Excerpt: The crappiest Victorian supernatural vampire werewolf kind of steampunk adventure thingy that was ever written

Prologue: A Girl by Gas Light

The girl was thin. Her gaunt cheeks, hollowed eyes and the threadbare clothes hanging loosely on her slender frame all spoke of rank poverty and starvation. Which meant there likely wasn't much she wouldn't do for a meal.

The predator watched her from a shadowed nook, out of view of the gas lamps that cast pools of yellow light onto the street. Her shoes were cloth and probably worn through in patches. They made little sound as she rushed along the pavement, but the predator's preternatural ears made the soft, scratching sound sharp. The predator heard the whisper of her breath, the beat of her heart, the rush of her blood through her veins.

Her head darted back and forth as she half ran through the darkened street. Her eyes were wide open, watching for danger. She clutched a thin lace shawl close to her chest, but the predator noted it was too thin to provide any real warmth on this chill early November night. Her clothes were made of homespun fabric – faded, patched and worn – that labeled her a country girl, likely grown up poor in a coal mining town or perhaps a farm in some pastoral setting far from the bustle of London.

The predator imagined the girl walking innocently through a moonlit meadow, dark hair adorned with flowers and fingers trailing through the tall grass, perhaps on her way to meet some strapping farm boy lover. How satisfying it would have been to take her in such a setting – to run her down in cool moonlight – rather than on this grimy street under the hiss and pallor of a gas lamp. But the predator knows all must bear the burdens given to them.

The predator sniffs at the air, taking in the girl's scent. It's a layered smell – the sourness of sweat underneath the sweet aroma of rose water. She hasn't bathed and she's trying to mask it. The predator prefers the real, visceral scent of her to the perfumed facade. Sweat smells like fear, and fear is a heady drug for the predator. And this girl is very, very afraid.

The predator waits in the nook, ready to spring as the girl nears. She's looking back over her shoulder as the predator steps out of the shadows into a pool of gas light. The girl gasps as she looks forward again and sees the predator standing there. She freezes in place. The hands clutching her shawl are trembling. The predator can hear her pulse quicken.

The predator holds out a hand toward the girl.

“You look lost, my dear. Can I offer some assistance?”

The girl shrinks away from the predator. No one offers anything for free in her world.

The predator's hands are open wide, palms facing the girl in an ancient gesture speaking of peaceful intent. The predator inches closer to the girl.

“Or perhaps a hot meal is what you need. London can a cold, cruel place for a young girl such as yourself all on her own. I know a place you could fill your belly and rest your head.”

The girl starts to shake her head. “I couldn't possibly accept ... your charity.”

Is it wariness of danger or the sin of pride that causes her to hesitate? The predator can see the hunger in her eyes betraying her and moves in closer.

“Of course you're mistrustful of someone such as I, a stranger on the street. You don't know me from anyone and here am I offering you a meal and a warm bed for the night. Of course you're wondering what I want in return and your better judgment won't allow you to believe me when I say that I truly want nothing from you but to help you out of this life. I believe goodness is its own reward and that aiding those less fortunate than myself is divine work. Would that more souls cared for others in this world. 'T would be a finer place, I think. A finer place indeed. Please, child. Let me help you out of this life.”

The predator stretches a hand toward the girl, palm up, inviting her to take it. The predator can see the struggle behind her eyes. She's taking in the predator's appearance and manner, her eyes darting over the predator's clothes and face. She's trying to discern whether the words she's heard are genuine, whether there is any malice behind the visage she beholds. If she weren't so hungry, she would have run away long ago. But she is hungry, and the predator's words taste as sweet as a sticky bun.

A thrill tingles up the predator's spine when the girl's hunger wins out. She places her hand in the predator's palm.

“You've made the right choice, child. Come. We may even be able to find a coat for you to keep out the cold.”

The girl looks at the predator, gratitude glowing from her gaunt face. The predator's lips curl into a beatific smile, because the predator knows the most successful hunters are the ones who don't look dangerous at all.

Chapter One: Miss Sophie Dare Has A Theory

Sophie Dare was on a mission, as was often the case with her. She wasn't happy unless she had a bee in her bonnet about something – a sense of righteous, or sometimes not so righteous, indignation over some person or some cause she could wield her journalist's pen to set to rights. Often, her passionate outrage was channeled into the heady issues of her day, the sacred cows of social reformers – women's suffrage, the exploitation of child labor, better sanitation to prevent the spread of disease among the poor.

Today her sights had descended from the lofty societal problems affecting the lower classes to something rather more narrow in scope – a series of three seemingly unconnected crimes she suspected may fit a pattern.

Three young ladies had disappeared in recent weeks. The first was a young French governess, Justine Marnier, in an upper middle class home who had gone out one evening she had off and never returned. Police speculated the pretty young woman had run off with a lover, but by all accounts, Justine was prim, virtuous and deeply religious. And Sophie had always found it suspicious that she left all of her belongings behind, save what she had on her person the night she disappeared.

The second girl was called Gwyneth Pyne. Witnesses said she had come to London from a northern coal mining town with dreams of becoming a great actress. The only work she'd been able to find was as a chorus girl in a burlesque show in the East End, and from the theatre manager's leering demeanor, Sophie suspected the girl had paid a steep price for her job. She wouldn't have been at all surprised if Gwyneth had fled home to (insert name of coal mining town), but a cable to the town constable quickly confirmed no one had seen the young woman there in months.

The reality was that young women went missing in London for any number of reasons and more often than not, no one took any notice. It was a city brilliant, bustling, alive and cultured, but it also could be cold, cruel, dark and hungry.

Sophie felt a certain affinity for the missing girls. Like each of them, she was an outsider in London. She had arrived three years ago, fleeing a life of garden parties and sewing circles in Boston, where she was expected to be a dutiful daughter and to become a dutiful wife to some suitable husband of her family's choosing. She had wanted a life of her own choosing, and when an eccentric aunt died and left Sophie the means to become an independent woman, she seized the opportunity. She had left her family and her given name behind in America, and taken the name Dare to honor the aunt who made her new life possible. She had spent two years traveling the world – raising more than a few eyebrows as a woman on her own – before settling in London and taking up her journalist's pen.

Now, she planned to use the skills of her profession to shed a light on the mystery of these three young women, who her intuition told her were somehow connected. She didn't yet know how, but she was certain some thread bound them together.

Sophie stepped down from a hansom cab and stood before the home where the third girl had lived and worked before disappearing three nights ago. Her name was Katrina Uhlmann, a buxom 20 year old who had emigrated from Berlin six months prior and taken up a post as a maid, where she likely found herself working 16-hour days every day to meet the whims and demands of her employers. Like Justine Marnier before her, Katrina had gone out on a rare night off while her employers attended a concert. She never came back. The girl's employers had been quite put out when they awoke the next morning and realized they'd have to fetch their own breakfast.

The house where Katrina lived and worked was a typical upper middle class townhouse, brick with gingerbread latticework and a polished black iron fence. The house looked out onto a brick street swept clean and tranquil grassy square surrounded by nearly identical brick gingerbread homes. The families who dwelled inside worked in respectable middle class professions – bankers, architects, lawyers, doctors. They were the kinds of families who could afford one or two servants – a maid and a cook, perhaps a governess for the children – to keep up their homes while they lived lives of comfortable leisure if not wealth.

This family not only fit the mold of bourgouise comfort, they very may well have been used to cast it. Mr. Edward H.B. Durnley, Esq., was the master of the house. Sophie had learned he was a young solicitor with a position in a reputable firm, and was had made a name for himself by successfully defending a well-known shipping company in a breach of contract suit and arguing something terribly clever that I'll figure out later.

It was Edward Durnley who answered the door now. He was a tall, slender man of about 35, with sandy blond hair sticking out in disheveled waves. He wore a dressing gown with an egg stain on the lapel, and Sophie couldn't help but notice the unwashed odor emanating from him. His expression as he swung open the door was one of irritation.

“You're late. The agency said the replacement girl would be here at 8. It's nearly 9:30! We'll be docking your wages for that, I guarantee you. That's if we decide to hire you in the first place. And for future reference, the servant's entrance is in the back. It simply wouldn't do to have the neighbors see you coming in and out the front, although I will say you're rather well-dressed for a maid. Well, come in! My wife will want to speak to you.”

Durnley turned abruptly and stormed off toward an open door that Sophie presumed led to the couple's parlor. She followed him without speaking. She'd set him straight eventually, but not without gaining entrance to the couple's home, and perhaps their confidence, first.

As Sophie entered the parlor, Durnley took a position near the fireplace. His wife, Mathilda, sat on the couch sobbing. She was a China doll of a woman with a mass of blonde curls, porcelain skin and pink rosebud lips. Sophie guessed her about ten years her husband's junior. She supposed most people would have considered the young woman pretty, but Sophie found her altogether too breakable to be attractive. The sobbing certainly didn't help.

Mathilda Durnley pulled an exquisite, but completely impractical, lace handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at her eyes.

“Mathilda, this is the girl the agency sent to replace Katrina.”

Mathilda leaped from the couch and lunged toward Sophie. She grasped Sophie's gloved hands with a grip like a vise. “Oh, thank heavens you've come!”

Sophie wriggled from from the woman's grasp and stepped back. “There's been some mistake, I'm not...”

Mathilda clasped her hands to her chest in the kind of melodramatic gesture made by China doll women, the kind of phony emotionalism Sophie despised.

“Oh, please forgive my enthusiasm,” Mathilda said. “It's just that ... well you can see the state the last girl's left us in, after we took her in, gave her a job and cared for her like one of our own family,” Mathilda cried. She waved the handkerchief around her parlor, which was filled to the brim with trinkets, all collecting a thin film of dust. A half eaten sticky bun sat next to a cup of curdling milk on the table next to the velvet-covered chaise lounge. Sophie stifled the urge to wrinkle her nose at the odor emanating from the milk, or perhaps from Mathilda herself. The woman looked as though she hadn't bathed in days. “There's been no one to clear up, no one to heat the water for our bath. Please say you'll take the post.”

“The wages are £1 per month, with room and board provided,” Durnley said. “You'll find that's comparable to other positions in the area. The room is off the kitchen. I can show it to you once our business is concluded. You did bring references, I assume? Mrs. Buttons from the agency promised you'd have good references. Of course we were told the last girl had impeccable references and look how she turned out.”

He shook his head and clucked his tongue, while Mathilda wrung her hands.

“Oh, do be kind, Eddie,” Mathilda said “She did keep things tidy. Really, we had no cause for complaint until she simply left with no notice. I do fear she may have fallen victim to foul play, but the police dismissed such a possibility.”

“Foul play?” Sophie asked. Now she was getting somewhere.

“Oh, I assure you this is a perfectly safe and respectable neighborhood, if that's cause for concern,” Durnley said.

“Oh, of course it is!” Mathilda said. “No riff raff here. But I did find that pamphlet in the girl's room after she was gone. Some odd sort of religious society. It sounded altogether too radical to be seemly, if you know what I mean. More on the fringe. Not at all the kind of thing a good Christian girl would be mixed up in. But heaven knows what those Germans believe.”

“Indeed, Ma'am.” Sophie said. “Do you recall the name of this group, so I can be sure to avoid any association with them?”

“No, I simply can't recall. But they met somewhere in Cheapside. I'd stay away from there, if I were you. A right den of iniquity, that place is.”

“Now about the post, Miss...?” Durnley said.

“Dare. Sophie Dare.”

“Can you start today, Sophie? As you can see, we're quite out of sorts here.”

“I'm afraid that won't be possible. You see, I already have a job.”

“Why on earth did the agency send you if you're already employed? I shall have a harsh word with that Mrs. Buttons,” Durnley said.

“The agency didn't send me, Mr. Durnley. I'm not a maid. I'm a journalist.”

Mathilda fell back onto the chaise lounge, the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. “Oh, how dreadful! The scandal! Oh, Eddie, do something!”

“What appalling cheek, coming into our home under false pretenses! I demand you leave immediately or I shall call the law.” Durnley pointed toward the door. “If you print a word of this, I'll sue!”

“Very well then.” Sophie nodded her head toward the couple. “Good day to you both, and good luck finding suitable help.”

As she made her egress from the home, Sophie heard Mathilda sobbing again and Durnley comforting his wife. “There there, dear. Everything will be all right.”

As the door swung closed behind her, Sophie pondered what she had learned from the visit. Katrina Uhlmann had been involved with some sort of religious group, and Justine Marnier had been devoutly religious. Could this be a connection between them? If only empty-headed Mathilda had been able to recall the name of the group, Sophie could pay them a visit. Knowing it was in Cheapside was a start, but not much of one. She'd have to find some other way to narrow the list.

Perhaps a trip to Scotland Yard was in order.

***

Sophie approached the Metropolitan Police station with a sense of purpose. She marched inside and up to the constable at the desk, whom she recalled was a Cockney named Henderson. He was plump, balding and 40ish, the kind of man who would never amount to more than he already was.

“Good morning, Constable. I'd like to see Inspector Toole, please.”

“It's nearly noon, which means he'd be out having a pork pie at the pub around the corner, which I believe you'd know Miss Dare considering your frequent visits to our establishment here.”

“Is a pork pie all he's having?” She'd heard Toole had a reputation for liking his drink.

“I'm sure I wouldn't know, Miss. Perhaps you'd like to leave a note and come back later.”

“I can wait. After all, how long can it take to consume a pork pie?”

“The inspector has been known to have more than one. He could be gone hours.”

“I'll just wait in his office, shall I?” She took a step toward the wooden gate barring entrance to the station's interior.

“You trying to get me sacked? You can wait right here, you can. We've got a nice bench right over there, as you well know.”

“Of course.” She smiled sweetly at the portly constable and strode to the bench, which she wiped with a handkerchief before sitting down. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at Henderson. He fidgeted and shuffled papers on his desk.

“Don't mind me,” she said. “Just go about your normal business.”

Henderson picked up a pencil and began chewing it. Sophie continued to stare.

He started tapping the pencil. Sophie smiled.

He picked up a stack of papers and straightened them. Sophie watched.

He tugged at his collar. “Warm for November,” he said. Sophie nodded.

He cleared his throat with a loud harumph. Sophie raised an eyebrow.

He pushed his chair back from the desk. The wooden legs screeched against the floor. Henderson stood up stiffly. “I'll just ... I'll be right back. You stay put, Miss.”

“Of course, Constable.”

Henderson waddled off around a corner, out of Sophie's line of sight. She got up from the bench and peered around the corner, then at the door to Toole's office across the room, gaging whether she could get there and back before either the constable returned or Toole finished his pork pie.

She decided to chance it. There might be something in his office that would shed some light on the connection between the three missing girls, like perhaps the name of this fanatical church in Cheapside.

She lifted the latch to the gate gingerly, careful not to make any noise that might attract Henderson's attention. She swung the gate open slowly. She recalled it had a tendency to creak. Once the gate was open, she slipped through and peered around the corner. Still no sign of the constable. She dashed across the room to Toole's door and jiggled the handle. It was locked.

“Stop right there, Miss! Just what do you think you're doing?”

Sophie spun around to face Sgt. Charlie Muldoon, a ruddy and affable man of roughly 30, who she suspected had a bit of a soft spot for her. She decided to use it to her advantage.

“Oh, it's you, Miss Dare!” Muldoon's already pinkened cheeks darkened to a deep beet red. “If you're looking for Inspector Toole, he's out at lunch. He should be back post haste, if you'd care to wait.”

“I should very much like that. Perhaps you could keep me company in his office, Sergeant?”

Muldoon pulled a set of jangling keys from his pocket with shaking hands. “Of course, Miss.”

He opened the door and held it for her. “After you.”

She smiled and entered the office, scanning the papers on top of the desk for any item of information that might be of use.

“And how are you, Sgt. Muldoon? Still no missus? No pretty young thing captured your heart yet?”

“Nah, Miss. Who'd have the likes of me?”

“You might be surprised, Sergeant. How about the girl who works in the florist's shop around the corner? You know, the pretty little Irish girl. I bet she'd take a fancy if you turned on that natural charm.”

Muldoon leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “Do you really think so? I suppose I never thought about it. Nah, she wouldn't. Would she?”

“A handsome, strapping young police man? She'd be out of her mind not to.” Sophie plunked down in a wooden chair opposite Toole's desk. She patted the other chair. Muldoon scrambled to sit next to her.

Sophie leaned in and said in a low, secretive voice. “Terrible about those missing girls, isn't it? Is Inspector Toole certain they haven't met some grim fate at the hands of some ruffian?”

“It seems unlikely, Miss. More likely than not just coincidence. Each found themselves a willing husband and eloped.”

“Without telling anyone they were going? I should never do such an unkind thing, Sergeant. Imagine the worry their poor employers have felt.”

“You might be giving the higher ups more credit than they deserve. I'll tell you, not a one seemed the least bit distraught.”

“But they called the police. Surely they must have been in some distress.”

“Calling the police was more or less a formality, covering their backsides if it turns out something had happened to those girls. But not a genuine feeling of loss to be seen.”

“Are you sure there was nothing to connect them? No places they visited or acquaintances in common?”

Before Muldoon could answer, Inspector Montague Toole appeared in the doorway. He was a lean, angular and hard man. Sophie detected a faint odor of beer on him.

Toole shot Muldoon a commanding glare. “Don't you say another word, Sergeant. Miss Dare, if you insist on questioning someone about a trivial missing persons case, please direct your inquiries to me. And precisely what is your interest in this matter? Haven't you better things to do than pester police detectives? Do go away. There's a good girl.”

“You know perfectly well I'm not going anywhere until you and I talk. How many times must we do this, Monty?”

Toole bristled visibly at the use of his first name. “As many as it takes to convince you that you are nothing but a nuisance, an irritant, a thorn in my paw, and I am becoming quite the angry lion, Miss Dare.”

“Perhaps if you took the time to listen, you might find rather than the thorn, I may be the mouse who provides your remedy. Or in this case, a clue to the case of three missing women that so perplexes you, Inspector. Why, I believe the furrow in your brow is becoming deeper by the minute. You should take care with that. You might go apoplectic.”

Toole snorted. “Bloody cheek! Are you telling me you know my job better than I do? Are you now London's greatest detective, Miss Dare? Shall I fire Sgt. Muldoon and make you my second?”

“Ah, but then you'd be getting rid of the one useful person you have in your employ, Inspector.” She winked at the red-faced sergeant. He blushed even redder. Toole exhaled an irritated sigh.

“Miss Dare, how many times must I tell you, there simply is no connection between the disappearances of those three young women. They didn't look alike, talk alike, dress alike. They went missing in three different parts of the city. They had nothing in common.”

“Not even ties to a particular fanatical religious sect meeting in a church in Cheapside?”

“How do you know about that?”

Sophie smiled, hoping she appeared enigmatic. “I have information from people acquainted with two of the girls. What do you have, Inspector?”

“You have nothing, and I shall give you nothing. Your efforts here are wasted, Miss Dare.”

“Now, Monty, surely an exchange of information could be beneficial to us both. We both know I can go places police can't. If I were to turn up something ...”

“You'll turn up dead one of these days. I'll not have that on my conscience, even if you are an irritant.”

“Then you do suspect foul play.”

Toole's face twisted and turned red. “Get out! Get out before I arrest you, or worse!”

“You'd best do as he says, Miss.” Muldoon placed his hand over hers gently, but firmly. She allowed the kindly sergeant to lead her past Toole into the outer office, and nodded to the inspector as she left. “We're not finished with this, Monty.”

“I'm terribly sorry, Miss, but you really shouldn't provoke him like that. Heaven knows when he'll blow his top these days. He wasn't always like that. Truth be told, he hasn't been the same since his wife...” Muldoon shook his head and grimaced.

“His wife? She ... died?”

Muldoon leaned in. “Twas murder, Miss. Cold-blooded murder. And they never caught the bastard who did it.”

Before Sophie could ask Muldoon to divulge any details, Constable Henderson ran by, nearly knocking her over. She stumbled and fell into Muldoon's arms. The sergeant blushed furiously. Sophie righted herself. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

She turned her head toward Toole's office, where Henderson was straining between panting breaths to convey news of some importance to the inspector.

“There's been a body found in Cheapside, Inspector. It looks to be one of them missing girls.”