Bloodlust

After an evening’s worth of good company and sublime conversation, I pushed open the pub doors and greeted the starlit sky, eager for a long stroll that would clear my head and invigorate my senses. My colleagues crowded around me, brows furrowed in concern.

“Share a Hansom with us, Enoch,” they urged. “These streets are full of vagabonds and scoundrels. It’s best not to venture alone.”

“Nonsense!” My chuckle echoed with the sort of confidence only youth and a few pints of ale can provide. “The air is sweet, the moon is full, and my feet are the only carriage I need.”

I flashed them a cheeky smile, turned up my coat collar, and strode off, my pace as leisurely as a Sunday stroll. Why hurry? Ever since childhood, the night was my fondest companion, and I never trembled over the shadows that played along the path.

My mood was particularly buoyant. I allowed the words of my favorite poet to grace my tongue and matched the cadence of my voice to the rhythm of my shoes.

“Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping…”

“Suddenly there came a tappin', right upon your skull.”

Hands grabbed me from the shadows before I had a chance to react. A rag pressed against my face, and a sickly-sweet smell filled my nostrils. Ether. My vision swam, and the ground rushed up to meet me....