FORREST WOLLINSKY
THE BLOOD MISTS OF LONDON
[Book Two]
by
Leonard D. Hilley II
Leonard D. Hilley II
Copyright 2016
Leonard D. Hilley II
Nocturnal Trinity Press
This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author.
For Christal, for always believing. Thanks for sharing this journey.
Chapter One
London, 1888
Evening had settled over London. Thick, grayish-white mists crept over the cobblestone streets, slowly swallowing and darkening the Whitechapel district. Uneasiness made me shudder. I sensed something sinister moving within the fog, possessed by its restless need to shed blood. The evil seemed familiar, quite similar to Baron Randolph during his ruthless hunt upon his innocent victims in Bucharest. While such culprits like the baron can be killed, the evil that possessed them continues, lurking to inhabit new hosts to feed and fulfill its bloodthirsty cravings.
From what some London residents had told us, this summer had been oddly cold. Prior to my father, cousin, and I arriving in late August, reports of snow had fallen upon most of the region a month earlier. Snowfall in July? I found myself wondering if the weather had followed us from Bucharest since I had learned about vampires during one of the worst winters ever. The cooler temperatures in London might have explained the sudden fog on a midsummer night, but the weather wasn’t a correlation for the evil presence approaching along with it.
My father stood silently at the edge of the damp street, smoking his pipe, watching the fog approach. His beard was a wiry bush and his uncut hair stuck wildly from the sides of his worn top hat. He looked more like an animal than my cousin Jacques, but Father didn’t seem to care about his gaunt countenance anymore. His inner pain remained tender and unhealing. His unkempt appearance dissuaded folks from approaching and made him fit in with the other folks living in the slums. In spite of his frightening defense to ward off unwelcomed outsiders, his haunted eyes spoke volumes while he focused on the sweeping fog. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his thick overcoat and sighed.
Few people ventured along the streets this dismal night, and those who did, noticed the drifting mists and warily increased their steps to get home or inside one of the pubs. They possessed the common sense to get indoors.
I marveled at the slow moving wall of fog. The consuming veil prevented us from seeing beyond its fringe and what traveled within. Not even the gas streetlamps were visible once the sweeping fog congealed past them.
Jacques met my bewildered gaze. “You sense it, too, Forrest?”
I nodded, adjusting my hat. I transferred my Hunter box from one hand to the other. During our long journey to London, I had learned it was wise to always keep the box near at hand. This night was no different, actually reinforcing my pacifying connection to my arsenal, but I wondered if my box even contained a weapon capable of destroying what lurked within the mist and shadows. I pondered whether this unseen enemy was even a vampire at all.
Father regarded me with a side-glance, expelled smoke from the side of his bearded mouth, and motioned with a slight nod toward the door of The Britannia. I walked up the steps and pulled the door open, allowing him to hobble past me with his stiff legs. He offered a small smile, something he seldom did after Momma’s death, but the gesture was probably more for over-quenching his thirst to temporarily numb his mind from remembering the loss of my mother, his wife.
Lately, he drank far more and talked a whole lot less. Often he seemed a mute, incapable of saying anything. I had lost my mother in death, but oddly, my living father I had known and loved was no more, either. I doubted he’d ever recover from his heartache or that his compassion for life could even be rejuvenated. No matter how much love and support I offered, it was limited. Once he succumbed to his drunken stupors, it became the matter of keeping him from harming himself or others, or worse, seeing him jailed in a village or city that viewed us as common street ruffians or traveling gypsies, which we were not. Nonetheless, he was freed but usually at a high cost or risk to my own wellbeing.
Once a magistrate discovered the tools of my trade inside my Hunter box, father’s bounty for release changed from monetary fines to me slaying a vicious demon of the night—as most Catholics termed vampires—for his pardon and release. Mind you, not all were vampires I had to kill. Some were actual demons or zombies. A time or two I had faced ghouls, which I increasingly despised since they traveled in small packs around cemeteries and fire seemed the only way to destroy them. Those were the times when I missed Dominus the most and wondered how he fared.
Jacques felt no loss in Dominus’ absence. I understood why. Dominus had teased Jacques, who was more serious, and Jacques took the jests more as insults and belittling than anything else. But during the past few months, Jacques had been a great help in training me when he wasn’t roaming the forests in his werewolf form.
“You okay?” Jacques asked.
I nodded.
“You appear lost in thought.”
I shrugged.
“It’s understandable.” Jacques smiled and steadied the tavern door with his hand. “Go ahead.”
“Aren’t you coming inside?” I asked.
He glanced toward the rolling fog. His hand tightened on his silver cane.
“Not yet. I’m curious.”
“So am I, but I don’t think it’s best for us to linger outdoors in a city we know little about. Besides, almost every city has viewed our arrival with ill intentions.” I placed my thick hand upon the door and pressed my back against it to hold it open, hoping he’d step inside to join my father and myself, but he didn’t.
Jacques flashed a brief smile, straightened his hat, and tightened the collar of his coat before tapping his silver cane against the stone steps. “Tend to your father. Keep an eye on him. I shall return before he’s too sloshed to stand.”
With that, he headed down the street where the fog was destined to engulf everything within its path. Even though I had traveled with Jacques for months, I occasionally forgot that his senses of hearing and smell were far greater than my own. It was quite an adjustment having a cousin who was a werewolf.
Wafts of fog expanded, rose, filling the streets and alleyways, and clinging to the cobblestone and walls like a smoky entity. As the thick cloud grew, so did my apprehension. Nothing good would come of this night. I was only a novice Vampire Hunter, pushing close to two dozen kills, but even that was not enough expertise to quality me for what I was about to encounter.
A young couple joined hands, laughing and running ahead of the fog, playfully pretending that the fog intended to devour them. I shook my head and entered the tavern, allowing the door to close behind me. If they only knew how accurately close their little game was to the truth, they’d have no laughter, only fear.
I turned and looked out the window. A few seconds later several dirty-faced lads ran from the fog with evident fear in their widened eyes. Something within the shadows was pursuing them. They had seen it, and they were too frightened to attempt a scream. I considered steppin
g outside in the fog, but not without Jacques. And Father . . . it was never wise to leave him alone to drink.
Leaving Bucharest behind had been more painful than I had anticipated. The forests surrounding our former cottage had been the only home I had ever known, but without my mother . . . I thrust the painful memories away.
The thin barkeep, dressed in a white shirt with a bowtie, noticed my Hunter box, gave me a quick glance over, and shook his head with a narrow brow. With his thick handlebar, his lips looked comical when he spoke. In spite of his appearance his voice was deep, gruff. “I don’t allow the trading of wares in here.”
I shook my head, setting the box against the bar. “What I carry isn’t for anyone else.”
“We’re not an inn, either, Gypsy.”
I ignored his statement and the bitterness in his tone. While my accent was similar to the Gypsies in my home country, my heritage was far different. It did no good to argue the point with someone who already held preconceived judgmental ideas about a culture he didn’t understand.
Sitting on the stool beside my father, my long overcoat draped to the floor, partially concealing my Hunter box from curious onlookers and prying eyes. Due to the injuries Baron Randolph had inflicted upon my father, he no longer carried his Hunter box. It was difficult enough for him to walk on stiffened legs without any added weight, so he kept two stakes and a cross inside his overcoat, in case we encountered one of the undead. But lately, he was seldom sober enough to combat a feral cat, much less a hungry vampire.
I ran a hand through my thickening beard while Father told the barkeep what he favored. I suppressed a grin while looking around at the patrons. None would ever have guessed I was a boy because I was larger and more muscular than anyone else in the pub. My deepened voice backed the façade.
Like my father, I ordered a tankard of large dark ale. The first big gulp was bitter with a horrid aftertaste, almost like the foam had transformed into a coat of dingy fur on my tongue. Turning slightly on the stool, I gazed across the tables.
This boisterous bar was no different the dozens my father and I had entered during our journey. Folks laughed, swore, or slammed their mugs upon the table, buttressing their arguments with vigor. Near the midnight hour, after too much ale and whiskey were consumed, brawls broke out. Such were easier to predict than the weather. Where men gathered for strong drinks, destiny dictated that some would ensue fisticuffs.
A few women walked from table to table with blushful smiles, hoping to engage the attention of a one-night suitor for money. Jacques had been the one to warn me about them and not my father. In many ways my cousin took Father’s destined role to inform me about society and how to deal properly with people.
Father spent his time staring into a bottomless tankard, slipping into his nightly oblivion and shutting everyone else out. And while I was the size of a grown man, I wasn’t ready to complicate my life with unfamiliar emotions, especially when improper affection and infatuation might be mentally misconstrued as love for a young mind like mine.
In addition to Jacques’ advice, I continued gaining the knowledge and insight from each vampire I had slain. So I understood things that other eight-year-old children might not otherwise know. I longed to keep my childlike innocence, but the more undeads I killed, the less my mind tarried on ignorant naivety. My body was mature, and although my mind was catching up, I still chose to shun the ideas of infatuation and love. When I entertained such intimate thoughts, my curiosity dwelt on Rose and my guilt for never properly telling her goodbye in Bucharest troubled me. My actions had been childish. Often I wondered if she resented me for exiting the way I had, or if she occasionally thought of me.
Distance had not shaken her from my memories, but I wasn’t ready to face her or her father yet. She had bewitched me, unknowingly and without magic. But, I knew being near her while wrestling with my affection for her prevented me from doing my ordained duty in slaying the undead demons of the night. It didn’t help that she had begged me not to pursue my destiny, and I knew if I chose to love her and settle down, she’d have nothing less from me. To be with her required me to deny my Chosen status, which I couldn’t do. I was certain if I did, awful things would happen to her for being the obstacle blocking my destiny.
Daring another gulp of the bitter brew, I placed the tankard on the bar and wiped the froth from my beard with the back of my hand. A woman seated alone at a corner table met my gaze. Unlike the couple of women sauntering from table to table, she didn’t offer a hint of a smile. Her eyes narrowed, not from anger it seemed, but from unsatisfied inquisitiveness.
Her complexion was dark, as were her eyes and bunted hair beneath a tight bonnet. Her dress was plain gray without frills. She didn’t wish to draw additional attention to herself. There was nothing fancy about her, and to everyone else she was invisible much like a ghost. She looked out of place, slightly uneasy, but bold enough to acknowledge me with an unflinching gaze. With an even smile and a slight nod, she motioned me with her eyes toward the empty chair across from her, an invitation that made me leery.
Her eyes held no contempt, nor did they gleam of sorrow, betrayal, or mischief. She offered a slight plea, perhaps, for a person to take a moment to notice her, which I had, and now she had bid me to join her. I sensed a tendril of power flowing around her, different from what had moved in the mists outside, and the mysticism surrounding her was refreshingly familiar like an old friend, and not an enemy.
Father turned up his tankard, downing the contents. He tapped the bar twice and the barkeep brought him another.
Shaking my head, I stood and clasped his shoulder. “I’ll return in a few minutes.”
He didn’t nod or reply. He simply stared at his frothy ale. I wasn’t even sure he had heard me.
I grabbed my Hunter box and walked to the woman’s table. Her eyes reflected slight fear as I towered over the chair across from her and set the heavy box on the tabletop. Perhaps she had underestimated my true stature, but her alarm might have been due to my natural unfriendly facial expressions. I looked angry and unpleasant most of the time, which often stopped confrontations before they even had a chance to begin. Nonetheless, after I seated myself, she became more at ease.
“You’re a traveler, aren’t you?” she asked.
I nodded.
“Peddler?” Her curious eyes fastened on the box.
“No.”
She looked disappointed. “Ah, I see. I thought you might be a refugee from Russia.”
I shook my head.
“No matter. Why carry such a large box if not selling fine merchandise?”
“I have my reasons.” Offering nothing more, she took my silence and stoic expression as hostility.
“My apologies.”
“None necessary,” I replied, adjusting the hat Dominus had gifted me. “For what reason did you invite me to sit here? What is it that you need?”
She shrugged slightly. “You seem different than the other men that frequent the pubs. What name do you go by?”
“Forrest. And yours?”
“Matilda,” she said softly. She offered her hand tilted toward me. “It’s nice to meet you.”
I took her hand in mine and kissed it in the manner Jacques had told me polite gentlemen did. “The pleasure’s mine.”
She blushed. “The old man with you . . . Your father?”
“Yes.”
Matilda eyed me suspiciously. “You’re a bit old to be following your father around, aren’t you?”
I held a slight grin, studying her eyes for intent. What did she want, and why all the prying questions? “We’re close.”
Usually terse replies informed a person the conversation was over, or unwelcome at the very least, but she remained persistent.
“If you’re not from Russia, where is your homeland? Your accent is strange compared to ours.”
I laughed deeply. “I imagine it is as I’ve thought the same about those in London. We are Romanian.”
&
nbsp; An amused smile curled her lips, but not in an attractive way. She straightened in her chair. “Then my premonition concerning you was correct.”
I frowned. “About what exactly?”
Matilda glanced across the room without turning her head. She leaned closer and whispered, “You travel with a werewolf.”
I held an even gaze without flinching, which was a mannerism I was getting much better at performing. It had taken a lot of practice to prevent disclosing a tell whenever a person challenged me about facts or events that weren’t their business to meddle in. I gave her a confused expression. “A werewolf? What is that?”
Her eyes narrowed, this time stirring with slight anger and agitation. “Don’t offer ignorance, Forrest. Any child in Romania could describe such a beast. Or a vampire as well.”
Folding my hands atop the table, I cocked a brow. “Even if I understood what a werewolf is, what makes you think I’d be traveling with one? I assure you that my father isn’t such a monster.”
“Not your father. Your father is prey to his own demon. Misery has caused him to drink to escape his reality. It’s not him. You must travel with another as well?”
I sensed power leap from her and brush against me. Still I refused an outright answer. “What makes you think that?”
“Because his scent is on you.”
“And you would know this how?”
“Their kind roamed London’s streets before. They were part of our general population until things got out of control. Lots of people died. You were a fool to bring him to the city.”
How did she know? I wasn’t certain, but enough with my charade. I grinned.
“I didn’t bring him here. He brought my father and I.”
“This isn’t a jest, so don’t take my caveat lightly. The police have been sworn to kill any such creature since the city magistrate has strictly ordered immediate death to any werewolf found within London. The constables are equipped with silver bullets and silver daggers.”
Forrest Wollinsky: Vampire Hunter [Book 2]: Blood Mists of London Page 1