Death of Connor Sanderson_Prequel to Fire & Ice Series

by Karen Payton Holt

  What now?

  Malachi grinned. Now? A fire.

  What! Jerking his head towards the snoring coming from the other side of the wall, Connor frowned.

  The walls are seven inches thick. The police are two minutes away. Do you want to get out of here, or stay and rot?

  Malachi had a point. Connor stripped off his prison tunic and in seconds, the dead man and he swapped clothes. He laid the corpse on the narrow cot bed and watched Malachi pull out a box of matches. Holding a hand out to Connor, Malachi said aloud this time. “Whiskey. Coat pocket.”

  Slopping the contents over the man’s face and chest, Malachi lit the match, dropped it and both vampires leapt up and out through the window. Wedging the four bars back into place, two for each, took seconds.

  Just before Connor dropped to the ground again, he yelled, “Help. Fire!”

  The sound of pounding feet and a shrieking alarm siren made him feel better as he followed the distant figure of Malachi along the streets, and across London to Kensal Cemetery. It seemed so much more than three days since Connor had first seen ‘The Butcher’ and come face to face with the reality of eternity. If he was honest, in many ways it still felt like a dream he would wake up from at any moment. Or rather, a nightmare.

  Connor caught up with Malachi and said, “Who was he? You didn’t kill him for me?”

  Malachi exposed his yellow teeth in a macabre grin. “And if I did?” Before Connor could reply, his mentor said, “No, I didn’t kill him. But it was good fortune rather than choice. He literally keeled over in front of me. Bad heart.”

  Connor didn’t want to split hairs, but given Malachi’s hideous appearance, if he appeared suddenly, as if from nowhere, he most likely did kill the man now burning in Connor’s place.

  Exasperation built inside, but with a long expelled breath, Connor let it go. He couldn’t control everything, and worrying about the possibility of the man having a family? That route led to insanity.

  The rusted gates of the mausoleum were draped in fog this evening. Malachi had already scaled them and taken on the quality of a ghost, as wisps of vapor drifted around him. Connor followed quickly and accepted, that as macabre as it seemed, taking refuge in the tomb alongside The Butcher would keep him safe until they worked out a course of action.

  Inside the tomb, sitting at the far end of the chamber which contained the sarcophagus, the two conspirators were able to talk.

  “I need to find out what, or who, Lester saw,” Connor said, watching Malachi closely for a reaction.

  “And how do you plan to accomplish such a thing?” asked Malachi.

  Connor thought for a moment and then said heavily, “Reggie. I don’t want him involved, but he can visit Lester at St Thomas’. If I can persuade him, that is. Can you deliver a note to the Hall without being seen?”

  He nodded. “We don’t have too much time. The body will fool the police for a while, but a medical examiner will know it isn’t you.”

  Malachi got up and paused in the stone archway. “Stay out of sight. I’ll be back soon.”

  The silence settled like a blanket over Connor’s senses. Sitting without breathing enabled him to really listen. The Butcher’s silence was equally profound, and Connor understood the meaning of being dead. Would he turn back the clock if he could?

  He thought of the kiss Lavinia stole outside the tea room and whispered, “Yes. I’d exchange this endless nothingness for a day of loving her.”

  Chapter 22

  Settled in the mausoleum and locked inside his own head, inactivity was difficult to bear. All the things he wished he could do for himself preyed on Connor’s mind like circling vultures. He shifted position on the ledge of cold stone which, after three hours of sitting, was the same temperature as his hard flesh.

  Breathing in and expelling air noisily, to refresh the stale air inside, he grinned wryly. No tell-tale plume of vapor gave him pause. Flexing his hands, each tendon grated through its sheath; the connection to bone and fiber so stiff it could be read as pain. The sticky juddering was new, though. Am I dehydrating? Malachi would know. Connor recoiled at the thought, and it was then he realized becoming dependent on Malachi could be a dangerous path. What if he is using me? How or why, Connor couldn’t imagine, but worms of distrust ate away at his brain.

  Closing his eyes, Connor reconnected with the Malachi of that first meeting – reliving his gloating ‘survival’ speech, but this time, Connor had the luxury of hindsight. It was like, having read an instruction manual in a foreign tongue, he now had a translation.

  He laid out on the stone slab, and sluggish dryness filled his head, slid like lava into his throat, and swallowing couldn’t shift it. The abrasive feeling made him yearn for the thick sweet taste of blood, and suddenly his eyes shot open.

  Only human blood feeds the three compartments of the vampire brain. As the thirst drove him to distraction, he rose and began circling the tomb faster and faster until he knew the chamber could no longer contain him. This is my body, my brain, telling me I must feed. Even though his lip curled in distaste at the thought of killing a human, he erupted from the gates of the mausoleum and out into the night air.

  He knew London well, and the ‘decent’ part of him still vying for control pleaded for compromise. Not an innocent. Connor headed across the green cultivated gardens of the Royal parks and into the shabbier, more-grimy district of Whitechapel.

  The brick built dwellings bore the soot streaks of decades of London fog, made thicker by the coal fires which belched smoke from the chimney of every home in the city. The narrow side streets created claustrophobic wind tunnels. Humans hurried along, heads bent and hands gripping their collars tightly around their necks. Connor wove from one side of the street to another, like a heat-seeking missile. He searched through the pack, looking for the runt of the litter.

  Finding a busy public house in Whitechapel wasn’t hard to do. The emblem of Truman’s Ale was a siren call to the locals of the East End. Even through the clouded etched glass of the windows, Connor picked out the dancing bobbing shadows of the drunk, uninhibited warm bodies in the glow of yellow light. Raucous laughter spilled out each time the door opened to welcome newcomers, or to release those taking their leave.

  He’d once attended a lecture on ‘description of class’. The disparaging label which best fit the heaving mass of humanity inside the cheap, dirty tavern made them a good hunting ground. ‘Class A’, according to social cartographer, Charles Booth, ‘were the lowest class, which consists of labourers, street sellers, loafers, criminals. They live the life of savages, with vicissitudes of extreme hardship and their only luxury is drink.’

  Connor’s interest lay in the ‘savage criminals’ element.

  A young woman fought her way through the wooden swing door and froze on the threshold when the wall of bitter cold made her gasp.

  Connor rested back against the brick wall ten yards down the street, standing midway between two gas street lamps.

  “Good Lawd,” the girl muttered, “brass monkey weather out ‘ere.” Pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders, but without covering her comely wares. The shiver that rattled through her soft scented body raised goosebumps across the rounded swell of her breasts.

  Connor’s mouth watered and his fists tightened until he felt each fingernail digging into his palms. Images flashed through his mind like blades of searing heat; the pale skin tearing as he bit into the succulent flesh. The red gash of her lips forming a perfect circle of agony until blood flooding into her throat smothered the sound.

  Still fighting against the wind trying to rip the shawl from her black-lace gloved hands, she suddenly grunted. Grabbing the heavy brass handle on the door, she pulled it open. “C’mon, Aggie. Mum’ll be ‘ome soon. She’ll ‘ave me guts for garters if she knows I took you down the pub.”

  A young girl on the cusp of womanhood, but reeking with scent of childhood, emerged and linked arms with the older woman.

  They set
off at a scurry, huddled together so closely they lurched from side to side. Their strides were small and fast to keep the cold draft from penetrating their rustling skirts.

  Connor turned his face to the wall and closed his eyes. He tracked the thick thud of their heartbeats - the childlike girl’s pattering much faster. He detected the scent of alarm and knew she was scared of the dark. And so she should be. No, not this one. He thought each word forcefully, as if having an argument with someone else. And he was. The lunatic inside his head rattled louder on the bars of his cerebral cell.

  He knew he couldn’t hold back the blood thirsty tide of malice much longer. Swinging away to put distance between him and the girls, he broke into a run and accelerated until his dehydrating muscles tightened in protest. The sand inside the hour glass in his head clattered loudly, like boulders – time is running out.

  Stopping short, a dull weight dragged his shoulders down. If he didn’t hunt, feed, kill, then he would die. In the last three days, he had witnessed pain and suffering he had no stomach for. What gave him the right to take away the lives of humans? Deciding who should live or die was a burden too heavy to bear. If I die, the pain is over.

  He heard the gentle lullaby of lapping water. The River Thames flowed just beyond the row of factories and warehouses which served the London Docks. The hulking constructions cast dense shadows and using the concrete walkway to walk alongside one, dressed Connor in an ink-black cloak.

  He rounded the corner and looked out over the slate-gray body of water. Ripples tore the surface like a seething mass of sharpened blades. The cranes rose into the sky; metal fingers stripped of flesh. Connor took a step forward, contemplating the path through the quayside clutter of coiled grime-stained ropes, greased chains as thick as a man’s thigh, and splintered wooden palates and crates. The wind snatched at his jacket and, without thinking, he shook it off and dropped it onto the ground.

  The hypnotic shushing of the water had him entranced, until a grunt over to his left, out of sight, but very close, made him falter.

  Switching direction when the scent of blood hit him, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and, nanoseconds later, he rounded the corner and looked down at the dying man. A glint of silver up ahead caught his eye; dark figure walking quickly away, his footfalls echoing like the clap of applauding hands. Connor gathered the puzzle pieces in the seconds it took the man to wipe the blood from the knife and hide it inside his coat.

  Drowning in the sweet scent rising from the victim at his feet, Connor dropped to his knees. Holding the rattling cell door of the psychopath closed a little longer, he inspected the slicing wound in the man’s stomach and took his pulse, feeling it slowing with every second.

  “Catch ‘im. E’s robbed me. Gripping Connor’s forearm with surprising strength, the man whispered again. “Catch ‘im, please.” With a rattling sigh, the man’s grasp slipped away and his head fell back onto the concrete with a thump.

  Before Connor’s conscious mind admitted defeat, the demon inside filled his senses with blood-red craving, and hot human blood flooded his throat, warming the ice cold pit of his stomach and sending a sizzling trail of heat up his carotid arteries; his brain lit up in a flash flood of ecstasy.

  He felt the skin on his face flush as the thirsty capillaries soaked up the lifeblood of his victim. No, not my victim. Consciousness broke the surface like an iceberg rolling in a swelling tide. No, NOT my kill.

  Pulling back sharply, Connor stared at the dead man – his mouth hanging open and his hands flopped over beside him – and rested him back into the pool of his own blood. Passing a hand down over his face, Connor closed the dead man’s eyes and stood up. His shirt was smeared red, but not enough to soak through to his skin. I must be getting better. Even his hands were almost clean.

  Washing them quickly in a bucket of rainwater, he retrieved his jacket from the ground and shrugged back into it. Moving fast enough to become a blur of scattered light rays, he retraced his path, intending to return to Central London and the Mausoleum, but the man with the knife taunted him. ‘The wrong man died tonight’ was the only thing going around in his mind. It doesn’t matter. But it did.

  Moments later, the realization he was racing along a street he didn’t recognize made no sense, until he heard that same weight of footfall. It wasn’t just the noise. It was the gait. One foot dragged a little. He must have stored the information without knowing it. The mile between them reduced to yards within seconds, and the villain with the knife glanced over his shoulder at the sudden hurricane which whisked the dry autumn leaves into a cyclone.

  The lunatic inside barely stirred this time – he was replete. This kill was for the human remnants of Connor, although, common sense said he would not waste a meal.

  The man ran, and flinging himself forward, he became dangerously unbalanced.

  Connor used the forward momentum, grabbed the man by the collar and redirected him face first into a tree trunk.

  The man spun around clutching his face, blood trickling from his bruised nose.

  Connor held his victim up against the tree by the throat and plucked the knife from his coat pocket. Connor ran the blade under his own nose as though it supported a line of cocaine. He grinned, revealing teeth smeared with the same blood residue still on the knife.

  “What did you steal, hmm?”

  “I-”

  “Shhhh. Don’t tell me. I’ll guess,” he said, and stared through the curtain of greasy hair into terrified, but weasel sharp eyes. He laughed. “You still think you have a chance. Tut, tut. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

  He patted down the filthy coat and something clinked inside a pocket. Dipping his cold white hand inside, Connor’s fingers closed around a ring. He pulled it out and found it was suspended on a broken length of twine. It rotated slowly when he held it up. Still looking at the wedding ring, clearly too small for a man, Connor mused, “So, you ripped this from around his neck. Why would a man wear a woman’s wedding ring around his neck?” Raising a brow at the man he thought of as a ‘murderer’, Connor squeezed his hand tighter.

  The man’s boots thumped against the tree as he kicked out.

  “My guess is, his wife is dead. What do you think?”

  “It was an accident.” The man grimaced.

  Connor shook his head. “I don’t think so. But this is your lucky day.” Connor let go so quickly, the man staggered. “I’ve already eaten.”

  Throwing the knife until it was buried to the hilt in a nearby tree, Connor turned away. The metal spike the thief drove into Connor’s side skidded off hard skin. In a reflex, he whipped his hand back and hit the man full in the face.

  The crack of his spine snapping echoed through the trees. He hit the ground in a heap of tangled limbs, like a puppet with cut strings.

  Damn. The smashed face and shattered vertebrae were not injuries easily explained away. Damn. With a sigh, he hoisted the body up over his shoulders and took off at vampire top speed back to the Mausoleum.

  Ducking down into the tomb, Connor dropped the body onto the stone ledge and covered the victim’s face with his greasy coat. He had the feeling Malachi would have some stern words.

  Chapter 23

  Listening to the whispering sounds of spiders and beetles in the tomb distracted Connor from the consequences of his impetuous actions. He indulged in guessing, by sound alone, which bug or insect was busily creating lairs, and wishing his life was that simple.

  A rushing wind blasted a shower of dust in through the entrance. It cascaded down over the stone steps and Connor knew Malachi had returned.

  The elder vampire materialized beside where Connor sat and, as if he’d merely stepped out of the room for ten minutes, he handed over a large envelope with sheets of paper and a pencil tucked inside.

  “Your friend Reginald is returning to Cranham Hall. He took your death badly. He will be there for the next two days.” Malachi said.

  Shutting out the guilt rising inside
him, Connor asked, “How do you know this?”

  “I know where everyone is, Connor. Humans are simple to track and eavesdrop on. Their voices carry even when they try not to. Tuning them out is the more common problem in vampires.”

  Is that true? Connor emptied his mind and heard streams of ghost like whispers. “I miss you my dear” – an unsteady voice, vocal chords slack with old age, was easy to pick out. That human was in the cemetery, or just outside it, walking past but sending out a muttered prayer to his lost companion. There were others, now he had found their wavelength he teased out individuals like separating strands from a twisted rope. The idea that Malachi knew where his friends and family were unsettled him, although he couldn’t say why.

  “I can deliver a note to the-” The smell of coagulated blood interrupted Malachi train of thought and his head whipped round. He stared at the body, and the soles of the worn pair of boots pointing in his direction.

  You left the tomb? Malachi’s snarling face appeared half an inch away from Connor’s and made him start. The dry crinkled skin on his mentor’s face became more gruesome viewed up close. The old vampire scoured Connor’s irises, his intensity almost a tangible pressure inside his student’s cranium. Grave sleep.

  Connor had heard the words before, somewhere in the distance, but he couldn’t quite grasp their meaning.

  Malachi laughed harshly. You were lucky. Letting the lunatic from his cell to rehydrate the killing centre inside your brain could have left you insane. Malachi cocked his head and muttered aloud, “I chose my protégé well. You can resist blood, and that means you control your destiny.”

  “The restlessness and agitation were real? Originating from brain starvation?” Connor asked.

  “Yes. Preoccupied with guiding you through the murders, I almost let you sink into dementia.” Malachi looked genuinely regretful. “Where did you go?”

  “Whitechapel, and then the docks.”

  Glancing at the body again, Malachi sank back down beside Connor. I tried to groom another protégé in London once, in 1888.”