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In Book 2.1 we get to know Victoria, the oldest member of the group. Originally from Victorian London, Vickie is struggling to cope with the rapidly changing world. As the chaos of a night hunting gone wrong unfolds, she reflects on where she’s been and where they’re going.
Her attitude was not aging well. Part of it was watching Los Angeles grow and build on top of itself, very quickly devolving from a fresh, beautiful paradise into another slum, not unlike the one she’d been pulled out of. She spent seventy years living in and around Los Angeles, and at times it felt like Whitechapel followed her across the ocean and poisoned the heart of this once vibrant city. Disease and decay was slowly corrupting everything.
Of course, the seedy elements in L.A. weren’t as pervasive as they were London’s East End, but they were all accounted for. Hookers, thugs and junkies. Pimps and rapists and beggars. More room to spread out doesn’t make them any less ugly or heartbreaking.
Driving through Glendale on the way to the club that night, the human refuse blended into the scenery along with the rest of the garbage that littered Los Angeles, but she still noticed them. She always noticed them, probably more than others because they were her people. She hated them as well, also because they were her people.
Salome found her on that street corner in Whitechapel, dying, abandoned by her maker, and rescued her. Pulled her out of the slum and gave her a new life in high-society, which ultimately turned out to be another form of prostitution. Something Vickie learned over the last century and a half was that most relationships become prostitution in some way. The hunting and social-climbing and politics, there’s always someone getting paid and someone getting fucked, and nobody is particularly happy.