The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (35 page)

Still, there was something he could do to lessen the pursuit. He frowned at the thought, knowing it went against his best moral standings, yet there was no real love lost. Slowly, careful not to reinjure his ankle, Simon slid down the hill and crept back into his cave, awaiting the setting of the sun.

Simon leaned back in the chair, savoring the room’s cool interior. He glanced out the dirt-smeared window. In the distance, barely visible through the myriad of trees, torches and lanterns burned in Whitten Hall. The faint sound of sawing and hammering crept into the room, even from this great a distance.

The humans were busy reconstructing all the coffins destroyed by Simon’s escapade. It would take them a while to complete their work, no doubt, but their vampire lords were driving them day and night. The chancellor and his ilk were more than acutely aware what would happen if they were still present when Luthor and Mattie returned.

Despite their best efforts, Simon doubted they’d finish in time. Certainly, they’d do their best, but a mere three more days was hardly enough time to complete not just the coffins but the major repairs on the damaged wagons. Even foregoing food and supplies for the mortals amongst them, there weren’t enough wagons remaining for the coffins.

Simon shrugged in the dark. He presumed the vampires could leave some of their own behind, just taking those closest to Martellus when they departed town. Honestly, Simon hoped they would. Let those being informed that they’d be left behind revolt against those leaving Whitten Hall. Let the vampires eat their own for once.

He turned his gaze away from the window and let his eyes readjust to the thick darkness within the bedroom. A small table was pushed underneath the window, on which a tin print photograph of a woman was painted. Her features were hard to discern in the low light, but she looked pretty. There was no telling what had happened to the pretty girl in the photo. She might have left Whitten Hall some time ago or never came in the first place. More likely than not, she was rotting on a pile of other husks in the mines, her once pretty features emaciated and ruined.

A faint snore caught Simon’s attention, and he turned toward the room’s single narrow bed. A man was asleep beneath the thin blanket, his head resting comfortably on a down-filled pillow. Simon frowned, more aware than ever of the aches and pains throughout his own body from sleeping and convalescing on cold rock.

He didn’t need to see the man’s features to feel the bile in the back of his throat. Simon considered himself a relatively levelheaded man, his emotions usually kept fairly well in check. Yet the man beneath the covers upset him greatly.

The Inquisitor drew the knife from his belt, deftly spinning the blade in his hand. Tom Wriggleton was asleep and oblivious to the night’s intruder. A part of Simon wanted to wake Tom, to let him understand the errors of his ways before the Inquisitor did… what needed to be done.

Instead, Simon stood and stepped to the bedside without a sound. Tom snorted as he rolled onto his back. Simon paused, waiting for the man’s steady circadian sleep to return.

In his sleep, Tom licked his lips before sighing. Almost immediately, the steady snore of a man deep in sleep returned.

Simon clamped his hand over Tom’s mouth to stifle any chance at screams as he plunged the knife into the sleeping man’s chest. The blade easily split Tom’s nightshirt and slid into the flesh between his ribs. Tom’s eyes shot open in surprise, but almost immediately lost their focus. The knife continued unabated until it passed cleanly through Tom’s heart and struck a rib near his shoulder blades.

Simon kept his hand over Tom’s mouth for a second longer, even as the man’s eyes fluttered and fell closed once more. A warm breath caressed the inside of Simon’s hand as Tom breathed his last, slumping into bed once more as though merely falling back into sleep.

After a moment longer, Simon removed his hand, though he left the knife in place. Turning away from the body, he walked calmly back to the chair. He took his seat, staring at the mound of blankets and the man beneath, the silhouette broken only by the protruding hilt of the dagger.

“You won’t hear this admonition,” Simon began, his voice filling the room, “since you’re long past caring about the goings on of the living. Then again, perhaps that’s not true. I suppose I should reconsider the notion of ghosts, since I’ve been embroiled now with both werewolves and vampires, but I hardly believe you’re sitting on the other side eavesdropping on your killer’s diatribe.”

Simon leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m truthfully saying all this for my own edification, more than a cry of grief or an attempt at forgiveness from you.”

Simon looked down at his hands, noting the droplets of blood near the tips of his fingers. He took a handkerchief from the table beside him and absently wiped his hands as he continued.

“You may not believe this, but I didn’t kill you out of malice. I didn’t care for you, of that you can be certain, but it wasn’t hatred that drove that knife into your chest. You became too personally involved in my demise and your feverish pursuit would have ruined my carefully devised plans. For that alone, you had to die.”

Simon leaned back in the chair, listening to it creak under his weight. “I would ask your forgiveness for one thing. Forgive me for slaying you the cowardly way, stabbing you through your heart in your sleep. It wasn’t the brave actions of a Royal Inquisitor and for that, I do apologize. Some things, however, just need to be done with a bit more discretion than pistols at dawn.”

Standing abruptly, Simon replaced the now-bloodstained handkerchief on the table. He winced as he put pressure on his ankle but it was now only tender, rather than damaged. Limping to the bedside, he pulled the blade free with some effort.

“Forgive my abrupt departure, but there is still much to be done in the next few days.”

Simon began to turn toward the bedroom door but paused. Turning back toward Tom, the Inquisitor leaned over and gently cradled Tom’s head in his hand. As he lifted it upward, he slid the down pillow off the bed before dropping Tom unceremoniously back onto the mattress.

“It’s nothing personal, but I’m sure I’ll get much better use out of this than you will.”

Simon glanced backward once more as he exited the room, the pillow tucked under his arm. Tom’s death would cause an uproar, but it would also grant a slight reprieve on the perpetual hunt. Cut off the head of the snake and… Simon paused as he realized the analogy didn’t truly work in this instance. The body wouldn’t die, but at least it would be a touch longer before a new head emerged.

With a shrug of his shoulders, Simon left the room.

A faint whistle invaded Simon’s slumber. For a moment, he refused to acknowledge the offending noise, instead pulling his newly acquired pillow closer to him and burying his face in its fluffiness.

There was an eerie familiarity to the whistle. It pulled at recent memories and yearned for Simon’s conscious attention, which the Inquisitor quite readily denied. The noise came with a warning or, more precisely, a casual reminder of something important.

A reminder of something important for which Simon was impatiently waiting.

It was a reminder of something that would save Simon’s life.

By the time the second whistle blew, Simon was fully awake. The train whistle was distant still, barely piercing the cocoon in which he had slept and lived intermittently for the past six days. Despite its faintness, Simon scrambled within the close confines to collect whatever belongings he still had. He slipped his pistol into its holster, despite the ridiculously few bullets still at his disposal. The knife, cleaned after the previous night’s unfortunate business, slipped into his belt.

He glanced around expectantly, but he realized that there was only one more possession of his that he had not yet claimed. Reaching toward his feet, he collected his top hat and pulled it toward his chest.

Thusly prepared, Simon pushed aside the protective capstone and slid out into the morning sunlight.

The whistle sounded again, a high, chilling noise that gave him goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cool morning’s air. Limping slightly, Simon quickly scaled the side of the hill behind him and took his place on its apex. He raised a hand to his forehead, blocking out the glare of the rising sun. The sun was behind him, but it painted the forest and valley in brilliant shades of yellow and orange.

The gash of railroad tracks cut through the woods, a barren, winding strip amidst the densely packed trees. His eyes traced the tracks as they approached the horizon. There, at the extreme end of what he could see from his perch, a greasy, gray pillar of smoke rose into the air.

Glancing down, Simon noted the five scratches in the stone beside him. He picked up a loose shard of rock and carved a sixth line. For a moment, he merely stared at the marks. The train was early by two days. It wasn’t random happenstance, Simon realized. This train was meant for him. Luthor and Mattie had not only survived but had delivered his note.

The realization of what was on the train left a solemn dichotomy of emotions within him. He was elated, to be sure, that his saviors had arrived. His weakened state surely wouldn’t have survived another two days or, if it had, he wasn’t sure he would have kept the vampires contained within Whitten Hall. Conversely, the train was death—a black vileness contained within the winding rail cars, a grim reaper seated within each of its passenger compartments. The world of Whitten Hall would soon be irrevocably changed by his actions.

Another blast of the train’s whistle broke Simon from his musings. He slid quickly back down the hill, the path before him predetermined by the events of the past week. There was still much to do, to ensure everyone was in their proper place for the train’s arrival.

He staggered off into the woods, intentionally crashing through the underbrush. His movements reverberated between the trees, sending small creatures hurtling through the brush to escape the noise. Birds took flight from the high branches of the canopy overhead.

Simon paused briefly and frowned. Every other day of his self-imposed guerrilla war, Tom Wriggleton’s human cohorts would have flocked to the sound of Simon charging like a bull through the trees. They would have been patrolling the area, searching for him day after day. Tom wouldn’t have let them rest until he was sure the Inquisitor would be found. Yet, Simon quickly realized, there was no Tom any longer. He had eliminated the man from the board for that very reason. Now, when he needed to find some of the townsfolk, they were curiously absent, an unfortunate side effect of his actions. Despite the minor setback, Simon knew where to find people if he really needed them.

His path was unerring as he pushed on through the woods. Within minutes, the outskirts of Whitten Hall were visible through the trees. The sound of his own movements was quickly masked by the sounds of sawing and hammering, of yells of warning and encouragement.

Simon stepped into the street that ran between the railroad tracks and the town’s storefronts. The street was a busy affair as the final touches were being put on the repaired wagons and piles of refurbished and newly crafted coffins were gathered in preparation for a near-future move from the outpost.

The Inquisitor ran a hand over his moustache, despite the fact that his telltale facial hair had long since disappeared into a new black beard that coated his face. Foregoing smoothing the moustache, he instead removed his top hat and ran a hand through his hair, smoothing down the unruly mop upon his head. His hands came away oily, and he scowled at the feeling. He would kill for a proper bath and a shave, both of which he hoped to soon have.

A worker nearby happened to glance over and see the Inquisitor standing defiantly in the middle of the road, his feet spread and his hands braced against his hips. He let out a cry of alarm that drew the attention of others nearby.

An angry mob rushed toward him, but Simon offered no resistance. As they grew close, he carefully withdrew both his revolver and knife and dropped them into the dirt at his feet before raising his hands above his head.

“I surrender,” he said, having to raise his voice to be heard over the din of excitement and anger.

Rough hands grabbed him and forced him to his knees. Someone called for ropes, which quickly appeared. His hands were bound, and he was dragged toward the center of town.

“Someone find Gregory,” one of the townsfolk ordered. “He’ll want to see this bastard!”

Simon swallowed hard and tried his best to look solemn and defeated, despite the excitement and dread that was bubbling within him.

He was dropped unceremoniously into the dirt, his hands bound and unable to break his fall. A cloud of dust raised around him, forcing him to cough hoarsely. He tried to roll so that his face was no longer buried in the dirt but booted feet pressed down on his back, forcing him further into the packed earth of the road. Simon closed his mouth, save for a small opening at the corner through which he could draw air.

Aside from those holding him in place, the rest of the townsfolk formed a circle around him but kept their distance. He had earned a healthy respect from the people of Whitten Hall, rightly deserved after all the destruction and death he had caused.

From his prone perspective, Simon saw the crowd part and large, powerful legs approach. This was a moment that Simon feared, since revenge was a strong emotion that often overrode common sense.

The bartender reached down and grasped Simon’s hair. Gregory jerked his arm upward, dragging Simon from the ground. The Inquisitor winced at the burly man’s firm grip but didn’t shrink away, even as he was turned to meet the man’s gaze.

Gregory’s eyes burned with hatred, but his anger was tempered by the knowledge that Chancellor Whitten had demanded Simon be brought to him alive.

A jagged and curved scar ran the length of Gregory’s cheek, a puckered mess that was still red and inflamed. It gave the already large man a monstrous appearance.

Pulling Simon close, Gregory sneered at the Inquisitor. “I would… I want nothing more…”

He started his sentence a number of times; in all instances his words failed him as he was overcome with anger. Gregory reached up with his free hand and wiped away spittle that had accumulated on his lips.

“Were it not for the chancellor’s personal request to keep you alive, I would flay the skin from your bones right here in front of everyone.”

Simon nodded, relieved that common sense would, indeed, prevail. “Then it’s lucky for me that he made such a request.”

Gregory reared back and struck Simon across the cheek with the back of his hand. The Inquisitor tumbled back into the dirt, groaning at the burst of heat he felt rising on his skin. He felt the first trickle of blood seeping from a split beneath his eye.

The bartender reached down and forced Simon back to his knees, clenching the collar of his shirt tightly between his massive hands.

“You’ll be alive,” Gregory explained, “but I’ll be damned if you’ll be coherent by the time you see the chancellor.”

Releasing his shirt with one hand, the bartender drew back his fist and slammed it down onto Simon’s nose. The Inquisitor heard the cartilage crack from the strike, and his head rocked backward until he stared at the sky. His top hat rolled from his head into the dirt. The blue, cloudless sky grew suddenly blurry as tears filled his vision.

Blood dripped down his throat, and he choked momentarily before he was able to force his head upright again. He coughed and blood flew from his mouth unintentionally, splattering Gregory’s tunic. The bartender glanced down at the mess, growing even more infuriated.

He struck Simon once more in the face, this time between his eyes. Colors exploded in the Inquisitor’s vision and his thoughts grew blurred. A single thought slid through the haze that had overcome his mind:

Despite Gregory’s realization that the chancellor wanted Simon alive, there was a good chance the burly man would kill him here in the dirt.

Simon didn’t want to die in the dirt. He just had to hold on for a little while longer.

He barely registered the next punch that landed, this one further opening the gash under his eye. Blood poured from the wound, soaking into his beard and dripping from his chin. Simon could taste copper in his mouth but he daren’t spit out the blood again, else he only encouraged Gregory to strike him again.

“Gregory, I think he’s had enough,” someone said from the surrounding townsfolk.

“He’s had enough when I fecking say he’s had enough,” the bartender yelled.

As Gregory drew back his fist again, the air was split by a train’s whistle. The blast was joined by the sound of brakes being applied. Metal screeched against metal, and sparks filled the air as the engine of a train rolled into view.

Simon tried his best to suppress a smile, but it rose unbidden on his lips.

Gregory released Simon’s shirt and the Inquisitor fell into the dirt, lacking the strength to hold himself up. The townsfolk turned as one and watched the train slide into the station. It wasn’t a long train, consisting of only the engine and a couple of cargo cars, their sides concealed by taut tarps rather than sliding doors. The last two cars were passenger cars, though the interiors were dimly lit and it was hard to see how many people were onboard.

“The train’s not due yet,” someone offered.

“It’s early,” replied someone else. Simon couldn’t see who spoke, though it mattered little.

“Are we expecting the train?” someone nearby asked.

The bartender shook his head. “No, we’re not.”

Simon coughed and spit a mouth full of blood onto the dry dirt road. “You may not be, but I am.”

Before anyone could reply, the door to one of the passenger cars opened and a man stepped off. He wore a brown tweed suit and seemed terribly uncomfortable in Whitten Hall’s heat and humidity. The barrel of a long rifle protruded from over his shoulder, held in place by a leather strap drawn across the man’s chest. Reaching up, the man removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his bald head.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Whitten Hall,” the man said as he replaced his hat. His voice carried clearly as the townsfolk fell into a hush. “My name is Royal Inquisitor Creary, a member in good standing of the Order of Kinder Pel.”

The hush became a low, worried murmur at the mention of the Pellites. Even somewhere as distal as Whitten Hall knew the ruthless reputation of the Order of Kinder Pel. Simon lay back on the dirt road and stared up at the blue sky overhead as Inquisitor Creary continued.

“It has come to our attention that you have been colluding with mystical creatures, in direct violation of the edicts put forth by the King of Ocker. You will immediately surrender to the Order and face judgment. You have five seconds to respond.”

The townsfolk glanced nervously toward Gregory, who stood defiantly amongst his brethren.

“Four,” Creary counted.

Gregory tilted his chin upward defiantly. “You’re mistaken, Inquisitor. There are no monsters here.”