Winter, 1888

Miss Emmeline Beaulieu had no business being out this time of the night. These were not her own words; they were those of the caretaker she was lodging with. The old woman didn’t know what Emmeline was; didn’t know it would take more than a hooligan with a butterknife to take her down—but her nagging warmed Emmeline’s heart, nonetheless. It was positively endearing. Although it was peculiar to think that Emmeline herself was far older than the woman and had years of experience the other woman could old hope for. She understood her reservations though. Emmeline was, supposedly, a young woman, out at night—while a killer was on the loose. While true that the Whitechapel Murdered had so far only attacked prostitutes and sex workers, it did not mean he couldn’t decide that he wanted a taste for something different. Of course, Emmeline wanted to point out that the killer could easily also be a woman, but nobody wanted to hear it. After all these years of socialization in institutional sexism, why change the London ways?

Emmeline was dressed as a man; in baggy trousers and shirt, that concealed her figure, along with a heavy coat on top, and her long tresses up in a cap. It was the concession she had to make to Mrs. Wagner, her caretaker, that if she were insistent on being out at the Devil’s Hour, the least she could do to put her “old-heart at ease” was to not be dressed “as the easiest target in all of Whitechapel district”.

Now, Emmeline strutted through the streets of Soho, whistling a tune as she went. It had been many nights since she had been out, Mrs. Wagner being annoyingly persistent that she stays in the house. But hunger had begun gnawing on Emmeline’s belly with a vicious bite, and she had become fond enough of the old mother hen that she didn’t want to slit her throat and bleed her dry. In fact, Emmeline made it a point to not feast on the blood of those who had shown her any kindness and currently, Mrs. Wagner topped the list. By the Lord, being a vampire could be very tedious sometimes. And being a vampire with any sort of morals was even harder. In any case, this Jack Ripper could be out and about for as long as he wanted to be, and killed whomsoever he wanted to, but if his presence drove off any potential feast for Emmeline then maybe she would decide to make a feast out of him.

The thought had not quite finished reverberating in her brain when there was a crash and thud from an alley near her. Emmeline turned pensively towards it, fully prepared to not care whoever it was it seemed was stumbling around, making a ruckus, when the most handsome man she had the pleasure of seeing throughout the duration of her current stay in London—maybe even her every stay in London—appeared at the mouth of the alley. The first thing that Emmeline registered was his starkly angular face, crowned with the most luscious blond curls and sparling brown eyes. The next was that the individual was dressed in dark evening clothes that were pretty much drenched in blood. Upon closer inspection, Emmeline realized that the strangers’ eyes sparkled not naturally but with pain.

He locked eyes with her, leaning heavily on the brick wall for support. His eyes widened first in trepidation, then in surprise. “You are a woman,” he said, just before collapsing.

My, what a poor choice of last words, Emmeline considered, even as she rushed towards him, hoping he hadn’t truly kicked the bucket. He had collapsed right on top of a stack of crates, which thankfully were empty, but the wood seem to have done some damage to his side as well. He was still conscious although his expression was that of pain. Emmeline could smell the sharp tang of blood on him, and her stomach growled indignantly. She swallowed and tried her best to not consume her patient as she came around his side and tried to determine what exactly was wrong with him. Rudely, he tried to move away from her.

“Sir! I am trying to help you,” she said as she pinned him down by the shoulders. “Kindly refrain from acting like an ass and stay still.”

Exhibiting even more impolite behavior, he continued to thrash and move, until suddenly he went still. Emmeline looked down at him to see that his muddy eyes were wide with shock and fear… and he was staring her right in the face. It took a minute for Emmeline to figure out why and belatedly she realized that her lips had pulled back from her teeth in a snarl—and her fangs had snapped out.

Hurriedly, she closed her mouth, but the damage had been done.

“You—” he choked. “You are—You are a—”

“Vampire, that is correct.” The man paled considerably at the mention of it. Which amused, annoyed and exhilarated Emmeline in equal measure. She was about to say something witty in response, when the full force of the man’s scent hit her. Only it wasn’t just the lemony scent of his own blood on him. No, there was something else in the mix as well; a sort of…flowery smell. Now that he wasn’t bucking and thrashing so much and seemed to be paralyzed by the fear of her, she took her time to pull aside the heavy coat that was wrapped around him. That was when the scent hit her with full force.

The man bled profusely from a wound at his side, which seemed like that suffered from a knife. But there was more blood on him than possible from a wound of the size, and it did not all smell the same. In fact, if anything, the wound felt… feminine.

“I am a vampire, yes,” Emmeline said, realization dawning on her. “And you; you are Jack the Ripper.”

Londoon, 1901

The passageway led to the crypt of a decrepit church that had gone into disuse even before Emmeline had been born and no one frequented here, which was why it was the perfect place to hide a killer. Emmeline closed the door behind her and locked it in good measure and was only about to venture forward when the sound of a bone chilling scream hit her ears.

She went still the same time the screaming stopped, but within seconds the sounds started anew, even more agonized than the last, full of feminine hurt. Emmeline’s unbeating heart constricted in her chest and she hurried to follow the screams to the source.

She made it outside the crypt and into the kitchen where the door to the crypt lay—and stopped in her tracks. On the large farmers table in the middle of the room, lay a naked woman in a spread-eagle position. Her face was mauled, her limbs bloody and bruised enough to suggest she had been here a long time. Her sobbing were bone wracking, and her emaciated figure fought against the binds that held her. Above her, stoking a needle-knife on a candle flame was Luke Beresford—i.e., Jack the Ripper.

Time had wrought change on his body and twelve and a half years had made him into a more heavy-set man, although still very handsome. His still-young face was passive, his expression unreadable, but his eyes shone with an evil intent and manic gleam Emmeline thought she had trained out of him over the years. In fact, Emmeline had thought that the man that she had fallen in love with after the course of that night almost thirteen years ago had left behind Jack the Ripper and become Luke Beresford.

He removed the knife from the flame and moved towards the woman, whose screaming reached a higher crescendo.  A smile made his way to his face; a beautiful, heart-breaking one—as if the woman’s pleas for help was music to his ears. He advanced.

“Luke!” Emmeline shouted. She staggered towards him, her limbs seemingly not wanting to cooperate in hurting a man they loved. He turned just in time for her to snatch the knife from his hands and retreat before she did something truly drastic.

His eyes widened in an expression of shock and trepidation nearly identical to the one he had given her the night of their first meeting. “Emma.”

Emma. There was heartbreak and betrayal in the two syllables. From his end and from hers. She had never let anyone but him say it to her. She would have ripped out the tongue of anyone who said it to her because it was his name for her. It was the name he whispered, in the deepest embraces of the night, as they held on to each other tight. It was the name he whispered onto her skin, amidst their lovemaking. It was a sacred name, even though she herself was damned.

“What are you doing, Luke?” She demanded. For once in her life, she was grateful that vampires could not shed tears, or she would barely be comprehensible amidst the sobbing.

“Emma—I was—I…”

The woman behind him had stopped screaming and was now chanting, “thank God, thank God.” He shot her an annoyed look before turning back to Emmeline, a look of desperation on his face. He stammered, “I didn’t—I didn’t think you would be here so soon.”

Emmeline’s brain went into shutdown. His words… He had done this before, hadn’t he? Taken advantage of her to sneak women here to torture and kill. “How many others?” It took a moment to realize that the voice so devoid of emotion was hers. He looked down at his feet and said nothing. “HOW MANY OTHERS!?”

“You don’t understand, Emma.”

“Did you ever really stop? Or was it all just a façade?” Was what we had all fake? Was it just you taking advantage of another woman who didn’t know any better?

The look he gave her next told her all she needed to know. She thought of nursing him back, she thought of all the years she had safely harbored him, she thought of all the things she had ever done for the man in front of her—and rage clouded her vision. He saw it, and a moment later he was backing onto the table, his hands slipping and grasping for something.

Emmeline advanced towards him, not quite knowing what she would do. No, actually, she did; she was going to rip him to pieces. A few steps away from him, something hit her hard in the stomach and she jerked back on impact. Looking down, she saw the knife protruding from her belly.

She smiled a saccharine smile at the man she loved. “Oh, darling, you know it’ll take more than a hooligan with a butterknife to take me down.”

And then she pounced.