolves.
I turned and headed for the sanctum—Father's study.
A shadow crossed with a tray.
"Jeannette," I called softly.
She jumped like I'd fired a gun and nearly dropped the silver coffeepot. One of two new maids Mother had hired days ago in Cold Lake.
"Yes—y-young master!" She tried to curtsy, tangled her skirts, almost kissed the parquet.
I smirked inwardly. Mother's discipline at work. "Even in mourning, someone must mind the house."
The girl looked rattled—red hands, frightened eyes. That curtsy… I'd bet she'd only known which side of a cow to approach before coming here.
I wanted to say, humanly, "Relax—we'll manage." But being "the young master" meant distance. Democracy isn't in fashion here.
"I'll be working in Father's study," I said, passing without slowing. "Arrange coffee. And food. A lot. Meat pies, beef sandwiches, cheese—and sweets too. Everything edible."
"Yes, young master—at once!" She squeaked and fled toward the kitchen, heels clattering like wolves at her heels.
My stomach answered with a demanding, painful spasm—knife-sharp.
Another problem. A big one.
I am constantly hungry. No—ravenous.
My metabolism has gone orbital. I'm a biological furnace that needs constant fuel—protein and carbs. In a week I gained five, maybe seven kilos—and not fat. Dense muscle. I grew a couple centimeters. Shirts strained at the shoulders, seams threatened to burst, trousers tightened at the thighs. Hunger became a second shadow, a mean demon. The mutation is unfolding, rebuilding this frail body into a survival machine.
And one more thing that took my breath.
Training.
All week, to bleed off tension and tame aggression, I locked myself in and worked—push-ups, squats, crunches. A hundred, two, three… I could go all night. I don't tire. No lactic acid, no burn. Muscles recover instantly during work—and not to baseline, but stronger. Real-time supercompensation. As if the body thinks: load increased—reinforce the frame, thicken fibers, densify bone. No soreness in the morning. Always peak condition.
I pushed the heavy oak door.
The study greeted me with silence, half-drawn curtains, and the smell of old leather, book dust, and the ghost of Father's pipe tobacco.
Victorian solidity. Dark oak panels, cabinets crammed with ledgers, a massive globe, and a monumental desk.
I entered and my gaze locked on the wall above the fireplace.
Grandfather's portrait. Abraham Howlett.
A cold shiver—James's memory saying hello. The boy had feared him to nausea and nightmares. Abraham was a despot with dead-fish eyes, a man without a soul. He despised John for "softness" and openly bullied "the sickly pup" James as a mistake of nature.
He'd died a year ago. Stroke. Heart choked on its own bile.
I stared into the painted eyes.
"Well hello, old ghoul," I muttered without fear. "How's hell? Warm enough? I survived—and won't miss you."
I dropped into Father's chair. Too big—I sank, feet barely touching the floor—but I didn't care.
"Alright. Let's begin the autopsy," I murmured, pulling a stack of papers close.
I dug in. Legal documents, then John's notes, accounts, invoices.
Jeannette brought food—mountains of it. I chewed venison pie, swallowed almost without tasting, washed it down with cooling coffee, and read. Read. Read.
An hour. Two. Three.
Numbers blurred. Debit, credit, amortization, freight, margins…
I'm a surgeon. Top tier. I can suture hair-thin vessels under a microscope. Restart a stopped heart. I know Latin and pharmacology. But nineteenth-century bookkeeping might as well be Sumerian cuneiform.
I saw symptoms—here a budget hole, here logistics inflated, here money vanishing into a black hole. I could smell theft. But how? What scheme? I didn't know timber prices, market laws, who lied and who didn't.
Finally, my nerves snapped.
I dropped my head onto the desk with a dull thud, onto an open ledger. My forehead pressed the cool, rough paper.
"Damn it…" I groaned. "How am I supposed to untangle this mess?!"
I jerked up and glared at Grandfather's portrait.
"I get the gist! I see we're being robbed! I smell it! But how—exactly—are they doing it?! Where's the scheme?"
I leaned back, scrubbing my face.
"In my past life I was a surgeon. Now what? A child. Twelve years old with a tutor's education and French poetry. If I confront sharks like Piggott waving guesses, they'll eat me alive and spit the bones. They'll bury me in jargon, laws, fake reports."
I needed a brain. Someone else's. A professional, cynical brain. A mercenary who knows the jungle rules and won't fear dirtying cuffs—figuratively, maybe literally. I needed my own manager. A guard dog.
My eye caught the desk's edge—an elegant wicker basket piled with unopened mail. Letters had stacked up during mourning.
"I need a distraction," I muttered, shoving the cursed ledger aside. "Let's read other people's mail. What's better than dirty laundry?"
I pulled the basket close and took the letter knife. Heavy silver gleamed under the lamp. A familiar sweet itch stirred in my knuckles—the Beast approved. It likes things that cut.
I slit envelopes quickly, carelessly.
A full deck of human hypocrisy. Official condolences from Edmonton City Hall—expensive letterhead, dead text. Reports from churches thanking us and hinting that "orphans need support." Bills. Invitations to charity balls—now mockery.
Then surprises. Spice.
Five envelopes reeked of floral perfume so strong my nose itched. I opened one—my brows climbed.
"Oh," I breathed. "Father wasn't dull."
Inside—a daguerreotype. A woman in a tight corset and frilled pantalettes perched a leg on a velvet pouf, showing ankle and calf. Sultry gaze, parted lips—a pose considered the height of depravity in this century.
For my porn-saturated twenty-first century, it was monastery-grade. Naive. Funny. But for 1892? Hardcore.
The letters matched—women of flexible morals offering "comfort" and themselves as discreet mistresses for modest (and not so modest) support.
I snorted, studying the busty blonde.
"Modest, sure—but points for effort. Why am I only twelve?"
Heat rushed to my cheeks; my heart sped; warmth betrayed me below. Damn teenage hormones. James's body, pumped with mutant testosterone, reacted faster and dumber than my adult brain could rein it in.
"Tsk—indecency," I growled, flinging the pictures aside. "Not now. I've got an empire collapsing, not a brothel to open."
I took the next envelope.
Thick, quality paper. Cream-colored.
I opened it, skimmed—and froze like a hound on scent.
Dated that very day. The day Dog and Thomas burst in.
While Father was being killed, while I was dying on the carpet, this man sat in some Vancouver hotel, dipping a steel nib into ink and writing to living John Howlett—unaware he addressed a dead man.
From one Alfred Crane. The handwriting was smooth, confident—of someone who knows his worth.
"Dear Mr. Howlett,
I hasten to share good news. Yesterday I received my diploma from the Wharton School of Business at the University of Pennsylvania. I graduated with honors, first in my class in Asset Management and Corporate Finance.
I will never forget the day you believed in a clerk's son and paid for my education. You gave me more than a check, sir—you gave me a future. Every success I owe to you.
I remember our agreement. I seek no handouts and no easy path in the States. I ask the honor of repaying my debt. I arrived in Vancouver two days ago, lodged on Water Street, awaiting your call.
I am ready to begin work immediately. My knowledge, energy, and loyalty are yours.
With deep respect,
Alfred Crane."
I tapped the letter against the desk. Tap. Tap. Tap.
A dead time loop. He offers loyalty to a man gone. He waits for a call from a corpse.
"Who are you, Alfred Crane?" I whispered. "Why did Father invest in an American education?"
Illegitimate son? Unlikely—doesn't fit John, tone too formal. More likely John, the strategist, groomed a successor—a golden hire grown from seed. An investment in brains.
Reasons don't matter. Results do.
A ready tool lay before me. Wharton—elite. Special forces of finance. This man knows markets better than I know anatomy. And he owes us. Feels it. Hungry to work.
My chance. My financial scalpel to cut out theft and seize control.
"Could work," I smiled—not childlike at all—at Grandfather's portrait. "As they say, fortune favors the bold. And I plan to bathe in champagne."
I grabbed clean paper, dipped the pen. My childish hand was clumsy, but I forced the letters sharp and clear.
"Mr. Crane,
I have bad news. The letter you sent my father was read by me. My father, John Howlett, has died—tragically and suddenly.
I am his son and sole heir, James Howlett. I accept your offer of service—but the terms have changed.
My father's empire needs cleansing and an iron hand. I need not a clerk to shuffle papers, but a guard dog—a manager who understands finance better than the devil and won't fear dirtying his cuffs while cleaning our Augean stables. The work will be heavy, complex, dirty—and possibly dangerous.
If your words of debt and honor mean anything, come. If you're ready to prove your diploma with deeds, I await you.
One more task—your first test.
The estate has emptied. Servants fled over foolish superstition. I need new staff, and I will not hire local gossips. While in Vancouver, recruit people. I need a butler—silent, efficient, able to keep a house in iron discipline. I need a gardener, stoker, two maids, and a cook. I pay twenty percent above market. The main requirement is professionalism and no questions. Bring them with you.
Enclosed: $50—for the best carriage, travel expenses, and staff deposits. Do not disappoint me.
James Howlett."
I opened the desk's secret drawer where Father kept emergency cash. Took a crisp $50 bill—huge money, a factory worker's yearly wage.
Sealing the envelope with the family crest, I leaned back and cracked my neck.
"Economist secured. Now—force."
Adult, dangerous men with guns I can trust. Bodyguards. Not dumb village thugs who'll bolt at the first shot or sell out to Piggott for whiskey. I need pros—who keep quiet, shoot straight, and solve problems discreetly. Men of war.
Here, I had ideas.
But first, I had to play detective. I bared my teeth, thrill rising. Adrenaline surged—not blind Beast rage, but cold, calculated anticipation.
Despite everything, this new life was starting to please me. Sharp as blood with pepper. Intoxicating as pure lust.
"Well then, Holmes," I told myself, eyeing the sealed letter. "Elementary, James. Time to hunt."