Paranormal/Futuristic
Elle's Beast
By Alli
Aug 18, 2007, 20:52

She didn’t want to hear it or read it. The news hit too close for comfort as it was. All the lurid details would only make sleep impossible and keep her nerves on edge every time she set foot outside her apartment door.

She rushed down the street, head high, skirts lifted slightly against the grime and filth as she made her way toward the small flat where she had lived for the past five years. It wasn’t much—just a couple of rooms and a shared bath at the end of the hall, but at least she kept it clean and tidy. Most importantly, she owed no one for it or the clothes on her back. Giselle was, indeed, an independent woman despite life’s mishaps.

The sun sunk low beyond the horizon of sprawling buildings as she neared her tenement—a large brick dwelling filled with three floors of small apartments. She lived on the first floor. It had seemed a bargain at the time with its spacious main room and lack of stairs, but after the last few months she only saw the ease at which any madman or thief could climb into her window should they see fit.

She shuddered at the thought, her mind thoroughly engrossed in morbid fantasies when she ran right into her nearest neighbor, The Phantom.

“Oh!” she exclaimed as she reached out a hand to keep from falling with the man. “I beg your pardon, sir!”

She made the mistake then of looking up into his eyes—or his one good eye as a black patch covered the left. She found herself gazing into the right one and it wasn’t the first time she thought that it had to be the most wondrous shade of blue she had ever seen. Her stomach did a hop-skip sort of dance.

“Are you all right, Miss Grayson?” the man asked, his voice deep and smooth like a cello’s low note. It vibrated off her skin in much the same way but with vastly different results.

She blinked and managed to push herself back out of the gentleman’s arms. They had spoken but a handful of times and after each she had mentally kicked herself for acting like an imbecile. Elle swallowed and tired to smile.

“Forgive me, Mr. Catania, it is my fault entirely.”

There! A full sentence in relatively good English.

At least now he might know she had a good mind. Heaven knew she’d caught him staring elsewhere often enough. A faint blush warmed her cheeks at the memory.

“I’m afraid I was in a hurry, as well,” he said with a little crooked smile that made her heart flutter. “We should both be more careful, aye?”

She returned the smile automatically. “Yes, we should. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Miss.” He turned to go but hesitated at the exit and looked back over his broad shoulder. “London isn’t safe these days for a young woman alone. You might consider finding an escort until things settle down a bit.”

He had always been polite, even during the occasions when his attention had roamed over her figure, so the admonition struck Elle as rather ominous. She felt her stomach churn to life in a much less satisfying manner.

“I’m sure I’m in no danger,” she replied lightly. “I am a singer, Mr. Catania, nothing more or less.”

With that she turned and attempted to fit her key in the lock despite the way her hand now shook with a mixture of impotent rage and helplessness. Of all the people in London, she had somehow thought a man such as Catania wouldn’t jump to such sordid conclusions about her.

How dare he make her feel even more vulnerable and ill at ease? Wasn’t it enough that every paper in town screamed of the Ripper’s crimes? Wasn’t it enough that anyone who entered Black Jack Tavern assumed she was a woman of loose or no morals?

“Forgive me,” his soft voice at her side made Elle jump in fright. He smiled down at her more gently and took the key from her trembling fingers. “I did not mean to frighten or insult you, Miss Grayson, but I have been worried about you living alone, working in that place so near where the last woman was murdered.”

He spoke as he unlocked her door and pushed it open, making no move to enter himself. He pressed the key into her palm, his hands firm and warm over hers.

“You have a most lovely voice,” he continued softly. “I quite enjoy hearing you practice at tea time.”

“Oh, I hope my singing does not disturb you.” Her heart beat quickly at the thought of this tall, dark and formidable man listening to her simple songs. “I had thought everyone in the building gone to work that time of day.”

He smiled again and she wondered at how warm the hall had suddenly become.

“No, Giselle,” he murmured, his voice low and seductive. “I am a night owl, as are you. My business would have it no other way. I quite like listening to your songs, please do not think otherwise.”

At the moment she didn’t quite know what to think or if she could think at all with this impressive figure of a man bending over her in the cramp, dark hall. If she hadn’t been raised better, she just might succumb to these feelings he sparked and invite him inside. Goodness knew she’d been alone long enough in her life…as had he if her observations were correct.

“Good evening, Miss Grayson.” He bowed his head and stepped back, releasing his hold of both her hands and her will. “If you should need assistance, please knock. The wall will do as well as the door.”

She nodded mutely and watched as he turned and walked out of the building, his long black cloak billowing after.

                     ***

He breathed in the foul, damp air that hovered over the East End as he fought to concentrate on the job at hand. It was little use. Despite the cold drizzle that seeped through his cloak and clothing, all he could think of was the lovely Giselle Grayson.

Her voice haunted him during the day as she practiced the sweet sorrowful ballads and amusing ditties she sang at the tavern each night. Her face and figure haunted his dreams. She was a woman who held many secrets—the most powerful of all being how she had managed to worm her way into his heart at such a short and formal acquaintance.

“Shine for a sixpence, Sir?” a young male voice inquired at his side.

He waved off the grimy lad and pushed onward, ignoring a handful of beggars that melted from the deepening shadows surrounding the other buildings to petition his humanity. Javed had learned long ago that few of these wanted anything from his human side unless it involved a pint of ale or bottle of whiskey. He held the beggars in the highest contempt and had little use for their pleas.

The streets of Whitechapel were rarely safe, but now that a madman hunted the night, they were even more dangerous and deadly. While he hadn’t come to London to help the downtrodden, he had been sent to rid it of one of the most evil villains to prowl its lanes and dark alleys. In fact, his prey might well be of the same clan; might well be a very close relative. The knowledge not only shook him to the core but helped fuel his determination in the matter.

Javed’s black boots clicked on the cobblestone, his cloak dragging in the dust behind. Filth did not bother him, despite his gentlemanly demeanor and dress. He had been many things in his long life, but a gentleman could not be numbered among them.

“Hey, handsome,” a woman crooned as she approached him from the overhang of a seedy hotel. He slowed for moment to assess the situation with a keen eye—she worked alone and fit the general description of the whores old Jack seemed to favor.

“Would you like a bit o’ company tonight, luv?” She smiled broadly, revealing a few rotting teething. Javed schooled his features not to show disgust.

“Are you alone then?” he asked, scanning the shadows of the alleyway near her post with his good eye. The patch over the other made him resemble a pirate, but it couldn’t be helped. Without it his face would be even more memorable. “Is there no one here to protect you?”

Her smile wavered and the girl pulled her hand from his arm. “Of course I’m not alone, why do you ask?”

“There’s been a lot of violence on these streets.” He looked directly into her blue eyes as he kept his expression perfectly neutral. “Many more may die before they catch this madman. You shouldn’t be out alone.”

“Well, then, good thing I have me man standing just over there,” she said as she pointed to a shadowed recess between two buildings. The girl swallowed, her gaze darting from one end of the street to the other.

Javed knew she was alone, all right—alone and scared out of her mind thanks to him. Good. Maybe fewer women would die this month if they all had a healthy dose of terror knocked into them.

“I-I have to go now,” she stuttered, backing away while lifting her ragged skirts. “You go find yourself another girl. I’m feelin’ a bit sick.” He could see her visibly shaking as he stood there and stared after her. “Go on now or I’ll call the coppers, I will!”

She turned and ran. Javed smiled after her. He may not catch Jack tonight, but he could at least save a few of the girls he might carve up. He hoped.

He resumed his course down the dimly lit streets, his gaze in constant motion and ears attune for any strange noises. A drunk staggered out of a corner saloon and nearly fell into the gutter. But he was up again, straightening his rumpled shirtfront with a flourish as he wove down the opposite side of the road. Traffic was light this evening due, in part, to the cooler temperatures the unease much of the city felt regarding the brutal crimes of the self-proclaimed Jack the Ripper.

After a few more blocks, Javed decided to stop for a bit and warm himself at the Black Jack. He tried not to go there when his lovely neighbor worked the stage, but he knew she usually had Wednesday evenings off. Tonight was no different as was apparent by their collision in the hall. With her safely home in her little flat, he would sit at a table in the darkest corner of the tavern, thinking of her, envisioning her standing on the small stage and singing with all hear heart to a room of men who likely thought of nothing but what she must look like beneath her fancy red dress. God knew he could think of little else.

“Whiskey,” he ordered after the publican approached. The other man nodded, plopped a glass on the bar before him and poured it half-way full of amber liquid. Javed lifted the glass and swallowed the drink in one gulp, his eyes tearing as the quaff burned a path down his throat. “Another, and leave the bottle.”

The man shrugged and did as he was told after Javed tossed a gold coin on the worn wood surface beside his glass.

“You alone then?” the barkeep asked as set the bottle down and glanced around the half-empty room. Wednesdays were always the slowest days of the week—likely the reason he let Giselle have her time off then.

“Aye, for the moment,” Javed said with a small smile. The other man grinned and laughed like an old goat, no doubt thinking he’d come to find a bit of company for his bed tonight. No use telling him he was on the trail of a murderer. He didn’t need the world knowing his business.

The second glass went down more smoothly, but that elusive warm flush still evaded him. What he needed was a nice juicy steak…or two.  It had been at least two days since he last ate a healthy meal of any sort.

“Is the kitchen open?” Javed asked when the man wandered his way again.

“Aye, that it is, ‘cause it’s been slow. Can’t let good beef go to waste. What can I get you?”

“Steak, the largest you have—rare.”

“Still mooing?” the man asked with a toothy grin.

“Something like that.”

The publican chuckled as he ducked through a door behind the bar that led to the kitchen. Javed smiled at the man’s easy manner and for the first time in weeks began to feel his muscles relax beneath the soft glow of the tavern’s gaslights. Perhaps the Ripper would do them all a favor and take another night off. God only knew they could all use the rest.