Forrest Wollinsky: Vampire Hunter [Book 2]: Blood Mists of London Page 2

  Nothing displayed in her voice or on her facial features indicated that she was lying. I found myself concerned about Jacques, especially with the rolling wall of fog. She must have noticed my slight anxiety.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I would never betray him or you.”

  “You don’t know us. You owe us no protection at all.”

  “Perhaps not. But tell me why you ventured to London?”

  I scooted back in my chair. My jaw tightened.

  Matilda offered a warm smile. “You have difficulty placing your trust in people.”

  “There are few outside my immediate family that I confide in.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’m the same way.”

  “And yet you call me, a complete stranger, to sit with you in a pub?”

  “Only because I was told to,” she replied.

  “By whom?”

  Matilda glanced nervously around the room. “I cannot tell you here.”

  “Why not?”

  She swallowed hard. Again, she looked around, fearful someone else might hear our conversation. With the clattering of tankards, boisterous laughter and talk, it was doubtful anyone could hear if either of us shouted. She leaned across the table and I copied her movement so she could whisper. “Because of what I am. Should I reveal that and be found out, my fate would be equal to that of your . . . friend. But trust me, my wisdom doesn’t come from books or other humans. It is more . . . spiritual, I suppose you could say.”

  “A witch?” I whispered with a slight grin while folding my hands on the table between us.

  Her eyes widened as though I had betrayed her. She gripped my hands and squeezed. She shook her head and whispered fiercely. “How dare you!”

  “It was obvious before you invited me over.”

  Matilda cocked a brow. “How?”

  “You have a veil of invisibility protecting you.”

  She studied me with renewed curiosity. “You know magic?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I discern things, much like you, but in other ways as well.”

  “Then you need to know that witches aren’t tolerated here, either. It’s a death sentence though not done publicly anymore.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I replied.

  She trembled with obvious relief. “Thank you, and I shall keep secret about your traveling companion. May I ask something?”

  I shrugged.

  “Why did you come to London?”

  “It was my cousin’s request. He has an interest in going to America.”

  “He’d be safer there than here. When you said that you can discern things, what did you mean?”

  “It’s difficult to explain.”

  “An example?”

  I took a deep breath and thought. I didn’t want to expose that I was a Hunter, but if she knew what Hunters were, she might already know because of my Hunter box.

  Matilda patted my hand. “It can be anything.”

  “Before my father and I entered the pub, a heavy fog was sweeping down the streets and alley. Something evil lurks within those mists. I detected its presence, perhaps it did mine.”

  She nodded. “It had been here a few months ago. It has recently returned.”

  “It is what my cousin is seeking to find.”

  “You had best hope he not find it.”

  “Why not?”

  “He might be outmatched.”

  My eyes narrowed. “What will he face?”

  “No one knows. But Death follows closely. Bodies have been discovered soon after the fog dissipates.”

  A customer pushed open the door to leave and outside a woman screamed in the darkness. It was such a hideous sound to come from a human. Silence filled the pub. Eyes widened with horror as the patrons turned their attention to the door. No one rose from his chair or stool. Father never even acknowledged the high-pitched sound.

  The man at the door stiffened, hesitant to exit or allow the door to close.

  I stood, grabbed my box, and stepped away from the table.

  “No, Forrest,” Matilda said.

  I ignored her. Something tragic had occurred and as a Hunter it was my duty to help. Jacques was out there with whatever lurked in the darkness. In spite of my better judgment, I left Father to his drinks and pushed past the man holding the door.

  Chapter Two

  Charging through the dark fog, nothing was distinguishable. I slowed my pace until a woman sobbing and heaving deep breaths caught my attention. With caution I walked in her general direction. My hand slid into my coat pocket and gripped a sharp wooden stake. Distraught deception was a vampire’s keenest bait to lure a compassionate spirit into its snare.

  Shrouded in the heavy dark veil of swirling mists, my vision prevented me from seeing the crying lady.

  “Who’s there?” I asked, still warily approaching.

  “Emily,” she replied in between sobs.

  “Were you the one who screamed a few moments ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “What’s the trouble?”

  “There’s been a murder.”

  “Where?”

  “Back down the street,” she said, pointing. “Not too far from here.”

  “When?”

  “Not long ago.”

  Leery that this might be a vampire waiting for an opportunity to rush me, I hesitated going any closer. A streetlamp glowed faintly in a dim circle enclosed by the fog. A part of me doubted her story. As shaken as she displayed herself, I didn’t think she’d have run through these soupy dark streets.

  Whistles blew farther down the street.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Police.”

  “Have you talked to them?” I braved a few more steps toward her bent form.

  “Yes. They told me to go home.”

  “You live nearby?”

  “No.”

  “Why are you here?”

  Emily dried her face with a handkerchief and looked at me. Her face seemed normal. She didn’t bear fangs, nor did she appear hostile. She was just visibly upset.

  “I can’t go home.”

  “Why not?”

  “The killer might go there to kill me.”

  “What makes you believe that?”

  “Because the woman he killed was my roommate.”

  “I see.”

  Lightning flashed, brightening the fog around us like windblown white linen sheets. Thunder rumbled and she jolted. My hand held the hidden stake even tighter.

  She stood and took a deep breath. “They’re trying to catch the man responsible. He left something at the crime scene.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. “What was it?”

  “A silver cane.”

  My chest tightened. “If you’re too afraid to return home, I suggest you go inside the tavern. You’ll be safer there than on the streets.”

  She nodded.

  I bolted down the shrouded street into deeper darkness. More thunder echoed. A light cold drizzle pelleted the street, the roofs, and the occasional awning. These backstreets were empty of streetlamps.

  While I held no doubt that Jacques would never kill an innocent person, I also knew he’d never leave his cane for someone else to find. It was as sacred to him as my box was for me. I needed to find him, but I had better hope for him to find me by using his senses after I had entered the unlit streets and alleys where the police whistles shrilled.

  I couldn’t see any farther than a few inches ahead. I was almost running blind. Without a lantern or a light source, Jacques could use his wolf abilities to see me or track my scent, but I relied upon the dumb luck of accidentally running into him. Being swallowed by complete darkness unnerved me.

  Two swinging lanterns approached my direction swiftly. When the two Police Constables noticed me, they slowed and stopped to question me. They wore long thick overcoats and odd helmet hats strapped around their chins
. In height I stood almost a foot taller than them and was nearly as broad in the shoulders as both of them pressed side by side.

  One raised his lantern and held it close to my face. “State your name.”

  “Forrest Wollinsky.” I offered a kind respectable smile, no doubt strangely obscured by the lantern’s glow.

  “What brings you here?” he asked, cocking a brow. His hand rested on a small club attached to his belt.

  I shrugged. “I heard the commotion and came to see what was happening and if I could help.”

  Recognizing my accent to be quite different than theirs, he stared at me with a suspicious gaze for a few moments. “Sir, I’d advise you to get indoors unless you wish to be taken to headquarters and questioned, which might take hours of your time. This is a matter for metro police.”

  I gave a simple nod. Both men fashioned thick handlebar moustaches and maintained calm polite manners, which I respected. But neither could hide the fear in their eyes. They had seen something dreadful and perhaps sought to warn the others roaming the streets to seek shelter. I truly wished to offer my services, but being a foreigner, I was considered more suspect than alliance. And what I sought to destroy wasn’t what they probably expected to find.

  Sadly, I might have been more equipped with whatever stalked the dark recesses of the streets and alleys than they were. But should they arrest me, there wasn’t anything I could do to find the sinister murderer from inside a prison cell.

  The other PC glanced at my Hunter box with keen curiosity. “What are you carrying?”

  “Wares.” I figured since everyone else kept arriving at that conclusion, why not go with the lie? It was less likely they’d ask me to open the box. Explaining the mallet and wooden stakes would be difficult. In Romania, few ever questioned my weapons or my methods.

  The PC eyed me shrewdly for several seconds. “The streets are too dangerous this time of night to carry such things. I suggest you get back inside.”

  “Yes, sir.” I smiled, turned, and headed back toward The Britannia. Jacques was somewhere in the streets. For the moment I could only hope for his safety since the PCs were equipped to kill werewolves.

  When I entered the pub, Matilda wasn’t there. She had gone, which didn’t surprise me. Father glanced toward me. His eyes were red and his head bobbed slightly side to side. My guess was that he had probably lost count of how many tankards he had drunk.

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get back to the inn.”

  He placed his hands against my chest to hold himself steady. His breath reeked of beer and something stronger. Gin, I supposed and some type of pickled meat. Beer was cheap in London, and more plentiful than clean water. His slurred speech indicated he had gotten more than his money’s worth in a very short amount of time. “Wh-where’s Jacques?”

  “Still roaming the streets,” I said softly. I hefted him off the stool and set him on the floor, holding his elbow so he didn’t embarrass himself by falling.

  “Wh-wha-a-t happened?”

  “A woman was murdered.”

  Father tilted his head back and nodded. His eyelids hung heavily while he tried to focus on me, and his tongue hung partway out of his mouth. His eyes kept rolling back, and he was near passing out.

  “You need to get some sleep, Father.”

  He leaned against me, and I opened the door. I carried him more than he walked. My heart grieved for him. He was another reason I was determined to shun love and destined myself to live a solitary life. Nothing was worth such inner turmoil. Perhaps finding love wasn’t a bad thing, but the loss of what was considered true love had to be the worst pain imaginable.

  Wind blew and heavy rain fell. The fog was thinning, making it easier to see the streetlamps. I propped my father against me for several blocks in this poverty-stricken area, which wasn’t so much different than the common areas of Bucharest. Whatever presence I had sensed earlier in the evening was gone.

  Without knowing the full details of what the murder entailed, I imagined whatever it was had been satiated by the killing. Blood had been spilled. Death had come. In this area of the city, potential victims were countless, and like vermin they had found places to hide away from the part of society that despised them.

  Although we had earned a fair amount of money during our journey to London by slaying and collecting the bounties off a few vampires, Jacques had insisted we venture into the poorest sections of Whitechapel because we’d blend in easier. This certainly seemed true enough because we were mistreated in the same manner as the lowest class.

  At our small rundown room, I struck a match and lit the oil lantern on the crude table. My father dropped onto the rough straw-filled mattress on the floor. He was snoring seconds later. I worried about Jacques. Surely he’d be back by now. Thinking of the information Matilda had given me about werewolves once being a part of society, I couldn’t help but wonder what events tarnished such a previous coexistence?

  Father snored facedown. I removed his hat and boots, hoping to make him a bit more comfortable, and then tossed a ratty old blanket over him. I was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep until morning. But I couldn’t. Not until I knew Jacques’ welfare.

  A gentle rap came at the door. I stared and frowned at the door, as if I did so long enough I’d be able to see the person on the other side. I cautiously approached. I didn’t believe it was Jacques because he would have knocked bolder. The person outside was timid and uncertain.

  “Yes?” I asked, standing at the side of the door.

  “Forrest?”

  “Matilda?”

  “It is I.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I followed you.”

  I unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Why are you here?”

  She didn’t make eye contact. Sadness and embarrassment was in her voice. “I have nowhere to stay tonight. With the rain and cold night, I will catch a deathly cold or die before morning should that predator of the night find me.”

  “You have no home?”

  A glum expression seized her face. “Not a permanent one. Besides, this evening I don’t even have enough coins to even enter one of the poor houses where people stand in a line against the wall and a tethered rope holds you upright throughout the night.”

  I frowned. “You sleep standing up?”

  She nodded. “Not well. And seldom a few minutes at a time. It’s hard to sleep when you feel like you’re going to fall.”

  “I imagine it is. We have room here. Find yourself a place to sleep until morning.”

  “Thank you. Are you not going to sleep?”

  “Not until Jacques returns.”

  Matilda sat in an old rocker and pulled a thin blanket over her. She eyed my Hunter box on the table beside the lantern. “May I see what you have in the case?”

  I shook my head. “I’d rather not. These are personal items.”

  “Do you always dash off into the thick of night chasing danger?”

  “Whenever necessary.”

  “What about tonight was necessary? You’re not a Londoner. A murder here should have little concern to you. Besides, what makes you think you could do a better job than the constables?”

  I smiled. “Because they don’t know how to fight it.”

  “And you do?”

  “Possibly.”

  Matilda frowned.

  “You said that you sensed something evil, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. Something I’ve not felt in several months.”

  “It’s been here before?”

  “And left dead women behind then, too.”

  “How did you know a woman died this time?”

  “I listened when you spoke with the victim’s roommate.”

  From where, I wondered. I had not seen her, but the streets were opaque when I had sought the sobbing lady and my focus had been on the crying woman and not anything behind me. I had foolishly made myself vulnerable by not keeping check
on my surroundings. “So they’ve never caught the murderer before?”

  “They’ve had their suspects, but they’ve never outright accused anyone of the crime. It’s quite possible the actual killer was taken into custody at one time and released. But he is careful and too intelligent not to leave any obvious evidence to tie him to these murders.”

  “You think it’s a he?”

  Matilda nodded. “That’s the feeling I get. What do you think?”

  I had never focused on the gender. I sensed something much darker than ordinary humans though. Undead or possessed, perhaps? Premonitions from the intellect of the vampires I had slain indicated something with supernatural powers, so being male or female didn’t register with me. It didn’t really matter.

  Evil came in various forms, always seeking to destroy whatever good it could find or to cripple a town or city with fear.

  “I don’t know,” I replied. I peered out the window but couldn’t see anything except my reflection off the glass. “Get some sleep.”

  She bundled up part of the blanket, making a small pillow, and leaned her head against it. She closed her eyes.

  I returned to the table, placed my box on my lap, and watched the door until dawn, hoping Jacques made it back safely. When the sun rose, he still had not returned. With morning’s light, I decided to see if I could find him.

  Chapter Three

  I awakened Father, which wasn’t a good thing after a night of heavy drinking. He was more than cranky. When he rolled over, his hand rose to backhand me. Once recognition stirred in his eyes, he lowered his hand. His sad eyes offered an apology that he never worded.

  “Jacques never came back last night,” I said.

  Though Father’s eyes held concern, he shrugged. “He’s a grown man.”

  Matilda looked in the crude mirror and hand combed her dark hair. “You never slept?”

  I shook my head and glanced toward my father. “He’s also a werewolf and Matilda informed me that the PCs are armed with silver bullets and daggers. He might be dead.”

  Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Father grabbed his boots in haste and pulled them on. He stood and grimaced, placing his hands at his temples and grumbled curses under his breath. Wincing, he put on his top hat, pulling it tightly around his head to combat his agonizing hangover. It was the same each time he had overindulged. I didn’t understand why he continued to drink heavily when he hurt so badly the next morning. For me, once would have been enough to dissuade me from ever getting drunk again. Father would grumble for most of the day until he was able to find another drink to combat his headache and heartache.