Frankly, I ran out of inspiration for my other two fics and I decided that in order to make Iced Chaos more of a detective feel to it, I read Sherlock Holmes. This of course had the unexpected effect of making me wonder what would happen if Holmes were to live in the same world as Harry Dresden, albeit the Victorian nineteenth-century equivalent. I then decided to start on this as hopefully I would be better able to type the next chapters for my other fics as I flesh this out.

I chose the villain or villains of this piece to be the Vampire Black Court and the setting to be 1898, approximately one year after the publication of Bram Stoker's Dracula. The publication of this book, and thus the exposure of the Black Court's existence to the literate population, albeit in fiction, as well as the Court's general weaknesses, seriously threaten the existence of the Black Court in Britain as other powers such as the White Council (in Edinburgh) and the Faerie Courts (Eriau, better known as Ireland, holding a special significance to them) begin to move in onto them. To better their chances of survival, the last remaining scourge in London decides to gather more power. It orders a Renfield (for those who don't recall, it's produced by crushing with brute psychic force the mind and will of a human for a quick muscular mindless thug with low shelf life) to steal one of thirty Blackened Denarii from the local Catholic church in London so as to use the power of the fallen angel within. The Renfield was violently stopped but the scene was discovered just as the Renfield was beheaded, such that the coin was left at the scene as the warrior-priest fled. Sherlock Holmes was called into the case, but it is Doctor Watson who receives the coin...and all hell breaks loose.

I am an amateur author of false name

I borrow worlds of another's fame

I stake no claim on recognised locations

Nor do I own canon situations.

I merely come to spend a while,

Reading others' work; writing my own style.

I earn no money, no wage, no dosh.

I gain no finance, no revenue, no cash.

I do not mean to step on legal toes,

I mean no infringement; I am friend, not foe.

So please, do come in, relax, unwind.

I hope, in my work, enjoyment you will find.

Sympathy for the Devil

Being the unsung saga never told by any party mentioned

Prologue: A Hunt in the Night

London at night is cool, even in the very heat in the heart of summer, the sweltering heat given by an otherwise glaring sun dissipating as parts of London went about under the cover of darkness. A city never sleeps; here in London, the heart of Empire and Country, perhaps even less so. Even then, amid the mustard fog that occasionally drifted through the streets and alleys of the east end, the thumps upon the cobblestones signalled someone running desperately in mortal peril.

The unknown mannish figure continued in his mad dash through to a destination unknown to perhaps any other than himself, strange in that he was barely panting, or that he did not even curse or swear or indeed make any sound to indicate otherwise of a sentient being living in that human shell that was currently moving through parts of London where the city's darkness seemed to concentrate the most. In fact, if not for the fact that he, for the figure was indeed male, was moving, one would have been quite inclined to think, from the mindless look in the poor man's eyes, and from the tautness of the tendons in his hands as he gripped onto a small item in those appendages, that he was quite, quite dead.

As it were, the first figure was closely followed by another in pursuit. This second figure was in quite a few ways the antithesis of the first; obviously human and alive, with deep brown eyes that were desperate and at the same time kind and pitying. The second man held a sword, a long, thin double-edged affair with a simple, unadorned cross-guard and hilt that was at the same time dignified, and the Roman collar around his neck upon which hung a simple cross announced his faith and occupation, quite a distinction from the sword he was holding as he continued to bear down on the first figure, his voluminous black robe billowing about him much like an avenging angel.

Quite against his very creed, the second figure drew a gun from within his robes and, pausing only once to aim, fired a single shot that echoed about the stones and cobbles, tearing a gaping wound into the first figure, who collapsed onto the ground, bleeding profusely on the cobblestones, still attempting to drag his body forward to whatever unknown destination he was bound to with the desperation seen only in dying men and men upon pain of death, or possibly the possessed.

"Rest in peace, lost soul, for your torment will end now. The scourge no longer has any hold over you," the second figure whispered, drawing his sword. The blade glimmered in what little light the occupants of the London night sky gave as it swung down and with a swing, cut cleanly through the man's neck. It was necessary, the executioner thought. Being imbued with the dark powers, this poor soul would have continued on its half-life even with the shot that would have felled any other man. It was a small mercy than the fate which would have awaited him given enough time.

Soon, the man's body, sans head, stopped twitching and lay perfectly still, the lone head that had stopped upon the cobbles wearing an expression of peace, as if he had realised what had happened and had finally accepted it.

The man sighed and began saying last rites upon the body, despite the lack of props he had, and upon speaking the last words, pulled a handkerchief upon which two crosses were embroidered in silver thread and, with that in his hand, and wrapping this firmly in his hand, he reached out, prodding into the dead man's fingers and wrapping the cloth around the small silver disc found within those fingers.

Just as he had done so, a masculine voice and a sudden burst of illumination broke out behind him: "Oi, wat 'choo doing there? Stop, police!"

This last statement was addressed to him, he knows, as he begins to flee the scene with every fibre of his being with his sword. Even though, quite frankly, he had delivered an innocent from unspeakable horrors that the rest of the population were thankfully ignorant of, lucky them, it was not so in the eyes of the oh so reasonable law, in which science and tangible proof took centre stage. No, he would have been hung as a murderer, for the courts of civilization did not recognise vampires or any creature of nightmares and darkness and thus would not have believed the truth. Most humans did not wish to recognise a truth so frightening.

He continues to flee, thanking God that the beat constable was far slower such that he was able to escape under cover of darkness, never stopping under the cover of darkness until he had reached the small church in which he currently put up in. In his haste to flee, he had not heard a small clink of metal striking the cobblestones over which he fled, never stopping until he reached sanctuary.

Running up the three large steps, he struck the heavy double doors three times, before the door was promptly opened by the local elderly priest of the parish. "Thank God you are back, Brother Emile," the priest spoke with relief, a small smile upon his withered lips.

"Yes, and I have recovered the coin..." too late, he realises, too late, what he had recovered... "It's gone," he whispered in horror and disbelief.

The smile immediately faded from the old priest's face. "Dark times are coming for London," he murmured. "It is too late to do anything now. If it is meant to be, the coin will come back to us. Do not throw away what chance the Almighty had granted you this night to search for it now, Emile. If it is picked up, it will be revealed, and once again the Knights will save the poor soul from the Fallen."

The horror was still evident upon Emile's face as he nodded. "May we be in time."

"May we be more successful in our endeavours the next time." the old priest replied.

Far away, under the shadows of the night, amid the cobblestones of a certain street of London's East End, a silver coin glimmered, or parts of its upturned face did, most of it covered by the black tarnish of time and evil. A part of it glimmered brighter than most, giving the impression that the tarnish took the shape of a wolf's head, and the brightest spot its eye, that somehow, somehow, the coin was alive, aware, and awakening...

The whole gamut of good and evil is in every human being, certain notes, from stronger original quality or most frequent use, appearing to form the whole character; but they are only the tones most often heard. The whole scale is in every soul, and the notes most seldom heard will on rare occasions make themselves audible.

~FANNY KEMBLE, Further Records, Feb. 12, 1875

Does anyone know the exact wording of the Catholic last rites? I'm a bit fuzzy on the details.