A/N: I own nothing of the Labyrinth, I make no profit. Jack the Ripper was an unknown suspect in the brutal murders of at least 5, possibly more, women in the Whitechapel District of London in 1888, I am going to attribute more murders to him. Given the nature of The Ripper Murders, there will be graphic and gruesome details. If this does not suit you, DO NOT read this story. Some facts of The Ripper Murders are going to be bent to suit my needs of this story. Some will be accurate. I have read the works of others for a majority of my information on The Ripper, I have watched countless documentaries over the years. I am not an expert, only a history buff. There will be things in this story that are not strictly accurate. I claim poetic license, always remember, this is a work of fiction. I hope you enjoy.
Whitechapel District, London, April 1888.
A man stood beneath the weak light of a streetlamp, a darkly sinister smile on his lips as he watched the pitiful attempts of a lone woman to attract the attention of men around her. Her posture and wan skin revealed her to be one of the poverty-stricken inhabitants of this desolate area, forced to sell herself for the meager shillings required to provide a bed in one of the common lodging houses abundant in this seedy area of town.
He watched her failed attempts to attract a paying customer with ever mounting glee. She would be the perfect start to his experiments. So fragile was the life these women led. No one would miss a common whore, little more than a shadow of the cold, damp and dark night. Gathering to make his move, a predatory light entered his eyes. He fancied himself a scientist, he had little regard for the life he was about to take. All that mattered is what he would learn from this human chit that so brazenly displayed her wares.
Approaching her slowly, he schooled his features into kindness and concern, his luxurious black silk cape, swirling in the gentle breeze created by his steady walk, hungry eyes shaded by the matching black silk top hat.
"My dear woman," He began, is cultured accent catching her attention, "Might I be of some assistance to you on this brutal night?"
The woman looked at the elegantly clad man approaching her, she perked up at the thought of how much coin she could get from this dandy.
"Well, lovey." She said, her cockney accent almost making him wince, "What can I do fer you this fine evening." Cocking a hip and tilting her head, she did her best to look alluring, even though she was freezing cold and hadn't eaten in days. She just knew if she played her cards right, there would be enough for a bed and a meal.
"Oh, my dear, you misunderstand," the man said softly. "It is what I shall do for you." Wrapping her in his soft cloak, he walked her past The Ten Bells Club and into a dark, damp alley.
Anyone watching the two would assume either they were lovers, off for a tryst, or a whore and her John, off to make a business transaction. When the woman entered the alley with the mysterious, cloaked man, it was the last time Emma Smith was seen alive or whole again.
Columbia University, New York, New York, April, 2001
Sarah Williams looked out across the lecture hall, she was surprised to see the 250 seat room filled to capacity. Although, given her lecture topics, she shouldn't be surprised anymore. People were always happy to live vicariously through her lectures. They loved to debate and discuss the gory details of murder and madness from the comfortable confines of lecture halls and banquet rooms. After having spent a decade with the FBI, Sarah Williams quickly rose in ranks as the top profiler in the agency. She had an uncanny knack for seeing beyond the evidence, to see the killer in almost unrelenting clarity. Where here colleagues saw mere evidence and blood spatter, Sarah saw a puzzle and a pattern that seemed to simply fall in place for her. She had a spooky ability to just know things. Ever since she was 15 and had a run in with a certain Goblin King. Ever since she had declared herself his equal, she had had this uncanny sense, she could literally see the crime played out in front of her. Shaking her head, she mentally brought herself back. No sense going there she thought. After all this time, thoughts of the Labyrinth and its enigmatic King, brought a longing to her heart that she couldn't explain. She felt like she left a part of her soul on her trip through the fantastical maze. She hadn't called on her friends for years. Every time she did, it was harder and harder to say good bye, harder still to not ask about their Monarch.
Taking a deep breath, Sarah cleared her mind of the useless musings. Clearing her throat, she stepped up to the podium and spoke into the microphone.
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen." She began, getting the attention of everyone in the room. Her voice, low and silky, flowed like honey through the ears of everyone in the room. She didn't have to raise her voice, or tap the podium, when Sarah spoke, others stopped what they were doing and listened. "Welcome to Columbia University's guest lecture series on Early Serial Killers. Today we will begin with the man who is considered the first documented serial killer in the world." She paused for effect and looked at her audience, the lights had been turned down in the room, so she had difficulty seeing individual faces, but she could have sworn, nope, she stopped herself, not possible. Smiling boldly she completed her sentence, "Jack The Ripper."
Sarah heard papers shuffle as people settled into their seats, satisfied that their lust for blood and gore would be satisfied that day. She knew that some of these people were genuine students of profiling criminals, here for the knowledge of how some conclusions had been drawn and some mysteries solved. She judged that roughly half were here for salacious details of a century old crime that the perpetrator had never been apprehended. No matter what answers she gleaned now, he would never be.
"Jack The Ripper was the earliest recorded serial killer. There are criteria to be met to be considered a serial killer." She began, "In no particular order they are as follows," turning to look at the screen behind her, Sarah began clicking through her power point presentation. "A serial killer commits three or more murders over the span a month or more, usually with a cooling off period of some type." Clicking to the next screen, Sarah turned back to her audience, "Our friend Jack committed at least five murders over the course of what was presumed to be about a twelve week period in 1888." Clicking to the next screen, she took a deep breath, this was going to be the first time she presented her evidence of a more prolific crime spree. "I believe I can prove that he murdered at least eleven women from April of 1888 to February of 1891." At the collective gasp at her statement, Sarah let a small smirk grace her lips and said, "Let me lay it out for you."
Over the course of two hours, Sarah shared her theories of each crime and the suspects in the case. Her power point was spot on, her research flawless. She knew in her gut that The Ripper wasn't any of the 20+ men that Scotland Yard had considered suspects. She knew beyond a shadow of doubt that the infamous American serial killer H.H. Holmes could not be London's Jack the Ripper. She was certain that The Ripper had had medical training, the cuts were precise, he knew just where to cut. He knew just how to cut so as not to leave arterial spray to give himself away. She knew that he wasn't a member of the Aristocracy like some biographers and historians had suggested. She knew because she knew things. Things that no one else did. When she had that feeling, she did her due diligence and researched and meditated, until finally the answers that she had in her mind, were explainable on paper. She knew that was important. The FBI hadn't been able to deal with her mind, how it worked, how it was always right. They had asked her to resign when the questions had become to frequent and uncomfortable. By that time, she was glad to go, glad to get away from the suspicious glares from her co-workers who had once been friends. Again, she didn't belong, not truly, so she had gone her own way and had happily found out how lucrative a career giving speeches in the private section was.
At the end of her power point, Sarah opened up the floor for questions. She fielded the typical, wasn't Jack the Ripper just a fabrication of the early London police force? A way to give credibility to what many saw as a corrupt organization? Does it really matter why he did it or that he did it? The were just poor whores after all. Sarah had heard many variations of the same questions hundreds of times. She was immediately able to pick out the Criminal Justice students by their well thought out and articulated questions. "Do you believe that Jack the Ripper was a Doctor, then?" "Yes, all evidence points to a medical profession, or at the very least, a scientist." "Is it possible that he was merely a medical student?" "No, I'm certain that he had more training than that." "Why do you think he was never caught?" "Because he didn't want to be."
Sarah was wrapping up the Q&A session when a voice spoke from the back of the room.
"Miss Williams," a rich cultured voice spoke, "How do you know that your theories are correct?" That voice touched a nerve in her body, sending a vibration to her very soul. She knew that voice. It slid seductively through her dreams, making promises in the hushed darkness of her deepest desires, it made her want with every fiber of her being.
She strained to see the owner of that voice in the crowded room, she needed the visual verification. Her searching eyes came up empty and disappointment and relief flooded her mind at the same time.
"I believe that is all the time I have left for today. Tomorrow we'll pick up with the difference in serial and spree killers and examine some of the most high profile cases in history, both solved and unsolved."
She took her leave to the sound of polite applause and exited the stage through a door in the back corner. It led to a small private office. Once inside and alone, she collapsed on the small sofa and tried to calm the continued trembling of her body.
As her breathing steadied and her trembling heart regained its rhythm, she felt a shift in the air of the room. A light breeze swept through and brought with it the smell of sandalwood and spices, a smell that she had always associated with magic, with him.
Slowly opening her eyes, she looked up and her stomach dropped to the floor NoNoNoNoNo, her mind repeated, Sarah slammed her eyes shut again and opened the slowly, hoping that fatigue was causing her mind to play tricks on her.
Shitfuckdamnholyhell, her mind screamed. There standing before her, looking like he had just stepped his cruel lips. Sarah's green eyes widened in shock, taking him in from the tips of his highly polished knee high boots, traveling up his muscled thighs incased in deliciously tight pants, skimming blushingly over the apex of the those thighs, where the trousers left nothing to the imagination. Her gaze continued to travel upward, taking in the billowing white poets shirt with the bit of lace at the cuffs, opened to expose a decent amount of smoothly muscled chest, his pendent gently shining there, up to his face, with the sharply carved cheekbones, the cruelly smirking mouth and otherworldly eyes, framed by white blond hair, wild and wispy, just begging to be tamed by her fingers.
"Hello, Sarah." He drawled lazily, his voice as smooth as honey. "Did you miss me, you precious thing?"
"Goblin King." She said, surprised at how steady her voice was, "What are you doing here?"
"You never answered my question," he stated.
"Question?" She repeated, dazed.
"Yes, how do you know your theories on Jack the Ripper are correct?"
"I haven't seen hide nor hair of you in fifteen years and you want to ask me about Jack the Ripper?" She cried, "Of all the," she stopped herself, taking a deep calming breath. "I'm having a mental breakdown," she murmured, "I'm overworked, I'm over tired, I put too much of myself into this presentation." Rising from the sofa, Sarah continued to mutter to herself and pace around the small office. "You are a figment of my overtaxed brain." She stated, pointing a finger at him for emphasis, she walked behind the desk and sank into the chair, placing her head in her hands and closing her eyes.
Jareth let out a huff and said, "I really don't have time for this, Sarah."
Sarah lifted her head and glared at him, her green eyes shooting sparks. "Ok, Goblin King, I'll play." She said impatiently, "I know because I know." Standing up to face him, she put her hands on her hips and looked him head on, "Ever since my trip through your amazing maze, I just know things. It's been great really," she spat sarcastically, "I've thoroughly loved losing friends and jobs because people are creeped out by my amazing ability." Striding around the desk, she stood toe to toe with him, tipping her head up slightly to accommodate for his height, "But you want to know the best part?" She said, poking a finger into his chest, "The best part was when Karen insisted that I have no further contact with Toby, she thinks I'm mentally ill."
Jareth looked down at her, her trembling lips, the high color on her cheeks, she was never more beautiful than when she was defying him. Sparks flew from her emerald eyes, energy snapped along the length of her chocolate brown wavy hair. He could see the Labyrinths magic rolling off her in waves. He wondered if she truly knew where that magic came from. Or what it meant for her, for them.
"Tsk, Tsk, such a pity." He said, pacing away from her, "Do you want to cry how it's all so not fair?"
Jareth couldn't help himself, he needed her help, needed the unique magic that she possessed, they truly amazing ability that she stored in that lovely, intelligent mind of hers and the instinct that was truly unique to her. He just couldn't help himself from teasing her. Making her snap with all that lovely fire and energy. It fed his soul, there was no one else in the world who would defy him, challenge him and drive him crazy with desire. Only her, only his Sarah.
"Fifteen years, Goblin King, why come to me now?" Sarah demanded.
"Jareth, please." He said softy.
"What?"
"Call me Jareth." He said again.
"Jareth, then." She snapped
He stood still for a moment, the sound of his name from her lips sending a shiver of anticipation and pleasure down his spine.
"I waited for you to call me, Sarah," he whispered gently, "I thought maybe, when you were older, when you understood what I was offering, you would call on me again."
Sarah turned to look at him, he looked so sad, so lost, then, mentally shaking her head, not him, this was another trick, he was trying to draw her into another game.
"Ok, Jareth, I'll bite." She said, sitting once more behind the desk. "Why now, why the sudden interest in a dead serial killer?"
"Now, because I grow tired of waiting for you to call on me." He said, crossing the small room to lean across the desk. "I have waited for my Queen long enough." He purred.
"Your Queen? In your dreams Goblin boy." She scoffed.
"Apparently, in yours also," he smirked. "Sarah, Sarah," he practically sang, "You yourself declared yourself my Queen."
"I never!" She cried.
"Oh, you didn't?" He asked, leaning farther over the desk, crowding her and forcing her to move the chair back until she hit the wide window behind the desk. The late afternoon sun catching her hair and giving it a burnished glow. "For my will is as strong as yours," he said, "Ring a bell? My Kingdom as great." He came around the desk now and trapped her in the chair, leaning closer still until his lips brushed her ear as he spoke, "You have no power over me." He whispered silkily, "No? Still nothing?" He asked, pulling back to look at her. He saw her swallow nervously, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead.
"I didn't mean it that way." She replied sullenly.
Jareth chuckled and leaned back ever so slightly, "What's said is said."
Sarah swallowed again, her throat feeling painfully dry as her mouth pooled with saliva at the thought of reaching out and touching that muscled chest. "Ahem," she cleared her throat, we mustn't drool over the Goblin King, she thought to herself. "You still haven't told me why the interest in Jack. Was it just a ruse to get close to me? I mean, why would an Immortal King be interested in a dead serial killer from the 19th century?"
"Because I don't believe he is." Jareth stated.
"What? A serial killer?" Sarah chuckled.
"No, dead." He responded.
Sarah felt like the world tilted, when it righted, she felt an instant clarity, she knew in an instant that Jareth spoke the truth. The something that had been missing, the one piece of the puzzle that she couldn't put her finger on.
"You think he escaped Underground," she said incredulously.
"No," he corrected, "I think he is Fae and that he possesses the ability to manipulate time."
Sarah sank deeper into the chair, the rightness of what he was saying vibrated through her.
"So, what do we do?" She asked
Jareth smiled a predatory smile, that of hunter on the scent of his prey, "Good girl."