Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (19 page)

Luthor clutched the Inquisitor’s lapel, pulling him in close enough that Simon could hear his harsh whisper. “Don’t trust him. There is far more to Mr. Dosett than meets the eye.”

Simon gently removed Luthor’s hand from his jacket and smiled reassuringly. He spoke loudly enough that Gideon could hear his response. “This won’t take much longer, I promise. I’ll check on you once this nasty business is concluded. There are just a few more things I’d like to discuss with Mr. Dosett.”

Luthor looked over his friend’s shoulder as he backed slowly out of the room. Gideon’s eyes never left the apothecary; they bored into him with an unholy intensity.

“I couldn’t agree more,” Gideon replied impishly. “I believe there are a few more things left to discuss, Inquisitor. Don’t worry, Mr. Strong, I’ll send him along to you shortly.”

Luthor hurried through the halls with his arm clutched to his chest as though it were broken. Another wave of pain rolled up through his shoulder and pierced his heart. His breath froze in his throat as he leaned heavily against the hallway wall until the pain subsided.

“Are you well, sir?” a servant asked from behind him.

Luthor angrily waved the man away before pushing off from the wall and continuing toward his room. The apothecary glanced over his shoulder to ensure the servant had disappeared from view before he risked pulling up the sleeve of his jacket.

Beneath the thick fabric, the warding rune on his arm burned a furious red. The puckered scaring looked new, as though it had recently been burned into his flesh, as opposed to the faded scar it normally appeared to be. Most disconcerting were the black tendrils that spread from the edges of the rune. They ran like dark veins, stretching away from the scar and spreading far enough up his arm that they disappeared beneath his jacket’s sleeve.

Luthor unbuttoned the top pair of buttons on his dress shirt and slipped his hand beneath the open collar. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin and knew the black threads stretched deep into the muscles of his neck and chest.

He coughed, and it sounded raspy and wet in his lungs. For a second, his vision swam as he tried to focus on the doorway to his room. Blinking furiously until his vision cleared, he staggered to his door. His fingers felt thick and numb as he attempted to retrieve his keys from his vest pocket. As his fingers finally closed around the wide metal, he pulled the key free and with fumbling and shaking hands managed to slip the key into its lock.

The interior of his room was blissfully cool compared to the stifling warmth in the hallway. He shoved his door closed carelessly, ignoring the thunderous sound it made as it slammed shut behind him.

Stripping away his suit jacket and vest, he tossed them onto the couch. He fumbled with the cufflinks on his shirt for some time before they finally slipped free. The dress shirt and undershirt came off equally as quickly as the suit and both were discarded with as much care.

Feeling slightly more himself in the magical coolness of his suite, Luthor walked to the washbasin set in front of the vanity across the room. Crystal clear water swirled in the stone basin, and Luthor gladly dipped his hands into the water before splashing it across his face. He allowed a handful of water to pour over the back of his neck and run down his back. He barely gave a second thought to the water as it soaked into the back of his pants.

Standing upright, he observed his reflection. As he surmised, the black tendrils stretched up his forearm, weaving an intricate pattern across his bicep and shoulder before settling in a latticework of webbing across his chest. Numerous black threads culminated above his heart, leaving a wide, dark stain on the skin of his chest.

The tendrils accentuated the dozens of other small runes and scars that laced his chest and torso. He knew an equal number marred his back, each with their own purpose, though many existed merely to keep him from ever growing ill. He frowned at his reflection, the boyish face standing in stark contrast to the battered body. Though he hated lying to Simon—and he had worked incredibly hard to always remain shirted when in the Inquisitor’s presence—he doubted Simon would fully understand his predicament.

Wordlessly, he walked into his bedroom and retrieved his doctor’s bag. The vials within clinked as he brought the bag into the sitting room and dropped it onto the vanity beside the basin. Opening it, Luthor drew forth a number of glass tubes with varying colors of liquid within. Some had labels written in clear handwriting. Some had words written in a language known by few others, chemicals and plant extracts from rare fauna found only on distant continents. Still others weren’t labeled at all, their opaque liquids clinging to the side of the glass as though straining toward the cork that kept them in place.

The apothecary selected a few of the vials and pulled free their stoppers. Pouring with little thought to exact measurements, he added a rainbow of chemicals to the basin’s water. The clear blue quickly grew cloudy and dark, first turning a muddy brown before swirling to an inky black. Bubbles rose to the surface of the water. As they popped, white smoke hissed out of the bowl, pouring over the surface of the vanity before drifting to the floor.

When the surface of the water finally settled and no more bubbles rose through the dark depths, Luthor pulled a long needle from his bag and pricked his index finger on the same arm as the rune. A large, abnormally dark droplet of blood formed on his finger, and he squeezed the skin until it dropped into the bowl with a foul hiss. The water immediately cleared, returning to its crystal blue. Not a trace of the dark liquid remained.

Luthor reached into the bowl and scooped a handful of the clear water. As he poured it onto his forearm, the black tendrils washed away as though they were nothing more than soot. He claimed a washcloth from the cabinet beside the vanity and dipped it into the water. Using the cloth, he scrubbed the rest of his arm and chest. With each wipe, huge swaths of black threads disappeared. The cloth grew dirty and each dip into the basin left the water slightly darker than it had been the time before.

Before long, his skin was renewed and looked as fresh as it had been before their encounter with Gideon Dosett.

Satisfied, Luthor toweled dry before collecting his dress shirt. He left the other articles of clothes on the couch as he buttoned his shirt closed and laid down the stiff collar.

He stormed into his bedroom and unceremoniously threw aside the rug that rested on the floor at the foot of his bed. The chalk outline of the pentagram was broken and streaked, but the general shape still remained intact.

A piece of chalk sat beneath the ottoman. He wrapped his fingers around it and pulled it from the shadowy recess. With quick strokes, Luthor redrew the pentagram on the wooden floor, fixing the smeared lines. With the symbol redrawn, he walked to the side of the bed and dropped to his knees. He reached under the bed until his fingers closed on a small suitcase. Pulling the leather case out, he unlatched its straps. The interior was full of candles and incenses. The wafting smell of herbs struck him immediately, and he quickly collected a handful of candles and a small box of matches before hastily closing it once more.

The five candles were placed at the corners of the pentagram and lit one by one. Their flickering light danced over him as he took his place in the open center of the star.

Luthor closed his eyes and stretched his arms out beside him. The air grew electrified as a hum echoed through the bedroom. The lines of chalk glowed with an inner light, illuminating the room in a faint blue glow. Pulses of energy raced along the ley lines of the chalk outline.

The hum in the room grew to a roaring crescendo before crashing into silence. Luthor stood unmoving a moment longer before he spoke.

“He’s here,” he said to the empty room. “I’ve seen him with my own eyes. What would you have me do?”

He tilted his head to the side as he listened to the response. Luthor slowly shook his head.

“Forgive me, but it is not nearly that simple,” he replied. “The demon has his claws in everything in Haversham. To separate the demon from the town would be virtually impossible at this time. He would march on me with an army of unwilling thralls.”

Luthor frowned as he listened again. His arms drifted to his side, and he placed then frustratingly on his hips.

“Absolutely not!” Luthor hissed. “You sound like the Order of Kinder Pel when you say things like that. You sent me to find the five. I have located the first. If you trusted me thus far, then trust me to complete the task at hand without further interference.”

He didn’t wait for the full reply before he spoke again. “The Cabal can do whatever it deems necessary, but it will do so without my blessing or support. I trust in the Inquisitors to help, even if they are ultimately unaware of their true mission and how it inadvertently coincides with our own. Inquisitor Whitlock has yet to disappoint me; he won’t do so now.”

Before he could say more, someone knocked softly at the door to his suite. Luthor raised his head sharply, though he couldn’t see the door from his place in the pentagram.

“Someone’s here,” he said to the empty room. “I must go. I will contact you again when I have had a chance to further study the demon. Until then, await my next communication.”

The apothecary kicked the edge of the pentagram, breaking the circle. The blue light immediately faded from the room. The dim light of the candles seemed unimpressive when compared to the magical ley lines that had been glowing moments before.

The person knocked again as Luthor bent down and began extinguishing the candles, one after another. He slid the candles beside the chalk beneath the dust ruffle on the bottom of the ottoman. The rug was tossed back over the emblem as the person impatiently knocked for the third time. Luthor looked down at the wrinkled throw rug and considered fixing it, but another knock drew him away.

He pulled the door shut behind him as he walked to the suite’s front door. Peering cautiously through the peephole, he saw Simon waiting stoically on the other side of the doorway.

With a smile of relief, Luthor unlocked the door. He hated leaving Simon alone with Gideon, but the pain in his arm had been exquisite. He had been unable to remain in the man’s presence any longer without passing out from the strain put on his body by the protective wards. Seeing Simon alive and well gave him hope.

Luthor opened the door and smiled broadly.

“Simon, I’m glad to see you,” he said curtly. “There is much that you and I need to discuss. Please come in.”

Simon stood unblinking. With a fluid motion, he pulled the silver-plated revolver from his hip and pointed it at the apothecary.

“Simon?” Luthor said in disbelief.

The Inquisitor tilted his head to the side as he squeezed the trigger.

Luthor struck Simon’s hand as the pistol fired. The bullet screamed past his ear before striking the mirror above the vanity. Mirrored glass crashed onto the table and shattered as it struck the hardwood floor beneath. The apothecary quickly grasped Simon’s hand before he could bring the revolver to bear once more.

The Inquisitor’s face was a blank slate, staring unblinking at Luthor with eyes that were dilated until his normal blue was consumed by the black of his pupil.

“Stop this,” Luthor hissed as he tried to hold back Simon’s hand. Simon tried his best to turn the barrel of the pistol toward the apothecary, despite Luthor’s pressure on his wrist. “This isn’t you, this is Gideon Dosett.”

Simon tilted his head to the side once more before raising his leg and kicking Luthor in the chest. Despite the close range, his heeled foot carried impressive weight, lifting Luthor from his feet. He slammed down onto the coffee table in the recessed sitting room, smashing through the sturdy wooden table.

He clutched his chest and coughed painfully as his back felt as though it were ablaze. He could feel ugly bruises spreading across his shoulder blades and ribs.

With his hand free of Luthor’s clutches, Simon raised the pistol again, pointing it at the prone apothecary. The Inquisitor pulled back the hammer on the back of the revolver as he took aim.

Despite the throb behind his eyes, Luthor quickly waved his hand and the air before him shimmered as though a pane of warped glass had divided the room. Simon, who stood impassively on the far side of the shimmering wall, looked distorted with features out of proportion to the rest of his body.

The report of the pistol firing was muffled through the mystical divider. Sparks flew as bullets struck the protective wall in rapid succession. The ricocheting rounds struck the walls to either side of the doorway, splintering the plaster in puffs of white, chalky smoke.

Simon pulled the trigger until the hammer fell to a dry click on an empty cylinder. He turned the weapon to the side and stared at it inquisitively, as though struggling to comprehend why the weapon would fail to fire. Without any emotion on his face, he tossed his beloved revolver aside, letting it clatter and slide to the bedroom door.

He marched forward, as Luthor struggled to stand. The Inquisitor’s body struck the shimmering barrier, barely slowing as he passed through its glassy exterior. Luthor frowned at the sight. He hadn’t the time to create a proper barrier, one that would have kept Simon at bay for longer. Instead, he had hastily erected one that would stop projectiles. Simon’s physical form, however, passed through with minimal resistance.

Luthor stepped backward, stumbling through the wreckage of the former coffee table.

“Fight it, Simon,” Luthor begged. “Gideon has you ensorcelled. You’re an Inquisitor, for God’s sake! Show them that your will is stronger than a man’s hypnotic magic.”

Simon didn’t appear to hear Luthor’s plea. Once through the near side of the barrier, he strode toward the apothecary. Luthor struck his hands as Simon reached out to him, but to no avail. Possessed as he was, Simon was far stronger than the much shorter man was.

The Inquisitor’s hands closed over Luthor’s neck, squeezing tightly and closing most of Luthor’s windpipe. The pressure was exquisite, and he could feel Simon’s fingers biting into the sides of his neck. A trickle of air seeped between the Inquisitor’s fingers and Luthor’s lungs began to scream for more, unsatisfied with the minimalistic oxygen they received.

Simon squeezed harder, and speckles of light danced in Luthor’s vision. The diminutive man stared at his friend and felt wildly unnerved by the expression on his face, one completely devoid of his previous humanity. His intricate mind had been reduced to a machine, following a single command, much to Luthor’s chagrin. He doubted appealing to the man’s humanity would have any chance of success.

Despite his growing lack of oxygen and the drumming of his pulse that seemed to be growing exponentially in his ears, Luthor closed his eyes and focused his breadth of magic within him. The palm of his hand began to radiate its own unnatural light. He raised his hand until the palm was even with Simon’s chest.

“Forgive me, sir,” he croaked through his practically closed throat.

He placed his palm against Simon’s chest, and the air between them was filled with blue sparks. The Inquisitor’s hands immediately left Luthor’s throat as the man was rocketed backward. He was propelled only a few feet before striking the invisible barrier. Simon’s body, now flying like a projectile, was denied access through the wall. Instead, yellow sparks were added to the previous blue and the air was filled with an acrid smell of burnt hair and clothing.

Simon ricocheted from the barrier and crashed unapologetically into the couch, tumbling with the furniture as it turned over. He rolled along the floor, his momentum carrying him forward, before coming to a rest near Luthor’s bedroom door.

Luthor rubbed his throat and coughed hoarsely. Though the hands were gone, he could feel the heat and feel the minor indentations where Simon’s fingers had pressed against his soft skin.

The apothecary cringed as he saw smoke rise from the back of his mentor. He hurried around the fallen furniture and crouched at his side, pressing a finger to Simon’s carotid artery, checking for a pulse. He sighed with relief as he felt the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Licking his fingers, Luthor pinched a strand of smoldering hair, extinguishing the nubile flame.

For a moment, Luthor merely crouched above his friend and watched his body rise and fall with each labored breath. He doubted very much that lying on the floor was in any way comfortable, even for a man who had so recently tried to murder him. The apothecary glanced around and realized the entire main room of the suite was in shambles. The vanity mirror was shattered. Bullet holes marred the plaster walls near the doorway. The couch and Luthor’s articles of clothing that had been draped across it were upended. The doorway to the room itself was still wide open. Luthor quickly rushed to the door and glanced out into the hallway.

At the end of their hall, the butler stood hesitantly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as he stared nervously. At the sight of Luthor, the man relaxed considerably and smiled. He approached Luthor’s open doorway, but the apothecary raised his hand to keep him at bay.

“Is everything all right, sir?” the butler asked as he stopped in the middle of the long hallway.

“Of course,” Luthor lied. “There’s nothing going on that should alarm you.”

“Sir, begging your pardon, but we heard gunshots.”

Luthor bit his lip as he stared at the butler and the menagerie of other servants gathered at the mouth of the hallway. “You are absolutely correct, of course, though it’s all a great misunderstanding. Inquisitor Whitlock merely dropped his firearm, and it discharged. It’s an older weapon, sadly, and it carries a sensitive trigger.”

The butler looked thoroughly unconvinced, but he nodded all the same. “I shall send someone at once to clean up your room and repair any damages.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Luthor said hastily. As the butler frowned and furrowed his brow, Luthor quickly added, “Not today, at least. I believe the Royal Inquisitor could use some rest after the start he suffered during the accidental discharge. Tomorrow would be optimal to send someone by, say at ten in the morning?”

The butler bowed slightly at the waist. “Very good, sir. I shall have someone come by promptly at that time.”

“Very good,” Luthor echoed.

As the butler turned away with one final cautious look over his shoulder, Luthor quickly closed the door and turned back to the devastation. He sighed heavily as his eyes fell on Simon’s still unconscious form, knowing he would have to deal with his mentor sooner rather than later.

Luthor sat on the edge of the couch, which he had painstakingly righted, and placed a damp rag on Simon’s forehead. The Inquisitor stirred slightly and his eyes flickered beneath closed eyelids, but he remained unconscious. Luthor left the damp cloth where it was and walked to the vanity, where his doctor’s bag rested. He stepped gingerly through the shards of broken glass, pushing many of them out of the way with the toes of his dress shoes.

The bag was still open from where he had treated his own infection earlier. A few shards of mirror jutted from the depths of the bag, and he removed these carefully. A quick inspection ensured none of the vials had been broken during the fight, nor had any become uncorked during the room’s upheaval.

An empty glass sat on the side of the washbasin. Luthor blew out a few small slivers of mirror and wiped out the interior of the tumbler with one of the few remaining clean washcloths. With the glass sufficiently cleaned, Luthor set it on the counter and began withdrawing tubes of liquids from his bag.

The stopper was removed on the familiar extract of poppy, and a thin layer of the yellowed liquid was poured into the bottom of the glass. He pulled a small paper envelope from the side of his bag and unfolded a corner. With a tap of his finger, a small amount of white granules dropped into the glass and began to immediately dissolve. A larger beaker filled nearly to the brim with distilled water was removed from the corner of the deceptively small bag. Luthor poured a couple finger’s worth of water into the glass. The white powder vanished in the water, and the coloring took on only the faintest of yellows from the poppy extract.

Luthor glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see Simon still asleep. He doubted Gideon’s control over the Inquisitor would be so easily broken as by physical violence. In fact, he was rather certain that physical violence was exactly the trigger that drove Simon forward in his attempt to murder Luthor.

Turning his attention back to the doctor’s bag, he slipped his hand into a hidden compartment along the side of the bag. He pulled out a cloth drawstring bag. As he untied the cord holding it closed, the aroma of earthy rot assaulted his senses, mixed with the faint underpinning of an overbearing sweetness. He withdrew a few twigs of an unidentifiable plant and dropped them into the glass.

The water hissed as the blade-like leaves struck the surface of the fluid. The plants ignited, glowing a vibrant blue as the flora charred and quickly dissolved. The water turned a deep blood red before the dark color swirled away, leaving behind a brown liquid.

Luthor leaned over the glass and breathed in its scent. The smell of pungent scotch filled his nostrils, and he smiled appreciatively. Luthor retrieved the glass from the table and walked back to Simon.

He sat on the edge of the couch near Simon’s hip. Leaning forward, he slipped his free hand beneath his head and raised the man to a seated position. The Inquisitor’s lips were faintly parted in his slumber, and Luthor wasted no time pouring a modicum of the false scotch into Simon’s mouth.

The Inquisitor sputtered as the alcohol struck the back of his throat. His eyes opened in surprise and his hands flew to his mouth as he coughed painfully. Spittle flew from his lips, and he indignantly wiped the strands of mucus from his mouth with the back of his sleeve.

Simon’s eyes were full of confusion and anguish, a far cry from the automaton that had assaulted Luthor minutes earlier.

“Did you just pour scotch down my throat as I slept?” Simon managed between rough coughs.

“Forgive me, sir, but it was a necessary evil,” Luthor replied calmly. He observed his friend but didn’t see the murderous intent reflected in his actions.

“A necessary evil?” Simon echoed. His eyes scanned the room, adding to his burgeoning disorientation. “Where am I, Luthor? Is this your room?”

Luthor stood from his spot on the edge of the couch, allowing Simon to remove his feet from the couch and sit properly on the cushioned furniture. Simon grasped the sides of his head as soon as he sat upright in an attempt to suppress the piercing ache behind both eyes.

“It is,” Luthor said. He furrowed his brow in concern. “Can you look up for me, sir?”

Still attempting to brush away the cobwebs that so thoroughly coated his every thought, Simon blindly obeyed. Luthor noted the series of bright red blood vessels enveloping the sclera of both eyes.

“Dear Lord,” Simon muttered as he lowered his gaze once more. “What happened to your room?”

Luthor knelt in front of his mentor so that he might look into Simon’s eyes. “Sir, do you genuinely have no recollection of this very night’s events?”