The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (29 page)

Simon shifted the weight of the stone in his hand. The bandaged man’s eyes widened for a brief moment before his gaze fell to the gray rock. The man’s eyebrows fell pleadingly at the corners as he looked back toward Simon.

With a practiced throw, Simon sent the rock sailing across the storage room, catching the man on the eyebrow as he turned to run. The weight of the stone knocked him from his feet, and he crashed to the floor.

Simon turned toward the rear entrance to the building, but a glint of light off the knife on the man’s waistband caught his attention. He lifted his satchel of pilfered goods before leaping over the few items between him and the unconscious man.

The knife was clearly not of high quality, but that mattered little for Simon’s needs. He knelt beside the man and slipped it free from his belt loop.

The Inquisitor glanced up just in time to see a bag of flour sailing toward him. It landed at his feet, engulfing him in a cloud of white powder. Simon coughed as the flour settled over every exposed inch of his body. Wiping the powder angrily from his face, he looked up to see the general store manager perched high upon a ladder, reaching for a second bag of flour to continue his assault.

A small part of Simon wanted to rush over and kick the ladder out from underneath the man. He wanted to throttle the disrespectful storeowner, as much for his affiliation with the vampires as his attack on the Inquisitor. Simon knew Luthor would agree with that assessment, that all the humans still residing in Whitten Hall deserved their comeuppance.

As Simon stared at the storeowner, it wasn’t rage or resentment splashed across his face, but rather fear. The general store manager wasn’t attacking Simon out of spite, but because he knew the threat Simon posed to their very way of life.

The urge to harm the man bled away. Grabbing his stolen belongings, The Inquisitor glared once at the storeowner before hurrying back into the storeroom. The sound of an exploding bag of flour followed him as he leapt over the produce, grabbing a pair of apples as he passed.

Simon rushed out of the back door, grabbed the shoes he had left by the rear of the building, and disappeared into the woods before an alarm could be raised.

Simon pressed the sole of Mattie’s right shoe into the soft mud near the riverbank, holding it in place until he was sure the shoe had sank far enough into the ground for what Simon estimated to be a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman. As he pulled the shoe away, it left the perfect imprint of a narrow heel followed by pointed toe. Leaning out over the bank from his place in the shallow water, Simon sank the left shoe a few paces away, matching Mattie’s shorter stride. He continued the pattern until the tracks led into the river’s edge, as though it had disappeared amongst the eddied currents in the shallow water.

These were the first solid footprints Simon had left behind of the other two. Despite his keen mind, he wasn’t an outdoorsman and was only hoping that his tomfoolery would be enough to convince the townsfolk that he and his companions were still present in the forest around Whitten Hall.

He had left other marks throughout the woods as he walked, pressing one shoe or the other into any patches of soft mud he passed or kicking water out of small puddles, as though one of their shoes had dragged through the water inadvertently. He still wasn’t convinced it would be enough, but the tracks to the river were his endgame.

Mattie’s tracks now paralleled both his and Luthor’s, all of which led into the water. Turning away from the shore, Simon discarded the empty shoes in the middle of the stream, watching as they sank beneath the current and drifted to the river’s bottom.

Walking upstream a few hundred feet, ensuring the burlap satchel remained out of the water as best he could, Simon found a solid, low-hanging branch that reached out over the river. Wrapping his fingers around its girth, he pulled his legs out of the water and pulled himself up until he was sitting on the branch. Delicately, he slid along its length until he was hidden amongst the leaves and upper branches of the old oak tree.

He shivered involuntarily as the cold soaked through his socks and shoes. The day was still warm, but the river remained abrasively cold. He wiggled his toes, trying to force blood flow back through his feet. Draping the bag across his legs for warmth, he leaned into the trunk of the tree.

The shadows were growing longer as the sun began to set. Simon could feel the fatigue after his tiring day. He knew he would have to leave soon if he expected to make it back to his concealed cavern before nightfall, but fatigue caressed his tired back and legs as he rested in the tree.

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.”