The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (34 page)

With a heavy sigh, Simon turned away from the valley and scanned the horizon, eventually smiling as he noted his steep hill, at the base of which was his concealed cavern. He could see no signs of Tom or his men, though he was sure they’d be nearby. With awkward steps, he began his slow march back to his cave with the plan to sleep away the next few days.

Martellus examined the burnt husks that had once been his wagons. Nearly half were destroyed, but amongst those remaining were nearly a dozen coffins. They no longer had the supplies necessary for the vampires to evacuate Whitten Hall, something he was sure the Royal Inquisitor had intended.

The chancellor glanced to his left, where a pile of human bodies were stacked. Those foolish enough to be present upon his awakening had paid the ultimate price, satiating his eternal bloodlust. He had heard their pleas, begging for their lives even as they brought word that the Inquisitor had been injured and that it was only a matter of time before he was found. Yet Martellus believed nothing they said. He believed Simon had been injured, of that there was little doubt in his mind. What he doubted was that he would be found unless he absolutely wanted to be.

It wasn’t that the humans providing the report were untrustworthy; it was simply that a specific human was curiously absent from the update. Tom Wriggleton, his most trusted human advisor, had managed to avoid briefing the infuriated vampire, offering excuses through the humans present about being called away at the last minute. Tom’s absence told Martellus everything he needed to know—the outlook for catching the Inquisitor was poor indeed.

He scowled at the ruins of the wagons as his gaze drifted to the manor house beyond. The right side of the home was charred, its windows shattered and exterior blackened. The fire had been contained before it spread into the house’s interior, though the plantation home reeked of smoke, the smell having permeated every inch of fabric within the home.

Martellus clenched his hands into fists, his long nails digging into the flesh of his palm until he felt the bone beneath. Had blood pumped through his veins, it would have poured from his fists and pooled at his feet.

“Sir?” one of the vampires asked as he approached the chancellor. “We can start working on new coffins at once, if that’s your order.”

The chancellor shook his head. “Begin construction, but I fear it won’t matter. The Inquisitor’s friends have escaped. They’ll bring reinforcements.”

“I’ll make the humans work through the days and nights until coffins are repaired,” the vampire hissed.

Martellus shifted his gaze to the pile of corpses beside the wagon, recalling the similarities to the other humans his men had killed a few nights before. “I don’t know if there are enough humans left to make a difference. The Inquisitor has put us at odds with ourselves.” The chancellor sighed as he looked back at his family’s ruined home. “Push them as hard as you can. We can only hope we’ll be quick enough.”

The vampire nodded before stepping in close, whispering so that only Chancellor Whitten could hear. “What of the Royal Inquisitor, sir? Let me and my kin hunt him down. We’ll bring him to you in pieces.”

Martellus shook his head. “No, you’ve been as useless at finding the Inquisitor as Wriggleton. If you find him, you’ll bring him directly to me. He’s caused enough trouble that I won’t trust his death to anyone else.”

The vampire nodded begrudgingly before walking away. Martellus waited for him to go before walking toward an undamaged covered wagon near the head of the convoy. He pulled aside the tarp, exposing a series of innocuous bags. Their loosely tied strings allowed the occasional garment to protrude, only adding to the innocence of the cargo.

Martellus tossed them handily aside until he exposed the white top of the container concealed underneath. He pressed his hand against its lid, feeling the soothing cool seeping through the painted metal. Pulling a key from beneath his tunic, Martellus unlocked the heavy metal lock and pulled it aside. As he opened the metal container, a blast of frigid air poured over him. Ice crystals clung to the edges of the cooler, but his eyes were focused solely on the prize within. Jars of vibrant red blood were carefully placed within, each drop of which was enough to start a new army of vampires, wherever his forces should settle after Whitten Hall.

He had the blood, which meant the elder vampire’s usefulness was quickly coming to an end. He would be glad to be rid of the incessant mewling of the ancient creature and his repeated insults of “blood thief”.

Martellus quickly closed the lid and replaced the lock. Gesturing toward vampires nearby, they carefully placed the clothing bags back atop the cooler, once again disguising the prized treasures from prying eyes.

The pain in Simon’s ankle ebbed and flowed, rising acutely in waves that settled into his lower abdomen before receding to a mere ache. He longed to cradle the ankle or, at the very least, to massage it whenever the pain flared. In the confines of his small cave, however, he barely had the space to prop himself up, much less to care for his injuries.

Despite the anguish in his leg, it was his shoulder that concerned him far more. He could feel the heat radiating from the cut where the bullet had grazed his arm. Upon escaping Tom and his hunters, Simon had tried his best to treat the wound but had been able to do little to stave off the burgeoning infection.

The heat now radiated up his neck and rested in his temples, where he could feel each pulse of his heartbeat roaring past his ears. Every inch of his body ached as it struggled against the rapidly spreading infection. His brow was drenched in sweat and his shirt, already filthy from evading his pursuers, was now matted to his body.

Within the narrow width of the cave, Simon alternated bringing his knees to his chest before extending his legs. Nothing felt comfortable. He had left the cave a few times, once to collect his discarded fruit and another to collect as much drinking water as possible from the small stream at the base of the ravine, but standing upright was exhausting. Even slipping cautiously outside to relieve himself felt like a chore. Though he knew the movement would be good rehabilitation for his sprained ankle, it did little other than sap his strength.

The Inquisitor had only the faintest of ideas as to the day. He had marked the inside of his cavern with a sharp stone each time he saw the sun rise, though he couldn’t be certain he saw every sunrise. Most of his day was spent sleeping, a necessary and involuntary bodily reaction as he tried to heal. By his count, it had been four days since Luthor and Mattie departed and two full days since his injury, but those were merely guesses.

Discouraged, Simon rolled to his side and retrieved an apple. Brown spots had already appeared along the tough exterior. The interior was still juicy and satisfying, despite a much softer texture than he remembered. He laid his head back as he chewed, savoring the moisture on his lips.

The heat of his body had left him feeling perpetually dehydrated. His tongue often stuck to the roof of his mouth every time he tried to swallow. Running his tongue across his lips felt as futile as dragging a broom over a sand dune. The water seemed to do little to satisfy the unending thirst. It gave him slight reprieves from the burning in his gut, but every drink seemed to sit on his stomach, only increasing his hunger.

Sighing wearily, Simon laid his head back onto the cool, hard stone ground of the cavern. The faint streams of light seeping from around the edges of the capstone were enough to illuminate the small cave, though it only offered a glimpse of weather-worn stones pressed closely overhead. The Inquisitor was eternally grateful that he was petrified of water and not enclosed spaces. Claustrophobia would have made his current predicament a living hell.

“You look terrible, sir,” Luthor said from the end of the cave.

Simon glanced toward his feet. The apothecary sat cross-legged just beyond the tips of Simon’s shoes, his face obscured by the darker shadows.

“Thank you for your vote of confidence,” Simon muttered through a parched throat.

“It wasn’t meant to boost your confidence, merely to state a glaringly obvious fact.”

Logically, Simon knew that the cave ceiling was far too shallow for someone to sit upright, nor was the cave deep enough for someone to position themselves past Simon’s shoes. The logical realization of his situation only further upset the Inquisitor.

“You’re not real, of course,” Simon said, returning his gaze to the rocks overhead.

“Of course,” Luthor replied, “but aren’t you far happier talking to a familiar face than spending another day alone in this dark cave? Speaking of which, I seem to remember you preferring a far better caliber establishment in the past.”

Simon laughed drily. “You seem to have forgotten the quality of the inn in Whitten Hall, or the fur-lined huts amongst the tribesmen outside Haversham.”

“I can’t very well forget them, sir, since I’m in your head.”

Simon frowned, the mirth suddenly drained from the situation. Imaginary Luthor was correct that he was glad to have a familiar face with which he could talk, but the implications of seeing a friend who wasn’t there wasn’t lost on him.

“I’m dying, aren’t I?” Simon asked.

Luthor shrugged in the dark. “How am I supposed to know, sir? I’m just a painful hallucination caused by an unmitigated fever burning through your body. Though, when put that way, yes, sir, there’s a good chance you’re dying.”

“You’re rather insolent today.”

Luthor shook his head. “Actually, sir,
you’re
rather insolent. I’m merely a figment of your imagination.”

Simon rolled away from Luthor, turning his face toward the wall. “All those times I wished you were here, keeping me company? I’ve suddenly changed my mind.”

He could hear the scuffling in the cave, as Luthor shifted positions. Though, he realized, he actually heard nothing at all. There was no Luthor, which meant there was no one who could shift positions.

“It’s getting a bit confusing, isn’t it, sir?” Luthor asked, his voice nearby.

“More than you could possibly realize,” Simon muttered. “There’s no escaping you, is there?”

Luthor shrugged. “Possibly, though somehow, I believe that’s entirely up to you. Maybe your fevered subconscious needs something familiar to which it can cling as your body tries to heal. Maybe you’re just lonely, sir. Maybe you’ve always longed to be accepted and part of a family and, though you’d never admit as much to me in person, Matilda and I have become the closest thing you have to a real family. Maybe you just miss us.”

Simon stared unwaveringly toward the wall in front of him. He wasn’t sure if imaginary Luthor was vocalizing Simon’s own buried thoughts or if, like he was prone to do with so many others, Simon was merely belittling himself.

A scuffling came from beyond the cave entrance. Simon fell silent, holding his breath as he always did when he feared the hunters had returned. No one had discovered his secret spot, though that was hardly surprising. The ground around the cave was rock, allowing for no footprints that the human townsfolk could follow. The capstone itself was one amongst dozens in the rocky terrain, nondescript from the others nearby. Aside from literally leaving no stone unturned, they were unlikely to find him, concealed as he was.

“They’re persistent,” Luthor said.

“Hush!” Simon whispered harshly.

Luthor laughed, though his voice failed to echo in the enclosed space. “They can’t hear me, sir. I don’t have to be quiet.”

Simon frowned and stretched his arm. It burned as he moved it, the thin gash oozing as he strained against the haggard scab forming over the wound. The pain radiated through his neck, temporarily seizing the muscles and stiffening his shoulders.

The sound of booted feet continued outside for a short while. For a moment, Simon could hear them climbing the steep hillside on which he’d perched more than once, searching for Luthor’s—the real Luthor’s—return. A short time later, the sound of scraping arose as someone slid down the hill. As quickly as they had come, the sound of footsteps receded until once again everything fell silent.

“As I was saying, sir,” Luthor said, “Tom Wriggleton is a very persistent man. He intends to kill you rather than turn you over to his vampiric overlords.”

“I know,” Simon replied.

“He’s a bishop.”

Simon arched an eyebrow and rolled toward Luthor, though in hindsight, he assumed the action was unnecessary. His imaginary friend could hear him no matter how he lay. He winced as his injured arm pressed against the stone and Simon, instead, resolved himself to lying on his back while continuing his one-person conversation.

Simon knew Luthor wasn’t referring to the religious figure when he mentioned a bishop. The Inquisitor’s mind immediately fell to the domed marble figure on the chessboard in his study.

Luthor rested his hands on his knees as he continued. “On a chessboard, there are pawns, rooks, and kings. They’re easy to figure out. They move, mostly, in straight lines. To me—well, to you—the bishop was always a perplexing piece. No matter how much you stared at a chessboard, the movements of the bishop were always hard to see until they struck. Tom is a bishop. You even know his movement, but his diagonal moves will perplex you until you remove him from the board.”

Simon remained silent as he stared at the ceiling. He knew what Luthor was insinuating. The same thought had crossed his mind earlier. Simon frowned… of course the same thought had crossed his mind.

“Not now,” Luthor said. “Rest now, sir, since you’re awfully tired.”

Simon stifled a yawn. He turned his head toward his friend, despite the stiffness in his neck. The area of the cave where Luthor had been sitting was empty and Simon was alone. The heat in the cave was intense as it radiated from his body, but the warmth was also soothing and within moments, Simon was asleep.

Simon awoke to the gloom of the cavern. A cool breeze blew from between the crevices between the capstone and the rock walls, a cool wind that soothed his sweat-soaked skin. He breathed deeply, sucking in lungs full of the cooling air and sighing blissfully.

The Inquisitor’s skin no longer burned with an inner fire. Though his clothing was matted to his body and his once well-coifed hair dripped sweat, the fever had broken at some point during the night. He turned merrily toward the far end of the narrow cavern, but his illusionary companion wasn’t there. For a pained moment, Simon felt conflicting emotions. He was glad that his feverish hallucination was gone but it only strengthened his sadness at being alone, without his erstwhile friend.

He brought his legs up toward his chest and noted the pain in his ankle was still present, though it waned from the acute pangs that had previously existed. The nausea in his stomach was also gone but had been replaced by a yearning, hollow sensation. It was a hunger that he had never felt before that left him feeling ill for an entirely different reason. He sought the satchel of fruit within the cave and retrieved yet another soiled apple. The bruising on the fruit was far more advanced than he remembered and the taste of its flesh was slightly bitter. Despite the early stages of decay, he devoured the apple and quickly retrieved a second.

With food in his belly, he forced aside the capstone. Brilliant sunlight flooded into the cave, blinding Simon. Pain lanced behind his eyeballs as his vision tried to absorb the outpouring of white light. He blinked furiously until his vision cleared, leaving behind dancing blue spots that colored his sight.

The sun was shining, though Simon’s small stretch of rocky terrain was empty. He had the land to himself for the moment. He turned toward the hilltop behind him as he took a step forward. His ankle angrily protested, but it was healed enough to support his weight. He grasped the lowest protruding tree branch and pulled himself up to the first level of the sloped hillside.

Though the climb caused minor pain both in his ankle and arm, Simon climbed to the top of the hill. The view was still unfettered, though there was still nothing on the horizon that offered a reprieve from the cat-and-mouse game he’d been playing with both the humans and the vampires. Sitting on the hilltop, Simon smiled wistfully. It had been some time since he’d encountered a vampire, choosing instead to remain hidden in his cave whenever the sun set. He had no idea the damage or infuriation he had caused when he destroyed the wagons, but he certainly hoped it was enough to delay, if not completely stop, the vampires’ retreat from Whitten Hall.

Retrieving a sharp rock from the hill’s apex, he carved three more lines beside the other two already present. If Luthor and Mattie stuck to the train’s timeline, he was just past halfway through his time at the outpost. It would be at least another two or three days until their return.

Simon felt a weight in his chest at the thought. He had only barely survived a dangerous infection caused by a gunshot and nearly broken his ankle jumping into a ravine. Though healthier now, his body was drained and exhausted. His heart was still racing from the short climb up the hill. If this small exertion was any indication, it would be nearly impossible to once again outrun the human pursuers, much less a vampire during the night.