Blood in White Chapel

Chapter Four

Two murders within a week of each other. The tabloids were devouring this story and White Chapel was on fire. Fear and distress filled the hearts of the beaten and broken. Unfortunately, This made Myron's job far harder. On top of all the commotion in the East End, London's area's were riddled with disappearances. the brunet had concluded it was due to the other members in the Association.

It didn't sit well with Myron that he was struggling with his assignment.

The mass of refugees and impoverished scum in the streets made his 'job' ever so difficult. Witnesses were practically everywhere. His work headlined the papers by this point and from there it spread the fear like a disease.

Jack the Ripper, was the title they gave to the two murders. He chuckled at the paper in his hand before he lowered it, the parchment crumpled between his fingers. He scanned the pub. Much to his dismay, that harlot Annie had giving him lame information. Myron shouldn't have been surprised, the bitch was drunk after all. He had wished for once that he had something to go on. Unlike the other Association patriots, his work was in the spotlight. Any suspicious inquiry would likely be noted to the police. After all, it is an unusual practice to ask about specific whores when they were a pence a dozen.

Myron was growing weary and impatient. It had three weeks since he found the last one, bundled with false information. His nerves were wearing thin. The previous two trollops had been in the upper part of town with Whitechapel High Street being the division of the East End.

The brunet had an inkling knot in his gut that told him to head to the lower part. But as he has sat in the pub here for too much of the evening, nothing seemed to pull on his line. His brief amusement turned to frustration as he made his way out of the pub.

That's when his ears caught 'Long Lizzy' fall from a nearby man with a peaked cap, who was talking to another gentleman in the street. Between his steps, he managed to gather that the lad had just been with her, among a few other vulgar details. It was the moment Myron had hoped for. A lead. He drew the conclusion that she was still nearby when a women bumped into his shoulder.

She had been adjusting her rose when they collided. The smile she flashed was soft spoken in itself. She was lanky dame with a draw face.

"Pardon me, madame."

Myron had to control himself, draw his unexpected grin back and wash a sense of charm over himself. She nodded her head with respect, but her demeanor changed once she had an eyeful of him.

"Good evening, sir."

Her pale hands brushed her clothes as she straightened them out. Her silvery eyes is what drew most of Myron's attention. They were the most unusual thing about her, they colour almost hid the shimmer of beast in her eyes.

"Fancy a nice evening stroll?"

Before the brunet could mutter a response, she hooked their arms and led him off in the direction she was just coming from. She was on her way home, as she knew it would take her a lengthy adventure to return home and one more investment could never hurt.

"You wouldn't happen to be 'Long Liz' would you?"

Her laugh was curt and hurt his ears, but his face remained as it was, charming and lifeless.

"People call me that because of the long face."

A sigh passed her lips before she laughed again, a pale hand gesturing to her face. Myron surveyed the area, trying not to inhale too deeply. The rose in her posy was doing her no favors in masking anything. His stomach reeled back when she attempted to pin him to the wall in the alley they were in. Instinct ran high and he reached a gloved hand towards her, fingers wrapped around her neck. And he did it without a second thought.

Liz got angry and began hitting him, calling him a slew of profane names. Agitated blue hues caught sight of a pedestrian crossing the other side of the road and his hand moved away from his black bag. He huffed and easily slid into another role as to not draw attention to himself.

"Lizzy, darling, you are drunk again...."

He called out in a sweet tone, eyes still watching the man wander past. She continued to struggle and rant on and on. Bastard. Scumbag. Twat. Lowlife. Cretin. Mary. Quim. Strumpet.

The man moved on, leaving the two alone in what Myron hopes the gentleman saw as a domestic dispute.

His hand was on her throat again, her words gurgled as he drug her into the nearby yard.

"Dirty bitch!"

He swore as he pulled the knife from his bag, hacking into her throat, fierce enough that it got stuck in the bone of her spine. He growled with her clothing in hand when a horse drawn cart pulled up behind him and the horse whinnied, pulling away.

Myron was forced to run, almost diving into the shadows. His heart raced, thumping as a drum within his chest. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

"Wooooah. Woooooah there Gallena...."

The driver called to his horse.

"Spy a rat again?"

He jested before he noticed the bundle of cloth on the ground.

"....What?"

He mumbled climbing down from the cart. Myron watched as the cart driver fiddled with a box of matches. The brunet was like a cornered animal, heart wild and eyes fixated on the driver. A match chafed the box, a flash of light and he was gone.

Myron ran, and ran, almost running into another pedestrian walking down the lane.

Three dead.

Three remain.