New York City, February 2, 1890

The city streets gleam with the wet rain, the reflections of streetlights twinkle in the puddles and slick sidewalks. It is a miserable night, and one that you are not exactly happy to be out in. Still, you are all used to worse than this. Your thoughts turn to the letter you received. The letters that brought you all here, though you are unaware of each other for the moment. Should you read it again you will find the same polished immaculate writing:

You have been selected. The time has come for your skills to be called upon. Signs are upon us. You are needed. Come to W 318 Pennbury Ave on the night of February 2nd at 10:30 p.m. to obtain your orders. Should you choose to decline this invitation that is your right, but the world may be forfeit. Cordially yours, The Men of Letters New York Chapter, Mr. John Westbrook.

It is a simple letter, and not at all informative. But you are curious, and it does sound dire. For the men of letters to be so bold as to actually sign such a document and to be so blatant about their need, it has to be important. The seal on the envelope is proof enough of its authenticity. The mark of the men of letters is not something that just anyone can access. A thousand questions enter your mind. Why New York? No one else in your inner circles seem to have any such invitations that you could tell. Why you? Well, it is time to obtain answers. The building before you is massive. It appears to be a warehouse of some kind, though it is rather old looking and appears to be dormant at the moment. As you exit your various vehicles of travel, you can't help but notice each other, for the street is otherwise deserted. Father Simon and Jacob cannot help but recognize each other right away. The presence of the woman, alone at this hour is also something of note.

As he stepped out of the cab he felt the rain falling on his head and face. He looked up and blinked for a moment. Thank you, Oh God, for the rain. Please bless the people of New York with good water to drink and raise their crops. In your Son Jesus' name, amen.

Then he allowed his eyes to fall on the building. Were it not so plain he would have chastised them for misusing the wealth God blessed them with. Still unless they had a large staff or an equally large collection to maintain there was likely wasted space.

He turned as he saw other vehicles dropping off guests. Jacob caught his eye and he went over to the man, hand extended. "Its good to see you again, Jacob. I've been worried. You should stop by for a visit sometime."

The young woman alone also caught his attention. "Miss, are you alright? Do you require assistance?"

The sounds of the busy city were sometimes almost overwhelming as Jacob walked through the crowds. He pulled his jacket a little tighter in an attempt to keep as dry as possible as people walked by about their daily business.

Walking further down the street and finally coming to the destination Jacob can't help but notice how large the building he is standing in front of is. A smile creeps on his face as he watches Father Simon leave his vehicle.


Jacob was actually surprised at how pleased he was to see the man as he walked over and gave his hand a firm shake. " I have managed to stay out of trouble Father , my journey for salvation is still on going."

Removing his hat and feeling rain hit his head Jacob walks over to the lady as he gives a slight bow Greetings miss , I am Jacob Anderson and this is Father Simon Cole." Jacob says as he puts his hand out for a shake.

After regarding the apparently disused warehouse with some distaste, she reread the latter to confirm the address and time, although by this point she practically knew it by heart, having examined it many times in the course of the long ocean voyage from England. Quality letter-writing paper and a fine pen indicated some wealth and taste, though she was not familiar with the American manufactures. The Aquarian Star in the seal and watermark proved the authenticity and provenance. Judging by his penmanship, she supposed Mr John Westbrook to be a careful, precise man, but his actual sentence construction indicated a limited creativity or patience when it came to writing but no lack of portentousness. As to the actual content, it was far too brief and cryptic to tell her much. The address and time were indeed correct.

The Men of Letters, from what little she'd been able to learn from discreet inquiries and research, plus her own deduction, was a largely American organisation of occultists and would-be magi. Ironically so, since they no doubt took their name from the intellectuals of the Age of Enlightenment, who'd sought to dispel superstition and develop the scientific method. And, if Westbrook was anyone to go by, they were not men of letters in the modern sense of an academic writer or expert in literature. So, an American holdover from the Republic of Letters, fixated on the occult, mysticism, and magic.

And they were men. Obviously.

So, a typically patriarchal grouping of pseudo-intellectuals desired her assistance. She did not doubt why she'd been singled out for this, much as her services had been requested all over Britain and Europe. She was imminently capable, the world's only paranormal consulting detective. She might have ignored the crude invitation were it not for her sudden and pressing desire to travel abroad. —the knife at her belly, grab it, fight, fight, turn it— The recollections rose unbidden, as they always did. She'd learned to just let them come. —knife slid into his belly, hot blood spilled down her hands— Killing the Ripper had been a victory for all humankind, and a matter of personal survival. —hands like claws reaching for her throat, murderous and vengeful even in death— But even a spree killer had family, friends, associates, and the Ripper's rose high in the establishment. —can't breath, keep cutting, drag the knife across— Some people would always find it more comfortable to deny a fellow's atrocities, lest they be forced to confront them, and blame the victim instead. Especially if that victim were a woman. —can't breath, can't see, can't think, keep cutting, keep gutting— Oh, they wouldn't act against her outright, but they had influence, they had connections. —gizzards tumbled out, raining on her, tear them out! and yet he still lived— She soon found her business drying up, at least in all the high profile, profitable cases. Business in Britain was just no longer tenable. —up, up, at the heart, again and again and again— The most galling was the cover-up. It would be such a terrible scandal, it could bring down the country. —life went out of him, but his eyes stayed dead, that famous face— But to be denied all credit for solving such a high-profile case, her greatest triumph, after such a traumatic ordeal. It had left her bitter and dissatisfied. —keep stabbing and cutting and slicing until nothing remained but that famous face— But what else was a faithful daughter of the Empire to do? Well, she could run off to the United States. —she heaved the corpse, the innards off her, soaked in a killer's blood. The Ripper, ripped open like the women he'd butchered, by the one he'd tried to. It seemed like poetic justice.

*

After stepping out of her own cab, the young woman in the midnight blue dress and matching hat had erected an umbrella to ward off the soft rain. From her purse she drew a letter — each of the men present would be familiar with its contents. She perused it briefly, but after a time grew distracted, staring down the street into the rain-slashed night. Absently, she rubbed her neck and midsection. It was some moments before she noticed the two men approaching and speaking to her, and stirred from her reverie, hurriedly folding the letter and slipping it back into her purse.

'Mmm? Ah, no, I do not, but thank you.' she replied stiffly to the priest in a delicate English accent. Once Anderson had made introductions, she responded 'Good evening. Father. You may call me Penny Dreadful.' Ever since choosing the nom de guerre, and her initial amusement, she had become steadily more reluctant to use it aloud. Well, that couldn't be helped now. She had considered giving it a somewhat French accent, but that just made her appear tacky. 'I beg your pardon, but I am new in this city: is this W 318 Pennbury Avenue?'
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Jacob could only smile as he looked at the woman who seemed very prim and proper. He was a little puzzled as he wondering just what this was all about. It was not out of the question by any means but a female hunter was not exactly common place.

" Yes , this is the correct address. It would appear that you have also been called in on this case so to speak." Jacob said with a distinct Boston accent.

Not wanting to waste any more time and stand in the rain he looked back at the others as he walked to the door before turning around " Shall we see what is in store for us ?'

The Frenchman stomped through the puddles, the horseshit, and the other refuse that littered the streets as the result of a thaw in midwinter. His tuke and full length wool overcoat were saturated after his two mile walk in the rain. His cheeks were red and his breath steamed from his beard as he chugged his way to the warehouse. He approached the small gathering at the curb with a heavy carpetbag in his left hand and smiled at the first person to register his arrival.

"Bon soir! mes amis, What ees all dis aboud! I am Jacques, Jacques Debay. Some of you know dis already eh? "

He spoke a bit too loud and chuckled as his foot sloshed through the last puddle between them.

Stefan had been handed a letter by the orderly. He gave the man a slight bow and thanked him. He went into his office the sound of the cane tapping of the floor as he did. He closed the door behind him and opened the letter.

You have been selected. The time has come for your skills to be called upon. Signs are upon us. You are needed. Come to W 318 Pennbury Ave on the night of February 2nd at 10:30 p.m. to obtain your orders. Should you choose to decline this invitation that is your right, but the world may be forfeit. Cordially yours, The Men of Letters New York Chapter, Mr. John Westbrook.

Stefan looked at it strangely for a moment and a concerned look crossed his face.  He read it once more and sighed. He was not hoping that what he felt was true, but it seemed that it was. He had arrangements to make and they must be made quickly. He placed the letter in his breast pocket and picked up the cane and made his way back out into the hall. He went down to the end of the hall and tapped on the door. A deep voice told him to enter. An older man with grey hair sat behind the desk. "Stefan what can I do for you?"

Stefan came over and sat down at the chair in front of the man's desk. He reached in and took out the letter handing it to the man. He read it and a troubled look came over him. "This is not good news. You are going correct?" He nodded. "Yes, Fadher Mikel,  I am going. I felt sume dhing an knew it vas not good. I vill be leaving in da morning for da Amerikas. Dhis vill not put you out I 'ope." The older man shook his head. "No, Stefan you go where you are need. You know that."

Stefan stood and bowed to the man, who was getting up and coming over to him. He took Stefan's hand in his. "May the spirits watch over and protect you."

Stefan thanked him and walked out the door. He left the monastery and collected his belongings, well those he thought he would need and made arrangements for the caretaker. He then went to the docks made booking on a ship bound for America. The next morning he and his steamer trunks were bound for America.

Stefan slowly walked down the walkway his cane tapping as he went, when he seen a small group of people. He thought he recognized one as Father Cole and the woman he had seen on the ship. He slowly made his way up to them and introduced himself. "Good morning. It vould seem dhat I 'ave found da korrekt place.  I am Doktor Stefan Von Stein at your service." He gave the group a slight bow.

Penny took a step back, uncomfortable to find herself surrounded by so many rough men. Well, DeBay and Anderson, certainly, though Father Cole was nominally trustworthy and seemed genuinely friendly, and Doctor von Stein was apparently a gentlemen, but she'd learned to attribute little trust to that position. 'Bon soir, monsieur. Je suis Penny Dreadful.' she greeted DeBay in good though English-accented French, 'And greetings to you again, doctor.' For a moment, she worried that the peculiar German doctor had followed her from the RMS Leviathan, but it was becoming increasingly clear by their expectations that they were all here for the same reason: the letter from the Men of Letters. Curiouser and curiouser.

She glanced down, briefly taking in the men's hands under the street lamps. Strong hands, callused as if by a weapon or rifle grip, some with the indents of rings — four of them, knuckledusters. Even the priest. These Americans were rough men indeed, hard men, fighters, and had a wary stance in the darkness. And they were all summoned by the Men of Letters. They were what some in Europe called slayers, or hunters here in the Americas. Like, she supposed, herself. Maybe they were to be her assistants in an investigation?

'Well, shall we go in out of the rain, gentlemen?' Penny invited, then turned on her heel after Anderson to walk to the warehouse entrance.

The priest quirked a brow, "You are most welcome, my child. Dreadful? A nom-de-plume I presume. Your a writer then. Excellent. God always uses writers as his most trusted agents, how else would the deeds get recorded." He accepted her quirk with a bit of interest but in no way was he dismissive. "Yes, I believe this is the address..." Jacob cut into the conversation as easily as one might cut into a dance. Simon approved, opposites often attracted and God new Jacob needed someone in his life.



Simon smiled again, "Oh but Jacob, here are two more approaching with a sense of purpose. I dare say our three of a kind will soon be a full house."

He shook Panny's hand and noticed the quirk of her brow. This one was very intelligent and watchful. If she was equally resourceful then it would appear they had their leader.



Simon smiled and was genuinely pleased to see the big Frenchman, even if he was a bit odd. Those who hunted demons often had their little quirks, like Penny's name. Simon found that accepting the quirks of others was the first step in tending a flock. He greeted his friend warmly. "Jacues. Now you know I don't speak snail eater." It was a bit of good natured ribbing between friends. He expected Jacues to come back with something about how Simon spoke three languages, one of which was dead.



Simon recognized the man but not the name. Odd, he could usually match names to faces easily. He reached out to shake the man's hand. "Doctor, good to have you about, especially if Jacob breaks his nose again. I am a fair hand at treating injuries but I am not a surgeon. Have we met? You seem very familiar but your name I cannot place..."



He was cut off, thankfully, by Penny. She seemed to have a good instinct for keeping others from inserting foot in mouth. "I agree with Miss Dreadful. Only turkeys lack the sense to come in out of the rain." He gestures for them to go in first.

It had been a while since he had seen Jacques DeBay , the last time was over a year ago while with Father Simon. The crazy Frenchman nearly drank him under the table , the man had a twinkle in his eye that that was hard to ignore and often had Jacob laughing with his outlandish stories.

Grasping his meaty hands with his own Jacob greets him " It is good to see you again Jacques...."

The other man seemed almost as out of place as the woman , he was tall and slim and looked more studious but the way he handled himself. A doctor apparently as the man spoke with a foreign accent. This should prove to be a most interesting trip indeed.

Jacob nods his head and go to the front door.

Stefan gave Miss Dreadful a smile and nodded to her. "Yes, greetings to you as vell again. I 'ope you enjoyed da trip 'ere Miss Dreadful." He was a bit surprised, but he had heard of her, so it was not as much of a surprised as it should of been. Some woman were growing bolder as the years were going by.

Stefan smiled at the  good Fathers taking his hand and gave it a shake. "Let us 'ope ve do not need ta use dhose skills dhat much.  Ve vill talk more vunce inside." He motioned towards the door.

Stefan had not been introduced tot he other two, yet and was not too sure of who the older man was. He thought he recognized him, but he could not too sure. Jacob he had heard of and with him and Father Cole here it did mean his feelings were correct this would be bad.

Stefan limped along holding the door for the others and entered last.