So what'd you guys think of good ol' TR? It wasn't much, but I promise you'll see more of him later. Now the character coming up in this section is actually a character created by a friend of mine. She's the artist who did the picture of Reagan I posted before and she gave me her blessing to include him in this. I really hope I do him justice, but, just so you aren't disappointed... his real debut is in tomorrow's post. So, allow me to build a little tension and get this story moving. I present part three of Wolves and Wild Roses.
A motorcar led to a train, and that train led to a ship, and now that ship lay docked at harbor in London. Sonia stepped off the vessel, a porter tugging her large, black trunk behind her. Grant, sadly, had to stay back at the manor to look after young Richter. While that would prove an annoyance, she was more than capable of navigating London on her own.
It wasn't long before she entered her hotel, black trunk still following behind. The decor was certainly inviting, a lodging worthy of a Trevor, but her mind was set on other things; this was far from a luxury holiday. As the bellhop moved her trunk up to her room, Sonia approached the front desk.
"Pardon, my name is Sonia Trevor. Have there been any messages left for me?"
The well groomed clerk at the desk smiled and nodded. "Allow me to check, Madam." After a moment of perusing, the man returned to the desk with a telegram in hand. "Here we are. It's simply addressed from a 'P.'"
"Please read it," she said, peeling her long gloves off and sliding them into her bag.
"Let me see. 'Carriage sent. STOP. 11. STOP. Arrive prepared. STOP.' Not sure what to make of that."
"It's not for you to understand, now is it. Please dispose of that message. And no disturbances."
"Of course," the clerk nodded.
Sonia quickly retired to her room, leaving a tip with the bellboy before locking the door and staring at her large steamer trunk. She sat on her bed, hands folded and pressed against her lips. In her mind she was screaming. She didn't want to be here. She didn't want to do this. At the same time, to hold the secrets of RJ Thompson, this was going to be the only way.
She unlatched the large lock on the trunk and flipped it open. She stared at the contents for a moment, her mind still back at her own manor. She should've tried harder. Maybe her library had something she could've used to gather the werewolves. No, she thought as she reached in, taking hold of a large, wooden stake. I know every book in that library. Every book in hunter's underground. There's only one person who can tell me what I need to know.
Setting aside the stake, she pulled out a set of dark clothing, followed by several knives, bottles of various liquids, and a small box with a golden cross emblazoned on the top. Lastly, she reached in to pull out a long chain attached to a whip handle. She weighed it in her hands, letting the spiked tip dangle and swing. She was never supposed to come back here again. In America she was free, she was in control. Here? Things only happened if he deemed it so.
Several hours later she stepped out of the hotel, her gown replaced by a long, black cloak that hid her in the darkness of the night. A horse drawn carriage arrived, right on time. A languid, pale driver with clothes several decades out of fashion stared down at her, the door to the carriage opening on it's own. The half moon glinted off the steel daggers peeking out from under her cloak as she stepped on.
"I see Pasha hasn't seen fit to purchase a motorcar," she remarked. The driver seemingly ignored her, giving the reins a whip and setting the carriage off into the night. "And you are still ever the conversationalist."
The trip concluded in silence, the hour passing with Sonia left only to check and recheck the equipment held under her cloak. When the carriage finally came to a stop, they were in front of a large manor, ancient in its decor and easily dwarfing the Trevor manor back in the States. A chill went up Sonia's spine as she stepped out, the carriage moving away the moment her feet touched the ground. She was alone now.
She pulled back her hood and looked up the steps to the imposing structure. The manor was several stories tall and spanned a majority of the grounds. Clenching her fists, she ascended the stairway, passing statues of vile looking gargoyles, tortured men and women, and monsters of every description. The giant doors stood before her, but she didn't bother to even touch them. They opened before her on their own as they had many times before.
Stepping into the grand entrance hall, she looked upon the familiar sight of the ivory pillars, spanning three stories. Tall windows with velvet curtains lined the hallway, with suits of armor resting between each. An imposing staircase spilled down from the upper levels like a waterfall of blood, a rich crimson carpet lining it. She took only a few steps in when the doors shut behind her with a loud thud that echoed through the halls. The candles about her flickered and several died out, darkening the room substantially.
"Welcome, hunter," boomed a deep voice with the faintest trace of a Russian accent. "May your God have mercy on you."
Keep your eyes open for my debut novel, The Paladin.