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

by Karen Payton Holt

His mentor finally sent words splintered by frozen thoughts: Trapped- not strong- iron-

  Trapped by who? How? Connor gave up asking questions. His fingers finally tangled into the saturated fabric of Malachi’s coat. The thin angular bones beneath it seemed fragile, brittle even. Connor took a moment to dissipate the haste and alarm. He felt as though he would snap the old vampire’s bones if he let panic take hold.

  Trying to gather Malachi’s slack form into his arms, Connor discovered chains were wrapped around both his ankles. No, not around, metal stakes were driven through both feet. The chain wound around his scrawny neck was secured to the wall, and prevented Malachi reaching down to free himself.

  But why is he so weak? Connor knew the elder vampire’s feeble appearance disguised incredible strength. Reaching down, Connor extracted the steel pins carefully. He felt the bones grate, but the metal had pierced only flesh and none were broken. The chain around Malachi’s neck was easier to deal with, although, beneath the icy water, Connor found channeling his own strength required more concentration. But still, he managed to grip the links and distort the metal until it fractured.

  Holding onto Malachi, bracing his foot on the riveted wooden barrier, Connor launched them both upwards. As their heads broke the surface of the water, the old vampire’s unresponsive features caused more concern.

  “You need to hold on, old man.” Folding the bony fingers over a ledge, Connor anchored Malachi to the concrete wall. Barely noticing the water-logged weight of his clothes, Connor scaled the embankment and then reached down and pulled Malachi up after him. Supporting his mentor, Connor guided him into the deep shadow below a bridge over the river, and sunk down with Malachi beside him.

  The silence stretched as they both rested back against the concrete wall and gathered their thoughts and let the consequences sink in.

  Finally, Connor rolled his head to the side and peered at Malachi’s gray translucent skin. “Why couldn’t you free yourself?”

  Malachi’s breath rattled in weak laughter. “Of all the questions, you start with that one. Let me ask you, how did you know it wasn’t me in the morgue?”

  Resting his forearms on his bent knees and gazing out over the ripples racing over the water, Connor said quietly, “I sensed something different about him, but it was the serpent ring. His had an emerald eye, yours is a ruby.”

  “Ah,” said Malachi, “The devil is in the detail.”

  “I asked him about our plans to return to Egypt. We never made any such plans, and then I knew for certain.” Connor looked at the smile which etched creases into Malachi’s face. “It was Numu? The killer? And you have been protecting him, so what happened? What changed?”

  “What changed? He knew I considered you my protégé. That was what tipped him over the edge into the killing spree. He wanted to bury you, one way or another.”

  “So, I was supposed to suffer a broken neck and rot away like The Butcher, and you and your brother disappear back to Egypt?”

  Malachi nodded. “That was what he worked towards. Everything led to removing you.”

  “Was it you that attacked me in the morgue that night?”

  Malachi shook his head. “No, it was Numu. I found you soon after and I just had a feeling about you. You should have been dead, but you were fighting to survive. I saved you. Numu didn’t like that.”

  “This brings me back to my first question. Why couldn’t you free yourself?”

  “I was stupid. Numu finally revealed himself. We’ve been playing cat and mouse until now. Me protecting you, and him hiding from me. But then he came out of hiding. I underestimated him.” Pulling the folds of wet fabric from around his neck, Malachi revealed tears in his flesh. “He hugged me like a brother, and then drained my blood. He wanted me out of the way until he finished you.”

  “So much for brotherly love.”

  “He would have rescued me. But by anchoring me there, below the water, when I was so weak, he knew I’d stay there rather than tear the pins through my feet and suffer decades of not being able to walk. Vanity, but he knew I couldn’t risk that.”

  “I can understand that. Immortality is daunting, but as a cripple, it would be unbearable.” Digesting all he had learned, Connor finally asked, “So, what now?”

  “I assume Numu is dead?” Malachi’s voice rang hollow with the regret.

  “Yes.”

  “Then we have our murderer. Your name can be cleared if Lester Cartwright identifies Numu. Did you search him?”

  “No.”

  “I know my brother well. He will have trophies from his victims. Something from Rice, and Ivy. Usually a sample of their blood. Smelling it transports him back to the thrill of his kill.”

  “Will you recover?” Connor asked.

  “I will. It will take a short while, but what I need now is rest while my flesh dries out.”

  “I’ll take you back to the cemetery, and then I’ll go and see my favorite police inspector.”

  Chapter 29

  “Take a seat, Doctor Sanderson.” Cavendish smiled, the light of glee in his eyes hard to miss. “You look remarkably well, for a corpse.”

  Connor nodded. “Thank you, Inspector. It has been a trying few days.” Connor’s dried disheveled clothes pulled tight across his shoulders when he shrugged. “I will answer any questions you have. As you know, I found the murderer, the real murderer, and I just want a normal life again.” Connor knew that ‘normal’ could never be restored to him, but for now, he’d settle for getting Cavendish off his back once and for all.

  Cavendish flipped through the papers and photographs on his desk. Skin samples which were taken from Connor when he walked into the police station, and photographs of wounds he sustained in the fight to the death with the ‘John Doe’ now lying in the police pathology lab were spread out before him.

  “You have no idea who your attacker is, was? You’ve never seen him before?”

  “No,” answered Connor. “But from what Lester Cartwright has said in his statement, I believe the man could be described as a psychopath who, for some reason, fixated on me.”

  Connor knew, from searching Numu’s body himself that the police would have found a vial of blood which, from what Lester said, Connor suspected came from Rufus. A scrap of a cotton apron covered in blood spots and Rice’s epaulette bearing his regimental insignia were tucked into the folds of a fabric belt tied around Numu’s waist.

  Connor also planted some evidence of his own; brick dust and rust flakes from the prison bars Malachi loosened when he helped Connor escape. He dipped Numu’s slack fingers into the residue then wiped them over the folds of his robe.

  “Tell me, Doctor Sanderson, how did you escape from your burning cell?”

  Connor looked at Cavendish and said, regretfully. “I wish I could help you. I really do, but I woke up down on the embankment with a bump on the head. I don’t remember how I got there.”

  “But you didn’t come forward when you came to your senses?”

  Connor leaned back in his seat. “Inspector, put yourself in my shoes. I know I am not a murderer. How can I hope to prove that from inside a cell? I’m not proud of myself, but I wanted the chance to clear my name.”

  Cavendish frowned as he flicked through the sheaf of papers once again. “It is all very convenient, but, for now, it seems, you are no longer implicated.” Pushing back his chair and standing up, Cavendish said, “Good day to you, Sanderson.”

  Connor rose from his seat and shook hands with the inspector. “Thank you, Inspector. I’m glad you found your man and we can all sleep easier tonight.”

  Connor left the room and walked slowly down the corridor. The smell of sweat and starch reminded him a little of the hospital wards. The scent of blood was more subtle here. Although nurses were as calm as their law enforcement counterparts, the patients at the hospital were generally anxious with hearts pumping blood faster in a more alluring beat. And there were the cannulas. A smear of blood was like a drenching of heroin t
o Connor’s senses.

  He glanced towards the closed door, beyond which he had been held prisoner. The blood he could smell pluming from that area probably came from grazed faces, black eyes, or other drunken brawl induced injuries.

  Some people really were their own worst enemy.

  Nodding at the desk sergeant and pushing his way through a glass paneled door, Connor’s smile was genuine when he spotted Reggie’s profile through the open window of the Cranhams’ carriage.

  Reggie waved as Connor opened the door and climbed into the shadowed interior. The evening sun appeared to stage a protest at the chill of dusk chasing her away, and the golden glow scattered bright coins of light across the sidewalk.

  “I thought you’d appreciate the safety of a carriage.” Reggie’s half smile expressed quiet acceptance.

  He knows all there is, and is still a good friend. No, more than that, a brother in all but blood.

  “Are there many guests this evening?”

  Reggie chuckled. “Lavinia will be there, and Uncle Edgar. Even Cecil Clare begged for an invitation. You have delivered a serial killer to the police and Rufus’ family are very grateful.”

  “It was nothing. Not really.” Connor had told Reggie everything, and his friend had protested when Connor put the blame for the deaths squarely on his own shoulders. ‘You were stalked by a monster. It could happen to any of us. Now I’ll hear no more of it.’

  Despite Reggie’s words, Connor detected the suppressed glee of a man who feels safe once more, and thankful that Lavinia, and the rest of his family, no longer had to look over their shoulders.

  Reggie rapped his cane on the roof of the carriage. “Harker, if you please.”

  From behind, Connor heard William hop down from his seat and perform his footman duties. He tuned out the shouts of London street sellers and the cacophony of chatter which fell from shop doorways, from the public houses, and on the bustling streets themselves.

  Resting his head back against the leather upholstered wall, he relaxed for the first time in what felt like an eternity. The rolling of the carriage diminished as the four horse team picked up speed and found their stride.

  The journey unfolded in an oasis of silence. Reggie’s air of comfort meant more to Connor than he thought it could. He had the feeling others, if they knew the truth, would view him as a monster almost as terrifying as Numu. Of course, Reggie has never laid eyes on Malachi. His mentor embodied every child’s nightmare. Will I end up looking like that, I wonder? But Connor already knew the rules of the game. Look after your raw material, and you stay young and healthy.

  Connor opened his eyes and watched the passing flashes of street lamps strobing over Reggie’s content face. Friendships and relationships with humans would be the hardest thing to lose. He acknowledged an inevitable truth, he would have to say goodbye to the Cranhams, for their sakes.

  The gas lights faded to the thick darkness of tree-lined country lanes. The city smells of coal, soot, and rotting garbage gave way to earth, flora, and evening dew, and very soon, the halo of light shrouding Cranham Hall became a beacon which lifted the spirits. Even the horses appeared to stretch their stride in joyful abandon.

  The horseshoe driveway afforded a view of the entire ground floor, and Connor felt flattered to find most of the household staff lined up outside beneath the portico. Connor alighted from the carriage before William could disembark and open the door, and the staff, led by Mr. Phelps and Mrs. Burnham, burst into a rousing chorus of ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’.

  Connor’s laughter held genuine delight.

  “Thank you, sir. You caught Ivy’s murderer and we’ll be forever grateful.” Mr. Phelps shook Connor’s hand and the rest of the staff beamed smiles of adoration upon him. If this was to be his last night at the Hall, then at least he would take away a wealth of precious memories.

  “Thank you, Phelps. You’ll never know how good it feels to make sure such evil met a fitting end.”

  Reggie joined Connor on the top step and taking his arm, he led him into the Hall. The high ceilings and gilt-edged mirrors refracted prisms of light which Connor’s mature vampire vision saw as glittering strands cutting through the air. These prisms of light cast a warm glow over each of the figures waiting beyond the open double doors of the drawing room.

  Lady Isobel, dressed in a sleek gown of blue silk stepped forward and reached for both Connor’s hands. “My dear boy. It is wonderful to see you.”

  He bowed and brushed his lips over the lace on the gloves she wore. “Lady Isobel, I am relieved normality has been restored. I just regret the terror you all suffered.”

  “And you too, Connor. You suffered as much as we, and you showed great bravery.”

  Connor smiled. He knew the family were privy to everything Inspector Cavendish had reluctantly accepted as true, and Lester Cartwright added weight to Connor’s hero status.

  Connor tuned into the number of heat signatures in the room beyond, and swallowed down the salivating response to the chorus of succulent cantering heartbeats. The odor of each person resembled notes in a symphony, and if his own heart could beat faster, it would have when he detected Lavinia’s delicate aroma.

  Lester appeared behind Lady Cranham and, with red smudges staining his cheeks, he murmured, “Anything I can do for you, Sanderson, just say the word.” Rufus’ ghost sat on the youngster’s shoulder as surely as the guilt Connor shared at sealing the unfortunate man’s fate.

  “Lester, you were a good friend to Rufus. Never doubt that.” Clasping the young man’s shoulder gently, Connor turned to the next well-wisher.

  Cedric Clare’s complexion bore the gray cast of a tortured soul. “Sanderson-” The elder man swallowed and his throat clamped shut. The flush of blood burning beneath his starched collar threatened to end in an undignified sob until Connor stepped in.

  He looked at Cedric and said quietly. “Rufus had turned a corner. You can be proud of him, and I’m just sorry I was too late to save him.”

  The shame Cedric felt fell away like a weighted shroud. “Thank you, Sanderson.” He met Connor’s steady gray regard and said, “Connor. Thank you.”

  Turning away, Connor smiled and acknowledged compliments from the other members of the Cranham household. Reggie’s youngest sister, Tilly, gazed at him with the unabashed glee of hero worship, and Connor made the girl blush when he gave her a chivalrous bow.

  Connor’s own smile died when he glanced over Tilly’s head and saw Lavinia wearing a stunning crystal blue dress and smiling at him as though he was the only person in the room. The noise of subdued conversation faded and the only sound Connor heard was the shallow excitement of Lavinia’s breathing.

  He allowed himself the indulgence of pretending, just for a moment, that a future existed in which he could love Lavinia in the way he wanted to, and crossing the room, his feelings were written clearly on his face.

  The lull of conservation meant others were watching, and Lavinia moved away with a bright smile. “I think I need some fresh air. Take a turn around the garden with me, Connor.” With a glance his way, she drifted across the room.

  “Don’t be too long you two,” Lady Isabel said lightly, “Mrs. Burnham has prepared a feast fit for a king.”

  Collecting a throw from the back of a leather couch, Connor said, “It’s chilly out, Lady Isabel, we will be back directly.”

  He followed Lavinia’s lead, leaving by the French doors and running lightly down the steps. It took him one second to locate her. She stood beneath the shade of a tree in the center of the meticulously clipped lawn.

  Connor silently crossed the grass and stopped a hair’s breadth away from her. He pushed his fingers into the silky black tresses of her carefully dressed hair, and kissed her. He kept his eyes open at first, watching her deep brown gaze melt, before the black crescent of her lowered lashes stole the mesmerizing image away. Her perfume intoxicated him. The incandescent heat of her body tortured him as he closed the distance and his hand
spanned her waist.

  When he broke the kiss, time stood still and he wanted to stay there, in that moment, forever. Her hand on his cheek felt like a fiery brand. Her skin glowed with iridescence, and Connor savored and absorbed every detail.

  Her smile said all the words he could not find as the light in her eyes flooded with sorrow. She knew he wanted more than they could ever have. ‘If only’ resounded inside his head as a forlorn lament.

  “I love you, Connor. That is enough.”

  Laying his forehead gently on hers, his fingertips still stroking through her hair, Connor whispered, “I love you, too, my heart.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “I’m not sure. I just know I can’t let myself become a monster.”

  Connor felt the smile on her lips as she raised her chin and kissed him. “Oh no, Mr. Sanderson, you’ll never become a monster.”

  Connor chuckled. “Okay, well perhaps I mean, I need to help people.” His gray eyes glinted in the gloom. “You know what I am? That I need to drink b-”

  “Shhh.” Lavinia put a finger on his mouth. “I do know.” Taking a deliberate breath, she said, quietly and clearly, “You need to drink blood. Animal and human.”

  Connor nodded.

  “But that’s not all you are. I know you. You’ll find a way to do something good.”

  Lavinia’s faith in him lifted a weight from Connor’s shoulders. Malachi, too, had faith in him. All he needed to do, was to find a way of living with himself.

  Taking Lavinia’s hand, he led her back towards the Hall. What was it Malachi said? Connor’s control in the face of human blood made him exceptional. Entering the drawing room once again, Connor embraced the buffeting sensation of a dozen hearts beating. He inhaled and passed the alluring nectar of blood-drenched aromas over his palette, and even though a blade of hunger dragged its way through his gut, he controlled it.

  In that moment, he knew that he had a choice, and he chose not to be the monster.

  With Lavinia at his left side, and Reggie at his right, Connor made a show of sampling some of Mrs. Burnham’s pies, pastries, and fruit compote. He found that he could eat the odd mouthful, but his body did not enjoy it. The food he discarded, he and his two accomplices folded into napkins which would be found by the perplexed maids when the family retired for the night.