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PROLOGUE

"It was not difficult to discern who the woman sitting on the elder St. Cloed's bed was, even before she had given her name. Had I believed in reincarnation, had I not felt her hand in my own, I might have believed her to be the apparition of the woman in the portrait in the sitting room downstairs. Channing's daughter was just as intimidating, and yet as soft, as her mother appeared to be. But rather than dwell on how much she looked like her mother, I decided it was time to press on. 'It's unlike anything I have yet to see,' I stated, licking my lips at the feeling of helplessness I was not accustomed to feeling. 'Besides the dehydration and, uh, dysentery, I cannot fathom what could be causing the other symptoms.' She was silent before speaking two words: 'I can.'"
- Excerpt from the Scribbles of John Watson.

He had seen his lady at her worst, bloody and shaken and borderline broken. He had shared in her triumph, when her hazel eyes seemed to shine behind her spectacles after a discovery. He had spent fifteen incredible years with his lady, and still he believed he would never get used to her in a dress. Sitting across from him in the carriage, she was the image of a high class woman: the satin blue dress, the fish-netted hat, the laced cream-colored gloves. Despite the circumstances surrounding their summons to London, she was calm, her lips curving as she listened to the enthused rambling of her son. His mistress, for all intents and purposes, was once again a part of society.

That was, of course, not to say she had not been a part of the community back in Hampshire. Her profession was macabre and, in the eyes of her neighbors, fictitious. For the most part, everyone was cordial, not expressing the same tentativeness towards the young master Leto, her son, as they did towards her. But no one dared become more than acquaintances with Saoirse St. Cloed, lest the loom of death taint them as well. He had spoken to the townsfolk, and asked why they kept such distance. They commentated on her honesty, her outspokenness- the way she looked past their awkwardness and treated them as though nothing was astray.

"But it's unnatural!" Barbara Tennent cried, turning from cleaning the counter of the bar to address him as he spoke to her husband. "It was something else entirely, dealing with her father. He kept to himself and we were none the wiser. But she leaves her land and speaks to us as though she were some normal woman."

Finger pointing at him, she warned, "You be careful, David Thatcher! This business is meant to hurt. And from what I've seen in the years her family has damned this town, it will take no prisoners."

The damnation she spoke of was not a plague, an outbreak of sudden death that spread through the area. Rather, it was the reputation the town had gotten from the St. Cloed presence. Once, Hampshire had been known for its fishing, camping, and people. Now, it was simply a town that had housed two generations of monstumologists. It seemed the only people that came were seeking his mistress.

"Penny for your thoughts, David?" Returning from his revelries, the assistant blanched as he looked into the eyes of his mistress. Besides never getting over her in a dress, he always found himself stumbling at her direct gaze. He'd seen streetwalkers with less directness than her, and she had been raised a lady!

"S'nothing," he murmured, eyes dropping to his lap. Her chuckle, husky and entertained, made him look back up at her. She allowed the subject to drop, though he was sure she knew it was something.

"This is your first time to the capital, is it not?" When he nodded his affirmation, his lady leaned back into her seat with a considering hum. "Oh, how utterly thoughtless of me! It is a wonder that I had not considered bringing you and Leto here much sooner, under a less harrowing affair." Letting her own eyes look out the window, she hummed. "Well, something will have to be done about that…"

Before he could inquire what she meant, Leto had drawn her attention around to him. "Màthair, do you think Seanair will take me to the park like he promised?" The last time Mr. Channing had come to the countryside, he had sworn he would take his young grandson out to one of the parks when he visited London. However, when David thought about the reason they were there in the first place…

Pursing her lips before she forced them into a small smile, she pulled the boy onto her lap and ran a hand back over his unruly locks. "I think not, darling," she murmured. "I think he will be unable to fulfill any of the promises he has made for a long time."

Saoirse held no secrets from her son and told him no lies. That did not, however, mean she would share every detail with him. He need not know that, at the moment, her father was fighting for his life and sanity as they rode to meet him. The summons she had received had been sent by his apprentice, Duncan Lucius, and before having even read the words, she could detect the urgency in his nearly incomprehensible calligraphy. He had always been a stickler for presentation. And so, it was with little delay that she made plans to return, dare she say it, home.

Her mother's expecting had sent them to the countryside and her death had sent her father back to London seven years after. Saoirse, realizing the house would serve her purposes, and that she had not the strength to return to her childhood home, became head of the household and had been looking over the grounds since. And the truth was... she had never considered bringing Leto and David to the capital, because she had never thought of returning. And really, it was thoughtless of her, to deprive them of an experience because of her own insecurities.

Cabbie opening her door with confirmation they had arrived, she stepped down with his assistance, looking up at the brownstone she had called her home. The years she had spent away from it did nothing to tarnish the sandstone or the lamp hanging above the stairs. So distracted by the building, she had just caught sight of her son running past her and to the door. "Leto, darling!" she called as the door opened, her heart catching in her throat as it did so. But it was merely Duncan, who was watching in mere and unadulterated amusement as the boy ran past.

"I'll get him, ma'am," David stated, muttering under his breath as he begrudging did as he said he would. With a small nod to the older apprentice, he stepped into the house as Saoirse ascended the stairs.

"As lively as ever," Duncan stated, referring to the raven-haired boy that had run past. "I thought that he would lose some of that energy, but I find it's still entertaining."

"Were we that young?" she asked, cupping his cheek and pressing her lips to its twin. "I must have lost track of time when I turned seventeen and the only thing we could think about was following in Da's footsteps."

A companionable hand came to lead her inside by the small of her back as she saw his eyes darken at the mention of her father. "How is he?"

"Fighting," he stated with a wry smile. If there was ever a word that described Edward St. Cloed, it was that one: fighting. "Though it would seem he has fallen into some sort of… I suppose, 'coma' would be the word to describe it, since the doctor arrived."

It was no wonder. Since her mother's death, his opinion regarding doctors had deteriorated. And no matter how many people had told him nothing could be done, he held onto the belief that it was their fault. Hearing Duncan close the door behind her, she was bemused by how familiar and very much the same the house was. The pictures on the walls surrounding her were assorted: pictures of family, of her parent's life before conceiving her, of Saoirse.

One hand holding her skirts as she walked into the sitting room, ignoring the eyes of the massive portrait above the fireplace, she sat in a plush chair. "And is it the same as you thought?"

Sitting down on the arm of the couch, he ran a hand back through his dark curls. "It is unfathomable. That something we had been told for so long was a fairytale…"

"That, my friend, is the same close-mindedness that set Father into his circumstances," she cautioned softly. "Let's not fall into the same trap, hm?"

Nodding, Duncan released a shuddering sigh, his hand once again returning to muss his hair. The urge to comfort him was right there on the surface, but first she would need the facts. There was time for comfort later.

"His pigmentation is nearly non-existent and his skin is wane, drawn taut over his bones. His eyes are bloodshot, yellow around the tear ducts and atop the sclera. When sleeping, they constantly move beneath his lids. His lips are swollen and red, yellow pus escaping the various cracks. And he's, uh… losing his hair."

Later, she would deem it ironic he was losing the very dark locks he had boasted having in his advanced years. Now, Saoirse was only stricken with despair. The woman in her believed there was still something that could be done; he could still avoid sharing the same fate as the only other case that had ever been diagnosed with this ' ailment'. But the scientist in her… Best to stop it now before it escalated, and he truly became another Chanler.

It seemed there really was only one way for it to end.

"I hope it will not be too much trouble to ask you to look after them," she began, referring to both her assistant and ward. "Perhaps give them a little tour of London."

"Saoirse-."

"Leto loves chocolates," she continued. "And David has always been adamant about books and just learning in general. Perhaps you could take him to Fletcher's, if his store is still around. It would utterly distress me, knowing they lost time because of a deed I must accomplish."

Perhaps it was the stress she put on the pronoun, the acceptance in her stance, but Duncan deflated, closing his eyes in his own acquiescence. "So it comes to that…"

"We are slaves, Duncan, both to our emotions and our professions. I can only hope that I will be able to speak to him beforehand, in case he should have something to disclose."

Hesitating, he nodded, standing and offering her his hand to help her do likewise. Hand in the crook of his elbow, she gave his arm an encouraging squeeze, a small smile curling her lips. "How do you do this, Magpie? How do you close yourself off and do-."

"Here you are, making it sound like it is a commendable feat," she murmured with a wry smile. "Refrain from putting me on a pedestal, or anyone else for that matter. It can only lead to disappointment."

Ascending the first step, she turned and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I can't help but wonder if this is the right thing to do. But I have to believe it is before things turn insurmountable and it becomes New York all over again."

He took her hand, pressing his lips against her knuckles as he closed his eyes with fervor. "I do not envy you."

She turned to face the stairs only when the door shut behind her childhood friend. Despite the guise, the confidence she had portrayed, the acceptance she claimed, she felt divided, hurt to the heart.

A mercy killing was still a killing.

Fingers curling around the silver knob, she entered the room with head held high, taking a moment to discard her gloves. She had noticed the man in the corner, a doctor by the looks of his attire and the instruments he was putting away. Turning around with a look of surprise, the furrowing of his eyebrows attesting to his confusion, she took it upon herself to stick her hand out for a handshake. He was an opportune distraction from the man laying frozen on the poster bed. "Saoirse St. Cloed. You must be Father's standing physician."

His lips curled into an amused smile and he took her hand, turning it to imprint his lips on her knuckles as he bowed. "A pleasure. Doctor Watson, at your service." Rising, his eyebrows furrowed once more, he released her hand. "I didn't know he had a daughter, in all the three years I have been his doctor."

Pushing aside her own amusement, because people back home refused to even walk on the same side of the road as her, let alone kiss her hand, she chuckled, undoing the clasp of her cloak. "There are many who have known him for longer and still do not know about me. He has few acquaintances, even less that he calls friends, and I doubt that, prior to you, there is no one who knows of our relation besides those there during my birth."

Draping it across the back of a chair, she dropped the polite but genuine curl of her lips, her eyes falling on the emaciated form of her father. Walking slowly, hesitantly, to his side, Saoirse sat on the quilt and took his hand into her own. The indentations her light grasp left on his skin had bile and a clawing helplessness rise in her throat, but she swallowed them both down. "Diagnosis?" She would be surprised, if someone outside her field was able to pick up something atypical.

Her back to him, she was oblivious to his discomfort and inability to help. "I have never seen anything like it. Besides the dehydration and, uh, dysentery, I cannot fathom what could be causing the other symptoms."

A scientist prided himself on his findings. That is why, if the general public took the time, they would be as knowledgeable as she on the habits of the Anthropophagi. So there was no reason to hide why her father was enduring a transformation she had thought to be part of a fairytale. No reason not to tell him: " I can."

"Do you receive news from America, doctor?" His negative was the answer she had been expecting. "I suppose it's for the best. The atrocities there are best left for the Americans."

Turning so she could look at the doctor, she continued. "The Natives there are afraid of few things and one of them is that of the Wendigo. Its scientific name is lepto lurconis semihominis americanus. The first word, 'lepto,' is Greek for abnormally thin, emaciated. The second, 'lurconis,' regards its greed. Thus, 'the starving glutton.' And the last two refer to its semi-human characteristics and the place it was founded-."

She faltered before a bark of laughter left her, rubbing the back of her head in her embarrassment. "Forgive me," Saoirse implored, " I seem to have been so accustomed to others in my profession, all I can do is lecture."

"No, please," he stated, "it would not be the first time I have been subject to an elocution." His flat mate had made it so, though Watson would never discourage his friend to explain his deductions.

Smiling in the irony, that here she had found a captive audience much like her father had found in her and Duncan, she continued. "It is hunger in its entirety. The more it eats, the hungrier it becomes." But then there was no reason to smile and she turned her gaze back to her slumbering father. "How do you contend with a creature that flies on the wind, that if turned sideways, could disappear completely?"

The more she spoke, the more Watson wondered if it was more than simply a legend. Could she perhaps be attempting to connect her father's ailment with that of the Wendigo? "But surely it is only a myth," he reasoned aloud, "a tale told to Native children to keep them in line."

Her derisive, and unladylike, snort made him doubt. "For how many years did I feel the very same?" she mused, thumb running over the fragile skin of the hand she held. "Father would tell me and Duncan the stories of the Outiko, the creature that plagued the great American country. And we would listen, enthralled, because it was so unlike all the other stories he told us." At this, she scoffed. "Because it was not real. Because it was a ghost story and would remain a ghost story."

It did not take long for Watson to understand. For some reason, the lady St. Cloed strongly believed that her father's ailment was because of some fictitious creature. During his years in the military, he had witnessed a number of things that could only be explained as paranormal. But a story could give you a creature's name, its qualities and make it as real as the reader wishes for it to be.

"I do not expect you to believe me." The simple truth pulled him from his thoughts and he was once again staring into her direct look, so diverse from those of other women. "I simply expect you to understand."

It was a reasonable request. He could understand everything she had told him, though not why she put such faith in her words. "What can be done?" he sighed, turning his back to her to continue replacing his equipment into his bag.

"Have you ever owned a horse, doctor?" The arbitrariness of her question made his actions slightly sluggish in his confusion.

"I have, unfortunately, never had the privilege."

"Nonetheless, you must comprehend what happens when they break their leg." At this, he stopped completely, turning his head to look at the lady, watching her as she turned to return his gaze. "At the outset, one must assess the severity of the damage done."

Turning and bending to retrieve something from her boots, she placed the item on the night table, the metal glistening beneath the sunlight. "Then you take the necessary actions."

In her heart, she hoped she would never have to use the revolver given to her by the very man she would have to use it on.