Death of Connor Sanderson: Prequel to Fire & Ice Series (Fire & Ice - Prequel)

by Karen Payton Holt

  Chapter 14

  Connor walked with a measured stride, aware of every noise occurring within the houses he passed. He stopped for a moment, when he heard children laughing, acknowledging that he could never have that: a home, a wife, children. At this moment, his path seemed all rocks and no flowers. But, only time will tell. As a youth, he had been told hard work was its own reward, but once he made it to London, he learned hard work needed a friend called ‘good fortune’. The worst of it was, being born with a silver spoon in your mouth meant a free pass for the ‘Rufus Clares’ of this world.

  Turning the corner, he saw yellow funnels of lamplight draped over the paving stones. Saturday evening, shops stayed open late. Shop keepers knew that men worked five and a half days a week; Saturday was payday.

  From the glass frontage of a general provisions store a lava flow of light bled onto the sidewalk. Connor had the sudden urge to be among people who didn’t know him and would not judge him.

  Peering through the window, he saw many wares on display, packing the shelves, and ran from cherries through to flour, and every foodstuff in between. The pendulous gas lantern overhead, suspended from a graceful arc of brass, called to shoppers like a flame to moths.

  Connor changed direction and entered the shop. The bell overhead chimed and several customers automatically glanced his way and the hubbub of chatter stuttered before revving up again. The counter running the length of the shop was lined with assistants weighing, measuring, and cutting a variety of foodstuffs.

  Precision was key. A measure of butter came up short on the scales. The assistant slapped another dollop on and used wooden paddles to reshape the rectangle before wrapping it. The smells were overpowering for Connor. He closed his eyes and drowned in the scent of tea, cabbage, sugar, bacon, and many more odors.

  Someone jolted his arm, and Connor’s eyes shot open.

  “Sorry sir, I didn’t see you there.” A lad peered up from beneath the peak of a too large cap. He clutched two paper parcels to his chest - one smelled of bacon, the other bread, and his reddening cheeks smelled of blood.

  As Connor’s mouth filled with saliva, he realized he’d made a mistake. Spinning on his heel, he used every ounce of self-control to open the door slowly and step out into the street. Grinding his teeth together as he began walking once more, he glanced overhead at the darkening sky. What was it Malachi said he had yet to learn? Hunting? Connor decided the next hour could turn him into a murderer if he did not take care.

  Up ahead several shoppers spilled out of another store, and Connor darted down a side road away from the high street. What he needed now was isolation. His footsteps echoed as he crossed to the other sidewalk on a long diagonal. He turned another corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

  Was there a God? Someone trying to test him? The gleaming cap of copper hair of the man who paused beneath a street lamp to light a cigarette was unmistakable. In case Connor doubted it, the match flare died and the man lifted his face, expelling a gossamer thin plume of smoke. Even though the golden glow above bleached out the man’s features, Connor’s suspicions were confirmed. Rufus Clare.

  Cavendish’s words floated into focus in Connor’s mind. ‘Rufus Clare is sporting a broken nose. He says you have been behaving oddly of late.’

  “Ah, if it isn’t Doctor Death.”

  Rufus’ shoes scuffed the paving stones as he sauntered forward. Connor smelled the whiskey before the man staggered sideways and gripped a metal railing to steady himself.

  “Let’s not do this, Clare. You are inebriated.”

  His brown eyes glittered as he waved the lit cigarette in the air. “I thought you’d be in a cell by now.”

  To add to Connor’s irritation, Lester emerged from a nearby house, skipped down the steps to the street, and then froze for a moment. He quickly recovered and rushed over to join his friend.

  “Doctor Connor.” Lester nodded, glancing nervously at Rufus’ bullish expression.

  “Look at him. Dr ‘Lord All Mighty’. Strutting around as if butter wouldn’t melt.” Rufus weaved forward, his lack of height making it impossible to get into Connor’s face. “Let’s finish what you started.” Tossing the cigarette aside, he unconsciously touched the ridged scar on his nose before balling his hands into fist. “C’mon. Queensbury Rules. Lester, you can call it.”

  The stink of whiskey helped Connor to kill his appetite. He imagined Rufus’ blood tainted by it and the muscle in his jaw twitched as he clamped his mouth shut.

  Rufus swung a fist and Connor dodged. He could do this all day, or rather, all night. It was like watching his opponent move through water; each movement sluggish.

  “Take him home, Cartwright.”

  Rufus bellowed and delivered a left jab, a right cross, and then weaved until he staggered.

  Lester grabbed Rufus by the arm and saved him from falling to the ground. “Ru, let’s call it a night.”

  Connor stepped back, turned, and started walking away. He heard the scuffing of dragging feet fade into the distance. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw both men shuffling along, Lester’s arm round Rufus. In the gloom, their bodies fused into a four-legged mass. With a sigh, Connor turned away. He’d had enough of pretending, enough of human slow. His muscles burned with the effort. It was time to be alone.

  Connor was three streets away within four seconds, but he still heard agonized retching, and a sharp breath hissing through Lester’s teeth. He stopped and listened. A dull thud joined the cocktail of sounds, and Connor’s heart felt like a stone as he resigned himself to going back.

  “Help. Someone help.”

  Connor appeared beside Lester as he struggled with Rufus’ convulsing body where it lay on the ground, vomit gurgling in his throat.

  “Get out of the way, Lester. He’s choking.”

  The young man jolted back, landed on his backside, and scrabbled further away.

  Dropping to his knees, Connor rolled Rufus onto his side, as if he was no heavier than a toddler, and scooped the detritus from his mouth.

  “I should have seen it coming. I should’ve seen it coming.” Lester’s muttered mantra continued, his eyes glued to his friend’s face which was bleached gray by the moonlight.

  “Yes, you should have. Why was he so drunk? Celebrating?” Celebrating my downfall. Connor kept the thought to himself.

  “It’s his birthday,” Lester said quietly. “He’s jealous of you. That’s why he acts like a raging bull when you are around. We all are, envious, at least.”

  Connor rested back on his haunches and watched Rufus’ still face, listening to his breathing whistling through a raw throat.

  “You shouldn’t envy me. My life is not a bed of roses, trust me.”

  “You always get it right, Sanderson.” Lester waved a hand towards where Rufus’ lay, passed out, but out of danger. “I couldn’t even roll him over. Couldn’t even save my friend.”

  Connor looked at the young man’s anxious face. “You’ve heard the term ‘dead weight’? Don’t be too hard on yourself. An unconscious body feels two times as heavy.” Panicking didn’t help, but Connor didn’t lay that at Lester’s door. The youth had enough guilt to deal with.

  “Call me Connor. And I know it will be difficult, but try and get Rufus off my back.”

  Groaning as he surfaced, Rufus spat foul smelling dribble onto the sidewalk and rolled slowly over onto his back, keeping his eyes closed.

  “Get him home, Lester. You can break the news that I saved his life in the morning.” Rising to his feet, Connor grinned. This time, he set off at a brisk walk until he was out of sight, then moved up to a fast run that made him invisible to the human eye.

  Chapter 15

  Connor stood on the parapet on the roof of the hospital, wondering if the gathering fog was thinner than usual, or if his eyes just cut through it easier. He knew the moment Malachi arrived, although he couldn’t say how. The breeze? The smell? The drop in temperature, even though it was chilly on the ro
of top? No matter.

  “Why are you standing here? The plan was to meet in the park and go hunting, as I recall.”

  Without turning around, Connor said, “Malachi, did I kill Rice?”

  “You need to ask, Connor?” Malachi’s paper-thin laughter crackled in the night.

  “Damn right, I need to ask. I can’t remember.” Dragging a hand down over his tight face, Connor said, “I’m not safe out there.”

  “Hunting might be the last thing on your mind, but I am here to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” Malachi stood beside Connor and admired the view. “You still need to hunt, and then you can find the killer and hand him over to the police.”

  It was Connor’s turn to laugh. “My need to master hunting is very much at the front of my mind. I’ve had an eventful evening. I also learned something very disturbing.”

  What did you learn? Malachi’s voice filled Connor’s head much like the smoke Rufus had expelled when smoking. Thoughts can’t be overheard.

  My handkerchief.

  What about it?

  It was inside Rice. Connor looked at Malachi’s profile, his skin appeared almost translucent. Aloud, Connor said, “If it wasn’t me, then it was you.”

  “That would be too easy, don’t you think. There are more vampires in London than you can imagine.”

  Connor nodded. “But it’s a huge coincidence that Rice is connected to me. To Lavinia. And now he’s dead.”

  “Let’s hunt. Talking can wait, you won’t find a killer with a shriveled brain.” Malachi thumped Connor on the shoulder and leapt over the parapet. He dropped like a stone until the fog swallowed him. Connor sighed and launched himself into the void. Using stairs is clearly not an option.

  Landing on the sidewalk, Connor automatically scanned the streets for movement. Malachi was a speck in the distance and Connor felt irritated. The feeling of eyes watching made him slow to follow. What did Malachi say? There are more vampires in London than I know about?

  At the corner, he found Malachi leaning against the railings.

  “You waited? Feeling sorry for me?” Connor grinned.

  “That would be a waste of time. Learning to hunt is crucial, but remaining undetected, even more so. You can hunt foxes and badgers, even rabbits. Hunting is hunting. But the best place to get the human blood you need will be the hospice, or perhaps the emergency room. There are a few there who will welcome our attention.”

  “So, what’s first?”

  “First, we learn how to feel. Come.” Malachi dropped suddenly to the ground.

  Connor realized they were standing by a manhole cover.

  With long bony fingers, Malachi easily dislodged and lifted the iron lid. “After you.”

  Barely pausing to look into the hole at the glimmer of draining water, Connor stepped out over the edge. The air in the sewer was thick with moisture and rancid odors. Automatically, Connor stopped breathing. It became pitch-black when Malachi pulled the manhole cover back into place, and scum-filmed water splashed up over his pants when Malachi landed two feet away, at his shoulder.

  At first, he thought he couldn’t see anything, but after a moment, he picked out texture in the darkness. Water glistened on the walls of the sewer. Light must be getting in from somewhere.

  Looking up ahead, Connor made out a storm drain framed by light, defused like a cloud of frost. He tuned into the whisper of trickling water, the thin rivulets of condensation running down the walls and into the pooled water in which they stood. High-pitched scratching caught his attention next, overlaid by a snuffling sound.

  “Rats,” said Malachi, in answer to Connor’s thought. “Sewer rats.”

  Connor wrinkled his nose. The scratchy scampering sounds thickened as more rodents began to move. The arrival of the intruders had made the rat population freeze, but, with darkness restored, and no movement detected, the creatures resumed their scurrying back and forth, doing whatever it was that rats do.

  Please tell me we’re not here to drink rat blood. Connor looked at the vague smudge of Malachi’s face.

  The challenge is to catch a rat without crushing it. A test of speed and control. Whenever you are ready.

  Connor flexed his fingers and tuned into the noises. Dropping slowly down into a crouch, he lowered his hands until his fingertips skimmed the film of scum coating the water. He felt the ripples rushing over the surface. He waited until water splashed onto his hand and he detected the radiating heat of flesh, and then his hand darted out and he felt wet waxy fur in his grasp. The popping sound of tiny bones cracking surprised him, the minute explosion vibrated through his palm. The heartbeat stopped suddenly.

  He didn’t need Malachi’s short sharp thought bolt of ‘again’, to tell him he had failed. Releasing the body to drift away in the sluicing current, Connor lay in wait, again. Twice more, the ribcage of his catch imploded with a wet pop.

  Take a breath, Connor.

  He didn’t really want to obey Malachi, already anticipating the stench. Why?

  You’ll see why.

  Breathing out first, emptying his body of stored stale air, Connor inhaled carefully through his nose. Dozens of threads of different odors filtered through him and he understood why. He sensed that the rats had different smells, so it was a matter of working out what that meant.

  Three more carcasses later: one snapped spine, one crumbled pelvis, and one with burst lungs, Connor understood. The fourth rat he chose, wriggled in his hand and gnawed at his hard flesh, but was unhurt. Its accelerated heartbeat pulsed the blood in a drumbeat which made Connor’s mouth water. However, he thought of the slick matted coat of his prey and found it easy to resist.

  Like dogs can smell cancer in humans, Connor detected the calcium deposits denoting skeletal strength in the rats.

  Now the catching part was over, Malachi spoke aloud. “Each species has its own ‘tell’. The strongest are also the most nutritious. Except in humans, where we, through necessity, pick off the weak. Allowing humans to believe monsters are only in their dreams works better for us.”

  “So we aren’t here to dine on rats?”

  “There may come a time when you will do precisely that. But for tonight, no. This is purely the first part in your survival training.”

  Wiping his hands down the side of his pants, Connor wondered where he’d be if Cavendish wanted this set of clothes. Silvery moonlight suddenly streaming in overhead nudged Connor into action. Malachi was on the move, and waiting for him.

  As Malachi dropped the manhole cover back into place, Connor asked, “What now? Slugs?”

  Malachi clucked his tongue in disapproval and took off along the deserted street. Connor knew they were headed east, but other than that, he felt like a child being dragged along by a hurrying parent. Time is short. The words bled into his mind. He was becoming expert at distinguishing his own thoughts from Malachi’s. But what did that mean? He repeated the thought over again, hoping for an answer. The wind felt exhilarating as the buildings became a blurred wall of the reds, oranges, and cream colors of their facades.

  The gas lights thinned and finally disappeared as they headed out into the countryside. Malachi passed through a gap in the tall hedgerows and eventually, when he came to a halt, they were in a forest. It was not Richmond or Greenwich, they were Royal Parks and a drop in deer numbers would be noticed.

  “Where-” Connor stopped at Malachi’s penetrating look, although the sharp ‘shhhh’ echoing inside his brain felt like it would crack his skull. Connor’s irritation grew.

  It is early, so time is not short. Why the hell are we here?

  Laughter rang inside his head and Malachi bared yellow teeth to show his amusement was real. It struck Connor, for the first time, how used to Malachi’s hideous appearance he had become. Once seen, never forgotten would fit him well. He would inhabit a human’s nightmares for years. Monsters existed, they just didn’t know it.

  It is not the hour that is late. Time is running out for you. You need t
o feed.

  As soon as Connor heard those thoughts, his mind shifted into overdrive. The cramping in his thigh muscles after their run. Is that usual? Were his hands stiffer than before? He flexed his fingers and regretted passing on the rat he caught earlier. Paranoia began crawling through his mind, until Malachi placed a hand on his shoulder.

  You’re wasting time. What creatures can you see, hear, smell?

  Closing his eyes, Connor tuned into the undergrowth. Snuffling sounds became amplified, and he picked out a rhythmic noise of chewing. He could smell grass as teeth tore it from the ground, releasing the odor. Then he detected the thick scent of blood pumping behind flesh and the creak of muscle fibers.

  Track down the sound. Malachi nodded as Connor opened his eyes and scanned the trees.

  Like hotspots in his sensory map, the clusters of warm blood inside five nearby mammals clamored for his attention. Connor had to choose. Did he try for the biggest target, or the closest? Venom scented saliva flooded into his mouth as he emptied his mind and reflexes took over. Speed was the weapon which his prey could not escape. Connor plunged through the forest, bumping his shoulder into a tree and unleashing a distracting cascade of autumn leaves. Connor used that distraction to chase down a fallow deer. The splashes of white fur on its pelt glowed like beacons for Connor, as he closed the distance, blind siding the young buck before it could run.

  The deer swung its head like a club, and its horns, crested by blades of flattened bone, tore into Connor’s shirt at his shoulder. He ducked his head and buried his face into the buck’s neck, his arms wrapped around the animal’s ribcage as the impact knocked the deer over onto its side. Without letting his human side take stock, Connor was unerringly drawn to the thundering pulse of the carotid artery below the smooth pelt of fur, and he bit down hard.

  Blood pumped in a geyser, hitting the back of his throat in a suffocating tide, but he didn’t need to breathe, just swallow in time with the pulsing flow until the heart stopped beating and the river of blood dried up.