A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires

by G. D. Falksen

  “Yessir,” Bates replied. He quickly doffed his hat with one hand while shaking with the other. “I work for Mister Luka.”

  “Splendid!” Constantine said. “I could use a couple of door guards.”

  “Aye,” Bates said. “’Swhy we’re ’ere.”

  Bates snapped his fingers, and the two fellows with him took up positions on either side of the door, looking down at the ruffians and glowering. They carried large cudgels and looked more than ready to do violence.

  Good, Luka thought.

  One by one, the conscious ruffians got to their feet and began backing away toward the street.

  “And…Mister Bates,” Constantine said, “why don’t you come inside. Let me look at your leg. Doctor Sauvage left some notes for me about her current patients, and she mentioned your injuries.”

  “Much obliged, Doctor,” Bates said. “Very kind o’ you.”

  “Nonsense, it’s my occupation,” Constantine replied. “Come along.” He looked at Luka and added, “And thank you very much for your assistance, Mister Luka.”

  “My pleasure.” Luka smiled. It had been. Not quite the challenge he wanted, but it was good to be in a fight after so much time of inaction. “Good evening.”

  He tipped his hat to Constantine, turned, and departed Osborne Court in search of more trouble and more prey.

  * * * *

  Luka spent a little while walking the streets around Osborne Court, surveying his new territory and taking note of the inhabitants. The whores were out, standing around the street corner or making a patrol of the area, searching for customers. The drunks of the day had been joined by the drunks of the evening, and in the growing darkness the population became more and more sinister.

  He passed a pair of men robbing a third at knifepoint. Luka interrupted them and laid them out with a few blows each. He gave their victim the contents of their pockets as compensation and sent him on his way to spread the word. Luka knew nothing of the men nor of the details of the attack—for all he knew, the victim had done something to warrant the robbery. But that did not matter. From now on the people around Osborne Court would know that they were to be safe from violence, whether perpetrated by outsiders or by one another.

  This was his domain, his fief. The people were his responsibility, though it would take some work building their loyalty. This was governance at its most primitive level. There were no laws or customs for him to call upon, no predecessors from whom he could inherit his authority. The Spitalfields were a wilderness, a place of mistrustful people, either under siege by men who wished to do them violence, or those very same violent men besieging others. Luka would become the lord here by protecting the weak from those violent men with an application of even greater violence.

  At the corner of Burgess Row—a glorified alleyway that led between Perrott Street and Cooke Street—Luka heard a woman’s raised voice, shouting something that he could not quite make out. The tone was angry and more than a little frightened.

  Luka moved to the corner and peeked around it. About halfway along the alley, a pale young woman with ginger-red hair stood, back pressed up against the wall, illuminated by a beam of light. She was skinny—probably half starved—and clothed in a fraying dress of green and blue plaid. The garment was just a little too small for her, the cuffs coming to mid-forearm and the hem of her skirt resting above her ankles. That spoke to her poverty as much as its condition and her appearance.

  There were four men in the alley as well. One, a fat man in a bowler, stood right before the woman with a small knife gripped in his meaty hand. At his side was a taller, fitter fellow carrying the lantern that illuminated the girl. The other two men were staggered further back in the alleyway. One was smoking while he watched the spectacle. Luka noticed that he held a wooden club in his free hand. The last man stood at the very back. He was probably assigned to watch the road, but he was doing an especially poor job.

  How very convenient, Luka thought. All in a row.

  Luka stepped into the shadows of the alley and slowly crept toward the nearest man. Closer now, he could make out the conversation—if it could be called such—between the girl and the fat man.

  “Give us the fuckin’ money, girl!” the man snapped, holding the knife up to the girl’s face and grabbing her by the shoulder.

  The girl shoved him away and pressed herself against the wall even harder. She kept her head high and her shoulders back, presenting the men with a defiant stance that made her tower over the man with the knife.

  “Get yer hands offa me!” she said, her voice betraying what Luka after a moment recognized as a Scottish brogue. “I donne owe ye nothin’! I pay Jones’s boys, an’ now they’re gone, I donne pay anyone. Least of all, ye lot! Now let me go—”

  She tried to push her way past the two men in front of her, but the man with the knife backhanded her across the face, then grabbed her by the throat and shoved her hard into the wall. The girl let out a yelp and threw up her arms to ward off the next attack.

  “Listen ta me, luv,” he said to her. “Ya calls me Mister ’Iggins from now on. Jones’s boys is gone an’ not comin’ back, so now ’ere’s my patch. An’ that means every fuckin’ ’ore ’round ’ere belongs ta me! An’ that’s includin’ you!”

  The girl took a deep breath and quickly nodded. She put on a sweet smile and patted Higgins on the chest.

  “Oh, yessir, Mister Higgins,” she said. “Sorry, I did’ne understand that ye was takin’ over. I thought Jones was comin’ back, an’ what would I tell him if’n I gave ye his share? But…but I understand now. H-how much I owe ye?” She bit her lip and looked down. “Only I ain’t made much tonight. ’Tis still early, ye see.”

  “Oh, there, there,” Higgins said, grinning. He patted the girl’s cheek, though without any affection: each pat was like a soft slap to remind the girl of her place. “I ain’t an unfeelin’ man, luv. Why don’t I call it a miss this time, eh?”

  “Ye’d do that?” the girl asked, fluttering her eyelids.

  “Oh, aye,” Higgins said.

  He placed a hand on the girl’s head and pushed her down. She resisted at first, but Higgins brandished the knife, and the girl slowly knelt on the ground.

  “Good girl,” Higgins said. He stowed his knife and began unbuttoning his trousers. “Ya can start with me an’ then take care of my boys. Let’s see if you’re an ’ore worth protectin’, eh?”

  By then, Luka had reached the man at the back. Approaching silently, he took a breath and clapped one hand over the fellow’s mouth. The man let out a muffled “mmph!” and tried to struggle, but Luka held him fast. Luka wrapped his free arm around the man’s head and pulled it around to the side until he felt the neck snap. The man’s body went limp, and Luka let it fall to the ground.

  Osborne Court had been too vulnerable to leave bodies—Luka could not afford to have murder associated with the clinic—but here there was no such concern. And it would do to have a few corpses on hand to make it clear that he meant business.

  The next man along turned at the sound of the body hitting the ground. He stared at Luka for a moment, his cigarette dropping from his fingers. The man started to recover just as Luka reached him. He raised his club for a swing, but Luka caught him by the wrist and gave the arm a yank. As the man tumbled forward, Luka kicked out his leading leg to further throw him off balance and struck him in the throat with an elbow. The man fell backward, gurgling, and hit the ground with a painful smack. Luka ripped the club from the man’s hand and bludgeoned him twice on the head.

  Now it was time to attend to Higgins and his remaining comrade. Hefting the club, Luka advanced on them at a swift walk. They had only just realized that something was amiss. The man with the lantern turned and shined the light in Luka’s direction. Partly blinded, Luka merely quickened his pace and threw the club into the space above the lantern. The club connected with something and the man cried out. The lantern dropped to the ground.

  The light now shone o
n the girl and on Higgins, who, caught in a rather compromised situation, twisted his head around and stared at his fallen companion. The girl saw her opportunity and took it. She grabbed something from the ground—A rock? A piece of broken brick?—and smashed it into Higgins’s groin. Higgins grunted in pain and doubled over, his knees buckling. The girl struck him on the side of the head, scrambled to her feet, and bolted down the alley.

  Luka left Higgins to lie in the filth for a moment. He would deal with that one last. He grabbed the club and set it across the throat of the fourth man, strangling him slowly—and loudly—for Higgins’s benefit. Though in a swoon, Higgins looked conscious enough to hear his man’s dying gasps for breath. When the ruffian was finally dead, Luka shoved the body into the lamp light for Higgins to see.

  “Oh…oh God!” Higgins cried, as he looked upon the lifeless, staring eyes before him. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but he paid it no mind, unable to look away from the corpse. Feebly, he drew his little knife and held it out toward the darkness.

  Luka stepped over to him and yanked the knife out of his hand. Kneeling, he pressed the knife blade to Higgins’s throat and patted the side of his face.

  “P-please don’t k-kill me,” Higgins stammered.

  “Don’t worry,” Luka said. “I’m not going to kill you. Not like your friends.”

  “No?” There was a glimmer of hope in Higgins’s voice, but it was small and weak. It was unlikely that any man of his occupation would really expect to escape such a situation alive. “Whadya want? Money? I can give ya money—”

  “Shhh,” Luke hushed him, placing a finger to his lips. “Hush now. I want you to go back to your boss with a message from me.”

  “My boss?”

  “Yes, your boss,” Luka said. “I know you have one. You’re a middleman. I can see you don’t have what it takes to be in charge. So you’re going to tell him—whoever he is, I don’t really care—that he won’t be muscling his way into this neighborhood. No one will. Tell him, tell your friends, tell every member of the London underworld you know that there is a new master here, and the criminal element is not welcome. From Honey Lane to Hawthorne Street, from Perrott Street to Meakin Row, no thieves, no burglars, no pimps, no gangs. Anyone who violates this order will die. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!” Higgins answered. “Yes, yes, I understand!”

  “I am not the police,” Luka continued. “I do not make arrests. I kill. And I will kill any criminal who takes action in my territory. Tell everyone, or else the bodies will begin to pile up. And if you set foot here again, I will kill you slowly, piece by piece. Do you understand?”

  “Yes!”

  Luka stood and hauled Higgins to his feet. He gave the man a shove toward the end of the alley and said, “Get out of my sight.”

  Higgins backed away from him, tripped over one of the corpses, and fell to the ground. He stood up again, gurgling incoherently, and ran for the street.

  Luka smiled to himself. It was nice to have some action again.

  “Ye just gonne let him go?” asked a voice behind him.

  Luka turned and saw the girl standing at the edge of the light. She took a hesitant step toward him and looked up at him with wide green eyes.

  “I suppose I ought te thank ye,” she said.

  “No need,” Luka said. “I did what had to be done.” He stretched out his hand to her and said, “Come, this is no place to be. Let us find a hot meal.”

  The girl laughed and said, “Oh, aye. Thought ye’d ask.”

  Rather than taking Luka’s hand, she took him by the arm. Luka was surprised for a moment, but he said nothing and simply led the way back toward Perrott Street, carefully stepping over the bodies along the way.

  “Mind ye,” the girl said, “’twill be the first time a customer’s offered me dinner as well.” She looked at him sternly and pointed with her finger. “An’ donne think that means y’ain’t gotte pay, neither.”

  “A meal is just a meal,” Luka said.

  The girl winked at him and said, “’Course ’tis.”

  “What’s your name, girl?” Luka asked, as they reached the street.

  “Ye got a pref’rence?” the girl asked playfully.

  “Yes,” Luka said. “Your real name.”

  The girl hesitated before replying, “Cat.”

  “Cat what?”

  “Why d’ye care?” the girl asked, looking up at him.

  “Because, dear girl,” Luka said, “you showed spirit back there, and you didn’t run when you had the chance. I find that interesting, which makes me find you interesting. But if you prefer, we can part company here and never speak of it again.”

  The girl frowned at him and narrowed her eyes. She thought hard for a few moments before saying, “Caitlin Mackenzie.”

  “Thank you,” Luka said. “And you may call me Luka.”

  “Jus’ Luka?” Cat asked.

  Luka nodded. “Just Luka.”

  “Think I’ll call ye Mister Luka,” Cat said. “Ye bein’ all distinguished an’ killin’ folk an’ such.”

  Luka laughed aloud at this.

  “Tell me, Mister Luka,” Cat said, “why didne ye kill that last fellow?” She looked away, her pretty face momentarily marred by a scowl. “I’d ’a done.”

  “I can hardly kill every criminal in London, can I?” Luka asked.

  Cat smiled at him and said, “Oh, I donno.…”

  “Don’t flatter me girl,” Luka said. “It’s unnecessary. No, I cannot have every gang in London trying to muscle its way in here. I would be so busy fighting, I’d get nothing done. I killed that fellow Higgins’s men and let him go so he could warn off the rest of his kind for me. Any who do venture in, I shall deal with just as I dealt with them. Eventually, most will be too afraid to bother me. And those that do.…”

  Cat grinned at him and drew her thumb across her throat.

  “Aye?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “So why ye tellin’ me all this?” Cat asked.

  “Because you asked,” Luka said. “And because the more people who know, the better. I want every criminal in London to know just what I will do to them if they break my peace.” He smiled slightly. “Besides, my girl, you will be a messenger for me as well. But of a rather different sort.”

  “Wha’?” Cat asked.

  Luka stopped outside the Old Jago Pub and said, “I will explain over dinner. Come along. My table should be waiting.”

  “Here, this is Mister Jones’s place,” Cat said.

  “Yes,” Luka agreed. “And now that he’s gone, it’s mine.”

  * * * *

  Despite her spindly appearance, Cat proved to have a remarkable appetite. The food at the Old Jago was of noticeably poor flavor and quality, yet the girl devoured it like a half-starved animal. Not a surprise, perhaps, but Luka was startled as he watched her tuck away three bowls of beef stew and a sizable chunk of bread. She ate too fast to say anything, and Luka found no reason to speak, so they ate in silence, Luka reading a newspaper and occasionally watching Cat’s voracious display with an upraised eyebrow.

  Midway through her third bowl, Cat looked up and noticed him watching her. She blushed slightly and glared at him.

  “Wha’s it?” she demanded. “Ye like watchin’ girls eat or somethin’?”

  “I have never before seen someone devour the food of this establishment with such enthusiasm,” Luka said. “When was your last meal?”

  “Yesterday,” Cat said between bites. “Mornin’.”

  Luka refilled his glass of wine and asked, “How can that be? I know the situation of your sort of woman is difficult, but you are young, pretty—”

  “Such a flatterer,” Cat said coyly.

  “Surely you earn enough money to feed, house, and clothe yourself,” Luka continued, though in fact none of those three seemed very likely from her appearance. “More wine?” he asked, lifting the bottle toward her glass.

  Cat paused in
the midst of biting off a mouthful of bread and nodded with great enthusiasm. Swallowing, she asked, “Or have ye any gin?”

  An affection for drink. That explained it.

  “Gin?” Luka asked. “I expect so, but you would have to ask Thackery.” He nodded at the barman. Luka took a sip of wine before adding, “I thought you Scots preferred whiskey.”

  “I may have been born in Scotland,” Cat said, “but I learned te drink here. Hate whisky. Gin’s the stuff fer me.”

  “Tonight make due with wine,” Luka said, refilling her glass. “It’s better for you. Even this stuff.”

  “Won’t say no,” Cat replied, grinning. She raised the glass to her lips and swallowed a quarter of it in one long gulp.

  Luka ate a spoonful of stew. It was his second bowl, despite the poor quality of the food—he was hungry as well.

  “I am surprised that you aren’t comfortably ensconced in a brothel somewhere,” he said. “I thought it was only the older women of your profession who were forced to work the streets.”

  “Oh, I was,” Cat said, before drinking more wine. “Only I donne get on wi’ Miss Sharpe, ye see. She runs th’ establishment down Honey Lane. Only place o’ work ’round here. An’ she kicked me out las’ spring wi’ only the dress I came in wi’.” Cat looked down and scowled. “Said all the rest were her property, tho’ I were the one who paid fer ’m.” She quickly put on a bright face again and smiled at him.

  “Why not find another?” Luka asked.

  “Well.…” Cat looked away for a moment before replying, “I could go south, set meself up wi’ an abbess in Whitechapel, only I donne want te move. I’ve taken a likin’ te the neighborhood. Got meself a nice garret room ’round the corner. I’d so hate te leave ’t.”

  “Mmm, and I suppose Whitechapel isn’t the best place to be these days,” Luka said. “The papers say there’s a second victim.”

  Cat looked at him, shook her head, and drank some more.

  “Maybe I shouldne go contradictin’ a gentleman such as yerself,” she said, “but there’s nothin’ new about us girls gettin’ attacked in the streets. Only this time, respectable folk ’re takin’ notice.” She waved the idea away with a flick of her hand. “Mind ye, give it a month an’ they’ll lose int’rest again.”