London 1874
Cyrus Darian; hedonist, philanderer, alchemist, necromancer and now possibly near immortal adventurer stifled a yawn of boredom and did not vary his pace. Using mirrored side lenses, he could see furtive assassins behind him. What a disappointment, three ordinary rogues with appalling tailors, hardly worthwhile adversaries to a man who faced down a re-animated Berserker horde single-handed, armed only with a swordstick and a glass of cognac.
He wasn’t sure yet about the last part of his curriculum vitae. The purple-lensed, brass rimmed spectacles he wore were not an affectation but a necessity. The venomous ‘love bite’ by the succubus had left his eyes changed, no longer a piercing but normal blue, but curious ever-swirling hues of violet and silver. The lenses gave the outside world the illusion of his normality. He also recovered more swiftly from injury and had not appeared to age since the vicious attack ten years before. He looked and felt twenty-five and maybe always would. This did not alarm him. Cyrus was vain, as elegant, handsome and as highly-strung as a fine bred racehorse. He enjoyed his lean good looks, the thought of them surviving the cruel passage of time delighted him, that those around him would age and die was of no lasting concern.
Greenish yellow fug from the Ephesysium Gas Works blended with vapour rising from the River Thames to weave through the narrow streets in a foul miasma. Most passersby hurried home, the fog burnt throats and made eyes stream and it stank of rotting flesh. In such situations many still favoured wearing cumbersome contraptions, Dr Mirabillis’ Patent Respiratory Facilitators, to help them breathe. The whirring cogs and flashing valves were flim flams, the devices were bogus as was their inventor, Dr Mirabillis aka Ernie Snudge. Yet another of a growing number of Darian’s enemies after he exposed the devices as fraudulent.
The fug also brought flocks of breeth rising from the sewers, their fragile spirit forms strengthened by the gas. Darian was unbothered by the supernatural vermin; he wore the Talisman of Greel around his neck, a trinket worth losing two stalwart companions to acquire from a haunted monastery in the Ukraine.
He glanced again for signs of his pursuers, they were still there behind him and closing in, seeming immune to the stinking fog. This did not surprise Darian, these men were no doubt born and raised in the riverside slums of Lambeth where rats and breeth were everyday companions and the fog never seemed to clear whatever the weather.
Darian had no intention of leading the men to his destination, not out of any gallantry, he suspected that she could deal with them better then he could. No, he wanted the fun of despatching them for himself.
