Though he loathed rushing an experiment, he knew that tonight was the optimum time. The full June moon was beginning to wane; it was the last night that he would be able to conduct this experiment for twenty six days.
Thinking quickly as he spied a lone woman, he had to make his move. She seemed to be very drunk and she staggered along holding onto her shawl with one hand and the wall with her other. Her gait was unsteady and her clothes were dirty, shabby and dishevelled. He took one swift look about him to assure himself that there were not many others close by and none that were within a number of yards of her. Steeling himself now that he had made his decision, he stepped out of the shadows. He approached the woman with confidence and took her arm. He led her, unresisting, out of the alley and through another.
“Are you available dear?” He asked her as soon as he was certain that he had not been noticed.
“Eh? Yeah, yes sir, I am at that.” She grinned up at him and he realised that she was older than he had imagined and by God, she smelled rank.
“Good,” he forced his voice to sound amenable, his special and practiced tone - the one that he used on his better class of patient. “But not here, I know a place not far from here.”
“I gots me a place, lovie,” she began to lead him in another direction.
...
“Are we ‘ere then lovie?” The crone asked.
“No. Shut up.”
She looked up at him and something about his concentration must have cut through her gin-sodden brain. She pulled from his grasp. “I ain’t stayin’ ‘ere. You’re up to summink. Be off, let me alone!”
In desperation, he drew the cane from its sheath and as she turned to stagger off, he sliced at her back, cutting through the clothing and into her flesh. The blade was as sharp as his surgeon’s tools and for a moment, she thought that he had just grabbed for her and missed. Then with a small groan, she fell to her knees, dropping her ragged shawl as she tried to reach around the back of herself. Blood was soaking her clothes and she was whimpering as she sank onto her front. Her hands were still fluttering around her sides, trying to get to her wound.
...
Then he saw the beast. It was watching him, sitting in a puddle of moonlight as though by intent so that he could see it better. The light slanting from over the rooftops, made almost palpable by the smog which was beginning to thicken. Then the wolf - which he knew to be a Werewolf - spoke. He almost jumped out of his skin. He never imagined that they could speak.
“Well finish it then. Do not let it suffer so. Do not worry; I shall not steal your kill.” The voice was deep and velvety. He could imagine that voice talking to him whilst he allowed its owner to tear out his throat; it was almost hypnotic in the alluring timbre. He thought of deep silky fur enveloping him as he sunk into unfathomable depths to meet with ecstasy, delight and blood. He stayed silent but he did move closer to the beast.
...
This one was a woman. He gasped but waved for the wolf to go forward.
The wolf looked puzzled - and he was bemused at how an animal could look puzzled. Then it shrugged and moved on past him. She positioned herself on the opposite side of the woman’s body so that she could keep a wary eye on him as she devoured the unexpected prize.
“I do not recommend that you stay too long to watch, my friend. I shall be finished here very soon and my appetite is but whetted. Of course, I much prefer the easier prey such as you have kindly furnished me with but rest assured that your blade is no match for my weaponry.”
...
He took the hint and fled. He became happier once he had reached a populated area and he slipped inside the first public house that he came to, to imbibe some spirits to steady his jangling nerves. He was thankful that all he got from the barman was a glass of whisky and an odd look. Jack did not want conversation and the barman seemed to share that sentiment. He did not trust his own voice to be steady at this moment.
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