Prologue: Hellfire
I hum a little song to myself as I walk the rainy streets: a song of ancient blood, of murder, and of sin; the darkness hears it, listens, and responds. The shadows sweep across my ethereal form as I waver, crouched in the shadows of an overhanging roof. I watch the woman of the hour; her figure bathed in red as she bids farewell to her gentleman caller, who vanishes into the night. There's a smile on her mouth, but it's a Cheshire cat grin: it only covers half her face, not reaching her eyes.
Her eyes are flat and empty, telling nothing of her soul: desires long since forgotten. I laugh to myself, my white teeth gleaming like starlight in the darkness.
There is a sin upon her form, a blackened stain like ink. But she only turned to prowling the East End streets by night in order to feed her ailing son. Such is the purity of a mother's love putrefied by the carnal flesh of greedy men.
It's a sad, simple tale that I've heard time and time again. And so good and evil dance their ageless dance throughout London's streets. The silver rain pours from the heavens like a curtain to set the stage.
It is never simple anymore; things are no longer black or white. There are only shades of grey.
But grey is dark enough for me.
The woman walks closer to my hiding spot, her pale figure slight and unassuming.
She is drawn to me; I grin through my wraith-like shape.
And then I pounce.