Jack
What have I agreed to?
Firstly, I went into Polly’s room this morning—no. Not her room. The second bedroom of the flat, which happened to be vacant. I was expecting to find the poor, exhausted thing asleep. I planned a soft, quick kill and then a lingering devouring.
And instead, I buttoned up her dress, gave her all the silver in my pockets, and am now being tortured, smelling kidneys and bits of flesh cooking.
One doesn’t cook one’s meat in the Middling. I’d never considered such a foolish practice until the heavenly scent tickled my nostrils. It’s enough to dispose of the body and clothes without attracting attention in this world, never mind trying to put it on a spit or mince it into a pan. Ugh. Such a waste of time.
Although, whatever is happening in the kitchen makes me want to consider it.
I turn on my heel, pacing in the other room, the room that I’m pretending is mine, as if I ever bother to keep to a human’s ways when I’m alone.
She shopped for me, cleaned for me, and cooked for me. I’ve gotten more than enough use out of her. This should be the end. Instead? I invited her to eat with me. I’ve never eaten human food. I wonder if eating the animal’s flesh while looking at her will be almost as good as eating humans themselves?
“I have to go out for a few hours. I’ll return for supper,” I suddenly shout.
I cannot endure this torture another second.
IF YOU WERE HUNGRY , why not kill her? She’s there. Convenient. The rest of the flats have been “emptied,” and the assets of the owners are lining your pockets. No one would hear.
I pause as I drift from gable to gable over houses in the murky March afternoon.
There would be other things I wouldn’t hear. Her voice. The little intake of breath when I speak to her. I wouldn’t see the way her eyes change when she looks at me. Oh, humans wouldn’t notice, but I do.
In a year, I’ve met plenty of people. I keep our acquaintances brief.
I've discovered that most mortals are oblivious to the supernatural, which is excellent for those of us who walk among them and wish to remain unknown. Of course, there are always a few humans who see us for what we are. Over the past year, a few observant types have spotted me. In a city of this size, it was bound to happen, and stories of a devilish flying monster with blue flames coming out of his heels have landed in the obscure sections of the newspapers.
When a shaft of sun lights the leaden sky, I land in the dark shadows of a grotty little alley in Whitechapel and emerge with a tug on my high silk hat, a much finer replacement of the original I once took from the unfortunate Larry who summoned me to this world.
I hurry along, merging into the mass of humans selling, buying, shouting, sweating, and clamoring. I walk fast, head down, eyes up, always moving.
Always hungry.
It is to a hunter's advantage to go unobserved while observing everyone else. Humans look like food in costume to me. Fat ones, thin ones, lean ones, poor ones, and down here in this part of London—very few rich ones. Sometimes, I prefer to gamble and take a piece of prey that will surely be missed, but most often, I stick to the dregs with their foul-tasting skin and their plentiful innards.
That is why I was lurking near Polly's corner of the world last night. I wouldn't take a child for there's no meat on them, but there are plenty of prostitutes and beggars that no one misses. If you catch them early enough on their descent into their living hells, they still have the flesh that makes the catch worthwhile.
Polly is the only catch I've ever interacted with for more than a few hours and... It’s puzzling. I find myself stopping to watch a flaxen-haired woman scrub a stone step and wonder what she’d taste like. Would all blondes as pretty and strangely innocent, yet as fearless as Polly taste the same?
You could simply eat Polly, you fool.
But then I couldn’t watch her and see what she does next.
I suppose it makes sense that after a year of being able to gorge myself and eat several times a week instead of several times a year, I would start to grow bored and look for other amusements. Yes, that's it. Polly is an amusement. Something to watch, like the humans who watch other humans dancing about on a stage or singing on the street corners.
I turn down a grimy alley close to where I hunted last night. Morbid satisfaction makes me check on Bunson's remains, and I'm relieved they're gone. Little throngs of people gather and gibber, but I pay them no heed. I'm looking for something specific. I want to find a meal that looks like Polly so that I can rid myself of the desire to eat her and keep my plaything alive a little longer.