Luthor brushed his hands together, cleaning off a white powder that clung to his fingertips. “I was, sir, but I lost track of time. I barely got myself dressed before meeting you here in the hall.”
Simon stepped into the hallway and pulled his door closed. He reached across the divide and straightened Luthor’s tie, which hung askew from the center of his neck. As he straightened the tie, he caught a scent of something foul in the air. He wrinkled his nose and glanced over his friend’s shoulder.
“Do you smell that? It’s atrocious. It’s a mixture of spoiled milk and gangrene. Please tell me that isn’t coming from your room.”
Luthor blushed slightly and looked over his shoulder. “I accidentally broke one of my vials when I was unpacking. It’s an unpleasant scent, to be sure.”
Simon frowned. “Please don’t tell me that was one of the liquids in that foul brew you gave me on the zeppelin.”
Luthor pushed his glasses back up his nose but remained silent.
“Luthor?” Simon asked, arching his brow inquisitively. “It wasn’t, was it?”
When the apothecary didn’t reply, Simon threw up his hands in disgust and stormed down the hall.
“In my defense,” Luthor said as he hurried to catch up, “you told me not to tell you.”
“I swear that you’re trying to poison me. You slip these terrible concoctions into my drinks just to kill me slowly.”
“There are actually indigenous tribes along the far eastern shores that intentionally ingest poisons in an attempt to build a resistance to the natural venoms that exist in their flora and fauna. Despite a wide spread acceptance of the practice, only a very small percentage of them actually die.”
“You find the most remarkable ways to try to defend your inane actions,” Simon said. “I’m not an indigenous tribesman from the eastern shore. Please stop trying to poison me.”
“I’d never poison you without your knowledge,” Luthor said before reconsidering his word choice.
“I guess I should be pleased that my friends will stab me in the face, rather than stabbing me in the back.”
They descended the curved marble staircase and were met at the bottom by the butler. He led them through an empty parlor, though Simon could smell the lingering scent of whiskey and cigars. He regretted being so late to the dinner and having missed the social hour leading up to the meal. It would have been a good opportunity to discuss his investigation with those involved or, at the very least, a chance to enjoy fine alcohol and a smoke.
The butler slid a set of double doors aside and stepped into the formal dining room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Royal Inquisitor Whitlock and Mr. Luthor Strong.”
The guests all slid their chairs across the floor and stood politely as the two men entered. A long table dominated the room, capable of holding far more than the dozen people that were currently seated. Most of the guests looked like couples—aristocratic husbands and wives who were enjoying the company of the local royalty. Simon gave them all only a halfhearted inspection, wondering if any of them matched the pictures buried in the report they received. The governor sat at the end of the table in the place of honor. The man was portly and leaned back heavily against the velvet-lined chair.
Though he was a cousin to the king, the two men shared very little similarities. They both had the same hazel-colored eyes and dark hair that ended in a widow’s peak on their forehead. There were little comparisons beyond that. The king was a man who maintained peak physical conditioning through swordplay and boxing. It was possible that beneath the governor’s borderline obese physique hid a man of similar musculature to the king, but Simon had his doubts.
The governor’s cheeks grew rosy as he came face to face with the Inquisitor. Simon knew he had that effect on people. The position was one of great honor in the royal court but was viewed as little more than a witch hunter occupation by the common populace. Though Simon considered his approach to his investigations to have a more gentle touch than his peers, he knew the reputation of most Inquisitors. If there was a rumor of supernatural or paranormal activity, the Inquisitors became Death, riding into towns with the intent to destroy not just the mystical creature, but also anyone who stood in their way. The result had been fewer legitimized reports, despite Simon knowing that these monsters existed and appeared on occasion within their borders. Villagers would rather face their own fears and slay the monster alone, than call on an Inquisitor and risk their own lives even further.
“Inquisitor Whitlock,” the governor said, “please come and sit by me.”
The chair immediately to the governor’s left was unoccupied. Simon looked at Luthor apologetically as his associate took his seat at the far end of the row of chairs. As Simon reached his seat, the governor waved for everyone else to be seated as well.
“Sit, sit,” the rotund man at the head of the table said, patting Simon’s chair. “It’s so rare that we get visitors from the capital, and an Inquisitor no less. I must know everything. Tell me all there is to know about the city and my family.”
Simon smiled politely at the man, but he felt dreadfully uncomfortable sitting beside the governor. He cared little for small talk and had never mastered the subtle nuances of political repartee. If left to his own devices, he would have arrived incognito and conducted his investigation from the privacy of a hotel room somewhere within the city. It was Luthor who served as Simon’s protocol guide, letting him know what was demanded of him by his royal position.
“Yes,” said a voice across from Simon. “Do tell us all about the capital and the royal family.”
Simon turned toward the suited man sitting across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which was tied in place with a broad ribbon. A frilly cravat protruded from the top of his high vest. His facial features were hard to discern, as he drummed his fingers together in front of his face. The intensity of his black eyes, however, seemed to bore into Simon.
“Mr. Dosett, I presume,” Simon said with a nod.
Gideon Dosett nodded and raised his hand in a mock salute. “It appears my reputation precedes me.”
“Your name is spoken in many of the circles around this city,” Simon replied tactfully.
Gideon dropped his hands, exposing the abnormally red lips that had been concealed. Simon couldn’t tell if it was the result of makeup or just a natural blush.
“You’ve heard only good things, I hope.”
Simon nodded. “Only the most pleasant of descriptions, though my associate and I hardly came here to confirm rumored reputations.”
He looked to the governor, expecting the man to respond. Since he was the dinner’s host, it was his right to bring up the subject of the pending investigation. Such unpleasant topics weren’t normally discussed during dinner, but Simon was already growing impatient. He had already overstepped his bounds by alluding to his mission.
The governor nodded. “The werewolves are a dreadful business and threaten the safety of our city. They’ve become a painful thorn in our collective sides. We’re honored that the crown saw fit to grace us with an Inquisitor. Though, truth be told, I’m hardly the man with whom you should speak. Mr. Dosett’s businesses suffer the worst from these assaults. The werewolves have destroyed, what is it now, three of your drilling stations?”
“Four,” Gideon replied flatly. His lips pressed together until the blood drained from them. “Four drilling stations destroyed and over a dozen men killed. We are, indeed, lucky to have an Inquisitor looking into this unfortunate business.”
Simon was flattered but still uncomfortable with the attention. Before he could respond, servants appeared with the meal’s first course. Conversation forgotten, the entire table sipped their soup quietly, the still air broken only by the occasional slurp of the thin liquid.
As soon as they finished their soup, the servants appeared again and cleared away the plates.
“We visited the capital once, you know?” an elderly man remarked from fur
ther down the table.
Simon was glad to have someone else to talk to and turned with a broad smile toward the older gentleman. “I hope you found the capital to your liking.”
His wife chuckled and placed a hand affectionately on his arm. They exchanged glances before the older man spoke again. “Heavens no. It was far too busy and full of people. We hardly ever had a chance to be alone with our thoughts, much less alone with one another.” When he noticed the surprised looks from another couple, the man politely cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I get carried away sometimes. Things like that are hardly dinner conversations.”
“There is no need to apologize,” Luthor said. “I find the city to be oppressive sometimes. I grew up near the marshes of Narampoor, where your nearest neighbor was an hour’s ride by train and even longer by horse and buggy.”
“You’d fit in perfectly with us in Haversham,” the man replied. “If you ever get tired of being around the busy city, you can always take the tunnels out of town and wander the ice flows for a while.”
“I believe I would like that,” Luthor replied.
“I want to ask about the Inquisitor’s line of work,” said the woman sitting beside Luthor, “but I fear it would be imposing. Would you mind?”
Simon could barely see her around her husband, but her powdered wig extended high above the man’s head. “I don’t mind at all, madam, but it’s our host’s right to allow such talk at the table.”
He turned toward the governor, who glanced over to Gideon before waving his hand, permitting the topic to be broached.
Simon turned back to the woman. “What would you like to know, madam?”
The woman leaned forward, and Simon could see her painted face. Her skin was white, though her lips were a brilliant scarlet. Unlike Gideon, hers were clearly caused by an application of lipstick.
“Have you seen any monsters?” she asked.
“Gertrude!” her husband interjected.
“No, madam,” Simon said quickly, before she felt embarrassed by the topic of conversation. “We have yet to see any real monsters.”
“But surely this isn’t your first assignment as an Inquisitor?” her husband asked.
Simon laughed. “No, sir, though every Inquisitor has to begin somewhere. Luthor and I have been on a number of missions thus far, but we have yet to encounter an actual monster. All our experiences have been debunking general tomfoolery.”
“It’s a fascinating life you must lead, Inquisitor Whitlock.”
“Please, just call me Simon. I believe we’re among friends here and can be slightly less formal with one another.”
“We’ve heard so many stories of monsters since the Rift appeared but never saw one for ourselves,” she continued. “I started to wonder if they truly existed until the werewolves, of course.”
“The Rift and the monsters it produces are quite real, I assure you,” Simon replied. “The issue is not whether they exist… but if people would recognize them when they saw them. The reason Inquisitors disprove so many reports of monsters in our kingdom is because people assume the monsters to be things of subtlety; that if they were to encounter them on the street, they’d look mostly like a man but with slight monstrous variations to the brow or the shoulders or the legs. The truth is, the monsters are far more, well, monstrous than people are wont to believe. They see a disfigured man and assume him a byproduct of the Rift when, in fact, he’s just an unfortunate soul.”
“The Rift has made people paranoid, jumping at shadows,” Luthor expounded. “The majority of reports filed to the Inquisitors are proven false by the team deployed. Most of the reports are filed because the people involved either suffers from the vapors or hysteria.”
“Which brings us to why you are with the Inquisitor,” Gideon said with a smile. “I had wondered the purpose of an apothecary as a cohort.”
“Indeed,” Luthor said with a nod. “Vapors and hysteria are both treatable conditions through a regimen of chemicals or other pharmaceutical interventions. An apothecary is actually the perfect associate for an Inquisitor.”
“You make a very solid argument,” Gideon said. “I guess I must raise my glass to you both. We’re truly lucky to have you here in Haversham.”
He raised his glass and nodded to Simon. “To the Inquisitor,” he turned toward Luthor, “and to the apothecary.”
“Here, here,” the other guests said, raising their glasses.
Simon raised his glass begrudgingly and looked toward the governor. The man took a long drink from his wineglass. He smiled broadly, as he pulled his glass from his lips.
“Here, here,” he said.
The servants brought the main course, setting down a plate of beef. The smell was amazing, and Simon’s stomach growled. He waited for the governor to take a bite before picking up his fork and knife and carving off a piece of meat. As he was lifting the food to his mouth, Gideon spoke again.
“So will you begin your investigation tomorrow?”
Wistfully, Simon sat his fork back down and glanced across the table. “That is our intent.”
“What do you expect to find?” he asked.
Simon shrugged. “I won’t know until I have a chance to inquire, though I presume I’ll find that there is a much more rational explanation for these werewolves than something supernatural.”
“You speak of the monsters beyond our borders but you’re still very much a skeptic, aren’t you?” Gideon asked. “You don’t actually believe you’ll find werewolves when you investigate?
“The basis of my work requires me to be skeptical. I still keep an open mind, however, and reserve judgment until after my investigation is complete.”
Gideon turned toward Luthor. “You, however, seem like a true believer. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually excited at the prospect of finding a real monster during your visit.”
Luthor scratched absently at his arm and furrowed his brow as he thought. “I am loath to admit, while in the company of an Inquisitor, that I secretly do hope to find creatures of legend when we are sent out on missions.”
The guests at the table chuckled.
“Though it’s our station to contain any magic that might threaten our lands, it’s almost heartbreaking to prove that the mummy of the lower catacombs is nothing more than a pauper in ragged clothing scaring away grave robbers.”
Simon picked up his fork and placed the meat in his mouth. Gideon took a long draw from his wine. As he sat the glass down, he licked the purple tint from his lips.
“You both seem to take your work very seriously,” he said.
Simon swallowed and nodded. “Magic, in all its forms, represents a threat to the sovereignty of the kingdom. It must be discovered and, if it can’t be contained, destroyed. It’s the motto by which every Inquisitor lives.”
“So you think our werewolves are a hoax?” Gideon asked again.
“Until I see one with my own eyes, I will believe them to be trickery of the mind.”
Gideon smiled. “So you won’t believe them real until you see one for yourself?”
Simon set down his fork again. “What game are you playing at?”
“We killed one during their last raid on one of my refineries. It’s available for you to inspect, if you feel so inclined.”
“My good man,” Simon replied, “I must teach you which information to lead with when starting a conversation.”
He slid his chair back, the wood screeching on the hardwood floor as he pushed away from the table.
Simon held his hands aloft as Luthor tied the strings of the smock behind his back. With the apron firmly in place, the apothecary retrieved rubber gloves and slid them over Simon’s hands. He flexed his fingers as he maneuvered the gloves into a more comfortable position. His hands immediately began to sweat within the thick rubber. The gloves kept him sanitary during autopsies but were uncomfortable and often ungainly.
A tall man opened the door to the tiled room and stepped inside.
He wore a roughly hewn wool vest and slacks, with a stained, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He had a hat in his hand that he twisted nervously in the presence of the Royal Inquisitor.
“Pardon the intrusion, sir, but it’s arrived if you’re ready.”
“I’ve never been more ready,” Simon replied. “Have them bring it in carefully.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man stepped aside and held the door open for a group of muscular laborers behind him. The men entered the wide doorway, each at the corner of a large burlap bag. Despite the strength of the men, they clearly strained under the weight of their cargo. They huffed loudly as they tried to walk, though the center of the bag drooped low to the ground and impeded their steps.
“Set it up here,” Simon said, patting the metal table beside which he stood. “Be gentle with it.”
The men moved to one side of the table and, in unison, hefted the bag onto the table. They let out an audible sigh of relief when the job was done and, with a polite bow to Simon and Luthor, exited the room.
The other man remained at the door, holding it open.
“Is this everything?” Simon asked.
“No, sir,” the man replied and quickly looked over his shoulder. “There is a pair of boxes that go along with the… the…”
“Werewolf. It’s fine if you say it. Unless there’s something about werewolves I don’t know, saying their name isn’t going to bring it back to life.”
“No, I would suppose it wouldn’t,” the man said, though he didn’t sound confident in his reply.
He looked visibly relieved when two of the muscular men returned carrying wooden crates. The insides of the crates were lined with hay. Simon could see row after row of glass jars jutting from the hay, filled with a blue liquid. Floating within the jars were bloated organs of different natures.
The men set down the jars and hastily exited. The man at the door watched them leave before turning back to Simon.
“If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll be taking my leave.”
Simon was looking at the shape beneath the burlap bag and waved his hand dismissively. “On your way out, send in the doctor, if you please.”
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 3