Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The stench of coal smoke, rotten vegetables and emptied chamber pots burned the beast's nostrils as it made its way through the gray city streets, sniffing the air and trying to isolate that odor of fresh blood, pipe tobacco and ink it had been tracking for blocks. It sniffed around, weaving back and forth as it followed the trail into an alley. The smell lead it to a brown door, covered in nicks and scratches, the paint peeling away to reveal the aged wood beneath. It smelled only one person inside. The one it was hunting.
It rose up on its hind legs, claws scrabbling at the round door knob. It would have to find another way in, or wait for its prey to come out. It paced up and down the alley, searching for an open window. There was one, a yellowed curtain fluttering in the breeze, but it was on the third floor. Resigned to waiting, it curled up in a dark corner, eyes on the door.
Several hours later, it picked its head up off its paws and twitched its ears forward. There was movement at the door. As it bunched its muscles, ready to pounce, the door swung open.
A thin man, in a long, black coat and a top hat, ducked through the door. He carried a black cane with a golden lion's head. The creature could see traces of blood on the lion, around its face and mane. As the man turned to lock the door, it pounced, slamming the door open and forcing the man back inside. It landed on his chest and growled. The man beat it about the head and shoulders with his cane, but it took no notice. When he began to scream, the beast sunk its teeth into his neck and ripped out his jugular.
"What the devil happened here? It looks like he was attacked by a wild beast," exclaimed Officer Clary.
He had been with Scotland Yard for ten years, and had never seen anything quite like this. Blood pooled on the floor beneath the victim. It was sprayed across the walls and the threadbare armchair. The man's throat was a gaping, bloody hole, with tendons trailing through the carnage.
The Detective Inspector at the scene, Edgar Hanlon, remained silent. A tall man, with dark blue eyes and greying hair, he had a reputation for being quiet. He knelt and ran his fingers across the scratches on the door. Frowning, he tugged at a tooth, wedged into the frame. He tucked that, along with a hank of rough, grey hair, into his pocket and rose to his feet.
"If I were still in Yorkshire, I'd say this was a wolf attack," he mused.
"A wolf, sir? In London?"
"I know, it makes no sense." He paused. "Clary, supervise the removal of the body. I'll meet you back at Scotland Yard."
"Yes, sir."
Hanlon walked out of the building, his hands shoved into his coat pockets, causing him to slouch. His head was down as he trudged toward the street, his brow wrinkled in thought. He needed to talk to someone who knew animals. One person immediately jumped to mind, but he was reluctant to call on her. The last time he had seen her, it hadn't gone well. He put his hand to his cheek and shook his head. Nonetheless, this was a murder investigation and he needed her help.
