November 9, 1988

"You seem preoccupied my child." Eric Northman came to sit beside his offspring on the edge of the roof top decorations, letting his legs hang over the ledge right beside hers. The façade was part of the oldest remaining sandstone on the centuries old hospital, which had taken many names, but would always be the London Hospital to Pam; despite its many iterations. The well-worn brick, in its muddy brown still betrayed the smells of past times, the coal smoke and soot of when London had been a much different place, and Pam a much different person. The newer aspects of the campus spread out behind them like horrible glass cubes nailed on to the classic building, Looming over it in a macabre fashion, much like the things Pam herself was remembering. Eric noted that she was wearing her black leather again. She was taking to wearing it more and more, and she looked good in it. She had been so long hiding herself in plain sight, they all had. But now with the talk amongst the groups of finally revealing themselves, with the near perfection of the synthetic blood, Pam seemed to be trying to distance herself from the guise she had been holding up virtually since the day she had been turned.

"You know what day it is, don't you Eric?" She turned slightly towards him, but never quite let her preternatural vision leave the streets she was watching over.

"I do." He put one of his large hands over hers and squeezed it slightly.

"And this is year one hundred Eric."

"Do you think he'll be back?"

"I have to stay and find out. He nearly destroyed me; he could have destroyed all of us. And I am not one to forget or forgive such things easily." Pam could see the grin spreading on her makers face. She did not feel like smiling.

"Then I will stay with you."

OOOO

Pamela Ravenscroft hadn't known the five personally. She had been turned perhaps fifty years too soon for that, not that her particular class would have found much business in the Whitechapel district. It was bad enough that her father had disapproved of Emily's cousin as a match for her, he would have lost his mind if he had heard of his daughter consorting with the working women and the poor of the east end. But Eric was so much different than him. Eric had taught her the easiest places to hunt. One of those places being amongst the destitute. (There were others certainly, where being able to hypnotize was the greatest assert, because it brought not only the blood but also the riches.) However, when you needed complete anonymity it was best amongst the folk that no one would miss. Not that Pam killed; at least she didn't kill the women. The men, well, sometimes they tried to take great liberties and that earned them the just punishment of her fangs.

The women though, they sparked a remnant of pity in her dead heart. But for the social standing of her father she knew she could just as easily have ended up in the same predicament as the women of the street. And she had been under the control of men, dependent on them as much as these women had been. It touched something in a heart that still remembered what it was to be human, and a second-class one at that because of her sex. Eric had given her her freedom, and though she could not grant that much to these sorry women, she could at least give them a respite and the gift of another day. It had been a good feeding ground, especially when she was on her own, for Eric had his own business to attend to, until those dozen or so weeks in the fall of 1888. Then it all went to Hell.

Friday, August 31 had been the first night. It wasn't that there hadn't always been murders in Whitechapel, there were likely far more than the Metropolitan Police ever knew about. A murder could easily be disguised as illness, and bodies could be carried to nearby waterways or into the furnaces of the workhouses without so much as a sideways glance mostly, or for the expense of a copper coin. Pam had been to the district a few times before that night, and had hunted quite successfully, but there was just something about the air that night, a heavy sense of 'otherness' that made her wary, and somewhat unhappy that Eric was not at her side. She was still young then, and the presence of other supernatural beings was still a foreign feeling to her.

It was the blood that drew her to the scene, nothing so banal as screams of terror or the sight of a fleeing criminal. It was just the thick heady scent of the blood, mixed with the stale scent of unwashed clothing and flesh that attracted her attention. She was the first to find Mary Ann Nichols, not that any accounts from the time would point that out. The blood around her body had not yet begun to congeal, and indeed, was still dribbling from the two slits across her throat. She was only a few hundred yards from the London Hospital, but Pam knew she was already dead. It wasn't the first body Pam had ever seen, and but for one thing she would have continued on her way, not anxious to be discovered near such a crime scene. Mary's skirts had been pulled up and someone had slashed her abdomen in such a manner that had lain open her organs to Pam's sharp sight. Slashed, perhaps not being the most properly descriptive word; more like stabbed and ripped. For some reason that she was not yet certain of it greatly disturbed her to see the woman butchered thusly. But before she could try to set the woman to rights, or even look about for traces of the murderer, Pam heard the approaching cartwheels and melted away into the shadows of Buck's Row.

That had been the first of the five.