The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (37 page)

His skin began to crack and smolder, red flames rolling from an internal furnace licking his flesh. Charred skin peeled away like old wallpaper as he dropped to his knees. Despite his pending demise, his head was raised defiantly to the end.

As his body began to crumble, Simon yelled out for him. Chancellor Whitten glanced toward the Inquisitor, his red eyes filled with bile and hate. They locked eyes, and continued watching one another even as Martellus’ body turned gray and crumbled. The ropes went slack as they severed first the vampire’s wrists and finally pulled off his head. As the chancellor’s head struck the stone ground, it shattered to dust.

The Pellites within the quarry relaxed visibly at the chancellor’s death. A few other Pellites emerged and approached Creary. They talked excitedly amongst themselves, pointing fervently toward the mine. Curious, Simon approached the group.

“What have you found?” he asked.

Creary silenced the Pellite before him. “My men have found a sealed doorway in the back of the mine. They’re preparing to breech it.”

“Tell them to hold,” Simon replied hastily.

Creary furrowed his brow. “Why should they?”

Simon frowned at the Pellite’s skepticism. “This began as my mission, and it should end as such. Through that doorway is something that I must deal with myself.”

Creary looked very mistrusting, but he slowly nodded his approval. Simon nodded as well without offering any further explanation and turned toward the mine. With Luthor and Mattie in tow, they moved as quickly as possible inside.

They followed familiar twists and turns through the mine on their way to the barracks. The doorway to the living quarters was thrown open, the wooden door nearly torn from its hinges. Simon stepped past the debris and entered the barracks.

A few Pellite milled about, searching the individual rooms for personal affects. They paused at the sight of Simon and his entourage, but they quickly returned to their work.

Simon frowned at the sight of both Pellite’s and vampires strewn across the floor. The vampires stared blindingly at the ceiling, their red eyes no longer seeing as wooden stakes protruded from their chest. The Pellites looked far more brutalized. Limbs had been torn from bodies. Some looked emaciated, as though all their blood had been drained very rapidly. He averted his eyes, tired of seeing the multitude of death.

The narrow tunnel led them to the large chamber. There were Pellites here as well, examining the slew of corpses piled upon one another. A larger group stood before the limestone door, chiseling at a new seal that had been placed across the entryway.

Simon didn’t recognize the seal, clearly it having been placed since his last visit with the ancient vampire. The Pellites worked diligently, severing shards of what appeared to be concrete from the center and bottom of the doorway.

One of the Pellites noticed Simon waiting. “We’re almost there now, sir.”

Simon nodded, but his eyes remained fixed on the door. He had made a promise to the creature within, and he now had returned to fulfill his end of the bargain. Martellus Whitten was already dead. His ordeal was nearly done.

With a powerful stroke, the remaining concrete fell away. The Pellites quickly carried away the pieces, clearing the doorway. Simon didn’t wait for them to finish before he approached and pushed firmly on the portal. Slowly, the doors gave way, swinging inward into the archaic monster’s prison.

The room was dark, the torches having burned out from a lack of maintenance. Light from the Pellites’ torches fell into the room, casting deep shadows. Simon paused at the entrance, allowing his eyes to adjust to the gloom beyond.

His gaze fell upon the dais across the room. The vampire sat upon his throne, the manacles still binding his limbs. The creature looked thinner than before, emaciated almost to the point of appearing like the corpses in the room beyond.

Simon took one of the torches from a Pellite and entered the room. For a moment, he thought the vampire was dead. Its head listed to the side and its eyes were closed as though in sleep. A rubber hose dangled from the vampire’s arm, its end no longer in one of the glass jars but instead left to spill upon the dais. Blood stained the platform beside the throne in a pool far larger than what should have been possible from a single person.

Foolishly, Simon looked for the rise and fall of the creature’s chest before remembering the creature’s state of un-death. It no longer had any need to breathe and sat as still as the dead.

Simon stepped closer until he reached the base of the stairs leading up to the throne. He leaned forward cautiously, glancing into the vampire’s dangerously thin face. It remained unmoving, instead resting limply on the throne.

Simon was prepared to turn away when the vampire’s eyes opened and it lurched forward, mouth open. Simon withdrew hastily, but he needn’t worry. The chain around the ancient vampire’s neck caught, and its head snapped backward.

It bit the air ineffectually a few times before the cloud of hunger lifted from its eyes. Simon stared at the creature in horror. With each opening of its mouth, he saw the bloody stumps in its gums where its fangs had been torn from their places.

It stared at Simon unblinking for a moment before it seemed to finally recognize him.

“Inquisitor,” it whispered, its voice far more hoarse than Simon remembered.

“I thought you already dead,” Simon replied. He could feel the probing eyes of the Pellites behind him, but he ignored their curiosity.

“He took my fangs,” it whimpered. “The blood thief stole them from my very mouth, even as he drained me of the last drops of my blood.”

Simon felt genuine sympathy for the imprisoned vampire. He was glad to deliver the happy news. “Chancellor Whitten is dead, killed by my kind.”

The ancient vampire looked genuinely happy, offering a smile that seemed disjointed without its telltale fangs. “Good riddance to the blood thief.”

The vampire lifted its head, though it was clearly a great effort to do so. He looked at the nervous Pellites huddling in the doorway. He could taste their fear in the air, intermixed with their glaring hatred of the abomination.

“Have you come to drive a stake through my heart, as they had threatened to do so many times before?” the vampire asked weakly. “I can feel their desire to do so.”

His eyes returned to Simon, and they looked at him with soft understanding. “I would be okay if they did. It would be an end to my misery.”

Simon glanced over his shoulder toward the Pellites and shook his head. Without its fangs and its strength leached as its blood was drained away, the vampire posed him no threat.

“On the contrary,” Simon replied softly, “I’m here to finally set you free.”

The vampire nodded, its eyes sad but relieved. Simon bit the inside of his lip before approaching the pale monster. The hoses still dangled from the needles driven into its arms, legs, and chest. He pulled them from the vampire’s skin with reckless abandon, knowing that the creature would hardly feel the sting of the needles’ withdrawal. Droplets of blood from within the hoses seeped from the puncture wounds, but the open sores clotted almost immediately, stemming the flow of blood.

Simon gestured for the Pellites to approach. They moved forward hesitantly, unsure of the purpose behind the ancient creature.

“Unlock his shackles,” Simon ordered.

The Pellites hesitated, glancing back and forth between one another.

“Unlock him,” Simon repeated. “He’s no longer a threat to us.”

After a further moment of hesitation, they moved forward cautiously and cut away the iron locks on its ankles, wrists, and neck. As soon as their work was done, they quickly stepped away.

Simon slid his arms under the vampire’s legs and back, lifting it from its stone chair. Though Simon doubted its ability to feel pain in the way a man would, the vampire still winced when its back was straightened as it was cradled in the Inquisitor’s arms.

The creature was frail, like an old man in the last vestiges of his life. His skin felt like paper, and he weighed almost nothing.

As the vampire was lifted from the throne, a worn book dropped into the chair. The vampire reached back feebly, straining toward the book that had been concealed behind him for so many centuries.

“Please, I must have my book.”

Simon glanced toward the chair and saw the black, leather-bound journal, on the cover of which was a once brightly painted red hand, its five fingers extended toward the corners of the book.

“Luthor, if you please,” Simon said.

The apothecary approached and retrieved the book. The vampire showed great interest in the book as soon as it was offered. It cradled the journal to its chest as it sank into Simon’s arms.

Simon felt no strain carrying the creature through the tunnels and suffered barely any inconvenience, even when stepping over the slain remains of the converted townsfolk.

Pellites watched them pass with interest and disdain, but no one tried to stop Simon. The vampire lifted up to watch where they were headed, his head bobbing under its own weight with each step.

“It’s been so long,” it whispered. “So very long, since I’ve felt the night’s air upon my face. Trapped first by the rock and then by the vindictive humans. I’m so very tired and just want to look upon the stars once more.”

Simon blinked away the tear that formed in the corner of his eye. He carried the feeble creature past the barracks and into the mine proper.

As Simon rounded a corner, bright light flooded the tunnel and the mouth of the mine appeared. The vampire hissed and tightened its grip on Simon’s arm, but it lacked the strength to resist. It strained feebly against Simon’s hold on its body but to no avail.

The Inquisitor didn’t look down at the vampire as he walked boldly into the light. The sun struck the vampire’s exposed skin, and the beast let out an awful scream that nearly stopped Simon in his tracks.

Simon looked down at the ill-fated creature as the vampire’s skin split and cracked like drying clay. Red liquid, like blood, oozed from the wounds that covered its face, arms, and chest like latticework. Simon could feel the heat radiating from the vampire’s core, as though a furnace had been ignited just below its skin.

From the fissures along its flayed skin, a glow emanated from within the vampire. It grew in intensity as the air above the wounds wavered from the intense heat. Simon nearly dropped the vampire as his own skin felt like it was smoldering. Sweat beaded along the Inquisitor’s brow and ran down his face, dripping from his nose. Where the water struck the vampire’s inflamed skin, it sizzled and evaporated.

The vampire’s cry of anguish continued, even as it turned its head toward the Inquisitor. It locked its red eyes with Simon’s, a sense of betrayal painted across his face, before suddenly falling silent. The fragile frame of the vampire crumbled in Simon’s arms, collapsing to the ground in a cloud of gray ash.

Simon stood with his arms outstretched for a moment longer before slowly lowering them and brushing the clinging gray soot from his suit.

Simon washed his face in the sink for the third time, though it had come clean after the first. The bowl was stained dark, an artifact from his previous washings. It seemed that no matter the amount of scrubbing he did, he still felt filthy. It was a stain on his soul, he knew, rather than one on his skin.

Glancing up, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was clean shaven again, save his telltale moustache. His hair had been washed and was once again well coifed. Luthor had the foresight to provide him a clean shirt and suit from his armoire. By all accounts, he looked like himself once more. Only the dark bruises under his eyes, the red inflammation around his broken nose, and the sutured cut on his cheek remained of his days’ long escapades in the woods around Whitten Hall.

He draped the blood-and dirt-stained washcloth on a towel rack beside the train’s sink and rubbed his eyes wearily. He longed to sleep for the rest of the four days back to Callifax. His desire to talk to even his friends had waned shortly after seeing them again. It didn’t help that the rocking of the train was lulling him to sleep even as he stood in the bathroom.

Standing upright, he walked to the door and unlocked it, stepping through and into the narrow hallway that opened into the passenger car. The Pellites talked excitedly amongst themselves, celebrating their victory over the vampire horde. They seemed oblivious to the fact that quite a number of their own kind had been slaughtered during their short battle. To them, it was another victory and further justification for the existence of the Order of Kinder Pel. The Pellites had been called when no one else could defeat a threat to the crown. Simon, in his desire to end the vampiric threat, had only further validated their cause.

He walked quickly through the car, eager to reach the vestibule between their passenger car and the more private car at the end of the train. A few Pellites marked his passing with polite nods; even the Pellites appreciated the work he had done containing the threat before their arrival.

Ignoring the looks he received from them, he walked to the door that led to the narrow vestibule between the train cars and opened it. The blast of warm air struck him as the train rolled slowly but mechanically down the tracks.

He took hold of the metal railing as he walked between the cars. It was far noisier outside, with the steady clacking and squealing of the metal wheels rolling along the tracks. It was loud enough that Simon had trouble thinking, which made it blissful. He closed his eyes and braced his feet, so that he wouldn’t fall over as he enjoyed the noise and warm sunlight.

The door to the rear car opened, and Luthor coughed politely.

“I was just coming to look for you, sir,” the apothecary said. “We were worried about you; it’s been some time since you left to clean up.”

Simon slowly opened his eyes, the magic of the moment broken. “There was a lot of me to clean, Luthor.”

Luthor nodded. “Well, you did a remarkable job. You practically look like your old self once more.”

Simon didn’t respond but continued to watch the trees slide by as the train rolled onward.

“Shall we return to the cabin, sir? I’ve had some food brought in, since you look absolutely famished.”

“Food would be good.” Simon sighed. “Please do lead the way.”

They walked to their private cabin, passing a few others along the way. Inquisitor Creary looked up from his reading as they passed, his cabin seemingly far too large for a man traveling alone. Upon reaching their cabin, Luthor slid open the door and stepped aside, allowing Simon to enter.

The smell of cooked meat struck Simon immediately upon entering. His mouth watered involuntarily, and his stomach grumbled a stern reminder of how long it had been since he had eaten a proper meal. Despite his morose disposition, he couldn’t deny the feast lay out before him.

Mattie stood from the table, hastily closing the clasp on Luthor’s doctor’s bag. Simon caught a glimpse of a soot-stained book before she stepped to him and hugged him tightly. Simon groaned under the pressure but welcomed her embrace.

“It’s good to see you well again,” she said as she finally released him.

“‘Well’ is a relative term, my dear,” he replied, “but I’m feeling significantly more human.”

Simon motioned toward the table and Mattie took a seat, pushing the doctor’s bag against the wall. He sat at the table as well, taking a seat across from Mattie. Luthor quickly joined the pair, taking his place beside the redhead.

His gentlemanly visage dissipated along with his proper dining manners. He stuffed food into his mouth with gluttonous abandon. After some time of eating, Simon leaned back in the chair and sighed contently. He couldn’t remember food ever tasting so satisfying. He glanced toward his friends but was surprised to see them looking away, thoughtfully staring out the window.

“You have questions, of course,” he said.

“Of course,” Luthor replied, bringing his attention back to his mentor, “though I haven’t the foggiest of what to say.”

“They killed them all,” Mattie said, her bluntness sometimes needed when civilized decorum failed. “The townsfolk, I mean, of course.”

“I know very well what you mean,” Simon said, finding a reason to stare intently at his hands resting upon the table.

Luthor swallowed hard, his throat bouncing from the effort. “I didn’t know the Pellites would be so savage upon their arrival, sir, you must believe me. I knew they would destroy the vampires but not the humans of Whitten Hall.”

Simon shook his head as he glanced toward his friend. “I don’t blame you, Luthor. You may not have known, but I did when I wrote the note.”

Luthor appeared crestfallen. “You knew, and yet you sent for the Pellites all the same?”

“What choice did I have? You don’t send for the Order of Kinder Pel with the instructions to preserve life. They’re assassins, one and all. They’re under the guise of Inquisitors like myself, but we’re nothing alike.”

Luthor shook his head. “Some of them were evil, sir, like Tom and Gregory, but I can’t believe the entire town was vile. Misguided, perhaps, but there existed a chance for redemption, didn’t there?”

“You’re a good man, Luthor, but a foolish one. You see the good in people and harbor hope that they can change. Not every man can change. Not every man was meant to.”

“And those men that cannot, sir? What of them?”

Simon glanced out the window, his reply halfhearted. “Those men are evil, Luthor. We do not abide evil men.”

A silence fell between the men. Luthor stared at Simon for some time, even as his mentor’s gaze remained affixed on the glass window beside him. Eventually, the apothecary shook his head.

“I’ve known you for some time, sir, and I don’t think that you truly believe what you’re saying. This decision wasn’t as black and white as you are trying to portray it.”

Mattie reached across the table and squeezed his hands. “We’re your friends, Simon. You can talk to us freely.”

Simon sighed heavily and took back his hands from her grip.

“Whitten Hall just feels like one gigantic mistake,” Simon said.

Mattie shook her head. “Right or wrong, you made the only decision available.”

“You made the right choice, sir,” Luthor corrected.

Simon looked out the window and imagined the ruined town drifting past, bullet holes marring the storefronts, bodies twisted and baking in the street under the hot sun, and lakes of blood soaking into the dry sand. “Did I? Then why do I feel that it was so wrong? Why do I feel like I made a foolish, hasty decision?”

“Sir, it wasn’t foolish; you’re not foolish. You’re the smartest man I know.”

Simon took a deep breath. “Luthor, if ever I’ve given you a piece of advice to which you should closely adhere, this is it. Intelligence without conscience is as great an evil as any that plagues our land. Intelligence isn’t a gift; it’s a burden, one that should be tempered with experience and wisdom. Today, I made the intelligent choice in spite of its morality. Today, I wasn’t the better man. Today, I was merely the lesser of two evils.”

Simon didn’t actively avoid his friends through the rest of the trip, but he kept well enough to himself as they finished their journey back to the capital city. He slept, mostly, resting for nearly an entire day as his body tried to heal from his ordeal. He ate quietly in the cabin, often with Luthor and Mattie, but offered little conversation. Just as often as not, he found himself perched in the vestibule between the cars, feeling the day’s air turn slightly cooler the further they rode away from Whitten Hall.

With rest, food, and proper hygiene, his wounds healed nicely. His nose was still tender to the touch, but the bruising under his eyes was nearly gone by the time Callifax came into view.

The capital city towered over the nearby landscape. Suburbs beyond the city walls sprawled in tightly formed neighborhoods as the train rolled past, but they paled in comparison to the sloping summit on top of which the king’s castle rose like a spear from the earth. Even from the distance, Simon could see the other landmarks: the rising spires of the Callifax Abbey, the unsurprisingly multi-storied debtor’s prison rising over the northern part of town, and the stark white dome of the Grand Hall. It was home and just the sight of the great city was more reassuring than any of his friends’ words during their return journey.

Simon entered the rear car and returned to their cabin. Luthor and Mattie were packing their belongings into small pieces of luggage. They had rightfully packed light for their rescue trip, and it was easy to gather what few objects they had removed during the train ride.

The Inquisitor paused at the doorway as he realized that he had no personal effects to pack. The few sets of clothing that Luthor had brought with him had been packed in the apothecary’s bags. Simon didn’t even have a suitcase to call his own. The extent of his belongings from this trip now consisted solely of the clothes on his body, his revolver, pocket watch, and top hat.

Realizing there was no preparation that needed to be done, he instead made his way toward the rear of the train, where a narrow catwalk clung to the back of the train car. He opened the door and stepped onto the caboose’s back deck.

The sun was setting over the horizon, its last rays clinging to the sky, casting the air in shades of red and orange. For a moment, Simon cringed. Memories of being caught outside during the night flooded his mind, and he fought the urge to rush indoors where he would be protected from the pursuing vampires. As logic and sense reasserted itself, he breathed deeply until he forced his heart rate to slow to a healthy pace once more.

The sun disappeared from view as the train passed beneath the towering arch that marked the beginning of the city proper. The train’s whistle blasted loudly, and a few pedestrians nearby looked up at its passing. The train jostled as it rolled over tracks set across one of the roads. Cars waited patiently on either side, their drivers staring at Simon as the train rolled by.

The train blew its whistle once more, a long, drawn-out blast that split the evening air, as it slid into the Callifax station. It slipped into its berth. The station was alive with people either loading or unloading similar trains, all parked alongside one another. Wide walkways ran between them, a communal ground through which people bustled and pushed as they made their way on and off the platforms.

Constables kept the other pedestrians at bay as the Pellites began disembarking. Curious onlookers watched, though there was little of interest to see. There were no corpses that could be brought home for examination, unlike Gideon’s body. Instead, the Pellites climbed down from the passenger cars and simply walked away from the train, heading back to the Grand Hall where they would return their firearms before they returned to their homes.

Simon climbed down from the rear deck, feeling a surge of comfort as his feet touched down on Callifax concrete. He walked down the platform as the tarps were removed from the cargo cars. The heavy Gatling guns were removed and placed onto awaiting carts. A pair of the gunners climbed back onboard before reemerging, this time carrying a large, white box between them.

It looked like a cooler or freezer, from where Simon stood, though not one he recognized. Even from a distance, he could see the shattered lock dangling from its hinges on the front. The Pellites loaded the cooler nonchalantly beside the Gatling guns before pushing away the cart.