PROLOGUE:
      ANGEL OF EARTH (1918)

Snow falls out of the bottle rather than the sky, it's deadlier that way. A shot through the nose, right into the bloodstream. Eyes open, blue irises swallowed whole by black pupils. A rush, to the head first, and then to the body— adrenaline and euphoria all merged into one.

Some people think they'll die looking down the barrel of a gun, others worry they'll face the noose or a knife to the chest. Lucy Foster knows she'll die with white powder caked over her nostrils and a rolled-up bill between her fingers.

Lucy thinks cocaine helps her think clearer. It's not as if she's dependent on it— she's not an ill veteran or widow seeking solace. Like everything else, Lucy does it for sheer pleasure. For the sort of excitement that consumes your entire being, a rhapsody of pure bliss.

Every bump goes down smoother than the ones before it. Her nose, small and pointed, is glowing red. She covers one nostril with her finger and inhales, then does the same to the other. By then, she's flying— an angel on earth, wings outstretched over the sky like so many clouds.

She's never felt more alive.

The shouting and laughter in the streets sound like music to her ears. The grime-stained cobblestone paths of London always feel like home— the smell of piss and gunpowder feel like home too. The sky is so polluted by factory smoke that she can't see more than two faint stars, glowing dimly in contrast to the moon.

Lucy agrees that the moon should be the focal point of everyone's attention. Its destiny is to be worshipped, a god in its own right. For that, Lucy relates— sometimes she thinks she should be worshipped too, and then the sun comes out. We can't always have what we want, her mother always says.

To that, Lucy strongly disagrees. She always gets what she wants, one way or another.

And right now, all Lucy Foster wants is some more fucking cocaine. Lucy Foster is all parties and giggles, glasses of champagne and silk dresses, but Rosemary Hyde knows business comes first. Business will always come first, and even when she's on her deathbed, she'll prioritize her paperwork over shaking hands with her creator.

Heels click rhythmically over rain-soaked cobblestone as thunder cracks overhead. She stops in the middle of the road and lights a cigarette, cars passing her by like many humming insects. She inhales thick smoke and feels it kiss her lungs sweetly. There's a riot going on in her bloodstream, all her cells colluding and conspiring together like a band of criminals.

She smiles, shivering in her fur coat. She sighs and takes another drag from her cigarette, holding it between perfectly manicured fingers, as she walks towards the back of the building.

There's a single lamp illuminating the street, flickering hesitantly as if it knows what's about to happen. She places her cigarette in between her plump red lips and pulls a pair of elbow-length black gloves out of her bag. The cool feeling of satin against her skin makes her smile again, as she takes a final drag of her cigarette and crushes it between her feet.

On cue, she sees the shadow of a man walking along the side of the building. The actual being is cloaked by darkness, but his hesitant gait and shaking hands give away his identity immediately. With red lips curled into a smile, she eyes him up and down as he steps into the light.

"You're late," he tells her.

"Been waiting long, have you?" She scoffs and rolls her eyes.

With an annoyed glance, he crosses his arms, "Roy told me to make myself busy. I was just following orders."

"Right, you've always been excellent at that," she smiles. "So, are we going to stand here all night, or are we going in?"

He says nothing and nods. It's just the response she's looking for— her burgundy lips curl into a cruel grin.

He holds the door open for her as she struts in front of him and down the stairs. Her heels are loud against the creaky floorboards, the lights getting dimmer the deeper she goes. The smell of mildew and cheap whiskey waft off the wooden stairs, and the ceiling, covered in mold, is dripping water almost melodically.

There is something in the air that sends a chill up her spine. Perhaps it's still the snow coursing through her veins, or perhaps it's the anticipation. Perhaps it's the thrill, the joy in knowing she's going to go to bed that night with blood-stained hands.

That's exactly it— bloodlust. An unquenchable thirst, an insatiable desire to kill and maim. Rosemary Hyde is much like a rabid animal; once she starts, she can't stop.

In the basement, there is a man in a wooden chair, arms and legs bound together. The cloth in his mouth is drenched with saliva and sweat, and it's placed in a way that makes him gag when he breathes. He's looking at her with terror in his eyes, like he'd just seen the devil himself.

And she revels in his fear. She drinks it up like sweet cherry wine.

"You look terrible, D'Angelo," her deep honey voice echoes in the empty room. "I guess that's what happens when you get involved with the wrong people."

He's jaded, but still sensible enough to squirm and squeak in his seat. With her black-gloved hands, she removes the cloth from his mouth. She tells him not to scream; it's never a good idea to scream, and yet D'Angelo does it anyway. He's never been a dignified man, always cowering behind his money and his family name. Rosemary loathes men like him.

"Why am I here?" D'Angelo asks, shaking.

"Don't play coy with me," Rosemary begins, "you know why."

"What do you want? Huh? Is it money?" He asks, and his breath hitches when she meets his gaze. "It is money, isn't it?"

"Yes, D'Angelo, it is money," Rosemary says dryly. "The money you stole from the Fosters."

His cheeks flush red with outrage, "But I never—"

"Did you think they wouldn't notice? Did you think they wouldn't realise they were missing ten thousand pounds?" Rosemary says, almost laughing at the simpering man before her. "Not everyone's as stupid as you are."

"It wasn't me, I swear!" D'Angelo exclaims desperately, like a pig sent to the slaughter.

Rosemary Hyde reaches into the pocket of her fur coat and pulls out a gun. She cocks it and holds it up to his head with a steady hand, ready to fire. The barrel of the gun was slick with D'Angelo's sweat and tears and seeing him writhe made her yearn to pull the trigger.

"You have ten seconds, D'Angelo," she says. "Ten seconds to tell me where the money is, or I'll blow your brains out."

"Please," he begs through tears, his voice almost as small as he is. If he wasn't bound, he'd be curled up in a fetal position, sucking his thumb and begging for his mother.

"Nine seconds."

"Please," he begs again, this time more desperate.

"Eight."

"I have a son! A family!" He exclaims as if he just remembered they existed. As if their existence made any difference to her. "Please, they need me."

"Seven."

"You don't understand— they'll die without me! They'll be thrown out onto the streets!" He cries. His voice sounds like a bird with a faulty lung being forced to sing. "We're having a financial crisis, okay? They can't manage it alone. They need me. Please."

This makes her stop and lower her gun.

"Which is why you stole the money."

"Look, I told you already, I didn't take the money," he says. "I think I might know who did."

"Time's running out, D'Angelo," Rosemary replies, "and my patience is wearing thin."

She tucks her gun back into her coat pocket and pulls out a knife. She runs it across his arms, his hands, his fingers. Across his neck, his cheek; soft and gentle, a coaxing method of consolation. He follows the knife with dilated pupils and a quivering lip, waiting for her to strike.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Rosemary asks.

"I—"

"Not the answer I was looking for," she interrupts him.

Her knife goes down to his big, meaty hands and slices off his smallest finger.

D'Angelo squeals like a dying pig as the blood gushes out of his hand. She wipes her knife clean on his tattered suit, planning her next line of attack.

"I think you should know something," she says. "This is your last day on Earth, you'll be dead tonight. And if you die without giving me the information I need, then I'll go after your family."

"No—"

"Oh, yes," Rosemary grins. "First, your wife, pretty little Lorette. You like them young, don't you?" She runs her knife down his cheek, applying just enough pressure to nick him. "Your son. . . what was his name? Emilio? He's named after your father, isn't he? He's a skinny little thing, huh? Maybe I'll kill him and pick my teeth with his bones."

"Please—"

"Please," she mocks. "This is the last time I'm asking: where's the money?"

He takes a deep breath, "If I tell you, will you leave my family alone?"

"If you tell me, I won't have any use for your family," Rosemary says. "Yes, D'Angelo, I'll leave them alone."

The man looks up at the ceiling then back down at his hands. He starts murmuring a prayer, begging for forgiveness, repentance for a lifetime of sinning. He cries as he speaks to his god, as if he'll receive an answer. As if his god is listening. And Rosemary knows well enough that D'Angelo has no intention of telling her where the money is.

She pulls the gun back out of her pocket and fires two shots into his skull. Even in death, he looks pathetic. His body is limp, eyes bloodshot and wide open, and his trousers are wet with piss. Rosemary considers cutting out his tongue and making him eat it as punishment for wasting her time, but she resists.

Another powerful man brought down to her level, dragged through the pits of Hell and back.