I I

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Detective Inspector Alistair Strachan took his merry time in thumbing tobacco into the nub of his pipe, then striking his match. He then proceeded to puff and tap with a grandfather’s patience until he was assured that the pipe was well alight, before finally turning on his heel to face me.

“A raw night,” he grumbled, holding the stem of the pipe to the corner of his mouth. “You’ll be catching your death, lassie, if you don’t learn to dress yourself with a lamp lit.”

As ever, I regarded Strachan warmly, even in such inclement weather. His gruff manner, aligned with a rich Edinburgh brogue and his dry wit, are wholly at odds with his appearance; a rakish dandy with a slick of dark hair and a tapered moustache, who favours ruffled shirts and a coat and cape of cranberry and black velvet, he resembles in every way the caricature of the stage villain rather than one of Scotland Yard’s finest officers. I will confess, dear reader, that I find Strachan to be a charming and attractive gentleman; I wonder often if he views me with similar favour, either as Spider-Woman or the Lady Drew, for he is of my acquaintance in both instances, although he is unaware that the two are one and the same; but this is conjecture for another time.

My meeting with Inspector Strachan took place an hour after I had spoken to Julia at the Salotto, on the south bank of the Thames at the foot of Westminster Bridge. The rain persisted as an objectionable drizzle and the cold mist about us encouraged grim thoughts of the approaching winter; the echoes of hooves and carriages on cobbled streets carried thickly upon the air, as did the sluice and clank of boats upon the water, but all with a disquieting lack of bearing; and the glow of gaslight through the fog, from streetlamps and from moorings on the river, cast pallid and spectral all about us. Any man other than Strachan would have heralded my ability to track his precise location on such a night with awe and suspicion, but he has always accepted my otherworldly gifts without question – another reason why I find myself so fond of him.

“Speak up, then, lass,” he declared, his eyes – an elusively delicate blue, even in this half-light – fixing upon me as I lurked on the edge of the mist and shadows. “You’ll have hunted me down for a reason, I reckon, and I’ve not yet had supper.”

“With regard to the recent suspicious deaths of the two prostitutes at Pall Mall and Golden Square, Inspector; there’s been another attack, unreported.”

“Another murder?”

“Not so,” I assured him. “The killer was interrupted and therefore the victim, a young girl in the employ of Mr. Rose, was left alive.”

Strachan snorted at the mention of Mr. Rose’s name, and gnawed vexedly at his pipe. “Explains why the lassie didn’t come forward and report the incident,” he surmised, correctly. “But you knew about her – and also about the fact these other two killings were related, even though we’ve not released certain details to the press. Weasel Jack been keeping his good ear to the ground for you?”

“Inspector!” I declared, softly, with mock indignation. “Are you suggesting I consort with common rogues?”

Strachan cast me a stern eye. “There’s nothing common about the likes of Jack Aloysius Russell, as you well know,” he retorted. “And if anyone should be concerned about being seen conversing with criminals it would be myself. Be quick, lassie, before anyone should happen upon us – tell me what you’ve discovered.”

I related to Strachan everything that Julia had disclosed to me, and at a certain juncture of my narrative there was a twitch of a thin eyebrow – barely perceptible, but enough for me to latch upon.

“Three young girls, all of a Mediterranean caste,” I said. “And now the killer, obviously deranged and likely in the grip of a lucid delusion, mentions the name Elizabeth. I judge that you’ve made a connection, sir; and, as our arrangement has always been the sharing of information to our mutual benefit, I would press you on your deductions as a matter of urgency.”

Strachan sighed. “There was another murder, some six weeks back,” he told me. “East of here, at Blackfriars; a Romany prostitute by the name of Lizzie Allen, not burned or scarred in any way but rather strangled, and so previously unconnected to this affair. She was, by all accounts, recently arrived in England from the continent – attended by a male companion, who we were unable to track at the time and whom we’re still seeking in relation to the killing.”

“Young, dark hair and a rough face, but otherwise unremarkable?” I asked.

Strachan’s expression was grave as he tipped his pipe in acknowledgement.

“Did this man have a name?”

“Raxton, if I remember correctly. A Mr. Marc Raxton.” Strachan grimaced, as if unwell. “I take it you’d like the exact address in Blackfriars so that you can illegally interfere in our ongoing investigation, as is your wont?”

“In a poor neighbourhood there is no commodity that holds greater value than gossip, Inspector. Someone there will know something about this Raxton; something they may have been unwilling to communicate to the police, but which they’ll be more inclined to reveal to me, as you know full well. You can’t argue with my record for apprehending felons before they can commit more crimes, sir; it’s why you secretly work with me rather than against me, as your colleagues do, a fact that would cost you your job and, worse, your dignity, if it were ever discovered.”

“I would be a fool, then?”

“No,” I said, tenderly. “You would be courageous, sir, and of a good heart.”

Strachan huffed and tapped at his pipe, but there was a colour in his cheeks; I would have perhaps lingered to tease him, as is my pleasure, had time not been so pressing. Instead, I bade him farewell and turned to take my leave, at which point he spoke one final time.

“A murderer with a fiery hand,” he said, his eyes dark. “A terrifying prospect, lassie, with more than a hint at the unearthly; a province with which you yourself are well-acquainted. I hope the day will come when your veil of secrecy is drawn aside, so I might learn the truth about you, and this curiously alien territory that London’s become in recent times. Until then, be careful. I wouldn’t want to see you become a victim of this madman, and for the first time look upon your true face… only to find it marred by a burning handprint.”

I glanced back over my shoulder, scarlet and black in the gaslit mist, and smiled beneath the silk of my mask. “Trust me, Inspector,” I breathed, “Those would be my own sentiments precisely…”

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That my hunch proved correct was not a triumph I was able to savour, such was the way the night’s events proceeded apace following my conversation with the disarming Inspector Strachan; indeed, I spent no longer than half an hour at the Blackfriars address he had supplied, meaning that the clock had not yet chimed midnight when I once again crossed the river.

The woman to whom I had spoken was a rum sort, symptomatic of the insalubrious nature of her surroundings, a boarding house infested with rats and filth, and the slow tide of misery that inevitably accompanies such. The woman, heavy of gut and toothless like a witch from the tales of Andersen, had parted with information for a paltry ha’penny; she told me of a curious pair, a nervous man, eloquent but quick to temper, and a slip of a girl who uttered nor seemed to understand more than a few words of English, pressed into employ as a harlot to pay for their room. A sad but not uncommon tale, and I had listened in anticipation of verification of Raxton’s guilt in the matter of poor young Lizzie Allen’s death – but this was not forthcoming. Instead, my informant divulged an item of great significance that she had withheld from the constable who had questioned her six weeks prior, due to her fearing for her own safety. It was my promise of providing protection should the need arise – allied, undoubtedly, with the shiny coin in her palm – that spurred her to take me into her confidence.

And so, my expression grim beneath my mask, I arrived at the darkened offices of a certain Dr. Jonas Harrow at Grosvenor Street, an exclusive district that ran parallel to the fog-enshrouded south bank of the Thames. Of course, I would have had no reason to expect to find my quarry in residence at this hour; my initial intention was to purloin a home address of the doctor from some desk drawer or file; but, as I drew close to my destination, my enhanced senses reacted with such vehemence that when I set eyes upon the man in the hat and cloak loitering on the office steps I could be in doubt as to his identity.

I emerged from the mist, a phantom in scarlet and black, and secured his attention.

“Mr. Raxton,” I whispered, for I was assured it was him. “The authorities require your attention, sir; be warned, I shall convey you there with or without your assent.”

The man’s face was hidden in the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, at first; a ring of hanging lanterns lighted the street, but there were few windows illuminated at this hour and the dark and fog rolling in from the water held sway. Then, emitting a snarl akin more to animal than human, the fellow divested himself of accoutrements with a flourish – and, before my eyes, his coat combusted in a whorl of flames that brightened our environment considerably. I gasped as I gazed upon a naked torso not of solid flesh but rather of a polished, golden sheen; a distinct musculature defined with broad strokes as if hewn from bronze by a sculptor’s chisel. In contrast, the fellow’s right hand was red and blistering with sizzle and smoke – a molten effigy with a fiery fist!

“You took my Elizabeth!” Raxton declared, in a voice altogether inhuman. “My Lizzie! My poor Lizzie…”

“Not I, sir,” I retorted with sincere sympathies. “Your sister – for she revealed herself as such to a neighbour in her stilted attempts to learn a new language and to ease her loneliness in this foreign clime – was indeed criminally slain. But not by my hand – and nor by yours.”

Raxton glanced away then, and staggered towards the half-flight of stone steps that ascended to the doorway of the darkened office, flaming hand outstretched. “He… he promised us a new life…”

“Be aware, I have had past dealings with this Dr. Harrow, a most reprehensible individual,” I exclaimed. “His modus operandi, I’ve learned, is not only to import young women from the continent to act as prostitutes in his service, but to make offers of financial remuneration to any male guardians who might accompany them, such as yourself, should you acquiesce to partaking in his terrible experiments. When the doctor’s name was mentioned this night I deduced immediately what must have transpired.”

Raxton was hunched like a starving hound, and stared at me now with glowing eyes.

“We were refugees from Romania, and he offered us sanctuary. I planned to find myself work, so that Lizzie would not have to sell herself to support us – but then Harrow inflicted this upon me! Elizabeth was frightened. We planned to abscond. But Harrow discovered our artifice and… and he…”

He lapsed into a howl, and his skin came alive with reflected flames; regardless of circumstance, a quite fascinating spectacle.

“He murdered her,” I said. “Strangled. I can only imagine how this must have unhinged you, led you to seeking out her likeness in London’s brothels, then reacting in lethal rage when you realised the innocent girls in your presence were mere strangers. But you must understand, sir, that I cannot allow your tragic course to perpetuate. I can aid you in finding a cure for your condition, if only you’ll - ”

“There is no cure!” he screamed then. “And you can’t bring her back! Harrow must pay for what he’s done, and when I find the craven wretch I’ll burn him black to his bones!”

Raxton charged at me then, a fireball erupting from the mist and shadows, and I knew we must fray. There was a rage about him, yet he was cumbersome, moderating his potency; in comparison I was ever light upon my feet, far more than any mortal woman, and I swept clear of his attack in the blink of an eye. I perhaps should have been more concerned by the tremendous heat emanating from my foe in nigh tangible coils, but I had long since learned to give free rein to instinct in such situations. I lashed out with one booted foot, weighting myself as would a performer of Russia’s renowned Imperial Ballet but with considerably more vigour; the flat of my heel connected with the back of his head, against hair and scalp that gleamed with that same, strange golden texture and that rang like metal upon contact. He barely staggered! The night air, previously so chill, then roiled with the temper of a furnace as he reached for me with his fingers a-burn as candles, and I ducked free with bare inches to spare.

I weaved, never relinquishing balance, and struck once more, but to little more effect than my initial strike. Nonetheless, I felt no fear, merely exhilaration; as reckless as my quest for adventure can often be, I am assured I would wither and die without the taste of it. Thus, when Raxton flailed at me once more, and though I fancied I scented the acridity of my own singed hair before I retreated, I knew my eyes to be bright with fervour. Perhaps, dear reader, one can only describe me as a madwoman, yet I cannot apologise for what is my raison d’etre.

We duelled, furious in the mist. Still my foe snarled like something that should be caged; still he advanced with murderous intent, his human mind lost to his pain and deformity. I remained swift and supple, but aware that my normal blows were fruitless. Therefore, I was left with no alternative of action.

Relentlessly that fiery hand stretched for me, and I was in no doubt that should it grasp me in its deathly clutches then I would fare no better than poor Julia – or worse, join the ranks of the deceased before her. Fortunately, and with a sense of the apposite, I myself possess a measure of the unnatural in my own fair hands; as Raxton lurched within my range I pressed my fingertips to his smooth temple, to dramatic effect. At my will, I can secrete a chemical through my pores that reacts with the air to ignite not in flame but rather in an electrical discharge; this unnatural reaction flares blue-white upon any contact with physical matter thereafter, even through the scarlet silk of my gloves; and a normal man can thus be rendered stunned or even unconscious by my touch. Regrettably, Raxton could not be ascribed as normal, and though he recoiled in pain, eyes wide with alarm, he did not consent to fall.

“What did you do to me?” he growled, suddenly cautious. “What manner of creature are you?”

To call me creature is perhaps appropriate; the truth of the matter is that I am a far stranger proposition than even my statuesque foe; however, the intriguing chronicle of my own past, so inextricably linked with the fate that has befallen London this past year, is a topic for another juncture. That night, my sole concern was to end the threat posed by this tragic figure who now cowered before me.

Although my touch, a talent I have termed my Spider’s Kiss, had not felled Raxton, it perhaps had conjured a measure of lucidity to his fuddled mind. Likely he would have preferred to be rendered insensible, for now he appeared to recall with anguished clarity the truth of the matter: that Elizabeth Allen – his Lizzie – was perished. He shrieked and brandished his blazing fist at the heavens. He then whirled upon me, causing me to tense in readiness for another attack, but all fight had drained from him, leaving a hollowed shell of a man, a shell cast in molten bronze.

“You can’t protect him forever!” he informed me in his misery, mistaking my actions – gallingly! – as a protective inclination towards Dr. Harrow. “There’ll be other nights. And I won’t rest until that devil answers to his crimes!”

He turned to flee then, something I could not allow; even though I remained unsure how to extinguish his threat, my resolve was bolstered by the memory of the dark handprint seared into Julia’s face and the desire to prevent the perpetrating of similar crimes. I pursued him the length of the street, swifter than he, but before I could tackle him he veered away into the fog, smothered by shadows where no lanterns were lit. Travelling too rapidly in my zeal I lost him, momentarily; yet my mysteries are plenty, and I have senses more than sight and hearing to track a man. I located him quickly, but that instant of hesitation was at a cost; I heard a cry from up ahead, and saw a flare of light burn briefly in the gloom, then disappear from view; and a heartbeat later there came the muffled but unmistakable splash of a leaden body striking water.

I reached the edge of the river within ten strides, but it was all too late. Below me as I leaned out over an iron balustrade there was an unholy glow directly beneath the seal of dark filth upon the water’s surface; a hand, reaching out, but quickly receding.

Could a man survive the depths, even one whose very physiology had been so altered? I know not. I can only say that he did not emerge that night, nor in the nights immediately thereafter, and that, mercifully, no more prostitutes fell victim to the grasp of a fellow with addled brain and a fiery clutch desperate to gather close a beloved sibling forever lost. There, perhaps, would have been an end to the matter, unsatisfactory though such a conclusion must surely be for all concerned, if not for one thing; the fiend at the heart of this tale – the nefarious Dr. Jonas Harrow – may not have been liable by law to be held accountable for any wrongdoing regardless of implication, but I was not about to let the affair rest. The plight of Mark and Elizabeth Raxton had strummed a chord within my breast, and I now considered it my duty to pursue this unsavoury business with the vile doctor at the first opportunity.

Of course, little did I know what perils awaited me on this particular course of action…

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