The Forgotten Story

by Michelle E Lowe

  “I see. It is quite lovely.”

  They stood in compete silence for a long moment. An uncomfortable feeling crept over him with every passing second. Unable to withstand it any longer, he turned to apologize. Frederica beat him to it.

  “Pierce, I want to apologize for coming into your room last night. I’m sorry for my disgraceful actions. I had been drinking and your door was unlocked, and I thought—”

  He raised a hand to stop her. “It’s fine, Freddie. Trust me.” He touched his chest. “I’m sorry for the way I handled the matter. I didn’t mean to come off as an insensitive wanker.”

  His forgiveness seemed to lift years of worry off her. “Danke, Pierce.”

  “You have always been a very special person in my life, love.” He grinned and then winked at her. “And if I weren’t married, you and I would still be in my hotel room.”

  She looked both amused and shocked. “You’re such a beast!” she quipped, giving him a playful slap on the arm.

  Her eyes settled on his hand, resting on his chest. She gently grabbed it and examined the bandage just visible under his unbuttoned cuff. “What happened?”

  “Oh, this? It’s nothing. Only a little cut.”

  After examining the bandage, she flicked her sights up to him. Christ, he’d nearly forgotten how lost he could become in those silvery irises of hers. In those beautiful, shiny eyes he was a naïve youth again, exploring everything life had to offer. In those days, the world was a much bigger place, full of endless possibilities that lay in wait around every corner. Although Pierce would never give up the things he’d learned and the lessons that had come with them, he sometimes missed those wild days.

  That alluring tug nagged at him again. Being so close to her was causing a lustful urge to raise his blood temperature. He shook it off and realized she must be experiencing the same thing. It had to be the reason behind her actions. Since losing her beloved Oskar, he thought the loneliness must be driving her mad, as it would be for him, had he lost Taisia.

  Frederica enfolded his hand in both of hers. “Only a cut? That is good.”

  * * *

  When dusk came, and it was safe for Robin to leave his house, everyone prepared for the trip. As Pierce put on his old dapper coat and shouldered his rucksack, he overheard Robin speaking to Corwin. He barely heard their discussion, but he could’ve sworn Robin mentioned something along the lines about a will, and then inquired if the lad was his man.

  “I am, my lord,” Corwin promised. “You can put your full trust in me.”

  While Robin was distracted with his descendant, Pierce crept over to the coins on the wall. The scorched coin seemed to beckon to him to take it back. The glass case had been left open, so he reached for it again.

  Someone seized his wrist.

  “What are you doing, Landcross?” Robin demanded.

  “Erm, just sayin’ my farewells, is all.”

  “Do you not trust me?”

  Robin could see right through him. By having the coin from the thirty pieces of silver on his person, no vampire—including Robin of Locksley—could touch him.

  Pierce eyed the bandage around the wrist Robin was holding. “To be quite honest, Rob, I’m a tad concerned about what will happen if you get a craving for my blood.”

  Pierce’s paranoia had gotten the better of him once again. Robin was indeed a noble gent, but he was still a creature of death, and he had raved about how special Pierce’s blood was and how delightful it had made him feel when he drank it. When the instinct to feed came over him, who knew what might happen.

  Robin released him with an angry look. “I swore an oath to your grandmother that I would keep you safe.” He closed and latched the case. “I only drank from you because I needed to in order to live. Understand?”

  Pierce realized he was once again being a nervous Nellie. He had to trust Robin and let go of his fear of the man.

  “Aye. Understood.”

  Pierce looked to Corwin, cleaning the mess they had made during supper. “What were you and the lad talkin’ about? A will?”

  “Aye. I have entrusted Palmer to a portion of my wealth, my lands, and my estate, should something befall me. The rest goes to the Archway House School.”

  Pierce suddenly became greatly concerned for the vampire he’d once dreaded. “You think something might happen to you?”

  “Bad things can happen to anyone at any time, no matter where we stand on the pyramid of life.” Robin clasped his shoulder. “Come, Landcross. Let’s get you on your vessel home.”

  Corwin drove the carriage to the station with Robin sitting next to him. When they arrived, Robin bought them all tickets.

  “The train doesn’t go straight to Reading?” Pierce complained when he read the destination on his ticket.

  “No,” Robin answered. “This one is bound for Cambridge. We’ll need to get on a connecting train when we arrive in Leicester.”

  “Grand,” Pierce grumbled.

  Pierce and Robin kept a sharp eye out for danger. Robin went so far as to search the locomotive for Volker and any of his men before and after departure. With the added security, Pierce settled happily into their private car.

  Within the hour, the train arrived in Leicester, and after switching to the locomotive bound for Reading, Pierce went to the café carriage for a pint.

  A few passengers sat at glass tables. A single barkeep tended at a metal tiled bar at the center of the carriage. The room was lit by swanky lamp pendants hanging from the ceiling.

  Pierce stood beside a brass and redwood coffee bean roaster on the countertop, and ordered his pint.

  “May I join you?” Kolt asked.

  Pierce looked at him and shrugged. “Sure, lad. Care for a pint?”

  Kolt turned to the barkeep. “Kräuterlikör, if you have it.”

  “We do,” acknowledged the barkeep.

  Pierce snorted. “I gather this isn’t your first drink, eh?”

  “In Germany, you have your first shot at age five.”

  He would have laughed, but he didn’t know if Kolt was joking or not.

  When they received their orders, Pierce raised his mug to Kolt. “To your wonderful mother, and to her success.”

  Kolt gave him a perplexed look before clinking glasses with him.

  “What?” Pierce asked before taking a drink.

  Kolt took a drink. “I’m sorry. It was your toast. To my mother’s success? It sounds like she struggled.”

  “She did. Ah, right, your earliest memory must be when she was already gaining notoriety. You’re accustomed to who she is now, rather than the struggling understudy she used to be.”

  The youth thought about that. “Maybe you are right, Mr. Landcross. After all, she’s never let on much about her past. Not even about you.”

  Pierce began to see what Frederica meant about Kolt’s other side.

  “Call me Pierce.” He took a healthy gulp of his ale and set the mug down. “And there’s a good reason why she never talked about me.”

  “Because you’re a fugitive,” Kolt blurted out.

  The barkeep, and the customer he was tending, looked over at them.

  With a sharp hiss, Pierce turned back to the loud-mouthed youth.

  “I used to be,” he whispered in German. “I used to be a fugitive. I was pardoned by the Queen herself.”

  “By your queen,” Kolt challenged him. “You are still wanted in Germany and France.”

  Pierce hoped no one within earshot spoke or understood German. He didn’t know what to make of the lad anymore. Up until that moment, he’d believed Kolt to be a well-mannered young man who was curious and ambitious. Now, he was coming off as uncouth and a tad hostile. Judging by the subject Kolt had raised, Pierce surmised he was trying to establish a certain dominance over him. Perhaps he was letting Pierce know he best not do anything to harm his mother. The protective nature of a loving son. On the other hand, Kolt also seemed intrigued by him.

  “Are you trying
to collect on my head?” Pierce quipped, keeping their conversation in German.

  Kolt narrowed his eyes and smiled mischievously. The same look Pierce gave when he was fucking with someone.

  Pierce huffed. “You are a handful, aren’t you?”

  Strangely enough, Pierce vaguely remembered somebody saying the same thing about him. He couldn’t recall who or when, though.

  “Can I ask you something?” Kolt asked.

  Pierce cringed as he raised his mug to his lips. “As long as it’s not about your mum and me.”

  “I want to know if you can teach me how to shoot a gun.”

  Pierce nearly choked on his ale. “You . . . you . . . don’t know how to use a gun?”

  “Nein. I have studied self-defense and learned about different weaponry, even archery.”

  “That’ll give you and ol’ Rob a topic to chat about then, eh?”

  “Plinking is a trade I have yet to learn.”

  “Why?”

  “I was interested in learning to fence and kung fu, at first. Ancient defenses are just as beneficial, if not more so, than merely shooting a gun.”

  “Oi,” Pierce cut in, holding up a finger. “Kung fu?”

  “Ja. I am nowhere near being a master in the art, but I did learn much in the three years it held my interests.”

  “Ah, of course. ’Cause you’re a jack of all trades, eh?”

  The boy nodded. “I plan to take up shooting lessens next month, and I would like to possess some skills so as not to appear an ignorant fool.”

  Pierce considered him a moment. He found his audacity amusing and familiar.

  In Kolt’s metallic eyes, which were replicas of his mother’s, Pierce saw he was being serious. He decided he could carve out a bit of time to teach the lad a few basics before taking the train to Southampton. He and Frederica were right as rain again and he was, therefore, in no hurry to part ways.

  “Sure, boyo.”

  “Danke.” He eyed Pierce’s gun and scowled. “Should we not get a more modern pistol?”

  “This one is just fine,” he grumbled, raising his pint to his lips.

  Despite his forward nature and outspokenness, Pierce liked the little prick.

  * * *

  Volker sat in the corner of the café, staring at Landcross from under the brim of his hat. He strained to keep his composure, though his blood ran hot. His rage outweighed his exhaustion. The pain, however, made him want to commit murder right there. Not Landcross, though. He needed him alive so he could die in the worst pain Volker could inflict on him.

  His hatred didn’t start when Landcross escaped him in Hamburg, or even when he got them caught in Plymouth. Landcross knew that once his task as a thief was complete, Volker would kill him. In fact, Volker almost respected him for what he was willing to do to save his own skin. He envied that willingness to live, for Volker wished he could value his own life as much.

  His hatred came about when Landcross admitted he’d turned the transport ship, causing the crate to topple over and crush Volker’s arm. His loathing only became greater during the hard days stranded at sea. The prisoners tried overpowering him in order to kill him for food. Volker, instead, had killed a man and cut out his heart. He then bit into it in front of everyone to establish his dominance.

  Then there were the long weeks adrift at sea. They’d been left with no compass to guide them, and they had no direction to follow. To make matters worse, it took them days to figure out how to repair the damage enough to sail. At long last, they’d found land. They had made it to India. By then, only a few remained alive. Most of the crew had either died of illness or had been killed for food.

  Those who survived ended up face down in the ocean, murdered by Volker’s hand just before he departed the ship. He had a mixture of reasons for killing them. One was that he needed to feed the bloodlust he held for Landcross. Every stabbing pain in his deformed arm added another hour to the torment he promised he would inflict upon him. After returning to Germany, he heard about the British Guardians and leapt at the chance to join. It gave him the opportunity to hunt, which he was good at, and to brutally kill, which he was even better in. With every victim he tortured, butchered, and burned, he thought of Landcross, and he always hoped the man would be next.

  The nightmares, which had always been a part of his slumber, seemed to grow from his lack of sleep. Looking back on it, it wasn’t until he claimed Anci as his lover as well as his mechanic, that the nightmares only came in spurts. He had trusted her completely, which was a first for him. She needed him as he needed her, for if he no longer had any use for her, that demon would return her mind to the prison the creature had committed her to.

  Now, she was gone, and that alone had earned Landcross another day of torment.

  He watched Landcross speaking to some boy at the bar until the pain in the remaining part of his arm finally got to him. He stood from his seat and headed out.

  After Volker had repaired his mechanical arm at the hotel, he and his men headed straight for the station and waited for Landcross to show. He hadn’t. He ordered Henry Miles to stay behind at the station and if he saw Landcross, to send a message through the teleprinter to the junction station in Leicester.

  Volker, along with a remainder of his men, waited for word at the Leicester junction station, ready to board a train bound for wherever Landcross was heading. When the operator informed him that he had a message, Volker learned that Landcross and the vampire were boarding a train scheduled to stop at the junction station. Volker then simply waited for the locomotive to arrive. On seeing Landcross and his party switching trains, he and the others quickly bought boarding passes for Reading.

  Volker entered his private room and searched through Anci’s medical bag. Usually, it was she who injected the morphine, but that was also a task he now needed to do alone. He prepared the syringe and carefully rolled up his sleeve over his real arm. It was difficult to use his mechanical fingers—meant for holding larger items—to tie the band. The tiny bars weren’t nimble enough to make small knots. He managed, regardless, and tightened the band over the vein so it protruded. The needle went in with ease beside the countless other track marks, and in seconds, the morphine flowed through his bloodstream and the pain melted away. For a single brief moment, he found peace. Then the door opened.

  “Did you find Landcross?” asked Grant, who entered first.

  “Ja. He is in the café.”

  “Yeah, well, we also discovered something else,” added the nitwit, Ryan Anker. “We’re riding on a money train. It’s transporting bank loot in a carriage near the caboose.”

  “And you’re saying—?” Volker put the syringe away.

  “We’re saying the hell with the eight thousand Landcross has,” Grant said. “We want to rob the train. I already have the supplies for the heist.”

  Volker was pleased to hear this, but it wasn’t due to the morphine charming his system. It was the perfect distraction for him to seize his prize.

  “I’m listening,” he told them.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The Heist

  When Callum told that half-crazed German he already had the supplies for the heist, he wasn’t only talking about guns. He used to be a sailor on board a bomb vessel. There, he was not only taught how to handle explosives, but also how to assemble small bombs such as hand grenades. Explosives fascinated him, and in later years, he learned about a new discovery called Nitroglycerin, a chemical far more powerful than any black powder bomb.

  He couldn’t figure it out, but his instincts told him to bring his specially made Nitroglycerin grenades. He’d interpreted it as a sign that he needed to rob the train.

  His plan for the heist was simple and effective. While the brothers, Ryan and Joe, went up to the engine room, the rest of the gang, Charlie, Ethan, and Finley waited by the money carriage. Callum’s job was the most dangerous.

  Callum left the passenger carriage and climbed the ladder up to the roof.
The cold air numbed his face and made his eyes tear up. Once he’d hoisted himself atop it, he paused a moment to adjust to the wind pushing against him and the weaving floor beneath him as the locomotive traveled at forty-five miles per hour. Once he had his bearings, Callum pulled a lit gas lantern from his bag and used it to guide his way over each carriage roof. He was glad it wasn’t raining. Otherwise, the surface would have been too slick, and that would have jeopardized the bombs.

  If Volker was willing to go up against a goddamn vampire to get to Pierce Landcross, that suited him just fine. After Landcross received his Royal pardon, he became worthless to bounty hunters—unless they were willing to drag his ass to a country where he was still wanted. The only reason Callum had tagged along with Volker was to obtain the eight thousand. Callum hadn’t been part of the lot that chased the cuckoo clock workshop thief to Nottingham years ago, but he had heard the stories, which had prompted him to try his luck in finding the loot.

  Then Landcross magically found it in Sherwood-bloody-Forest. Callum had washed his hands of it. As long as his plan worked, he’d come out of this a far richer man.

  * * *

  After God knew how many shots of Kräuterlikör, Pierce found himself weaving. He was impressed by how much Kolt could drink. Even Pierce hadn’t been able to hold down that much liquor at that age. Then again, Pierce was usually too busy focusing on not getting killed or captured to spend the time building up such a tolerance. However, Pierce refused to be bested by the boy and so swallowed down another shot.

  “The bottle’s empty,” Kolt observed after trying to pour.

  Clearly, the drink swam blissfully in the lad’s head. His words slid slowly out of his mouth while he used the bar to stay on his feet.

  “Order a second bottle,” Pierce suggested as steadily as he could. “I’m going to the loo.”

  After relieving himself, Pierce cleaned his hands in the decorative porcelain sink. Running water inside the train amazed him to no end. He turned the brass tap and checked himself in the mirror. The weight of his exhaustion had him feeling as if he was about to collapse and fall asleep right there, and it wasn’t merely due to the drink. He simply didn’t have the vigor he once possessed. He wasn’t out of shape; he just wasn’t the same youth who’d lived constantly on the move. Retiring as a fugitive had come at no better time for him, for he could not imagine a life on the run at his age.