They climbed the far bank and entered the woods once more. Simon led the way through the underbrush, though not a word was said between them as they walked. Luthor fell back in step beside Mattie, though he knew the redhead hardly needed his protection. From the corner of his eye, however, he could see her shivering. Her body was soaked from the river crossing, and her loss of clothing the previous night left her ill prepared for the harshness of the cold stream. His gaze fell over her body, and he noted ashamedly that the thin, white blouse now clung tightly to the curves of her lower body. The apothecary cleared his throat and removed his jacket, offering it to her. She smiled appreciatively and tied it around her waist, warming her damp legs and adding a modicum of modesty.
By Simon’s guess, they were quickly coming parallel to the chancellor’s manor house. Despite the fact that the chancellor and his ilk were firmly entrenched in the mines, protecting themselves from the blazing sun, there was a good chance that the human conspirators would be near the estate. The trio continued forward, moving as quietly as possible between the trees.
As Simon ducked beneath a low-hanging tangle of branches, leaves crunched nearby. Raising his hand abruptly, he brought the other two to a halt. They quickly crouched and hid amongst the brush as well as possible. Bushes blocked their view, though they could hear the labored breathing of a man pushing his way through the woods.
The sounds echoed in the woods, the exact direction of their hunter’s approach seemed distorted. Simon closed his eyes as he strained to pinpoint a direction. The footfalls grew progressively louder, as did the man’s labored breathing. A soft curse rolled through the woods as the man’s clothing became entangled on a thorny vine.
Simon opened his eyes and shifted his gaze slightly to the right. The bushes shook softly as someone brushed against them. The Inquisitor could hear the tearing of fabric as the man, in his haste, tore free from the thorns, leaving shreds of his fabric behind.
Looking down, Simon’s eyes alighted on a fallen branch. Part of it had begun to rot and insects crawled just beneath the bark. The rest of the branch, however, seemed solid. As he hefted it in his hand, he could feel its weight.
A broad-shouldered man broke through the underbrush, swearing again as he tried to untangle himself from the small, clinging branches. He spun slowly in a circle as his thick hands fidgeted with far-too-narrow twigs that pulled at his shirt and the waistband of his pants. His dark ponytail bounced with his frustration, and his deep voice rolled from his chest as he grunted excitedly until he finally pulled his clothes free.
The bartender sighed contently as he turned back in the direction he had been traveling. Gregory’s eyes opened wide in surprise as he saw Simon standing before him, disheveled as he was but hoisting an impressively large log in his hands.
“Can we—?” Gregory began.
“No,” Simon interrupted. “We cannot.”
Simon silenced him in midsentence with a powerful swing of the log. It connected with the side of Gregory’s head, splitting his cheek and jarring teeth loose in his mouth. The large man staggered to the side as he tried to maintain his balance. Simon responded by swinging again. Despite the bartender’s hand already held protectively to the side of his head, the log still managed to connect solidly above Gregory’s ear. The bartender’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the ground. He caught himself on his hands and knees, not fully falling to the dense grass and moss of the forest floor. The Inquisitor raised the club, preparing to strike again, when Gregory’s arms shook one final time before the large man dropped unconscious into the plush flora.
Simon smiled as he tossed the log aside. He crouched beside Gregory and checked the man’s pulse, nodding as he felt the fluttering heartbeat.
Luthor crouched beside him and examined the damage, gingerly touching the flayed skin just beneath the bartender’s left eye. “That was quite a strike, sir. He’ll carry that scar with him for the rest of his life.”
“As well he should,” Simon retorted as he withdrew his hand from the man’s neck. He brushed his hands on his damp pants and stood.
The apothecary glanced at the unconscious man once more before standing as well. “I see that you are holding a grudge for your earlier treatment?”
Simon glanced toward the distance, ensuring no one else stumbled upon their ambush. “You’d be amazed how many times during our investigations I’ve found myself punched in the face. I’m growing quite tired of it, to be honest.”
“Technically,” Mattie said as she walked past the two men, “it wasn’t the bartender who hit you in the face. He only clubbed you across the head. It was more Tom who kicked you in the face a few times after you were unconscious. It seems that he isn’t fond of being punched in the face either.”
Simon followed Mattie as she led them toward Whitten Hall. “Believe you me, I have something special planned for Mister Wriggleton.”
Luthor sneered at the unconscious bartender. “The whole town deserves similar treatment for colluding with vampires. Gregory got off easy with just a scar, if you ask my opinion.”
Simon shook his head. “While I may not agree with their decision, harboring such ill will against the entire town is hardly healthy behavior. I’m not concerned about revenge; it’s not what I want.”
“Sometimes, it’s not about what you want, sir, but what’s right; right for yourself, right for your friends, and right for the crown. Whether you harbor ill will against them or not, they may not leave you any other options.”
Simon stroked his chin thoughtfully but offered no response.
Luthor stepped over the bartender, glancing back briefly toward Gregory. “Should we at least hide the body?”
“Leave it,” Simon replied. “Leave them confused about which direction we are traveling. The bartender’s body could either mean we were hiding near the outpost and are now heading toward the mines or vice versa. That discovery will keep them confused and separated.”
They set off again, moving with a greater sense of urgency. It was still early morning, the sun barely breaking through the canopy of leaves to the east, but there was much they needed to accomplish before the sun set. The quicker they retrieved their belongings from Whitten Hall, the quicker they could be on their way back toward Callifax.
“Please do be kind and move your foot out of my face,” Simon growled from his position below the window.
Luthor shifted his position slightly, though it only further forced the toe of his shoe into Simon’s cheek. The apothecary clung to the windowsill as he tried to lift himself into the second story window.
“When we return to Callifax,” Simon continued as he pushed on Luthor’s heel, lifting the apothecary higher, “I’m placing you on a strict weight training regimen until you improve your upper body strength.”
Luthor pulled heartily until he slipped through the upstairs window and fell onto the hardwood floor of the bedroom. On the ground below, Simon and Mattie glanced around cautiously, hoping no one heard the clutter from upstairs. When the tavern remained silent, Simon turned toward the redhead.
“You’re next, Matilda.”
Mattie shook her head. “If you lift me, how will you climb to the window?”
Simon careened his neck backward until he had a view of the window high above. He arched an eyebrow as he glanced back at his female companion. “I’m sure I’ll find a way.”
“Or, hear me out, I can lift you and then climb of my own accord,” she offered. “You forget that I have other skills at my disposal.”
“I have never forgotten, nor do I believe it possible to forget your myriad of capabilities, Miss Hawke. Very well, lift me, if you please.”
Mattie cupped her hands, and Simon pressed his heel into her grip. She lifted with little strain, forcing Simon quickly toward the window’s ledge above. Reaching out, he grasped the wooden sill and pulled until his upper body was cresting the edge. Luthor appeared on the far side, cupping him under the armpits and pulling him handily into t
he room.
A scraping against the building’s wooden exterior alerted them to Mattie’s climb moments before she appeared in the window. Both Simon and Luthor turned to assist, but she needed none, pulling herself easily over the ledge and rolling gracefully to her feet as she entered the room.
Luthor glanced around the room and frowned. They had entered his previous room first, only to find that his belongings had been thoroughly rifled through. Articles of clothing were strewn across the bed. The few reagents that he had left behind during their mine expedition had been poured onto the table or smashed. Even his suitcase had been gouged by a knife, as though someone had searched for a secret compartment within the innocuous luggage.
“Simply fantastic,” Luthor said dourly.
“Ignore it,” Simon remarked. “Gather whatever you will need to travel quickly and leave everything else behind. We can always purchase new clothing once we return to Callifax.”
Simon gestured toward the closed door. “Matilda, I believe we have rooms to examine as well, though I encourage you to be quick. I doubt we’re alone in the inn. There is most assuredly at least one other person downstairs that I would hate to disturb unless absolutely necessary.”
They opened the door quietly, cringing at the soft creak that sounded as the dry metal hinges grinded against one another. They moved quickly to their respective rooms.
Simon opened the door to a similar scene as was found in Luthor’s bedroom. Clothes were strewn haphazardly about. His toiletry kit had been torn nearly in two, his straight razor and scissors for trimming his moustache both taken. Simon frowned as he picked up his discarded toothbrush from the floor, but upon glancing around the dingy room, he decided instead to drop it into the wastebasket.
The Inquisitor walked to the partially opened closet, though he retained little hope that it would have remained unscathed during the frantic search. He pushed the door fully open to find his suits in disarray, badly wrinkled after being tossed aimlessly upon the floor. The color rose quickly to his cheeks as he glanced toward the top shelf. He had left his top hat behind during their investigation of the mine. To his dismay and growing rage, it was missing.
He knew his revolver had been taken upon his capture, though that was to be expected. Stealing his hat, however, was an unforgivable and frankly bewildering turn of events.
His heart sank as he realized that everything in his room had been inspected. Before they had gone downstairs to catch the train, he had packed all his belongings, to include his beloved Inquisitor kit. Simon walked quickly around the bed, hoping beyond hope that it would still be present, though he already knew in the back of his mind it was gone.
“Damn them all,” he growled, slamming his fist onto the mantle above the fireplace.
His eyes fell upon a square of unburned wood resting in the fireplace. Though its edges had been charred, it still appeared solid and relatively heavy. Simon knelt and retrieved the piece of wood, savoring its weight in his hand. With a smile that bordered an unhappy sneer, he walked out of his room.
Mattie was emerging from her room as he passed. Amongst her belongings, she had found another change of clothes and looked much like her old self once more. She glanced at the man inquisitively, her expression turning to concern as Simon walked past Luthor’s room as well and approached the top of the stairs.
“Simon?” she asked in a hoarse whisper. “I thought you said we only wanted to confront the man downstairs if it was an emergency.”
Simon didn’t look back as he replied. “It just became an emergency.”
He walked down the steps, not bothering to conceal his footfalls on the wooden stairs. He turned the corner as the tavern below came into view. A man sat at a table near the foot of the stairs, enjoying a drink. Another gentleman had taken Gregory’s place behind the bar, though he seemed far more interested in helping himself to a pint of beer than tending to the needs of the tavern.
The man at the foot of the stairs turned at the footsteps, his eyes widening with surprise at the sight of the Royal Inquisitor. He spun in his chair and tried to stand as Simon reached the last step. As the man climbed to his feet, Simon slammed the chunk of wood into the man’s forehead. He collapsed back into his chair, his arm catching on the table and nearly tumbling it as well in the process.
The replacement bartender reached quickly behind the bar as Simon dropped the wood to the floor. The Inquisitor’s long strides carried him to the bar as the bartender reemerged, a dagger held firmly in his grasp. The man lunged across the platform, the point of the dagger aiming true for Simon’s chest.
The Inquisitor grasped the man’s wrist with one hand while grabbing a handful of his hair with the other. With the man stretched across the bar, he was overbalanced and in a poor position to stop Simon from slamming his face into the wooden counter. With a twist of the man’s wrist, Simon took the knife from his grasp. Spinning the blade with practiced grace, the Inquisitor slammed the blade down into the wooden bar top, less than an inch from the bartender’s nose.
The bartender whimpered and his eyes crossed as he tried to focus on the dagger’s sharp edge dangling so close to his flesh.
“You have taken from me my pistol, which was a priceless gift and something I adore; my top hat, which is closer to me than my immediate family; and my Inquisitor kit, a square, wooden box which contains of number of items I’ll need in the foreseeable future. Where are they?”
“I’m… I don’t really—” the bartender began, his words faltering with every attempt.
Simon yanked backward on the man’s hair, lifting his face a couple inches from the table before slamming it back down onto the bar. The man spat blood across the wooden counter as he groaned in pain.
“I lost patience with this town nearly twenty-four hours ago,” Simon continued. “Do not be the man on whom I express my displeasure. My belongings, if you please.”
The bartender’s shaking hand pointed toward a door behind him.
“I am much obliged,” Simon said with a soft smile.
The bartender tried to return a nervous smile from his awkward position, but Simon slammed his head back down into the bar. The bartender slumped limply as the Inquisitor released his hair, and he slid out of view as he collapsed.
Simon pulled free the knife and walked around the bar.
“So much for discretion, I assume, sir?” Luthor asked as he and Mattie descended the stairs.
The man near the foot of the stairs stirred and groaned, grasping toward the large welt on his forehead. A swift kick from Mattie laid him out once more.
“There is a time and place for discretion, Luthor.”
“A time and a place that you will change at your whim, I notice.”
Simon glanced over his shoulder toward his traveling companion, his face devoid of amusement. He turned the handle to the tavern’s rear office and entered the dimly lit room.
The room was cramped, with an office desk and coat rack pressed against one wall and a bookshelf against the other, with little room between. Stacks of papers covered the desk, seemingly without rhyme or reason to their placement. Simon’s gaze shifted instead to the bookshelf and the coat rack, and his eyes lit with excitement.
His top hat hung from the coat rack, dusty but seemingly unscathed. His Inquisitor’s kit and pistol had been placed upon one of the empty shelves like trophies. Simon retrieved them all and, as he slid the revolver into its holster and the top hat on his head, felt again like himself.
“Sir?” Luthor asked from the doorway. “We should be going soon. Surely people will be returning to the town before long. Plus, it’s growing close to noon already and we have miles to go before nightfall.”
Simon opened the Inquisitor’s kit and began retrieving items that he thought would help against the vampire horde. “Were you able to salvage anything from your room?”
The apothecary shrugged as he retrieved a handful of glass vials from his coat pocket. “There was little unbroken, but thes
e will have to do until we can return to Callifax and resupply.”
Wooden stakes, vials of holy water, and the remaining silver bullets filled his pockets as he finished with the Inquisitor’s kit. He closed it, handing the wooden box to Luthor. Simon’s gaze fell once more to the papers on the desk, many of which were blank. A quill and inkwell were pressed against the back of the narrow desk.
Simon sat in the office’s chair and pulled a fresh piece of paper in front of him. He flipped the inkwell open as he picked up the quill.
“We don’t have time for memoirs, sir,” Luthor insisted.
Simon shook his head as he began scribbling quickly on the paper, his words barely legible even to his own trained eyes. “This is important. You’ll have to bear with me a moment longer.”
His note took no time to complete. When he was finished, Simon read his words and frowned deeply, an ache reverberating in his chest. He pushed back the chair and stood. Folding the letter in half, he handed it to Luthor.
“Take this with you when you go,” Simon ordered. “When you get back to Callifax, make sure this gets in the right hands.”
“When we get back to Callifax, you mean, sir.”
Simon shook his head. “If I don’t stay, the vampires will catch you within the first night. Someone needs to delay their pursuit, and no one is better suited for that than me. Moreover, if we did by some miracle escape, the vampires would merely scatter long before a sufficient force could be mustered to return to Whitten Hall.”
Luthor unfolded the note as Mattie stepped beside him.
“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” Mattie asked. “You never intended to come back.”
The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) Page 26