Metropolitan Yard – 11 pm

He wandered down the street with thoughts of immoral intoxication. Abberline recalled to memory just the way Ella felt beneath his grasp, the tenderness of her powder rich skin, the silk curls that bunched together in his palm as he drove her to the hilt of ecstasy, even the aroma of her body after the waves of pleasure had rolled away and sincere bliss had remained upon the sheets of his bed.

As he walked through the cloudy night, he reminded himself of how she tasted, her lips like rose petals from a divine branch, and her breasts as tart as the juices that he had seen flow free of her when given the opportunity to breed love itself. He tried desperately to do only one thing when he thought of her, and that was to understand what sort of inebriation it would require, what sort of toxic membrane a human would have to have, in order to eat at the ripe flesh of another. And most importantly, a beautiful girl like his Eloise.

Images of tissue sucking, bone chewing, terrestrial spirits had filled his mind for most of that day. He had hurried from one office of the station to the next, questioning all detectives involved in the four murders under his study. He had asked of the nature in which they first found the bodies, the temperature of the corpses, exact time schedules, weather conditions and anything else that he saw fit to cross examine with the details he already had in the stack of folders he clutched under his arm.

He wanted to know that finding a vampire—if that's where the case was so headed— would not finally lead him to his own cell at the asylum. He wanted to know that the petite blonde found on Rose Alley that morning, was to be the last of the victims, or at the very least, the last of the ones threatening his belief that Ella was somewhere close on the list to be savored. And most of all perhaps, was the want in him to know that whoever was devouring bodies in the city, whoever was draining the living veins of these innocents, would not so easily escape his grasp when eventually he did come to face them.

It was just as he turned the corner for home, that he came face to face with someone completely unexpected. It was a man who seemed generally out of place on the black streets of the White Chapel district. He stopped in his tracks with a brief smile and a gentlemanly nod towards the figure.

"Lord Rochester, good evening."

He returned the smile, but the emphasis of his greeting was different, toned.

"Inspector Abberline, isn't it?"

"It is."

The arrogantly poised man of good fortune sighed. "And what news of the Hennessey case, sir? Any developments I might pass along to the 'tormented patriarchs' uptown?" His laugh was dark with the question, almost frightening Abberline.

"I'm afraid not. Only more bodies—unfortunates—laid t' rest."

"More you say?"

The man approached him closely on the street corner, his lack of coat in the icy February night catching Frederick's eye with surprise. He seemed comfortable despite it. Abberline nodded, with his free hand in the pocket of his own coat and the other struggling to hold the countless folders. Somewhere in the middle of his aristocratic run-in, he noticed that along with the skimp attire of a vest and white shirt in the cold, that no visible steam fled Wilmot's lips as he spoke, not like that of his own breath.

"If I might be so bold, Lord—"

"Please," he interrupted with a genuine grin. "John."

Frederick nodded to accept. "John. I wonder, wot' could possibly entertain you on this side o' the city, especially at our renowned witching hour?"

"As I've heard the same," he smiled again as he ran his hand through his shortly cropped black hair. "And if you must know, I seek nothing more than a curiosity fulfilled here. Destitution, poverty. It is an unreachable wonder in Hyde Park, as you well know."

"Fortunately so."

"Yes. Fortunately. But swept streets and polished dishware can only so far arouse a man with his pen and words. I seek tragic inspiration that the Palace gardens refuse to provide."

Abberline acknowledged this, minding the truth of the Earl, of his inherited talent for words from a great-great grandfather of the same name. Or so, the rest of the world believed was the truth of his being.

"Well," Frederick shuffled with a generous nod. "I wish you well then, to find a muse somewhere here. Whether it turns to infestation or not is left to be seen, o' course."

"But of course."

John smirked dangerously as he moved aside, saying a mannerly farewell to the Inspector and watching him turn down the street for his home. It was a place he himself knew all too well, all too suddenly that evening. He hid in the shadows with an angry bite into his lower lip, drunken by a leftover scent wafting around his head from Abberline's coat fibers. It stirred in him an image too recently devoured, of a ruby-lipped, silk spread form in a tub. Ella lingered on Frederick even at the passing of a day. That's how delicious she was.

And when he turned for the back alleyway, he could do nothing more than whisper with a mischievous grin.

"A mutual muse indeed, Inspector."

Frederick's House –

He turned the knob, walked inside to the warmth of the crackling fireplace in the parlor, as well as a few low burning candles scattered in the dining room and hall. Frederick shucked his coat, scratched his dog's ears where he was perched in the same old chair, and then made his way towards the bedroom of his home. His face was a treasure hoard of emotions, all of them good and hopeful, wanting and at peace with knowing what he would surely find.

He cracked the door to the room and stepped in to unexpected blackness. This room was not as warm as the rest of the house. In fact, it was frozen, forcing a chill to strike his spine one vertebrae at a time as he headed for the bathroom.

"Ella?"

The door was ajar and a light shone within, but no one answered. He pushed it back and let the steam of a lately drawn bath boil the pores of his cheeks and forehead, his mess of wavy hair sticking to his skin with the moisture and heat. There was nothing in the bathroom either, no sign of his every moment's consumed thought, his Eloise. He sighed in concern and turned back through the bedroom, down the hall and to the kitchen. That was where, beside a warm teapot, he found a small piece of paper and her note of absence.

My dearest Frederick,

I meant to be still in your home when you arrived. I had no intention of leaving, honestly. But I felt the dying urge to return to the studio tonight.

I know what you said, but you must understand the importance of my dancing, the personal esteem I require of it.

Do not worry for me. I will be alright and back soon.

Amorously yours,

Ella

Do not worry for her? He scoffed at the thought as he dropped the note.

Frederick walked the perimeter of the parlor blowing out candles and re-lighting them for entertainment, for anything to keep his mind off of Ella being without him somewhere. For the distance of an hour, he stumbled through the rooms and toyed constantly over the details resurfacing within his mind, things that he had already begun to strategically puzzle together.

There were images of frozen young girls, purple mouths and iced bones. There was the sole lesion upon his perfectly soft, unscathed Eloise, at the turn of her neck to jaw. There was a man—an inherited societal rebel—turning through the darkest corners of the worst streets in all of London, without so much as a coat or visible breathing pattern to ward off the February chill. And lastly, as he rubbed the ache in his stressed and furrowed brow, Abberline glanced down to the note left in his hand, the note from a girl.

She felt a 'dying urge' to return to her studio. And for that alone, he knew he could do no differently.

Frederick pulled on his coat and hat, before locking the door and hurrying into the dark streets of night once more. If Ella wanted to dance, then she would have an audience. He'd sworn she would be safe, and something about the night, something about that particular hour in the world, sent a nervous jolt coursing throughout his body. He didn't trust London with her alone in it.