East End Opium Fiends (6)
Fred Porlock grumbled as he sipped the tea the Chinese man had brought, only to grimace and set it right back down. The strange tea the Chinese favored didn't suit his palate at all. In fact, it had been that way ever since they'd abruptly entered this restaurant. His boss, the Professor, calmly placed a few orders in Chinese with the man before falling silent and focusing on his meal—but Porlock, no Professor himself, couldn't manage the same composure. Working under the Professor always bred questions; it was inevitable. Porlock, who had rarely entertained doubts in his life, found it downright bizarre, but being around the Professor meant plunging headlong into such oddities.
How the hell did you learn Chinese? The question bubbled up to the back of his throat, but experience had taught Porlock to hold his tongue. If Moriarty knew, he might even be pleased—might praise him like a teacher watching a child grasp addition for the first time. Porlock didn't need the answer; he could deduce it easily enough. No doubt the Professor would claim anyone could pick up a language like Chinese just by skimming a book for two or three weeks.
These petty curiosities were a form of escape, too. Porlock flicked his gaze toward the cursed girl seated closer to the Professor—more precisely, right next to him. The damned wolf-human sensed it immediately and let out a low growl, glaring daggers. The magician had no choice but to look away first.
"Come on... why the hell did you drag this wolf pup along, Professor? We could've just killed her or left her be—the Chinese would've handled it."
Porlock's question was reasonable. The Professor had eyed the wolf-girl appraisingly, instructed him to bind her tighter, then led her—along with Porlock—to the nearest Chinese eatery. He'd claimed they hadn't eaten lunch yet, but to Porlock, it made no sense. Weren't they on their way to meet Fu Manchu? Personally, he couldn't fathom bringing the cursed pup along, either. The Professor might scoff at his superstitions, of course. Even Porlock had to admit the man could outwit the devil himself. But as an ordinary magician, Porlock subtly shifted his posture, putting distance between himself and the half-feral wolf-human forcibly planted beside the Professor. Fortunately, no rebuke came.
"Don't eat too much, Porlock. Think of it as a light appetizer."
"No intentions there. But quit dodging—tell me, Professor. Why bring the wolf pup? She nearly tripped you up back there; you planning to torture her over it?"
Porlock expected mockery in return. He hadn't asked in earnest. The Professor could be ruthless when needed, but he wasn't one of those bar-floor lunatics obsessed with violence itself. Instead of answering, Moriarty observed the girl devouring the dumplings placed before her. Thanks to her wolf-human blood, Porlock's special ropes bound her tight, forcing her to hunch over, nearly face-planting into the plate as she scarfed down her food with her mouth alone.
She'd been growling threats moments ago, but now joy over the unexpected meal betrayed her—her fluffy golden wolf ears perked and twitched, her tail wagging furiously behind her like a dog's at its master. Quite the sight.
"She's a delightful little thing, isn't she, Porlock?"
"You mad? Or... wait, is it true you've ignored women all this time because of your age? Don't tell me you're into lads—"
"...Porlock."
"You know I'm not serious, Professor? Heh heh heh... Fine, fine, no more jokes. Please, just tell me—I’m too dim to grasp your deep intentions."
"See? She's got just enough street smarts and guts, yet she seizes opportunities without hesitation. A pickpocket who fails but calmly eats the food bought by her captor? Not bad raw material, eh?"
"That's just shamelessness. Any street orphan does the same—you eat when you can, or you die."
Even Porlock, saying this, couldn't help glancing at the cursed wolf pup, who ignored them entirely to gorge herself. Shameless didn't begin to cover it. She looked the part: filthy like a gutter beggar or abandoned waif, rags for clothes, skin and bones. Scars dotted her body here and there, as if abused. Common enough. Porlock knew the streets well. But such kids learned to watch eyes obsequiously to survive even a little longer. Yet this half-breed wolf-human? Defiant to the core. A real mongrel, in the vulgar sense. The thought drew an unwitting sigh from him. The Professor had a surprising fondness for that type.
"And a wolf-human to boot."
"Precisely a half-breed who can't even qualify as one. Stronger than a human, weaker than a full wolf-human—useless, really. Oh, careful with your hand—she bites."
Moriarty casually patted the girl's head as she ate. It felt half impulse, like petting a loyal hound at his side. Perhaps the memory of three years ago played a part. She wasn't like Sherlock, of course, but the texture under his fingers was similar enough. Porlock's warning proved apt, though. As he unwittingly stroked her ear, the girl snapped at his hand with startling speed.
Moriarty's undignified yelp echoed again. With Porlock's help, he barely yanked free—no severed fingers, no deep wounds. The more he watched, the more he liked her. Hurting him must've been easy for her. He was just an ordinary man, after all. Yet she'd shown restraint, just a nip of pain and resistance. Crossing that line would've lowered her odds of escape. If she'd truly injured him, even she couldn't expect mercy.
Punishment was essential, of course. Taming her would require it—discipline demanded the rod. So Moriarty glared at the now-gagged wolf-girl and smacked her head. But for once, he instantly realized his folly. Pain woke him first. Punching a brick wall—you'd call the man drunk or mad. Moriarty had become that man. Beneath her frail appearance, her skull felt like iron plating; his wrist even twisted slightly on impact.
Porlock, witnessing it, clicked his tongue and added belatedly, "Even a half-breed's still got wolf-human blood, Professor. She's young, so it's mild now—but grown, she'll shrug off a bullet or two."
"...Tell me first next time, Porlock."
Moriarty turned back to the girl. He felt her staring. Cocky brat—smirking at him. Mocking his blunder. All the more reason to like her.
"Take the gag off. She needs to finish eating."
Porlock obeyed without protest. The girl, sensing satiation trumped rebellion, dove back into her plate. As Moriarty massaged his throbbing wrist, Porlock spoke up again.
"So, when do we go see Fu Manchu?"
"He'll send for us soon enough. Don't worry. Who do you think sent this pup our way, Porlock?"
"Huh?"
"A real pickpocket hits crowds. Approaching openly when the Chinese are eyeing strangers like exhibits? That was Fu Manchu's welcome. His people's coming to invite us now—just wait patiently."
"...Why'd she go for your wallet, then? Chinese thinking's beyond me."
"At least we know she's disposable. Lucky break, right, little one?"
"Grrrrrr!"
"Human or beast... Not so dumb she can't talk, though. No name?"
"...None."
She'd only growled wolfishly since capture, refusing human speech. But at the question of her name, she hesitated—and spoke. Reluctantly, childlike still. Her wolf ears betrayed her feelings plainly. Moriarty lacked full intel on wolf-humans, so snap judgments were unwise. But this girl was just a child. No name: dissatisfaction clear. Fu Manchu's gang—or their underlings—gave her no proper treatment. Porlock's reactions suggested her lot here was no better. Disposable at whim. Yet she bared teeth at Moriarty without flinching, a man who could kill her anytime.
Moriarty's cold smile deepened as he appraised her. Porlock, long under his employ, grasped the implication and looked away. Regrettably, the nameless girl's meal didn't last. A group of Chinese men approached; their identities were plain.
"Honored guest, Lord Fu Manchu invites you to dine."
"Can't refuse a king's summons. Porlock, mind the pup—we're off to pay respects to the East End's monarch."
Moriarty rose, handing the wolf-girl to Porlock—not out of fear of another bite, certainly.