The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (4 page)

He motioned for the barmaid and pointed at his empty glass.

“Incorrigible,” Simon repeated. “Enjoy yourself, but behave.”

“That’s unlikely.”

Simon smiled as he wove his way through the bar toward the front door.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Luthor said as he walked into the dining room. He set a plate before Mattie before walking to the opposite end of the long table and setting down his own meal.

The electric lights were turned off in lieu of a series of candles lit in the middle of the table. The flickering light cast long shadows on the walls as Luthor moved around the room.

“This all smells delicious,” Mattie remarked as she closed her eyes and savored the scents. “You’ve truly outdone yourself.”

Luthor took his seat and smiled. “That’s high praise from someone with such an exceptional sense of smell.”

“It’s the wolf in me. Fear not, I’ll do my best to use restraint while eating, rather than simply devouring the meal.”

“I do appreciate it,” Luthor said, laughing softly. “It would be a shame to slave in the kitchen for nearly an hour only to have the meal decimated in mere minutes. Besides, tonight is hardly just about the meal. This is about enjoying one another’s company.”

Mattie smiled and brushed a loose strand of her red hair out of her face. “I’m certainly looking forward to it.”

A loud knock sounded on the door, disrupting the otherwise touching moment. Luthor frowned, recognizing the knock almost immediately. Without waiting for someone to answer the door, Simon hastily entered the foyer.

“Luthor?” the Inquisitor called.

Luthor lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

“We’re in here, Simon,” Mattie answered when it was evident Luthor had no intention of responding.

“I was hoping if we didn’t reply, he would merely go away,” the apothecary said.

Mattie laughed as Simon appeared at the entryway to the dining room. “Have you ever known Simon to merely go away?”

“Sadly, no.”

Simon paused, taking in the lit candles and carefully prepared meal. “Forgive me, but I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“Perpetually,” Luthor replied. “I should have locked the front door.”

“You most certainly should have. It was foolish not to; anyone could have simply barged in on your otherwise romantic evening.”

“
Anyone
wouldn’t,” Luthor chided. “You’re the only man in all Callifax who would enter someone else’s home completely and totally uninvited.”

Simon shook his head. “Nonsense, Luthor. I’m always invited. Your meal smells delicious, by the way.”

Luthor gritted his teeth. “It does, and I would very much like to enjoy it undisturbed. What do you want, Simon?”

“I need to borrow a black tie, if you please.”

Luthor finally turned toward the Inquisitor and frowned. “I most certainly don’t please. Don’t you have a black tie of your own?”

“Stained, sadly. Come, Luthor, I’m running late as it is. I’ll merely need to borrow it for the night.”

Luthor sighed as he twisted awkwardly in the dining room chair to better face his mentor. “The last time I lent you a tie ‘for the night’ as you so eloquently put it, you had it in your possession for nearly six weeks.”

Simon shrugged. “Yet you did get it back, did you not?”

“Yes, after constant berating for more than a month.”

“Yet you did get it back.”

“Yes,” Luthor replied, exasperated, “but only after I invaded your wardrobe of my own volition and took it back by force.”

“You’re arguing semantics. In the end, you did get it back.”

Luthor turned back to his meal and the redhead sitting across the table from him, who wore an amused expression.

“Arguing with you is simply infuriating,” Luthor grumbled.

“Then you should stop trying. As for the tie…?”

Simon left the question hanging, awaiting the apothecary’s response. Luthor merely waved his hand over his shoulder in defeat.

“You already know where they’re kept. By all means, help yourself.”

Simon departed without another word, his heavy footfalls echoing as he rushed up the stairs. Luthor pinched the bridge of his nose to ward off the threatening headache. There were days he missed the simplicity of being bitten by werewolves over holding conversations with the Inquisitor.

Mattie pointed toward the upstairs, where Simon could be heard clumsily searching through Luthor’s armoire. “Don’t you ever worry that he might stumble upon any of your magical paraphernalia in his, what I have to assume to be thorough, searching through your belongings?”

Luthor felt more relaxed with the abrupt change of conversation. “There was a time when I foolishly kept incriminating belongings upstairs, but those days have long since passed.”

Mattie glanced around the room as though expecting a secret wardrobe to suddenly appear. “If not upstairs, then where do you store everything? I’ve hardly searched the nooks and crannies of your home, but I’ve never seen anything.”

Luthor picked up his glass of wine and took a small drink, enjoying the earthy notes. “I keep them in the basement.”

“The townhouse has a basement?” Mattie asked, perplexed. “I’ve never seen a doorway or stairwell. How do you get to the basement?”

Luthor paused, his glass half raised to his lips for a second drink. He arched his eyebrow.

Mattie sighed. “Magic, of course. I should have guessed as much.”

Luthor laughed. “Indeed, you should have.”

Moments later, Simon rushed downstairs, haphazardly attempting to properly affix the long, black tie around his neck.

“Thank you kindly, Luthor.”

“Think nothing of it,” Luthor replied. “I’m sure thinking nothing of my generosity was your intent all along.”

Simon didn’t reply but instead rushed out the door, pulling it closed behind him with a loud crash. Luthor winced as the townhouse seemed to settle back into its general air of undisturbed calm.

They returned to their meals, passing casual conversation between one another as they ate. When the meal was finished, Luthor cleared the table and they retired to the living room.

Mattie sat on the heavily cushioned couch as Luthor crouched before the fireplace. He retrieved logs from a pile beside him and placed them in a small pile on the stone floor of the fireplace. Leaning away from the logs, he extended his hand and began drawing a rune in the air with his index finger. The air ignited in a trail behind the pattern, shifting and turning in response to his subtle gestures. Before long, a smoldering, red rune burned brilliantly in the air. It hung in place for a moment before collapsing onto the logs. A roaring fire suddenly flashed to life, filling the room with satisfying warmth.

“You are a very convenient man to have nearby,” Mattie joked from her spot on the sofa.

“I aim to please,” Luthor grunted as he pushed from his crouched position. He walked over and joined her on the couch.

Mattie gestured toward the fireplace. “Does the Cabal not mind you using your powers so blatantly? I would think they would place restrictions on their usage.”

Luthor shrugged as he looked into her eyes. “I would hardly call starting a fire in the privacy of my own home a blatant use. That being said, the Cabal doesn’t generally interfere in such frivolities.”

Mattie nodded. “Speaking of the Cabal, have you spoken to them since your return?”

Luthor shook his head. “No, but that’s hardly out of character. I rarely hear from them unless I’m required for a mission. Otherwise, I’m left to my own devices.”

“Just like that?” she asked. “It seems rather dismissive that they contact you only when they have need of your abilities. I would think that the man who slew one of the five demons, against whom the entire Cabal was formed in the first place I might add, would be praised regularly.”

Luthor shook his head dismissively. “The Cabal doesn’t have the luxury of resting on its laurels, praising the victories already accomplished. They’re busy searching for the next of the five demon lords. At least, I assume they are. It’s all rather cryptic, to be honest.”

Mattie arched an eyebrow and tilted her head to the side inquisitively. “You’ve never actually met them, have you?”

Luthor flushed. “Well, no, not exactly.”

Mattie sat upright and furrowed her brow. “Have you ever seen any of the fellow members of the Cabal?”

“No, though I have spoken to them many times during our communications.”

“Unbelievable. You work for a shadow organization so secretive that its own members are oblivious for whom they actually work.”

Luthor frowned and crossed his arms over his chest. “You make it all sound rather devious.”

“Forgive me, I meant no disrespect,” she said hastily upon noting his displeasure. She placed her hand on his arm. “I merely find the whole process to be unnecessarily compartmentalized, if that makes sense.”

Luthor placed his hand over hers. “It does make sense, from both your and their perspective. I understand how it must look to you, but you must also realize that they are a cabal of wizards, working and operating in lands that loathe their very existence. No matter how altruistic their purpose, exposure would lead to immediate execution for any of us discovered.”

Mattie squeezed his arm gently. “This is truly dreadful after-dinner conversation. Wasn’t this supposed to be a date?”

Luthor smiled. “Indeed it was… is. Perhaps you’d like to discuss something a bit more lively?”

“I have been curious about something,” she replied. “How is it that we have been in Callifax for two long weeks and I have yet to meet this Veronica Dawn, of whom I’ve heard endless amounts from Simon?”

“Of all the topics of conversation we could enjoy during our date, you ask more questions about Simon?”

Mattie laughed. “It strikes me as odd that someone for whom Simon has such affinity has never come by, nor have we ever met the happy couple for dinner or other such outings. He’s not ashamed of her, is he?”

“Ashamed of her?”

“Having never met her, nor even been invited to meet her, I have to wonder if she has some physical affliction.”

“As in, does she have a hunched back or hooves for feet? Perhaps she’s so hideous that she’s kept chained in his attic? That when Simon says he’s visiting her, he’s actually going into his attic to feed her a bucket of fish heads?”

Mattie laughed heartily. “I meant merely that there is an expectation with a handsome man like Simon that the woman he courts would be equally as attractive.”

Luthor slipped an arm around Mattie’s shoulders and pulled her closer to him. She leaned her head over, resting it on his chest.

“To put your mind at ease, Veronica does not suffer a physical deformation. She’s actually a very attractive woman.”

Mattie placed her hand on his chest. “Yet, you don’t seem to like her.”

Luthor canted his head as he tried to formulate the best way to explain a complex situation. “It’s not that I dislike her. The truth is that she’s a very lovely woman, a bit coarse and undignified at times, but generally sweet and polite.”

Mattie raised her head. “Then why did you this morning belittle him for planning an evening with her?”

“It’s not Veronica personally with whom I have an issue. It’s her occupation. It’s very unbecoming of a lady.”

Mattie arched an eyebrow. “Where, exactly, does she work?”

A few street lamps were intermixed along the street, casting pools of light onto the otherwise dark cobblestone. In a city of relative gloom at night, the glow from the exterior of the Ace of Spades illuminated the sky around it like a second sunrise. The brightly painted brick exterior was splashed with fluorescent lights too numerous to count.

A velvet rope cordoned off part of the sidewalk, keeping eager patrons pressed against the side of the building as they eagerly awaited their entry to the opulent interior.

Simon walked past the velvet rope and approached the building’s front doors. A towering, suited man stood in front of the closed doors, large, wooden monstrosities with wrought iron handles. Beside each door, scantily clad women, adorned with feathers and headdresses, rested their hands on the door handles, ready to open for approved patrons.

The bouncer noted Simon’s approach and smiled broadly toward the Inquisitor.

“It’s been far too long since you last visited, Inquisitor,” the man said, his speech broken by an unidentifiable accent.

“I do apologize. Work keeps me away,” Simon remarked.

The bouncer nodded to the two women holding the door. In unison, they pulled the double doors apart. A flood of music and light poured from the building’s interior. Laugher intermixed with the din of dozens of simultaneous conversations. Even from the exterior, the air was thick with cigar and cigarette smoke.

Simon pulled a silver coin from his pocket and palmed it in his hand. As he passed the bouncer, he shook the man’s hand, discreetly transferring the tip. The bouncer nodded appreciatively before turning his attention back to the other disgruntled men and women behind the velvet cordon who clearly felt perturbed by Simon’s avoidance of the lengthy line.

The Inquisitor entered the Ace of Spades and was immediately awash in the sights and sounds. The club entered onto a raised horseshoe that skirted the edge of the building, looking down on the sunken middle of the room and the stage on the far side. A bar and barstools lined the divide between the upper and lower floors, allowing for maximum visibility of the stage.

Most of the barstools had already been claimed, but Simon had no interest in sitting so far away. He walked down the carpeted steps and onto the sunken main floor.

The lights were mostly focused on the stage, where a burlesque dancer moved seductively, stripping away gloves and stockings in a painfully slow yet sensual display. Simon ignored the woman on stage as he turned and walked toward an empty table with a reserved placard. He pulled out one of the two chairs and sat, facing the stage at a slight angle.

The rest of the room was surprisingly dimly lit, with only the minimal lighting supplemented by individual candles stationed in the middle of the variety of tables. A number of couples huddled near the candles, leaning in close enough so that their conversation could only be heard by one another. A burlesque house was the perfect place for secret, and often inappropriate, rendezvous. It was hardly the place for a respected member of the Royal Inquisitors. Yet, of all the places he frequented in Callifax, the Ace of Spades was where he felt most at home.

A server approached him with a familiar smile. She wore thick makeup that left her face looking ghostly pale. A tight, striped corset cinched her waist and her billowing skirt ended just above her knees, revealing the stockings and garter beneath. There was a leather strap around her shoulders, holding a tray aloft before her.

“Welcome back, sir,” she said. “Would you care for a smoke?”

She tilted the tray to reveal a row of cigars as well as a silver-plated cigarette case. Simon reached up and unlatched the cigarette case, pulling free a hand-rolled cigarette. The server retrieved a lighter from the tray and ignited it as Simon placed the cigarette to his lips. He drew a deep breath, feeling the soothing smoke roll into his lungs.

As he exhaled, he pulled a gold coin from his waistcoat. Simon placed it on her tray.

“This and a scotch,” he said, “and keep them both coming.”

The server smiled and gave a slight curtsey. “Yes, sir.”

As she walked away, Simon let his gaze drift over the room. The room was filled with an odd assortment of patrons. There were the couples huddled together around the tables, but there were equally as many single men and even women sitting alone along the edges of the room. A man sat in the shadows in the far booth, directly across the room from Simon, watching the stage intently; his features were barely distinguishable in the dim light. In contrast to the man in the booth’s obvious discretion, what was evidently a nobleman sat near the stage, his jacket etched with gold thread and a ridiculous hat perched upon his head. The Ace of Spades was a melting pot of patrons with a single true desire.

The server returned, setting a glass of scotch before him. To his great surprise and pleasure, she also set the remainder of the bottle in the middle of the table. Simon smiled at the woman. He had met her once before, during a previous visit, but he couldn’t recall her name. With such exceptional service, however, he would make a better effort in the future.

Before he could thank her, the music abruptly changed. The fast-paced trumpets gave way to the slower rumble of trombones. The sound was earthy, as though it was rumbling through the very floorboards, up through Simon’s legs, and freezing the air in his lungs.

He turned toward the stage and smiled broadly as the stage lights dimmed. Everyone blinked as their vision tried to adjust to only the light from the candles spread across the tables. Simon squinted his eyes virtually shut, leaving only a sliver open with which to watch the stage. He had seen this show before and knew better than to stare too closely.

As quickly as they had dimmed, the lights behind the stage flared to life. The audience rocked backward in their seats in surprise. As everyone settled, the thin silhouette of a woman appeared, her features indistinguishable as nothing more than a black, curvaceous shape.

The music began again, and the woman on stage began to dance. Her body was lithe and nimble, and she seemed to glide across the stage. As the music built, the lights at the front of the stage slowly began to glow as well.

The dark-haired beauty on stage wore a tight corset. Her black garter belt and underwear tightly hugged her narrow waist and wider hips. Long, silk gloves rose to above her elbows on each arm, and sheer stockings clung to each leg. Her dazzling smile and diamond necklace both glistened under the electric lights as she moved.

Simon watched her dance, entranced by her every move. To the catcalls of the audience, she slowly removed each of her gloves, tossing them behind her where they fell on the stage.

A crescendo of trumpets joined the rolling trombones and the dark-haired woman sat on the stage, flexibly lifting a leg upward until it rested beside her head. A flick of her fingers detached the clasps holding the garter to the stockings. In a fluid motion, she unrolled it, revealing the creamy smooth skin beneath. The other stocking was also removed before she rolled nimbly back to her feet.

The cheers from the crowd grew louder as she crouched and was handed a feathered fan from each side of the stage. The white feathers were a stark contrast to her dark lingerie, but she moved them handily, teasing the crowd with each movement.

This was what everyone in attendance had truly come for. This performer was the highlight of the Ace of Spades, and Simon was just as enthralled as everyone else in the audience.

The dancer brought the fans together, one facing upward and one down, until they covered most of her body. Shifting their grip so that both fans were held in one hand, her free hand disappeared as the music built. With a slight bend, she removed her garter, flashing it above the top of the upper fan for the audience to see.

Simon knew what happened next, and his heart began to race. With the fans still held in one hand, she slipped her free hand behind her once again. From his vantage point, Simon could hear the individual snaps of the latches being removed on her corset. Like the garter before it, the corset came free. She held it over her head as she brought the feathers closer to her body, concealing any exposed flesh and leaving everything, yet nothing, to the imagination.

The music grew to a maddening pace, quickly outstripping the fast-paced songs that had been playing when Simon had first entered the burlesque house. As the music grew to a deafening volume, the woman grasped a fan in each hand and threw her arms out wide. The front house lights went out and the music fell silent, leaving only the perfectly formed silhouette of the topless woman and the pair of feathered fans, held out to each side.

The audience erupted in applause, many climbing to their feet for a standing ovation. Simon stubbed his half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray and joined the applause.

The lights behind the stage turned off, casting the room in blinding darkness. Simon could hear the patter of bare feet hurrying across the stage as the dancer disappeared into the curtained wings.

As the house lights came back on, another dancer took the stage. Simon swigged the rest of his scotch and got to his feet. He followed the edge of the curved stage to an ornate door. The bouncer at the door held it open for Simon as he walked through.

The dressing rooms were a flurry of activity as women in various stages of undress rushed about, either putting on or taking off outfits for their upcoming performances. Most of the area was open, with rows of illuminated vanities lining the walls. Near the back, a few private rooms were established, though most of the doors were closed.

Simon smiled politely at the women he passed, but his attention was solely focused on one of the private rooms beyond. A bouncer, a man Simon didn’t immediately recognize, stood before Veronica’s private changing room.

The bouncer held up his hand as Simon approached. “Sorry, sir, but no one is allowed in the dressing rooms at this time.”

Simon smiled knowingly at the man. “Trust me, Ms. Dawn will want to see me.”

The bouncer shook his head. “I have strict orders not to let anyone in. No exceptions.”

“You may want to let him in,” a woman said from one of the nearby vanities.

Simon glanced over to the sea of tightly curled, blonde hair. The woman didn’t look up as she applied a thick layer of brilliantly red lipstick.

“Gloria,” Simon said. “How wonderful to see you again. I didn’t think I would have the pleasure of your company until later tonight.”

“You still will,” Gloria replied. She finished with her lipstick, dabbing the excess on a napkin nearby. She turned her attention back to the bouncer. “Veronica wants to see him, trust me.”

“I understand that, ma’am,” the bouncer replied sternly, “but I have my orders. No one enters. No one.”

“You can’t later say that you weren’t properly warned,” Gloria replied as she turned her attention back to the mirror.

Simon sighed. “Please do move aside, or at the very least, knock on her door and ask if she will willingly see me. I can guarantee she will.”

“Please return to the front room, sir,” the bouncer said, unmoved by Simon’s plea.

Simon placed his hands on his hips. “You’re a damnably frustrating man. Just ask her.”

“Sir, I won’t tell you again.”

Before Simon could reply, the dressing room door opened. The dark-haired beauty from the stage stood in the doorway. Her lithe frame was graced with a silk robe that hung only to her knees. The thin fabric clung to her curves as she leaned against the doorframe.

“It’s perfectly all right, Marcus,” Veronica said, placing her hand on the bouncer’s shoulder. “Simon is an old friend.”

The bouncer glanced at Simon before begrudgingly stepping aside. Simon nodded politely, swallowing his desire to smile smugly as he passed the brutish man.

The Inquisitor stepped through the doorway as Veronica retreated inside. He gently pushed the door closed on the small dressing room, allowing them a small iota of privacy.

The room was busy, with an assortment of barely concealing outfits hung on hooks along the wall. A small bench seat was pressed against one wall while a well-lit vanity sat against the other. The large mirror, framed in naked light bulbs, offered the faintest illusion that the room was in fact larger than it really was, but the illusion was fleeting. With Veronica standing in the center of the room, there was barely room for Simon to maneuver without pressing against her body, which he believed was entirely the point.