Manchester, England, 1897

Hunting prey was hard at the best of times. Hunting prey when that prey was a hunter as well was much harder. Major Willoughby Pettigrew Smythe had played both roles and knew which one he preferred. His heart rate was high and he had the familiar feeling of sweat in his moustache. His palms were slick and he could see with a clarity he did not normally have. Every sound seemed to be clearer, every smell sharper. His blood felt as though it was buzzing and his fingers tingled.

This is what he lived for, the rush of adrenalin, the thrill of the chase, the sense of being alive. He knew he was not alone in feeling this. Many of the Roughshods that guarded the doors of public houses and hotels were former soldiers who craved a nightly fix of adrenalin.

Slowly he wound his way through the crowds that thronged the streets. He never ceased to marvel at the number of people living in Manchester these days. Whilst he thanked God for the number of people that were able to escape from London, he regretted the fact that they had been forced to go to Manchester. The Sprawl - a colloquial term used by all - was the largest city in the United Kingdom, with over eight million people packed into its old streets, new tenements and the infamous “New Town”. New it might have been, but to call it a town was like calling a turd a rose.

The unfortunates that were still waiting to be homed lived in abject misery. The slums in the Sprawl were far worse than London or Edinburgh had ever had. Many of the people lived in squalid cellars and temporary shanties. All this misery was because of one man’s attempt to create a wondrous new power source. The irony was that Tesla had in fact discovered a wondrous form of power, albeit one that he had not expected to discover.

Overhead lights flickered as the power supply rose and fell, casting shadows over the walls. He moved out of the shadows caused by the failing lights and into the steady yellow glow of the older gaslights. The new technology was all fine and dandy when it worked, but with all of the disruptions going on in the city, often as not it failed to work.

The creation of the Sprawl had also created a far more cosmopolitan city than he had ever seen before. As a child, he had travelled through the Far East with his family, living on rubber plantations, tea plantations, wherever his father’s contracts took him. In every city he had been to it had been obvious there was a divide. There were the locals, and then there were the colonialists. There were the servants and the masters. Manchester was completely different. Having absorbed Liverpool, Manchester was now the biggest port in the British Empire, the biggest port in the world even. Laskars, Chinese, Americans, Dutch, French, Indians, Japanese, all rubbed shoulders with each other. The distinction of what could be defined as “local” had disappeared completely with the arrival of the Londoners after the invasion. Considering everyone had thought the south of England was lost, Manchester had been deemed to be the best option.

The smells of their cooking also mixed and his stomach rumbled as he passed the various street stalls. In an attempt to blend-in better, he stopped at a stall and paid a couple of pennies for Balut , splashing it with chilli sauce, and a small beer. He continued his stroll down Cooper Street, sucking the broth from the shell before sprinkling salt over the inside and sucking the barely formed goose chick out.

God that’s good he thought, the balut was cooked to perfection and he marvelled at the texture of egg and embryo, the soft bones barely crunching as he chewed them, sipping at his beer to help it go down. He always relished the way the soft bones gave a little crunch, popping between his teeth, followed by the tender, juicy meat flooding his taste buds.

He glanced to the other side of the street, looking for a flash of red that would confirm his colleagues were still with him. The press of the crowd was worse for him due to his clothing; no one was going to go out of their way to make way for him, especially as he was dressed as a dock-worker, whereas she would have no problem moving through. Her clothing marked her as someone important and if that was too subtle for them, her hulking bodyguard ensured that they rapidly made way for her as she strolled and twirled her parasol.

He walked past the ruins of Ashford Block, tipping his hat for luck at the memorial of the Great Collapse of 1889, and stepping around the dried excrement lining the base of the building next to it, cursing as waste dripped from poorly maintained pipes and onto his shoulder.

He paused as he saw a shabbily dressed man approach the lady, cap in hand and bent forward in a supplicating manner. At the same time two young lads, just as shabbily dressed, approached the trio from behind. It was a classic dipper’s tactic. Distract the mark by approaching them from the front and dip into their pockets from behind.

It might have worked with anyone else, and he felt a grudging admiration for the gang that would approach a lady being guarded by such an obvious and large bodyguard. Unfortunately for the gang, they were not “anyone else”.

He ground his teeth, for this hunt, time was of the essence. Lives could be lost, a lot of lives.

“Finish it. Bloody finish it!” he reached into his pocket, gripping the butt of his pistol, ready to spring into action if necessary.

Just as one of the younger dippers put his hand into the lady’ hand, she spun and slapped him soundly across the face. The spin continued and she thrust the point of her parasol straight into the diaphragm of the gang’s leader. The third dipper stood stock still as his boss collapsed to the floor, trying vainly to suck air into his lungs.

Smythe chuckled as his colleagues continued on their way. She had moved so quickly that most people would have been unaware of anything untoward, right up to the point of the gang leader collapsing to the ground. The crowd quickly swallowed the dippers up as the press of people wanting to move up the street pushed the few gawkers along.

It was not just the number of people that often gave him pause for thought, it was the constant building, the constant strive to save space that had caused some of the biggest changes in Manchester. He remembered how it had initially sprawled outwards, until the builders realised that they could cram more people into the same space if they built upwards.

Unfortunately, corners had been cut and the Great Collapse of 1889 had occurred. He shuddered even now, as he remembered frantically digging in the rubble in a desperate attempt to find anyone alive. The whole city had stood together in those dark days. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that the wind was practically still. On bad days, the stink from New Town could be overwhelming, causing people to faint and even causing fires due to the methane build-up in the close-packed streets.

Another glance confirmed he was still keeping pace with the lady and her bodyguard. She was clearly taking her time, enjoying the evening and pausing at stalls. He watched as she laughed when a four-winged bird hopped at her feet.

Looks like the bloody Curtain is still just as useless at stopping aether-born animals. Bastards are just as happy crapping on us as pigeons.

The thought made him look up, up to the sky itself. Lights drifted slowly across the night sky, hundreds and sometimes thousands of feet above the city. The aetherships of the rich and ruling classes drifted through the air.

After the influx of Londoners, there had been a mad scramble to get away from the often-penniless mass of people, and the chaotic mix of diseases that they brought with them. Now, many of those that could afford it drifted above the city in luxury, literally looking down on those that served them. He could see smaller aetherships and airships moving around as well, traders, artisans, servants being ferried down to home. Dotted amongst them were numerous other types of aircraft such as Gyrogliders, ornithopters, autogyros, hot-air balloons, and fixed-wing aircraft, all filling the skies above Manchester.

Reassured that his companions were keeping pace he continued to stroll down the pavement. His eyes roamed across the people in front of him, up into the shadows, down the side-alleys that dotted the street. Every man, woman and child was appraised, catalogued and assigned a threat factor. He knew who was carrying and who was not, who could fight, who could not fight but would still be a challenge. He also spotted those that were doing the same thing. They were undercover police, agents of the Empire, bodyguards and servants of the various Noble and Merchant houses as well as ex-soldiers and mercenaries. The world had changed completely in 1880 and people were a great deal more prone to violence than then.

He pulled to the side of the pavement as a Noble and his bodyguards approached. These days it was best to just step aside rather than be bullish. The reason why was demonstrated ably when a baker’s boy failed to notice them. A quick palm to the face sent the poor lad sprawling, his wares tumbling into the road.

“Oi, you fucking tw... .” the boy’s shout suddenly cut-off into a woofing noise as the bodyguard’s boot seamlessly followed up the palm. The Noble did not even appear to register the disturbance, carrying on in the same sedate manner whilst sniffing at a scented handkerchief.

A couple of street urchins darted forward and grabbed what still-warm buns and loaves they could before they were too damaged to eat. The baker’s boy retched and reached out feebly to stop them, tears running down his face. Smythe sighed and knelt down, pretending to tighten his laces.

“Here boy, take this, can’t have you beaten because of that arsehole.” he pressed a five-pound note into the boy’s hand, closing the lad’s fist around it so that no-one would notice just how much money he had been passed. Ignoring the boy’s mumbled thanks Smythe straightened up and continued his walk as if nothing had happened. He would shortly be entering Peter Street. If the spoor they were following continued straight on they would then enter Quay Street and be amongst the warehouses.

The warehouses were the perfect place for their prey to hide. Packed full of bales, barrels, containers and more shadows than a dark, dark place on a dark, dark, night the sprawling buildings could hide any manner of animal. Or monster. Just as he had predicted, his companions kept walking onto Quay Street and Smythe steeled himself for a fight in the dark. He started to cross over towards his companions when he had to step back onto the pavement for a steam-driven horseless to make its clattering way past.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“Bloody contraptions,” he cursed as embers drifted down from where they had been pumped high into the sky from the vehicle’s stack. Even now, he found it unnerving that technology had progressed so quickly since the Aether Gates had opened and he was honest with himself enough to admit that he feared for man’s ability to cope with such advances.

Casually he lengthened his stride until he was level with his companions. Glancing to his left he gave the woman the once over. In her mid-twenties, she was one of the most attractive women he knew. She was not beautiful, but her skin was unmarked and there was a captivating spark of life and vitality in her eyes that made her stand out from all of the other women. Even the way she stood marked her out. She exuded a form of confidence that meant most men kept their distance, whilst most women found themselves instantly deferring to her. When she smiled, she made everyone feel that the smile was especially for them. Lady Clara Ashdown was also one of the most powerful and formidable aethermancers he had ever had the fortune to meet. On top of that, she had one of the best right hooks in the business and was deadly with knife, sword and pistol. To say that she had been brought up differently to most contemporary women was an understatement on a par with “God is powerful”.

“The trail leads straight on. Our prey appears to be hiding in the warehouses. Considering We’re after a Ghoul I’m surprised that the streets aren’t littered with dead and dismembered citizens of the Empire.” Lady Ashdown pointed, “The trail leads to that warehouse.”

“Stop in that alcove Clara. I need you to send a whisper. Just let them know where we are and where the spoor leads. Tell them we’ll be apprehending the target shortly.”

She raised a hand to her eyes as if she was shielding it from bright light whilst her ruby-red lips moved silently. She stopped talking and made as if she was blowing a kiss, breathing an essence of life into the aether she had Pulled. Smythe watched as a small ball of light shot up into the air. No one would have been able to see it if they were not looking for it, and it was soon lost in the glow of the street lamps.

Despite the time of the night, the streets were jam- packed with opera- and theatre-goers. Men in evening dress-suits, top hats set at jaunty angles, escorting ladies with the latest fashion in puffed-up dresses rubbed shoulders with the less well heeled. Smythe casually stepped away from Lady Ashdown and her bodyguard, since someone dressed like him would not normally be seen in such company.

Leaving the crowded streets, they slowly walked into the increasingly deserted warehouse area. He pulled his reinforced bowler hat off and pulled a strap out from the inside. Placing his hat back on, he pulled the strap under his chin, making sure that it was comfortably tight. Indistinguishable from a normal bowler hat the felt covered an iron helmet. Many an opponent had thought that a strike to Smythe’s head would finish a fight quickly only to face an unpleasant surprise.

He felt a slight tingle as if all of the hairs on his body were standing, and looked over to Lady Ashdown. Although he could not see it, she was drawing in small amounts of power, girding herself for the fight to come. If she Pulled in the power slowly, it would be virtually undetectable. Others less well-versed in Aethermancy Pulled it in like a drowning man gasping for air. The air itself chilling noticeably, causing people’s breath to fog in the air and frost rime glass windows and glasses.

The way that Lady Ashdown was drawing it in was much subtler than that. People passing her might shiver, but they would put it down to someone walking over their grave, laugh it off as nothing to be worried about. Her bodyguard was also preparing for the fight to come. He removed the glove on his left hand, baring the metal hand that had replaced it. A member of the Imperial German Army, Karl Von Adin was a giant of a man. Standing six foot four inches, his size alone made him an adversary any man would respect. He was nearly a foot taller than the average man-on-the-street and made Smythe (who considered himself tall at five foot eleven) feel small. With short-cropped ginger hair, and a beard that piled over his chest like a sea of ginger waves, he looked like a Norse God reborn.

Smythe put both of his hands into his pockets and adopted a sauntering pose, tipping his hat forward over his eyes. His right hand reached into a pocket and grasped the grip of his Maverick. The revolver was a beast, firing one of the biggest calibre rounds found in a revolver. Many thought that the Maverick was unmanageable but then many people did not have to face the monsters he did on a regular basis.

His other hand curled around the grip of his Mauser. Due to its size, he had had the barrel shortened to three inches, and the grip modified to allow it to fit in his pockets better. The shorter length meant less accuracy at longer distances, but the firepower that the semi-automatic offered more than made up for it in close confines. He could put ten rounds into a target in less than three seconds, with a grouping no larger than an inch. When one was up against something like a ghoul, firepower like that helped a great deal.

He watched as Von Adin leaned with his back to the wall of the warehouse that the spoor had led them to, pumping his left arm to build the charge in his glove. Smythe took up position to his right whilst Lady Ashdown stood directly in front of the door. The lighting was poor in this part of town, mostly gaslight where there were lights and no one bar the odd labourer or night watchman was around. Smythe was relieved, as the fewer potential victims around, the better.

“Remember, Von Adin, this is not a mindless beast We’re hunting, it’s a sentient being. The soul-drinking version of a nymphomaniac - thanks to a failed transformation into a vampyre - but sentient nonetheless. Expect the worst, listen to what we say, and hopefully we’ll get out of this in one piece.

“Over to you Clara.” Smythe held his pistols vertically, ready to bring them to bear on any target.

As the team’s military specialist, Smythe knew that Lady Ashdown was the best placed as the cell’s aether specialist to deal with any aether-born threat, whilst Von Adin would provide all the close-in combat support they needed.

Doesn’t make it any easier though, letting a woman go first. Suppose it’s a sign of good manners. Smythe almost smiled at the thought, knowing exactly what Lady Ashdown would say if she even had a hint of what he was thinking.

At Lady Ashdown’s nod, Von Adin shoulder-barged the door open, moving swiftly inside and to the left. Smythe followed him through and broke right. Hand outstretched Lady Ashdown followed them, moving down the centre.

The darkness was almost overpowering. Motes of cotton dust drifted through the air and made their throats constrict. Mouths already dry with adrenalin lost what moisture they had and their tongues clove to the roof of their mouths.

“Light please, Carla,” Smythe had to spit to clear his mouth, get it working again. A faint glow came from her hand as she projected glowing balls into the air.

Lady Ashdown sent a number of globes up into the rafters and another set down the various aisles in the warehouse. Aetherlight was very white by nature and cast harsh shadows. The warehouse was huge, at least two hundred feet wide and three hundred deep. Bales of cotton rose eighty feet into the air, looming over the aisles like drunks propping up a bar.

“Karl, we’ll move down the central aisle, Vee formation. Clara, I would appreciate it if you could be ready with shield and threads. I think our friend is going to hit hard and fast.”

No sooner had he said this than the shadows came to life. Screaming with rage the ghoul bounded down the aisle towards them appearing to flicker as it entered in and out of the pools of aetherlight.

It was at least eight feet tall with three arms. All semblance of its previous human form was gone. Leathery maroon-coloured skin covered it and razor sharp teeth jutted out from its mouth, covered in strings of saliva. The two- inch long talons on its feet and hands gouged chips out of the hard wooden flooring as it propelled itself along. Smythe took all of this in, in the space of a heartbeat.

He raised his Maverick Revolver and started to fire, squeezing at the trigger in order to avoid pulling his aim off. The roar of the revolver was deafening and the muzzle flash threw harsh shadows onto the surrounding bales. The flare extended nearly eighteen inches in front of the barrel and the heat of the backwash from each shot was palpable.

Von Adin added to the fire, opening his aetherglove palm forward and unleashing a stream of aetherfire towards the ghoul. A howl of pain that was itself painful to hear came from the ghoul as the atherfire and heavy calibre slugs struck the ghoul. One slug tore away its right cheek and another two hit its collarbone, whilst the aetherfire struck like lightning before washing over it like water.

The air in the warehouse plunged ten degrees in the blink of an eye and the ghoul stopped in its tracks as if it had run into a solid wall. It slammed onto its back with a whoosh of expelled air. Smythe spared a glance for Lady Ashdown and saw she had her lips pursed in concentration.

Von Adin ran forward knife in hand, pumping his other arm to build up the charge in his hand whilst Smythe popped the chamber out of his revolver and pushed another one in. The ghoul was back on its feet in no time, swinging long arcing blows at Von Adin, forcing him to duck back, parrying with his long knife and hand as he did so. He cursed as the lower third arm tore into his jacket, very nearly disembowelling him.

Smythe stepped forward and around looking for a clear line of sight as Von Adin and the ghoul continued to shift around, trading blows. Every time Von Adin threw a punch with his left hand, the dynamos built up more and power. A skilled pugilist, Von Adin launched a perfectly timed left hook, smashing the ghoul cleanly on the side of its jaw. The punch was so powerful that pieces of shattered teeth flew out of the beast’s mouth and it staggered a step to the left.

Smythe felt the air chill again and flinched as streamers of lightning flickered over his shoulder. Lady Ashdown’s power was far greater than that of Von Adin’s glove and the ghoul screeched in agony, rearing up to its full height, face turned upward to the ceiling as it twitched in her streams. Smythe took his shot. The bullet punched through the bottom of the ghoul’s chin, blowing brains and fragments of bone into the air. The scream ended, cut off so fast that the silence following it was almost deafening. Smythe felt the ground shake as it collapsed to its knees, struggling to prop itself up with its arms.

“Bastard thing is hard to kill!” Von Adin walked forward and grasped the ghoul’s ruined face. As soon as the circuit closed, his glove let loose all the stored power, searing the flesh from the skull in a flash that lasted no more than a split second. The smell that followed was disgusting as what was left of the ghoul’s brains ran out of the creature’s head.

“Sorry, it’s too dangerous to keep that much power stored.” he said with a shrug of the shoulders. Von Adin was new to the cell and the Sanction. Due to the urgent nature of their mission, that was; track down a soul-eating monster that has been seen in the middle of England’s largest city without letting it massacre the populace or causing undue alarm and panic amongst the citizens, there had been little time for chat or introductions. Travelling separately had not helped and so Smythe was still curious as to why and how the big Prussian had lost his hand.

“I didn’t think that ghouls were purveyors of fine silver necklaces.” Lady Ashdown moved forward, daintily lifting a scented handkerchief to her nose as she knelt down by the still-smoking body. Smythe and Von Adin watched as she ran her hands over a beautiful if functional looking silver necklace.

Von Adin had moved closer in to hear better what she was saying. “Nein, das ist ... Sorry, no that is a torque, not a necklace, see how it isn’t fully closed on the neck. Lady Ashdown, you shouldn’t have to touch such a thing, let me retrieve it for you.” Before Lady Ashdown could object, he hacked through the ghoul’s neck, pulling the torque free.

“Dear God, man! Release...” Lady Ashdown did not get to finish the sentence as the air chilled so suddenly that it started to snow above them.

“Achtung!” Von Adin threw the torque hard and high as they all dropped to the floor. There was a blinding white flash, an absence of sound and a pressure wave that would have blown their eardrums out they not already had their ears covered and their mouths open. When the dust and debris had settled, they picked themselves off the floor.

“Next time, Hauptmann, you bloody well leave grabbing artefacts to the bally expert. Lady she might be, but she’s a lady with a job to do. Let her bloody well do it!” Smythe’s voice shook and the cords stood out in his neck as he looked up at Von Adin. “We can’t afford the luxury of good manners and Lady Ashdown is more than capable of doing the dirty jobs as any man!”

“Naturlich, I apologise Willoughby.” He pronounced the “w” as a “v” and gave a click of the heels and bow of the head Prussian style, “I will remember so next time. I am not used to dealing with all of this . . .” he waved a hand vaguely. Smythe could not work out whether he meant the paranormal or working with a woman.

“Forget it. Come on, let’s get back to the Club and report to the Professor.”