The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2)

by Jon Messenger

  The fur fell away from Mattie as she transformed back into the redhead. Luthor admired the view even as she collected her clothes and dressed once more. “Don’t be absurd, Luthor. I won’t be leaving you behind.”

  Luthor smiled. “Even if you think me a coward?”

  Mattie buttoned her tunic as she knelt before him. She cupped his cheeks with her hands and pulled his face to her, kissing him softly on the lips. He winced at the sudden movement but didn’t dare refuse her.

  “You’re not a coward, Mister Strong. What you are is an invalid and even if I have to carry you myself, we’re escaping this accursed forest.”

  She scooped Luthor in her arms and lifted him from the ground. Despite her own injuries, she didn’t seem overly burdened by the extra weight.

  “Do me a favor,” Luthor said as she rushed into the woods, further and further away from Whitten Hall and the vampires. “Promise me that you’ll let me walk of my own accord once we reach civilization. Forgive my perceived misogyny, but I don’t think I could survive the embarrassment of being carried to safety in the arms of a woman.”

  Simon pushed the large rock aside, letting it crush the soggy leaves as it fell. He moved slowly as he emerged from the cave in which he had hidden the night before. Craning his neck upward, he closed his eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on his face. Despite the previous night’s pursuit, the vampires had been unable to locate him within the small cavern and he had slept fitfully until daybreak.

  He shook his jacket, dislodging the moss and grass that clung to its sleeves and coattails. Likewise, he dusted his knees, though both actions were likely futile gestures. He was alone in the wilderness, hunted during the day by humans and at night by vampires. Moreover, he couldn’t expect reinforcements for six more days, which lent itself to a lot more crawling through mud and grass, a lot more sleeping in uncomfortable but safe holes in the ground, and a lot more running with little option for bathing. Dusting his clothing made Simon feel better in the interim, but would hardly matter as the days progressed.

  Simon slipped his jacket over his shoulders, pausing to check the silver revolver in its shoulder holster before fully pulling his coat into place. Begrudgingly, he set his top hat back within the narrow crack between the rocks, along with a small collection of wooden stakes. Kneeling, he pushed the large stone back into place in the front of the cave, concealing its entrance from view once again.

  Glancing around the nearby forest, Simon paused as he listened for the sound of movement. When he heard none, he turned toward a steep hill nearby. The hill was covered with exposed stones, rising steeply toward a shallow plateau above. A few sparse trees clung to the side of the rock face, their roots finding purchase in the unlikeliest of nooks and crannies between the boulders.

  Simon grasped the closest tree trunk and hauled himself partway up the knell. His hands and feet sought grooves in the weathered stones. Slowly, the Inquisitor lifted himself higher until his hand fell upon the smooth surface of the summit.

  He slid, belly first, onto the flattened hilltop. Pushing himself upward, he stood upon the hill and scanned the surrounding forest. Simon knew that he was silhouetted against the sky as he stood, no longer concealed by the dense forest and its underbrush.

  Ignoring the danger, he glanced toward the west, where the railroad tracks wound lazily through the countryside. The train was no longer visible. Not even a smear of smoke emerged from the horizon. Reaching down, Simon retrieved a rock from the ground and dragged it once across the hilltop, leaving behind a long line.

  “One down, six to go,” Simon muttered to himself.

  He turned away from the train tracks and looked down on Whitten Hall, its single row of buildings stretching just a short way along the tracks. Its own dirt road disappeared quickly into the canopy of trees.

  He sat upon the hilltop and looked down on the town. A few people moved between the buildings, eager to get indoors and avoid the warmth of the rising sun. They were oblivious to their observer high on the hilltop nearby.

  Simon watched them for a few minutes as conflicting thoughts raced through his mind. He pitied them, of that he was sure. Humanity always sought the path of least resistance to power. It was an inalienable truth that defined mankind. The citizens of Whitten Hall had been no different. They had stumbled upon the shortest route from their mundane laborious existence to absolute power and had leapt at the opportunity. They didn’t see the monsters when they looked in the mirror, if they could see themselves at all in a mirror. It was one myth Simon had yet to explore.

  He wanted to hate them, but it wasn’t anger that he felt. He felt sorrow. They moved between the buildings, oblivious to their unavoidable demise. They assumed themselves untouchable under the protection of their vampiric overlords. They never could believe that the crown would use everything at its disposal to destroy them, once the truth was revealed. The vampires would surely be destroyed, and woe unto those who stood between the crown and the abominations hiding even now in the iron mine.

  “What a world this has become,” Simon muttered quietly to himself, “when I have become the sympathetic soul while Luthor is the logical mind, calling for their destruction.”

  Thinking of Luthor made Simon’s mind wander, hoping that he and Mattie had, indeed, escaped pursuit. He hadn’t heard one way or another and the behaviors of those in town gave little information. He had to presume that they’d survived thus far, which meant Simon had to give both the humans and vampires a reason to search the very woods around their outpost, rather than chase the apothecary and werewolf all the way to Callifax. The vampires might be limited on how far they could pursue, but men like Tom Wriggleton would never rest so long as they were alive.

  “Very well, Simon. How do you convince a town full of men that there are three of you running around these woods, rather than just the one of you?”

  He stared at the outpost, his eyes drifting over the buildings. Near the end of the line, the inn sat unassumingly, its slanted rooftop bathed in sunlight. The Inquisitor smiled to himself as the first inklings of a plan formed in his mind.

  He slipped over the edge of the hilltop, using the trees for support as he lowered himself back down to the ground. Casting a cursory glance toward the stone covering the entrance to his cavern, he ensured it was still properly concealed. Satisfied, he walked briskly into the tree line and toward the edge of the town.

  The rear of the buildings formed nearly an impenetrable wall of poorly carved exposed wood beams. A few narrow alleyways cut between the buildings, leading to the town’s main thoroughfare and the train tracks that ran parallel to the road. Simon ignored the alleys, other than to glance down them cautiously, ensuring no prying eyes caught his movement.

  A few doors broke the otherwise interconnected wooden wall of buildings. No windows had been placed at the back of the businesses, though Simon understood why. The view from the back of the town would have been mundane, since the woods crept to the businesses’ back doorstep.

  He moved brazenly toward the furthest building, skirting through the shadows draped over the back of the structures. Reaching the inn, he peered cautiously around the corner marking the end of the town proper, but saw no guards pacing along the dirt road. Sliding around the side of the inn, he paused behind a capped rain barrel. He counted the seconds away in his head, ensuring no roaming patrol would wander by as he worked. When the town remained overtly quiet, he glanced upward, noting the window high overhead. With a weary sigh, he grasped the barrel and dragged it underneath the window. This ordeal had seemed far easier when there was a werewolf to handily toss him to the window above.

  He climbed atop the barrel and reached for the windowsill, his fingers only barely brushing its bottom lip. Simon frowned as he stood upon his tiptoes, reaching again but with only slightly better results. Begrudgingly, he balanced upon the barrel and leapt upward, grasping the lip of the window with far better results. He pulled himself upward until he could brace his upper
arms upon the ledge. Simon immediately scowled. Someone had lowered the window nearly to closing. Only a sliver remained open along the sill, just enough to allow a cool breeze to seep into the closed bedroom.

  With a tenacious balance, he held on with his arms while he forced his fingertips underneath the partially opened window. Bending his fingers upward, he forced the window open further. He dangled as he slowly pried it open wide enough for him to slip through. He realized the precariousness of his position, with his body on full display and his legs hanging uselessly from the underside of a window.

  When the window was open far enough, Simon climbed through. The blood rushed back into his arms and they ached, even as he stood.

  Luthor’s former room had been cleaned from its previous state of disarray. For a moment, Simon’s heart sank at the thought that his plan, which was admittedly mediocre to begin with, was now in jeopardy. A quick review of the room, however, revealed that the apothecary’s belongings had merely been pushed to a corner. Simon knelt before the pile and sorted through the clothes until he found an extra pair of Luthor’s boots. Tucking them under his arm, he walked to the bedroom’s door.

  He opened it slowly, cringing again as the door creaked. No one responded to the noise if, indeed, it had been heard at all. He quickly crossed the hall and hurried toward its end, where Mattie’s room had been. As he had found in Luthor’s room, someone had sorted hastily through the belongings, leaving them in a disjointed pile on the floor. A pair of her dainty shoes was far easier to find, and he took them with him as he returned to the open window.

  A quick glance ensured the way below was still devoid of patrols. Not for the first time, Simon was glad that the vampires had devoured so many of Whitten Hall’s former residents. The remaining humans were far too few to watch all potential entrances into town, much less guard their former rooms in the inn.

  He dropped the shoes unceremoniously from the window, ensuring he threw them out far enough to avoid the barrel. Rolling onto his belly, Simon lowered himself out the window, dropping gingerly onto the lid of the barrel before leaping to the ground. He gathered up the shoes before crouching behind the barrel once again.

  The Inquisitor bit his lip as he made a mental list of everything else he would need to survive the next week. When he was confident he knew everything he would require, he walked around to the back of the buildings once more.

  Glancing down the line, the Inquisitor counted to the fourth door before approaching the unremarkable back entryway. He took the handle firmly in his hand and turned it slowly, frowning slightly as his attempt was met with stern resistance. The door was locked. He patted his pockets, searching for anything that might be used as a makeshift lock pick, but found nothing of value.

  Sighing, Simon turned on his heel and scanned the ground nearby. A few feet from the back door, a fist-sized stone jutted slightly from the packed earth. He walked over and dug the stone from the ground, feeling its weight in his hand. He shifted his grip until the edge of the stone protruded beyond his fingertips before walking back to the door. Standing before it, he dropped the shoes beside the rear entrance and tightened his grip on the rock.

  Raising the stone over his head, he drove it down onto the door handle, knocking the metal knob free, albeit with more noise than he had intended. Simon hastily pushed the door open and entered the storage room quickly before someone could investigate the noise. There was no reason to close the door behind him, since the broken handle would be more than enough evidence of where he had gone.

  Light entering from the open back door was the only illumination in the cramped pantry. Boxes of dry goods were stacked along the shelves lining each wall. Fruits and vegetables were packaged near the center of the room. A steady swarm of fruit flies buzzed above the fresh apples and pears.

  Simon stepped around the fruit and approached the far wall. A door to his left led into the interior of the general store, but everything Simon needed could be found amidst the shelves. Coils of rope were bound on a shelf at eye level. Whetstones and shards of flint were stacked in small, wooden boxes near his waist.

  He found a partially filled burlap satchel on the ground and dumped its contents onto the floor. Potatoes rolled away from the Inquisitor as he turned back to the shelf. Grabbing nearly a hundred feet of rope, he shoved the coils into the bag, along with some other survival equipment he’d need for the days ahead.

  Stepping back, he glanced at the shelf in its entirety. There was still one object he was missing—a knife. He had given the bartender’s knife to Luthor for his protection and while he didn’t regret that decision, it bothered the Inquisitor immensely to be without one. He normally relied entirely on his revolver, but knew that the noise would draw far too much attention were it to be fired.

  As he perused the storage room, he suddenly heard the handle to the door opening. Light from the front of the general store flooded the pantry, falling over Simon before he had a chance to find a place to hide.

  “I swear I heard something,” a man said, stepping into the doorway. “I’m not crazy.”

  The man in the doorway paused at the sight of the Inquisitor. His head was bandaged from a previous injury, and a small spot of red blood had soaked through a bulge on the man’s forehead. Despite the bandage hanging nearly to the man’s eyes, Simon had no trouble recognizing the bar’s patron from the previous day.

  Simon shifted the weight of the stone in his hand. The bandaged man’s eyes widened for a brief moment before his gaze fell to the gray rock. The man’s eyebrows fell pleadingly at the corners as he looked back toward Simon.

  With a practiced throw, Simon sent the rock sailing across the storage room, catching the man on the eyebrow as he turned to run. The weight of the stone knocked him from his feet, and he crashed to the floor.

  Simon turned toward the rear entrance to the building, but a glint of light off the knife on the man’s waistband caught his attention. He lifted his satchel of pilfered goods before leaping over the few items between him and the unconscious man.

  The knife was clearly not of high quality, but that mattered little for Simon’s needs. He knelt beside the man and slipped it free from his belt loop.

  The Inquisitor glanced up just in time to see a bag of flour sailing toward him. It landed at his feet, engulfing him in a cloud of white powder. Simon coughed as the flour settled over every exposed inch of his body. Wiping the powder angrily from his face, he looked up to see the general store manager perched high upon a ladder, reaching for a second bag of flour to continue his assault.

  A small part of Simon wanted to rush over and kick the ladder out from underneath the man. He wanted to throttle the disrespectful storeowner, as much for his affiliation with the vampires as his attack on the Inquisitor. Simon knew Luthor would agree with that assessment, that all the humans still residing in Whitten Hall deserved their comeuppance.

  As Simon stared at the storeowner, it wasn’t rage or resentment splashed across his face, but rather fear. The general store manager wasn’t attacking Simon out of spite, but because he knew the threat Simon posed to their very way of life.

  The urge to harm the man bled away. Grabbing his stolen belongings, The Inquisitor glared once at the storeowner before hurrying back into the storeroom. The sound of an exploding bag of flour followed him as he leapt over the produce, grabbing a pair of apples as he passed.

  Simon rushed out of the back door, grabbed the shoes he had left by the rear of the building, and disappeared into the woods before an alarm could be raised.

  Simon pressed the sole of Mattie’s right shoe into the soft mud near the riverbank, holding it in place until he was sure the shoe had sank far enough into the ground for what Simon estimated to be a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman. As he pulled the shoe away, it left the perfect imprint of a narrow heel followed by pointed toe. Leaning out over the bank from his place in the shallow water, Simon sank the left shoe a few paces away, matching Mattie’s shorter stride. He continued
the pattern until the tracks led into the river’s edge, as though it had disappeared amongst the eddied currents in the shallow water.

  These were the first solid footprints Simon had left behind of the other two. Despite his keen mind, he wasn’t an outdoorsman and was only hoping that his tomfoolery would be enough to convince the townsfolk that he and his companions were still present in the forest around Whitten Hall.

  He had left other marks throughout the woods as he walked, pressing one shoe or the other into any patches of soft mud he passed or kicking water out of small puddles, as though one of their shoes had dragged through the water inadvertently. He still wasn’t convinced it would be enough, but the tracks to the river were his endgame.

  Mattie’s tracks now paralleled both his and Luthor’s, all of which led into the water. Turning away from the shore, Simon discarded the empty shoes in the middle of the stream, watching as they sank beneath the current and drifted to the river’s bottom.

  Walking upstream a few hundred feet, ensuring the burlap satchel remained out of the water as best he could, Simon found a solid, low-hanging branch that reached out over the river. Wrapping his fingers around its girth, he pulled his legs out of the water and pulled himself up until he was sitting on the branch. Delicately, he slid along its length until he was hidden amongst the leaves and upper branches of the old oak tree.

  He shivered involuntarily as the cold soaked through his socks and shoes. The day was still warm, but the river remained abrasively cold. He wiggled his toes, trying to force blood flow back through his feet. Draping the bag across his legs for warmth, he leaned into the trunk of the tree.

  The shadows were growing longer as the sun began to set. Simon could feel the fatigue after his tiring day. He knew he would have to leave soon if he expected to make it back to his concealed cavern before nightfall, but fatigue caressed his tired back and legs as he rested in the tree.