Blood in White Chapel

Chapter Two

It was the end of August and Myron was still at a loss about where these women on the list were. Hiding in White Chapel was simple with the overrun hovels called homes. The refugees didn't help the impoverished part of town.

He stared deep into his glass as he sat around the pub yet again. He had been investigating and hunting for a month now with no luck. No victims. No leads. He pulled his pipe and matches from his pocket, lighting it with ease in the pub.

His ears strained as they listened, he jumped from conversation to conversation. He picked out pieces of information. Myron recognized when people were chatting with curiosity about him. He was an unusual charm in the middle of White Chapel. The brunet needed names to fall from the tongues of the dolts that occupied the rest of the decrepit establishment.

He turned his steeled gaze to search the room, disgusted at the things called humans within. That was around when one woman, in particular, caught his gaze. She smiled as their eyes met. Myron tilted his head. She almost seemed to blend in, unnoticed by the bar patrons as if she weren't even there.

Then those same greens eyes shimmered.

Myron stood from his chair with an abrupt motion. He pushed his way through the crowd, keeping those cerulean hues on the brunette. He watched her move towards the door, it was almost unnatural the way she moved. As soon as she left his sight out the door, he almost had forgotten how he had gotten across the room. Something sweet caught his nostrils, as a dull reminder of the brunette.

Myron pushed his way out the door to find her awaiting his arrival. Her slender arm reached for his as she hooked his elbow with hers. She laughed courtly covering her mouth as she did so. Myron's eyebrow shot up, curious.

"You be a mightly dandy sir."

She cooed over him, leaning into him with ease.

"I may cut yersef a bargain.."

She laughed yet again and that was the time it caused Myron's skin to crawl. Yet, he had a part to play. He danced just as he was meant to, just like all the other times before. Myron turned his head to the enchanting brunette, he flashed that lovely smile to her.

"This will be a night you won't forget my dear."

The brunette beamed and placed her hand on his chest.

"Aye, snagged me a gent I see, what bring ye to the East End dearie?"

She inquired as they strolled along Durward street. It was a quiet but industrial area. He glanced around, making mental notes of the location, the people, the police. Myron knew she was taking him to a more "private" location. Somewhere they wouldn't be interrupted. Somewhere far away from prying eyes.

Compared to the rest of White Chapel, she must have known he didn't belong here. Myron released a brief sigh before he looked down at the woman on his arm.

"Public Welfare."

The woman let out a long 'oooooooooooooo' and he could imagine the ideas she was formulating in that dense little head of hers. They seemed to be passing by fewer and fewer actual homes.

"Well dearie, I can certainly make your visit more delighting."

Those green eyes shimmered up at him again, her pale hand pulling him towards a darkened alley. She pressed her back against the wall, pulling Myron in for a kiss. She tasted like gin made from sewer water. Her other arm pulled his slender build against her. She began hiking her skirt up, exposing long, pale legs.

Myron managed to pull his lips from hers as she hooked a leg around the back of his thighs.

"Tell me your name."

His whisper was so soft she took a moment, she didn't actually know if she had heard him.

"What a curious question to ask a street whore...."

Myron growled, his left hand rested on a hidden hilt.

"Just answer me, whore."

The tone of his voice was creeping with vehement disgust. She moved her lips to his ear, tongue running along the bottom lobe as she answered him.

"Mary..... Ann..... Nicholls....."

She murmured seductively before his right hand was on her chin, her head cracked back against the brick wall. The grip on her throat prevented any scream she may have attempted. That is when the silver knife Myron had sheathed, plunged into her abdomen. One, two, three. He lost count.

He watched the fear well up in those emerald eyes. In an attempt to fight back, was when she sunk fangs into his hand. She had managed to wiggle her chin lower where he was holding her head against the wall, hushing her screams.

"Filthy cunt."

A growl rumbled in his throat as he pulled back the knife. Myron ripped his hand away from her mouth and before she could let out a single sound, that same silver knife tore through her neck.

Back and forth, back and forth. He dragged the object across her neck, digging deeper and deeper until he struck bone. Breathless, he moved away from where she had pinned his body against hers. She fell face forward with a dull thump.

Myron's ears twitched. He heard the distant clops of a horse drawn carriage on the stone pavement to his left. He knew, without a doubt, she was dead and would not be recovering from those wounds. He only wished that he had the chance to burn her body and truly finish the job, but alas, the silver will have to suffice. He'll have to get word to the Association, of whom can pull strings once she is in the morgue to have her body cremated. Just as a safety precaution.

The brunet melted into the shadows as the horse pushed past the gate, whinnied and refused to trot to the right. Myron drifted further away as he saw a man exit the driver's seat of the carriage.

"Ma'am... Ma'am, are you drunk?"

Was all Myron heard as he dodged down the street, avoiding the other pedestrian of whom was coming up his left side. He was appreciative that the shadows were his friend. With distance came calm.

He sheathed the knife and looked at his hand where the god damn whore bit him. He would need a healthy dose of sunlight in the morning. He was hoping that London wasn't her normal gloomy self in the morrow. He shoved his hands in his pocket as he moved along the filth-ridden streets of White Chapel.

One dead.

Five remained.