St. Cyprian dove for the mantle as the Ripper reformed. He caught up the xiphos, drew it and whirled, as the athame stabbed towards him. Blade met blade with a dull sound and St. Cyprian was driven back against the fire-place by the force of the Ripper’s lunge.
It leaned over him, and its words slid across St. Cyprian’s consciousness like acid even as its breath, stinking of battlefields and rotting meat, washed over him. WHERE IS SHE? I REQUIRE HER. I NEED HER.
“Not that easy I’m afraid, old...