Lockhart's Legacy (Vespari Lockhart Book 1) (18 page)

They didn’t stop for breakfast nor even lunch. Wynonna trudged on with Lockhart’s rasping breathing following along behind her all the while. In truth, she hardly even noticed. Her mind was on the Gentleman. Seeing her parents and her brother reminded her all over again of the rage she felt toward the revenant. Everything else burned away when those thoughts overcame her. It gave her focus but nearly blinded her at the same time. As the sun neared setting again with the ghouls seemingly no closer, Wynonna felt exhaustion finally wearing on her as well. She still couldn’t concede, but Lockhart had other intentions.

“We n-n-need to stop,” he told her, both preceded and followed by deep breaths. “I c-can’t go on any m-m-more.”

“Yeah, it’s no surprise,” Wynonna replied, not stopping. “You’re cursed, and yet you’re actually dumb enough to keep chewing that damned mad lotus.”

“W-w-watch it.”

She shook her head and turned about. “I didn’t do this to you. It’s your own damn fault. I even took care of you when I didn’t have to. You’re proving yourself nothing but dead weight, Cory. If I had any sense, I would’ve just left you to those hyenas.”

“What’s s-s-s-stopping you from g-going now?” he asked.

Wynonna scowled at him. “I gave you my word, didn’t I?”

Lockhart nodded. “You did.”

“And you gave me yours. You told me if I trained to become a vespari, you’d help me kill the revenant that took my family from me. So far, you’ve done little other than give me a book and chew on that damned mad lotus. Well, this is our first glimpse of the Gentleman, and I’m not letting him slip away, so you’re going to keep moving.”

Lockhart grimaced. “F-f-fine. We keep going, but w-w-w-we don’t know that it is l-l-l-leading us to the Gentleman. Plus, it c-could be a trap.”

“Only one way to find out,” Wynonna said, trudging on.

Not long after, as the sun began its sink over the horizon, she spotted something in the distance. A light.

“Look,” she told Lockhart, pointing toward it.

He squinted his weary eyes, following her arm and finger.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

Lockhart looked at the light on the horizon and then to her. “Let’s g-go.”

They started back up again, with Wynonna eventually realizing she would have to help him on his way. She threw his arm over her shoulder and helped carry him toward the light ahead of them.

“Think it’s the Gentleman?” she asked him.

“Mm,” he grunted. “N-n-not sure.”

“We got a chance if it is?”

“Will have t-t-to be quick.”

“You don’t exactly look light on your toes at the moment.”

“Mm.”

“So, we have to kill all his ghouls, get a runed bullet in him to slow him down, and set him on fire, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. We can do that. No problem.”

“Mm.”

As they approached the light, they both kept quiet and tried to make out what exactly they headed toward. When they got close enough, Wynonna saw that there was a little structure. It looked to be made of dried mud and other natural materials. Outside of it sat a little farm, along with a set of cages, some occupied by critters of various types. Through one of the open windows, a lantern hung, illuminating the area well enough.

There was no sign of the ghouls or the revenant there. This had been the wrong way, Wynonna realized. Whatever trail they’d once followed, they’d wandered off from. She had no idea who inhabited this place. Still, Lockhart needed somewhere to rest. She wasn’t so blind that she couldn’t see that. Hopefully, whoever’s home this was would abide them staying the night.

As they approached, Wynonna caught sight of a shadow moving about inside. They were home, at least. The pair kept moving forward, Lockhart leaning on her for support and both exhausted from their nearly nonstop travels. They passed a rickety wooden fence that didn’t quite enclose the house and garden growing there. Leaving Lockhart leaning on a fence post, Wynonna slipped to the side of the fence, through the opening, and headed toward the structure in the middle.

The door of the house slammed open and a wild looking old man stepped out with a shotgun. He fired a blast straight up in the air and then aimed it back down toward them, smoke still funneling out of the barrel.

“Stop right there!” he demanded.

“Woah!” Wynonna replied, holding her hands up in front of her. “Easy there.”

Lockhart tried to say something, but he just coughed and sputtered instead.

“What are you doing here?” the old man asked.

“He’s sick,” Wynonna told him, nodding to Lockhart. “We were just hoping for some shelter for the night. Maybe some food if you were feeling generous.”

“Who are you? What are you doing out in the desert at night?”

“He’s a vespari. I’m his apprentice.”

The old man lowered his shotgun toward the ground. “Vespari, you say?” He stared at Lockhart. “He certainly looks like one, but you. Didn’t think they made women into vespari.”

“And why not? You think women can’t be just as strong as men? I’m still standing aren’t I? While carrying his ass around too.”

The hermit completely dropped the gun down to his side. “Didn’t mean nothing by it,” he told her. “Just never heard of one’s all.”

“Well, you have now.”

“S-s-stop antagonizing him,” Lockhart muttered.

“I’m not. Shut up.” Wynonna looked back at the old man. “So, what do you say? You going to help us out or not?”

The hermit turned around, placed the shotgun just inside the door, and gestured for them to follow. “Come inside,” he told them.

Wynonna went back to Lockhart, once again helping him walk, and they both followed the old man in. They passed through the doorway, and she sat the vespari down in a handmade wooden chair. Behind her, the old man closed the door and came around to join them, sitting in another chair across the way.

In the light, Wynonna got a better look at the man who’d let them in. The old hermit’s hair was a tangled, greasy mess. His skin was dirty, covered in grime from living out in the desert for so long. His eyes were fierce but sunk in his skull. They pierced out regardless and had a shifty quality, always ticking back and forth across his vision. He had on no shirt, and because of it, Wynonna saw his ribs through his skin, like he were impoverished. His pants had become so tattered that they were now effectively shorts, and on his feet, he wore no shoes. They looked like toughened leather because of it though.

His apparent home was in a similar condition. He’d constructed the furniture and building itself out of whatever materials the man could find. There was no real evidence of city life anywhere in his ramshackle abode. Despite his gaunt appearance, the hermit had no shortage of food. In fact, over a crackling fire, he’d situated a pot of what smelled like a stew of some sort, the thick scent of herbs wafting from it. Something spicy, if she were to guess.

Since joining Lockhart and vowing to become a vespari, Wynonna hadn’t had anything in the way of a properly cooked meal. Her master wasn’t much of a cook, and she fared no better. The idea of a fresh cooked stew proved an appetizing allure.

“What about some food?” Wynonna asked, wasting no time.

The hermit chuckled. “I will trade you for it.”

“W-w-we have a few silver r-rounds,” Lockhart told him.

The old man shook his head. “I have no need of rounds for I have all I need here. Nor do I require your services. No monsters live with me here. No, if you want what is mine…” He trailed off, thinking.

“What?” Wynonna asked.

The old man’s eyes illuminated. “You will have to tell me a tale of what it is like to be a vespari.”

Wynonna shook her head and frowned. “I’ve only just become an apprentice. I don’t have any stories for you.”

The hermit pointed to Lockhart. “What about him? He must have stories to tell.”

“I’m n-n-no story teller.”

“Clearly, but I suspect you have seen more than most. Done more than most. Tell me of your past. Tell me what it is to be a vespari.”

“He can hardly even sit upright,” she told him. “I don’t think a story is too likely.”

“No tale, no food,” the old man said with a little laugh.

Wynonna looked from the stew over to the vespari. Her stomach growled as if on cue.

“Very w-w-well,” Lockhart said, forcing himself to sit upright. “I’ll t-tell you a story.”

***

The words came slowly to Corrigan Lockhart’s dry and blistered lips. His stutter troubled him, but with time, the story became easier to tell. The stutter grew less and less frequent the further along he got and the more comfortable he found himself. Both the old hermit and Wynonna paid close attention as he told them of how he first became a vespari.

His tale started with the disappearance of a friend back in his home of Alexandria. The boy’s name was Levi, and in the squalor, which Corrigan lived, Levi was the best thing he had. Several other children had gone missing in recent times. Only one had been recovered and not in one piece. The police found the body inside a bag, floating in the city’s sewage, sliced into unrecognizable chunks and wholly unidentifiable as the boy people had once known. The only things the police had to identify him were a necklace and a series of birthmarks. The young Corrigan hadn’t known this other child well, but he feared that the same would happen to his friend when he went missing.

Levi had helped to take care of Corrigan when others refused. His stutter always held him back. Teachers and other adults thought him stupid. The children teased him. In all, most people neglected Corrigan, but Levi was different. Levi treated him like a true friend when no others would.

The boy was better than the others. Not just in his treatment of Corrigan. He was quite intelligent too. Teachers doted on him. The other children looked up to and respected him. When Levi defended Corrigan, they would leave him alone for a time. Levi saw to it that Corrigan got what he needed. He helped teach him when the adults refused. He played with him when the other children wouldn’t. Corrigan could see that Levi would become something great when he grew up. He knew he had no such future. He was a poor, neglected thing and would be lucky to survive his childhood.

Corrigan didn’t know how to react to the news of his friend’s disappearance. Everyone else went about their lives, soon forgetting the boy and his absence. They told him that Levi’s disappearance had been the result of a monster. They told him that a vespari would come to deal with the culprit sooner or later. Corrigan waited weeks, and there was no sign of justice for the monster.

Then, someone reported another disappearance. This time, it was a little girl, and again, the body could not be located. Corrigan couldn’t remember the girl’s name after all those years. And still, no one did anything to find the missing children or punish the monster, which had done it. No vespari appeared to right this wrong.

Corrigan refused to let this stand. Levi deserved better. He decided that he had to do something about this monster hunting children in Alexandria. He would find the creature responsible, kill it, and save Levi. His friend was destined for great things, and he would gladly sacrifice himself if it meant bringing him back. Levi had saved Corrigan countless times. He would do everything in his power to do the same now.

Corrigan knew he could not hope to save his friend without a proper weapon though. Revolvers and other guns were expensive, and he didn’t even know an adult who had one. That meant he would have to find a knife. He could only think of one reliable place to find a blade that would suit his needs. Corrigan’s largely absent father was a butcher, and as such, he had a variety of knives to suit all manner of needs. The man was a violent drunk, however, and Corrigan often avoided going home so as not to incite his wrath. He would make an exception for Levi.

The boy waited until night had fallen over Alexandria, until when his father had typically passed out. Their home was on the floor above the butcher shop, so he stood outside, watching for the shadows in the window to stop moving. The candlelight still flickered through the glass, but oftentimes it did not die down until the morning hours, so it’s lingering light wasn’t too strange or ominous as to prevent him from following through with his plan. When Corrigan saw no movement, he approached the butcher shop and made his way to the back door.

The downstairs was completely dark, and peeking through a window, he saw no sign of his father. Having learned how to pick a lock, Corrigan had no difficulty finding his way inside the shop. Creeping into the back, where the smell of bloody meat consumed all else, his heart began to beat quicker. His palms sweated, and his hands shook and trembled. His eyes raced through the butcher shop, searching for a knife. He wanted to get it and get out of there as soon as possible.

Corrigan crept up to a countertop where his brute of a father hacked into the meat. He had to have left something there. A glint of metal shone in the dark, reflecting a light from the street. Seeing it, Corrigan hurried toward the cleaver, only to slip on a pool of animal blood slowly pouring into a drain. He flailed his arms as he fell, trying to catch himself, but instead, he hit a tray of metal tools which crashed to the floor. Lying there, in that pool of blood, struggling to breathe, Corrigan heard the stomp on the second level. He’d roused his father from his drunken stupor.