The door swung shut as Simon retrieved a knife from a table beside him. He cut carefully at the corded string holding the edges of the burlap bag closed. With each cut of the string, he was able to pull away more and more of the bag. Slowly, the white fur beneath the bag was revealed.
His work was interrupted as the door swung open again, and a man in a white coat entered the room. The doctor had tuffs of gray hair protruding from the sides of his head, though he was perfectly bald on top. Aside from his hair, the man looked surprisingly young.
“You’re the doctor?” Simon asked.
“Mr. Parrish, at your service,” the man replied. “I conducted the original examination of the creature.”
“Very good. Please stand beside Luthor and be available to answer any questions that might arise.”
Simon went back to his work, carefully cutting away the string holding the satchel closed. The work was boring, but Simon had incredible patience when it came to his work. With a final slice, he cut away the last of the cord. With little pomp or circumstance, he threw back the top half of the burlap bag, exposing the body within.
He looked down in awe at the sheer size of the creature. The wolf measured nearly six feet long, even with the slight curvature of its body caused by rigor mortis. The specimen’s body was covered by coarse, white fur, the same color as the snow falling over the city. The only break in its otherwise pure white body was a dark brown stain just behind its front leg. Pushing the fur aside, Simon could see a smooth bullet hole from where it had been shot.
“The creature has the appearance of a common winter wolf,” Simon said as Luthor quickly transcribed onto a notebook, “albeit unnaturally large. I measure it at approximately six feet in length, not including the tail. My estimation is that it stood nearly four feet in height while walking on all four paws.”
He moved around to the head of the wolf and pulled open its mouth. Both sets of canines were missing. Bloodied stumps marked the places where the teeth once sat imbedded in the jawbone.
“Canines have been removed by—” He looked toward the doctor for an answer.
“The canines were already gone by the time he arrived for my examination. They’re prized by local hunters, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were torn out right after the kill.”
Simon nodded, assuming as much. The tongue was missing as well, though he could see the clean surgical incision where it had been cut from the mouth. He ran his hands over the wolf’s cheek until he reached the eyes. As he presumed, the eyelids were stitched shut.
He stepped away from the table and turned toward the pair of wooden crates filled with jars. He lifted a couple from their resting places in the hay and examined their content. The creature’s organs floated in a blue concoction. Simon noted the liver and stomach before putting the jars back down. He sorted through a few more jars before he found the eyeballs. Despite the blue of the liquid, the pupils still shone a bright sky blue.
“Previous autopsy of the creature has resulted in the removal of the internal organs. Luthor, please note that the creature had blue eyes, consistent with the anatomy of a winter wolf. The internal organs all appear to be in good condition, preserved as they’ve been in a solution of formaldehyde, but removal from the body makes it impossible to discern their original placement or the true internal anatomy of the creature.”
The doctor raised his hand to speak, and Simon nodded to him. “I have extensive notes and diagrams of the autopsy. I can provide those for your review, which should provide you all the information you need about from where the organs were removed.”
“That would be most beneficial. Luthor will coordinate with you following my examination.”
Simon sorted through the rest of the jars, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. “Luthor, please continue transcribing. The organs are consistent, again, with those of a winter wolf, though slightly enlarged to match the increased girth of the creature itself.”
“As you’ll see from my diagrams,” Parrish said, “the organ placement within the werewolf when standing on its hind legs is actually more consistent with a human than a wolf.”
Simon frowned at the interruption. “I’ve found nothing so far to allude to this being anything more than a wolf, but my autopsy is not yet completed.”
“If I may,” the doctor said, “I think you’re being a little dismissive. I think this is far more than a simple winter wolf.”
“You may not,” Simon replied harshly.
“Please at least check the opposable thumbs on the forelegs,” Doctor Parrish added.
Simon shot the man a stern look, and the doctor shrunk from his gaze. Dejected, the doctor leaned back against the far counter.
The Inquisitor approached the table again and pulled the front leg toward him. It ended in a padded foot, though he immediately noted the longer than normal fingers on the end of the paw. He stretched the fingers from side to side, noting their flexibility. Despite the fur and the claws protruding from the tips of the fingers, even he had to admit that they were remarkable human-like.
Simon turned the paw upward and immediately saw the thumb protruding from underneath. He reached up and grasped the thumb, tugging firmly to see if it was actually attached. When he received resistance, he ran his fingers along the digit, feeling the joint bone where the thumb connected to the creature’s wrist. He expected to find stitching where it had been sewn in place, but the connection seemed complete. For argument’s sake, he ran his hand further up the creature’s front arm, checking for any stitching where a taxidermist might have worked to create the monster of legend. Finding none, he frowned slightly.
He knew he should have been ecstatic at the idea that he had found a true werewolf, but his training wouldn’t allow him to grow too overwhelmed. A clinical mind, not an emotional one, was needed during his investigation.
“What do you think, Simon?” Luthor asked as his pencil hovered over the page. The Inquisitor had been surprisingly quiet for the past few minutes, leaving the apothecary little to write in the journal.
“Is it a werewolf?” Parrish asked.
Simon turned and approached the jars once more. He pulled one of them at random from the crate, removed its lid, and sniffed. He immediately recoiled and replaced the lid.
He turned toward the doctor. “Your work was sloppy. Removing the organs and keeping them in this concentration of formaldehyde ruins any possibility of me conducting a further examination. Furthermore, the specimen should have been preserved so a proper autopsy could have been conducted by an Inquisitor, rather than by a local physician. Now leave us. We have Inquisitor business to discuss in private.”
The doctor looked crestfallen as he exited the room. Simon looked up to catch Luthor’s disapproving stare.
“What?”
Luthor shook his head. “You were far too hard on that man. He was only looking for your approval of his work.”
Simon huffed. “He bungled his examination and left little for us to work with. Anyway, he’s a doctor. He shouldn’t require my approval of his work to feel validated.”
“You’re a Royal Inquisitor, Simon. Your words carry weight.”
Simon pointed toward the werewolf in an attempt to assuage his guilt. Luthor was right; the man was only looking for Simon’s validation of his work. Despite his harsh reply, he had been impressed with the doctor’s abilities during the autopsy. The lines were clean and despite the overuse of the preserving agent, the organs all seemed to be in good condition.
“Do you think it’s real?” Luthor asked, knowing he wouldn’t get much more of a worthwhile discussion out of his partner. “Or do you think that this is merely a large winter wolf?”
Simon lifted the front leg and held up the paw so Luthor could see the opposable thumb jutting from its wrist. “I’ve checked underneath the fur. I’ve felt under the skin for any internal stitches. I’ve found nothing. If this was the work of a taxidermist in an attempt to fool us, then I owe the taxidermist a drink. Thi
s work is exquisite and the best I’ve ever seen.”
“The alternative is that this isn’t a hoax. I think it’s time we admit that as a possibility.”
Simon cringed at the thought. Despite wanting to find monsters on his missions, the report had stated that dozens of these creatures had been attacking Gideon’s businesses. If that were true, it wasn’t merely a single monster that slipped across their border from the south. This was an infestation.
“I’m not ready to say that this is a werewolf. I reserve that decision until after we talk to Mr. Dosett’s naysayers. There were plenty of people who believed this whole thing to be an elaborate farce. I have to assume Gideon was willing to present this corpse as evidence, and they still said he was wrong. Let’s talk to them in the morning, and then I’ll decide whether or not we notify the crown.”
As they exited the examination room, Luthor bid Simon a good night before turning toward one of the back stairwells. He glanced up the stairs to make sure none of the servants were nearby, and then peered around the corner to ensure the hallway beyond was empty as well.
He absently scratched at his arm beneath his sleeve, much like he had done at dinner. Undoing his cufflinks, he pulled back his sleeve to expose the redness beneath.
In the center of his forearm, a puckered rune was carved into his skin. The flesh around it was enflamed and angry. He scratched at it again and frowned.
Looking around once more to ensure he was alone, he pulled down his sleeve and hooked his cufflinks. With a slightly nervous huff, he hurried up the stairs toward his bedroom.
Simon collected his things and put on his coat. He found Luthor waiting in the hall. The diminutive man had already retrieved his cane from among his belongings and now used it as they walked along. Though the cane didn’t serve any medical purpose, Luthor used it in the past with some success as a defensive weapon.
“Do you think Misters Tambor and Orrick will provide some contrary evidence to the werewolf you just examined?” Luthor asked as they reached the top of the staircase.
Simon brushed off a piece of lint from his top hat. “On the contrary, I expect they’ll provide me little I could not discern with my own two eyes.”
“Then why visit them at all? If you’re convinced that the creature we examined is not an elaborate jest, then wouldn’t our time be better spent figuring out ways to destroy their… pack? It’s the right word for a group of wolves, but does the same terminology extend to werewolves?”
Simon smiled. “I believe we’re in new territory, Luthor. You have the distinct privilege of defining the vernacular.”
Luthor grinned broadly. “Pack will suffice, unless I decide to invent a term more fitting. You still didn’t answer my question, though. If you believe that what we saw could be a werewolf and you don’t think the Union and Guild representatives will convince you otherwise, why are we paying them a visit?”
Simon glanced around as they reached the bottom of the stairs and entered the foyer. He couldn’t see anyone around, but he still remained silent until they walked outside.
“Something about this isn’t sitting well with me,” he said when he was sure they were out of earshot. “I should have already notified the crown and sent in a preliminary report. If I thought there was a chance that an entire pack—to borrow your term—of werewolves existed in the region, I should be sending for a company of royal guardsmen. Yet, I find myself hesitating. I keep asking myself how so many creatures could have arrived on our shore without anyone noticing. If they did somehow circumvent our defenses, then what purpose are they serving? The oil production from Mr. Dosett’s refineries can’t be of such great impact outside our borders to warrant its destruction. I can’t put my finger on it, but something about this situation seems slightly off kilter. Sorry my response is so vague, but I have little to go on other than my intuition.”
“Your intuition hasn’t yet served you wrong,” Luthor replied as he used his free hand to pull his collar closed against the midday chill. “Let’s hope that these gentlemen will be able to shine further light on the mystery.”
They walked through the wrought-iron gates of the gubernatorial estate and into the city proper. Simon took a deep breath and enjoyed the cool air on his face. His concerns about the werewolves—potential werewolves, he corrected himself—weighed heavily on his mind. It was an exhausting business without being coupled with the politics of the mansion. He was glad to be away from the aristocracy and walking along the rough cobblestone streets.
Despite the temperature remaining well below freezing, it was relatively warm for the area. People were out on the regular streets as opposed to traveling through the shored tunnels underground. Simon wore no badges that marked him as a Royal Inquisitor, but people bowed respectfully as they passed. It seemed that rumors spread rapidly, especially in a small city like Haversham.
Luthor’s cane clicked on the stone with every other step, sounding a cadence for their silent walk. Though Simon enjoyed the apothecary’s company, he was only able to review the facts of the investigation when left to his own devices.
He wanted to believe the facts lay out before him but struggled to accept that werewolves were roaming the countryside. For the past twelve years, the king had done a remarkable job of keeping the spreading magic at bay, going so far as hiring the enigmatic Order of Kinder Pel to found the original Inquisitors.
Though the Order existed before the forming of the Rift, they had focused all their energies toward destroying the denizens of the world of magic, wherever they appeared. They seemed a perfect fit for what the king was proposing, though their fanaticism alienated many of the early supporters of the Inquisitors. Ten years later, few of the current Royal Inquisitors were still a part of the Order. Simon had been offered an apprentice position following his training, but he didn’t care for the fact that everything they did was so cloaked in secrecy. Even the initiation ritual was an intensely guarded secret. In the end, Simon had passed on their offer, choosing instead to go directly into his partnership with Luthor.
With the Order operating throughout the kingdom, albeit behind the scenes in many cases, Simon had trouble believing that Rift creatures could have established such a foothold on the northern continent.
Simon and Luthor walked through an open square. A dry fountain sat in the middle of the area. A carved marble horse decorated the top of the fountain with its mouth open to spew water high into the air. He wondered if it ever got warm enough to enjoy a running fountain or if it had merely been installed for the sense of opulence.
The square was equally deserted of anything of note, other than a few couples walking through as a shortcut to their final destinations. Simon assumed this was normally a marketplace, though, again, he wondered if it was ever warm enough to justify standing at a booth for hours at a time.
“There’s the tavern,” Luthor said, pointing with his cane toward a painted, wooden sign dangling from an awning.
As they opened the door, a bell jingled into the mostly empty tavern. A few patrons looked up from their pints. Their glasses hung halfway to their mouth when they recognized the strangers.
“Our reputation precedes us,” Luthor said.
“Apparently, they don’t get many visitors in Haversham,” Simon replied, “not that I necessary blame people. This wouldn’t be my first choice of a place in which to build a summer home.”
Luthor laughed softly but stopped when he saw two gentlemen stand from one of the back tables. The pair of strangers smiled broadly at the Inquisitor as they approached, and Simon quickly surmised they were the two men they had come to meet.
“Inquisitor Whitlock, I presume,” said the stockier of the two men from beneath his bushy moustache. “I feel honored that you’ve taken time out of your busy investigation to speak with us.”
Simon shook the man’s hand, admiring the calluses and his firm grip. “Think nothing of it. You would be Mr. Tambor, I presume.”
Tambor’s eyes widened in
surprise. “How did you know?”
“The placement of the calluses on your hand, being more toward the palm at the base of the fingers, lends itself more to a man familiar with the swing of a pick axe and, therefore, the head of the Miner’s Guild. Had your calluses been more along the fingertips, I would have placed your profession as one of artistry, including a skill set that involved a more refined work. Had that been the case, I would have immediately known that I was speaking instead to Mr. Orrick.”
He turned toward the other man, who rubbed his handlebar moustache with delight. “Mr. Orrick, to whom I now have the pleasure of addressing.”
Tambor laughed heartily, his belly shaking with delight. “Remarkable. Simply remarkable. The reputation of the Royal Inquisitors is well earned, I’ll grant you that. Please, come join us for a meal or, at the very least, a drink.”
“We’d be delighted to join you.”
Orrick tugged at his lapel as he fell in step beside Luthor. “Am I to understand that you are not an Inquisitor?”
Luthor looked up at the tall, thin man and shook his head. “I’m a pharmacist by trade. It is by pure happenstance that I have come to accompany Simon.”
They took seats around the table. The waitress brought over a round of pints, the tops of which held a thick layer of foam. Simon watched a few bubbles rise slowly through the thick, dark stout before picking up his glass and taking a drink. The beer was bitter but quickly warmed his insides as it settled on his stomach.
Simon licked the flecks of foam that clung to his lip and smiled appreciatively to the two suited gentlemen. “This certainly hits the spot on a cold day like this.”
Tambor chuckled. “They’re all cold days around here. A good stout or a hot toddy is always on the menu.”
Simon sat his hat down on the table in front of him and ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back away from his forehead. “If I may, I’d like to discuss what brings my associate and me here today.”
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 4