Adrian spent the better part of the morning poring over property records, visiting dusty archive rooms, and feigning idle curiosity during casual chats with his psychic clients. He even slipped a few quid to a twitchy town-hall clerk whose conscience was on loan from someone with deep pockets. All this effort for one unsettling question: Is Jones's attempt to buy the old lady's house part of something bigger?
By midday, he had a list: five addresses scattered across East London. Some had been purchased under shell corporations; others were still under negotiation. At first glance, they made no sense. The buildings were of different eras, styles, and in neighborhoods with no obvious commonality. No shared ownership, no communal history, no apparent link. It was as though someone was scattering chess pieces across a board with no strategy.
Adrian leaned back in his creaky chair above the bookstore, the lingering smell of old books and candle wax heavy in the air. Frustration curled in his chest. "There's no pattern," he muttered, rubbing his temples. "No logic. Nothing…" He stared down at the pocket watch in his palm, its brass warm with memory and purpose. Then a quiet laugh escaped him. "That's because I'm not a detective." He tapped the watch. "I'm a Seer."
Logic and evidence, he realized, would only take him so far. What he needed was insight beyond sight. Fate didn't leave its secrets in archives—it wove them in symbols and ley lines. It was time he saw through the invisible.
That evening, he prepared his ritual space. Candles flickered in the dim room, incense curled through stale air, and a half-cracked mirror stood propped against the wall. His journal lay open on the desk, filled with tarot spreads, pentagrams, and voicings of power. He needed more than ritual mechanics; he needed identity. Klein had invoked himself with The Fool's titles, but that was another man's path.
He closed his eyes and whispered, "The Fool who Dominates Fate; Ruler of Sefirah Castle; Keeper of All Mysteries." As the words sank in, he felt the room's energy tighten, the air settling around him like a seal. Something responded. A thread linking his will with the Castle. Not borrowed—but claimed.
He knelt before the mirror. The candlelight danced across its surface, and he began his invocation. His voice deepened with each repetition:
"The Fool who Dominates Fate; Ruler of Sefirah Castle; Keeper of All Mysteries—I pray thee, show me the connection between the houses."
The mirror's glass rippled, as if struck by wind. Then lines of light etched themselves into the surface: five points, five dots. And in the center—a building. Stone-grey and unremarkable, nestled in a forgotten back alley. A glowing pentagram connected it to the other points. Adrian's breath hitched. The vision was clear, undeniable.
He snapped his eyes open and dashed to his father's study, where a large London map hung on the wall. With shaking hands, he plotted the five addresses, then drew lines between them. As the connector lines crossed, they formed a perfect pentagram. The sixth building, the ritual center, lay at the pentagram's heart. He stared, stunned. A ritual sacrifice? A seal? A portal? Whatever it was, it wasn't about property—it was code.
Something deep in his gut recoiled at the revelation. Mob bosses didn't buy houses as investment—they bought them to anchor something: a ritual, a power, a threshold. And Jones, his corrupt policeman partner, and that vampire—they weren't demonstrating wealth. They were preparing.
Adrian inhaled the musty room. The candle flickered, the mirrored images blurred, and the shadows stretched long and thin. It felt like the city outside exhaled—fog thickening in answer. He turned back to the mirror, newly aware of his own growing power. His Seer senses thrummed in his chest. Fate had provided.
Now, with this knowledge in hand, Adrian faced a terrifying clarity: this wasn't just conspiratorial—it was supernatural. Jones wasn't simply corrupt. Richards wasn't just compromised. They were participants in something far darker—a ritual that would twist fate itself.
His heart pounded, but his voice was steady.
"They want to bind power to this building." He tracked the map again. "And they're using these houses as anchors." He thought of the vampire's aura in the alley—the soulless predator feeding behind crime scenes. What role did he have in this? Adrian wasn't sure. But he knew one thing: the Seer's path required more than watching. It required action.
The candle's flame gutters. He closed his eyes and whispered: "I accept the fate revealed—not to be controlled, but to walk it." He felt the potion surge deeper into him. The fog inside cleared enough to give him vision, but not mercy.
Adrian rose, pacing the narrow room. The Seer business lay quiet downstairs. He could call Mrs. Abernathy back for another reading, feign follow-up calm. He could slip questions about Jones, about buyer intentions—anything to confirm the pattern, delay its completion. He'd need reconnaissance: staking out the center building, tailing delivery wagons, mapping out daily routines.
He paused before the mirror and looked at his own reflection—uncertain, but resolute. A Fool born in London's mist, with symbols etched in fate and power hidden in blood-rich fog. He touched the honorific chord of his identity again:
"Fool of Fate. Keeper of Mysteries. Holder of Castle's Key."
He felt the mantra resonate.
Outside, the rain began again, tapping in restless rhythm. London's heartbeat.
Adrian quieted himself.