THE GOLEM OF SOLOMON’S WAY
A Magic & Machinery Novel
Book #3
THIS book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
NO part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
The Golem of Solomon's Way
Copyright ©2015 Jon Messenger
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63422-168-9
Cover Design by: Mae I Designs
Typography by: Courtney Nuckels
Editing by: Cynthia Shepp
~Smashwords Edition~
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
“It is much easier to be a hero than a gentleman.”
-Luigi Pirandello
Abigail Traunt walked down the cobblestone street, her heeled shoes clicking incessantly on the damp stones. The streets were mainly empty, most of the civilized world having already gone to sleep long before such an obscene hour. For a woman like Abigail, however, the night was her life and, though she loathed to admit it to anyone with whom she held a personal relationship, her livelihood as well.
The electric street lamps glowed overhead, their light pulsing and waning with the unsteady flow of electricity. The unsteady pools cast dark shadows between them, though the darkness hardly bothered her. She pulled her fur-lined coat tighter around her, blocking out the night’s chill and the breeze blowing off the river nearby.
As a surprisingly strong gust of wind blew down the street, carrying with it crumpled bits of discarded paper and the strong smell of offal, Abigail ducked into a recessed storefront and waited for the wind to die.
She flexed her hand as she reached into the inner pocket of her jacket and removed a metal cigarette tin. With a practiced flick of her wrist, she opened it, revealing the neatly packed row of hand-rolled cigarettes within. She forewent the long, black holder resting at the end of the open case and retrieved a cigarette, holding it between yellow-stained fingers. Reaching back within her coat, she found the matches. With a gentle shake, she heard the rattle of the half-filled matchbox.
The red-tipped match ignited as she struck it against the coarse exterior. The flare from the tip illuminated her soft features. Her narrow face was framed with blonde curls, meticulously held in place by a small army of bobby pins. A similar collection of clips held her wide-brimmed hat in place, slightly askew on her head. The match glowed only for a second before she pressed it against the cigarette and drew in a deep breath, stealing the flame even as it lit the dry tobacco.
The wind died down as quickly as it had come, a brief gust carried downstream even as it passed through the heart of Callifax. She took a second draw from the cigarette before stepping out of the alcove and continuing down the street.
The cobblestones quickly gave way to large concrete pavers, marking the beginning of Unushire Bridge, her last physical obstacle between the end of her shift and her mediocre flat in Solomon’s Way, on the far side of the river.
Abigail wrinkled her nose at the pungent aroma coming from the waterfront. Refuse gathered in the eddied current along the river, gathering in engorged flotillas beneath the bridge’s pylons. The smell of rotted food and human excrement turned her stomach, but it was a smell to which she had grown far too accustomed. Glancing over her shoulder, she could see the brilliant glow from atop the aptly named Castle Hill. The crown and its politicians would never know the squalor into which the rest of the city had fallen. Their lives were far too opulent to concern themselves over the well-being of a woman of the night like Abigail. People of her station had little choice but to grow to endure the open sewer that was their part of the capital.
Electric lights glowed evenly along the bridge, illuminating her path. The far side of the river was hidden behind the steep rise of the bridge, which rose high enough to allow barges to pass underneath. Her legs, already exhausted from a long night’s work, ached as she climbed the steep incline. She took another drag from her cigarette before discarding the rest, rolling the cigarette between her fingers and letting the packed tobacco tumble onto the sidewalk beside her. She doubted anyone would notice the added trash to an already filthy town.
As she reached the apex of the bridge, she could see Solomon’s Way laid out before her. The narrowly packed apartment buildings clung to one another as though for support. Ropes and cords stretched between open windows, spanning across the street like the canopy of a forest. Clothes were pinned to them, wafting back and forth in the night breeze, growing both dry and cold simultaneously. She smiled to herself, her painted lips parting to reveal straight but slightly yellowed teeth. It wasn’t much to look at, but Solomon’s Way was home.
Her bemused reverie was interrupted by the sound of footsteps behind her. She quickly glanced over her shoulder, surprised that anyone else would be about at such an hour. A man walked a methodical pace toward the bridge, approaching from the same direction from which she had just come. A hat was worn low over his brow, concealing his features from view even as he took his first step onto the bridge.
Abigail shivered against the cold and turned away from the man. Reaching into her jacket once more, her fingers closed over the snub-nosed pistol within. It had only a single shot, but it was often enough to deter an attacker. Encountering strange men in the dead of night was more or less a hazard of her occupation, but she was far from stupid. It was wiser to be safe and apologize than to be dead.
She hurried toward the far side of the river, her heeled boots clicking louder as she began descending the steep slope. Glancing briefly over her shoulder again, she saw the man crest the hill, approaching her far quicker than she was retreating. His pace was still measured and deliberate, but his long strides covered far more ground with each step. Her hand clenched on the pistol concealed within her jacket.
His footfalls echoed louder as he, too, began the more expedited descent down the far side of the bridge. She looked again as the man raised his head, his strong features and bright red hair illuminated by the nearest street lamp. As their eyes met, his widened in surprise. He reached out t
oward her, his actions striking her more as a warning than a threat.
As she turned back toward her home, she found herself facing a disfigured creature standing no more than two paces away. A hood was pulled over his head, but wispy, black hair still escaped its confines. A hooked nose, set just below of pair of bloodshot red eyes, protruded from the monster’s face. Its lips were pulled back in a mixture of a smile and sneer. Most alarming was the creature’s green skin, which glowed sickly beneath the streetlamps.
Abigail opened her mouth to yell, her grasp on the pistol temporarily forgotten in her surprise. Before a sound could escape her lips, the green-skinned creature raised a hand to its mouth and exhaled. A cloud of acrid air floated over her and, as she drew in a breath to yell her surprise, the fumes were pulled into her lungs. Her scream quickly became a choke as she doubled over in anguish. Her body screamed for oxygen, but every breath seemed to reignite the smoke within her lungs.
As her chest burned and her muscles tightened, her vision began to swim. She couldn’t quite feel her fingers anymore, nor would her arms move even as she willed them to rise. She knew she should run, but she couldn’t find the strength.
Her knees buckled and she slumped to the ground, first sitting on her heels before canting to her right and crashing to the stone bridge. As darkness crept into the corners of her vision, she saw the monster stoop over her. It roughly grasped her hands, pulling them over her head as it began to drag her away. Though her mind screamed in protest, her body slumped willingly even as her consciousness fled.
The green-skinned creature barely looked at its prey as it quickly pulled her toward the bridge’s railing. The water sloshed below against one of the pylons and the discarded garbage that had collected in the tide. It placed a bare foot against the top of the stone railing as it sought purchase with which to pull his latest prey over the edge.
“Get away from her!” the man yelled from the bridge’s pinnacle as he watched the scene unfold.
The creature glanced up at the unexpected witness and hissed, giving the man pause even as he started to rush toward the assault. It glanced down nervously toward the blonde woman before returning its gaze to the tall man. As though sensing its indecision, the man rushed forward once more, his bravery reignited.
With a disapproving snarl, the monster released Abigail’s arms before leaping over the side of the bridge.
By the time the man arrived at her side and peered over the stone railing, there was no sign of the monster. The water was no more disturbed than it was before his arrival, nor did he recall hearing the telltale splash of the monster striking the water’s surface. The green-skinned creature had vanished.
“Remind me again why a Royal Inquisitor has been assigned to this case,” Simon Whitlock said as they reached the foot of the bridge.
He tilted his top hat forward slightly, blocking the glare of the sun reflecting off the river. The day was quickly becoming warm as the sun reached its peak, and he could feel the first droplets of sweat forming underneath his suit. Absently, Simon ran a hand across his thin moustache, smoothing it down as he and his entourage approached the busy scene.
Luthor Strong opened a notebook and read his nearly illegible scrawl, a series of chicken-scratch markings and shorthand notes from their meeting with the Grand Inquisitor.
“Inquisitors, plural,” the apothecary corrected, gesturing toward Thaddeus Poole and the three other Inquisitors following behind them. The dark-skinned Inquisitor nodded at his attention. Luthor adjusted his wire-framed glasses as he continued. “There were reports of a monster attack, sir. An eyewitness claims it was…” He cleared his throat and looked up from his notes. “He claims it was a troll living beneath the bridge.”
Simon frowned. “I’m assuming the creature was fresh out of billy goats to harass?”
“Do try to take this assignment seriously, sir,” Luthor pleaded. “You did volunteer for it, after all, against my better judgment. You should still be resting after your ordeal in Whitten Hall.”
“It’s been nearly a month,” Simon replied flatly. “I need work to keep my mind sharp.”
Wooden barricades ahead had cordoned off the area. Constables stood impassively near the barriers, their dark uniforms and tall, rounded hats unmistakable even from a distance. A few detectives milled about within the area, but none disturbed the crime scene near the bridge’s stone railing.
Simon approached the nearest constable, who stepped impolitely in his way.
“Be off with you,” the constable demanded. “Can’t you see a crime has been committed?”
“Indeed I can,” Simon said, “which is why nearly a half-dozen Royal Inquisitors stand before you, feeling cantankerous and rather put out. So if you could please stand aside, it would be greatly appreciated.”
The constable looked him over before his gaze drifted to the other Inquisitors. “You don’t look like Inquisitors.”
Simon sighed and turned toward the apothecary. “How many times have I told you that we need badges? No one ever seems to know who we are.”
“That’ll be all, Constable,” one of the detectives said as he approached the standoff. “Forgive the zealousness of our constabulary. Their hard work within the walls of Callifax is so often overshadowed by your organization’s work beyond our borders.”
Simon extended his hand. “Royal Inquisitor Simon Whitlock. We’ve been told there was a supernatural attack last night.”
The detective shook his hand. “Detective Sugden. Charles Sugden, at your service, gentlemen. Indeed, there was an attack of sorts, though to be honest, it’s a bit out of our realm of expertise, which is why I had your order contacted.”
“Describe to me, in great detail, the events of last night.”
The detective retrieved a notebook from within his jacket pocket and opened it to a marked page. “A Miss Abigail Traunt, aged twenty-three, was returning home from a—” He flipped closed his notebook and looked up apologetically. “Forgive me, sir, but does her occupation matter? It seems a bit embarrassing for the lady for me to continue.”
Simon arched an eyebrow. “Detective Sugden, I can guarantee you will not offend my delicate sensibilities by continuing. However, it’s a wasted effort. I’ve already gleaned what I need from your report. A young woman, attractive, I would imagine, returning home at an ungodly hour to Solomon’s Way? She’s clearly a prostitute.”
The detective flushed but concealed a smile behind his hand. “Of course, sir. Are you intimately familiar with Solomon’s Way, then? Every man has a vice, even a Royal Inquisitor, I would imagine.”
Simon narrowed his gaze dangerously. “My fiancée happens to reside in Solomon’s Way, though I would warn you not to draw too many conclusions about a residence and an occupation. I have many vices, but if you’re asking if I partake in ladies of the night, then my answer is a resounding no.”
“Forgive me, sir,” Sugden said, coughing in his awkwardness. “I meant no offense.”
“Yes, you did, Detective, I just didn’t happen to take any. Now please, do continue with the report.”
Detective Sugden was glad to return to the notebook. He opened back to his marked page and continued reading. “Miss Traunt was returning home at approximately four in the morning when she was assaulted by a green-skinned creature that appeared as though by magic before her. She remembers little after his appearance, other than her limbs went numb immediately before she lost consciousness. A passerby, a doctor, witnessed the attack and interceded before the… shall I call it a troll, sir?”
“It seems a fitting description until I can prove otherwise,” Simon replied.
“The troll, then, was scared away, where it leapt over the side of the bridge to a most certain death.”
“That is a presumption, Detective, and one that I will most certainly disprove. If you please, my men will now examine the crime scene.”
“Of course, sir.”
Simon glanced over his shoulder, to where the other
Inquisitors waited patiently. He motioned toward the bridge. “Take the others and search the scene, if you please, Mister Poole. Report anything out of the ordinary to either myself or Mister Strong.”
The dark-skinned Inquisitor nodded before leading the rest past Detective Sugden. They immediately set to work, examining the stonework for footprints as well as any physical evidence left behind. Simon, Luthor, and the detective watched them work for a few quiet moments.
“You’re lucky to have such a group of professionals at your disposal,” the detective remarked.
Simon shrugged. “Under normal circumstances, you’d be lucky to have even a single Inquisitor respond to your request. It just so happened that there were a number of us within the Grand Hall when your request arrived. With the accusation of a supernatural being within Callifax itself, everyone was more than overjoyed to help.”
“Do you think it could possibly be a troll, sir?”
“Everything’s possible until it’s been proven impossible.”
The detective chewed on his lower lip before turning toward the Inquisitor and apothecary. “Forgive me if this sounds abnormally callous, but there’s a part of me that truly hopes this is a troll, or at least some other beast from the Rift.”
Luthor furrowed his brow. “That does sound callous. Why would you want this to be a creature of magic?”
Detective Sugden removed his hat and ran the back of his sleeve across his brow. “Ever since the Rift was discovered, crime within the capital has been on the rise. A decade ago, the worst the constabulary had to worry itself with was petty theft and spots of vandalism. Now, the city is full of murderers, arsonists, and downright evil men. Perhaps it’s a side effect of magic seeping into our world, but I’m tired of fighting against men. I’d rather something horrible, like the attempted murder of a woman, be relegated to a crime of the supernatural.”
Simon watched the man’s face as he talked. “You seem personally affected by the increase in crime. You lost someone, didn’t you?”
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