Blood Rite

by E.J. Stevens

  It was only with the most prodigious luck that I tilted my head back in exasperation, bringing the small, grimy plaque into sight. A grin slid across my face and I strode straight for the shadowed doorway below the sign.

  In for a penny, in for a pound. I lifted a gloved hand and rang the bell.

  CRAVEN STREET SAMPLE

  Along Came a Demon: Forneus

  I sniffed, wincing at the foul stench of humanity. I narrowed my eyes, peering over the lace handkerchief, watching the ebb and flow of tainted souls with a keen eye as they passed before me on the narrow street.

  Collecting human souls is a thankless job, nearly as tedious as acting as solicitor to the fae. Sadly, I, Forneus Grand Marquis of Hell, am currently reduced to performing both duties in servitude to my master, his lordship who shall not be named. Never play cards with one of The Fallen, I daresay, not unless you enjoy spending a millennium in indentured labor to a bilious, old fool.

  I’d come to London to settle a dispute between a fetch and a banshee, but after a month spent listening to an endless litany of supposed crimes and misdemeanors between the rival faeries, I’d had enough. A demon lord can only tolerate so many mind-numbingly boring territorial disputes before going quite mad.

  Doubtless, they’d rack up even more claims of wrongful death portents against one another in my absence, but I needed a change of scenery. So, I swapped the weeping willows and mausoleums of Highgate Cemetery for the gambling halls and opium dens of Limehouse and Whitechapel.

  It was a testament to mankind’s willful depravity that the men in these dark corners of London, whether they be members of the peerage out for an evening of slumming or resident dockside ruffians, smelled worse than they’re deceased neighbors to the north. The malodorous weed of the opium dens wasn’t the only dark, fetid thing clinging to their physical bodies. Sickly, jaundiced souls trailed behind men on tattered, moth-eaten tethers, rife for the plucking.

  I licked my lips, handkerchief disappearing into my waistcoat with a flick of the wrist. I could use magical trickery to ensnare these souls, but where was the fun in that?

  I slipped into the sluggish flow of humanity, walking jauntily toward a dockside establishment, daring thugs and thieves with a rakish smile. Perhaps, I’d be fortunate enough to need the blade hidden inside the ebony cane I swung lazily at my side. These streets held dangers for a well-dressed man about town.

  Sadly, I made it to my destination without need for a deadly perambulatory accessory. More’s the pity.

  Men who were truly evil, the ones who profited from the suffering of others, were always the most delicious. There was even a time when I might have had more empathy toward the plight of men ensnared by circumstance and lack of opportunity, feasting only on their oppressors, but those days were gone. My heart was hardened, and I was a better servant for it, but I was dreadfully bored.

  I sighed and began my descent, stepping gingerly over more than one body slumped on the steep flight of stairs. Once inside, I received a portion of drug from the attendant. With a nod, I moved deeper into the hovel, stalking toward the walls where men lay stacked like sacks of grain on wooden berths.

  Most visitors would require a moment for their eyes to adjust to the stygian darkness broken only by flickers of flame and smoldering embers. But most visitors didn’t happen to be a demon. A chuckle escaped my lips, mingling with the broken sobs, malignant laughter, delirious sighs, and incoherent mumbling of those in the arms of Morpheus.

  I’d worried that this excursion would be laced with the same oppressive tedium of the previous fortnight’s legal transactions, that is until I spotted my prey. A man with mutton-chop whiskers, hair slicked with pomade, and dressed in a stylish frock coat moved stealthily toward a curtained back room. I caught the flash of a signet ring as he glanced over his shoulder and ducked into a candlelit private room beyond.

  Deceiving such a man would be far more satisfying than the child’s play of robbing limp, drug-addled fools of their souls. Many a man here would happily trade his own mother for the portion of drug I now pocketed. That was all well and good for fulfilling quotas but did nothing to break the monotony of immortality.

  I leaned forward, listening, taking pleasure in drawing out the moment. Was that a woman’s voice behind the curtain? Were those snarls and mutterings also coming from the private room? Most curious.

  I would soon join the gentleman in his secret assignation. I breathed deeply and shuddered in anticipation. Did the curtain hide a hideous perversion, a sinister scheme, or a tale of squandered inheritance? How terribly interesting.

  I would not miss it for the world.

  Learn more about the Whitechapel Paranormal Society series at WhitechapelParanormal.com.

  Learn more about the Ivy Granger, Psychic Detective series at IvyGranger.com.

  Learn more about the author at EJStevensAuthor.com.