Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (3 page)

“Very good, sir,” the butler replied.

Patrick returned to the two men who stood just inside the doorway with their shoes dripping melting snow onto the hardwood floor.

“The governor will see you for dinner promptly at seven,” he told them. “If you have any needs or wants, please let Mr. Archibald know. He and his staff are among the best you will find.”

“Thank you for your generosity,” Simon said.

With a bow, Patrick turned and disappeared into an adjoining room.

The butler introduced Simon and Luthor to the wait staff that would take them to their rooms. The footmen offered to carry their few remaining bags but Luthor adamantly refused, clinging tightly to his doctor’s case.

They were led up the stairwell and onto the second floor. The walls were flourished with flowered wallpaper. Simon could smell potpourri seeping from underneath the closed doors that they passed, adding to the illusion of springtime in the land of perpetual winter.

When they reached the end of the hall, Simon’s guide led him to the left while Luthor went to the right.

“See you at dinner then?” Simon asked as the footman unlocked and opened the door to his room.

“I’ll knock on your door shortly before seven, if that’s all right,” Luthor replied.

Simon nodded and the two men parted, entering their respective suites. As part of his station as an Inquisitor, Simon had grown accustomed to being housed in large rooms. The size of the suite in which he found himself took his breath away. The door opened onto a living room, beyond which double glass doors led to one of the many balconies around the building. His bedroom and washroom were separated, with doorways leading to each on his right.

“I hope everything is in acceptable order for you, sir,” the footman said.

“Everything is… remarkable.”

“Very good, sir. Is there anything else you require?”

Simon shook his head. He fetched a silver coin from his coat pocket and handed it to the man. The footman backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

Walking into the room, Simon glanced into the bedroom and was pleased to see his leather bag already resting on a chest at the foot of his bed. He walked past the leather couch and pulled open the double doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, he admired the view. The squat buildings of the city were sprawled before him, their rooftops glistening as the sunlight reflected off the snow. It was a magical view, ruined only by another strong breeze that washed over him. Without his thick jacket, he felt his muscles seize in revolt. Simon hurried back inside, shutting the doors before he rushed over to the burning fireplace.

As his body warmed again, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Knowing he only had an hour before Luthor would call on him, he walked into the bedroom and began preparing for dinner.

Simon looked in the mirror. He tilted his head from side to side, examining his coifed hair, held in place by an obscene amount of hair grease. He pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it along the side of his head, smoothing out a stray strand of hair.

He had changed into a more formal suit for the dinner, leaving behind his pistol but retaining his pocket watch. He pulled the silver piece from his vest pocket and checked the time, frowning when he saw that it was nearly seven already. He tucked it away and walked to his suite’s front door. As he pulled it open, he startled Luthor as the diminutive man exited his own room.

Luthor had tried his best to tame his wild mane of curly hair, but to no avail. Large curls stood out defiantly from where he had tried to smooth them against his head, and they draped over the upper half of his trimmed muttonchops.

“I thought you were going to knock on my door well in advance of our dinner reservation?” Simon chided.

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 further 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.”