The Whitechapel Demon

by Josh Reynolds

  “I’m surprised you came yourself,” St. Cyprian said, his breath coming in harsh, ragged gasps. The room span about him, and when he reached up to touch the side of his head, his fingertips came away crimson. “You didn’t strike me as a ‘lead from the front’ sort.”

  “But I am a ‘follow along and see how it shakes out’ sort. I had hoped that Clover and the others might see to you. Instead, it falls to me.” Eddowes smiled thinly. He wasn’t unhandsome, but he had a hard face, worn rough by a life of trials. “It always falls to me, to do what needs doing.”

  “Or what the Ripper needs doing, what?” St. Cyprian said, “He won’t thank you, you know.” Eddowes jerked, as if he’d been poked.

  “But he might just let me live. And that has been my overriding concern since the outset of this ill-starred venture,” Eddowes said. “We could have come to some arrangement, you know.”

  “I doubt that.” St. Cyprian’s eyes cut towards the xiphos in its sheath over the mantle. There was no way he could reach it before Eddowes pulled the trigger. Nonetheless, he intended to try.

  “It’s not as if I’m proud of my part in the current goings-on. You must see that. This was, most assuredly, not part of the plan,” Eddowes spat.

  “And just what was the plan, if I might be so presumptuous?” St. Cyprian said. If he could keep Eddowes talking, he might stand a chance. “Why would a man, seemingly aware of the dangers, try and contact the spirit of the Ripper?”

  “The best reason, the only reason…life,” Eddowes said, “Eternal life.” St. Cyprian stared at him for a moment, and then he burst out laughing. Eddowes flushed. “Shut up,” he said. Then, louder, “Shut up!”

  “I’m sorry, I do apologize, but really now, that old chestnut?”

  “The Osirian Mysteries are—” Eddowes began.

  “You mean that mock Egyptian balderdash? Eternal life, the boat of Ra, reeds of plenty, all that sort of thing,” St. Cyprian said. He shook his head. “Who put you up to that, I wonder.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to know,” Eddowes said. There was sly lilt to his words that caused St. Cyprian to look hard at him. Eddowes smiled nastily. “Fine fellows, the club, but they’re not exactly open-handed with their largesse, if you get me. Not that many of them had more than a pittance to their name. But I made the acquaintance of powerful men. Wise men, whose goals are my goals and who’ve entrusted me with the exploration of this particular avenue,” he said. “Men who would look kindly upon you, if you would but give me the woman, as I asked, so that we might—”

  “What?” St. Cyprian interjected harshly. Even as he said it, his mind was whirling, teasing out the beats of information from what Eddowes had let slip. “Form an alliance? Beat the Ripper while he is distracted, devouring Andraste?”

  “Something akin to that, yes,” Eddowes said. “She’s nothing, man. She’s a pikey, a confidence trickster with a bit of real magic. The Ripper has his claws in her, and she’ll be dead, one way or another, soon enough. But you and I are men of the crooked paths. We have seen what lurks across the threshold, and know that, whatever our personal differences, we must bar the way.”

  “Which you’d do by giving it the woman,” St. Cyprian said softly. Suddenly, it all clicked into place. Eddowes wasn’t just boasting about his knowledge of such matters.

  “If it eats her, its anchor is dislodged. Her ectoplasm makes up its core. It hungers for her, but if it eats her, it’ll snuff itself like a flame grown too large in too small a space,” Eddowes went on. “Problem solved,” he said.

  “No wonder you were so determined to have her.” St. Cyprian shook his head.

  “Indeed. And we still can. We can end this, you and I. Or, it can be just I. The men whom I serve have spoken highly of you, St. Cyprian. It would be a feather in their cap to count the Royal Occultist amongst their ranks. But I am just as certain that they will look with equal favour upon your removal from the board.” The pistol twitched in his hand. “A good revolver, this,” he added. “It saw off many of my enemies, both in the abattoir of the trenches and otherwise. And a fitting end for you, I think, if you so choose.”

  “Speaking of ends,” St. Cyprian said as he heaved himself to his feet, “I believe yours draws near.” He steadied himself on the back of a chair. Eddowes stared at him, but then turned and glanced back towards the front door. The Ripper stood in the doorway, athame dangling loosely in its grip, its red eyes fixed on Eddowes. Blood dripped from its blade, and its other hand was knotted in the collar of the sagging, bisected body it had dragged to the door, like a cat with a mouse. “It looks like he’s found a better use for you and your chums.”

  “What—I thought—” Eddowes began.

  “That it couldn’t come in here,” St. Cyprian said. “No, not while the circle was unbroken. But you broke it for it. And you even snuck a bit of it inside. I didn’t notice it before, at the bakery, but without your mask, I can see that it got its hooks into you as well as Andraste.” He smiled grimly. “Of course, it’s just you, now. I dislodged its hold on her, if only temporarily. It’s probably starving. Those gunshots we heard? I’m betting that was the Ripper dissolving the Whitechapel Club, one member at a time.”

  Eddowes whirled, his face growing even paler. “What? What are you saying?”

  “It eats ectoplasm, Eddowes. It was getting nourishment from Andraste, enough to allow it to wander about like a real person, but I cut off that particular supply of rations not long ago. It’s starving. And it has your scent. It’s tasted you, and it will eat you. Smart as it may have become, you can’t bargain with it. Not really,” St. Cyprian rasped. “It takes what it wants, with no caution, no cunning, just blind hunger, and right now, it’s hungry for you.”

  “No, no, I helped him,” Eddowes said. He swung the Webley towards the Ripper. “I helped you!”

  YES. THANK YOU, the Ripper said. St. Cyprian winced as the words scraped across the surface of his mind. He couldn’t say which was worse, the pain the voice caused, or how polite it was.

  The Ripper’s form began to ripple and blister, like plastic caught in a hot light. The shadowy morass split and slide from what had once been the man called Stride with a wet, sucking sound, leaving behind a withered, brown thing, clad in a now-filthy suit, pockmarked with bullet-holes and stained with mud and grime. The mummified spiritualist stumbled forward, as if in pursuit of his departing captor, and then, with a gurgling sigh, toppled over, like a lean-to of sticks caught in a high wind.

  St. Cyprian realized that he’d been right. Without the nourishment it’d drawn from Andraste, the Ripper had been forced to drain the remaining ectoplasmic energies of its unfortunate host. Stride was all used up, and now the Ripper had its eyes set on a different host.

  The blackness that was the Ripper sped across the floor like a shadow. Eddowes screamed and fired, and then, as if he’d suddenly realized what was in store for him, raised the gun and pressed it to his head. But to no avail—the shadow-shape struck him like a snake. It coiled about him, wrapping him in its gelatinous folds, obliterating his shape and replacing it with another. The Webley tumbled from his hand as the Ripper swallowed him whole.

  St. Cyprian dove for the mantle as the Ripper reformed. He caught up the xiphos, drew it and whirled, as the athame stabbed towards him. Blade met blade with a dull sound, and St. Cyprian was driven back against the fire-place by the force of the Ripper’s lunge.

  16.

  The Ripper leaned over him, and its words slid across St. Cyprian’s consciousness like acid even as its breath, stinking of battlefields and rotting meat, washed over him. WHERE IS SHE? I REQUIRE HER. I NEED HER.

  “Not that easy I’m afraid, old top,” St. Cyprian grunted. The Ripper was taller, and far, far stronger, and it pressed St. Cyprian back against the mantle with ease. The athame bit into the xiphos and both blades descended towards his face. “And even if you had her, what would you do with her, eh? Eat her, like the others? And then what—back to the black ocean between
worlds, like a good shark?”

  NO. SHE WILL BE MY SHELL. SHE IS STRONG, AND WITH HER, I WILL EAT AND EAT AND EAT AND—

  “I believe I’ve got the gist, yes, so, a fate worse than death then,” St. Cyprian grunted. The thought of what a thing like the Ripper could do with a host as strong in the ectoplasmic sense as Andraste chilled him to the bone. He could feel the warmth of the Monas Glyph in his coat pocket. If he could get to it, he might be able to see the Ripper off, at least temporarily. He had no idea if the Ripper could do as it claimed, but he didn’t want to find out. How long would Eddowes last? Not as long as the unlucky Mr. Stride had certainly—a few hours at most, if that.

  DIE NOW, the Ripper said, its grin growing wide and sharp.

  “Not today. Not any time soon, in fact, if I can help it, but most certainly not today,” St. Cyprian wheezed. He darted a hand for his pocket, but the Ripper’s own closed about his forearm and jerked his hand free.

  YES, TODAY. NO MORE TRICKS. NO MORE SMELLY OILS OR PENTACLES, the Ripper purred. St. Cyprian’s eyes widened. The Ripper chuckled nastily. I SAW. I FELT IT WHEN YOU FREED HER. I SAW YOU BEFORE AS WELL, WHEN I CAME HERE, BUT NOT THEN. A DIFFERENT ANGLE, it spat as it wrenched St. Cyprian’s hand from his pocket, glyph-less, and began to twist, as if to tear his forearm from his elbow the way a gourmand might pop loose the wing of a roast hen.

  THERE ARE SO MANY ANGLES HERE. SO MANY ALLEYS FOR ME TO HUNT ALONG, it continued, as St. Cyprian screamed in agony. The red eyes blazed brighter and brighter as they burned down into him. The Ripper was somehow bigger than the shape it wore. It was something monstrous and malignant, crouched like some great shadow over the body of the man whose frame it’d usurped. For a moment, through the clarity brought by pain, St. Cyprian saw the truth to the Ripper, and fear spiked through him. There was nothing of a man in that shape, or of any terrestrial creature, living or extinct. It was lean and a-thirst and its jaws whirred like a thresher as it bent over him and said, WHERE I WAS, THE ANGLES WERE DIFFERENT. THE ANGLES WERE OLDER AND LARGER AND EMPTIER. THEY TURNED THROUGH VAST PLANES, EMPTY OF FORM OR FEAST, SAVE OURSELVES WHO HAD NO FORM, BUT DESIRED THE FEAST, ALL THE SAME. BUT I HAVE FORM NOW, AND I WILL FEAST.

  Through the red haze of pain, St. Cyprian felt the two blades, xiphos and athame, press against his throat. He felt the Ripper slowly yank his arm back and forth, in no particularly hurry. It wanted to savour St. Cyprian’s pain. “Y-your form is stolen,” he snarled, “And you’re nothing but a flea, a parasite, attached to something far greater than yourself!”

  The Ripper roared, and its eyes blazed more brightly. St. Cyprian bent sideways, using his blade to guide the athame point-first into the fireplace mantle. Freed from the pressure of the blade, he was able to jab the pommel of the xiphos into the Ripper’s face. The eyes went out momentarily, and the Ripper released him and stepped back. St. Cyprian lunged and drove the xiphos down, point-first, through the Ripper’s shoe, pinning its foot to the floorboards. The Ripper gave a grunt of frustration and clawed for the hilt of the xiphos as St. Cyprian retreated and fumbled the Monas Glyph out of his pocket.

  “Get out of my house you bastard,” he said, raising the glyph, which began to glow. The Ripper screeched like an enraged panther and tore the sword from its foot and sent it slicing through the air towards him like a javelin. He threw himself aside and the xiphos smashed into the bookcase, burying itself to the hilt in a treatise by Bacon. Even as he came to his feet, the Ripper sprang towards him, the edges of its cloak sweeping out like the wings of a bat.

  A pistol barked. The Ripper crashed to the floor. It was on its feet a moment later, and whipped around, jaw unhinging like that of a serpent. St. Cyprian looked over. He expected to see Gallowglass. Instead, Andraste stood in the doorway of the sitting room, Eddowes’ pistol in her hands. Her features were tight with fear, but determined. “No—get out of here!” St. Cyprian shouted.

  “And leave you to be eaten, like Jadwiga or the others? No,” she shouted. She fired again, and the Ripper hissed. It stalked towards her, athame raised to strike. St. Cyprian clambered to his feet. Andraste retreated towards the other side of the room, away from the fireplace, firing twice more and then the cylinder gave a click. She tossed the gun aside. “If this is what it takes to end this, fine—come and get me!” she shouted again, this time at the Ripper. “Come and get me! I hope you choke on me!”

  The Ripper’s form expanded, growing foggy at the edges. It closed in on her, and the room seemed to give away around its shape, and bright shards of another place and time sliced through the here and now. Andraste gripped her head and moaned. The air was filled with police whistles, the sound of carriage wheels and horses’ hooves, women screaming, and the wet, heavy sound of a blade tearing into flesh. St. Cyprian charged towards the Ripper, but was sent sprawling by a negligent backhand. The shadowy black mass began to pull away from the now shrunken shape of Eddowes.

  “Oi, over here you git,” Gallowglass snarled. The Ripper spun, body rippling like the surface of a pond struck by rain drops. The Webley-Fosbery fired once, then five more times in rapid succession, the bullets punching the Ripper off of its feet and sending it flying backwards into the wall. It clutched blindly for Andraste as she scurried away. St. Cyprian interposed himself as the Ripper regained its feet. “The Crossley,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “Out front,” Gallowglass said as she cracked the Webley open and reloaded quickly. “I thought for sure those bullets would do for him!”

  “He’s a thing of spirit, and I’m afraid that’s the only way to truly deal with him,” he said as he gestured towards the door. “Let us retreat in good order, ladies, before the murderous ectoplasmic monstrosity gets his second wind!” Gallowglass nodded, pausing only to toss off a rude gesture, and then she and Andraste were out the door. St. Cyprian waited until they were both clear and then followed, keeping a wary eye on the Ripper as he did so. Gallowglass’ shots had clearly knocked it for a loop, but the Ripper was already rising to its feet as St. Cyprian bounded down the steps and hurled himself into the driver’s seat of the idling Crossley. From inside No. 427, he heard a bone-chilling scream that was quickly cut off. The Ripper was dealing with those members of the Whitechapel Club that had been left breathing, likely taking whatever sustenance it could from them. “Poor bastards,” he muttered.

  “Here he comes,” Gallowglass said. He glanced towards the door and saw the Ripper step out onto the stoop, its eyes blazing and its grin so sharp it cut the air as it moved. Blood coated its arms to the elbows and it was absorbed into the material of the Ripper’s suit like water into a sponge. As they watched, one of the bullets that had sent it tumbling corkscrewed out of its face like a glistening maggot and dropped to the steps.

  “And here we go,” St. Cyprian said and spun the wheel, sending the Crossley hurtling down the street. “Hold on!” The Embankment was empty of pedestrians, though whether that was due to simply the weather and the time of day, or whether the flurry of shots that had broken the tranquillity of Cheyne Walk had sent everyone scurrying for safety, he couldn’t say. Regardless, he was glad for it.

  “He’s still coming,” Gallowglass said, peering out of her window and behind them. She pulled herself back into the Crossley and finished loading her pistol. “Gaining, too,” she added.

  “Ta for that,” he said, trying to urge the Crossley to greater speed.

  He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Ripper pelting after them with great strides. It moved much faster than a normal man, and with odd little leaps that only added to the slightly surreal nature of things. St. Cyprian squeezed the horn as they rounded a corner, sending pedestrians scattering like frightened quail. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the Ripper bound over their heads and continue the chase.

  “Still on our tail,” Gallowglass said.

  “Pray restrain your commentary to his absence,” St. Cyprian said from between gritted teeth, swerving to avoid an oncoming double-decker bus. The horn of t
he larger vehicle shrilled as the Crossley darted across its path.

  “Where are we heading?” Gallowglass said.

  “Towards Victoria Embankment, I think. Fastest route to the East End from here,” St. Cyprian said. The Crossley bumped over the sidewalk as he spun the wheel, taking the next corner and hopping the avenue.

  “And why are we going there? Does this have something to do with what you said back there—about it being a thing of spirit?” Andraste said, from the back seat. She ducked as the Crossley swerved and cut between an overloaded lorry and another bus.

  “Yes,” St. Cyprian said, “The only way to send the Ripper back where he came from without sacrificing its last link to our plane of existence—you—is to force it to go willingly. And the only way to do that is to hurt it so badly that it flees. And the only way to hurt it, to really hurt it, is to attack it directly. It must be sent back in the same way it was summoned.”

  The Crossley shot along the Embankment, trading Chelsea for Victoria. Traffic was light, but frequent horn-squeezing was necessary to scatter the knots of people occupying the streets. Through it all, the Ripper kept pace, running full tilt, with no signs of fatigue. Once or twice, the Ripper sprang from the ground to the top of a passing auto or atop a bus and flung itself off, seeking to close the gap.

  “He’s gaining,” Gallowglass said. “I think I can pot him, if you hold the car steady.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” St. Cyprian said. “Keep your arms and armaments inside the car, please.” Before Gallowglass could reply, there was a thump and the Crossley suddenly fishtailed. The canvas roof tore and the Ripper leered down at them through the gap.

  Gallowglass twisted about in her seat and fired upwards. The Ripper rolled aside, its weight causing the Crossley to slew to the left. Brick dust flew as the auto crashed up onto the sidewalk and struck a building, before rebounding back onto the street. The Ripper tore at the roof of the Crossley with its athame, and jabbed down with the blade, nearly taking off Gallowglass’ head and pinning her cap to the seat. She emptied her revolver into the black shape and the Ripper screamed, but didn’t lose its perch. The blade retracted and shot down again and again as its wielder slashed wildly at the occupants of the Crossley.