Opium Fiends of the East End (5)
“Ughhh!”
Though James Moriarty bore the solemn duty of upholding his professorial dignity, the unseemly scream that escaped him unbidden was utterly beyond his control. In that instant, he realized the ground was rushing toward him at equal acceleration. His reflexes weren’t the sharpest, but he thrust out both hands just in time, sparing himself the indignity of kissing the filthy pavement face-first.
It had all happened so suddenly. For a fleeting moment, he even suspected it might be some lowlife from West End—someone he’d overlooked—who had abandoned all reason and lunged at him in desperation. A rational man like him couldn’t predict utterly irrational acts, so it wasn’t entirely impossible. Of course, he knew it was a foolish thought. The purge of West End had wrapped up months ago, and anyone who’d refused to join him or his organization had long since become Sweeney’s eel pies. Thanks to Moriarty’s charitable endeavors, the Thames was teeming with eels these days, fattening up the poor and leaving him confident there were no stragglers left. It was impossible, plain and simple.
Yet the collision had been so abrupt that it dragged even his rational mind into irrational speculation. At least it wasn’t a knife, he could tell. He’d never been stabbed or shot, but he could reason out the pain and sensation well enough—and his hand stung, but no new holes had appeared in his body. Still, that didn’t mean he was unscathed. His abdomen throbbed as if he’d been rammed by a small cart, and he considered himself lucky his bones hadn’t snapped.
“You little shit!”
In that regard, Moriarty knew once again that his judgment had been sound. Beside him, Porok spat curses and jabbed a finger accusingly ahead. It was always an amusing, almost wondrous sight. That tiny creature, who’d barreled into Moriarty at full speed and was now trying to shove him aside and bolt, barely reached his navel even accounting for his above-average height. It fled with terrifying velocity. An ordinary person or even a policeman might have lost it in the throng of Chinese onlookers, but Porok—the wizard—was different.
A fist-sized fireball shot forward at blistering speed, slamming into its back. At the same time, Porok flicked the fingers of his other hand, and the thief tumbled to the ground just as Moriarty had, face-first. A closer look revealed a rope conjured from thin air binding its ankle.
“You alright, Professor?”
“Cough… cough! No, I think it got my ribs good. And…”
Even as he coughed and accepted Porok’s support, Moriarty realized the thief had rifled his pocket in that brief moment and made off with his wallet. He couldn’t help but frown. London teemed with beggars, thieves, street urchins, and orphans, so pickpocketing was practically everyday life. But where people gathered, a modicum of vigilance kept one’s wallet safe in its pocket. Moriarty had always thought anyone pickpocketed in London was a fool. He hadn’t anticipated such a violent method. A miscalculation, if anything.
Meanwhile, the Chinese crowd murmured and gawked at the spectacle, surrounding Moriarty, Porok, and the wriggling figure a short distance away as if it were mere entertainment.
“These bastards, why’re they laughing?”
Porok grumbled and headed toward the pickpocket, Moriarty following. Soon enough, he understood why the Chinese were snickering.
“It’s a girl?”
Porok handed the wallet back to Moriarty, then grabbed the fallen figure by the collar and hoisted it up. The creature, baring fangs like a beast and growling instead of speaking, dangled helplessly in Porok’s iron grip. But Moriarty and Porok could see it was a girl. Only then did they grasp the crowd’s reaction. And it wasn’t just the Chinese—anywhere in London, or Britain for that matter, the response would be the same.
Scotland Yard prided itself on guarding London but missed more than half its crimes, showing up late to boot. Report a burglary, and they’d at least pretend to respond. Admit it was a street urchin pickpocket, and you’d get a half-hearted patrol at best. Say it was a woman, and they’d mock you for not acting like a gentleman and send you packing. A little girl? Forget it.
Had Moriarty been anyone else, Porok would’ve laughed along with the Chinese. She was a survivor honed by rough streets, after all, and she stifled her amusement with practiced ease. Instead, she menaced the feral little pickpocket on her professor’s behalf, glaring fiercely.
“Grrrrrr!”
“This thing’s a total beast, Professor. Shut your trap right now, or I’ll rip it off?”
“Grrrrr! Arf! Arf!”
The girl in Porok’s vise-like grasp only growled back, undaunted by the glare. She even roared defiantly at the threats, her ferocity momentarily making Porok recoil without thinking. On any other day, Moriarty might have told Porok to deal with the ill-tempered, half-human urchin however he saw fit. But he couldn’t help feeling intrigued by the creature in Porok’s hand.
It was peculiar. As a gentleman of the United Kingdom, he treated life and death with impartial equity—sparing no consideration for women, children, or the elderly, dispatching them all alike. Even in purging East End remnants, he’d often sent parents and children together to spare the orphans grief. He wasn’t swayed by public eyes, either. A pickpocket victim might draw scorn, but catching one on the spot meant no one cared how you handled it—especially a street waif like this girl. Dragging her by the scruff to a dark alley? No one would bat an eye.
“Professor?”
Porok was proving his loyalty with feigned outrage, but he’d never act without orders—that was one secret to his longevity. Never cross the line unbidden; he waited for Moriarty’s cue.
“Hold on.”
But Moriarty paused, pondering. Likely just coincidence. Something—or someone—might lurk behind it, but encountering this particular pickpocket was chance. Still, his intuition whispered otherwise, and Moriarty always trusted it. The girl’s unscathed state despite Porok’s fireball was proof enough of her extraordinariness.
She was certainly striking, even beyond looks—which alone would draw eyes. A battered, oversized newsboy cap jammed on her head, wild golden hair poking out defiantly. Caked in grime, dirt, and filth that reeked, yet the blonde still gleamed faintly, unextinguished. Most striking to Moriarty were those eyes glaring at him fearlessly, blue and fierce, teeth bared as if ready to devour him. She was small, about the age of his once-disciple—now estranged, missed—Sherlock.
Of course, no girl was as clever as Sherlock. Such brilliance was unique. But Moriarty rather liked fools bold enough to bare their teeth at him. And if his deductions held, this girl had secrets.
“Huh?”
As Moriarty slyly plucked off her cap, Porok startled and dropped her to the ground. She thrashed against his touch, but the cap was already in his hand. Porok stared at the two ears sprouting from her head—not human, but beastly. Wolf-like, by their shape.
“Werewolf—”
“You son of a bitch!”
Porok’s curse cut Moriarty off. The girl writhed to escape, but the wizard’s magical rope held firm. Realizing he’d interrupted his professor with profanity, Porok trembled and bowed apologetically—but Moriarty spoke first.
“It’s fine, I’m not mad. Speak. Isn’t she a werewolf? Why the reaction?”
“Uh… well, see, this bitch is cursed, Professor! A half-assed werewolf at that! Her damn mother must’ve been cursed by the Lord in the womb—born twisted like that! Ah, stay back, she’s filthy!”
“...Is it that terrifying?”
Porok shuddered like a medieval serf beholding the accursed, but the professor scared him more, so he forced calm brevity. His dim explanation wasn’t concise, but Moriarty grasped it.
Werewolves existed sporadically. None in his organization, alas, but apparently in East End. They could shift to wolves but looked human otherwise. Breeding with humans usually yielded normals, rarely werewolves. But in exceedingly rare cases—like this girl, per Porok’s crude words—a “Lord-cursed” abomination emerged: neither fully human nor beast, forever malformed.
She couldn’t fully transform, doomed to an incomplete state. It fit: wolf ears atop a human-ish face, no facial fur, but her tail—cleverly hidden—had spilled out when she fell.
Moriarty didn’t buy the “curse” nonsense. He wasn’t fool enough for peasant superstitions. He’d never fathom Porok’s ilk—that was the tragedy of the intelligent. Tempted to mock how a God-fearing trembler committed hellbound sins so blithely under him, Moriarty restrained himself and turned to the wolf-girl still glaring threateningly with those eyes.
She was intriguing. Another entertaining girl, without doubt. Above all, he wanted her.