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

by Jon Messenger

  The Inquisitor walked cautiously back to the cave, ensuring no other monsters had made their way to the edge of the valley in his absence. Seeing nothing, he rolled aside the rock and slipped into the cave. He wasn’t overly tired, since he had only recently awoken from his day-long rest, but he could think of no better place to pass the vampire-infested night.

  When the moon was starting to set and the cool night’s breeze still crept around the edges of his capstone, Simon emerged from the cavern. The night was still and quiet, not necessarily something he appreciated. In many ways, he’d much prefer the traipsing of booted feet on dried leaves or the quiet cursing of someone tangled in the briar patches.

  He set off at once toward his vampire captive, knowing that he was racing against the rising sun. The sky above the forest had begun to lighten, with shades of purples and deep blues permeating the otherwise black, starry night.

  No other vampires interrupted him as he approached the forest, nor did he expect to encounter any. The sun was rising quickly, and the monsters would be scurrying back to their sunless mines to sleep away the day. He would have a slight reprieve from now until shortly after dawn, when the vampires were returning to bed and the human hunters weren’t yet out on the prowl. It was Simon’s time to appreciate the finer things in life, such as a captive vampire.

  He pushed through the underbrush. The woods themselves were still dark, an inky blackness against which Simon’s eyes had to adjust. As he peered upward, he could see the vampire’s legs still dangling slightly above his head. The monster rotated slowly at the end of the noose and as he turned toward Simon, the Inquisitor could see the hatred burning behind the creature’s red eyes.

  “Forgive this dreadful pun, but thank you for hanging around until I returned,” Simon chided as he stepped past the creature.

  “Release me,” the vampire whispered, its voice a hoarse croak.

  Simon turned toward the vampire inquisitively and squinted to see the wound on the creature’s neck. The previously wide gash had mostly closed, leaving a puckered scar that, in time, would also disappear.

  “You’re healing quite nicely and at a rate slightly quicker than I would have anticipated. Scientifically, you’re a fascinating specimen. I can’t say that any of my Inquisitor brethren have ever had such a close encounter with a creature such as you.”

  The vampire jerked against his ropes, causing him to sway uncontrollably. “Release me, damn you!” the vampire said, though the harsh whisper lacked the conviction of his words.

  Simon sat upon the ground and emptied his pockets onto the grass beside him. He set a pair of wooden stakes beside his stolen knife, arranging them neatly for future use. Pulling his pocket watch from his vest, he checked the time. If his estimation of sunrise were correct, they would have to speed their conversation along.

  “I will free you but first, there are a few things we must discuss.”

  “Feck you!” the vampire spat.

  Simon shook his head, his eyes still watching the second hand tick away on his pocket watch. “Your demise will only be hastened by your rudeness. By my estimation, you have but a few more minutes before the sun rises through the trees behind me. It won’t be quick, mind you. The sunlight will filter through the dense leaves, sending small beams of light through the forest. You might—”

  The vampire tossed himself about, bouncing wildly on the noose, but still to no avail. It remained a prisoner, despite its superhuman strength.

  Simon glanced up, perturbed at the interruption. “You might get lucky and the first few rays will miss striking you, but your luck will eventually run out. Given enough time, your survivability is reduced to zero and, believe me, time is not on your side. It rather behooves you to answer my questions.”

  The vampire stopped moving and merely swung like a pendulum until his momentum was spent. “What do you want to know?”

  “What is the chancellor planning?”

  The vampire glared at the Inquisitor, who sat nonchalantly upon the dew-covered moss and grass. “He wants you dead.”

  Simon frowned and picked up one of the stakes, pointing its sharpened end toward the creature. “You’ll have to do far better than that. You’re painting your answers with a very broad brush, while I’d like to see a bit more minutia. Of course the chancellor wants me dead; it practically goes without saying. What I want to know is what he has planned for you and your kind. He knows I’m still alive in these woods and, by now, knows that I’m alone. Therefore, it’s only a matter of time before my companions return with reinforcements. So I will ask again—what is the chancellor planning?”

  The vampire remained silent, merely glowering at the Inquisitor. Simon shrugged and tilted his head backward, staring at the dark sky through the shifting leaves. The black of the night sky had mostly receded, replaced by shades of blue.

  “Answer or don’t answer,” Simon remarked. “It makes little difference. I would prefer an answer, but I can just as easily sit here with abject curiosity and watch you destroyed by the morning sun.”

  The vampire tilted his head upward as well and looked at the lightening sky. His sheer hatred was tempered by a sudden fear.

  “Release me,” it said.

  Simon shook his head and clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “That sounded an awful lot like a demand, and you’re hardly in a position to make those.”

  Panic crept into the vampire’s voice as it continued. “Release me and I’ll tell you all that you want to know.”

  Simon feigned interest in the stake in his hand, as though something in the texture of the smooth wood interested him. “You’d be amazed how often I’ve heard that very offer.” He looked up and arched an eyebrow. “You’d probably not be as surprised to know how many times I’ve refused that request.”

  The vampire glanced toward the sky. A morning breeze shifted the leaves and he could see faint shades of pink on the horizon. “He’s planning on moving,” it said hastily.

  “Moving where and how?”

  “I… I don’t know where, but he has covered wagons and crates in which they can stay shielded from the sun.”

  Simon smiled faintly. “Where is he keeping these wagons?”

  The vampire glanced down at Simon before his gaze returned to the ever-closer sunrise. “At his manor house. They are being staged at his manor house. Now please, damn you, I fulfilled my end of the bargain, now live up to yours.”

  Simon picked up the knife in his other hand and stood, shaking his head slightly. “I never made a bargain with you, vampire.”

  The vampire’s eyes widened in surprise. “I promised to tell you in exchange for my freedom.”

  “To which I never gave an answer for or against,” Simon said as he walked toward the rope holding the noose aloft. Before the vampire could protest, Simon raised his hand to silence it. “However, I’m a man of integrity. You gave me something I desired, so I shall set you free.”

  He slashed the rope, and the vampire dropped heavily to the ground. With its hands and feet still bound, it had no chance to brace against its rapid decent and it collapsed heavily onto the hard surface. Groaning, it rolled to its side.

  “Cut me free, please,” the vampire pleaded.

  “Your manners have made an even more remarkable recovery than the cut to your throat,” Simon remarked as he walked to the vampire’s side.

  He knelt before the creature, staring in its fearful red eyes. He drew back the hand with the wooden stake and slammed it into the vampire’s chest. Its eyes widened in surprise even as its unnatural life drained from its body. Its mouth fell open, revealing the fangs within, but they were no longer a threat. The vampire’s eyes no longer saw the forest around it.

  “Now you’re free,” Simon whispered as he stood.

  The Inquisitor returned to where he had left the other wooden stake and sat down in the grass, oblivious to the moisture that soaked into the backside of his pants.

  The first ray of sunlight danced through the
shifting leaves and settled on the ground beside him. Simon reached out his hand and let his fingers sift through the single ray of morning light. The beam was soon joined by others as the sun crested over the treetops.

  Simon watched excitedly as the sunlight reached the vampire’s corpse. As the light struck its skin, the flesh cracked and peeled, smoldering as it fell away from the creature’s skull. Fissures that seemed to burn in their depths spread across the monster’s skin, and smoke billowed from beneath its clothes. The once pale skin grew gray as it burned from within until the entire corpse collapsed into itself, turning to ash as it settled onto the forest floor.

  “Fascinating,” Simon whispered as he collected the second stake and stood. Emboldened with his newfound knowledge, Simon realized he had a very full day ahead of him.

  The road out of Whitten Hall was busier than Simon had seen it in days. People, often in small groups of three or four, passed from the town, carrying armloads of supplies. Simon could see bags of meal and assorted canned goods burdening the arms of the townsfolk. They talked fairly merrily amongst themselves as they went, as though the horror of what was occurring within their township held no bearing on their current predicament.

  Others carried personal belongings, strapped across their backs or laden in their arms. The whole town was preparing to leave; their homes and businesses were being abandoned. If their enthusiasm were any indication, they would be leaving with all haste, which didn’t leave Simon much time at all.

  He remained hidden as he watched more and more townsfolk pass. He perused their personal affects as well as the satchels of foodstuffs laden in their arms. With a sigh, Simon adjusted his position. Thus far, he had seen little more than grain bags and assorted foods, but nothing of what he actually wanted to see.

  After some time, a man walked by with two large glass jars. Thick corks stopped the brownish fluid from sloshing through the mouth of the carafes. Despite the man’s thick muscles, he was clearly huffing with exertion as he carried the two jars down the road.

  Simon immediately rose to a crouch and proceeded through the woods, paralleling the road and ensuring he kept the laden man in constant view. Though he glanced occasionally toward the man himself, his eyes rarely left the brown fluid and the greasy residue it left on the inside of the glass as it sloshed back and forth like a pendulum.

  At the entrance to the manor house’s long lane, the man with the jars turned and hurried toward the throng of other townsfolk. The front was a beehive of activity. The manor itself was barely visible through the caravan of covered wagons that were parked in the lane. The wagons were long and covered with a cloth tarp that hung low on both ends. The ends of the carts were currently opened as men excitedly loaded supplies into their interiors.

  Only half of the carts were being loaded with supplies. The other half was the focus of most of the townsfolk’s attention. In teams, they loaded large, wooden crates that closely resembled makeshift coffins into the backs of the wagons. Simon didn’t need to guess to know what they’d be for. Moreover, he frowned at the sight of so many of the coffins. He had never truly understood just how many vampires had already been created until he saw the need for dozens of boxes, pulled in a long row of horse-drawn wagons.

  Standing in the center of the workers directing their actions was Tom Wriggleton. Tom barked orders to the laborers, directing which coffins were loaded onto which wagons. Simon scowled at the sight of the man. Of everyone in the town, Tom had caused Simon the most trouble thus far, nearly as much as the vampires themselves. If his plan were to succeed, Simon would have to find a way to remove Tom from the picture.

  The man with the jars temporarily disappeared behind a set of tall wagons, and Simon felt a moment of panic. So much of his haphazard plan relied on following the movements of that single man. Without knowing the man’s destination, he doubted he would succeed.

  Simon scoffed at the idea. He doubted his current plan would succeed either. There was a good chance he’d shortly be shot dead.

  As he muddled through his dismal options, he caught sight of the man emerging near the right side of the manor house. A few wagons, nearly loaded to capacity, rested against the building, mostly abandoned as the workers moved on to other priorities.

  The man whom Simon was intently watching loaded his two jugs into the back of one of these wagons, placing the glass carafes beside similarly filled jars. Simon smiled to himself before observing the rest of the work being conducted.

  None of the horses were yet hitched to the wagons, since it would be hours before the vampires awoke and were ready to depart. He scanned the estate until he saw the horses hitched to the far side of the house. Their bridles were tied to hitching posts that looked recently constructed solely for this purpose.

  Satisfied, Simon slipped back into the woods, disappearing from view of the road. Amidst the trees and bushes, he found a small clearing in which he could work. Sitting upon the ground, he pulled out his burlap satchel and knife and began cutting away small squares of the fabric.

  From his waistcoat, he retrieved the remainder of his bullets, save the six that were still loaded in his revolver. Without proper tools, it was difficult to remove the lead tip to the rounds. He used his blade as best he could, but the first set of bullets spilled most of their contents onto the ground as soon as the bullet gave way. Through some trial and error, he managed to separate the rest of the bullets with a greater degree of success. With the bullets removed, he tipped the casings over, pouring the powder charge into the small squares of fabric. Simon frowned as some of the grains of gunpowder slipped through the loosely woven fabric and disappeared into thick grass. He was working with subpar supplies and had to expect that some of his explosives would be lost. Still, when waging a one-man guerilla war against an army of vampires, a bit of positive karma would have been greatly appreciated.

  Simon glanced down at his handiwork without much satisfaction. “I could certainly use your expertise right about now, Luthor,” he muttered. “Something tells me your apothecary skills would be far better suited for this task. I’m just fumbling around like a double-arm amputee attempting surgery.”

  With a sigh, he accepted that he was alone on this task. Luthor, God willing, was well on his way to Callifax and would soon be returning with all haste. Simon would just have to make do until his return.

  With the bullets emptied of their powder, he discarded the shell casings. He pulled up the edges of his powder-filled bags and tied the top with strands unwoven from the remains of his rope. His raid on the storeroom had garnered quite a few supplies, nearly all of which he had now exhausted.

  Simon glanced down at the small pile of explosives and sighed. It wasn’t much to look at, but he hoped it was enough for the task at hand.

  Near the clearing, Simon found a thick fallen branch that would serve well as a torch. Begrudgingly, he removed his jacket and laid it on the ground before him. He needed something that would burn well once lit, and the only thing he had on hand was his own clothing. He nearly felt a pang of heartache as he tore the lining from his suit coat. The finely woven fabric and inner padding wound itself well around the tip of the log.

  He glanced down at his supplies. As he reached out to retrieve the small pouches, he caught sight of his hands and the stained dress shirt he still wore. He hadn’t bothered looking in a mirror in days now and dreaded his appearance. If his clothes were any indication, he was sure he looked absolutely appalling. His pants were caked with mud and dust, staining the once rich black fabric nearly tan. His well-manicured hands were filthy, the nails nearly black.

  Brushing aside concerns of his appearance, he shoved the explosive pouches into the pockets of his waistcoat. Replacing his knife in his belt on the side opposite from his holstered revolver, Simon rolled up the sleeves of his once white dress shirt and turned back toward the manor house. Reaching down, he picked up the torch before setting off.

  Simon slipped back into the woods and hurried fur
ther down the road, away from the manor. There were too many people milling about the front of the house and it would do him no good to exit amidst the workers. Instead, he hurried until he reached the river, past a bend in the road around which he wouldn’t be seen.

  The covered bridge that spanned the river was unguarded, though he could be certain that there would be guards closer to the mines. He had no intention of disrupting those guards or, truth be told, even alerting them to his presence.

  Simon hurried across the road and back into the woods on the far side. Admittedly, all the woods looked the same to Simon, but he hadn’t spent the past few days traversing the forest on the far side of the road. It felt foreign, as though it knew he was an unfamiliar invader to their private sanctum. He moved with far more practiced steps as he turned back toward the estate.

  He approached the house from its rear, ensuring he avoided the majority of activity around the front of the plantation. The line of wagons wrapped fully around to the side of the house nearest where Simon emerged from the woods, though these carts had long ago been loaded with supplies. He slipped toward the closest wagon, using it for cover so as not to be seen.

  Simon paused beside the wagon’s wheel and forced his raging heartbeat to slow to a more normal pace. Everything he had done to this point had been in preparation for this moment, but his entire plan would be for naught if he were caught now.

  Peering around the corner of the wagon, he saw a guard walking around the perimeter of the house. Simon quickly slid back into the cover of the wagon, all the while cursing himself for trying to hide behind the wheels of a wagon, which had narrow spokes and giant visible gaps. To his relief, the guard never looked beneath the tall wagon to see the dirt-stained pants concealed on the far side.

  When the guard had reached the far corner of the home and turned around the back of the house, Simon stepped around the wagon and lifted its flap. Inside, a mound of bags filled with assorted fresh fruit was stacked nearly to overflowing. Shrugging, Simon pulled one of the bags from the back and hoisted it onto his shoulder. Even if he were successful, his mission would be for naught if he starved to death before Luthor and Mattie’s return.