The Beast of London
Book 1 of the Mina Murray series
L.D. Goffigan
Contents
THE BEAST OF LONDON
1. Adventure Stories
2. The Beast Of London
3. The Harkers
4. The Ball
5. Creatures Of Myth And Nightmare
6. The Vanishing
7. Lucy
8. Transylvania
9. The Promise
10. The Demeter
11. Invasion
12. Overrun
13. Adrift
14. Ijsbran
15. Symbiosis
16. Pursued
17. Massacre
18. Gabriel
19. Revelations
20. The Silent War
21. Draculesti
Fortress of Blood
A Message From the Author
A Night in Whitechapel
About the Author
THE BEAST OF LONDON
Book 1 of the Mina Murray series
L.D. Goffigan
Copyright © 2017 by L.D. Goffigan
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.
Cover Design by Damonza
Created with Vellum
“One general law, leading to the advancement of all organic beings, namely, multiply, vary, let the strongest live and the weakest die.”
- Charles Darwin, On The Origin of Species
1
Adventure Stories
Walking through the streets of the East End, I felt the sudden unnerving sensation of a gaze prickling the back of my neck. I clutched the strap of my bag, scanning my surroundings for any sign of a pursuer. The day was unusually bright and sunny for early May in London, a time when rainfall was more common than sunlight, and the streets around me teemed with the familiar late afternoon sights I had become accustomed to during my daily commutes home from the Halfield Ragged School. Street vendors hawked their wares—kidney pudding, fresh fruit, and ginger beer; flower girls sold bundles of primroses and violets; flocks of eager children crowded around merchants who sold halfpenny ices. Passersby weaved around the double deck horse trams, hansom cabs, and carriages that clogged the patchwork of narrow streets.
None of the passersby paid me any mind, and I saw no signs of any potential pursuer, but my unease did not dissipate. I was not far from Whitechapel, where the murderer who called himself Jack the Ripper once lurked. The Ripper had not struck for months, and rumors abounded that he had died or even fled London.
Despite the school’s proximity to the Whitechapel murders, I had never before felt unsafe during my commutes. I even lingered in the neighborhood when I visited families who lived in the nearby tenement buildings to give them baked goods I purchased from street vendors, or old books the school no longer needed.
Pushing my disquietude aside, I continued down the street. I simply must have been on edge because of my confrontation with my superior, the schoolmaster Horace Welling, only hours before.
Horace had entered my classroom not long after I dismissed my students for the day, a scowl etched deep into the sharp lines of his face. With his beak-like nose, beady black eyes, and harsh features, Horace reminded me of a crow come to life. I’d overheard my students on many occasions referring to him as such. Though I admonished them for the taunt, I had to fight back an amused smile of my own whenever I did.
Horace had taken an instant dislike to me, and had not spared me a kind word in the three years I’d taught at the school. If it weren’t for the Harkers’ influence, I would have never kept my post.
“How may I help you, Mister Welling?” I asked, forcing a polite smile as he approached my desk.
“I overheard you telling the students tales of your past adventures, and I must say I am quite displeased with that method of teaching, Miss Murray. Nonsensical adventure stories are not proper lessons. Whatever you did in your past has nothing to do with my curriculum,” he said, emphasizing the word ‘past’ with a slight sneer.
“Children get bored. At times, telling stories is necessary to hold their attention.”
“These are some of the poorest children in London. They should be happy to receive an education at all. They do not have the privilege of being bored.”
Anger shot through me at his words. Horace was barely middle class, yet his snobbery belonged to someone of the nobility; it was truly insufferable. Usually, I was able to hold my tongue at such remarks, but today had been an exception.
“It is not their fault they were born to a lower station,” I snapped. “I’m going to give these students the best education I can—the same that I would give to wealthy children. All children enjoy stories. It helps them learn.”
Horace’s eyes narrowed dangerously. He hated anyone disagreeing with him—especially a female teacher who worked beneath him. He stepped forward, his mouth going tight.
“If you wish to maintain your post, you will adhere to the curriculum I have administered. Otherwise, I am afraid our funding will not be able to continue for your class.”
I stared at him in disbelief, but Horace evenly met my eyes. For all his grim-faced dourness and snobbery, Horace was not a cruel man. But I could tell by his expression that he was quite serious.
I calmed myself, setting aside my pride for the sake of the students. Without my class, many of them would be unable to get an education anywhere else, and they would be put to work in the factories . . . or worse.
“All right, Mister Welling,” I said, forcing agreeability into my tone. “No more adventure stories. I will stick to the curriculum. My apologies.”
Horace’s hard mouth curved, settling into what I assumed was his version of a smile.
“I trust we will not need to have such discussions in the future.”
“No. Of course not,” I replied, though it took every ounce of restraint I had to keep the polite smile pinned on my face.
Looking quite pleased with himself, Horace turned and waddled from the room. As soon as he was gone, my smile vanished, and I wearily leaned back against my desk, taking in the old dusty classroom where I spent much of my time. The school was indeed for the poorest children of the East End, and it showed. My classroom was minuscule in size, dimly lit during the day by sunlight, which filtered through the smudged narrow windows. I had attempted to hide the dirty walls of the classroom with maps and drawings the children made, but the grime was still quite visible. The narrow desks the students shared had become cracked and rickety with age, and the old wooden floors were riddled with splinters.
Despite the decrepit state of the classroom, I had grown fond of it, just as I’d grown fond of my young students. Their joviality and inquisitiveness was infectious, and reminded me of myself at their age. Teaching at the school had become a much-needed refuge, a way to forget the painful events of my past. Dealing with Horace was a minor annoyance in light of such a haven.
I pulled myself from my thoughts and back to the present, though my agreement to not tell any more adventure stories still weighed heavily on my mind. The stories were all about my travels throughout Europe with my father and his former student, Abraham Van Helsing. My father had been a biologist, and I shared his love for the natural
sciences. I accompanied him on his travels with Abe around Europe to perform experiments, and he sometimes even managed to sneak me into lectures and conferences. Telling my students embellished versions of our travels had become my way of reliving those happy times. Now I feared that those memories would soon fade to nothing, and I would be left with only the most painful one. The one that still plagued my nightmares.
I paused mid stride as a surge of grief threatened to rise, but I managed to quell it. In the three years since my father’s death, I had come to learn that grief was an emotion without end, marked by continual waves of loss and despair that ebbed and flowed for years, like the ocean tides. Perhaps it was best that I could no longer relive my past through those stories. They were a part of my old life; the life I had left behind after Father’s death.
As I joined a throng of commuters to approach the Whitechapel and Mile End Underground Station, I noticed a man about fifty yards behind me out of the corner of my eye, moving with slow deliberation to match my pace. This could have been a mere coincidence, but my unease returned and my spine stiffened with alarm. I picked up my pace to push through the slow moving crowd, subtly glancing behind me to see if he would follow suit.
The man picked up his pace as well, and I could feel his intense gaze on me; the same gaze I had sensed only moments earlier.
My instincts had been correct. I was being followed, and I had just identified my pursuer.
I could not fathom who would be following me or why, but I instinctively felt that I needed to evade him. Not wanting to lead the pursuer to my home, I turned to slip out from the crowd of commuters, bypassing the station to take an abrupt turn down the next street.
The street I had turned onto was isolated and dominated by decrepit lodging houses. A crumbling brick wall marked a dead end. A grave sense of foreboding swept over me as I passed by a butcher shop, which coated the surrounding air with the thick smell of blood.
I hoped that I had lost my pursuer and could turn back around, but I was halfway down the street when I heard steady footfalls behind me.
Taking a deep breath to quell my rising panic, I tried to recall my self-defense training. Years ago, Father had insisted that I undergo self-defense training at a boxing and fencing school just outside of London. As much as I enjoyed physical exercise, I had thought it an odd and unnecessary request, yet he had insisted. I obliged him and took up training under the tutelage of Bradford and Sofia Frances, husband and wife instructors.
If you ever suspect you are being followed, maintain your calm, Sofia had once told me. Never show your fear. First, you must determine if you are prepared to fight.
I was unarmed and certainly not prepared to fight. I’d stowed away the two kukri knives Abe had given me as a gift when I started my training. I didn’t think I’d ever need them again.
If you are not prepared to fight, find an escape.
I would have to bypass my mysterious pursuer to flee. I was trapped. Behind me, I could hear his steady footfalls as he drew near.
If you cannot escape and you are not prepared to fight . . . do what you must to defend yourself.
I kept walking until I neared the brick wall that closed off the far end of the street, deliberately slowing my pace. The footfalls of my pursuer also slowed as he drew closer still.
I finally stopped walking altogether, keeping my back to him as I pretended to search for something in my bag. Though my heart hammered in my chest and my hands shook violently, I hoped that I appeared calm. I forced myself to wait until the man was close and his hand grasped my shoulder.
“You—”
The word was barely past his lips when I whirled, pulling back from his grip and lifting up my skirt to kick out at his knees. The man let out a startled cry as he crumpled to the ground, and I stepped forward, lifting up my boot and pressing it firmly onto his chest, forcing him onto his back as I glared down at him.
The man was devilishly handsome, with wide cerulean blue eyes that peered up at me from beneath prominent brows. A shade of dark stubble grazed his strong jawline, and wavy chestnut hair fell almost to his shoulders. He did not seem concerned to be flat on his back with my boot on his chest, and quiet amusement danced in his eyes as he met my astonished look with a wry grin.
I stumbled back, reeling with disbelief. It was a face I knew well. A face I thought I would never see again.
Abraham Van Helsing lumbered to his feet, picking up his hat as he pulled himself up to his full height of well over six feet. He grinned down at me, dusting off his vest and black tweed sack coat, and placed his hat securely back on his head. I stared at him, dumbfounded, not quite believing that he was standing before me.
“That was quite the greeting, Mina,” he said lightly, in the deeply timbered voice I knew so well, his English only slightly accented by his native Dutch.
“What . . . what are you doing here?” I demanded, when I was finally able to find words. My astonishment rapidly turned into fury. “And why did you follow me like that? You could have called on me at home. You frightened me.”
“It was my intention to call on you, but my business at Scotland Yard concluded earlier than I anticipated. When I went to your school you were already leaving; I wanted to see if you recalled your training. I see that you have,” he added, with a wry smile. “I am sorry. It was not my intention to frighten you.”
I studied him, flushed with an array of conflicting emotions. I was still angry at how he had startled me; but I was also surprised, dismayed, worried, and beneath it all . . . there was a tiny flicker of joy at seeing him again. But as his words broke through my haze of astonishment, the joy dissipated.
“Scotland Yard?” I asked, the pit of my stomach filling with dread. “What business do you have with Scotland Yard? Why are you in London?”
My unease made my tone sharper than I had intended. Abe’s casual look of amusement faded, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of hurt in his eyes. But the look was gone as quickly as it had appeared, and he took a step towards me, his face turning grave.
“I have a carriage across the street, we can discuss it there. Please, it is urgent,” he added, at my clear hesitation. He stepped forward to tentatively touch my arm, and a rush of heat spread through my skin at his touch.
I took an abrupt step back, and Abe swiftly removed his hand, dropping it to his side. “You have my assurance it will not take long.”
I took in his serious expression and the rigid way he held himself. I had rarely seen Abe anxious. His scientific mind focused on facts and rationality rather than the unnerving possibilities of the unknown, and he was usually able to maintain his calm. Whatever he wanted to discuss had to be grave.
“Briefly,” I conceded. “And then I must be on my way.”
2
The Beast Of London
His shoulders relaxed, and I realized that his seemingly casual disposition only served to hide how on edge he truly was. I could now see small lines of tension etched into the skin around his eyes, as well as the faint shadows beneath them.
I fell into step beside him as we turned to head back down the street. When we reached the main thoroughfare of Mile End Road, I glanced around to make sure we weren’t noticed, though I knew that no one in the Harkers’ social circle would ever set foot in the East End. It would cause quite the scandal if rumors spread that I was in the company of a man who was neither a relative nor my fiancé.
Abe remained silent as we walked, keeping his gaze trained straight ahead. I took in the wide breadth of his shoulders and the long chestnut hair that curled at his nape, far longer than was fashionable for men in London. I tried to ignore the warmth that spread over me at the familiar sight of him, this man I had once loved. He had never been far from my thoughts in the years since our parting, and his physical presence was like a potent memory come to life.
We soon arrived at an ornately decorated carriage, which looked more appropriate for Park Lane or Kensington than the East End; it stood out a
mongst the shabby buildings and older carriages and cabs that dotted the street.
The driver stepped forward and swung open the door, helping me inside. Abe settled in next to me, and as the driver shut the door behind us, I turned to Abe, acutely aware of our closeness.
“What is so urgent?” I asked.
Abe didn’t immediately respond, his eyes so intent on my face that I almost looked away, and he reached for my hand. Stunned, I tried to yank it away, but he held firm, examining my engagement ring—a marquis-shaped ruby surrounded by diamonds on a delicate rose gold band that Jonathan had lovingly slipped on my finger only a few months before. I flushed, feeling oddly guilty as Abe studied it, his eyes unreadable. I yanked my hand out of his, successfully this time, as he met my eyes.
“Gefeliciteerd,” he said mildly, congratulating me in Dutch. “I am sorry for not replying to your letter about the engagement; I was traveling in France at the time for a conference. Jonathan Harker,” he continued, and I could now detect a slight trace of contempt in his tone. “You have secured yourself a solicitor from an honorable family. Well done, Mina.”
Fiery anger spread through me at his words. Surely my engagement wasn’t what he wanted to discuss? I had written to inform him of my engagement when I certainly wasn’t obligated to do so, as our own relationship had ended years ago. After all we had been through, shouldn’t he wish for my happiness?
I opened my mouth to raise this very point, but stopped myself. There were too many shared wounds between us . . . too much that needed to be left in the past. The three years that had gone by were like an invisible dam that held back the tumult of pain that marked the end of our relationship, and quarreling with him would only cause it to break. I decided to stick to the matter at hand.
The Beast of London: Book 1 of the Mina Murray series Page 1
