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

by Jon Messenger

  A narrow bed sat in the middle of the left wall with a dresser pressed against the right. A large, stone fireplace dominated the wall across from the room’s entrance and an inviting flame danced across a single piece of wood burning in its center. A candle rested upon the mantle without the benefit of a candleholder. Its red wax had run into a clump upon the surface, fusing it in place. Small fingers of wax crept over the lip of the mantle, running down toward the open maw of the fireplace beneath.

  Simon sat his wooden box on the floor beside the bed and used the toe of his shoe to push it underneath the slightly raised bed frame. Satisfied, he turned from his room and walked back into the hallway.

  Luthor and Mattie exited their rooms as well, clearly as equally thrilled over their accommodations as Simon. They shared equally disappointed expressions before Luthor motioned toward the stairwell.

  “Shall we convene at the pub downstairs?”

  “That is perhaps the best recommendation I’ve heard all day,” Simon replied. “To the pub.”

  Even fewer patrons were sitting in the pub by the time the group descended the stairs. The few that remained gave them curious stares as though strangers, especially ones of their caliber, were an oddity within Whitten Hall.

  The bartender hadn’t seemed to move since their arrival. He stood in the same place behind the bar, cleaning with the same dirty cloth.

  They chose one of the numerous empty tables and sat. Simon glanced toward the bar but hesitated, unsure if it would even be prudent to order drinks from the surly bartender. To his surprise, a squat woman emerged from a room behind the bar and approached their table.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” she said cheerfully as she reached their table. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  Simon deferred to Mattie, allowing her to order.

  “Whatever beer you have available,” she said.

  “We have an amber ale, locally brewed,” the waitress replied. “I’m sure it’s not nearly as impressive as the drinks available to you in the big city, but it does all right for our kind.”

  “It sounds perfect,” Mattie said.

  “And for the gentlemen?”

  “A scotch for me, if you please,” Simon immediately responded.

  “Just a water, if it’s all the same,” Luthor added, drawing an odd glance from everyone at the table.

  “Excellent. I’ll be right back with your drinks.”

  The waitress walked away and Simon turned toward the apothecary. “Water seems like a poor choice, Luthor. So rarely do we have a chance to relax and enjoy ourselves while on a mission. You should be taking full advantage.”

  “We shouldn’t be enjoying ourselves even now, sir.”

  Simon frowned. “Spoken like a true pessimist.”

  Luthor sighed. “All I mean, sir, is that we are on a mission and should be focused as such. You offer such a striking dichotomy.”

  “How so?” Simon replied, genuinely curious to hear the apothecary’s answer.

  “You have presented a truly disinterested persona ever since before we departed Callifax. Yet, upon meeting our representative at the train station, you resumed your truly Inquisitor-like demeanor and spoke with a genuine air of professionalism.”

  “It’s simple, Luthor. I have hardly concealed the fact that I find our current assignment to be utter nonsense. However, when faced with a representative of the town, I’m not representing merely myself but the entirety of the Inquisitors. My professionalism is a reflection of my training and capabilities. I would be sorely put out if I presented something less than my full potential.”

  Luthor pointed enthusiastically. “That, sir, is exactly the level of interest I would like to see applied to this mission as a whole.”

  Simon furrowed his brow and stroked his chin thoughtfully before finally shaking his head. “Nonsense. This mission is absolute rubbish.”

  Before Luthor could offer so much as a discontented sigh, the waitress returned with their drinks. She set down three wooden flagons on the table before sliding them in front of the respective patrons. The trio glanced at their drinks before turning inquisitively toward the heavyset woman.

  “Is this scotch?” Simon asked, as the identity of the fluid within the brown flagon was difficult to discern.

  “Yes, sir. That is what you ordered, was it not?”

  “Oh, no, madam, it most certainly was.”

  Simon lifted the flagon and examined the wooden vessel. Around the periphery of the mug, intricate pictures had been carved depicting a war between armies, the names of which no one was likely to recall.

  “It’s in a flagon?” Simon asked, though even Luthor struggled to discern Simon’s intent with the posed question.

  “Do you like it?” the barmaid asked. “I carved it myself.”

  “It’s exquisite,” Simon replied with a warm smile.

  As the barmaid turned away, Simon’s smile faded. Luthor waited until the woman was out of earshot before he turned toward his mentor.

  “You were being facetious.”

  “Of course I was being facetious,” Simon replied, exasperated. “First and foremost, scotch is served over ice in a tumbler. At most, I drink a finger or two at a time. This flagon is nearly full. The woman is clearly attempting to send me into immediate liver failure.

  “Secondly, and far more importantly, she served me scotch in a flagon. Flagons are meant to be filled with mead and drunk by hairy men in skirts with horns upon their helms. What am I, a barbarian?”

  “Are you quite finished?”

  “Not even remotely, but I will cede the floor.”

  Mattie drank from her beer, licking her lips as she set her own flagon upon the table. “The beer is as I would expect, slightly flat and warm but with a good alcohol content that, somehow, makes you overlook its flaws.”

  “At least someone is remaining positive about this adventure,” Luthor added.

  “Misadventure,” Simon corrected.

  Luthor lifted his own glass to his lips. As he drank of the water, his expression froze on his face. He pulled the wooden mug from his lips and let the water dribble from his mouth and back into his cup.

  “Whatever is the matter, Luthor?” Simon asked slyly. “Is the water not to your satisfaction? You seem, oh, what’s the word, mildly pessimistic about your drink of choice.”

  Luthor cleared his throat and fought the urge to scrape the offensive taste from his tongue. He lowered his voice so as not to be overheard. “This water tastes faintly of urine.”

  Simon shrugged. “You’re an apothecary. I’m sure there are some medicinal uses for urine.”

  Luthor flushed with frustration. “Certainly none that I can think of that require ingestion.”

  “It’s amazing how quickly one’s attitude can change when faced with the simple fact that our entire purpose in being here is utter bollocks.”

  Luthor shook his head in an attempt to clear away the early onset of nausea. “Our reasons for being here still aren’t bollocks, sir, merely this drink.” He cringed at the thought of bollocks being involved in the making of his drink.

  The pub door opened, and a pair of heavily laden porters entered with their luggage in tow. The two men sighed as the door swung closed behind them.

  “Inquisitor Whitlock, sir,” the first porter said breathily. “Where would you like your bags?”

  Simon stood, his flagon of scotch quickly and pleasantly forgotten. He approached the two men with a broad smile.

  “Gentlemen, thank you kindly for your work.” He recognized the porter who spoke as the same man he had encountered upon the train platform after their arrival. “Was the other business taken care of as well?”

  The porter averted his eyes at the mention of the corpse. “Indeed it was, sir. The coroner claimed it and had it removed.”

  “Excellent. In that case, please deposit our luggage in our rooms upstairs.”

  The porters looked to the steep bank of stairs and audibly groaned
.

  As the men staggered under the weight of the bags, Luthor and Mattie stood from the table and joined Simon near the door. They watched as the men struggled increasingly with each step.

  “I feel as though we should assist,” Mattie offered. “It seems wrong that we merely watch.”

  “Nonsense, my dear,” Simon replied. “I’ve never been one to tip lightly. They’ll be well compensated for all their pains.”

  When the porters had disappeared from sight and their footsteps reverberated in the hallway above the pub, Simon placed enough coins on the table to pay for the drinks before the group retired to the upstairs.

  Their doors were open as they reached the top of the stairs and suitcases were being deposited within. The two porters wiped a heavy sweat from their brows as they concluded their work. As they passed by the waiting trio, Simon handed them each a gold coin. They nodded appreciatively, though in hindsight, Simon realized the absurdity of the gesture. He had just offered a gold coin in compensation for their work. The very gold coin he just offered was the center of the controversy surrounding Whitten Hall. The iron had been mined from this very town, shipped to the capital, was paid for with the same coin with the king’s face emblazoned upon it. The mere thought of it all made Simon’s head hurt.

  “It’s still early afternoon,” Luthor remarked as he stared at their still-open doors.

  “I should hardly think unpacking will take until evening when the chancellor returns,” Simon said, continuing Luthor’s thought.

  “Perhaps not for me,” Mattie added. “Of the three of us, I clearly packed the lightest. I can’t decide if that makes me a poor example of a lady or makes you poor examples of proper gentlemen.”

  “You a lady,” both men replied.

  The trio laughed heartily as they walked toward their respective rooms.

  “I don’t know about the two of you,” Simon began, “but I have plenty to occupy my time until we are called upon. Shall we meet for dinner prior to our appointed meeting?”

  Luthor glanced over his shoulder and groaned inwardly. “I don’t assume we have many other options other than to eat at the tavern?”

  “I would assume not.”

  The apothecary sighed. “Then I guess we shall meet for dinner. Until then, I will be consuming reagents until I’m sure I’ve properly destroyed any toxins within that abysmal glass of water.”

  “Until then,” Mattie said as she stepped into her room.

  Simon walked into his room, closing the door behind him. Dim light filtered through curtained windows, accentuating the meager light provided by the single log burning in the fireplace. For a moment, he considered lighting the candle as well, but it seemed a shame to further destroy the nub of the red candle as it clung to life on the mantle.

  His suitcases were placed at the foot of the bed, but he ignored them. They were full of clothing and little else, most of which he would not require until the morning. Instead, he knelt beside his bed and reached underneath the low, wooden bed frame until his fingers closed around the wooden box he had concealed there.

  He pulled the box free and placed it on the mattress. From his pocket, he withdrew a key and inserted it into a concealed lock. With a twist, he heard the satisfying fall of the tumblers.

  Simon lifted the lid, revealing a collapsible crossbow, wooden stakes, blessed holy water, an assortment of silver bullets, and other objects within his Inquisitor’s kit assembled specifically for slaying mystical creatures.

  Despite Luthor’s insinuations to the contrary, Simon always took his job seriously when it came to reports of the supernatural.

  “The chancellor will see you now,” Mister Wriggleton said as he stood patiently in the hallway outside their hotel rooms.

  The sun had set some time ago, and the flickering light from their respective fireplaces silhouetted Simon, Luthor, and Mattie.

  “Chancellor Whitten is truly sorry for his late return,” Tom continued with a disarming smile. “The political responsibilities for someone defying the crown is… well, as I’m sure you can assume, it’s fairly astronomical.”

  Simon offered a weary smile in response. The hour was late and between the long train ride and the humidity within Whitten Hall, he felt drained. “Please lead the way, Mister Wriggleton. I don’t believe either myself or either of my companions wish to keep the chancellor any longer than absolutely necessary tonight.”

  Tom nodded and stepped aside, allowing the trio access to the hallway. They walked down the stairs together, their guide in the front. The tavern below was far livelier than when they had arrived. Nearly all the tables were full with people laughing amongst themselves, their drinks all but untouched amidst the endless streams of conversation. Eyes turned inquisitively toward Simon and his friends as they reached the bottom of the stairs, but Tom seemed oblivious to the accumulated glances as he led them toward the front door.

  Simon glanced to his right and acknowledged the pensive scowl from the bartender. Most of the townsfolk had seemed polite, despite their conflict with the crown and its representatives. Only the bartender seemed standoffish, which made Simon trust him far more than anyone else.

  As they left the bar, the cool evening air struck them. The heat of the midday had faded, although the humidity remained. Simon could feel the beads of sweat soaking into the stiff collar of his dress shirt. The top hat, canted slightly atop his head, served little purpose in the dark night, save to capture the dampness that saturated his coifed hair.

  Only a lonely pair of oil lanterns burned along the street. Despite the gloom, the outpost was alive with activity. The town that had appeared a ghost town upon their arrival was burgeoning with life. The storefronts had seemed desolate and isolated as the train had pulled into the station but, to Simon’s surprise, remained open even at this late hour, allowing the businesses to flourish under the new patronage.

  “There seem to be an abnormally large number of people in the town now,” Luthor remarked, echoing Simon’s thoughts.

  Tom nodded as they walked toward the edge of Whitten Hall proper. “Chancellor Whitten travels with a large entourage. The town itself may be safe, but the surrounding countryside isn’t by far. Bandits and highwaymen stalk the roads; if you travel off the major roads, as the chancellor does, then you have to fear the ravines and canyons that scar the land. You’re just as likely to fall into a fissure as have your horse turn a hoof or throw a shoe.”

  “Wouldn’t you be afraid of the crown retaliating while you’re away?” Mattie asked. “It seems that you’ve taken nearly every able-bodied man out of the town to travel with the chancellor.”

  Tom glanced at Mattie as though he disapproved of her interjection into the conversation. Though he replied to her question, he directed his answer to Simon. “They take a risk by leaving the town mostly undefended as they travel but, to be honest, their presence in the town would hardly make a difference should royal soldiers arrive. We’re poorly equipped to fight the crown face to face. The simple truth is that the chancellor has become a hero to the townsfolk. Even if Whitten Hall falls under crown jurisdiction once more, his safety is paramount to the town’s independence.”

  Simon and Tom continued their conversation as they passed beyond the last of the dilapidated structures lining the town’s sole thoroughfare. As the trail meandered into the dark woods beyond, Luthor fell in stride with Mattie, a few feet behind the two conversing men.

  Even in the gloom, Luthor could see her visible scowl. It didn’t take Simon’s impressive detective skills to deduce the problem.

  “It was a good question, and very apropos,” Luthor offered as the group suddenly stopped.

  Tom struck his steel knife against a shard of flint, causing sparks to illuminate the inky blackness of the road beneath the wood’s dense canopy. After a few practiced strikes, the wick of a lantern hanging from a hook beside the road caught fire, pushing back the gloom.

  Their guide lifted the lantern from its hook and bore it b
efore him as they continued on their way.

  After a few steps, Mattie huffed angrily. “That man is a right bastard, is what he is.”

  Luthor suppressed a chuckle, knowing his mirth would only fuel her fire. “It’s not that he’s a terrible man, quite possibly just the opposite. It’s merely a different culture. In Haversham, you were encouraged to speak your mind. Your chieftain was even a female. In the rest of the kingdom, however, things aren’t nearly as progressive.”

  “It’s not being progressive to let a woman ask a question with the expectation you actually answer her. Not doing so makes you a right—”

  “—bastard,” Luthor finished. “You’re right, of course. I can’t rightfully defend a culture that doesn’t let a woman speak her mind, especially when that woman is capable of removing a man’s face with a single swipe.”

  Mattie smiled. “It does give me a sociological advantage, doesn’t it?”

  “I’ll certainly be choosing my words carefully if I ever have to correct you.”

  She smiled and nudged him playfully with her elbow. “Damn right you will.”

  As they turned a corner on the winding road, they could see lantern lights filtering through the trees. A two-story manor house was set off the road a short distance, with a packed-dirt road leading to the columned entryway. Lanterns were hung from the house’s exterior, both flanking the front doorway and lining the balconies on the second floor. It gave the building a haunted exterior, one that seemed ill lit and uninviting.

  Tom turned onto the drive and led them toward the manor. Though the entryway itself was unmanned, Simon could see the shadows of rifled men standing guard on the balconies, perched in the shadows behind the hooded lanterns.

  “This is the chancellor’s home?” Simon asked as his eyes quickly scanned the building’s exterior. Trees crowded the edges of the property but had been trimmed back from the house proper. Ivy crept up the side of the building, reaching nearly to the pinnacle of the tall brick chimney mounted to the home’s left side.

  “This is his family’s home,” Tom explained. “It’s been here nearly as long as the mining community, built by the founding Whitten during the times of the iron rush. It’s in a state of disrepair, having suffered lengthy vacancies as generations of Whitten’s moved away to find their wealth beyond the trappings of managing an iron mine but, inevitably, one always returns. The current chancellor has only been back a few years and repairs have been slowed, what with the recent political designs.”