This is a fanfic inspired by Christopher Pike's Last Vampire Series. I found the character of Sita to be deeply intruguing, and as she had such a long lifespan, it left the door open to all sorts of literary possibilities. I can only hope that I did this character justice. This story is also inspired by the legendary Jack the Ripper. His true identity is still a mystery so I had a variety of possible killers to chose from.

My name is Sita. You may have heard of me. I am the oldest vampire. I am also the last. I've lived in many places and met many people over my 5,000 year life span. You'd think I'd be bored after all this time. And often I am. But I am not ready to die. And right now, I am on the hunt. It was in November of 1888 that Jack the Ripper killed his last victim. He only needed to kill five. Jack the Ripper was a man who made a deal with the western society's devil.

He once was a hunter, but now he has become the hunted. You may wonder how a vampire such as I could not have captured him by now. Well let me tell you, this man is quite the magician. For many years, authorities puzzled over the possible suspects. I, too, was unsure for several years myself.

Perhaps it was a mad midwife, a sort of Jane the Ripper. Yet there has never been a case of a woman performing sadistic mutilation murders. What can I say? I hide my tracks well. Yet I have only killed for survival, in which case, the victim went peacefully. Or because I deemed the person evil. Those murders got quite bloody. But let us move on in the list of suspects.

Maybe it was Dr. Thomas Neil Cream, the international lady poisoner, who stated "I am Jack" as he was hanged for his crimes. Yet Cream was incarcerated in the U. S. at the time these murders took place. I'm not saying he was lying but that what he meant was he and Jack had the same soul. They were both killers, and shared a lust for blood. I think we all have a little Jack in us.

James Maybrick was the writer of the infamous "Jack the Ripper diaries" that appeared during the investigation. Most have been deemed fakes though. The diaries are quite horrifying though, and it is clear Maybrick is not quite sane. I believe him to be rather obsessed with "Jack" and his number one admirer. And I think that maybe, he even believes he truly is "Jack." But he is not.

No, it is one of the less popular suspects that is the killer. Dr. Roslyn D'Ornston Stephenson. A secretive man, and a magician, Stephenson once published a theory on "Jack." Said that they were part of some kind of secret ceremony. After all, there were five murders, as there are five points on a pentagram. Of course, most people found it would be rather dumb of him to publish such a theory, as he was rumored to secretly engage in god only knows what, and it would make him a prime suspect. Smart move "Jack," to hide out in the open like that.

These rumors gradually faded and in 1904, just as I finally realized he was the killer, Stephenson disappeared. But I've found him. As I speak, I am across the sea, and will eventually arrive in France. I have had my pale blond hair dyed light brown, and I am now under the assumed name of Elena Pearson.

Once the boat reaches land, I am to take a train the rest of the way. Soon I will be in a villa outside of Paris. I hadn't planned on coming back to France so soon after the last time. Almost lost my head there once.

It was in a small dimly lit tavern that I found "Jack." I no sooner sat down with my ale than there he was on the stage, performing. His hair was pure white now, and he had grown a bit of a beer belly. As I think these thoughts to whoever I'm thinking them, he is pulling a rabbit out of his hat to the ooh's and aah's of the audience.

I applauded politely, pleased to have found him so soon. A few people looked at me strangely. As I was born 5'000 years ago, I am a little short and I do look a little young to be sitting in this tavern. But my voice carries the resonance of someone who has lived many years and suffered many heartbreaks.

And it is true that I have known many heartbreaks in my long life. In fact, I was friends with one of "Jack's" poor victims. Mary Ann Nicholes was a good woman and did not deserve to die. I doubt any of his victims did. I like to think of myself as an avenging angel, yet I know Krishna would laugh at the idea. Always laughing. It was Krishna's way.

I wish I could be as at peace with the world as Krishna was. He speaks to me in my dreams sometimes. I always liked him, even if he could not give me the answers I was looking for. He was a story-teller. You had to find the answers for yourself. I wonder what stories he would tell me if I asked if this was just my way to atone for all the blood I've spilled in the past. Of course before the evening is over, I'll have just spilled more.

I bet his blood is as black as my heart, as his soul. I myself do not believe I have a soul. I believe that part of me died a spiritual death (if you will pardon the redundancy) when Yaksha changed me. Haven't seen him for a few centuries, I am fairly certain he is dead and gone. Krishna promiced him a soul if he killed all other vampires. But this one was not going to die for his eternal peace.

But enough of my musings, back to the situation at hand. Now the doctor is doing card tricks with the assistance of an audience member. She was a pretty little blond thing. He was touching her hand more than necessary. She just giggled nervously. I could tell she was a little nervous. Only a little though.

To my right, I see something else. A tall and muscular blond brute of a man with blue eyes. German, no doubt. He was eyeing me with keen interest and I can't say I blame him. I am quite lovely in my snug-fitting baby blue dress. I was tightly bound by a corset, and made full in the back by the bustle, as is the style these days. I much prefer the pale pink and green and red kimonos I wore during my brief stay in Japan not too long ago. A century, perhaps.

While, in my naturally slim condition, the dress was not as uncomfortable for me as it would be for other more fuller-figured women, it did make maneuvering rather difficult. Especial for a gifted martial artist such as I, who requires unrestricted movement and grace.

As I sit there and watch the show, I probe the mind of the young man eyeing me. He is looking for companionship this evening, whether it be given willingly, or taken by force. If he could look in my mind, he would see one who would gladly quench their eternal thirst with the blood of such a strapping young man. But I am small and slender, and in his blurry, semi-drunken eyes, an easy conquest. I doubt he will be much of a challenge.

To my surprise, I am the next "victim" Jack invites on stage. I assist him with a cage from which two pure white doves fly out. I must admit I was impressed. Even a powerful vampire such as I could not figure out how he did it, and right there with him no less. Then a lovely rose, as ruby-red as blood, appears in his hand. He gives it to me, and helps me down. He smells of death.

I return to my seat, slip the rose into my bodice, and watch the rest of the show. I notice that "Jack" occasionally glances at me out of the corner of his eye. I can smell death even from here. But I smell fear as well. The German is waiting outside the door for me as I leave. He is in for a surprise himself.

Twenty minutes later finds me daintily pressing a handkerchief to my bloodstained lips. It is a burgundy strip of fabric. The blood will not show. The shirt of my handsome young victim, however, is another story. I made quite a mess of his meaty throat. Must have been more hungry than I realized.

My sensitive hearing is suddenly alerted by the sounded of a choking scream. It was more of a gargled gasp, actually. I run down another alley, this one behind the tavern, and look down to see a dark puddle pooling around my feet. Slowly, the blood seeps into my satiny pale blue shoes.

I peer into the shadows, and "Jack" is staring at me with wide eyes, holding the pretty little blond from earlier to his chest. Her pale while neck is sliced open and her once vibrant emerald eyes, now a pale lifeless green. The front of her soft pink dress is almost black with blood. He lets her go and her limp body falls at his feet. I find the site strangely disturbing, after all, I myself have killed many pretty little things no older than her in my time.

"You've been a naughty boy Jack," I say as I remove the rose from my dress, and gently finger the petals. I smile demurely. I can still smell his fear, but by looking inside his mind, I see that he thinks that I am merely a nuisance, another pretty little thing to get out of the way.

He is greatly alarmed though, as I reach him before he can even blink. And even more so as I wrap a strong and sure hand around his scrawny throat. He doesn't even have a chance to scream as I raise the rose and plunge the stem through his jugular. The thorns catch on the skin, tearing as they force their way through the tender flesh.

"I don't want to die," I hear his voice whisper in my head. "Then you should never have been born." I force the rose all the way through his throat until the tip of the stem pierces through the back of his neck, the thorns dripping with his blood. It will be a slow and painful death for this monster. I'd give you all the gory details but I don't want to be responsible for all the nightmares it will induce.

Within an hour, "Jack" has disappeared for good. As I tell you my dark tale, the sharks of the Atlantic are tearing at his mutilated remains. My handkerchief alone is not enough to clean the blood from my hands. A few hours later, I am on a boat to America, this time under the name of Alisa Perne.

I stand at the bough and let my long blond hair free to blow in the wind. The moon highlights the water with silver trails as the boat leaves Europe behind. I have a strange feeling about America. I shiver slightly, and it is not because I am cold. A new chapter in my life is about to open, and I believe it will be the most thrilling...