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

by Karen Payton Holt

  The exhilaration Connor felt was like the flare of a lit fuse rushing through his veins. He felt his flesh become plumper, the cells in his body welcoming the saturation. Getting to his feet, he smiled.

  “You had better throw that shirt in the hospital incinerator when you return,” Malachi said, as he appeared beside his student. “Your police inspector will think you have become a mass murderer, in a heartbeat.”

  Connor laughed drily. In the gloom, the front of his pale shirt appeared black. The sweet smell of blood filled the air. He should feel revulsion, but he did not. Examining the deer carcass with its ruptured throat, he asked, “What now?”

  “A shallow grave. Return to the earth that which nature provided. Scavengers will dine well tonight, and the earth will take the rest, in time.”

  Connor nodded before scuffing around in the banks of autumn leaves, looking for a damp soft area before dropping to his knees and scooping out a deer sized hollow in the earth. Handling the dead animal with gentle reverence was an unexpected instinct. Somewhere deep inside, he felt sorrow at ending the life of another creature. He understood acutely what survival of the fittest meant, and he could show his gratitude in a small way. He found some broadleaved bracken to place over the buck’s face before covering it with a shallow layer of earth and mulch.

  Malachi stood quietly watching, and Connor thought the hunting lesson was over.

  Brushing the earth and dust from his pants, he joined his mentor.

  “That is the body attended too, but you must feed your brain. Do you remember what I told you? Only human blood can hydrate it, and travel up past the brain stem. Come.”

  Connor’s body crawled with distaste, but he knew he did not have the luxury of choice. Perhaps, I’ll choose death once my name is cleared, but until then, I’ll do whatever it takes.

  He recognized the large functional building looming up ahead. St Thomas’ hospital was near the River Thames. Connor felt a moment’s relief. We aren’t attacking a random stranger, then. It will be someone whose time has come.

  Vampire speed meant Connor and Malachi entered the hospital and searched the critical care unit and the men’s surgical wards without being noticed. If a night nurse registered them at all, it was just the chill as though someone had opened a window.

  Sitting beside the bed of his chosen prey, Connor sat and held the bony hand, and knew the smell of decay and the paper-thin crackle of skin would haunt him. Do you ever forget your first victim?

  Malachi slowly shook his head.

  The man’s breathing rattled quietly in his throat, the shallow movement barely moving his chest beneath the white linen sheet.

  “How do you know it’s his time?” Connor asked Malachi.

  Although, Malachi had the same skeletal gaunt features, his eyes were alive with sharp intellect. Connor assessed the peaceful grin on his mentor’s face. “You are a doctor. You know it is time.”

  Canulars used to administer intravenous drugs had left pinprick holes along the old man’s thin arms. They had all been removed – no longer making any difference. Healing was slow and some of the sites remained inflamed.

  “How do I do this without leaving a mark? Causing suspicion?”

  “You’ll be surprised. He is not expected to last the night. No postmortem or real time will be spent examining his body, but, luckily for us, we have everything on hand to make certain no one knows. With a wry grin, Malachi’s form stuttered in a strobing effect, as he crossed the room and returned before the dim light could track the movement. “Here.”

  He held out a syringe.

  Lifting the old man’s arm gently, Connor placed a thumb where he expected to find the brachial artery in the patient’s upper arm. Trying not to think too closely about why he was doing it, he slid the needle beneath the fragile skin and watched the ruby nectar pour eagerly into the syringe barrel. Even though Connor knew the science: blood, just like air under pressure, would pour out if a puncture was made, it still seemed odd how blood appeared so keen to rush out of a body. Thirst scratched at Connor’s throat as the thick sweet scent filled the air.

  Instinctively knowing that one would not be enough, he deftly removed the full chamber and inserted another needle in its place and filled that syringe too. He very gently extracted the final needle, leaned back, and preparing to step away.

  “You still need to feed. Until your transformation is complete, you have to feed to unlock the gate. Just take a little.”

  Connor had remembered drinking was not feeding, so he felt prepared. He sealed his mouth over the seeping hole left by the needle. The blood needed encouragement, but trapping flesh between his teeth, he managed to create a flow that warmed his throat and dropped into his chest. The buzz in his skull gave him the sign he needed. It allowed him to stop.

  Without looking at Malachi, Connor took the syringes his mentor held out, and drank the blood from them both, pushing the plungers down fast and discharging the contents into the back of his throat.

  Returning the patient’s arm to his side, Connor felt the sluggish pulse still throbbing. He felt better that the old man still hung onto life.

  Following Malachi, Connor dropped both the syringes into the incinerator bin as he walked out of the door. The porter wheeling supplies along the slick, waxed floors appeared to freeze in place as Connor and Malachi moved so much faster than him, and their wake fluttered the papers on the clipboard which sat on top of his load.

  The chalk-white walls of the hospital corridor began to glimmer with silver fragments. The odor of starch told Connor a nurse was sitting just inside the ward door they were walking past, even though it was closed; listening to the whispered breathing of sleeping patients, he knew without thinking that there were seven occupied beds. Human blood sharpened his senses and lit up areas of his brain in ways the deer had not. Connor enjoyed the feeling and could see how intoxicating and addictive it could be.

  Outside on the sidewalk both vampires paused, taking stock of the cloudy night and damp atmosphere. Connor felt condensation forming on his cold skin.

  The journey back to St George’s Circus was completed in silence. Malachi kept even his thoughts to himself.

  When they arrived outside the side entrance to Connor’s domain, waving a bony hand in Connor’s direction, Malachi said, “Don’t forget, burn your clothes.”

  Connor glanced down at the shirt front stiffened by dried deer blood. When he looked up again, Malachi had disappeared.

  Checking his watch, Connor was shocked to realize barely an hour had passed since the confrontation with Rufus and Lester. Time no longer had meaning.

  In the last two days, for him, so much had changed, and he felt rattled by the uncertainty of the future. Connor knew Reggie’s version of what had happened at the Hall last night, but, left alone with his thoughts, Connor found himself worrying about Lavinia. Does she hate me now? Connor admitted to himself that, although there was no future for them, he cared what Lavinia thought of him.

  Chapter 16

  Drinking animal blood merely blunts the edge of hunger. Running his tongue over sharp teeth, he could still taste his last meal. The streets of London offered the ultimate high; human blood. Standing in the shadows, he watched the rolling stride of men leaving the public house. The laughter inside escaped into the chilly night every time a patron left to make their drunken way home. The door swinging shut behind them snuffed out the revelry like wind dousing a flame.

  But where is the fun in that? Inebriation contaminated the flavor and left an unpleasant after taste for vampires. Having heightened senses had its draw backs.

  A couple poured out through the doors, letting it close behind them, the golden glow through the glass framed their silhouette as they stopped to steal a kiss. This was more interesting. Snatching happiness away from feeble humans, those who thought life was good and they had control, now that was more exciting.

  He smiled, watching their stuttering gaits as they walked along the sidewalk
opposite to his hiding place, trying to match their strides and still embrace at the same time.

  They could be interesting. But, in the hunt for human blood to refresh his brain, he focused on a more enjoyable prospect.

  Kicking up a gusting breeze which caused the young couple to stop giggling and check the street around them, he left his cloak of shadow, and launched himself down the street and headed for Vauxhall Bridge as the closest route over the river.

  His coat flared behind as he hit his top speed and he skimmed along the country lanes until the familiar outline of Cranham Hall rose into the night sky and carved its angular shape into the lilac tinted horizon.

  Dawn was on its way and time was short. But there is enough.

  Slowing to a walk, he enjoyed the crunch of the gravel driveway beneath his solid weight. Like all alpha males, knowing that he was at the top of the food chain made discovery more dangerous for any unfortunate creature who came across him. He feared no one.

  Leaping lightly over the gate into the stable yard, he was greeted by the clatter of hooves and nervous whinny of the Cranhams’ horses. Pausing to look inside one stable, he recognized Sabre. The black coat gleamed, accentuating the bellowing of the stallion’s lungs as panic set in. The whites of his eyes flashed as the horse strained to detect from where danger may strike.

  Not tonight Sabre. Tonight, you are safe.

  Moving silently on, he ducking into the tack room and took a horseshoe nail from the box on a shelf, and then headed to the rear entrance. One gloved hand gripped the handle, holding the door still as he used the nail to grind open the lock. He did not want his forced entry to be obvious.

  Now, at best, the lock has worn and the barrels are harder to turn. The butler will get the handyman to grease it. When that made no difference, then a locksmith would be called in. Things wear out, after all.

  Stepping inside, he closed the door and took a deep breath. Smells from the kitchen filled the air. Bread had been baked. The evening meal had been pheasant and venison and desert was something with apples. The fire grates had been brushed clean ready for the morning. The servants would be stirring soon. Ivy would come down the stone stairs at four am and fill the coal buckets to set the fires in the upstairs rooms ready for the family.

  He sat in the rocking chair and waited. He could see the door, but he would hear her first in any case. She slept in the attic in a room which was hot and stuffy in summer and so cold her breath came in plumes in winter. The tweeny was on the bottom rung of the ladder and had the worst of everything, including pay and rations, but a roof over her head and food in her belly were a luxury to the Ivy’s of the world.

  The family should evict the girl now. Becoming pregnant was disgraceful. But who is the father? He grinned. That is the only thing that is staying the hand of Lord Cranham. The girl should be paid off and sent back to the workhouse, but he heard the Cranhams were decent people.

  Still, they won’t need to worry for much longer.

  His smile became broader as he heard the whisper of feet on the stone stairs. The girl tried to be quiet. Mrs. Burnham was asleep in the house-keeper’s rooms at the end of the corridor leading off the kitchen. It wouldn’t do to wake her.

  Shall I surprise Ivy here, or wait until she’s making up the fire in the upstairs parlour. Motes of dust danced in the air where a funnel of light cut through the kitchen. Her lantern held out in front of her, Ivy didn’t notice the figure sitting quietly in cook’s chair.

  Clutching her pinafore in one hand, Ivy hung the lantern on the cast iron hook set into the wall beside the open fireplace, and then dipped her chin to put the apron over her head. Suddenly, the apron strings were pulled tight, and before Ivy could cry out, a gloved hand gripped her face. Pulling her soft body hard against his chest, savoring the surge of heat in her cheeks as waves of terror stiffened every muscle in her body, he enjoyed the moment of anticipation. With a sharp wrench on her jaw, he whipped her head round and her spine gave way with an ear popping crack. He held her up as her legs sagged, her arms swung down by her sides and she hung there like a puppet with cut strings.

  He stepped backward taking her with him, and then eased her back into the rocking chair. After tilting her head to one side, he closed her eyelids.

  Taking a knife from the butchers’ block, he pierced the pad of Ivy’s thumb. The blood oozed slowly. He lowered her hand allowing gravity to work until a perfect red pearl glistened. With no heart to pump it out, it swelled slowly. He pulled a scrap of torn fabric from his pocket and blotted the cut, watching the stain grow into a snowflake of crimson, the size of a copper penny.

  Folding the cloth and pushing it back into his pocket, he arranged her hands in her lap and left her there. He wished he could stay to see Mrs. Burnham’s indignation at Ivy neglecting her duties and sleeping on the job, only to discover she was dead.

  That would be so sweet, but he had to return to London before sunrise. Perhaps next time.

  Chapter 17

  Connor splashed his face with water and wiped it dry. Looking in the mirror, he made sure the white flecks of his shaving foam were gone. It was the same face which had stared back at him, every morning, for twenty-four years, but somehow, it was very different.

  He had taken Malachi’s advice and tossed the blood-stained shirt and pants down the incinerator chute in the early hours before dawn.

  He tried to relax on his bed, but ended up pacing the floor. Who killed Rice? Last night, Malachi had changed the subject and used misdirection. It wasn’t until afterwards, that Connor realized he had not given up any information about these ‘other vampires’. Maybe there aren’t any. Perhaps the truth is closer to home.

  Attending Sir John’s lectures usually featured as a high point for Connor. He knew he still had a lot to learn. But, today, the schedule weighed him down, like carrying a millstone on his back. He’d lose his place on the surgical team if Sir John noticed his absence, but then, being suspected of murder would do that too.

  I’m sure Reggie will cover for me, if he can. Pulling on a tailored jacket and checking his pocket watch, Connor left the students’ quarters and, projecting calm he did not feel, made his way to the main entrance. He turned up his collar against the blustery rain and headed towards the front door.

  “Doctor Connor, sir.”

  From behind the reception desk, a young receptionist flushed when he turned his head.

  The girl had brown curls and a tentative smile. “I have a letter for you, Doctor. The young lady who delivered it said it was urgent.”

  Frowning as he took the envelope from her unsteady hand, Connor softened his appearance with a smile. “Thank you-?”

  “Grace,” she murmured. “Grace Watkin. I’m new here.” Her eyes matched the brown hair and she played with a chain around her throat.

  “Thank you, Grace.”

  She flushed pink, and the rush of blood was distracting, but Connor held onto his smile, lifted a hand in thanks, and walked away.

  Pausing inside the doorway, he tore open the lemon-colored envelope he knew must be from Lavinia.

  ‘Connor, meet me at Lyons Tea Room. The Strand Palace Hotel near Covent Garden. I must talk to you urgently. L.’

  Connor frowned. The Tea Room was a newly opened establishment. He had never been there and he doubted that Lavinia had either. The choice of venue exuded secrecy. That can’t be good. The abrupt note gave nothing away. Something is wrong.

  Outside on the sidewalk, he hailed a Hackney Carriage. Once inside, he sat drumming his fingers on his thigh and watching, but not really seeing, the scattering of pedestrians hurrying along, jostling beneath a sea of umbrellas. Unrelenting rain ran from the paving stones and filled the gutters with rushing water. The soot stained clouds promised many hours of wet misery – and Connor rejoiced. It was one less hazard on his radar.

  Alighting from the carriage, Connor paid the driver and ran up the steps into the tea room. Within seconds, he spotted Lavinia seated at a square t
able against the wall. The room bustled with diners, many of them accompanied by children – girls dressed in bows and boys with slicked back hair. Lyons Tea Room was clearly becoming a place for treats to be shared between grandparents and precious offspring.

  Connor, not wanting to move too quickly, waited for a sign that he had registered with those in the room. Whipping across the space like a tornado would be hard to explain. His emotions were running high – he wasn’t sweating, but he wasn’t blinking either.

  Despite his preoccupation, Connor appreciated the splendor of the establishment. The ceiling was impossibly high. Marble pillars with ornate square plinths ran in two rows across the room. Georgian panels gave the walls texture and above the grand fireplace sat a gilt enamelled coat of arms.

  He turned his fixed smile up a notch when Lavinia saw him, at last.

  She stood and raised a hand.

  Connor slowly released a sigh, which eased the tension inside his chest, and concentrated on planning his movements and weaving a fluid path between the tables.

  Taking Lavinia’s gloved hand in his, he dipped his head in a bow of greeting. He waited until she subsided into her seat before sitting down opposite her and pulling his chair in closer to the table. Finally, he took a deep breath and noticed how pale she looked. Foundation cake could not mask the dark smudges beneath her brown eyes.

  The tension he felt humming inside her eased a little as she removed her hat, concentrated on replacing the hat pin securely in the dark rose fabric, and arranged it on the cushion of an empty seat at the table.

  “This is not your usual dining establishment,” said Connor, scanning the sea of tables. The crisp array of rectangular covers were so white, they seemed to glow beneath the crystal chandeliers. Even the driving rain outside could not dim the mood of the diners.

  Lavinia appeared absorbed in arranging her silverware, but a small frown flitted across her features before good breeding covered her emotions beneath a placid air.