London, 31 August, 1888, 2:45 a.m.

Jonathan had been standing beneath the same gaslamp for nearly an hour. It had to be soon, the hunger wouldn't wait much longer. It seemed an eternity since the bells had sounded two o'clock, and he glanced down Baker's Row desperately. The mean streets of Whitechapel were never deserted, but this time of morning they were the closest they ever came. There were more people out along the High, of course, which would mean a more choice selection, but it would also mean witnesses. He wasn't so far gone he couldn't understand the danger of that.

This street would serve his purposes well enough. Even here, he'd seen several likely prospects stagger by in the past hour. Unfortunately, they always appeared in clusters and none of them had been sufficiently gifted to risk discovery. One would think, living so close to man's truly animal-like state, there would be a wider selection of talent among the thousands in Whitechapel, but those that existed didn't always present themselves under the most auspicious circumstances. And Jonathan wasn't quite expert enough yet to keep a street full of witnesses at bay. He touched the long knife in his pocket apprehensively.

A subdued flutter in his subconscious announced that someone was coming. Baring his teeth in what with enough gin and just a touch of quixotic hopelessness might have been mistaken for a smile, Jonathan tossed his Turkish cigarette on the ground and stepped on it. This would be the one. Had to be the one. If she was with a group, he would single her out and take her somewhere. She would go willingly enough. It would mean being seen; he could be described. But he couldn't control the hunger any longer. Already it was becoming difficult to concentrate and his quarry hadn't even reached Baker's Row.

A woman lurched round the corner and shuffled in a zigzag pattern up the street toward him. She was short and had seen better days, but Jonathan could sense an acceptable degree of affinity even at this distance. Trembling as the hunger clawed at his insides, he swiftly scanned the street for casual observers. There was no one around. The crumbling buildings were dark and gloomy as this deserted section of Whitechapel slept. He was ready now. He needed it now. It wouldn't be long and the hunger knew it. It fought for control like a wild beast that Jonathan could barely keep in check. Like the wild thing it was.

Taking a firm grip on himself, he straighten his shoulders and stepped away from the wall into the meager light. Still, it took all the willpower at his command to stop himself from pouncing on her as she passed. "Hello, luv," he said. His voice was low and husky from the effort of controlling his sudden, overwhelming lust for this stranger. "Mind some company?" He knew it was more common to let the streetwalker approach him, but he couldn't risk having her, in her drunken stupor, pass him by.

His sudden emergence from the dark alley startled her, for she lifted her head and took in his appearance in a long, slow sweep of her eyes. When she gazed up at his face and leered, Jonathan relaxed and smiled to himself, knowing she was sufficiently impressed with his demeanor to do anything he asked. Of course, he had never doubted she would.

But the place wasn't right. They needed privacy. He needed privacy. He could almost hear the voices. Talk to her, they would say, get her confidence. The fear will be so much better that way.

"It's a cold night for such a helpless little thing to be out alone," he made himself say, slipping her arm through his and leading her toward a blackened corner of Buck's Row. Speech was becoming difficult, but he forced himself to concentrate on the words. "I've just been standing here, telling myself how lonely it is and how much I should enjoy finding a companion. What's your name?"

"Polly," she said, trailing her fingers down the buttons of his frock coat. As they reached the gate, she stopped and peered down the alley suspiciously. "It's dark down there," she noted, trying to keep her words from slurring. Nobs were sometimes put off by too much gin.

Jack grinned slowly. "All the more reason to choose it," he pointed out. "We won't be disturbed here. After you, my lady." He favored her with a chivalrous bow and motioned her forward.

He could see she was impressed and flattered by this gallantry by the way she attempted to straighten her shoulders as she stepped into Buck's Row. She picked her way daintily, if somewhat unsteadily, through the damp piles of filth and the streamlets of blood from Barber's Horse Slaughterhouse a few feet away. At a suitably dry spot across from one of the more respectable rows of terrace houses, she turned back to him and leaned against the wall in what was meant to be an enticing pose. Jack was in control by now, and he knew exactly what was going through her mind.

That they had to be quiet now. That, deserted though the street was, there were plenty of residents sleeping restlessly in the flats above, kept on the very edge of slumber by the oppressive summer heat. Some of them might even be awake, and all it took was one crusading, prudish old reformer to raise enough ruckus to bring the coppers round. With the amount of gin she'd consumed, she had no intention of trying to run from PC Neil, even with the threat of the forty shilling fine he would bring down on her head. With nothing on her mind but the four pence she planned to get, she planted her feet wide enough apart for what she assumed he wanted and bent to lift her skirts.

As soon as the skivvie lowered her eyes, Jack slipped the knife out of his pocket and raised it to strike. Sensing something was wrong, Polly lifted her face to his and saw the knife, saw the purely evil smile in his flashing eyes. It was the last thing she ever saw, those eyes. A sight that would be indelibly burned into her mind for the few remaining, horror-filled minutes that were her life.

Fleetingly, a part of Jonathan recoiled as the first blow hit her in the chest and she gasped. Terror welled up from the wound in a thick stream, flowing with her blood over his hands and arms. A sweet, annealing flood of energy rushed through his aching limbs and instantly animal instinct took over. Sometime during the next few minutes, Jack realized he was enjoying himself and his lips drew back in a savage smile. Mechanically, the slashing knife rose and fell, rose and fell.

The Horror of the East End was loose and before he was done, all of London would tremble.