Journal of Ichabod Van Helsing
18th Day of October, In the Year of Our Lord, 1721
London reeks of death. There’s been an infestation in the poorer tenements, and I’ve been assigned to eradicate the foul creatures picking on the scraps of an unequal class system. Last night I exited a bagnio masquerading as a ginhouse. After some inquiry, I had located the hive—an abandoned set of lodgings not far from the pub I‘d so surreptitiously interrogated.
Before I bade farewell to the informative publican, a bawd groped beneath my cloak. “Interest you in a bit of fun?” she cooed. “Looks like you need it.”
“I’m afraid I’ve business to conduct.”
“So late in the eve?” Her tippler’s breath invaded my nasals. “Man like you could do naught by lie there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
“Apologies, miss, but I was just about to take my…”
She suddenly lunged for jugular. Taken off-guard, I threw up my arms in attempt to shrug her off, tripping over a barstool as I fell back, tricorne flying from pate. She screeched, a Gorgon with snapping jaws intent on either ending me or entering me into her undead coven.
As I fought her off, straining to free an arm for the shortsword at my belt, other bewildered patrons tried to pry her away. These poor sots regretted their effort, for her hands became scythe-talons, shredding faces and eyeballs. Now rugged rogues and rakes screamed in terror, taking on an effeminate tinge akin to their trull counterparts. But the distraction worked.
I pulled my small hangar, while she suckled on the poor tapman, crimson spreading down his neck in prodigious rivulets. The ring of blade exiting sheath caught her focus, and a hideous visage met my gaze. She flew from behind the bar like a bat from a cave in early twilight. I readied myself by flipping over a blood-spattered table, using it as a sort of shield. She hit the oak with a loud thud, roaring and clawing in frustration.
I spun around and stabbed. She launched an inhuman cry like a dying daemon. Her arm flew, crashing into my skull, and I hit the grimy floor, dazed. I cursed, realizing my thrust had missed that pulsing, weak spot within the chest cavity. She laughed something insidious as she pulled the sword from her body. This was one lady of the night not to be trifled with.
She came at me yet again, and I used my pocket flintlock, loaded with silver ball, and popped a shot which I knew would only slow her down.
“You know that silver is not as potent on us, Hunter,” she said, still wincing from its sting in her torso. “You shouldn’t have come here. This is a place of lust… and death.”
She pounced atop me. Pulling the poniard hidden in my boot, I found its rightful home, piercing heart. She stepped back in shock, then howled and wailed, making the rafters quake above.
“I will be paying a visit to your foul friends, as well,” I said as I stood up.
Scarlet refuse purged from her mouth before she fell limp.
Tomorrow, well-rested, I plan to visit the dilapidated apartments they call their home, with stakes and resolve sharpened.
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