SAUCY JACK
Disclaimer: I don't own the Coldfire Trilogy
Warning: multiple character death and a fair amount of violence and gore
A/N 1: For this story I transported the unsolved Ripper mystery including the entire miserable East End from London on our good old Earth to Jaggonath. There might be slight changes from the original events, e.g. that the later victims of the Ripper will be still alive when he mutilates them for his pleasure. Confronted with their corpses, Damien Vryce starts to harbour very unsettling suspicions concerning the killer. I'm well aware that we had something like that twice before, once in Morgana's crossover with Criminal Minds and once in 'Disturbing Possibilities' by Fragorl (as far as I remember the story was sadly discontinued after the first chapter). This time Vryce is neither a police officer nor a special agent though, and I hope the storyline sufficiently differs from its siblings that you won't be tempted to flame me...
A/N 2: Actually, I feel a bit uneasy about using those deplorable women's fate for fanfiction, but for the sake of the readers sharing my misgivings let me assure you that I'm going to tell my tale with utmost respect for them. At least unlike the folks cashing in on the described events with books and movies I don't get paid for this...
A/N 3: Started the chapter before I felt sorely tempted to spit fire and chew bricks, if you know what I mean, and whatever is going to happen I don't have the heart to let the beginning of the story I've been wanting to write for so long now rot on my computer... Many, many thanks to Silvereyedbitch and KKenji (wanted to write you a pm, but sadly you don't have an account) for their support! Hugs!
A/N 4: Sorry that I had to repost this chapter with a few slight alterations, e.g. changing the year to 1254 A.S. You'll find an explanation for this in the next chappie…
0000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000000
Chapter One: Mary Ann Nichols
Whitechapel, Jaggonath, 31st August 1254 A.S., 3.30 a.m.
"Polly…" He whispered her nickname softly, breathed it like a lover's endearment, the sound all but inaudible over the hammering of the rain and the unearthly peals of thunder threatening to split the night sky apart.
The motionless body lying at his booted feet had been a fallen woman in her lifetime, one of the dozens of alcohol-addicted prostitutes roaming the streets of the East End in this coldest and wettest summer on record, always in search of the next drink and a place in a doss house to sleep it off. His mind half crazed with the horrible urge growing inside him for the last year, spotting her at the Frying Pan Public House, a place far beneath him under different circumstances, had been a revelation. Attracted by her dark hair and her delicate, childlike features, he had stalked her through the grimy streets like a wraith, had witnessed her soliciting trade and spending her hard-won pennies on her best friend the gin bottle again and again until her small feet had carried her to this deserted back alley.
He didn't know what had finally given him away, but suddenly the woman had whirled around, her frightened hazel eyes evoking disturbing memories quickly banished into the deepest recesses of his soul, and he had left his place in the shadows and stepped out in the light. The silver dagger had felt so good in his hand, so right, and overwhelmed by the surge of visceral fear radiating from her he had cut her dainty throat before she could utter a last scream.
Still basking in the glow of the almost sexual rush of adrenaline, he knelt down at her side and sliced through the layers of cloth, baring his victim's abdomen. As he had guessed from the neatness of her garments, her enticingly pale skin was unusually clean for one of her kind, and he shivered with the sheer force of his need. Dazedly, he watched as his hand seemingly moved on its own account, the sharp blade cutting through cooling tissue until her intestines were visible, glistening wetly in the faint lantern light like a nest of unclean serpents.
The last vestiges of humanity drowning in an ocean of unbridled greed, he brought the blade to his lips and licked away the droplets of blood, relishing in the utterly familiar taste of iron and salt. When he had finished his unholy meal he cocked his head, his elegantly arched eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Hunting that woman through the nocturnal streets and bringing down his prey at long last had been a thoroughly enjoyable pastime, but something vital was missing nonetheless, something he should have taken into consideration before he had dealt the fatal blow.
Realizing that the answer to his problem was surprisingly easy, a faint smile passed over his striking features. Getting carried away, he had just finished her off too quickly, denying himself the prolonged suffering of his victim he was longing for. But never mind. This was just a test run, and it didn't really matter that he had botched it. In the wake of the loss of the fae and the Hunter's demise there were so many lonely, desperate women out and about in the darkest hours, and the next time he would do better.
Chuckling darkly, the killer straightened and merged with the night.