Chapter 72

Whitechapel. The East End of London. Streets of tawdry degradation and grisly dark crimes of such unlimited horror, that it was hard to believe that those blood-stained hands of the Ripper had belonged to a human. Yet ask many vampires and they will tell you that the Old Jack who haunted the shadows was not human at all. He was a beast, a Varúlfur, or Lycan if that sits better on your tongue, and he slashed and ripped in a way only they can, driven insane by the taste of human flesh and unable to suppress his madness any longer. Eventually he was pulled back into the fold and held on a tight leash, his identity quashed and his crimes never to be solved. Well, whoever he really was, he has never really left these streets. Somewhere, in the darkest corners where most would fear to tread, Jack remains, lurking, watching, maybe waiting for that one unfortunate person to take a wrong turn. Once upon a time and not so long ago, I would have scoffed at the notion of