The Lost: Book Two of The Whitechapel Chronicles

Chapter 18

The boxers danced around the ring, moving quickly on deceptively light feet. They weaved in and out, their huge muscular bodies never tiring as they reigned down blow after blow upon their opponent, knowing that victory was theirs. Then again, it always had been. It had been a one-sided match from the start. They knew it. Their opponent knew it. There could only ever have been one conclusion.

The bell sounded, loud and trill, marking the end of the round and the boxers drew back to their corner, their broad chests heaving in and out, more through excitement than exhaustion. They huddled together, not through fear of course, but rather a natural instinct that always drew the clan together, their putrid bodies twisting and writhing, casting monstrous shadows on the blood-splattered walls. Each round had seemed sweeter than the last and it was that which drove them forward. Victory, it seemed, was addictive. With each triumph of their fists against bloodied flesh, the thrill of the fight fired up their veins and now, as they waited while their opponent tried desperately to recoup enough energy to stay in the battle, the impatience bristled through them.

A shock of ice hit me full force and I gasped as the water washed my body of the blood and vomit that caked my skin. I was shuddering violently, teeth clattering against teeth as my body temperature plunged from searing agonised heat to torturous cold. It was a momentary freedom from the burning, however, and very quickly I felt the fierce pain of my wounds again. I felt the sting of my ravaged skin. I felt the agony of broken bone. Of course, everything would heal eventually. Skin and bone would fuse back into place but that was no consolation at all when I could feel every inch of ripped flesh and every fracture. Break tally stood at one cheekbone, two ribs, one arm and two fingers. The fingers had been accidental, caused when Paul had hit me which such force that the chair had gone flying back, crushing my hand underneath me. Of course, that still counted as a point to them. Nothing but sweet collateral damage.

Unable to hold my head up any longer, my wet hair hung over my face and I watched, teetering on the edge of consciousness, as fat droplets of water reached the ends and dripped down onto my lap. All around me, the room spun like a maelstrom and within the whirlwind I saw her. Jenny. Her long dark hair whipped around her pale bruised face, blood dripped from a wound on her temple and she laughed, the sound scratching at my ears. Every time I tried to reach further into the darkness, every time I tried to escape, she screamed at me and it hit me like a sharp slap to the face. She wanted me to feel this. I could feel it just as strongly as I could feel every inch of pain the Varúlfur had inflicted.

Seconds out, round five. The boxers moved in again, their long tongues hanging from wet mouths, smacking saliva between slavering lips. Their feverish excitement was palpable as they danced around me, assessing their opponent with a wicked glint in venomous eyes that burned brighter the closer they got.

The method of attack was always the same. First they circled, spitting and snarling, their stuttering gait juddering like watching an old film reel. Then, they took turns as if it were some kind of tag-team sport, each one slashing or ripping at flesh with their long ragged claws, hitting out with powerful arms. But it was the biting that terrified me the most. And I always knew when it was coming because one would drop to all fours, stalking up and down behind the others and I would see the gleam of amber through the mass of bodies as its eyes never wavered from its prey. When the beast attacked, it would leap forward, teeth locking into flesh and it wasn't just the prolonged agony that was so much worse than the brief contact of claw or fist. It was the look in its eyes. The look that told you this was all so easy. The look that told you there was no hope. The look of an animal so consumed by hunger, that it took all its power not to clamp onto your neck and rip out your throat.

As it turned out, it was this hunger that brought the battle to an untimely end.

The Varúlfur that was Felix, the over-enthusiastic junior lawyer from Walter and Noble, was a little too over-enthusiastic and as it sank its teeth into my thigh, my high-pitched shrieks only succeeded in exciting it to the point of frenzy. Its great drooling snout drilled deeper and as its head shook from side to side, the pain tore through me like nothing before. I stared into its rage-filled eyes and it was then I saw that Felix was gone, completely devoured by the beast within.