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

by Jon Messenger

  When Simon opened his eyes again, the sun had nearly set. Light still filtered through the trees and danced across the flowing water below, but it was clearly setting far quicker than Simon would have liked.

  The Inquisitor performed mental calculations, tracing a mental map of the area and estimating how long it would take him to return to his cave. At a full run, he would make it before dusk, but he doubted he would have the chance to run without being heard and pursued. Using caution, however, might result in him being caught in the woods after sunset, which was not at all optimal.

  Despite his mental debate, he knew staying in the tree overnight was hardly a viable answer. He had no way of knowing the vampires’ ability to track or if he would be as concealed in the eyes of one of the monsters as he was to the humans. Moreover, sleeping in the tree didn’t seem possible. Though he had enjoyed his long nap, he was as surprised as anyone that he hadn’t fallen gracelessly from the branches and awoken only because he was facedown on the ground below. Forced to spend the night in the tree, he doubted sleep would come willingly.

  With a sigh, he swung his legs over the branch and prepared to lower himself down to the ground. He froze, instead, as he heard something sloshing through the river, heading in his direction. He quickly pulled his legs back into the concealment of the tree as he pulled his revolver from its holster.

  A group of men emerged from upstream, wading through the knee-deep water. They shouldered rifles as they searched the banks for signs of tracks. Simon frowned at the sight. Tom Wriggleton led the hunters, his former suit and tie having been replaced by a multi-pocketed vest and waders. He carried a shotgun draped across his arms, its tip wavering inches above the flowing water.

  “Do any of you see anything?” Tom asked, calling over his shoulders even as his eyes continued to scan downstream.

  “Nothing, boss. You sure they came downriver?”

  Tom shook his head. “Their tracks led this way and they’re still pretty fresh, only a couple hours old by my reckoning.”

  “But they could have gone upstream, too,” the hunter offered.

  “It’s possible, but we can only choose one direction to search at a time. If we don’t find anything downstream, we’ll search upriver next.”

  Simon scowled at the man, despite the fact that the townsfolk couldn’t see him in his concealment. The Inquisitor raised his pistol, sighting down the barrel at the forehead of the group’s leader. Simon realized his previous sentiment had been incorrect. He felt great sympathy for the unfortunate position in which most of the townsfolk found themselves, but not everyone in town deserved sympathy. He very much wanted to see Mister Wriggleton killed for his betrayal. Despite his grasp of logic and reason, Simon had a tendency to hold a grudge for such an affront. Coupled with the knowledge that Tom led the daytime hunters only further drove the foul taste left in Simon’s mouth at the mere thought of the man

  His pistol remained trained on Tom’s skull even though he knew he wouldn’t pull the trigger unless absolutely necessary.

  Tom paused on the edge of the stream and scanned the surrounding forest, as though sensing his unseen assailant. Simon tensed, his hand clenching the pistol grip tighter as he prepared to fire. Tom stood for a long moment, just staring at the mass of trees, his gaze unblinking and his mouth a thin, bloodless line.

  “You see something?” one of his hunters asked.

  Tom stared at the canopy of leaves, his gaze practically boring into Simon’s position. The Inquisitor was sure he’d been seen, but after a long pause, Tom shook his head.

  “Nothing,” he said. “There’s nothing here. Let’s keep moving downstream.”

  The party moved on, sloshing through the water as the current pushed them further down the river. Simon followed them with the barrel of his revolver, his steely gaze never leaving the man leading the way. Eventually, they disappeared from sight, covered as he was by branches and leaves of other low-hanging trees.

  With the hunters gone, Simon relaxed and lowered his pistol. The setting sun glinted off the silver-plating on the revolver and shone in Simon’s eyes. The Inquisitor raised his gaze toward the sun and frowned as he realized how far it had sunk toward the horizon. He knew the delay caused by the hunters stole his only chance of making it back to the cave by nightfall. Even if he rushed, he would get caught in the woods after dusk, fully exposed to the supernatural monsters hunting him.

  For a moment, he considered trying to find the slanted tree under which he, Luthor, and Mattie had sheltered during the night, but the tree lay further downstream. With the hunters actively searching for him in that direction, it would be impossible to hide without being discovered.

  He cringed at the realization that his only option was to stay where he was. There was nothing appealing about spending the night in the tree branches. There was no way to know if the vampires could see him where he hid. He hoped not, for his own sake, but he knew so little about vampire physiology.

  Simon pushed his way back onto the crook of the tree, where his thick branch met the trunk. As the sun descended, it took with it the warmth from the day. It wasn’t cold, necessarily, but it left him chilled and nervous. He wanted to close his eyes once more and sleep until morning, but the thought of being discovered amidst the branches, caught unaware by a vampire while he dozed, frightened him terribly.

  Simon checked the available bullets in his revolver, noting the six silver rounds still loaded. He sat back against the trunk and closed his eyes, but his imagination ran wild with the thought of sharp claws and sharper fangs reaching toward his legs.

  His eyes shot open, and he cradled his pistol to his chest. His free hand sank to his pockets, where the wooden stakes were concealed. Pulling one free, he set it on top of the burlap bag and settled in for a long night ahead.

  Whether or not the vampires discovered him, there would be no sleep for the Inquisitor that night.

  Tom shifted nervously as he walked toward the open doorway leading into the chancellor’s manor. The vampire guards stood stoically by either side of the door, barely casting an inquisitive glance toward the sweaty human.

  The candles were lit throughout the foyer and in the chandelier dangling high overhead. Where Simon had once seen an inviting old home, Tom saw it for what it was—candles lit in remembrance of those who had long ago died. His heart pounded as he strode into the room. His pulse was a war drum pounding in his ear, carrying even more weight with each beat since he realized it was the only heart that still beat amongst the house full of people.

  Tom felt foolish. He still wore the lambskin waders, which dripped water onto the hardwood floor in a most uncivilized manner. He had wisely left his shotgun behind with his fellow hunters, all of whom stayed on the road at the end of the manor’s drive, far away from the wrath they anticipated at their repeated failure to capture the prisoners.

  As Tom turned toward the study, he caught glimpse of a man astride the top step, watching him intently. He turned toward the staircase as Chancellor Whitten glided down, his feet seeming to hover an inch or more above the steps themselves.

  He stopped gracefully at the base of the stairwell and adjusted his velvet smoking jacket. Martelus was dressed exquisitely, as he often was when not playing the role of chancellor to visiting dignitaries. He had so readily embraced his role as vampire, quickly becoming a character straight from the books of mythology where vampires were immortal nobles who used their immense wealth and beauty to lure young women to their death.

  Martelus glanced disapprovingly at his human compatriot, his eyes drifting over his outdoorsman’s attire. A frown flashed quickly across the chancellor’s face before his warm smile returned.

  “Tell me of your hunt, Tom,” Martelus said, gesturing toward the study. “Have you found the Royal Inquisitor and his companions?”

  Tom swallowed hard as he followed the chancellor into the study. Unlike the foyer, few candles were lit in the smoking room. Just enough illumination filtered into the
wide room for Tom to see the two plush couches.

  Before Tom could sit, Martelus placed a hand on his chest. The chancellor moved incredibly quickly to a small bar, retrieving a thin towel from beside the tumblers. He reappeared at Tom’s side equally as fast and draped the towel over the couch.

  Tom noted the slight even as he sat on the towel, ensuring his attire would not stain the plush sofa.

  “Would you care for a drink?” Martelus offered.

  Tom shook his head, his face drained of its color as he awaited both the inevitable question and the punishment that he would receive as a result.

  Martelus shrugged and sat down across from the human. “Where were we? Ah, yes, of course, you were about to tell me about your day’s successes.”

  “Well, sir… we… that is to mean, I…” Tom struggled to find the right words, but he needn’t try so hard. It was evident from the chancellor’s stern visage that he understood all too well what Tom was trying to say.

  “You’re to tell me that you’ve had no luck locating the three wayward prisoners,” Martelus said matter-of-factly. “Is this what you’re trying to tell me?”

  Tom tried to swallow again, but his throat felt dry and swollen. He wished now, more than ever, that he had accepted Martelus’ offer for a drink.

  The human cleared his throat. “We found their tracks by the river, not even a day old. They’re still here in the forest. We have them trapped. It’s only a matter of time until we find them, sir.”

  Martelus leaned back into the cushioned couch and stroked his chin thoughtfully. “My vampires tell me they encountered the apothecary and woman fleeing west through the valley, but you’re telling me they’re still near Whitten Hall?”

  “I saw the tracks with my own eyes, sir.”

  The chancellor’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Perhaps you were deceived, Tom.”

  “Sir, if the other two have escaped the valley, then they will most certainly send reinforcements. We must get you and the others away from Whitten Hall with all haste.”

  Martelus scowled at the human. “Prepare the wagons and be ready to depart in two days’ time. This time, don’t fail me as you’ve done so readily in the past.”

  Tom shook his head nervously. “I can’t ask enough for your forgiveness for letting them escape.”

  “I’m not talking about their escape!” Martelus roared. “I’m referring to the fact that you had them in your captivity, under careful observation since their arrival, yet you clearly didn’t know that one of our guests was a sorcerer!”

  The vampire slammed his fist down on the armrest, splintering the wood from the strike. Tom jumped, his heart rising quickly in his chest.

  “I didn’t know,” Tom stuttered. “How could I know?”

  “You searched their rooms while they were out and yet found no evidence that this supposed apothecary was anything more than a simple pharmacist? My vampires have died as a result of your ignorance.”

  Tom slid from the couch and fell to his knees before the chancellor. Tears welled in his eyes, not from sorrow but from absolute fear. “Forgive me, sir, please.”

  Martelus pulled his hand away as Tom reached for it. “Get up. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

  Tom slowly regained his seat, though his body shook uncontrollably.

  The vampire glanced toward the manor’s front door. He pointed a long finger toward the entryway. “You will find them, Tom, and you won’t fail me again.” Each use of the human’s name carried with it a more sinister edge. “If we have this conversation again, I promise that I’ll drain you myself and add your desiccated husk to the top of my pile. Am I understood?”

  Tom nodded feverishly before rising hastily. “Thank you, sir. I won’t fail you again.”

  Screams filled the air from outside the house. Tom rushed toward the door, completely oblivious to the fact that Martelus moved not at all from his place on the couch.

  As Tom reached the door, he saw his hunters strewn across the ground in a growing pool of their own blood. Their throats were torn and mangled, not by the careful use of the vampires’ fangs, but by the careless ripping of flesh by the vampires’ claws.

  Tom stood, mortified, at the sight before him. The chancellor materialized beside him and stared upon the wanton destruction.

  “Let this be a warning to you, the only one you’ll receive until we meet again,” Martelus explained. “In two days, we had better be ready to leave this abysmal town.”

  Tom nodded again, the fear and hatred stewing in his gut and making him nauseated. The human hurried forward, stopping beside the pile of still-cooling corpses. With a shaking hand, he reached into the pile and retrieved his shotgun, which was stained red and tacky to the touch. He fought the urge to vomit as he stood again and ran from the manor, not bothering to look back at the vampires who watched him depart.

  When Tom was no longer within view of the home, Martelus turned toward his guards.

  “Find me the Royal Inquisitor. Unlike our human friend, I don’t believe we’ll find his other two companions here in the woods, but Inquisitor Whitlock is most assuredly still about. I want him brought to me.”

  The chancellor stepped through the front door and began strolling determinedly down the lane. He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “On second thought, let me correct myself. I want his head brought to me; the rest of him is rather inconsequential.”

  Martelus walked unerringly toward the mine, crossing the covered bridge hurriedly. Upon reaching the edge, he leapt from the edge of the pit rather than take the winding path that followed the curve of the circular quarry.

  His body floated unnaturally toward the ground below, and he touched down softly. No sooner had his feet touched rock than he was already walking toward the mineshaft’s broad entrance.

  The chancellor passed quickly through the mine and entered the barracks. A few vampires left behind looked up expectantly, but the chancellor offered not a word to the monsters as he moved toward the narrow passage beyond the sleeping quarters.

  Still moving supernaturally fast, Martelus slid quickly through the narrow tunnel and entered the debris-strewn cavern beyond. Even in the darkness, his glowing red eyes could see the outline of the limestone door on the far side of the room. In the length of a blink, he was standing before the door and pulling it open.

  His pupils contracted hastily as the torchlight from the room beyond flooded his vision. The ancient vampire raised his head slowly and he offered a half-hearted smile to the chancellor.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Whitten?” the archaic creature asked, his voice as frail as paper.

  Martelus stepped into the room, pushing the doors shut behind him. He paced before the door, walking from one end of the room to the other as he stroked his chin. A wicked smile spread across his face, though it carried a malicious undertone.

  “Tell me again how it came to pass that the Royal Inquisitor, weakened as he was, slipped from your grasp?”

  The wizened creature shrugged his bony shoulders. “I was so frail when you brought him before me that he was able to overpower me and escape. Why, my dear Martelus? He hasn’t been causing trouble, has he?”

  Martelus stopped before the dais and snarled at the vampire. “You know damn well he’s causing trouble. I know what game you’re playing at, old man.”

  “I’m sure I have no idea of what you speak, blood thief. Perhaps if you fed me better, I would have had the strength to keep the Inquisitor contained. However, my lack of blood has left my arms so frail and meager.”

  He held up his limbs until the chains on his wrists snapped taut, emphasizing his point.

  “I know what game you’re playing, and it won’t work!” Martelus replied. “You think the Inquisitor will somehow be your savior, but all he’ll be is my next meal. I promise you that I will bring his head to you as a reminder of the consequences of betrayal.”

  The ancient vampire seemed unimpressed as he suppressed a cough
. “I look forward to that day as well.”

  Martelus grew angry at the vampire’s obvious lack of concern. “If you think your arms are frail now, you have no idea the pain I will inflict before all this is said and done. You won’t get another meal until I see less insolence from you. Let’s see how you feel about returning to the impotent old abomination I found when we blasted into this chamber.”

  The chancellor turned away abruptly and walked to the door. As he pulled it open, he turned back toward the vampire. “Mark my words, you will rue the day you chose to cross me.”

  Martelus exited, letting the door slam shut behind him. The ancient vampire smiled at the memory of the irritated chancellor.

  “I have smelled the determination in his blood, blood thief. He will end you, and I long to be there when he does.”

  The shivers came like a fever, washing over Simon as he crouched in the tree. His eyes burned from fatigue, blurring his vision. The Inquisitor wrapped his arms around his knees, squeezing the burlap bag tightly against his stomach.

  The time before the dawn was far colder and darker than the night. He knew that once the sun crested the treetops, the temperature would warm and the aches in his muscles and bones would soothe. The wait, however, was driving him mad. He longed only to hurry back to his cavern and sleep through the day, but he dared not lower himself from his tree until the sun’s rays protected him.

  As he had assumed they would, the vampires had roamed the woods at night, clearly searching for him. They had passed along the water’s edge, just feet below where he sat upon his tentative perch, but they never made any outward indication that they saw him. Even having his confidence bolstered that the vampires’ vision couldn’t penetrate his concealment, sleep wouldn’t come to Simon. He continued to fear that he would fall from the branch as soon as his eyes drooped closed.

  The sun’s rays fell across his face, and he blinked furiously at the brilliant glare. Despite the weariness that had settled into his bones, he forced a smile to welcome the rising sun. The effort of smiling hurt the bruises across his cheeks.