Disclaimer:
This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, events, and all other aspects of the novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any similarities to any person or event, real or imaginary, is purely coincidental.
While this novel contains very loose allusions to various religious and mythological themes, it is entirely a work of fiction. It is in no way intended to insinuate or offer any type of interpretation or stance on any religion and/or belief system, and it should not be used as such.
Prologue I: From Hell
Prologue II : From the Depths of Hell
CH 1: Upon the Roof
CH 2: The Man in the Mirror
CH 3: Bad Moon Rising / Santa Monica
CH 4: Stone Tower
CH 5: Making Friends over Monsters
CH 6: One Man Wolf Pack
CH 7: A Hint of Normalcy
CH 8: Old Friends and Iron Bars
CH 9: Hello
CH 10: Midwest Swing
CH 11: It Begins
CH 12: Family Matters
CH 13: L.A. Woman
CH 14: Family Matters II
CH 15: Gang Related
CH 16: Secret Lovers
CH 17: Midnight Meeting
CH 18: Somebody That I Used to Know
CH 19: You Owe Me
CH 20: Stone and Steel
CH 21: Who Says You Can’t Go Home?
CH 22: Back Then They Didn’t Want Me…
CH 23: Old School Funk
CH 24: Old Time Rock ‘n Roll
CH 25: Hey Brother
CH 26: Cold Cave
CH 27: Back to Good
CH 28: Werewolves of London
CH 29: People Talking
CH 30: Hungry Like a Wolf
CH 31: Lights
CH 32: Belly of the Beast
CH 33: Bright Lights, Big City
CH 34: Cake by the Ocean
CH 35: Worlds Collide
CH 36: Final Countdown
CH 37: Return to the Stone Tower
CH 38: Guess Who’s Back?
Prologue I: From Hell
London 1891
The cobblestone clacked beneath their feet, and the alley smelt of urine and garbage. This was Whitechapel, and the stench was a familiar one. It was also a constant reminder of what Whitechapel really was: an overpopulated rookery of poverty and scarred survivors. Still, tonight it wasn’t so bad. The cold air helped to deaden the stench, and it wasn’t nearly as pungent as it was in the summertime.
It’s not so bad, that was what she told herself. Then she interlocked arms with the man walking next to her, and she forced a smile, a heavy smile. She silently told herself again, “It’s not so bad,” and she continued scanning the street and street corners with worried, watchful eyes. It’s not so bad, she thought again.
Still clacking over the cobblestone walkway, the man smiled at the woman—an awkward, slimy smile. And woman smiled back at him. Nodding in fake-agreement, she again thought, it’s not so bad.
It was a cold night in February, and their breath steamed in the chilled night’s air. And it was relatively quiet. The moon was high and the hour was late, and the normally loud, foul-mouthed residents of Whitechapel—an orchestra of drunks, prostitutes, and slummers—had called it a day. And aside from the faint echoes of the numerous domestic arguments that were ever-present, even Flower and Dean Street had simmered down.
“This way, love,” said the man on her arm. He point to the side of the street then guided the woman down the familiar dark alley. Adjusting his floppy brown cap, he added, “I got a spot just right ‘round the corner—a stone’s throw away really, like so.”
“Right, right,” the woman said, ever cautious and ever watchful. “Let’s just be quick about it. Alright?” The woman shivered, and the man put his arm over her shoulders.
“Yes,” he replied. Turning to face the woman, his head rotated at an eerily-slow snail’s pace. She flinched when she saw that the man’s smile from earlier was still frozen on his face. “And don’t worry,” he said then blinked twice. “It will be quick.”
“Right,” she said, not necessarily believing him. Inside, she was getting that clammy feeling of panic, and it was starting to boil over, telling her to run, to get out of there. Instead she said, “Yeah, well. That’s good.” Calm down, relax, she told herself. Then her empty, grumbling stomach told her something else—you’re starving. You need the money. Calm down and pull yourself together. She took a deep breath to calm herself down and forced out another heavy smile. “I mean, it’s just bloody cold out here. That’s all. Alright?”
“Yes,” he agreed, glibly and with a devilish, crooked grin. “Of course, ma lady… I have no problem being, as you say, quick about it.” He looked up at the night’s sky and grinned again.
The moon was out, both of them. The one in the sky was full, but the one sliding out from the man’s wrist was more of a sharp crescent. Still, both moons were bright white and seemed to glow in the filthy, foggy London air.
The woman shivered in the cold and wrapped her arms across her chest, under her ill-supported bosom and across her pouchy stomach. “Yeah, well… It itn’t no matter to me, long as it ain’t too far, and you got the money like you say.” Her voice was nasally and low-bred. And as she gave herself an unladylike scratch, the tattered lace of her undergarment fluttered against the backs of her calves. “I just want what’s coming to me, is all.”
“Oh,” he said coyly. “You’ll get what’s coming to you.” The crescent in his far hand disappeared as he reached over and caressed the woman’s neck. He gestured over to the side of the alleyway, next to a brick wall. “This way, beautiful. Right here, just down these stairs here.”
The stone steps were hidden behind a dumpster and deep within the shadows. Ten steps down, the short stairway ended at a large wooden door that was battered, chipped, and dented. Though the door was heavily abused, the setup wasn’t uncommon for Whitechapel. The door’s doorknob was brass and scratched, tarnished, and almost brown, and it still, somehow, had the glint of raw gold in the moonlight. And while that wasn’t abnormally strange either, the woman was still getting a very bad feeling about the whole thing.
The man adjusted his floppy newsboy cap. He grinned at the woman then reassured her, “Just this way, love. I can light us a candle, and we can get you out of the cold… just down those stairs, right there.”
“Right, right,” she said. “That’d be nice, getting out of the cold. But I want to see the money first. Five pence, that was the deal, aye?” She slapped him on the ass and smiled. “You got to pay to play, right? Aye, ain’t that what they like to say?—but remember, nothing fancy nor rough neither. I ain’t that type o’ girl, and I got to work tomorrow night too. So you better behave yourself.”
She forced a smile through her chapped lips and showed her rusted teeth. And as the man averted his gaze, she eased away from him, three steps. A seasoned pro, she learned the hard way, a long time ago, that tonight’s transaction was approaching the point of no return, and it was always best to get the money up-front. But even more important than the money was having a head-start, just in case things went south.
“Right, right,” the man said. “Money first. And I always behave myself, love. And I am not interested in anything rough, certainly not. And yes, you’ll get your money.” He dug into his left pocket with his left hand while sliding his right hand to the side and out of the woman’s view. “Just a moment, I got it right here, just got to dig it out, is all,” he
said grinning, his eyes half-shaded from the night as well as from his hat. “I’ll get it, but you know I’m good for it. I’m always around, and I always pay, you know that. Got to. I know you girls talk.”
“Yeah, well… just let me see the money, right.” She gave him a suspicious look and watched him dig in his pocket for what seemed like an eternity. Still, it was a slow night, and a girl’s got to eat, even an old tart like her. So she stayed. “C’mon now, be quick about it now, or else my bloody lady parts are going to start freezing off out ‘ere.”
“Certainly,” he replied, still digging in his pocket. “I know I got my coins in here somewhere.” He moved on to digging into one of his jacket pockets before digging into another one. And the white crescent moon began creeping out of the wrist of his right hand, the hidden one. “Five pence, right?”
“Five pence, aye,” she said, still shivering. Trying to stay warm, she was now bouncing from one foot to the other, her arms once again strapped across her pouchy stomach. With each step, her shoes clacked against the cobblestone like the heavy ticking of a wall clock. Click… click… click…
And the sharp crescent moon had fully risen and was shining in his palm, hidden from the woman’s eyes and ready to strike. “Found it. Got your five pence, right here.” He held out his closed left hand, just so, far enough that she would have to come just about three steps closer to retrieve the coins. Grinning, he shook his fist of money at her. “It’s all right ‘ere, love. Now, come and get it. Come on now. We ain’t got all night, right? Be quick about it.” And she was just about to, but…
“Five pence? Five pence for a night with such a lovely lady?” The voice came from the edge of the dark alley and from beneath a stovepipe hat that was black as night. The face behind the voice was tipped downward and hidden beneath the heavy hat, shaded black—the same lightless color as the man’s morning coat. “Ma’am, I believe that you are undervaluing yourself. I’ll give you… ten. Ten shillings for a moment of your time. That’s… what? ten-twelve—twelve times as much as he’s offering you, for a quarter of the time. What do you say? Do we have a deal?”
The old pro gave herself another unladylike scratch and darted looks between the two suitors. “A half-a-sovereign? Just for me?” she asked stunned. And once she heard the coins jingling, she was already three steps further from the first man and three steps closer to the new one with the stovepipe hat. But… a thought entered her mind, and she paused somewhere near the middle of both men. Her slow night had just turned into a seller’s market. So with a suspicious look, she turned back towards the first gentleman. His face was pouty and half-sunken beneath his newsboy hat, and the index finger of tight-fisted hand was anxiously tapping again his thigh. And he looked like an eager buyer who had money, real money. And while it was probably not as much as the man in the stovepipe hat most likely had, it was money that he looked overly eager to spend. And money was money, and you never know.
“Well,” she said. “Let’s just wait a minute right now, you two. What about you, aye? Can you beat ten shillings?”
Before he could answer, the man with the stovepipe hat was standing next to her and slapping the coins into her hand. Somehow. Even though he was just lurking over her shoulder, his face was still heavily hidden in darkness.
But his eyes weren’t hidden. His eyes were stern and seemed to flicker red as he began scolding her. “Ma’am, take the money and do not be greedy. Pigs are greedy, and pigs get slaughtered. And neither are admirable traits to begin with. Now, off you go.”
He gently put his hand on her back and guided her towards the street. But she was confused and reluctant to move. Wasn’t he hiring her? Wasn’t he planning on taking her? The coins felt good in her hand, and she did not plan on giving them back. “Aye now, you just hold on a notch here, now, Mister. You wait a bloody minute. We can’t do it out there, out there in the street. I mean, we can do it here if you like, but you got to promise to be quick about it.” With her free hand, she grabbed at her dress and began bunching it up into her palm as she had done so many times before. “And I ain’t much of one for spectators so…”
“Ma’am,” he said sternly as he put a finger against her crusted lips to quiet her. “Perhaps I did not make my intentions clear. While I have paid you your money, I am not paying you for your services. I am paying you to leave. I demand satisfaction. And tonight, that is something that I cannot get from you. So, you should leave now, quickly. And be careful out there.” He glared at the man in the newsy cap. “I hear there’s a ripper lurking about. Now, run along girl. Go on and get something to eat, or at least get a shower and some rest.”
Still confused but ten shillings richer, this time she didn’t argue. Instead, she stuffed the money into a coin purse hidden near her unmentionables and scurried out of the alley. And all the while and with each footstep, her shoes clacked against the cobblestone.
The man in the stovepipe hat watched her as she left. And as she rumbled out of the alley and around the corner, only then did the mysterious man finally turn his attention towards the first one. He sighed, “Oh, Sirius.” Osiris. He took off his stovepipe hat and revealed a pitch-black goatee constructed of a devilish handlebar mustache and a perfectly trimmed, pointy beard. He smoothed out his crisp, precise facial hair then went on to examining the brim of his hat. Tilting the hat at various angles as he examined it, he quickly grew bored with it and flung it aside. “Osiris, you have been a naughty boy.”
“Always.” A half-smirk appeared beneath the newsboy cap, and he mumbled, “Looks like I’ll be ripping something else tonight.” He blew into his left hand, and a puff of yellow dust exploded into the air. Then, the sharp crescent moon in his right hand was swinging through the yellow cloud and at the interrupting man’s goatee.
Yet, just as fast as the blade swiped at his face, the man with the goatee leaned back and grabbed at it, piercing the blinding cloud of yellow dust. Somehow snatching his attacker’s hand and, with a quickness, dragging him across the alley, he slammed the ripper against a janky wooden fence. Then he slammed the ripper’s hand against the wooden fence, and it shattered and sunk through the janky wooden planks. With fire in his eyes, he snatched the attacker’s blade and snapped it off from the ripper’s wrist, sending pale shards sprinkling through the air. “Now,” he huffed, “That’s no way to greet an old friend.”
The man who just lost his blade winced and sucked air through his teeth, but he didn’t cry out. And as slivers of white sprinkled into the air, all he could say was, “Oh boy.” The remaining splinters of the broken moon-blade sunk back into his wrist as if it was attached to his wrist bone. It was. His gashes that now covered his hand and ran up his arm remained open but bled for naught.
The goateed man pinned his assailant’s neck to the wall with one hand as he examined the broken moon-blade in his other hand. “Interesting choice of weapons.” The thin, sharp, white-silver crescent blade. It was definitely made of bone, or ivory, but it wasn’t porous. Thin and polished with a white-silver glow about it. The edge was heavily curved, and hard and polished and looked more like silver than the rest of it did. And it was as sharp as a freshly strapped razor. He lazily tossed it aside. “An interesting blade.”
“It gets to the truth. I have another.” Lifting his left hand, they both watched the sharp crescent slide out of the ripper’s other wrist. Then they watched as it disappeared again, smoother than the last one had done. “But you’d probably just break that one too,” the ripper said, sadly and lazily.
Then, grinning with sharp eyes, he observed his guest. The yellow dust he had blown into in the air was now speckled throughout the man’s thick mustache and pointy beard and was drifting up into his nostrils. Any minute now, he thought, just wait it out. “Masks, they wear masks. Did you know that?”
“Masks?” the dusted man asked as he twitched from the yellow dust he was inadvertently inhaling and that was irritating his nostrils. He’s lost it. A queer look came across his face a
s he studied the grinning ripper. He’s truly mad. He doesn’t remember; he doesn’t remember me. He doesn’t remember any of it. “You really don’t remember me, do you? We were friends once, a long time ago. A long, long time ago.”
“A long time ago. Friends? An old friend? You called me Osiris,” said Osiris. The scuffle had cause his limp newsboy cap to drifted awkwardly off to the side and halfway off his head, and his focus would soon start drifting as well. He glanced to his right, at the strange wound in his wrist. “Damn, you really broke it.” Then he glanced down the alley and said, “And I almost had her.”
He grinned at the man with the yellow-dusted goatee. “They say that I’ve killed eleven of them, but it’s much more. I only display the special ones, the ones I loved. But the first one… the first one, the Smith girl, that one wasn’t…”
“No, that one wasn’t one of yours. That one was the work of three depraved—previously depraved—youths gone astray.”
“Previously depraved?”
“Well, they were depraved, but now they aren’t. And they were astray, but now… Well, let’s just say that I corrected their paths, and they got what was coming to them.” He leaned closer to the ripper and whispered, “Just like you promised the young lady from earlier.”
Again, the yellow dust irritated his nostrils, and he shook his head again. But then, he sniffed at it, deeper and with more intent. It was a familiar scent; a bitter, burning scent, but somehow still familiar. He just couldn’t pinpoint it. What was it? A flower of some sort, he thought, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Why not? He licked his finger, dabbed it against his moustache, then dabbed it onto the tip of his tongue. Thinking for a moment and letting the taste set in, he finally had it. “Hmm. Nightshade? Scopolamine. So now you’re drugging your victims? Now that’s just being lazy—and a little overkill, if you don’t mind me saying—and you really don’t remember me?”
“Do I remember?” Still grinning, Osiris pulled his hand out of the broken wooden wall, scraping it roughly against the jagged wooden splinters. The new scrapes and cuts on his hand looked like streaks of black paint. But still, there was no blood. He was empty.
The Long Night of the Gods: Lilith Awakens (Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 1
