“The call you the Huntsman.” The powdered woman said, who, to her credit, was able to cut a fine figure in the borrowed dress. Sir Ethan couldn’t deny his more base urges, but preferred them to don some semblance of station if he could help it.
“Huntsman.” He tasted the name in his mouth and found it wanting. “That, my dear, would imply that the quarry has a chance of escaping once I've set my sights on it.” He guided her, drink in hand, into his trophy room. “Take, for instance, the Masai Lion of Ethiopia.” He gestured to the great cat’s head, mounted in a frozen roar on the polished mahogany wall. “The natives conduct a rite of passage in which they must stalk and tug on the beast’s tail in order to be considered men.”
“Why do they do that?”
“Why, to prove their bravery. The lion is the greatest hunter in the Savanna. Well, next to me, that is. After I brought it down they called me Nyeupe Kifo, the White Doom.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her to the next trophy. “Bengal Tiger. Even larger than our maned friend over there. You’d think the stripes would stand out in the jungle, but you’d be very wrong. Mauta was the name the Indians bestowed onto me when I lay him at their feet.” He fixed her with a savage grin, and she giggled excitedly.
“Which hunt proved most challenging?” She purred, looping her arm through his.
“As it happens, the memento from it is my most favored possession. So close to my heart that I do not let anyone see it. But for you, my dear, I shall make an exception.” He produced a large brass key from his pocket and opened the ornate door at the end of the procession of stuffed heads. He guided the woman in to the darkened room.
“I can’t see-“
But her words died in her throat as he lit the gas lamp that hung from the wall. Where the lion and the tiger’s mounted heads roared in defiance, the woman's screamed in silent terror. Sir Ethan’s guest dropped her drink in shock at his most prized trophy.
“The hunting of men is the greatest thrill there is.” He said, locking the heavy door behind them. “I have to settle for you lot, but it is immaterial. Consequently, it was right here in London that I earned my favorite moniker: they call me Jack.”
“Huntsman.” He tasted the name in his mouth and found it wanting. “That, my dear, would imply that the quarry has a chance of escaping once I've set my sights on it.” He guided her, drink in hand, into his trophy room. “Take, for instance, the Masai Lion of Ethiopia.” He gestured to the great cat’s head, mounted in a frozen roar on the polished mahogany wall. “The natives conduct a rite of passage in which they must stalk and tug on the beast’s tail in order to be considered men.”
“Why do they do that?”
“Why, to prove their bravery. The lion is the greatest hunter in the Savanna. Well, next to me, that is. After I brought it down they called me Nyeupe Kifo, the White Doom.” He placed a hand on the small of her back and guided her to the next trophy. “Bengal Tiger. Even larger than our maned friend over there. You’d think the stripes would stand out in the jungle, but you’d be very wrong. Mauta was the name the Indians bestowed onto me when I lay him at their feet.” He fixed her with a savage grin, and she giggled excitedly.
“Which hunt proved most challenging?” She purred, looping her arm through his.
“As it happens, the memento from it is my most favored possession. So close to my heart that I do not let anyone see it. But for you, my dear, I shall make an exception.” He produced a large brass key from his pocket and opened the ornate door at the end of the procession of stuffed heads. He guided the woman in to the darkened room.
“I can’t see-“
But her words died in her throat as he lit the gas lamp that hung from the wall. Where the lion and the tiger’s mounted heads roared in defiance, the woman's screamed in silent terror. Sir Ethan’s guest dropped her drink in shock at his most prized trophy.
“The hunting of men is the greatest thrill there is.” He said, locking the heavy door behind them. “I have to settle for you lot, but it is immaterial. Consequently, it was right here in London that I earned my favorite moniker: they call me Jack.”