Brethren

by VaGal67

Sylar travels to 19th century Whitechapel in search of answers from one of history's most notorious serial killers.

The idea for this story took root after I purchased a book on unsolved crimes and of course, the Jack the Ripper case was featured. I began to think it might be interesting to explore what might happen if one of the most infamous non-fictional serial killers met our favorite fictional serial killer. I decided not to base Jack on any one theory about who he was, although I am partial to the theory that artist William Sickert was the killer. Instead he's loosely based on the general descriptions of eyewitness sightings and what some criminal profilers believe he would have been like. I also stuck with the "known" victims even though many people believe the Ripper was responsible for several other murders in the Whitechapel area. I hope you guys enjoy this little experiment of mine.

BRETHREN

CHAPTER ONE

Sylar sniffed the air around him, crinkling his nose at the stench. It was a combination of human and animal waste mixed with a heavy dose of choking air pollution, rotting garbage, and death. He was beginning to wish he hadn't used his new ability to make this journey but there were questions he needed answered and late nineteenth century Whitechapel was the place he thought he could find what he was seeking.

He'd acquired his new time/space ability from a young woman who'd just discovered her power. He'd thought of hunting down Hiro but the man had a brain tumor and Sylar wasn't sure how that would affect his being able to take the ability from him. This woman was healthy, quite pretty, and now very much dead like all the others who'd fed Sylar's insatiable hunger. To avoid Hiro's fate, Sylar had decided early on to not overuse this new power and thought carefully of where and when he wanted to go. He tried a few test runs to other places and times to make sure he had a handle on how to control where he ended up before making his journey.

He'd brought nothing with him, not even clothes, traveling in his birthday suit. He'd ended up in a dark, deserted alley and immediately froze time to not only retrieve some clothes and money but to also shape shift. His tall, lanky figure would stick out like a sore thumb which is the last thing he wanted. He took the form of a man he'd encountered in a diner months before: five feet, eight inches tall, blue eyes, sandy hair, slightly stocky build, around his own age. He didn't stand out but he was handsome enough to attract some attention from the women who passed by him now as he walked down the street to a nearby pub. He glanced at a newspaper a man was reading as he leaned against a wall to check the date and Sylar felt a self-satisfied smile creep across his face when he saw it: August 30, 1888. The bell at the local brewery had just tolled the time as 2am which would make this day the 31st. Right date and right time. Perfect.

He strode into the pub and looked around at the crowd, soon spotting who he was looking for. She stood out with her black straw, velvet trimmed hat as she talked to a couple of the male patrons. He sidled over near her and ordered an ale, making sure the woman noticed the pouch of shiny coins he pulled from the inside pocket of his woolen coat. It didn't take long for her to make her way to him as he sipped his beverage.

"Buy a lady a drink, deary?" she looked at her grey eyes as she smiled at him. He felt a shiver of distaste run through him as he looked at her teeth, or at least what was left of them. She was missing at least five and the rest were badly discolored. He'd buy her anything as long as she closed her lips around those foul bits of enamel.

"I never turn down a request from a lady as lovely as you," he lied with his perfect British commoners accent. He'd decided to go with something a little more refined than cockney but not so fancy that it made him seem out of place. "What'll you have?"

"Large gin, if you please," she replied.

Sylar signaled the bartender, ordered the requested drink, and handed it to the woman.

"To your health," she said raising her glass.

"And to yours," Sylar said, although he knew it was an empty gesture. "So may I ask who I've just bought a drink for?"

"The name's Mary Nichols," she said. "And what is the name of my charming benefactor?"

"Gabriel," Sylar replied, falling back on his old name.

"Ah, just like the angel who foretold of our lord's birth," Mary observed.

"Are you religious, Mary?" Sylar asked.

"As much as I can be in my line of work," she responded. "I'm afraid the church and the good people who attend don't much care for fallen women like myself."

"Then you provide certain services," Sylar inquired."That I do," she said. She moved closer to him, the smell of alcohol from her breath nearly knocking Sylar off his feet. She ran a hand over his chest and Sylar could tell she was trying to discreetly get to the pocket where he had his money. He grabbed her hand before she could reach it and took a step back.

"Now, now," he said. "I don't just let women take my money, no matter how lovely they are."

"You've got quite the silver tongue on ya," Mary replied, again displaying her hideous grin. "Perhaps we can work out an arrangement?"

"Perhaps," Sylar told her. He glanced at the time. If he was going to do this, he better do it now. "I would assume such arrangement would need to be in a more private setting."

"Indeed it would," Mary said. "I know a spot where we can conduct our business." She took his hand and led him out of the pub, past the other patrons who paid no attention to their departing. They walked a few streets down and went into an alleyway. "Here we go," she said, stopping midway down. "Nice and private."

"How much?" Sylar asked.

"Three pence," she told him, holding out her hand.

"Not until we're finished," he said. "I don't want you running off on me."

"Oh deary, I'd never cheat a customer, especially not one as handsome as you. But I'll let you have your way before taking my payment." She turned to face the wall and hiked up her dress and layers of petticoats to reveal her naked lower body. She used one hand to bunch them up and hold them in place, the other to brace herself against the wall as she leaned forward. "Ready when you are, love."

Sylar unfastened his pants and pulled out his still-flaccid penis. He was having difficulty getting a hard on in these circumstances. It helped that she was facing away from him as he took hold of himself and began vigorously stroking as he thought of the most beautiful women he could. He was soon hard enough for penetration and pushed into Mary, thrusting rapidly. She moaned slightly as he attempted to get the experience over with as soon as possible, not only to prevent detection but there was another client Mary needed to meet very soon. He'd never been so thankful for a premature ejaculation as he was when he came within a few, short minutes.

"All done are we?" Mary asked as she dropped her clothing back down and straightened to a standing position.

"That I am," Sylar replied. He pulled out the pouch and gave her the three pence for her services.

"Thank you, Gabriel," she said, tucking the money away. "I believe I'll go have me another glass of gin. Care to join me?"

"I'm afraid we must part company," Sylar replied. "It was a pleasure meeting you Mary."

"The pleasure was all mine," she said, offering him her hand. She giggled slightly as he took it and gave the top a quick kiss. "Perhaps we can do business again some other time."

"Perhaps," Sylar replied, knowing he would never see her alive again. He watched as she left the alley and turned to go back to the pub. The brewery clock announced the time as 2:30am. He had about an hour to wait.

Sylar pressed his body into a darkened doorway of the alley, knowing Mary would be here soon with the man who would end her life, the man Sylar needed to talk to. The patrolman had already been by less than fifteen minutes before and Sylar knew he wasn't due back for sometime. He began to wonder if he was in the right place, then he heard voices. One was Mary's, the other's was that of a man, her latest, and last, client. He watched as they made their way to almost the exact same spot as where he and Mary had carried out their transaction. He saw the man nod and reach into his pocket to pull out a few coins which he handed to Mary. The woman turned, taking her position facing the wall. She'd barely put her hand against the brick when there was a flash of silver from the man's hand. He grabbed her hair, pulled her head back, and brought the knife he held across Mary's throat before she could scream. He let the dying woman fall to the cold pavement and knelt down in front of her. The darkness hid the details of what the man was doing but Sylar could still make out what was happening. The man sliced open Mary's abdomen and began removing her organs, tossing them over one side of the woman's body until he reached his target. He quickly cut it out, took something from the black bag he was carrying, and placed his trophy in it. He tucked the container back into the bag, stood, and began to walk out of the alley from where he'd come in. Sylar stepped from his hiding place and began to follow him, glancing down at Mary's body as he passed it, her grey eyes now staring lifelessly into nothingness.

Sylar tried to be as discreet as possible, not wanting to attract the man's attention and scare him away. The man walked a few blocks then stepped down another alleyway. Sylar followed and looked around, puzzled, when he didn't see the man. Damn it! Must've gone into one of these buildings Sylar thought. He turned, thinking his mission a failure, only to come face-to-face with his quarry. He felt the sharp sting across his throat as the man took advantage of Sylar's surprise and slashed the knife across the skin, cutting deep. The pain didn't last long as the wound sealed, much to the shock of the knife-wielding attacker. He raised the knife again but now, Sylar was prepared. With a quick flick of his wrist, he pinned the man to the wall.

"What...what kind of devil are you?" the man stammered with fear.

"One not unlike yourself," Sylar said as he walked towards him. He picked up the knife, still wet with a combination of his and Mary's blood. He pressed the tip into his index finger as he turned it, feeling it prick the skin as he studied it. He looked up as he heard a commotion coming from the alley where Mary's body lay. "We should talk, friend," he said. He released the man from the telekinetic grip and watched him warily as he struggled back to his feet. The man picked up his bag, never taking his eyes from Sylar.

"This way," he said, motioning to Sylar and leading him out of the alley, both men ignoring the shouts of "Murder!" that came from behind them.

CHAPTER TWO

The man sat in a chair in his sparsely furnished flat and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He gulped it down and poured another before turning to his visitor. "Are you going to tell me who you are?" he asked, his shaking hand bringing the glass to his lips.

"You don't need to know my name," Sylar told him. "And I don't need to know yours." He pulled up a chair and sat down across from the man, studying him. He was fairly tall, close to six feet, with dark hair, a neatly trimmed and waxed mustache, and slightly dark complexion.

"Why were you following me? Are you a copper?" the man asked.

Sylar snorted at the suggestion as he leaned back in the chair. "Hardly. I'm like you, friend. I've killed. Several times, in fact."

The man looked at him with narrow, disbelieving eyes. "Haven't seen anything in the papers," he said.

"I didn't kill anyone here," Sylar told him.

"Then where?" the man asked.

"In the United States but the better question would be 'when' I killed," Sylar told him. He noticed the confused look on the man's face and crossed his legs as he made himself comfortable. "I'm not from this time period. I came here from the future, almost 125 years from now."

The man stared at him a moment then began laughing hysterically. "You think me a twit, don't you?" he said. He continued laughing, shaking his head as he reached for the bottle to pour himself another drink. His merriment ceased when the bottle flew from his hand and smashed against the far wall.

"You've had enough," Sylar told him. "I don't want you dismissing our 'visit' as some alcohol-induced hallucination."

The man looked at the broken glass on the floor as the wood absorbed the bottle's contents and remembered what happened in the alley. This stranger had healed instantaneously from a wound that should've killed him before flinging the attacker against a wall, holding him there, without laying a finger on him. "This is some sort of trick," he reasoned. "You're a conjurer putting on a show. That's the only explanation."

Sylar responded by giving the man a sharp zap of electricity, causing him to fall to the floor. "You are a devil!" the man gasped as he struggled to his feet and tried to get to the door. He grabbed the knob and pulled with all his strength, unable to escape.

"I'm not a devil. Well, not in the way you think, anyway," Sylar told him calmly. "Sit down, friend, and I'll gladly explain everything."

"It appears I have no choice," the man said, coming back to his seat.

"No, you don't," Sylar admitted. "There are people like myself who are different, 'special' you might say. We have abilities that others don't. You've seen just a few of mine but my 'original' ability is that I can absorb the powers of others so they become my own. That's where the whole killing thing comes in. In order to get these new powers, I slice off the top of my victim's head so I can access their brain. I probe around until I find the part where the ability is located and I take it."

"There are others? Like you?" the man asked.

"Yes, although I don't know of anyone here and now specifically," Sylar told him.

"And they're all killers?" A slight tone of horror crept into the man's voice.

"No. I'm a bit unique in that regard," Sylar told him. "I have a drive, a hunger if you will, that compels me to seek out new abilities. My victims feed that hunger." He leaned forward and locked his gaze on the man. "What did your victim tonight, poor Mary, feed in you, my friend?"

The man could only stare back, his mouth agape. "I'm not sure what you mean," he said.

"Why? Why her? Why kill her the way you did and mutilate her afterwards?" Sylar asked.

"She was a whore," the man said simply. "She and her kind spread disease everywhere they go with their immoral acts of the flesh, with no thought of who they hurt." He steadied himself, pulling back his anger. "Are there such women in your time?"

"Quite a few," Sylar told him. "Some of them meet the same fate as Mary."

"As well they should," the man said. "It is disheartening to know such women still spread their pestilence in the future but it is gratifying there are those like myself who do what they can to rid society of their filth."

"What did you take from her?" Sylar asked, nodding towards the black bag.

The man hesitated a moment but he was beginning to feel a sort of kinship to this stranger. He opened the bag, took out a jar, and placed it on the table.

Sylar didn't need to be a doctor to recognize what was floating inside. "Why did you take it?" he asked.

"The womb is sacred," the man explained. "It's meant to carry a new life, not to be abused by allowing any man with a few pence to deposit his seed in it. Such women as the one tonight do not deserve to possess such a blessing." He rotated the jar back and forth, watching the lamp light glint through the murky wine he'd used to preserve his treasure. "I have a query for you, if I may?"

"Go ahead," Sylar told him.

"Am I correct in assuming that if you know of me in your time, about what I've done, what I will do, that the legacy of my deeds will live on even after my bones are dust?"

"You are a legend," Sylar told him.

"Then people know my name?" the man asked, his eyes widening.

"In a sense," Sylar told him. "I'm not going to give you anymore details so don't ask me."

"Why are you here? Why did you seek me out?' the man asked.

"As I said, I'm like you. A killer. I wanted to find out firsthand what drives you, what makes you tick," Sylar explained. "What's different from me? What's the same?"

"I'm not sure how I can be of assistance in that regard," the man said. "What do I need to do?"

"Do what you planned on doing before you met me," Sylar told him. "I simply want to observe, talk to you afterwards. I won't give you over to the authorities but I won't help you either. You won't even know I'm there."

"How will you know where to find me?" the man asked.

"I'm from the future, remember?" Sylar reminded him. "I know when, where, and what you'll do."

"So I am to act as if you are not lurking somewhere in the shadows?" the man asked. "How am I supposed to do that?"

"When you killed Mary, were you thinking of anything else?" Sylar asked.

"No. I was focused on the task at hand," the man replied.

"Then that's how it'll be next time," Sylar stood and headed towards the door. He opened it and stepped out, hearing the man's footsteps as he rushed after him.

"Wait!" the man called out as he stepped into the doorway. He looked up and down the hallway, searching and listening for signs of his visitor and finding none. He went back inside, closed the door behind him, and picked up the knife that lay on the table. He poured some water in a nearby basin and began cleaning it, then himself. The clothes he would deal with later. Now he just wanted to rest, hoping sleep would make some sense of the evenings events.

CHAPTER THREE

Sylar splashed water on his face from the small basin on the washstand, trying to wake himself up. He wished he could take a proper shower, but those didn't exist in this squalid part of London. He'd found a flat the morning after Mary's demise and the landlord had been happy to grant Sylar's request for privacy once he paid the man for a month's rent in advance.

As he dried his face and peered through the layer of filth on the window panes, Sylar could see people going about their daily business, trying to make ends meet anyway they could. An old woman sold half-wilted flowers on the corner, a boy in clothes too small for his growing frame shouted the day's headlines as he hawked papers, a man sold not-so-fresh produce. Others headed to the workhouses or to menial, back-breaking jobs that barely put food on the table.

Mary's brutal murder had not gone unnoticed by the denizens of Whitechapel. There was general shock at the brutality of the crime and women, both proper ladies and ladies of the evening, feared for their safety. Nearly a week had passed and things had calmed down, leading most people to believe that Mary was just another poor, lost soul who met her unfortunate demise while plying her trade in darkness. Sylar knew better and by the next morning, so would the rest of Whitechapel.

Sylar shape-shifted into a new persona before leaving his temporary home, this time choosing a slightly older man with dark hair, a small lean frame, and blue eyes. He joined the crowd of people bustling to and fro, stopping to buy a newspaper from the boy, a small bouquet from the old woman, and an apple from the produce vendor. He discarded the food after only a few bites, the fruit's mealy flesh making his stomach turn. He knew where the woman he wanted to talk to would be and headed towards Crossingham's Lodging House. He found her standing in the doorway, looking weary after a long night's work and only a few hours sleep. He'd already decided on a story to get her attention and he quickly went over it in his head as he approached her with a broad smile.

"Excuse me, Miss, but are you Annie Chapman?" he asked in his best Brit accent.

"Who's asking?" she responded, looking at him suspiciously.

"My name is Gabriel and I'm a friend of your late husband's," he told her, offering the bouquet of flowers.

"He never mentioned anyone by that name to me," she said as she moved towards the door to go back inside.

"We weren't that close, I'm afraid," Sylar told her. "We had a bit of a falling out years ago and we lost contact. I recently decided to make amends for the wrong I'd done him but discovered he'd passed away. I was told that you lived here and I just wanted to come by and offer my condolences."

The woman stepped forward as she began to trust this stranger and the story he was telling her. "Thank you for your sympathies," she said, tears welling in her eyes as she took the flowers from his hand. "Would you like to come in? I was just going to the kitchen to fix me a cup of tea."

"I'd love a spot of tea," Sylar told her. He followed her in and to the communal kitchen. He sat down at the table as other residents milled about, some nodding salutations, others ignoring him altogether.

"I'm afraid I don't have any sugar or lemon to offer for your tea," Annie told him.

"I prefer it plain," Sylar responded. He took the cup she offered as she sat down across from him. He noticed she was extremely pale, made even more obvious by her dark brown, wavy hair. He could tell she'd led a hard life by the lines on her face and the sadness in her blue eyes.

"So how is it you knew my John?" Annie asked.

"We were childhood mates," Sylar told her. "Grew up on the same street."

"Do you mind if I ask what your tiff was about?" Annie inquired.

"Something silly," Sylar told her. "I owed him a few pence and instead of paying my debt, I got into a brawl with him." He looked at the black eye that Annie was sporting. "Looks like you had one yourself recently."

"Oh this?" she said, placing a hand on the bruise. "Got into it with a fellow lodger a few days ago. Looks much better than it did." She began coughing and put a handkerchief over her mouth.

"Are you ill?" Sylar asked, knowing the answer was "yes". From his research, he'd discovered Annie most likely had tuberculosis and possibly syphilis. She was dying. She just wouldn't leave this world the way she expected.

"Just a bit of a chest cold," Annie lied as she looked at the blood-tinged mucus on the handkerchief. "I'll be fine with some rest." She noticed Sylar had almost finished his tea. "Would you like another cup?" she asked.

"No thank you. I must be off. I just wanted to come by and pay my respects to my old friend's widow. Here." He reached in his pocket and gave her a few pence, sure she would spend it on rum before the day was over. "It's what I owed John. It should go to you."

"Thank you, Gabriel," she said softly as she accepted the money. "I'm sure John would've forgiven you if he was here. Please stop by again for tea sometime."

"I shall," Sylar told her, knowing this was the last morning tea Annie would enjoy. He turned to leave, giving her a quick nod.

"Wait," she said. She pulled a flower from the bouquet and walked over to Sylar. "There. Now that looks just dapper on you," she told him as she placed the stem through a buttonhole on his jacket. She smiled at him and Sylar had to admit, it was beautiful. Her teeth were a sharp contrast to Mary's, almost perfect, in fact.

"Thank you," Sylar said, taking her hand between his. He held it for a few moments then gave her a smile of his own before leaving. He made his way back to his flat and stretched out on the bed, keeping his current form so he could fit in it's small dimensions. He read through the paper lying down, listening to the citizens of Whitechapel as they bustled along, knowing the panic and chaos those citizens would soon find themselves in.

Sylar watched from a window of an upper floor room at 29 Hanbury street as Annie walked with her new client along the fence that separated the residence from it's neighbor. He knew from a few days observation that the man who rented the room wouldn't be home until just before dawn and Sylar would be gone by then. He tuned in his super-sensitive hearing to their conversation as Annie leaned casually up against the fence.

"How's this?" Annie asked her companion.

"Fine. Just fine," he replied. "What will you do for me, my dear?"

"I'll do anything you want," Annie replied, smiling at him.

The man looked Annie up and down as another woman walked past them. "Will you?" he asked.

"Yes," Annie told him.

The man took a step back and smiled. He looked around cautiously before making his request. "Let me see you," he said, nodding at Annie's skirt.

She lifted her skirt and petticoats, showing the man her naked genitals. She spread her legs slightly as if she was inviting him inside her, ready to let him have her for the few pence she usually charged for her services.

"I've decided what I want you to do," the man said as he moved up against Annie.

"What's that, love?" Annie asked, thinking she knew what his request would be. Her smile began to fade as she saw a change on the man's face. Gone was the charming sparkle in his eyes, replaced by an angry glint that pierced her very soul.

The man reached into his pocket and pulled out his knife as he pressed Annie against the fence. "I want you to die," he told her.

"No!" Annie managed to get out before the man slapped his palm over her mouth. He held his blade to her throat but hesitated as he stood with it against her skin. He could hear someone on the other side of the fence making their way to the outhouse. He stood there, hand over Annie's mouth, easily holding her illness-weakened body against the wooden fence. He looked into her fear-filled eyes, waiting for his moment. As soon as he heard the door to the main house close, he turned Annie's body away from him while keeping his hand on her mouth, pulled her head back, and sliced the knife deep across her throat. He held her for a few seconds before letting her body fall to the ground. He knelt down and pushed up the woman's skirts to expose her abdomen. He pressed the knife into the skin but stopped and looked up towards a window in the upper floor of the house.

Sylar ducked quickly out of sight when he noticed the man start to turn his head upwards. He waited a few seconds, sure the man hadn't seen him, before glancing out the window again. The man was busy butchering his victim, focused on getting his trophy. He'd soon cut it out and placed it in a jar, the liquid inside sloshing out slightly from the added content. He placed the jar in the black bag and was in the process of standing when something on Annie's body caught his eye. He knelt back down, took her hand, and pulled three rings off her fingers. He tucked them into his pocket as he looked around before heading back in the direction he'd entered.

Sylar stood at the window for a few minutes, looking down at Annie's mutilated corpse, feeling a little sickened at the sight. His own kills were quick, efficient, and while they left a bloody mess, they didn't compare to the gore and destruction this man left behind. Maybe in some sense, this end was better for Annie. She probably would've lingered for months as she died from the tuberculosis and syphilis, ending up on the street when she couldn't work to pay for her room at the lodging house. Her murder, while brutal, brought about a quick end. She was most likely dead before her body had come to rest on the damp ground.

Sylar shook himself out of his contemplations and shifted to the form he had that first night. With one last look at Annie's body, he closed his eyes and prepared to teleport from the tiny room. It was time to go talk to his friend.

CHAPTER FOUR

The man started as he opened the door and saw the stranger sitting in a chair at the table, enjoying a glass of whiskey.

"How did you get in here?"

"Just another one of my abilities," Sylar explained, taking a sip from his glass.

The man walked cautiously over to the table and set his bag down. "I should make you pay for that," he said, nodding towards the bottle of liquor. "That was an expensive bottle of Scotch you so casually did away with during your last visit."

Sylar reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and tossed them on the table. "That should cover it," he said dismissively. He gulped the remainder of his drink down, poured another shot, and handed it to the man. "I'm sure you could use some refreshment after your work this evening."

"Then you were there," the man said, one side of his mouth creeping up in a smile.

"I was," Sylar told him. "Tell me what it was like."

The man sat down, eager to tell his audience of one about his experience. "It was exhilarating," he said, almost breathless. "I don't know how to describe it, exactly. It's as if I'm there but I'm not there, like it's another part of me doing those things." He took a sip of his drink and Sylar noticed the dried blood staining the man's hands. "That whore thought she was going to spread her legs, get her coins, and go have herself another drink. The look in her eyes when I was holding her there, my knife at her throat, it made my heart feel as if it would beat from chest." The man's breath became rapid as he relived his deed, his body shaking with delight. He looked across at Sylar, studying his visitor's expression but gaining no insight into how his account was being received. "Is it not the same for you when you kill?"

"There is a certain satisfaction I get when I take a person's ability," Sylar admitted. "My hunger is sated, at least for a time." He picked absent-mindedly at a splinter of wood on the table, taking his eyes from the man's unsettling stare. "But it always returns, just as strong and persistent as before."

"I understand," the man told him. "After the first, I thought maybe that would be enough. It would be one less whore walking the streets but over these last few days, it's all I could think about. I kept seeing her face in my head, dreaming about her, about how good it felt to watch her breathe her last and to take what I wanted from her. I needed to feel like that again." He opened the bag and took out the jar containing his newest acquisition. "I needed this." He walked over to a small shelf and placed it beside the one from Mary, letting his fingertips linger on the glass a few seconds before coming back to the table.

"I saw you take something else," Sylar told hime.

The man appeared puzzled for a moment then a look of realization came to his face. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three brass rings and laid them on the table. "Nice little trinkets, aren't they?" he asked as he stood one on it's end and gave it a spin.

"Why did you take them?" Sylar asked as he picked one of the rings up to study more closely.

"I'm not sure," the man said. "I suppose I wanted something I could keep with me, as a memento." He slipped one onto his pinky finger, smiling broadly when it fit perfectly. "There. Now I can take it with me wherever I go." He noticed Sylar turning the ring over in his hand as he examined it. "You may keep that if you like."

"No thanks," Sylar said as he quickly put the ring back on the table. He looked at the man's bloody clothes and skin, the coppery smell beginning to waft through the room. "I'll go so you can get yourself cleaned up."

"Yes, yes," the man muttered, looking down at himself as if noticing the sticky, red substance for the first time. He looked up and smiled at Sylar, a gleam coming back into his eyes. "Bet the whores of Whitechapel will be in a right ole state of fright when they hear about their sinful sister's demise."

Sylar stood without responding. He, of course, knew there would be more than fear. There would be near panic as the details of the second brutal murder spread through the East End and not just among the wretches who plied their trade in dark alleys. "I will see you next time," he told the man simply before going to the door.

"It will be awhile, I'm afraid," the man said with a hint of disappointment in his voice. "I will be away on family business for several days." He let out a sharp, short laugh as he realized who he was talking to. "Then I suppose you already know that."

Sylar only nodded as he turned the knob, opened the door, and stepped out. He walked a few steps down the hallway before teleporting back to his own flat. The sun was just beginning to turn the sky a dull gray as it struggled to make it's presence known through the clouds and pollution. A few people were already up and about, making their way to or from their labors. He saw a couple of men talking, their hands gesturing in an agitated manner. Sylar tuned in his hearing to catch the conversation.

"Did you hear? There's been another murder!" one man told the other. "The fiend gutted the woman like a pig in a slaughterhouse!"

"Bet the coppers will take it seriously now," the other man replied.

"I wouldn't stake my wages on it," the first man said. "Just another dead whore to them. We could all end up the same as that poor creature and the Home Office wouldn't lift a finger."

"Aye, you got that right, friend," the second man replied. "Best be on my way. Don't want the foreman docking my wages for being late."

"Yes, the missus is probably fixing my breakfast as we speak. A good day to you," the first man said before the two parted ways.

Sylar laid down on the bed and closed his eyes. He found sleep elusive as his mind filled with the images of the man cutting away at Annie's body and the gleeful look in his eyes when he relived the experience for Sylar. Was he like that? If someone were to talk to him about his many kills, would he have the same glazed look of joy in his eyes? Did the feeling of warm comfort he felt when he murdered come only from his hunger being satisfied or did the death itself give him pleasure? Could he stop if he tried hard enough? Did he even want to?

After over an hour of tossing and turning, Sylar got up and decided to see if he could find a decent cup of coffee anywhere. He grabbed his jacket, stopping short as he noticed the flower that Annie had stuck in his buttonhole just the morning before. It was now completely wilted, the petals brown, drooping. It was dead, just like the woman who'd given it to him with a sweet smile on her face. Sylar took it out and went to the wastebasket, hesitating a moment before letting it fall inside to become just another piece of forgotten refuse.

CHAPTER FIVE

The crowd at the pub grumbled over their ale, their harsh feelings for the authorities raging to the surface. It had been nearly three weeks since the horrific slaying of Annie Chapman, almost a month since that of Mary Nichols.

"They don't give a shit about us," said one woman, intoxication making her voice loud. "They'd sooner see us all butchered than lift a finger to help us."

"You tell 'em Liz!" a patron shouted over the crowd, egging the woman on.

"Well, if we're all gone, who's going to clean their fine houses, mend their fancy garments, and serve them afternoon tea," the woman continued, miming each point with comedic exaggeration. The crowd roared with laughter at her, enjoying the unexpected entertainment. "Not to mention keep their husbands satisfied." She thrust her hips back and forth a few times to make sure everyone knew what she was talking about.

Sylar sat on a stool by the door, taking all this in, laughing along with everyone else. He'd spent the last three weeks mostly to himself but as the time drew near for his friend's return, he'd decided to join the crowd at the Queen's Head Public House where he knew Elizabeth Stride often enjoyed a few drinks. She was becoming increasingly raucous, much to the delight of her captive audience as they laughed heartily. The door to the pub opened and the laughter suddenly ceased as a man dressed in a cleric's suit walked in, Bible in hand.

"Brothers and sisters, I know you are all greatly disturbed by the recent murders," he began as he strode to the middle of the room. "I too have grieved for those lost souls. Evil walks among us and we do not know his face." He turned and looked Sylar in the eye for a moment, and Sylar had to admit, he found it a little unnerving. "Nor do we know who will be the next to meet such a gruesome fate. There is only one thing you can be sure of, my friends. If you repent of your wickedness now, your soul shall find peace, no matter how you meet your end."

"I assume you mean us whores," Liz said defiantly. "Tell me, preacher, how am I supposed to keep a roof over my head when my so-called 'honest labor' barely gives me two coins to rub together?"

"Perhaps, sister, if you did not spend so much on drink, you would not have that problem," the preacher suggested.

"Do you live in Whitechapel?" Liz asked.

"No, I do not but I don't see..."

"Then you have no right coming in here and telling us to repent!" Liz spat. "If you lived in the filth and squalor for only a week, you'd be drinking too, just like the rest of us!"

A few patrons muttered and nodded in agreement with Liz's words. The alcohol numbed them to the pain of their daily existence; it was one of the few pleasures they had.

"But the temporary joy you feel from your drunkenness is nothing compared to what you will have in Paradise," the preacher argued. "Your suffering here on earth is merely a test, to see if you can remain true to the word of the Lord."

"What kind of God tests people by slicing their throats and gutting them?" Sylar asked, the words slipping from his mouth before he could stop them. Everyone turned to look at him, making him the new center of attention.

"God did not do those things to those women," the preacher responded. "A man did. A man with the devil in his soul."

"A man who God could've stopped," Sylar countered. "That book is full of people being struck down for their wickedness," he said, pointing to the Bible. "Why hasn't God struck this man down?"

"Amen brother!" Liz responded enthusiastically.

"He will answer for his deeds on Judgment Day," the preacher said, clutching the Bible closer to his chest.

"And how many more of us will be murdered before then?" Liz asked as she stepped towards the preacher.

"That is entirely up to you and your other fallen sisters," the preacher said. "If you did not indulge in these sins of the flesh, you would not be like lambs to the slaughter."

"I don't 'indulge' in anything," Liz said, looking the man squarely in the eye. "Do you think I enjoy having those men thrusting away inside me? Why do you think I drink? I drink to forget about them fuckin' me!"

There was a slight gasp at Liz's boldness in using such a crude term with a man of the cloth and everyone waited for the preacher to respond. The man bowed his head as if in prayer before shaking it sadly back and forth. He went to the door and turned back to look over the crowd of souls he felt sure were damned for all eternity. "I will pray for you, sister," he said as his gaze met Liz's. "I will pray for all of you." He opened the door and left to find a more receptive audience.

Liz spat on the floor as she watched the man walk past the window. "That's what I think of your prayers," she said disdainfully. She approached Sylar and gave him a slight smile as she extended her hand. "Good for you for giving that preacher an earful," she said, shaking Sylar's hand vigorously.

"I'm not very fond of those who think they're morally superior to others," Sylar told her. "I've found they're usually worse than the people they condemn."

"Very true," Liz said. "I wouldn't be surprised if he's partaken of the services of my fellow 'fallen sisters' a few times himself." She smiled at Sylar, her eyes taking in his current form. "I've never seen you in here. Are you new to Whitechapel?"

"I am indeed," Sylar responded. "I've come looking for work but it sounds as if there isn't much out there to be had."

"You might try down at the docks," Liz suggested. "They're always looking for nice, strong men to help out there."

"I may do that," Sylar told her. He took a last swig of his drink and got up from his stool. "It was nice meeting you, Liz."

"And you...I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."

"It's Gabriel."

"Gabriel. Best of luck to you."

"You too." Sylar put his coat on, knowing Liz's luck would be anything but good in a couple of days. He stepped outside as it started to rain, the moisture mixing with the city grime. He pulled the coat tighter around him before giving Liz one last wave as he walked past the window and headed back to his flat.

The wind whipped around Sylar as he stood with a crowd outside a pub on Aldgate High Street. They were quickly getting soaked by the driving rain, as was the woman who was the focus of attention. She sat in a doorway, singing nonsensically to herself, letting out a laugh every now and then at some unseen amusement.

"What's going on here?" a patrolman asked as he pushed through the crowd. He saw the woman and let out a heavy sigh. "Drunk again, Cate?" he asked as he knelt down beside her. "Come on with ya. Let's get you down to the station so you can sleep it off." He tried to get Cate to her feet, but in her current condition, she was pretty much dead weight. The rain-slick walkway didn't make things any easier as the patrolman's shoes slid, finding no traction on the wet stone. "How about a hand?" he asked some of the other men who stood in the crowd.

Sylar stepped forward with another man to give the officer some help getting the woman to her feet.

"Just leave me be," the woman slurred as they stood her up. "I just need a few moments rest. Can't you give a poor lady like myself that?"

"You can get some rest down at the station," the officer told her. "We have a nice warm bed there. That'll be better than this cold, wet stone, won't it?"

"Only if you join me," Cate said with a wink.

The officer rolled his eyes and looked at Sylar. "I hate to impose but do you think you could help me get her the few blocks down to the station? She's a bit hard to handle on my own."

"Of course, officer. Anything I can do to help out," Sylar replied. Each man put one of the woman's arms around their shoulders and began guiding her down the street. All three of them were drenched by the time they entered the station and deposited Cate on a bench.

"Thank you kindly, gentlemen," she said, listing to one side.

"Well, Miss Eddowes, I see you're back in Whitechapel," the desk sergeant said. "I thought you and your old man were out in the country picking hops."

"That we were," Cate replied. "But we decided to come home. "What's all this about some women being murdered?"

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with right now," the sergeant told her. "Let's get you to a cell so you can sober up." He and the officer who'd found Cate got the woman back up and standing then led her down a hallway."Thank you for your assistance," the officer called to Sylar before turning a corner and disappearing.

Sylar stood looking down the hallway for a few moments before going back out into the windy, rainy night. He stepped down an alleyway, looked around, and teleported back to his flat. He started a fire in the woodstove, stripped off the wet clothes, and stood with his hands stretched towards the flames as they warmed and dried his naked body. He debated whether or not to go back out into the night. After all, he knew what his 'friend' was going to do to both Liz and Cate. He'd read the medical examiner's report, he'd seen the mortuary photos but he also knew those things didn't compare to the actual experience of witnessing how they got that way. After going over all options in his head, Sylar decided he would skip Liz's demise since the murderer's normal ritual of mutilation would be interrupted. It was that ritual rather than the kill itself that seemed important to the man and it was what Sylar felt the most important to see. His mind now made up, Sylar dressed in some clean, dry clothes and listened for the chiming of the brewery clock. As it heralded the time as quarter after one, Sylar closed his eyes and soon found himself on a low, flat rooftop he'd chosen as the best point of observation. He looked down, squinting through the darkness and the rain, soon seeing Cate as she made her way back home after sleeping off her inebriated state. Then he appeared, blocking her path.

"Good evening, Miss," the man said to Cate. "What's a lovely thing like you doing out in such foul weather?"

"Just making my way home," she said, trying to go around him.

"You shouldn't be out alone. There's a murderer about or haven't you heard?"

"I've been away for a bit. I've only heard a thing here and there."

"Let me walk you home. I couldn't forgive myself if something should happen to you."

"Thank you for the offer but I'll be fine." Cate began to cut down an alleyway, the man quickly at her heels.

"I insist," he said, taking her arm and turning her to face him.

"I don't want to impose," Cate said, placing a hand on his chest. She felt something wet, sticky on her palm. She pulled her hand away, her eyes widening in horror as she looked at the blood staining her skin. The night and the man's dark clothing had hidden the evidence of his latest deed until now. Cate opened her mouth to scream but the man was on her too quickly. She struggled as he turned her around then efficiently brought his knife across her throat. Her body fell to the ground, the man quickly kneeling to begin his work.

Sylar watched as the man, almost frenzied, went beyond the ritual he'd used on Mary and Annie. He hacked viciously at Cate's face, nearly taking off the tip of her nose and cutting away part of one of her ears. He then turned to what he killed her for, laying open her abdomen, cutting away at her organs before taking what he wanted. He plopped his prizes into his wine-filled jar and tucked it into his black bag. He stood, panting from the physical exertion of his work and the exhilaration it brought him. He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of chalk, and began writing on the wall. Sylar knew the message he was leaving, one meant to throw suspicion on one of the many ethnic groups that called Whitechapel their home. He also knew that the man's plan would fail when the well-meaning detective on the scene had the message washed away to prevent any racial upheaval. The man finished, stepped back to briefly admire his work, then disappeared into the rainy night.

Sylar stood on the rooftop, watching the rain wash the blood across the bricks around Cate's body. Unlike the others, she wasn't a known prostitute. She was simply a woman, down on her luck like many others, trying to get home after having too much to drink. Her path crossed with a man who didn't know that and didn't care. He was only interested in satisfying his need, his hunger, to take something of hers he valued and thought she didn't. Sylar thought of all the people who's abilities he'd taken and how he'd justified their deaths in much the same way. They had something he wanted, something he would appreciate and not hide away like they did. He felt sickened at this similarity for a brief moment but then comforted himself with the knowledge that he indeed made good use of what he took. What could this man do with his collection but look at them as they floated lifelessly in their containers?

He closed his eyes, ready to use one of those abilities to take him to his next meeting with the man whose name would soon appear for the first time in the local papers. It was a name that would survive the decades, becoming synonymous with the monster lurking in the shadows. Sylar wondered if his name had a similar affect among those with abilities. Was he their monster? Did the very mention of his name conjure visions of gore and death? Would that be his legacy?

When he opened his eyes, he was standing in the man's flat. He immediately reached for the bottle of whiskey and filled a nearby glass. He wished more than ever he could get drunk as he sat down in his dripping wet clothes to wait, the silence and darkness wrapping around him and bringing him no comfort.

CHAPTER SIX

"You!" the man said angrily when he walked in and saw Sylar casually sipping whiskey. "You knew didn't you?"

"You need to be more specific, friend," Sylar told him, swirling the liquid in his glass.

"About the first whore!" the man raged. "You knew my work would be disrupted!"

"I did," Sylar replied.

"I could've been nicked, you bastard!" the man said, taking a threatening step towards Sylar. He quickly found himself pinned to the wall as his visitor rose from his chair.

"You forget who you're dealing with, friend," Sylar told him as he walked toward the man. He looked in his eyes and noticed the anger turning to fear. "I told you when we first met that I wouldn't help you. If you'd gotten caught, it would've been because of your own carelessness." He released the man, letting him fall to a heap on the floor. "Besides, you got what you wanted from the second woman, didn't you?"

The man struggled to his feet, now calmer and ready to share with his visitor. "Indeed I did. And more." He picked up his bag, set it on the table, and carefully removed his jar. "See that?" he asked, pointing to a dark, bean-shaped object floating around. "That's the whore's kidney. I have plans for that."

Sylar remembered one of the letters the killer had written and prepared to make his excuses, not wanting to see what the man was going to do to at least part of the man fished the kidney out, placed it on the table, and cut it in half. He poured a bit of wine in a small jar and dropped one half into it. He studied the other half for a moment then went to the window, opened it, and leaned out slightly. "Here puss, puss, puss," he called.

Sylar walked up behind him and looked over the man's shoulder. A scraggly stray cat soon appeared in the alley below and looked up, meowing. The man threw the other half of the kidney down to it and after a few tentative sniffs, the animal picked up the free meal in it's teeth and disappeared into a darkened corner.

The man stood at the window a few more moments, smiling into the night, before closing the window and picking up the jar that held the other part of the stolen organ. "I'll send this to that idiot Lusk," he declared. "I'll tell him I ate the other half. That'll give the old man a good fright." He pulled some paper, pen, and an ink well from a drawer and sat down at the table to write. "They thought I was some prankster before," he muttered to no one in particular. "They'll know better now when they see what I did to that whore tonight. Told them I'd take off an ear next time." He came back to reality as he looked up at Sylar. "I sent a letter to the paper, told them what I'd done, what I was going to do." He grinned wickedly at his visitor for a moment. "Then you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Yes, I did...Jack."

The man's eyes widened upon hearing the moniker he'd given himself, pleased the name would be known for many years to come.

"Did you know the second woman wasn't a prostitute?" Sylar asked.

Jack looked surprised at this news but soon recovered. "Maybe not yet," he said, as he returned to his writing. "Just a matter of time, though."

"How do you know that?" Sylar wanted to see if Jack's hatred extended beyond his claimed targets. "She may have lived a very honest, hard-working life for years to come."

"No!" Jack said, his rage coming to the surface as he slammed his fist on the table. "She was a whore! They all are!"

Sylar sat down across from Jack and waited for the man to continue. The anger was releasing the truth behind Jack's true motivations. "You mean all women?"

"Yes! They're all whores! They may pretend to be respectable, God-fearing ladies of society, but when it comes down to it, they use their bodies to ensnare a man to take care of them! If the first doesn't satisfy their needs, they'll spread their legs for one who will and leave the other behind!"

"Is that what happened to you, Jack?" Sylar asked, feeling he was getting somewhere.

Jack opened his mouth to answer but stopped himself. He realized he'd already revealed too much about himself and his reasons for the deeds he'd committed. "I don't wish to speak of it," he told Sylar, putting his head down and picking up his pen. "I must concentrate on this. I would appreciate it if you took your leave now."

Sylar pushed the chair back from the table, knowing he would get nothing else from Jack. He went to the door, turning to watch the man as he scribbled furiously on the paper, then left the room. He didn't bother to walk away from the entrance before teleporting back to his flat, knowing Jack was too absorbed in his letter to pay him any attention.

Sylar stoked the fire in the woodstove before removing his wet clothing. He jumped when there was a knock at the door and prepared to teleport if this visitor was unwelcome. "Who is it?" he called out.

"Mr. Nettles, the landlord," came the response. "Hate to bother you at such a late hour but I've come for the rent."

"One moment, please," Sylar answered. He threw on some clothes and grabbed the pouch that held his money. He shape-shifted quickly to the form the landlord had seen at the time Sylar had acquired the flat. "Good evening, Mr. Nettles," he said with a smile as he opened the door. "My apologies for not getting this to you. I must've lost track of the date." He handed the man some coins. "Here's a little extra for your trouble."

"Thank you, sir," Mr. Nettles said, genuinely surprised at the bonus and the lack of fuss his tenant was making. "Looks like you've been out tonight yourself."

"Yes. Went to the pub for a few drinks," Sylar rubbed his head in mock pain as if he had a hangover. "Afraid I had a few too many."

"Done that many a time myself, lad," Mr. Nettles assured him. "Get you some rest. I'll not bother anymore." He made his way down the steps and disappeared out the front door. Sylar went back in, taking a moment to check the fire, then laid down on the small bed. He watched the shadows generated by the flames flicker and dance across the walls as his eyelids became heavy. He closed them, thankful Jack had cut their visit short. He felt relief that he wouldn't see him again for a few weeks and that would be their final meeting. He considered leaving this place, going back to the comforts modern society provided, but he felt there was something more he needed to know. He didn't know how or if he would get those answers but he knew he had to see this through. There was one more woman whose life would end, one last victim of Jack's rage. He put that out of his mind as he let sleep take him for the few hours left before the streets outside were filled with angry, frightened people demanding justice, something they would never receive.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The first thing that struck Sylar about the woman was how attractive she was. Fairly tall compared to the other women around her with blond hair, blue eyes, and a fair complexion. It wasn't just these physical features that caught his attention. It was the way she carried herself. She was almost regal in her stance, holding her body straight and her head high as she walked along. He'd watched her for several days as she plied her trade on the East End, seeing the sadness creep into her eyes as she smiled and talked to potential clients.

"I'm so tired of this life," he overheard her say this evening to one of her friends. "I wish I could get enough money to go home to my family in Ireland."

"You don't belong here, love," the woman agreed. "Why not go back to the West End? At least the clientele is better and you might just make enough to go back home."

"No one wants me there," the woman said sadly. "I guess this is the life I'm destined to lead. It will surely be the end of me and I have a feeling it will be soon."

Ever since Mary Nichols, Sylar had avoided being with any of the victims but he felt drawn to this new Mary. She was sad, sweet, the Irish lilt of her accent making every word sing. The chill of this early November evening cut through as Sylar approached Mary. He knew it wasn't wise but he'd shifted to his true self, his tall frame and dark features drawing attention to him as he walked along. He knew he wouldn't be a suspect since it was still three days before Mary would meet her demise but the glances and curious looks still made him uncomfortable. "How are you this fine evening?" he asked her.

"Just grand," she said, looking up at the darkly handsome stranger. "And yourself?"

"I could use some company," Sylar told her.

"I'm a bit lonely as well. Would you like to go to my flat for some tea?" Mary asked.

"That would be wonderful," Sylar responded.

"Come along, then. It's not very far." Mary motioned for him to follow and they went down a few streets to Miller's Court. She pulled a key from her apron pocket and opened the door to her room. "It isn't much but it's home for now," she told him as he stepped inside.

"It's quite lovely," Sylar said to her as he ducked slightly to enter.

"Please, have a seat. I'll get that tea for you." Mary didn't normally offer her clients refreshments but something was different about this man. She wanted to spend time with him beyond what she was paid to do. She stoked the fire that had just begun dying out and placed a kettle on. She retrieved two small cups, placed a bit of tea in them, then sat down to wait for the water to heat up. "The name is Mary Kelly, by the way," she said smiling at her guest.

"Sylar," he heard himself say. "Sylar Gray." He extended his hand and took Mary's giving it a slight shake. Something about this woman made him want to be honest with her about who he was.

"Sylar. What an unusual name," Mary commented. Then again, this was an unusual man, Mary thought as she looked into his dark eyes. "Where are you from, Sylar?"

"America," Sylar told her. "New York City to be exact. I'm just here on some business."

"I've always wanted to go there," Mary said wistfully. "But since I can barely make rent I suppose I will have to continue to dream." She stood and retrieved the kettle, pouring the hot water into the teacups. "Lemon, sugar, or milk for you?"

"No thank you," Sylar replied. Mary added a small amount of sugar to her cup then handed Sylar his as she came back over and sat down.

"This is delicious," Sylar told her as he sipped.

"I'm glad you like it," Mary replied with a smile

They sipped their tea and talked, Sylar making up a cover story about working for a garment manufacturer and being in London to pick out and buy new material for men's suits. As he watched the firelight dance in Mary's blue eyes, he wished he could tell her who he really was and when he was from, not just where. He knew he couldn't do that, not just because she wouldn't believe him but because who he really was was the very thing that had women like Mary living in fear. He was a killer, not the one the police desperately sought but a killer nonetheless.

"Is there something wrong?" Mary asked as she reached out and placed her delicate hand on top of his.

"No, nothing at all," Sylar lied. He took Mary's hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "You're a very kind and beautiful woman, Mary. I wish things turned out better for you."

Mary thought this an odd statement but she put it out of her mind as she stood, pulling on Sylar's hand to beckon him to his feet. She moved closer to him, pressing her body against his as he leaned down and kissed her. She felt his tongue seeking entrance and she opened her mouth, allowing it inside. Her hands roamed his body, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt and she wanted to feel his skin against hers. She began unbuttoning his shirt, pushing it aside to reveal his chest as he began fumbling with the buttons on her dress.

Sylar desperately wanted Mary but he found himself becoming increasingly frustrated with the complexities of women's clothing during this time period. There were layers of it, meant for both warmth and modesty, all held in place by multiple fasteners and ties.

"Here. Let me," Mary said with a slight laugh when she sensed his aggravation with the garments. Her nimble fingers undid the buttons on her dress and she slid it off, neatly folding it and placing it on a chair before moving to her undergarments. Sylar watched as the layers fell away until she was finally naked. Her body was beautiful, curvaceous, with round, full breasts and nearly flawless, pale skin. She unpinned her hair and the blond curls fell in golden ringlets over her shoulders and midway down her chest. She pressed against Sylar again as she moved her hands down to his pants and undid them. She pushed them down to the floor as Sylar slid off his boots so he could remove them fully along with his shirt.

Mary looked at the vision that stood before her. She'd never seen a man so perfect, so beautiful, in her life. His body was nothing but lean muscle, covered with skin of a rich, slightly darkened color. Soft, dark hair lightly covered his chest and Mary felt her fingers drawn to it. She ran her hands over his pecs and around to his back as he leaned down to kiss her again. His erection pressed against her and she ached to feel him inside her. She pulled him back to the bed and let him ease her down onto it, his lips and tongue never leaving her own.

Sylar slipped easily into Mary as she wrapped her legs around him. He felt the warmth and moisture take him in, surrounding him as he began to gently thrust. Unlike the first Mary, he wanted to take his time, make this moment last as long as possible. He moved his mouth to her neck, softly sucking the delicate skin as Mary gasped with little whimpers of pleasure, her body rising to meet his movements.

"Sylar," she whispered in his ear, her voice like the notes to the sweetest song ever created.

The clientele Mary usually brought to her bed were nothing like this man. All they wanted to do was get inside her, come, and leave. This man, this Sylar, was taking the time to give her pleasure, to bring her with him on his journey of ecstasy. She felt her body tingle with each careful thrust as he positioned himself to give her what she needed to be with him. She felt the climax approaching and it was like nothing she'd ever experienced as it built within her, making everything throb and spin around her. She could hear herself as she began to cry out, not recognizing her own voice as she came with him, his screams blending with her own.

Sylar's body shook as every fiber in his body seemed to explode as he let himself go with Mary, feeling her body tremble against his. He let his weight fall on top of her as the last quivers of passion rippled away, his breath heavy and panting against her neck. He turned to his side, taking Mary with him and staying snuggly inside her as they held each other close. Her fingers lightly stroked their way up and down his spine as she nuzzled into his chest.

"Sylar," she whispered again as he pulled her closer. "Thank you for that. I've never experienced such pleasure with a man before, not even those I've professed to love."

As his fingers ran through her golden strands of hair, Sylar felt happy that he'd given Mary something she'd never had but saddened by what he knew would be her fate. He wanted to teleport at that very moment, taking Mary back with him to the luxury penthouse in New York City that he was "borrowing" while the owner was away. She deserved better than what she had, better than what she would get in just a few short days. He knew any idyllic life he had planned for her, however, would end quickly as his own hunger returned and Mary would find out what he was. He kissed her cheek softly before turning her head to meet his gaze. "I want to give you something else," Sylar told her. He eased out of her and retrieved the coin pouch from his coat pocket. He reached in and took enough out to get him through the next few days, dropped it in his pocket, and handed the pouch to Mary. "Take this. Go back to Ireland and your family. Leave on the first ship tomorrow morning. You shouldn't be here."

Mary looked in the pouch at the money inside as she sat up on the bed. "I can't take this," she said trying to hand it back to Sylar. "You need this to get home."

"I have other means of getting where I need to be," he told her as he pushed her hand gently back towards her chest. "Please. I want to do this for you."

Mary's eyes filled with tears as she looked up at Sylar. "I can never repay you for this," she told him as a tear made it's way down her cheek. She placed the money on her nightstand and pulled Sylar back down to the bed. They locked themselves in a tight embrace as the fire flickered, casting their joined shadows on the wall. "Stay with me tonight, Sylar."

Sylar answered by pulling her closer to him, his lips meeting hers in a soft kiss. "Only if you promise to do as I asked."

"I will. First boat out to Ireland tomorrow," Mary assured him.

They lay intertwined, dozing for a short time and waking to make love again, the experience as pleasurable as the first. As they began to fall back to sleep, there was a frantic knocking at the door."Who's there?" Mary called out.

"It's Liza," came a teary voice on the other side.

"She's a friend," Mary quickly explained as she got out of bed and slipped on a robe. She waited for Sylar to put his pants and shirt back on before going to the door. "Liza! My God, what happened?" she asked her friend as she led the woman inside.

"A client," she sobbed, dapping a handkerchief to her bloodied and swollen lip. "He beat me and took my money."

"Oh, Liza," Mary sighed. She poured some water into a wash basin, dipped a cloth into it, and began cleaning the blood from her friends face. "Did you go to the police?"

Liza shook her head. "No. What do they care? They've done nothing to catch the monster that's been killing us. Why would they help me?" She looked at her friend as Mary continued to treat the woman's wounds. "I thought it was him, Mary. I thought any moment he was going to slice my throat and gut me." She began crying harder as Mary put her arms around her.

"There, there," she soothed. "you're safe now."

"I know your Mister doesn't like you having other women like me stay here but please, can I spend the night?" Liza pleaded.

"Of course," Mary told her without hesitation. "Don't worry about a thing. We'll figure out something for you in the morning."

"Thank you," Liza said softly. She looked up and noticed Sylar for the first time as he sat on the end of Mary's bed. "I didn't realize you had company," she said, embarrassed. "Perhaps I should go, then. I'll find somewhere else to stay."

"That's alright," Sylar said as he reached for his boots. "I was just leaving. You should stay here with Mary. You'll be safe." He stood and gave Mary a kiss on the cheek before going to the door. "Don't forget your promise," he reminded her.

"I won't," Mary told put on his coat and wrapped it tightly around him before opening the door. He turned before leaving, giving Mary a final smile as she tended to her friend. She gave him a smile back before he closed the door and disappeared into the night.

Liza sobbed as she slumped in a chair at a pub. "I can't believe this," she said over and over. "I just saw her a few nights ago. She took me in after I was beaten then gave me some money the next morning so I could pay for my lodgings for a few days and not have to go out at night."

Some of the patrons sat around her, trying to comfort her as she cried.

"She was indeed a kind-hearted woman," a man said. "She didn't deserve an end like this."

"If the police had done their jobs, they would've had the fiend locked away before now," another man other patrons grumbled angrily in agreement as a woman brought Liza a cup of tea. One patron sat away from the rest, sipping his ale, his head down.

"Terrible thing what happened to that girl," the bartender said as he came over to the customer. "They say he hacked her body to pieces, threw the bits all over the room."

Liza's crying became louder as she overheard the bartender's words. One woman gave the man a withering look before going back to comfort the grieving friend.

"Yes, a real shame," the man at the bar said flatly. He gave the bartender payment for his drink, slid from the stool, and walked out into the chilly November afternoon. He rounded a corner to go down an alleyway and was gone, disappearing into thin air without anyone noticing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

"Hello Jack."

Jack let out a slight cry of surprise as he turned from cleaning his knife to see a tall, lean, dark-haired stranger standing in his flat. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, holding the knife in a defensive position.

"It's me. Your friend," Sylar told him. "Oh, I'm sorry. You know me as this." He shape-shifted to the form Jack would recognize then back to himself. "This is my true form, however. I feel more comfortable this way."

Jack stood staring, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, at Sylar. "I am beginning to doubt your claims of not being a devil."

"Doubt is good," Sylar told him. "I still have my doubts about you.""How so?" Jack asked, puzzled.

"Whether or not we're really alike."

"You said you were a killer, like me. That you've sliced off the tops of people's heads to get these 'abilities' of yours." Jack looked down at the knife he was holding. "What kind of blade do you use? It must be of high-quality and strength to cut through bone."

"No blade," Sylar said shaking his head as he put down the large duffel bag he'd brought with him.

"A saw, perhaps," Jack guessed.

"Nope," Sylar replied as he knelt down and untied the top of the duffel bag. He pulled out a large sheet and placed it on the floor.

Jack laid his knife down in the basin and walked over to watch his visitor as he laid out the cloth. "I'm not prepared to have an overnight guest," he said.

"This isn't for me, Jack," Sylar informed him. "It's for you."

"I appreciate the gift but I'm not in need of new linens," Jack said. He grinned broadly as Sylar looked at him. "Did you see it? Did you see what I did to that whore?"

"No," Sylar told looked disappointed that his audience had been absent but it didn't deter him from wanting to tell Sylar the details. "You missed a great one then. I'd seen that bitch walking the streets before, all high and mighty like she was some fancy society lady. She thought she was more beautiful than the others but I did her up good. Nothing left of that whore's face or her body but the bone. It'll take the mortician hours to piece her back for burial." He went to his coat and pulled out a familiar looking pouch from his pocket. "And she was a thief as well." He threw the pouch on the table so Sylar could inspect it for himself. "I found that in her nightstand. No street whore earns that much money. She must've pinched it from one of her hapless clients."

Sylar opened the pouch and counted the money inside. It was what he'd given Mary minus the amount of about five or six days rent for a bed at one of the lodging houses and food for that time. Mary had given the money to Liza to ensure her friend wouldn't have to walk the streets at least for those nights. Sylar tucked the pouch into his coat pocket and looked up at Jack as the man prepared to protest. "She didn't steal it, Jack. I gave it to her so she could go home to Ireland and her family."

"You?" Jack said disbelievingly. "You were with her?"

"Yes. Three nights ago. I thought I could save her from you but I guess I was wrong."

"Why would you want to save her? She was a whore, a piece of filth." Jack shook his head in disgust as he looked at Sylar. "I thought we were alike, brother." He gasped as he found himself suddenly pinned to the wall as Sylar strode angrily towards him.

"I am nothing like you," Sylar told him. "I only hate those who've wronged me and turned me into what I am. They alone deserve to die. The others are just as much their victims as mine." He paused a moment, taking a breath as he watched the fear in Jack's eyes. "I never chose to be a killer. It was forced on me and now I have a hunger I can't control. You, on the other hand, always had a choice. I don't know what happened to you to make you hate women with such fervor and I don't give a shit. You could've let that anger go or at least turned it on those that caused it but you chose to go after women you didn't even know, women who were just trying to make a living as best they could." He flicked his wrist, hurling Jack down on the well-placed sheet on the floor. "You wanted to know how I cut off the tops of my victims' heads. I'll show you." He pointed his finger at the man's forehead and drew a line across, watching as the blood began to pour from the wound that appeared. He stifled Jack's screams with a quick telekinetic squeeze to the throat as the man's eyes filled with pain and fear. Sylar wondered if it was the same as the pain and fear Jack saw in the women's eyes as they died. He wondered if Mary had the same look in hers as she realized what was going to happen to her. He knelt down by the man as he began to breathe his last and noticed the brass ring on Jack's pinky finger. Sylar pulled it off, hearing the bone snap with the force he used to gain the object. "This doesn't belong to you," he said, holding the trinket up. He slipped it on his own pinky and looked down, seeing the life begin to drain from Jack's eyes. "I can't give it back to Annie so I'll keep it as a reminder of what you were and who I am." He waited as Jack gasped once, then twice, then no more.

Sylar's telekinesis helped with the rest of his tasks. He folded Jack up in the sheet and stuffed him into the duffel bag along with the man's grotesque trophies and the knife he'd used to acquire them. He inspected Jack's coat, finding it had been freshly cleaned and was free of blood stains. There were more than a few citizens on the streets of Whitechapel who could use such a warm piece of clothing as winter approached. He draped it over his arm, gave the room one last quick glance to make sure everything was cleaned up, picked up the handle of the duffel bag and was gone.

The hospital incinerator's fire roared as Sylar raised his hand and guided the duffel bag inside. The flames leapt, crackling and popping furiously as they consumed the bag and it's contents. Sylar watched as everything burned away but the bones of the man who had terrorized the East End and those he took care of with a quick telekinetic crush. Now Jack was a part of the chocking soot and ash that polluted the air of Whitechapel and settled as grimy residue on the city. Sylar shape-shifted to a less noticeable form and made his way out of the basement to the main floor, blending in with the people who milled about. He stepped out onto the street and began walking, Jack's coat still folded over his arm. He noticed a man sitting just inside an alleyway, his knees drawn up in an attempt to keep warm. "You look cold, friend," Sylar said to the man as he walked up to him. "Here. This should remedy that."

The man stood and reached out for the coat being offered to him. "Thank you, sir. Thank you," he said as he put the coat on. He took Sylar's hand and pumped it vigorously. "God bless, you."

If Sylar believed in God's mercy, he would've returned the sentiment. He simply smiled instead as he left the alleyway and continued walking. He'd only gotten a few blocks when he was stopped by a small voice coming from a stoop in front of a row of flats.

"Spare a few pence, sir?" the voice asked.

Sylar turned and saw a little girl sitting on the steps, her hand outstretched. She only wore a thin dress and bonnet as she shivered against the November chill. Sylar began to regret giving the man the coat then realized he would soon have no use for the one he was wearing. He took it off and put it around the child's shoulders as he sat down beside her. "What's your name?" he asked her.

"Miriam," the girl replied, pulling the coat tighter. "What's yours?"

"Gabriel."

"Just like the angel," the girl said with a smile.

Normally, Sylar would've cringed at the comparison that had been made by two others besides Miriam but he accepted it this time. "Why are you out here, Miriam?"

"My mum is sick and can't go out to work at night," the girl replied. "We need money for our rent and for some food." She leaned in towards Sylar and glanced around. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course. I won't tell a soul," Sylar promised.

"I don't think my mum's really sick. I think she's scared to go out because of that bad man that's killed all those women," Miriam whispered to him.

"Ah, I see," Sylar said with an understanding nod. "Well, tell her that she doesn't have to worry about that man anymore. I have a feeling he's gone for good." He stood, preparing to make his way back down the sidewalk.

"Wait! Don't you want your coat back?" Miriam asked as she stood up beside him.

"You can keep it," Sylar told her. "And tell your mum to look in the inside pocket. There's something in there that will be of help to both of you." He began walking down the street again, his arms tucked around his chest as the wind chilled him.

"Thank you, Gabriel!" Miriam called after him.

Sylar turned and watched the girl go back inside. His hearing picked up the girl's conversation with her mother as she relayed what had happened, followed by a gasp of surprise when the woman discovered the coin purse in the pocket. He could hear the woman's footsteps as she hurriedly made her way to the door in hopes of thanking their mysterious benefactor and he quickly ducked out of sight. He took a few more steps into the alley, looked around one last time, then closed his eyes. He disappeared in an instant, leaving Whitechapel and it's citizens with one less misery to worry about.

THE END

EPILOGUE

Sylar stood in the shower, letting the hot water begin washing away the grime of his recent journey. He picked up the soap and lathered himself head to toe, feeling the sticky residue break away from his skin. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, supporting himself with outstretched arms as he rinsed off. Images of Mary, her blue eyes smiling at him, took form in his mind. He tried to push them away but gave up as the fatigue made such a task too difficult. He let the images come, hearing her voice as they'd talked, feeling her body against his as they'd made love. He'd considered going back and attempting to save her. He'd weighed each option carefully, deciding no one option guaranteed a better fate for Mary. He could've gone back and killed Jack before he killed her, or any of the other women for that matter, but there were not only others to take Jack's place, chances were Mary would've remained in her life on the East End, eventually becoming like the other women, broken, turning more to alcohol to numb her pain. She may have even contracted tuberculosis or syphilis, just like Annie, and died a prolonged, agonizing death.

Sylar could've taken Mary to the boat bound for Ireland and made sure she got home to her family. What would've stopped her, however, from returning if things didn't work out? She'd be back on the streets, again trapped in a life that could only bring her more pain.

Then there was the option he almost took that night as he held her. He could take her from nineteenth century Whitechapel and bring her here to twenty-first century New York, give her a new start in a different city and different time. He knew that would only lead to her being confused and frightened by her surroundings. Even if she overcame the culture shock, what would happen to her after that? She couldn't stay with him. His hunger would surface and she'd see him for the killer he was. If by some miracle she accepted that, she'd still be in danger from those that relentlessly pursued Sylar. She'd never make it on her own in this new world unless she turned to the only thing she knew how to do well. Life as a prostitute on the streets of New York, or anywhere in America, was not much better than one on the streets of the East End. The only difference was the availability of more potent, more addictive drugs to choose from to ease the pain of that existence.

There was also the matter of what using this time/space ability over and over again could do to Sylar himself. His regenerative ability made him seemingly indestructible but Sylar knew there had to be that one thing out there that was the exception to the rule. A brain tumor could quite possibly be his Achilles' heel, the one thing that could take his life. He could fight off any foreign cells that invaded his body with ease, but a tumor would be made up of his own cells. If his healthy cells could regenerate, it would stand to reason the cells of a brain tumor could do the same thing. A tumor could very well grow to the point that it took over his healthy brain cells and killed him or worse, left him in a vegetative state for all eternity. It wasn't a risk Sylar was willing to take without a guarantee his efforts to save Mary would be a hundred percent successful. If life had taught him one thing it was that there were no guarantees, no absolutes. Life moved with it's own unpredictable course no matter how much one tried to change it.

Sylar opened his eyes as the water began to cool. He turned off the water and stepped out, grabbed a towel, and went into the bedroom. He dried off and dressed in a simple pair of jeans and a t-shirt, planning to get a little sleep before going out and grabbing something to eat. He was about to lay down when he heard the elevator making it's way to the penthouse. The true owner was home early from his overseas trip. Just another one of life's unpredictable circumstances.

"Sir, I swear it was you," Sylar heard the doorman saying as the elevator hummed along.

"And I'm telling you it couldn't have been me!" the tenant raged. "I've been in Tokyo for nearly six weeks! I can't believe you just let some stranger waltz right up to my penthouse!"

Sylar quickly slipped on some socks and a pair of tennis shoes, teleporting out just as the elevator doors opened. He ended up in Central Park, the summer heat a sharp contrast to the winter cold of London. He began walking, trying to figure out his next move. He had no money and he wondered if should've kept the coins from his trip. He could've taken them to a collector and gotten enough money to see him through for quite awhile. He shrugged it off, knowing he had other means to get what he needed while Miriam and her mother had had few options open to them. He was still a bit surprised at himself for the acts of kindness he'd demonstrated before leaving. Maybe part of him was trying to attract some good Karma or improve his chances on Judgment Day, if there ever was one. No matter. What's done is done he thought to himself as he walked along. He looked down at the brass ring on his pinky, turning it back and forth, taking comfort in what it represented.

No. Nothing like him. Nothing at all.