Throughout my years as a scoundrel, a marksman and attacker of the peace, the whispers of Sophy de Criste had often reached my uncensored ears and with no good kindnesses. Her name floated through children's talk of murderesses; pomposity's society-talk of evil-doers; my father's private files on disturbers of the calm waters of morality and starred in my recently deceased sister's letters of correspondence. It gave me no surprise that a woman so revered and despised- in equal measures- should be somehow connected to myself. It was now a given that any who revelled in the art of murder and inspired such universal disgust should touch the fray of my family.

Therefore, it surprised me even less when she inevitably wished to talk with me.

I received a neat, hand written letter, marked with the infamous dragon seal- named such for it's gentle flick of fire beyond the common constraints of wax binding- and crafted onto warm cream paper, during one late evening in the overcast November of 18-. I swung it under the nose of my ageing (and therefore disposable) bloodhound to make sure it contained no sort of poison, lest any toxin but the lamented Iocane could remain on the noble woman's paper. As 'Sharky' did not keel over immediately, I gave her the benefit of my doubt.

The scrawl itself contained nil but the date, time and place of what I assumed to be a meeting with the famous Dark Lady herself, on the same day I had received this letter, clearly written many months before it found its way onto my doorstep. After a quick shave and spruce up, my coat with the upturned collar found itself curled around my arm. The cane containing a small yet deadly spike rested on my paw. The sword I carried always in my concealed scabbard was a firm and familiar presence in my grip, the smooth metal work settling lightly between commonplace callouses. Smiling briefly into my hallway mirror, I was mildly surprised when not a single crack appeared.

Sophy de Criste would not know what had hit her.

The thickening fog that often enveloped the labyrinths of my city now filled every particle in the air, a continuous coat of darkness that allowed criminals such as myself to pursue our work. Outside was just the silence and sensuality of London at night, the dirty pathways stretching outwards into the dark cold, the tendrils of smoke spiralling still from the homes that had happy families. The three winding side streets Sophy had described in her sharp, acidic prose led me to a den of iniquity, not too different from my own personal favourite- with which I had an outstanding tab- the Grey Lion. Now that was a place: I'd visited it ad hominem. With the same style, this too was designed to look to be a simple workman's pub, but a cursory look at the tarred door showed the common mark of any whore house: two women fighting each other tooth and nail, breasts spilling out of tight corsets while men like myself jeered and whooped. A tart fight.

For a meeting with the Mistress of Death, there could be no other place.

Inside the fog persisted, though now mutated into cigar and opium effervescence. My hawk-like eyes spied the card tables in the corners and the winding stairs covered in rich red velvet carpeting, stained with substances I dare not name. Scents assailed me in twining waves. Firstly, the heady and erotic mixture of blood and ale. I recognised the scent from bar brawls and my days in the army. Nothing came more vividly from the depths of my memory than Africa's base earth scent mixing with that of murderers. I mean heroes of course, because a hero does to foreigners what a murderer does to Englishmen. Then, the smell of excretion. Why Englishmen have always felt the need to piss in pubs, I shall never know.

I made my way to the back corner of the room, as the note had specified. I passed card tables covered in fortunes of both money and women. Pretty things, but professional whores held no sport with me. Wading through the murk of human filth and fancy, passing rutting sailors and smoking magnates in gaudy waistcoats, I finally found, in the Persian den secreted in the depths of the ale house, the shrinking veiled figure of what I assumed to be an aid of the Countess of Death.

Assumptions be damned, I thought, sighing most dramatically as Sophy de Criste raised from her chaise longez, quickly threw back her veil and stuck a knife to my rosy throat.

'Miss Criste, I presume?' I asked, and quirked my eyebrow, though she could not see it. An amused huff came against the back of my neck. The knife was released with a tiny knick against my skin and I was guided to a gilded seat across from what could be described as nothing but a throne. Two ornate dragons curled around it's arms, which Sophy's curled hands rested in their jaws, and the back was made of a satin I had not seen since the Harem days.

The veil was withdrawn. There was a woman almost virginal with white skin, now static and inert, cerulean-tinged lips still slightly parted. Two caterpillar eyebrows, tiny bow lips, heavily bunned hair and heavily rouged cheeks could not draw the attention from the main attraction: Sophy de Criste's astounding eyes.

My grandmother, the (so-named) Queen of Mischief, once had a cane which I became obsessed with at the tender age of six. My brother Severin locked me in a sparsely lit room with the demonic object on a monotonous Sunday. It filled me with more terror than three army campaigns, a lifetime of crime and a multitude of fatal wounds which I had only just pulled myself back from. It was made of smooth white marble, swirled with gold leaf amongst the parchment-like stone, but on it's top was the head of a serpent. Black marble, flitting diamanté tongue poking out, emerald eyes jutting out of the ghastly visage. Those eyes had the appearance of seeing into your deepest and most reprehensible secrets, or reading your mind, or coldly calculating your doom and waiting for a moment to strike. I spent six long hours with my freaked eye on the object, lest it strike and kill me. Severin was clearly pleased with the results.

On the death of the old woman, Sev handed me the stick with a promise to use it for something dear Granny would have appreciated, and I'm certain her artistic mind would have been thrilled with the way the blood and brain splattered onto the pernicious serpentine ornament.

Yet against everything else, those eyes that filled me with such dread remained in my mind and sprang forth, imposing themselves onto Sophy de Criste's face. I did not shiver, I swear. A tremor perhaps, but not a shiver. Such were the affects of these startling eyes. They sung with the songs of worlds unknown to those like me. They danced with the mysteries of intelligence, of otherworldly skill and talent. The colour resembled snake scales in grass, dappled with sunlight and bark. They did not simply shine: they were luminous. They filled me with a strange kind of masochism and when she caught me staring a smile appeared to match the demonic orbs. A tongue was revealed that was as serpentine as the rest of that lithe, graceful body. For a second I entertained a terrible notion- but I decided not to act on it.

'Colonel, you are not the man I expected. I thought you would have hidden your bald patch a little more successfully.' Unconsciously I reached out and touched my hat. There was an almost imperceptible hole. 'However, I'm willing to overlook that in favour of your talents. You are quite the catch, my dearest Thomas, not in the least due to your connection to the Lord of Miserable Deaths.'

Ah.

That.

Old 'Misery Guts' and I had crossed paths back in the day, before I'd established my own reputation for brutality. The works of art I had developed with him remained some of my finest work, as well as filling the files of at least three international police forces. Barring the day when he'd tried to have me strangled with my own cravat, we'd had quite an enjoyable partnership.

But why focus on that job in particular? I'd had a good twenty year career in the art of death, so why pick out something from the start? She giggled unnervingly, tracing the hilt of the knife sticking out of the corset of her black chiffon gown. She considered the weight briefly, seemed to consider bringing down the hilt on my skull, holding it close to her décolletage which I had been trying not to look at out of respect. Yet, as was often the way, my eyes had betrayed me.

'Your finest work, is it not? I'm picky, Colonel, picky as the Devil. I only want the best. So far as I have seen, you are it. Your sister and I crossed paths in the twilight, once. She told me of her facetious elder brother and his prowess with a knife. She promised me that if I ever needed someone, you'd be he. She would have kept her word, would she not?' a strange sadness entered her eyes then and I felt that I knew her dalliances with my sibling for what they were. An understanding passed between us.

I was to be a means to an end: a weapon of finesse and practice, with more experience in my little finger than the tycoons in this harem, sharper than the proverbial wit, but something to be wielded none the less.

Exactly as it should be.

I lay my palm out flat as I always did at the start of a deal, a signal of trust I have never broken in any job. She looked at it, then at me, then back at my hand. The two thin blue-tinged lines that passed for lips thinned outwards, pulled up until they filled the entire bottom half of her face. Brazen white teeth poked out, a tiny pink tongue just visible through the unfilled gaps. She placed her own green glove, hiding a lily-white hand, upon my own. I touched the hilt of my rapier, eyes looking nowhere but at the lady across from me. My sensibilities were being mangled in every sense, in ideas of love, in the idea of something no one has ever achieved in the history of the world, all for this incredible and monstrous beast of a girl. I was a scoundrel- damn these women!

'I'm glad you agreed to this deal,' she murmured, her finger tracing small circles in my hand.

'Thank you. I needed the money,' I said. She let out that little high pitched squeal of a giggle again.

'Oh, no no no, Thomas . Thank you.'