Steampunk Jack

Prologue: Return of the Ripper

The young woman waded through the fog choked streets of Whitechaple, the alchemical glow of the unbroken streetlamp failing to pierce the mists. She muttered curses at skirts, heavy from the damp, and feet sore from standing for far too long.

She shivered as she walked past an ally, trying to banish dark thoughts. It had only been two years since the Ripper had terrorized this part of London. It was hard to feel safe when women are dying within an easy walk of your home, when you knew he could be anyone.

Even without the Ripper, Whitechaple was a dangerous part of London. People died all the time for one foolish reason or another, but Jack re-defined dying badly. No one wanted to be butchered, the insults done to their body displayed in every newspaper from Paris to the Colonies.

She pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. She didn’t like being out this late, but babies came in their own time, and a midwife couldn’t work banker’s hours.

The petite woman’s shoe crunched on shattered glass as she passed under another empty lamp post. Queen Victoria, in her wisdom, had ordered new alchemical lanterns to brighten all of London’s streets, however in Whitechaple most of them had been broken or stolen within days of being assembled. Only the workmen sent to repair them the first few times had been surprised.

As she turned the corner and stepped onto the street her home was on she paused to adjust the basket holding the tools of her trade “While I appreciate the light I wish it wasn’t so poisonous a color.” Green was the cheapest of the alchemical flames to produce but did nothing to banish the menace of the dark. Sighing, she pushed forward and continued on her way.

The tolling of cloister bells pulled a groan from the woman’s throat, three deep chimes revealing it was later than she had already thought. “Well that’d explain why I haven’t seen a drunk or a doxie. Even they have more sense than me.” She said, hurrying her step.

A faint spark from an oak leaf pendent around her neck caught the woman’s attention. Her heart pounded. Grey eyes darted about furiously, trying to penetrate the dark. She started to move faster in hopes of escaping whatever evil she had caught the attention of. The hard soles of her boots made a wet tapping sound on the cobble stones as she raced for the door of her small shop. Sounds of heavy footsteps seemed to fill the air behind her as someone gave chase, confirming her fears.

The woman ran to the door, she set her trembling hand on the knob when a fist grabbed her chestnut hair, pulling her head back. There was a brief burst of cold as steel touched her throat. Red hot pain drew a crimson furrow across pale skin. Blood sprayed like a hellish fountain. It painted her door as she crumpled to the ground.

Rough hands turned her over. She stared up into her killers cold eyes, horror racing through her every blood starved vein. Then on her own door step, Anne Campbell died.