The Ouroboros Cycle, Book Two: A Cautionary Tale for Young Vampires. G.D. Falksen

      Chapter One

      London, England

      Early September, 1888

      Varanus studied the squalor of the East End from her seat in the hansom cab and reflected, not for the first time, upon the great tragedy of such a ruinous place lurking within the boundaries of the greatest city in the world. She had come from the fashionable places west of Charing Cross, and the contrast between the rich and poor was startling. There, the buildings were elegant and strong, with clean stone and metal brightly polished; here, everything was worn and stained and choked by refuse. The people she saw walking along the street were as weathered as the stones around them. They were haggard, exhausted, and hungry. She sometimes caught sentiments of anger and resentment in their eyes, often apprehension or fear, and above all a general acceptance. So many of them had given up on the prospect of a better life. And why not? What else was there for such a downtrodden people?

      Sighing, Varanus sat back in her seat and adjusted her garments. It was evening and the sun was still receding, which necessitated the wearing of a veil. Still, the pervasive smoke and fog provided as much shelter from the light as a cloudy day. It was most agreeable.

      Her companion, dark-eyed Ekaterine, sat beside her silently reading a newspaper with little regard for whether a woman of means should concern herself with such topics.

      “Anything of interest?” Varanus asked, speaking in French. It was the first language they had shared, and it remained their preferred method of conversation.

      “Not in the least,” Ekaterine said, lowering one corner of the paper so that she could turn and look at Varanus. “Well, very little. Some murder in a street called Buck’s Row.” She shook her head and added, “What a peculiar name. Poor woman was a prostitute they say.”

      Varanus frowned and said, “Not one of my patients I should hope. I shall be very cross if that is the case. Their survival is tenuous enough as it is without ruffians doing away with them.”

      “Poor dears,” Ekaterine agreed. “I shouldn’t think she was one of yours, though. It was further south, near Whitechapel Road.”

      “Anyone under suspicion?” Varanus asked.

      Ekaterine glanced over the article again and shook her head.

      “No,” she said, “but it was quite brutal—too much for a simple robbery. Probably a gang.”

      Varanus saw Ekaterine’s lip quiver, not from fear or sorrow, she knew, but with restrained anger. Varanus shared the sentiment. It was terrible enough that women were forced into prostitution, and worse that so many of them were run by gangs as little better than chattel. But that those men saw fit to brutalize or even kill a woman who spoke out or merely returned with an insufficient take.…

      “What a terrible world we live in,” Varanus said.

      “It could be worse,” Ekaterine said.

      “How so?” Varanus asked.

      Ekaterine folded the newspaper into a neat package and tossed it out the side of the cab. Smiling, she said, “We might not be here to look out for them.”

      “Every small bit counts,” Varanus agreed.

      Ekaterine looked down at her hands and frowned.

      “Oh dear,” she said, “I’ve gotten ink all over my gloves.” She began brushing her fingertips together in an effort to clean them.

      Varanus raised an eyebrow and looked at her. Ekaterine’s gloves were dyed navy blue to match her dress. The print was almost invisible against the dark leather.

      “No one will see,” she said, her tone half soothing and half admonishing. What a silly thing for Ekaterine to be troubled by.

      Ekaterine held her hand up and made a face.

      “I will see,” she said, but after a few moments she stopped fussing. Instead, she turned to Varanus and poked her in the side.

      “Stop that!” Varanus protested, swatting Ekaterine away. The black print might not show on navy gloves, but it would certainly show on the scarlet of Varanus’s dress.

      “You’re wearing a corset,” Ekaterine teased, as if it were something strange and eccentric.

      Varanus drew herself up. As she was scarcely five feet tall, it had very little effect.

      “Yes I am,” she said, “and you ought to be!”

      Though Ekaterine had deigned to wear European dress, she had refused outright to wear stays of any sort. Varanus had been forced to accept the decision, though not for lack of trying—each day when she dressed, she made the offer to Ekaterine, and each day she was refused. Thankfully, Ekaterine’s figure was such as to give the illusion of corsetry, but still there was a principle at stake.

      “It is enough that I wear this hat!” Ekaterine replied, pointing to the article that sat perched upon her head. It was charming, if a little bit ostentatious, with a tall crown, a narrow brim, and a sizable bow to one side.

      “I bought you that hat,” Varanus said, a little hurt.

      Ekaterine sighed and shook her head. “Which is why I wear it,” she said. She removed the hat and turned it over in her hands. Like her dress, it was navy blue and gold, with flashes of white for contrast. “I thought that you hated bows,” she added, as she put the hat back atop her piled hair.

      “It is on a hat!” Varanus protested. “That is entirely different.”

      She looked ahead past the horses and spotted a familiar tavern at the street corner. They had reached Spitalfields. She and Ekaterine had traveled through the area so many times over the past year that, regardless of which route their cabby took them, Varanus could always tell how close they were to their destination.

      “Stop!” Varanus shouted, and she reached up and slapped the side of the cab with her hand to attract the cabby’s attention.

      The cab slowed to a stop alongside a row of decrepit shops. Ekaterine alighted and helped Varanus down with a gentle hand. The cabby leaned out and called down to them:

      “’Ere,

Скачать книгу