Red Reign (IC)

[magbeam]

(OOC thread here)

"Extra! Extra!" the news-boy was screaming at the top of his lungs, the exhortations punctuated by the ringing of his bell. "Ripper strikes again! Another girl found dead! Police flummoxed! Read all about it, Ripper strikes again"

"Fool," William Jones muttered to himself. The hansom cab he was in began moving as the street-vendor obstruction before it was cleared, and the news-boy's cries quickly vanished into the thick fog that seemed to permeate all of London these days. The boy was not to blame, of course. He likely had no choice but to sell as many papers as possible to support whatever blighted family he had. He was just a tool. His real scorn was directed at the owners of the paper. Sensationalistic hyperbole like that sold papers, yes. But it also attracted more than just sales. Even in the old days - the "old days" of but a few years ago - it wasn't fully wise to antagonize the police and Her Majesty's Government, by implication or even worse, out in the open. The Prince Regent and his followers were even less tolerant.

And if there was one thing that made them even angrier than failure, it was having it rubbed in their nose by a (more-or-less) free press that they were already barely willing to tolerate. He and Emily had had several heated debates over it: her views that as a journalist she had the right and the moral responsibility to highlight the inadequacies of the current ruling clique, and his views that he would not like to see her gang-raped and crucified on the front lawn of Buckingham Palace over it, the currently-vogue punishment for traitors, insurrectionists, anarchists, suffragettes, and Home Rulers.

Even dear Emily had had to concede that he had a point there. And of course, that still hadn't stopped her.

As the hansom made its way slowly through Westminster en route to his morning appointment, William opened his own paper, figuring to make at least some use of this time. Unsurprisingly, other than the recent spate of murders, the big news of the day was the war. If there's one thing to distract the Prince Consort and his cronies from persecuting papers reporting on the bumbled Ripper case, then it's their chance to persecute papers for reporting on the bumbled war, he thought. Of course, the Ripper case was new, while the war wasn't.

Shortly after the Prince Consort had wedded Queen Victoria and become the Prince Consort, assuming her constitutional duties as Lord Protector, he had entered Britain into a full-scale war against the Ottoman Empire. The pretenses were neutrality of the Dardanelles, Ottoman influence over Greece and the newly-independent Balkan states, persecution of Christians and Jews within the Empire - as many reasons as the Prince Consort could come up with. Of course, the real reason, as everyone knew, was his certain - to be politic about it - past disagreements with the Ottomans when he had still been Voivode of Wallachia. The preparations for war had been difficult from the start, with Germany - Britain's new ally under the Prince Consort - having been making inroads with the Turks for some time. But the Prince Consort had smoothed them over somehow, promising the Kaiser that this was to be a "gentleman's duel" between himself and the Turkish caliph, Vathek; that no other involvement - from Austria, Russia, Greece, the Balkan states - would be sought or desired.

The Prince Consort, of course, just didn't want anyone else getting in the way of, or trying to share credit with, his long desired revenge.

Which left Britain in the mess it found itself in now, of course, with the casualties returning in ever-larger streams and nothing to show for it. For the fourth straight month, Brigadier Sir Harry Flashman was promising that his attempt to seize the Dardanelles would soon be won, while news of another troopship sinking was fueling speculation that the Sikh science-pirate had returned after his reported death several years back. Meanwhile, Sir Francis Varney was threatening to dismiss Parliament if the Irish Home Rule Bill was debated.

The truly shocking news was how, after only a few years, William was increasingly finding it difficult to be shocked and upset over news of this sort emanating from the very center of Britain.

"Here we are, sir." William was jolted out of his reverie by the cab driver, who went around to open his door. William stepped out onto the foggy street, looking around. He had been brought back to Britain shortly after the Royal Wedding from his service in Afghanistan and India, and had run various 'errands' for his masters since. But this was the first time he had been here, had been summoned to the very lion's den itself, the center of this new Great Game.

So this was Baker Street, the heart of the secret service.

Of course, officially there was no secret service in Britain. Just as, officially, the rule of law was still observed. Nevertheless, here it was - perhaps the only part in the entire Empire where the various illicit strands of the secret service actually ran together. On their own, the secret service drew from such disparate groups as Army intelligence (where he had been stationed in the Orient), Scotland Yard and its Special Branch (where he currently, at least officially, was maintained), the Naval Intelligence Department, branches of the War and Foreign Offices, even sections as mundane as the General Post Office and National Telephone Company or civilian groups such as Greyfriars School and the Diogenes Club. The informal organization had existed prior to the Royal Marriage, under the auspices of the elder brother of the gentlemen who formerly resided at this address, but following the rise of the Prince Consort, who had felt that he was being improperly protected from his beloved rabble. Therefore, the Great Detective's brother had been replaced, and the secret service had been tightened. It once only served to defend the Empire and the interests of Her Majesty's Government.

Now, it actively hunted down and dealt - harshly - with those deemed to be a threat, nuisance, or merely disliked by the Prince Consort.

And William Jones was part of it. He did not enjoy it, but it was his duty, and he did not shirk from his duty. And, he told himself, it was better to maintain order than face the alternative.

A group of men dressed like they were from a medieval pageant, and looking no less dangerous for it, marched passed, chanting some marching song in a guttural Eastern tongue. A branch of the Lord Protector's Own Company, then, the personal guard of the Prince Consort himself, and all afflicted with the same...blood condition as the Consort. So. One of them was here, then. And would no doubt be meeting with him.

Inside, a gentleman relieved him of his Webley revolver and brought him to a cramped waiting area, informing him that he would be received shortly. Pre- or post- Royal Marriage, in Britain or Afghanistan, bureaucracy had to be served. He wondered what the Prince Consort thought of it. In his day, he rather doubted that he had tolerated his chancellors or ministers or whatnot holding him up. However, the time did give William a chance to wonder. Although there was a chance this might be about the war protests, or Home Rule Bill, or suffragettes, or any number of issues, his instincts told him that this was about the Ripper case. It was where his skills were, and his masters would know that. So. The question then remained...Which of the Prince Consort's companions would he be meeting with?

Since coming to power, the Prince Consort had stuffed the government and civil service leadership with those that shared his particular...condition, sometimes passing on the condition to those deemed worthy of it but always making use of those with it. Some, such as Lord Ruthven, Sir Francis Varney, Nicholas Knight, John Blaylock, were British born and therefore somewhat palatable to William. But the rest...The Germans were the worst and most numerous, individuals such as Count Orlok, Barlow, von Krolock, Kernassy, Klove. Then, there were the Eastern ones, even more barbaric and despotic in their tastes: Yorga, Khorda, Kostaki, names too twisted to even pronounce. There was even a Frenchman, the fop Lioncourt who managed to make even the notorious socialite Dorian Gray look respectable, and a certain Count Allamistakeo who, if rumor could be believed, had been a nobleman of Egypt from the time of the pharaohs.

All of them like the Prince Consort. All of them grateful to him for granting them a refuge where they need not fear, where they were the acknowledged rulers. Predators at the apex of the food chain, and more than willing to exercise their feudal rights. All of them...(come on, old sport, you can say it) vampires.

As if reacting to that thought (and perhaps they really were? That was a disturbing thought in and of itself) the door to the inner office opened, and a male voice called out.

"Mr. Jones, please do enter."

William did, and found himself in a utilitarian room across from two individuals. One, he was shocked to see, was Sophocles Baldrick, M.P. for Dunny-on-the-Wol. A hatched-faced man with greasy black hair and perfectly round spectacles, he had a reputation for cunning; along with his support of the Government in Parliament, perhaps it wasn't too surprising that this was who the Prince Consort had found to replace Mycroft Holmes in running the secret service. Therefore, William was even more surprised to see that the other individual was a woman. A very attractive woman, one who gave off no indication of warmth in either sense of the word. One of them, therefore, and no doubt the representative of the Lord Protector's Own Company stationed outside.

"Mr. Jones, you will no doubt be familiar with me," Baldrick was saying. "This is Miss Carmilla Karnstein. A representative of the Prince Regent and an official of his guards company. Miss Karnstein, Mr. Jones here is quite the hero to the Empire. Service in Afghanistan and India during our recent struggles there, and service in the Special Branch for me since your patron assumed his constitutional duties here in London. Made quite a name for him self solving little pickles for us. A detective, quite in the manner of this building's former occupant. Did you not assassinate a government tax collector in Nagpur Province, June 19th, 1878?"

William coughed, uneasy - despite knowing she had full confidence of the true ruler of the country - to discuss such things in front of a lady, let alone someone like Baldrick, who had no doubt never been near a war in his life. Not that life as a chief intelligencer in the climate of modern Britain be all that much safer. "Sir, I am unaware of any such activity or operation - nor would I be disposed to discuss such an operation if it did in fact exist, sir."

"Of course, of course." If Baldrick had been holding a file in his hands, William had the impression that he would have shut it in his hands. Of course, the rumors about Baldrick seemed to be true - the wily devil seemed to have no need to operate off of anything other than his memory. "Mr. Jones, I will be quite honest with you. This nation is on the edge of a knife. On the one hand, we have the forces of stability and modernity as embodied by the enlightened rule of our Prince Consort and Lord Protector. And on the other hand, we have the forces of anarchists and Jacobins who would gladly barter away our Empire and place the reigns of the Government into the hands of radicals and women, all in the name of worshiping their false idol of 'progress.' If they have their way, Mr. Jones, Britain will be tilted into a civil conflict the likes of which will make the late unpleasantness in America seem like a walk in the park. And this Ripper business could be the very thing that tips the balance. The man is no doubt a radical, and with every strike of his knife...Well, the mood of the land becomes more and more a mobocracy. It may be necessary to suspend elections for an emergency government of national unity soon."

Baldrick's eyes narrowed, his voice becoming somewhat sly. "Some of our affiliates are working on, ah, preventative measures to protect the rule of law for just such a contingency, but we are not quite ready to deploy them as of yet. Surely you must have heard rumors of some of them?"

Of course William had, and he wished he hadn't. There was the big project at Chatham Dockyard, of course, that almost everyone knew about. A veritable menagerie of noted engineers and scientists were there, most of them foreign imports from the lands formerly inhabited by the Prince Consort and his type: Schultze, Robur, Mors, Traveller, Tesla, Butteridge, Nebogipfel, Cavor, Moriarty. They were said to be working on some sort of two-pronged engineering coup: airship vessels and practical submersible boats similar to the type constructed by the science-pirate. Possible, perhaps, but not for some time. The other project William had heard of was much smaller, gathered at Exham Priory. The three notoriously disbarred English physicians - Moreau, Pretorius, and Jekyll - along with a German, name of Franken-something-or-the-other. They were said to also have access to the Wold Newton meteorite and some ancient occult grimoire seized from the stores of Caliph Vathek during the current war. William could only - and vastly preferred not to - imagine what ghastly horrors that group might be thinking up. Of course he had heard of the Prince Consort's attempts to toy with perversions of science.

"Of course not, Sir," William replied to Baldrick. The weasel-man seemed to relax at that.

"There, I told you he could be trusted," he said to the nosferatu woman, then returned his attention to William. "Now, once our programs have been tested and approved, the Government will be in a position to declare total martial law and take any measures needed to restore order. Until then, we cannot allow this Ripper situation to spiral out of control and make the Empire seem weak. Especially with the Yanks armed with their damned Florida columbiad and if the rumors of this French fulgurator are true...We cannot allow this nation to have a science-gap!" Baldrick slammed his desk with a balled fist, and William could only assume that this was some sort of personal obsession with the nation's intelligence chief. Baldrick seemed to calm himself after that outburst, and his thin smile returned.

"Well, you need not concern yourself with those things, Mr. Jones. Instead, concern yourself with solving this damnable mess with the Ripper. The sooner and quieter, the better. You will be working with Miss Karnstein on this. The Prince Consort has become personally involved in this matter, and she is his personal representative. You will cooperate with her, I trust I am making myself clear. Now, then." Baldrick handed William a sheet of paper, signed and stamped in multiple places.

"This is your personal authorization slip, signed by Sir Francis and the Prince Consort and around half a dozen other mucky-mucks, giving you full authority to become involved in the police investigation, civil government, anything you want."

"Thank you, Sir," William said, somewhat taken aback. "I will not let you down."

"For both of our sakes, I should hope not, Mr. Jones. Needless to say, a swift resolution to this unpleasantness will see you a nice promotion, perhaps even a knighthood. If you fail...well, if the nation survives, then you will likely not be there to see it. Now, if you will excuse me, matters of state and all that..."

William wondered if Baldrick knew about Emily, and if his offer of a knighthood was tailored around an implication that if they could help him win her should he succeed, then they could also make her vanish if he failed.

Wordlessly, the nosferatu woman followed him outside - still foggy, but at least somewhat brighter than the dingy interior of 221 Baker Street, with the hansom cab still waiting for him - them, now, he supposed. He pulled out his commission, looking it over. Signed by the Prince Consort himself. This was the closest he had ever been to the Queen's new husband. His signature was sprawling, barely legible - the Prince Consort, it was rumored, could barely read and write even in his native Rumanian - but it was there, nevertheless.

DRACULA​

William folded the paper, placing it back into his jacket, and then turned to his companion, addressing her for the first time.

"So tell me, Miss Karnstein. Not to be blunt, but have you had any experience in this sort of situation before?"

 

[Lady_Mornington]

Carmilla Karnstein

England was a strange country.

Carmilla Karnstein pulled the curtain which obscured the interior of her carriage aside to look at the street. They believed themselves to be so different the English. As if set apart from the rest of the human race. They clothed themselves in fickle pretensions of being the Chosen People, with the Mother of all Parliaments and the Workshop of the World.

The dark-haired woman smiled, or at least barred her teeth as she contemplated the silly notions which the humans entertained. It was true, England was indeed set apart from the rest of the world but only in aspect.

It was soft.

This country had grown comfortable, her citizens shielded behind the moat of the English Channel, thinking themselves too modern; Carmilla shuddered at the word, the enlightened custodians of industry and progress, and yet with the same ingrained reverence for names and titles like the people back home. It was a combination of the exceedingly modern and the stubbornly feudal which had made it so simple to just overrun the country. That, and the fact that England did not expect the enemy to strike at the very heart of her treasured Empire. The English had this novel idea that the battles they would have to face to secure her takings would be fought on the very edges of the Empire like the mountains of the Hindu Kush, or the plains of Ishandwana.

Carmilla smiled again, this time a more heartfelt one, which revealed the unnaturally pointed incisors. No, they were definitively not God’s chosen people. The truth was less poetic than so and served to set them less apart from the rest of the world, owing to the simple fact that Englishman and Pashto alike were but one thing.

Prey.

Well perhaps not all of them. Carmilla had to concede. There were those of a particularly interesting breed which would be suitable for ‘refinement’. That was the way of nature; some specimens displayed the necessary traits, and could be used to improve the stock. Not that their numbers had ever been that great, there was no point in creating more competition for the resources. Besides the Nosferatu were as altruistic as cats, the current situation brought about by the Lord Protector was a historical anomaly, but nonetheless a success. England and her Empire had been put under the rule of the Lord Protector and thus ensuring quite the formidable foundation of power for the Nosferatu.

Carmilla was interrupted in her reveries as the pace of the carriage dropped when the driver reined in the horses outside the nondescript building at 221 Baker Street. It was almost laughable the way the so-called intelligencers and their wish to remain inconspicuous, something which they had strived for even before the Lord Protector came to power. The games the humans indulged in, Carmilla mused as she got out of the carriage and scanned the street. The guardsmen had already taken up position, making sure that nothing unexpected occurred during her visit. Not that it was likely, and furthermore she didn’t exactly need any, put the English were fond of keeping up appearances, and when in Rome…

She gracefully entered the building, seemingly ignoring the various clerks and servants who soundlessly scurried through the surprisingly spacious house at Baker Street. One of them, dressed impeccably in a dark suit deferentially guided her to the office of Baldrick, The man must have some skills, although they had hitherto eluded Carmilla. Her general approach to mortals were one of indifference although a select few of them were worthy of her attention for other reasons than mere sustenance. Others were capable of performing the necessary tasks to smooth out the creases of existence but the vast majority did not qualify for any deeper concern or thought.

Sophocles Baldrick was the exception from the rule. The man’s very existence chafed her nerves. Back in the Old Country she would not have hesitated to put a particularly painful end to the same. Seeing how unappealing the man was he would surely not serve any other purpose than being made sport of. There were a number of the less discerning members of her select caste who had taken such pastimes to perfection. It was the only purpose the horrible little man would serve, by the smell of him he was thoroughly unpalatable.

Carmilla nodded, almost imperceptibly so, when the head of the intelligence service bid her welcome. There was no reason not to treat even such loathsome an example with rudeness, although when he tried to kiss her hand the response he got was a show of incisors as well as a low growl, almost as imperceptible as the nod she had offered before. The result was immediately visible, the little man quickly taking refuge behind his desk, shuffling some papers as he tried to compose himself. For what it was worth it was quite the enjoyable scene, although the pleasure was fleeting. It was one of the major drawbacks of being a resident in England, not being able to partake in the simple pleasure of the hunt. The Lord Protector had banned all such activities on the British mainland, and with the possible introduction of Irish Home Rule, the same would go for Ireland. It was lamentable, but as the Lord Protector had said, new times required new measures, and in due time things would once more revert to the old and familiar. And time was something which Carmilla’s kind possessed in abundance.

There was a knock on the door as the investigator Jones was ushered in and given the briefing by Baldrick. Investigator, the word did not sit well with her, nor the implications it carried. Back in the Old Country there was no such thing as a civil law enforcement agency comparable to the English police. There was simply no need for it. Justice was what the lord or lady of the area decided, and needless to say, they were all Nosferatu. When the current crisis was sorted out, then hopefully the Lord Protector would see fit to institute the same order here.

She listened as Baldrick kept droning about the dire implications of failure all the while she assumed a face of being royally bored. It was not an act as such. Carmilla did not wholly understand why this Ripper character posed such a threat to the stability of the realm. For what was known about the murders, they had all been carried out among the lowest possible order of prey. It shouldn’t be something which bothered the ruling classes, but it seemed that even the Lord Protector had been affected by the airs and graces of England. Subtlety was all very well but not to the point when one lowered oneself to the level of the ruled.

Contemplating this, Carmilla thus followed Mr William Jones out on Baker Street, and for the first time taking a moment to study the human she had been assigned. She took a step forward and with the same fascination as a natural scientist who had stumbled upon a particularly interesting specimen she lifted his cheek and turned his head to the side.

“You seem to be in possession of the unrefined tenacity which counts for intelligence among your class.” She pushed he nails into his skin as she turned his head further to the left. “Features speak of rather humble origins, although decent stock. A bit of a hobby of mine Inspector, one cannot help but take an interest.” Carmilla’s English was word perfect although she could not disguise her Eastern origins as far as the accent went. “Now about my experience? Where I come from we do not worry about such things as investigations Inspector. If a villager has committed a crime it’s customary, and I might add prudent, to make sure that entire population is shown the error of their ways. After all you are social animals, and if one strays then one better make sure that the faulty individual has not spread the disease.”

She smiled, or at least showed her teeth, noticing how the inspector pulled back as the canines were revealed. “Shall we perhaps have a look at the ‘scene of the crime’ inspector? Maybe you can show me the marvels of modern forensic science.”

 

[magbeam]

William Jones

William did not flinch when the fingers of Miss Karnstein touched his face. No, instead he went perfectly still, almost as rigid as her fingers themselves. Several minutes ago, certainly less than a quarter-hour, she had become the first of the vampire-kind he had seen personally and at close range. Now, she had also become the first of the undead that he had come into direct contact with. The situation, along with the sensation, was decidedly unpleasant and equally unwanted. Her fingers were as cold and unyielding as iron.

Baldrick's men had returned his Webley to him as they left the 221 Baker Street complex, and as Miss Karnstein began to tilt his head to the left, William felt his right hand start to slide towards his concealed holster. It was an act of instinct whenever he was in danger, and he had to consciously force himself to halt it. Instinct it might be, but the nosferatu were known for being creatures of even greater and ingrained instinct. If he were to truly make a threatening move, how might she react? It seemed unlikely she would truly drink from him, here and now. He was not unafraid of her; he was not that stupid. It took bravery to let her undead hands play with him, even in this manner. If she ever did make an attempt to drink from him, William vowed that she would be made to pay more for it than just this.

Even with the prohibitions and drives to collect it under the new government, there was a reason William had payed extra to see to it that his bullets contained silver cores.

"I will assume your words were compliments, and take them in the spirit they were intended," William stated as Miss Karnstein released him, regaling him with the observations of her utterly charming 'hobby'. He adjusted his four-in-hand, less due to any imperfections her touch had introduced than as a way to will away the lingering cold of it. "However, I will ask that you refrain from conducting a similar inspection in the future. Those who are unfamiliar may take it as a sign of inappropriate intimacy between the two of us and I would not see your reputation besmirched so." William likely cared for her reputation even less than the vampire herself did, and she no doubt knew it. But it was a convenient point to use to get his demand across with a minimum of fuss.

"I trust you will understand and take no offense at it." William met her green gaze with his own gunmetal gray eyes, but only for an instant. He trusted that caused his sincerity on the topic to come across, and when he broke the gaze, he did not feel that he lost his willpower, become her thrall, or had otherwise been Mesmerically influenced by Miss Karnstein .

He had no idea whether vampires could truly read minds and hypnotically ensnare through meeting their gaze, or whether only some vampires could, or if so, how long it took. When it came down to it, there was far too little known about vampires by either himself, or even most self-proclaimed 'experts' as Doctor Pretorius or the late Professor Van Helsing. Which perhaps was part of the reason this investigation was taking so long. William had not assumed that the 'liaison' he would be appointed would know much of modern investigative policing, and Miss Karnstein's next words confirmed it. However, perhaps she would prove of some use beyond terrorizing others into compliance and a reminder that, even in this criminal investigation, the police were subjected to the oversight of the undead. Certainly, that was what her superiors - by which he primarily meant the Prince Consort - had had in mind when handing her this assignment.

William wondered whether it was seen as an easy assignment or as a punishment by Miss Karnstein, and decided it was perhaps better not to ask.

"As for the scene of the crime, that is no doubt an excellent place to begin," William allowed, opening the door to his own carriage, and allowing her entrance first, before climbing in after her. He thumped the front panel of the hansom. "Thirteen Miller's Court, Dorset Street, Spitalfields," he called out to the driver. In a moment more, the carriage was off, going through the fog that shrouded Westminster. It was no surprising that London was foggy, of course; that was one of its claims to worldwide fame. But fog this thick, fog that seemed to grow thicker as the day went on and the sun grew stronger...It was not normal. Not natural. As if the city itself was ill, and this was once of its symptoms. Again, William kept that thought to himself.

Although if vampires could truly read minds, then it might not matter, however he cut it.

Another bad choice of words.

To offer himself a distraction, William sat back against the carriage, studying his new companion. She was tall, especially for a lady, at several inches short of six feet. Her dark brown hair was worn in curls with a little hat perched on top, skin obviously very pale, green eyes a startling emerald color that seemed to sparkle and glow of their own accord. Dressed in a dress that accentuated her slender figure, in a sombre black color that matched that of her hat. Very far from Emily, his precious English-born rose, but equally far from ugly.

He remembered the feel of her fingers on his throat, her - quite literally - iron grasp. Attractive, perhaps, but the only Christian blood that flowed in her veins was blood that she had siphoned out of good Englishmen. Perhaps the only Christian blood she had had within her for centuries, given her implied origins to the East. Just because she looked to be in her early twenties - the same age as his Emily, perhaps - meant little to those who shared her same affliction of the blood.

William himself was in his mid thirties, but depending on the situation, could make himself look either ten years older or younger. In his particular line of employment, the ability to have an inconspicuous appearance such as his was a necessity. Brown, curly hair (currently) with thick sideburns, facial features that were neither strikingly handsome nor hideous, a build that was well off but not particularly memorable. Just as he preferred it. And, in ways that he was sure extended far beyond the physical, as different from Miss Karnstein as night was from day, if the implication of that particular allusion could be overlooked.

Her age had brought up another point of interest to William. She had seemed to take great glee in using terms that would seem at home with Mr. Darwin and followers of his scientific model in illustrating her hobby to him. Yet, she came from an Eastern state that was barely out of the Dark Ages, still sunk in a culture of pre-industrial superstition and terror. Yet she seemed more than willing to cross the two, seemingly opposite, paradigms. The few other undead he had heard illustrated in detail seemed much the same way, none less so than the current Prince Consort. Shortly after the Royal Marriage, he had voiced his admiration of the late science-pirate, and there had still been enough relative independence of the press and popular institutions to cause no minor social scandal. And then, there were his well known fixations on airships and submersible boats and electrical equipment.

William had heard that his latest idea was to commission a fleet of navigable airships equipped with telegraph cables and electrical lanterns to patrol London at night. This had come just after the announcement that Martin Wiberg, along with the renowned mathematician James Moriarty, the incomparable industrialist-inventor Sir Josiah Traveller, and a group of exiles from the eastern nation of Erewhon - had been commissioned to build a steam-powered difference engine that could instantaneously conduct complex calculations, store data paperlessly, and even collate and extrapolate such information without an attendant supervisor. It was intended to assist in solving cases much like the Ripper matter, but as of yet had been little assistance. Still, the popular Sir Josiah had maintained that it would only be a matter of time before a truly effective and capable 'Darwinian machine' was made.

Personally, William viewed it as the Prince Consort's desire to use modern science to project his direct power in ways that the primitive industry of mediaeval Wallachia could never allow. Telegraphs, mass production, and locomotive transport were just as, if not more, potent tools for the propagation of tyranny as they were for the freedom of politics and economics that Britain once stood for. And then - and this was full speculation on the part of William - there was perhaps the Prince Consort's views on America. Even more thoroughly than Revolutionary France, the Americans had eliminated any and all concepts of nobility and monarchy from their social consciousness, anathema to the mindset of a mediaeval prince. Even worse, in his mind, was that there were almost no cases of vampirism in the United States, beyond a few notables in Richmond and Rhode Island or the European transplants that seemed to accumulate in New Orleans for some reason or another.

And America was huge, containing in a single country an appreciable amount of the space and resources of the Empire of Britain. An appreciable amount of the resources, and a growing amount of the industry. Americans had a love for science and industry and progress, even moreso than the Britons, an appreciation that seemed to be growing at an even more rapid pace. Their recent Confederate War had seen the American military develop automatic rifles, war balloons, submersible boats and ironclads. Since the war's end, that progress had only exploded: the Baltimore Gun Club had managed to send three explorers in an oversized artillery shell on a journey from the Earth to the Moon and around it, and a number of enterprising individuals, such as Johnny Brainerd and Professor Archibald Campion had constructed a number of automaton 'steam men', used as anything from industrial workers to carriage-pullers to soldiers.

If the Prince Consort was to prevent the spread of such revolutionary unpalatable ideas as American concepts of freedom and equality, his new Britain would need to be able to counteract American ingenuity. William had no doubt that Britain would soon overrun the armies of the Ottoman Empire; the sick man of Europe was no match to the world's greatest empire, under the tyranny of the undead or not. And when the Prince Consort had finally finished old national vendetta, William wondered how long it would take him to turn his sights across the Atlantic at starting a new one.

All that rested far in the future, of course, a future that could not occur if the new order of the nosferatu was undone by some mobocratic violence inspired by the Ripper matters. And so, as they made their way to the latest murder, William attempted to engage in small talk with his partner. She responded coolly but politely, yet the questions were banal even to William and he was actually pleased when the carriage finally stopped in front of their destination. Stepping out, he closed the door behind Miss Karnstein, and greeted the fellow inspector who met him.

"Hello, Gregory." He flashed the notice given him by Baldrick. "It seems that someone up high is looking out for me. Looks like I'm to take charge of this whole unpleasantness. And may I introduce my new partner. Miss Carmilla Karnstein, of the Lord Protector's Own Company. Miss Karnstein, this is Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"Miss Karnstein." Inspector Lestrade bowed, then turned his attention back to William. "As for, all I can say is that someone was not doing you a favor by giving you this case. I could tell you more, but perhaps showing you would be better." He lead the two of them up the stairs of the rickety, run-down apartment complex. "Name's Marie Jeanette Kelly. A prossie - begging your pardon, of course, Ma'am - just like the other four."

"Have you searched the room yet?" William asked, and was surprised as the usually serious Lestrade laughed.

"Evidence? In there? Good luck, Sir, good luck. I don't think we'll ever catch him, the devil - and that may just well be what he is."

Although he was absolutely devoid of reason, William knew him to be as tenacious as a bulldog when he once understood what he had to do, and, indeed, it was just that tenacity which brought him to the top at Scotland Yard. To see Lestrade react in such a way did not give William a hopeful feeling, and he tightened his resolve. They finally approached a cordoned off door with several PCs guarding outside, and Lestrade gestured.

"The room's in there. If you'll excuse me, I don't think I will be heading in."

William nodded, then, steeling himself once more, stepped through the door.

William had served in the Army, at Maiwand and Kandahar and in a rather more selective but no less gruesome manner, and believed himself to be impervious to scenes of human carnage. But the aftermath of the battlefield, or the opium den or any other place where William had guided men into the afterlife, could not match this. He had been in India when Dr. Moreau had been arrested (only to be granted a royal reprieve a short while later by the Prince Consort) but from the reports, and first-hand accounts of police he had known involved in the matter, William imagined his vivisectorium had looked something like this.

There was no body. There were barely even recognizable bones or organs. Instead, most of what had been Marie Jeanette Kelly was now a jell-red paste smeared over every surface area of the room. A thick, still-scarlet pace, mixed with the occasional dark chunks of what had presumably been her liver or kidneys or stomach. Above her dresser, William observed a blue eye, glued to the wall by the blood, staring back at him. It was at that point that he turned and walked out of the room. Miss Karnstein followed shortly later. He did not want to know what sensations such a sight brought up in her.

Lestrade was outside, standing next to a messenger. "It seems that Sir Frederick would like for you to meet with him, once you're done here."

William nodded. Following the Royal Marriage, the Prince Consort had seen to establish a series of military police garrisons in the major metropolitan areas of the Home Island, seemingly to protect himself from the throngs of his adoring subjects throwing himself into his embrace. Major-General Sir Frederick Knight was the commander of the London Military Garrison. He was also William's former commander from his days in India.

"I think we are done here, unless you would like more time to look over the crime scene, Miss Karnstein?" he asked. "I will expect a full report on my desk as soon as it is done...Oh," he added, a thought occurring to him at that moment. "See which organs are intact, and which other ones can be identified." Leaving Lestrade to contemplate his unenviable new instructions, William and Miss Karnstein returned to the carriage, heading back towards Whitehall and the military garrison headquarters there.

"To be perfectly honest," William began speaking, his consternation at the case overcoming his personal feelings towards Miss Karnstein, "we have no firm idea on whether all of the Ripper victims have been, ah...of a similar physical nature as yourself, or 'warms', as I believe the currently vogue nomenclature is. Or if some of them have been warm and some nosferatu. We have sent samples of blood and skin back to Exham Priory for analysis but they have been rather unhelpful in returning our communications." He did not bother to leave the distaste from his voice as he spoke of the intellectual team assembled at the ancient and reportedly haunted priory. Henry Jekyll, Alphonse Moreau, and Septimus Pretorius might be the leading physicians, physiologist and biological scientists in Britain, but to William, they were monsters themselves. Which brought him to another point...

"In any case, we are not even sure whether the Ripper himself is warm or nosferatu. It is not as though the concept of brutal murder did not predate the Royal Marriage. After all," and William now looked directly ahead, at the opposite end of the carriage from Miss Karnstein. "After all, not all monsters require a supernatural origin.

"In any case," he continued somewhat more easily, "the bottom line is that whatever the nature of the Ripper or his victims are, the Royal Family and Her Majesty's Government see it as a warm anarchists attacking vampire women, and those inclined towards, ah, self-rule see it as a vampire preying upon warm women. And so both groups are increasingly radicalized and polarized. Ah, here we are." The carriage was at a stop now, and the driver opening the door.

The London Military Garrison was based from the Horse Guards building, and the two of them were guided inside, to the office of the London Military Police Commandant. In the waiting room outside, they were greeted by Sir Frederick's attache.

"Sergeant, so nice to see you again," Colonel Sebastian Moran spoke in a decidedly patronizing voice. The son of noted government minister Sir Augustus Moran, Moran had achieved his position largely through the influence of his father, and having been Mentioned in Despatches during the campaign in Afghanistan did not elevate William's opinion of him one bit. "And who is your charming companion?" Moran eyed Miss Karnstein the same way William had seen him eye a particularly appealing tiger for his collection.

"Inspector, now, Colonel Moran, if you please. All that military mucky-muck is behind me, now. Just a regular bobby in the Yard, I am, now." William smiled. "This is Miss Carmilla Karnstein of the Lord Protector's Own Company." William enjoyed seeing Moran turn nearly as pale as the nosferatu at that. "I believe Sir Frederick is expecting us?"

"Mmm. Indeed," Moran replied coolly, still eying Miss Karnstein but in a rather different light. Sir Frederick had been William's commanding officer during his time as a 'disposer of trouble' in India, and as the general's adjutant, Moran was aware of such activities also - and that William surely was anything but the agreeable, humble constable he claimed.

"Unfortunately," the colonel continued, "he is rather occupied now with a guest of a different matter, although I imagine the topics of conversation are the same. Sir Danvers Carew." One of the more radical members of the House, in other words. "I am sure that I need not expound on how an M.P. can speak at some length over a non-issue. Now that he is supplied with a matter of actual substance, who can tell how long he could go on for?"

"I see," William answered, once more growing weary of having politicians of any stripe bounce him around in the manner of a whiff-whaff ball. "In that case-"

A feminine voice from behind him suddenly startled him from his planned rebuttal to Moran. "William?" Then, a second later, "Mr. William Jones, is that you?"

He turned around, smiling. "Miss Knight," he said. "How lovely to see you again." Miss Knight smiled in return, extending her hand for him to kiss. Major-General Sir Frederick Knight was not merely the Military Commandant of London and his former commander in India and Afghanistan. He was also the father of Emily Knight. William's fiance.

A fact that Sir Frederick was not aware of.

"Where are my manners," he said a moment later. "Miss Karnstein, this is Miss Emily Knight, Sir Frederick's daughter. Miss Knight, this is Miss Carmilla Karnstein of the Lord Protector's Own Company. We were just here to speak to your father on official matter, but it appears that Sir Danvers Carew has already spoken for him."

As the two women engaged in small pleasantries, William was left all too aware of the rumored vampiric ability to read the contents of another's mind. As such, he tried to control his emotions and facial features as much as possible, a talent he had some familiarity with, but when Miss Knight - Emily - asked him if she could speak to him privately, of a personal matter pertaining to her father, William was more than happy to agree, for more than one reason.

"If you will excuse me for a moment, Miss Karnstein, I am sure that we will not be long," he said, before walking down the hall to an empty office with Emily, and was more than pleased to leave Miss Karnstein and Colonel Moran alone with each other for company. Then, when they were alone in the office, Emily raised her lips to his, and all thoughts of such unpleasant individuals as Moran or Carmilla left his mind.

 

[Britwitch]

Emily Knight

The fashion of day was clearly designed by a man, that was Emily’s final conclusion as she struggled to keep her skirts at a modest level whilst moving along the street as quickly as her neatly laced ankle boots would allow. Not only did the sheer number of skirts and underclothes mean that passing through crowded places was more than a little difficult, the tight-fitting corset beneath meant breathing had to be kept at a calm pace lest the wearer risk a fainting spell. The fact that nice young ladies were not meant to walk at speed for any reason was irrelevant in her mind. Emily was running late and so rush she must.

Emily had an appointment with her father, one she was genuinely looking forward to keeping, but it was preceeded by an appointment of a completely different nature, for a cause that was equally as close to her heart as her father was. A meeting for the supporters of women’s rights, for those seeking equal suffrage for the ‘fairer’ sex, for other women like herself who had long since grown tired of a world where simply being born a woman meant you gave up certain privileges automatically granted to men.

She finally reached her destination, walking there took her longer but taking a hansom meant her route could be traced back to their meeting place and that was something she simply could not risk.
Upon reaching the gates of the Horse Guards, she smiled at the soldier at the door and explained who she was and that she was here to see Major-General Sir Frederick Knight. She was quickly escorted inside to the waiting room, he was of course running late with a previous appointment. Sighing, Emily moved to take a seat. Usually the wait for her father to finish his other appointments was tedious in the extreme but as she glanced around the room she saw that today it would seem otherwise.

”William...?” Emily winced instantaneously as the familiar name left her lips in an all too familiar way. “Mr. William Jones, is that you…?” She quickly amended, her mouth curving into an unstoppable smile as she watched him turn and her bright blue eyes met the eyes she knew so well.
"Miss Knight," he said. "How lovely to see you again."
Emily somehow managed to suppress the thrill of excitement that raced through her as his lips pressed against the back of her gloved hand. The fine lace kept his lips from actually brushing her skin but the pressure of them and their warmth was enough to affect her. Here was another secret she kept from so many others. Here, before her, stood her love.

"Where are my manners," William said a moment later, causing Emily to sigh ever so slightly as the connection between their eyes was broken. "Miss Karnstein, this is Miss Emily Knight, Sir Frederick's daughter. Miss Knight, this is Miss Carmilla Karnstein of the Lord Protector's Own Company. We were just here to speak to your father on official matter, but it appears that Sir Danvers Carew has already spoken for him."
Instantly Emily tried to blank her mind as she smiled at the other woman. A member of the Lord Protector’s Own Company could mean only one thing.
“Delighted to meet your acquaintance, Miss Karnstein…” Emily bobbed a slight but polite courtesy at the tall, dark and rather beautiful woman before her. The action was mirrored with little emotion in it.

“Mr Jones, as my father is apparently otherwise occupied, might I crave a few moments of your time and have a private word with you about some family business…? I would not want to take you away from your duties...” She glanced towards the woman beside him with feigned concern but stressed the word ‘family’ as to emphasis the purpose of their discussion meaning her attendance would not be suitable.

After making his excuses to the woman and the other gentleman they had been standing with, William quickly took a light, and perfectly correct, hold upon her elbow and guided her down the corridor to an unused office. No sooner had he closed the door behind them than she moved towards him in a perfectly incorrect manner.

She pressed her lips eagerly to his, her arms slipping easily up and around his neck, drawing their bodies closer. Sighing as the long desired connection between them was made. All they had were stolen moments, secret meetings, they had to make the most of the times they found together. Locks of her honey coloured hair fell down around her brow as their lips kissed and kissed again. Her fingers raising to curl into his hair, shivering with barely contained excitement as she felt his hands run down her back to rest around her waist.

“I missed you…” She whispered into his ear between kisses that had found themselves growing more and more heated, her tone breathless and ever so slightly hungry as they drew back from one another to look into one another’s eyes.
“I confess, I had hoped to see you soon, my dearest William…but I hadn’t thought a visit to my Father’s office would grant my wish…” She sighed, kissing him again and then moving her lips along his jawline. “When will I see you again…properly…? Will you be able to come and visit Father at home soon do you think?” She asked hesitantly, longingly, her teeth catching on her lower lip.
A slight frown creased her brow for an instant. “What brings you and that woman here to see Father…?” Her voice tightened over the word woman but it was not from jealousy, Emily loved William far beyond the touch of the green eyed monster. Her voice tightened from pure concern.