The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (13 page)

The vampire, for that was most certainly what it was, quickly leaned forward, its fangs brushing the exposed skin just above her collarbone.

A gunshot rang out. The bullet whizzed past the woman’s ear and struck the vampire in the forehead. The creature jerked backward, losing its grip on the woman as it did so. She collapsed where she stood, falling to the floor awkwardly with her legs splayed painfully beneath her.

The vampire vanished into the thick mist as it collapsed. The white smoke seemed to absorb it, leaving no trace exposed beyond its clinging tendrils.

“Open the doors and windows,” Simon ordered. “We need to clear this mist from the room at once.”

Mattie and Luthor hurried to either side of the room and unlatched the windows. A stiff breeze quickly filled the room. The mist spun and eddied at their feet as it was pulled from the dining car.

As the mist was drawn from the room, Simon approached the far side of the dining car with caution, his pistol still raised at the ready. The mist clung to his legs, cascading over his shoes even as it was drawn toward the open windows.

Slowly, the mist began to clear. Simon paused briefly at the side of the unconscious woman and placed his fingers gently on the side of her neck as he checked for a pulse. Her heartbeat was strong, but he felt the tackiness of blood as he withdrew his hand. Glancing at her prostrate form, he saw a pair of thin lines where the vampire’s fangs had scratched through the topmost layer of skin.

As he turned his attention back toward the thick mist against the far wall, he was startled to see the soles of a pair of boots emerge from the white smoke. In nearly the same position as he had fallen after being shot, the vampire’s corpse was revealed as the mist receded.

Simon felt his own heartbeat quicken at the sight. He assumed everything to be a trap, especially when dealing with the supernatural. Vampires, if his superstition studies were true, could transform into mist or polymorph into bats or wolves. A single gunshot, even one accurately placed between the monster’s brows, surely wouldn’t have been enough to bring it down.

“It looks dead,” Luthor remarked as he approached.

“Appearances can be deceiving,” Simon replied. Using the barrel of his pistol, he nudged the creature’s foot. The foot fell limply to the side without resistance.

“I believe it more than simply looks dead. I believe this creature really is deceased.”

As the last of the mist dissipated, they could see the large pool of blood that had spread underneath the vampire’s shattered skull. The two men exchanged glances.

With a deep breath, Luthor approached the vampire. He knelt beside the creature’s shoulder and reached for its neck.

“There’s no pulse,” Luthor remarked.

“Vampires shouldn’t have pulses to begin with, should they?” Mattie asked from behind Simon.

“Did you have something special loaded into that pistol, pray tell?” Luthor asked. “Wooden bullets, holy water, or extract of garlic?”

Simon shook his head. “Nothing other than the normal lead bullets. Are vampires, by nature, allergic to lead?

“In my experience, most living creatures have a fatal allergy to lead,” Mattie offered.

Luthor nodded. “True, though vampires are presumably immune to such simple attacks. By mythology, they were supposed to regenerate from simple wounds.”

Simon joined Luthor and knelt down beside the vampire as well, running his fingers through the bright red blood. Pulling his hand back, he rubbed his fingers together, raised them to his nose, and smelled the pungent scent of blood.

“I’m assuming from mythological reports that they certainly didn’t bleed this much.”

Luthor shook his head. “The undead barely bled at all, having already been drained of all their blood when they were turned.”

Simon reached up and pulled open the man’s mouth. Reaching in, he ran his fingers along the canines.

“Do be careful,” Luthor said. “I’m not saying I believe this to be a true vampire, but I would hate for you to become infected simply because of carelessness.”

Simon snorted. “I think I’m safe. If I were to become infected with vampirism, I’m assuming you would kill me?”

“Without hesitation.”

Simon grabbed a hold of the man’s long fang and tugged, pulling it free from his mouth with minimal effort. He held the smooth, white tooth in front of his face so the apothecary could examine it.

“I don’t think you need to worry about infections,” Simon said. “It’s a veneer. This man is no more a vampire than you or I.”

Luthor took the tooth and held it up to the electric light. “It’s an elaborate ruse, but for what purpose? How did he coalesce from the smoke?”

Simon looked at the corpse as Luthor took the veneer and stood, holding the false fang to the light filtering through the window. The corpse was well dressed, wearing a double-breasted suit jacket covering a vest underneath. Simon patted the exposed pockets but found nothing of interest. When he reached into the man’s inner breast pocket, however, he smiled broadly. He pulled free a rectangular ticket, recently punched for the train ride.

“He didn’t suddenly appear. He’d been on the train the whole time.”

“Then how did he emerge from the mist?” Mattie asked. “It seemed fairly supernatural to me.”

Luthor lowered the veneer and stepped over the expanding pool of blood. Near the back of the dining car, a table had been set nearly against the wall. Wisps of white mist still poured down the wall from a concealed origin. Reaching tentatively into the mist, Luthor felt the sharp edges of an alcove, inset into the wall just above head level. As his fingers probed further into the alcove, he came in contact with something that was bone-chillingly cold. He withdrew his hand with a start but quickly summoned the confidence to reach within the alcove once more.

The cold seemed to emanate from a concealed container, one clearly made of metal. As Luthor’s hand found a handle, he withdrew the container. Mist trailed behind it, even as the metal bucket emerged from the alcove.

With a hasty wave of his hand, Luthor cleared away the clinging mist and smiled appreciatively.

“This isn’t a case of supernatural at all, but rather science. Dry ice, to be exact. Mixed with water, it creates an impressive cloud of fog or smoke. Properly placed as it was near the upper corner of the dining car, it would flow down the wall, concealing the back portion of the train car while quickly crawling eerily across the floor. You’re correct, sir. This is nothing more than a hoax.”

“An elaborate one at that,” Simon replied as he, too, stood from beside the corpse. “This is not a fly-by-night operation, but one that clearly consisted of significant preparation and planning.”

All three of them were nearly thrown from their feet as the engineer applied the brakes on the train. Metal screeched as the wheels abruptly stopped their rotations. Sparks flew as metal ground against metal and the train slid to a stop.

“What in the devil?” Simon asked angrily.

His question was quickly answered by a loud commotion outdoors.
They rushed to the window as a large portion of the train’s population disembarked, their luggage in tow.

“There was a monster on board, I tell you,” one man yelled, his voice being heard clearly above the din of nervous conversation.

“Come, Luthor, we need to put a stop to this nonsense at once.”

They hurried off the train, stepping between the cars and emerging into the middle of the growing crowd of mortified patrons.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please calm yourself,” Simon shouted, though his words were lost amidst the multitude of people talking simultaneously.

“No job is worth the risk of being attacked by a magical abomination,” someone yelled.

“Ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll simply listen to me,” Simon tried again. “There is no threat. It was merely a hoax.”

A few people nearby turned as Simon spoke, but most continued to ignore his warnings. Drawing his pistol, Simon fired into the air. The crowd grew suddenly quiet, and all eyes turned toward the Inquisitor.

Simon slowly lowered and holstered his pistol. He coughed politely as he ensured he had everyone’s undivided attention.

“Forgive me for startling you all, but it seemed the only sensible way to get your attention. My name is Royal Inquisitor Simon Whitlock, on assignment to investigate the very rumors of attacks on the train to Whitten Hall. Clearly, I can confirm that attacks have occurred.”

People turned to one another but Simon raised his hand, begging for continued silence and attention. “What is not confirmed, however, is that these attacks have anything to do with the supernatural. What I killed in the car behind me was no monster. It was merely a man, a charlatan, plying his crafts of deception and misdirection. More importantly, he’s now dead, which means we can all board the train once more and be on our way.”

“We appreciate everything you’ve done thus far, Inquisitor,” a balding man stated as he emerged from the crowd, “but forgive us for not wanting to board the train once again. I would rather take my chances here, in the wilderness, than risk another attack of the same. I think I speak for a good portion of the ladies and gentlemen behind me.”

Murmurs of assent spread through the crowd.

Simon shook his head and sighed. “I have neither the inclination nor the desire to explain all the reasons you’re being foolish. If you don’t wish to board this train again, then so be it. However, I have a mission that I would like to accomplish with all haste. Therefore, if it’s all the same to you, those that are boarding, please do so now.”

Luthor leaned over and whispered to Simon. “What of those that refuse to get back on the train?”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “To hell with them. I refuse to drag this mission out longer than absolutely necessary over general ignorance.” He turned toward the confused conductor and smiled. “All aboard who are coming aboard.”

Less than half the original patrons boarded the train before it pulled away from its impromptu stop. As Luthor watched those who refused to return to the train disappear into the distance behind them, Simon draped a tablecloth over the false vampire. The white linen quickly absorbed the deep red blood, leaving a halo around the corpse’s broken head.

“Shall I do something about the woman?” Mattie asked as she knelt beside the still-unconscious blonde.

“Straighten her legs, perhaps, to assist with the circulation,” Simon offered. “Otherwise, she’ll come to eventually.”

Luthor glanced toward the sheet covering the body and frowned. “For the work of a single man, it certainly had a devastating effect.”

Simon nodded. “It had the desired effect, I would assume. The vast majority of patrons refuse to travel to Whitten Hall. Lesser government officials most assuredly wouldn’t continue their trip. It’s only through the bad luck of the bastard under the sheet that he chose to attack a train with an Inquisitor on board.”

Mattie pulled the woman’s legs from beneath her and straightened them, granting the unconscious woman some semblance of dignity. “Surely this wasn’t the work of just the one man. The logistics alone seem far more than a person could manage on their own.”

“You are correct in that regard, Miss Hawke. Someone put this man up to the task of impersonating a vampire, someone, I would presume, who lives in Whitten Hall. I very much look forward to having a stern conversation with that man upon our arrival.”

“Have you seen the other cars?” Luthor asked, as he returned from the loo.

Simon pushed aside the reports he’d been reading, his interest suddenly piqued by the unexpected attack by the false vampire. “I can’t say that I have. There isn’t another issue, I would hope.”

“Not an issue in the traditional sense. Simply that the once filled train car is now a veritable ghost town. Those that are still on board seem hesitant to even make eye contact with one another. It’s disconcerting.”

Simon dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “They’re paranoid without reason. The culprit has already been proven to be nothing more than a simple man. A dead simple man, I might add.”

Luthor took his seat beside Mattie. He glanced briefly at the paperwork before Simon but immediately looked away, having already become intimately familiar with its contents.

“What they ought to be doing, instead, is enjoying the scenery as it passes,” the Inquisitor continued.

Luthor gazed out the window as the wooded countryside slid past the train. The forest was dense with untended undergrowth. To the side of the train, it fell away toward unseen ravines and crevices in the rock. The only visible breaks in the wood line occurred when the loose soil gave way to rocky gorges, filled to capacity with large rocks and a winding maze of footpaths.

Mattie followed his gaze out the window. “It doesn’t look like a land on the cusp of a revolution, does it?”

Luthor shrugged. “I would hardly expect cannons and musketeers lining the edges of the train tracks.”

“I would,” the redhead replied. “Whitten Hall has ceased shipment of raw iron to the capital. If I were them, I would expect an army to appear on the next train.”

Despite his blasé attitude, Luthor recognized the wisdom in her words. “Perhaps they know something we don’t.”

“That should frighten you,” Simon added. “Any time we don’t understand all aspects of the situation at hand—”

“We’re caught unaware by a demon in our midst,” Luthor concluded, though he doubted Simon would have finished his sentence in such a fashion.

“We don’t think that another demon is truly a possibility here, do we?” Mattie asked, her fear evident.

Their encounter with Gideon Dosett in Haversham hadn’t ended well for any of the trio, all of whom left with injuries that required nearly the entirety of the zeppelin journey to heal.

She discreetly turned her gaze to Luthor, who politely shook his head.

“I would very much doubt a return of a demon like we encountered before,” the apothecary said, attempting to set her mind at ease.

“Can we be sure? We are dealing with an outpost that, for reasons we have yet been able to surmise, ceases iron shipments. This is a town that, from all accounts, was a loyal subject to the crown prior to this inexplicable change of heart.”

Luthor nodded. “You’re rightfully concerned that the denizens of Whitten Hall have been coerced, much like Dosett had done to the citizens of Haversham.”

“And to me,” she added.

“I can say with some confidence,” he began, before sharing what he hoped was a knowing glance with her, “that another demon has not arrived so soon after we dispatched the first.”

“Never discount a possibility until it has been definitively disproven,” Simon said without looking up from the papers. “That adage is as true for demons as it is for epidemiological outbreaks.”

The Inquisitor stacked the papers neatly and slipped them into the folder from which they came. Reaching to the edge of the table, he retrieved his top hat, placing it on his head at his traditional, slightly canted style.

“Regardless, our questions will soon be answered,” he said, as the whistle blew from the train’s engine and the passenger car lurched beneath them. “We’ll soon arrive at the Whitten Hall station.”

The engineer applied the brakes, and an ear-piercing screech of metal permeated the cabin. The trio flinched at the sound even as they clung to the edges of the benches for support. The train cars rocked, first forward as the brakes were applied and then backward as the engineer released the brakes and the train rolled smoothly into the station.

In contrast to the relative elegance of the Callifax train station, the Whitten Hall station was little more than a raised platform set upon the remains of a dusty wagon trail, long since degraded from disuse. A single ticket office sat upon the platform, its counter and glass partition both coated in dust. A printed sign in the window read, “Out to Lunch. Back in:” though the hands of the printed clock face beneath it were missing. Simon doubted they had been present in some time.

Though Simon hardly anticipated a fanfare upon his arrival, he was dismayed to see the platform nearly empty of people. A few dirty gentlemen stood idly by one end. They had the appearance and demeanor of foremen and would most certainly be welcoming the new laborers.

The only other person on the platform was a porter, holding a small sign that read, though Simon had to strain to see its small script and poor penmanship, “Royal Inquisitor Whitlock”.

“There, sir and madam, is our welcoming entourage,” Simon remarked flatly.

“It’s a bit underwhelming, sir.”

“Indeed it is. Come. Let’s gather our things.”

They stood from the bench and retrieved the small personal effects they wished to keep upon their person. Mattie carried nothing, though both men knew she was more than imposing without any additional armaments. Luthor collected his doctor’s bag, filled as it was with vials and jars of assorted healing herbs and extracts. Simon gathered a single square, wooden box onto which had been affixed a leather handle.

They waited a few moments as they watched the laborers disembark. As a group, they were collected by the waiting foremen and led to a set of covered, horse-drawn wagons.

When Simon was confident they were the last tenants on the train, he led them to the open door leading from their passenger car.

Though the porter knew nothing of the trio aside from the name scribbled upon his card, it took no effort to recognize the Inquisitor for what he was. The porter hurried to their side and nodded respectfully.

“Royal Inquisitor Whitlock, I presume?” the young man asked.

“I am. With me are Mister Luthor Strong, apothecary, and Miss Matilda Hawke, animal husbandry.”

Mattie frowned at Simon’s joke at her expense, though the porter was none the wiser.

“It is an honor to meet you, sir. Can I take your bags?”

The porter reached for the wooden box in Simon’s hand, but the Inquisitor quickly pulled it from his grasp.

“My apologies,” the porter quickly stammered.

“No offense taken,” Simon remarked, “but all the bags currently in our possession will remain so. There are more than enough suitcases and such still within our cabin on the train. There is also a corpse underneath a draped sheet in the first dining car that I will need retrieved as well.”

The porter blanched as he looked to the Inquisitor. “Sir?”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “A corpse, boy. I don’t believe it is presumptuous of me to assume he was a resident of Whitten Hall before his untimely demise. Someone here should claim his body for a proper burial.”

“How… how did he die, if I may, sir?”

Simon glanced at Mattie and smiled. “Lead poisoning. A fatal allergy, from what I’m told.”

The porter nodded before turning to the train. He disappeared into the same doorway through which the three had recently disembarked. Luthor watched through the train’s window as the porter appeared in their cabin and began fumbling with the heavy suitcases stored on racks above the benches.

“Do you always arrive to such little pomp and circumstance?” Mattie asked.

“Would you believe that even Haversham provided a far more impressive welcoming committee?” Simon answered.

A suited man appeared at the end of the train station and climbed the few stairs onto the raised platform. He wore boots on his feet that were covered in dust. Steel plates on the back of the boots clicked on the wooden platform with each step. He hurried to their side before stopping and removing his hat.

“Forgive my tardiness, gentlemen and lady,” the man said.

A fine sheen of sweat stood out prominently from the man’s brow, though Simon doubted they looked much better. The humidity in Whitten Hall was far higher than he had encountered elsewhere during his travels. The man’s hair was cut close to his scalp, leaving skin visible through the thin, black hair. His eyebrows were heavy, leaving him with a stern visage that belied the pleasant smile he wore.

“My name is Tom Wriggleton. I was caught unaware that the train was arriving until I heard its whistle. I hurried as quickly as I could but, as you can plainly see, failed to meet you upon your arrival.”

“Are you in the employment of the governor?” Simon asked.

Tom shook his head. “We are a small outpost, sir, hardly worthy of an appointed governor. There’s one assigned for this region, but he so rarely makes an appearance in Whitten Hall. We have a locally elected chancellor who presides over the city council and makes decisions on behalf of the governor.”

“Is your chancellor available?” Simon asked.

“I apologize, but he isn’t, not today at least. Chancellor Whitten wanted to meet you in person upon your arrival, but business called him away at the last minute. He’s expected back tonight and, I’m certain, would be thrilled to meet with you then.”

“Chancellor Whitten, you said?” Luthor asked. “I presume it’s not just a coincidence that he shares a name with the town itself?”

Tom smiled. “Not at all, Mr.…”

“Strong. Luthor Strong.”

“Mister Strong,” Tom continued. “It was Chancellor Whitten’s family who first settled this region two generations past. His grandfather led the expedition that first entered this once inhospitable region of the continent and discovered the enormous veins of iron running just beneath the ground. Though we democratically elect our chancellors, a Whitten has held the position ever since the town was founded.”

“Then what is your capacity in Whitten Hall?” Simon asked. “Are you a council member?”

Tom cleared his throat, the smile fading from his face. “Forgive me if I seem too forthcoming.”

“There’s hardly such a thing as ‘too forthcoming’ in the course of an investigation.”

“You are, as I’m sure, aware of our tenuous current position.”

“We are,” the Inquisitor replied matter-of-factly, leaving Mister Wriggleton even more ill at ease.

“As one of the senior businessmen in town, I have been recruited as an advisor to the chancellor. With my help and the help of other members of town who have a vested interest in seeing an end to this circumstance in which we find ourselves, we hope to find an amicable resolution.”

Simon arched his eyebrow. “The crown won’t offer an amicable solution, not when their very livelihood and wealth are being held captive.”

“To be honest, sir,” Tom replied, “we had hoped you might be able to assist with that capacity.”

“I think you misunderstand my purpose here,” Simon said.

Tom fumbled with the brim of his hat as uncertain men are prone to do. “Perhaps this is something better discussed with the chancellor. In the meantime, I can show you to the rooms we have reserved for your stay in Whitten Hall, if you would prefer.”

“In lieu of other options, please lead the way.”

They walked down the few steps that led from the wooden platform to the dusty unpaved road that wound through the town. From the end of the train station, there was little of Whitten Hall left to the imagination.

The main thoroughfare ran parallel to the railroad tracks, with the storefronts and homes all facing the tracks. The single road was broken only by narrow alleyways between the buildings, through which Simon could see that the more elegant storefronts were merely facades, plastered upon the fronts of poorly constructed buildings for mere aesthetic value.

The forest clung to the backsides of the buildings, branches heavy with leaves hanging over the rooftops and draping like ivy down the sides of the structures.

Mister Wriggleton led the group across the dusty street. Hitching posts had been constructed in front of the majority of storefronts, though few horses were present in the town. Fewer still were the people of Whitten Hall. Simon noted a few faces peering at the Inquisitor and his companions as they mounted the porch on the front of a general store, but a second glance showed empty windows where once people had been watching. For a town of one hundred and fifty citizens, Whitten Hall felt very much like the train on which they had arrived—a veritable ghost town.
It was hardly a bastion of rebellion, full of citizens refusing iron shipments to the crown.