“Martin, never let anyone tell you that there are no demons in London.” The man lifted his son onto his lap, holding him close. “Anyone who says there isn’t is either blind or a fool.”
“Do you mean the Ripper, Papa? I heard other lads at school talking about him.”
That drew a chuckle from the man.
“Ah, that bit of business. Of course. No, my buck, I don’t mean him.” Then he considered his son carefully. “Would you like to hear the story of the man they call Jack the Ripper?”
Bouncing excitedly, the boy nodded.
“You’ll have to promise you won’t tell. Swear it.”
“On my honor, Papa. I won’t tell a soul.”
“Good lad.” The man chuckled and then nodded. “So, first thing’s first, Martin my boy. Old Leather Apron never said his name was Jack.”
“But, Papa, they said he sent a letter to Scotland Yard.”
His father chuckled quietly.
“No, no. The newspapers were the ones who had it, and they faked up the whole thing.” He took a breath. “And the real story is, I promise, wildly different from what they tell in schoolyards, my buck.”
The year was 1888 and Daniel Voss was new to London. He’d rented a small flat on the edge of Whitechapel and set up shop there. Largely, he worked as an apothecary. It was all a front, though, for his real career. Daniel Voss was a demon hunter. More importantly, he’d come here tracking his prey. Five demons had escaped the gates of Hell and he had been tasked with finding and eradicating them, no matter the cost.