Author's Note:

Welcome to my first stumble into the fanfiction world of Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji for those who prefer the original title), and my return to fanfiction in general for over a year. I know there are many Madame Red/Grell meeting stories, as well as the whole Jack the Ripper plot stories on the site. But seeing as I personally find Jack the Ripper fascinating as one of the most famous murder mysteries to spring forth from Britain, and also seeing as I have seen very little mention of Martha Tabram, who is documented as the first of the Rippers kills, I decided to change the whole story aspect a little and have Grell and Madame Red's kills overlap the 'real' Ripper's rampage and have them contribute to the fact that the man was never caught. It's much more difficult to track the real killer if two or more copycats start their rampage at the same time in the same place.

I am currently researching the Ripper case as a side project, and along with a few other fictions in the works, so fair warning that updates could be sparse and erratic.

And now, before my exhausted brain melts completely, I shall cease my ramblings and let you try out my newest fic.

Hell Hath No Fury.

Prelude:

There are many wonderful and beautiful cities around the world, from the breath-taking yet haunting Paris with its elegant tower and Notre Dame, to the romantic and fairy tale-esque that is Rome. There are certainly a great number of cities far more worthy of the high regard in which smog choked London is held. But London too, is a wonder in itself.

London is a unique city. It is alive and forever expanding. Its boundaries feeling outward like curious and tentative fingers. A hamlet, a village, each summer more are consumed, forever lost and their population contributing to the swelling numbers of 'true' Londoners, and although growth and numbers are required to ensure prosperity and a city its longevity, it also breeds poverty.

By the autumn, its numbers have surged again, though this time by those who voluntarily brought their families to the thriving community during the summer warmth, dreaming of a better life at the very stronghold heart of the British Empire, where it boasted of employment and wealth unrivalled. But all too soon the factory managers and labour handlers were finding themselves completely overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of potential candidates clamouring for each limited position available. Land owners struggled to supply lodgings for the rapidly growing numbers desperate for shelter as the nights drew colder, meaning that the numbers of the homeless spilling into the streets and gutters also doubled. London, who had boasted so many promises, was suddenly failing.

The city was truly alive. And like most living beings, it was coasting upon deceit and those whose dreams and hopes it had shattered. Those who had sold comfortable country livelihoods; and boxed into a single mule cart their remaining possessions; those who had exhausted their savings and now had no means to earn a wage were swept from the prosperous areas and hidden in the forbidden underbelly of society. Ushered across the Great Thames River, where the glassy water acted as a deadly barrier of cruel currents and bitter chills, protecting the Upper Classes and those they employed.

But despite of the betrayal and sufferings its people felt, London City, the heart of the tyrannical Britain that had dominated most of the new world, continued to thrive and evolve, when one opportunity grew exhausted, it sought another and another. And its wretched souls learned to adapt.

One.

Martha Tabram staggered the darkened East End streets without concern, part due to the streets being her home for these past few years and part due to the rum that sang merrily through her body. A calloused palm ghosted crumbling brickwork of a long abandoned iron mongers shed as she muttered slurred curses against the crisp Atlantic chill that rolled and spilled from the Thames as it permeated her to the bone. She was getting too old to rough these British spring nights, however after an evening in one of the few beer houses that still welcomed her and happily robbed her pittance for lodging left her with little option.

London continually betrayed and preyed upon her. At first it had been kind to her, welcoming her from her home in Ireland and even providing her a decent and hardworking man to wed. Her husband had given her a home and she returned his kindness in birthing him a son. And then she discovered alcohol. It quickly became both her ambrosia and her poison, robbing her of her beauty, her humour and her wealth. Desperate and for the sake of their child, her husband had pretended normality, despite the increase of squandered rent money by his wife. But when the threat of eviction loomed over them, he made his choice.

So now Martha roamed, clawing at her ragged shawl about her throat as the next mournful howl ripped at her, determined to thieve from her yet more warmth. Half turning away from the blast suddenly brought a shadowed figure into her watery and drunken view, melting from the darkness like a phantom.

"Bloody 'ell, Luv!" she croaked through her muddled accent, thickened by slurs. "You scared me ole heart 'alf dead."

The figure, a man as it was now revealed to be, made no move, nor attempt at apology. Instead he simply watched her with a hollowed gaze.

Now Martha was a crafty woman, in the years that she had been forced to endure hardship, she had learned that there are still few ways for a woman to earn a shilling or two. Begging and gambling in the beer houses often yielded small return, enough for a cup or two of beer but little more. The streets however had a different set of rules. If coins were to be passed, a service was required in exchange.

Prostitution was rife in these poorer hovels. Well-to-do gentlemen often crossed the river to slum with women, young girls, even the occasional lad. Anything that their homely wife would wrinkle her nose at or a secret fancy that was forbidden in their world, they could find here. For a price of course, and women like Martha were only too happy to oblige, if it saved them an unpleasant night upon the cobbles.

"I may not be like yer fancy little lady back 'ome, but me cunny* still works well as ever, but 'ole Martha still has 'er price. Come where I can see ye an' we'll see just what that price will be."

With a fluid skulking gait, the gentleman slipped closer, though the shadows seemed to follow and cling to him like a foreboding accessory.

Martha bent forward, slightly squinting in attempt to sharpen her short sightedness. He appeared younger than she had expected, perhaps in his mid to late twenties, and with features that were delicate, almost bordering on being feminine. Light eyes, though she couldn't pinpoint the exact colour, and brown hair that reached at least to his shoulders, pulled back and tied neatly.

"Well, ye a fine lookin' lad, ain'tcha?" Martha crooned, her slurring and Irish timbre degrading the compliment to little more than a crude leer. "I reckon 'bout five shillings ought be fair."

The man made no gesture, no movement, simply staring until Martha felt unease prickle along her spine. She even considered dropping her fee. But he slowly reached his right hand into one of the deep pockets of his coat and Martha's eyes crinkled with delight. She had pushed for a little less than what the younger prostitutes would ask, but it was double her usual rate.

She had gambled, and she had won. Cracking her mouth into a crooked and yellowed grin as the man withdrew his hand.

A blow, hard and heavy struck her shoulder. A gasp burst from her lips as burning pain lit her body aflame. She clasped her hand to the spot, eyes tracking the arm that swung back over the man's head, her mind pushing aside the drunken muddle as she felt something warm and sticky well beneath her fingers. The arm arced toward her again and she spotted the wicked metal, smeared in her crimson blood, racing downward. As the blade bit into her belly, her eyes swept to meet those of her attackers.

Blue.

That night, mere metres from a lodging house, Martha Tabram was brutally stabbed and hacked 39 times, savagely murdered by the true Ripper.

And as her body dropped, red mist descending over her vision and her face aimed to the heavens, she saw a second figure balanced upon the rooftops. Her mouth moved, blood gurgled in her throat and drowned her pleas for mercy. But the figure did nothing save for a slow hand movement. It clapped. Applauding her murder like some macabre theatre production one would attend in the West End.

The rooftop spectator watched with morbid fascination as the final blow ripped a final ragged seam in the woman's crimson slicked form. She was dead, and had been for a good few minutes now, his enjoyment of witnessing such a dramatic departure evident upon his face.

A human witnessing a murder of any degree of violence would surely empty its stomach content onto the ground, would most certainly cry its distress of such an act being performed. However, Grell Sutcliff, despite his form, was far from human.

Grell Sutcliff was a Reaper, a century of age. Death was his calling and soul collecting his business. Required to witness the fatal incident, examine the record housed within the human shell and then collect both the memories for their library and escort the soul to their allocated eternity.

And Grell did so love his job.

Alas, Martha Tabram was not upon his collection list. Her own allocated Reaper would also be nearby, waiting for Jack the Ripper to flee all the while noting the final acts of the woman's mortality, and preparing to clear away the mess like an obedient stage hand.

But Grell was never designed to dwell in the background. He was not built to be a silent participant peering in from behind the curtain. Everything about him screamed for attention. Colourful suits instead of the drab formal attire that his peers favoured, his finely etched features artfully touched with barest traces of kohl and rouge. Sharp witted and dangerously intelligent, Grell was the top of the field agents in the London Dispatch department.

Dark lashes slid over double ringed pupils as the coppery tang filled his nose with a slow, deep breath. Entertainment was scarce when you were above the frailties of mortality and London had become monotonous and dull in these past decades for death. And he was feeling restricted and confined within the usual assignment cache.

Icy fingers caressed the flames that cascaded about his shoulders, knotting and flicking ember wisps about his cheeks. Pivoting away from the brutally destroyed and now abandoned corpse of Martha Tabram, Grell stepped into a frighteningly swift and sure footed sprint along the rooftops of a sleeping London, clearing spaces wide enough for horse and cart in a single effortless bound.

As the Reaper raced the city skyline, illuminated by the moon and stars, another predator stalked the darkened alleys with murder as its intent.

Grell reached his client in minutes but to his astonishment, there was already a figure crouched over the body.

A woman, he concluded just before the moon retreated behind cloud cover and robbed him of frail light.

Her hands moving over a younger woman, barely past girl-hood, with almost a frenzied urgency, loosening clothing, fingers digging at the pulse point at the throat, trying to save her.

Grell felt his lips curl into a silent snarl, revealing a mouth full of canines bared at the interfering female below. And he was forbidden from preventing any attempts of saving the dying if it meant revelation of himself or harm befalling an innocent party. All the Reaper could do was to sink back into the shadows and pace his frustrations upon the rooftop where his journey had concluded and wait.

The older woman leaned sideways and lay a wet, red stained bundle next to the younger's blonde hair, a minute incline and a gurgled whimper emitted from the paled lips. Again the older woman moved back to her work just as the moon broke cover and swathed the pair in silvery light. Fire sprang from the bent form; glorious red slid over her shoulder and obscured the owners face.

Grell felt his scowl soften reluctantly, lips slipping over his fearsome teeth once more.

The red woman moved so that her lips brushed the others ear, her fingers slipping and tangling into the flaxen locks as she murmured soft words that made tears spill from steadily glazing eyes and mingle with the crimson that pooled and haloed the pair. The tangled hand suddenly fisted, snapping the head back and exposing the milk pale throat.

The Reaper's eyes widened and he clasped the wrought iron weather vane jutting from the shingles and strained onto his toes as the second arm swept across the girl's throat with a metallic flash.

Her mouth dropped in a scream, but no sound came, just a fountain of angry red liquid jetting skywards as the flesh parted.

Sitting back on her heels, the red woman wrapped her arms about her shoulders and panted. Observing the patterns the blood made as it slowly seeped toward her, her brain processing what she'd just done.

"My, my. That was quite the little show, Madam."

Her reaction to his voice was primal and savage; pivoting into a squat and in her blood smeared fist she clasped a scalpel. Scanning the empty alley behind her she frowned in confusion. He found her fear amusing.

"I dare say she must have been quite the enemy to deserve such a butchering. She shan't be a bother now."

Turning back to the body laying behind her, he woman stared silently before a tiny shaky voice said. "S… she wasn't my enemy. She was a patient."

Releasing his grip on the iron spire, Grell dropped from the rooftop with ease, his dress coat billowing out around him, slowing his descent until he landed with the barest of bend to his knees, absorbing the impact and immediately stepping into a smooth stride.

He moved confidently and with feline grace until he loomed over both the woman in red and the corpse, casting only a cursory glance over the living woman before focussing his attention on the body and inspecting her handiwork.

The cuts were confident, precise and artistic. Brutal and masterful and unmistakably performed by well-practiced hands. He leaned in closer, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. The killing slice across her throat hat completely severed the jugular and dug through the vocal chords in the same easy move, explaining the silence when the girl tried to scream.

"A surgeon, I believe." He paused, double ringed eyes moving to the bloodied pile next to the dead girl's head. Finger poised, he prodded it so it flapped open. "Her uterus."

"She didn't deserve it." The woman whispered. "It is designed to shelter and protect. To nurture," the tremble in her voice hardened. "And she had me violate it. She begged me. Demanded that I cut the child from her body. So I cut everything out"

All traces of her nervousness had vanished into a bestial snarl, almost sounding as though she desired to murder the girl over again.

Grell simply gazed, his lids at half-mast and deep in thought as he pressed his bloodied finger to the closed eyelid in a sweeping motion as though applying powder. He was supposed to reap this girl, take her memories and her soul and leave as par his handbook stated. Back to protocol, back to rules, and back to the stifled feeling that he'd been struggling with for these past years.

But here, beside him, knelt an opportunity. The catalyst to possibly one of the greatest stories in recent history, save for those of Shakespeare.

"Are there more? Like this one?" He breathed, painting the other eyelid as he had the first.

The woman glanced up, curious. This man. This strange creature who had watched her kill and showed her no repulsion, no fear, was asking her if there were more. Implying that he'd very much like her to perform a repeat of tonight.

"Yes." She breathed. "They swarm like rats. Without proper reason or preparation and so they end up selling themselves, renting out their own person and then demanding that I 'fix' the result of their ignorance and irresponsibility. They ask for me to remove their gift, so I extract it all."

Grell closed his slitted eyes and clenched the tip of his tongue between predatory points, hissing in a breath. "You sound as though you desire another killing. You do realise how dangerous this game you play is, what would become of you Madam, should you be caught?"

"I should be hanged"

Grell tilted his chin over his shoulder, lashes parting as he revealed his two toned emerald gaze. The lighter inner ring burned with a wildness that human eyes could never hold, and the darker outer ring chilled her blood within her veins. "And are you prepared for that possibility, dear Lady? Do you accept that should you be caught there is precious little that I am willing to do?"

The woman in red narrowed her eyes at him, ferocity and fury burning beneath the rust. "You are a bold one." She spat. "You assume that I would accept let alone ask your help?"

"It would be wise for you to have me as an ally."

She drew herself tall, cupping her elbow in one hand while the other flicked her wrist outward, reminding him of the killing tool still in her possession. "I have answered enough of your questions. I think, perhaps, it is time that you answered some of mine. Let us start with who you are."

A line of dark mirth stretched his lips as he moved from his position kneeling over the body. He swept in a grand gesture and dropped into a low bow by sliding a foot back. "Forgive my rudeness Madam. I am Grell Sutcliff."

"You look of class, Grell Sutcliff. What finds you here in the dregs of the East End?"

Keeping himself prostrated before her, he felt his grin spread wider. "The same reason you do, Madam. Business. That girl you so beautifully carved for me, she is my client." He raised his gaze to peer slyly over his red rimmed spectacles, basking in the disgust in her face as she drew the obvious conclusion that he was one of these upper class gentlemen that sought company of the women she despised.

"I am a Grim Reaper."

*Cunny. Crude, slang term for female genitals.