The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (32 page)

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 further 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.

Glancing once more around the wagon to ensure no one was actively watching him, he set off in pursuit of the roaming guard.

The guard hadn’t made it far around the back of the house when Simon turned the rear corner. He jogged to catch up, the nearly thirty-pound bag of fruit flopping heavily on his shoulder as he moved. Despite his pistol being strapped tightly into place on his hip, all his belongings seemed to jostle unnecessarily as he moved, orchestrating a rattling cadence with every step.

Passing the servant’s entrance to the home, the guard heard the noise behind him and turned, his hands tightening on the flintlock rifle in his hands. He narrowed his eyes at the man approaching, his appearance blocked by a heavy sack in his hands.

“Who are you?” the guard asked, not maliciously as much as curiously.

Simon didn’t break stride as he hoisted the fruit bag and tossed it handily toward the guard. The man froze as he tried to raise his rifle but, instinctually, lifted his hands to catch the heavy bag soaring toward him. The rifle temporarily forgotten, the guard caught the bag in his midriff, nearly knocking the wind from his lungs in the process. The extra weight bent him forward at the waist, and he only partially recovered before Simon struck him handily across the face. The man tumbled to the ground, dragged down by the thirty pounds in his arms. He quickly recovered, shoving the bag off him and opening his mouth to yell a warning when Simon’s shoe caught him below the chin. The guard’s head snapped backward and his mouth immediately shut. Blood flowed freely and rapidly from the man’s mouth, and Simon wondered if he had bitten off part of his tongue in the process.

The guard was still partially conscious, but a second kick to the head left him asleep and bleeding on the house’s back porch.

Simon glanced around furtively, unsure if anyone heard the noise of the scuffle. There were a lot of distractions coming from the front of the house and Simon hoped it was enough to conceal their fight. When no one immediately appeared, Simon retrieved his fruit bag and rushed toward the opposite end of the house. He glanced over his shoulder at the unconscious guard but left him where he lay, knowing that the Inquisitor’s presence would be discovered soon enough, regardless of the beaten guard prostrate on the ground.

A cautious glance around the building revealed the wagons for which he’d been searching. The man who had carried the glass jars had long since departed and no one else had approached the filled covered wagons. Hurrying across the grassy lawn, he rushed to the back of the nearest wagon and lifted its rearmost flap. A myriad of glass jars stared back at him, packed tightly across the bottom of the carriage.

Simon reached in and removed the closest cork. The pungent smell of lantern oil rolled over him, choking the air from the enclosed space. Simon coughed faintly but left the bottle uncorked. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a few of the explosive pouches.

“Explosive” might be a bit of a misnomer, Simon realized. Though packed with gunpowder, the pouches weren’t compacted tightly enough to cause a real explosion, but rather would merely flare with sparks and heat. It would do for what Simon had planned, though, as he packed them tightly against the walls of the covered wagon.