THE STRANGE CASE OF A VICTORIAN UNDERWORLD
PROLOGUE
London, A city in revolution. Its world famous cobble streets shrouded in a cloak of fog. A cloak made toxic by the fumes and smoke that bellow from the chimneys, the river boats and the from the internal combustion engines that drive the cities new horseless carriages. This was a revolution, a revolution of industry. It had begun in the last century, yet still roared on in this one, even with the death of the great queen a year ago, London, the world continued to power forward. This was a revolution of industry... a revolution of steam.
In this fog a loan man walks through the streets of one of the more infamous parts of the city. The streets where in the last century a human named Jack had stained these cobbles red with the blood of the women who still plied their desperate trade. But humans, no matter how evil, did not scare this man. Nor did the fog or the choking steam, although it would be nice to be able to see the moon. The man's clothes are tattered, he wears a second hand suit, patched together with whatever scraps of material he could find, this was topped with a long thick woollen over coat that may have been issued to a soldier once, but was now to dirty to know for sure. His rugged face was unshaven, his shaggy hair contained within a battered old flat cap. But in his eyes was all the pride in the world. No, this city did not scare him. Nor did the footsteps that had been following him for ten minutes, stalking him. The man led his pursuer into the quiet alleyways of Whitechapel, where the gas lights did not shine, where the fog was thickest of all. The man walked to the end of the alleyway, he stopped when he got to a wall. He did not turn around; he just waited for his pursuer to follow him into the alleyway. His slow footsteps echoed as he came to a stop at the mouth of the alleyway. There was silence.
"Not bad." The man exclaimed, still not turning around to face his pursuer "You're too quiet to be a human, I nearly didn't hear you. But you're not a Death Dealer, what are you? Some kind of Vampire noble out for a bit of excitement?" The man's pursuer did not answer him, so the scruffy looking man turned around. "Ah yes." He smiled as he observed the man that stood at the mouth of the alley way, his large muscular form shrouded in fog. Through his brilliant blue eyes the man could see that his pursuer was tall, dressed head to toe in black finery, a three piece suit, topped with a cloak and top hat. "Every inch the vampire noble. Tell me..." The man stopped mid sentence as he flared his nostrils. "You're no vampire."
"No I'm not." His pursuer replied in a broad Scottish accent, his mouth forming a sinister smile beneath his top hat.
"What are you?" The man demanded
"I'm just trying to have fun." was the only reply he received.
"Do you know what I am?" The man asked in a menacing tone as he removed his flat clap and overcoat.
"I most certainly do." His Scottish pursuer grinned "You're my next victim."
The scruffy mans eyes turned a milky shade of blue, as his teeth elongated into wolf like fangs. His body stretched and contorted as his limbs transformed into razor sharp claws, the man now stood at over seven foot tall, he was a monster now, with drooling fangs and a vicious snarl. The well dressed man smiled, his pupils were jet black, and with a slight twitch his originally ordinary mouth became a row of razor sharp fangs. The monster and his strange pursuer lunged at each other in the London fog. A Lycan versus.... something else. They collided, it did not last long as the mighty beasts howl turned into a cry of pain, and then into a whimper. The huge beast collapsed to the ground at the well dressed mans feet. He tilted his head curiously as the mighty wolf withered back into its human state as he began to breathe his last.
"That was fun." The Scottish man smiled. He crouched down next to the man to get a closer look at his dying features "Tell me..." he whispered "...before you saw me, you thought I was a Vampire... what is a vampire?" The strange man did not get his answer as the now mutilated lycan lay dead on the floor. "Ah well." He shrugged as he recovered his top hat "Guess I'll just have to find out the old fashioned way." And with that he left, gliding effortlessly back into the fog, and once again staining the cobbles of Whitechapel red with blood.
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Although still thick the oppressive London fog did not seem quite as daunting in the morning light, as the mornings due hangs from the few trees, and grips to every surface, a set of heavy footsteps pound the cobbled streets whistling as tune as he did. A policeman, a Bobby walking his beat clutching a solid wooden truncheon as he did. He knew his beat well; he checked every alleyway, every hiding place. He comes to an alleyway that was well known to him, a place where only the most pitiful of creatures dwell, the Gin drinkers, the opium dependants, the whores that had no choice but to go deeper into the night to earn their money. He looks into the alley, he rolls his eyes as he sees someone lying in the fog, a drunk no doubt "COME ON LETS BE HAVING YOU!" he calls out "You can't stay there all day!"When he got no answer he let out a heavy sigh, and truncheon in hand he went to investigate "I said..." The policeman stopped in mid sentence as he saw the twisted body, naked, bloodied and mauled. The policeman swallowed hard before reaching into his tunic pocket and pulling out a whistle. He blew hard into the whistle sending a shrieking howl into the streets of London "Murder!" He screamed as he blew hard into the whistle again "MURDER!"