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

by Jon Messenger

  “Very good,” Martelus replied, his broad smile returning. “As I mentioned earlier, we have nothing to hide. You’ll see for yourself once we arrive in a few moments’ time.”

  Throughout their walk, the branches of the trees to either side had interlaced above Simon’s head, forming a tunnel multitudes darker than the night sky. Slowly, Simon noticed the moon peering through the thinning leaves. The bushes and undergrowth on either side of the road thinned, as did the trees that had previous crowded the packed dirt artery. Ahead, he could see that the trees transformed to severed stumps, which eventually gave way to open grass.

  A warm glow radiated from a massive pit ahead. The light reflected off the sheer walls, revealing the layers of earthy strata. Martelus moved unerringly toward the lip of the quarry, pausing only as the road turned sharply and descended around the perimeter of the pit. The closer they approached, the louder the hum of machinery grew.

  Simon paused at the edge of the carved fissure, staring downward to the rocky floor a hundred feet below. Generators rumbled, coughing black smoke into the air as they powered tall floodlights mounted around the perimeter of the quarry. Water pooled along half the stony floor, lying stagnant in a small pond that shimmered under the electric lights.

  Luthor and Mattie joined him near the edge and admired the amalgamation of machinery sitting in various stages of disuse. Weeds grew along the sides of the train tracks, unkempt and wild. The tracks led into the obsidian mouth of a mineshaft. Mining carts were parked near the end of the line, which concluded near the center of the stone floor below, some rusted and others overturned, no longer along the tracks. A large crane and winch was affixed to the nearest wall, serving the obvious purpose of lifting the mined ore to the top of the pit for transportation.

  As Martelus had alluded, everything in regards to the mine seemed to be in a state of disrepair from a lack of use. Little below gave Simon reason to believe that the remaining residents of Whitten Hall were, in fact, still mining the iron for their own venture.

  Simon caught Luthor’s eye, but the apothecary merely shook his head. Instead, the Inquisitor turned toward their host.

  “Everything here appears copacetic,” he said. “I don’t believe any of my companions have any further questions or concerns.”

  “None, sir,” Luthor replied begrudgingly.

  “None for the moment,” Mattie said, though her words were cradled in a tone of hesitation.

  “Then please forgive my brusque departure, gentlemen and lady, but my work is never done and my bed calls to me even now.”

  Simon nodded. “Did I hear correctly that you will be departing again tomorrow morning?”

  “Indeed you did. When you’re starting even a peaceful protest against the crown, there are many other allies to court in the region. We can’t change the king’s mind without a unified front with the other outposts in the area. To that end, I travel and plead my case during each day and sleep woefully too few hours each night before repeating the process anew with each dawning morning.”

  “Sound dreadfully tiring,” the Inquisitor remarked.

  Martelus smiled. “I manage well enough, though I think everyone involved will be significantly happier once this business is behind us.”

  The chancellor motioned toward the road behind them. “You’re more than welcome to accompany us as far as the manor if you feel so inclined.”

  “Thank you but no, Chancellor,” Simon answered. “I believe my companions and I could use some time to merely walk and discuss amongst ourselves.”

  The chancellor nodded wearily and stifled a yawn. “Is your official business then concluded in Whitten Hall? Have you found all the satisfactory answers to the attacks on the trains?”

  “Indeed, though I still feel terribly sorry for killing your man. Had I but known that it was all a ruse, perhaps things would have turned out quite differently.”

  “It was very much our fault,” Martelus replied.

  “If I may ask one last question?” Simon asked.

  The chancellor paused nervously before nodding.

  “When will the next passenger train be arriving in Whitten Hall? I don’t wish to take any more of your time than necessary.”

  Martelus visibly sighed with relief at the simple question. “There are two trains that pass this way. The next one will arrive in two days’ time, and the next two days after that.”

  Simon smiled. “Then in two days we will be forever out of your affairs.”

  “It was a pleasure hosting you and your friends. We can leave you a lantern to light your way but, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll have to take my leave.”

  “I completely understand,” Simon said, offering his hand. Martelus shook, his hands cool to the touch after being exposed to the brisk night air. “Thank you for everything, Chancellor, and, believe it or not, I wish you all the best in your troublesome business ahead.”

  “You are indeed too kind, Inquisitor.

  The chancellor and his guards provided Luthor a hooded lantern before turning and retreating down the dirt road. Their light bounced along the trunks of trees as they passed, but the forest quickly swallowed the dim light.

  Once they were confident they were alone, Simon dropped the more formal pretenses.

  “The chancellor isn’t the only one exhausted,” the Inquisitor said. “I may very well sleep until the train arrives.”

  Luthor frowned and crossed his arms defiantly across his chest. “Sir, I don’t believe we’re done discussing—”

  “For tonight,” Simon interrupted, “we most certainly are. The only thing we’ll do tonight is walk back to the town proper and sleep—perhaps have a flagon of alcohol if we should be lucky enough to catch the barman at his post in the tavern. Beyond alcohol and sleep, I don’t want to discuss this case any further until the morning.”

  If possible, Luthor’s frown deepened. “This discussion isn’t done.”

  “It is tonight.”

  “You’re an insufferable bully at times, you know?”

  “I do and I concur. Now, unless there’s some other vitally important discussion that involves either alcohol or sleep, I say we set off back to the town. Agreed?”

  Mattie and Luthor fell into step beside Simon as they walked back toward Whitten Hall.

  Shortly before noon, Luthor heard a faint knock at his door. He quickly pulled down the sleeves of his dress shirt and buttoned them firmly at the wrists. A kick of his shoed foot dispersed the salt poured upon the floor of the inn’s room, and a carefully placed blanket appeared disheveled from a poor night’s sleep while truthfully concealing his magical communions.

  The apothecary opened the door far enough to peer through the space between it and the doorframe. To his surprise, he was met by a mop of unkempt red hair, only barely brushed or tamed. Mattie smiled at him and gestured toward the still mostly closed doorway.

  “May I come in?” she asked.

  “Is Simon with you?” Luthor asked as he opened the door slightly wider.

  She glanced over her shoulder and peered down the short hallway. “No. I heard him awakening earlier and moving about. I’m sure he’s a flagon or two into his daily drinking escapades by now.”

  Content, Luthor opened the door, allowing Mattie to enter his room. She eyed the blanket tossed haphazardly upon the floor and glanced toward the apothecary as he closed the door behind him.

  “Closing the door while you have an impressionable woman alone in your room?” she teased. “Imagine the scandal.”

  Luthor blushed softly but quickly cleared his throat. “What can I do for you this morning?”

  She used the toe of her boot to push aside the blanket, revealing the grains of salt spread across the floor. “Have you been… communicating with the Coven?”

  Luthor glanced over his shoulder once more, though he was already sure he had closed the door firmly behind him. “I was.”

  “Do you truly think there’s a chance another demon is present in Wh
itten Hall?”

  Luthor could hear the genuine mixture of concern and fear in her voice, but he quickly shook his head. “Nothing that dangerous, I’m glad to report.”

  “Did the Coven have anything worthwhile to share?”

  Luthor shook his head. “Sadly, no. They listened to my concerns, but they aren’t in any position to scry into the goings-on in a place as remote as this. They can only tell me that there are no demonic presences in the immediate vicinity.”

  Mattie sat on the edge of his unmade bed, crossing her legs in a more masculine way than the dainty ankle crossing which Luthor was more familiar.

  “Yet you do believe there’s something amiss in the outpost?”

  Luthor chose the solitary chair in the room, pulling it before the redhead before sitting. “I can’t quite find anything specific, certainly nothing tangible that I can present to Simon.”

  “Yet you believe something’s amiss?” she repeated.

  Luthor nodded, unsure if more superfluous words were truly necessary.

  “Thank God,” Mattie exclaimed. “I was beginning to think that I was the only one.”

  Luthor sat forward excitedly. “You feel it as well?”

  “Not feel, per se, but more smell. The whole town has an odd scent to it, like an underpinning of decay. It’s not from any one location that I can surmise, but more a malodorous aroma that has permeated every corner of the town.”

  “Why didn’t you mention this last night while I was being berated by Simon?”

  Mattie furrowed her brow. “You two were quite thoroughly engaged in your debate. Besides, I hardly remember either of you even asking my opinion. I had become little more than a sideshow during your ongoing back and forth.”

  Luthor frowned, as much because he knew she was right as from his frustration at her lack of support the night before. “Your point is conceded. I’ll ensure I don’t make the same mistake again.”

  He gestured toward the closed door. “Would you come with me and plead our case again with Simon? Perhaps a unified front would convince him of the validity of our cause.”

  “He won’t like it,” Mattie replied, pushing a strand of offending hair from her face.

  “I find myself garnering small amounts of pleasure from doing things that Simon doesn’t like.”

  Mattie smiled as she stood. Together, they exited his room and took the stairs at the end of the hall to the tavern below.

  True to form, Simon was sitting at a table, enjoying a drink as a plate of steaming food sat mostly forgotten before him. When he saw them approaching, the Inquisitor retrieved his pocket watch and checked the time.

  “You’ve only just made it down during the morning hours,” he remarked as Luthor and Mattie took seats across from him. “I quite nearly had to wish you a good afternoon.”

  “What can we say?” Luthor asked. “You kept us up to obscene hours of the night.”

  “I did?” Simon asked incredulously. “I seem to recall I wanted nothing more than to enjoy a good night’s sleep and, perhaps, a drink or two.”

  “Which you seem to be thoroughly enjoying this morning.”

  Simon glanced at his watch again. “This afternoon,” he corrected. “It’s only just rolled past. Drinking in the afternoon is completely acceptable.”

  The Inquisitor glanced back and forth between his two companions when they didn’t immediately reply. He could read their looks of consternation and forced an audible sigh.

  “I presume you didn’t join me this afternoon just for the delectable food and drinks in finely crafted flagons? Come on, then, out with it.”

  Luthor glanced briefly toward Mattie before returning his attention to Simon. “Have you informed the Inquisitors of your findings thus far?”

  Simon set his drink on the table and shook his head. “I tried my best to be more responsible than I was in Haversham, but it appears a recent storm knocked down the telegraph lines between Whitten Hall and Callifax.”

  Luthor frowned. “I don’t recall any serious storms in the region recently.”

  Simon reached for his fork but withdrew his hand in irritation. “Are we to begin this discussion anew?”

  “Even you have to admit that it’s a surprising coincidence that our one method by which we can contact the capital has been eliminated.”

  “It’s not a coincidence,” Simon replied. “It’s an unfortunate situation, and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if it was intentional.”

  Luthor smiled. “Then you admit that something is amiss in Whitten Hall.”

  “Yes, they are defying the crown. If the chancellor was tired of visitors, I can damn well assume he was bored to tears with the number of telegrams he received. Were I in his shoes, I would have personally climbed every telegraph pole between here and the capital and severed the lines.”

  Luthor turned pleadingly toward Mattie. Simon noticed the gesture and frowned considerably.

  “Please don’t tell me he’s pulled you into this nonsense as well, Matilda. I expect better of you. You’re the voice of reason to balance his irrationality.”

  Mattie shrugged. “I am sorry, Simon, but he’s not wrong this time. There’s something wrong with this town.”

  “Is this because you, too, have suffered gastrointestinal distress?”

  Mattie furrowed her brow in confusion. Luthor shook his head as he explained.

  “I merely told Simon I had a bad feeling in my gut.”

  She covered her mouth as she laughed.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Luthor complained.

  Simon interrupted. “Is it another gut feeling then, my dear?”

  Mattie composed herself before shaking her head. “It’s more the smell. Something smells wrong in the town. It’s a scent I can’t quite place, but it smells faintly of putrescence.”

  Simon pinched the bridge of his nose. “So when I complete my report for the Grand Inquisitor, I’ll simply remark that we believe something to be amiss because one of my companions has a gut feeling that he promises is neither indigestion or hunger pangs, while the other believes the town smelled peculiar. I think this report will go over smashingly well.”

  “You mock us,” Luthor replied angrily.

  “You warrant mocking!” Simon replied, matching the apothecary’s intensity. “You’re both actively searching for conspiracies where no conspiracy exists. Can’t you just enjoy the scenery and the poorly brewed alcohol for a few days before we board our train carriage home?”

  He looked at both of their disapproving stares, neither of which wavered in the slightest as they glared at the Inquisitor.

  Their intense moment was interrupted as the bartender delivered Simon another drink. He placed it on a folded napkin and didn’t bother inquiring into Luthor or Mattie’s drink requests before turning and walking away.

  “I can’t abide a situation such as this to pass without proper investigation,” Luthor began. “You, of all people, should understand that.”

  Simon slid his new drink aside and lifted the folded cloth napkin. As he unfurled it, he read the scribbled script hastily written on its fabric.

  “All we’re asking is that you give this the serious consideration it deserves,” Mattie added.

  Simon set down the napkin and met their gazes. “You’re absolutely correct. I’m an Inquisitor; the least I can do is inquire. It’s my namesake, after all.”

  He discreetly pushed the napkin across the table. Luthor glanced around the nearly empty tavern, the population of Whitten Hall having reverted to its ghost town-like status, before he unfurled the cloth.

  The words were muddied and smeared from the moisture of the drink that had so recently sat atop it. Still, the words were legible enough.

  Get out now while you still can.

  The trio retired to Simon’s room, where they unfurled the napkin once more before placing it on the bed between them.

  “Is it a threat?” Luthor asked, staring at the barely legible note.

  “
I read it more as a warning,” Mattie replied. “I think the bartender meant it more as a warning that there is an as of yet unseen danger in Whitten Hall.”

  Luthor nodded. “As we’ve been saying all along.”

  “Let’s not be presumptuous,” Simon said. “Handwriting has no context. This wouldn’t be the first time people have made incorrect assumptions after reading something.”

  “Then we go and ask him what he intended from the note,” Luthor said, placing his hands on his hips.

  Simon shook his head. “We can’t.”

  “We most certainly can, sir. We go through your bedroom door, down the stairs, and into the tavern before—”

  “That’s not what I meant,” Simon interrupted. “Gregory, our bartender accomplice, if that is what he is, operated very discreetly in giving us the note in the first place. You can be certain that he’s being watched, or else he would have been far more forthcoming.”

  Luthor sat in the room’s sole chair pensively, though his eyes never left the note.

  “Besides, have you ever seen the tavern empty? Has there ever been an opportunity to contact Gregory without someone noticing? No, my dear Luthor, if we go storming downstairs like a herd of wildebeests, we’re far more likely to condemn the bartender to a future most unfortunate.”

  Simon picked up the note from the bed. “If this is a warning at all, that is.”

  Luthor furrowed his brow in frustration. “How can you still cling to your belief that everything in this outpost is copacetic?”

  “I don’t, Luthor,” Simon said morosely. He sat down heavily on the bed and sighed. “I just want to leave this mundane town and go home. I want to enjoy teatime with proper cups on proper saucers. I want to drink my scotch in a tumbler over ice, not out of a stained and foul-smelling wooden mug.”

  “I sense a ‘however’ in our future,” Luthor said, turning knowingly toward Mattie.

  “However,” Simon began, “I can see the telltale signs as surely as you can. I find it odd that so many people accompany the chancellor on his daily journeys. I find it odd that a man planning even a peaceful revolt against the crown sleeps only a few hours a night, yet seems so clear of mind.”