Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (7 page)

Simon saluted with his blade. “That would be perfect.”

“Then shall we continue?” Gideon asked, settling back into his fencing stance.

Simon lowered his sword to his side and took a couple steps backward, crossing the edge of the dueling mat and disqualifying himself. He raised his blade in surrender.

Gideon stood with a huff and lowered his epee. “This is not a satisfactory conclusion to our match.”

Simon bowed with a flourish. “Forgive me, but Luthor and I have much to do today if we leave in the morning. This is hardly a time to duel, wouldn’t you agree?”

Gideon turned and walked off the mat. He hung his epee on the wall and collected the rest of his equipment before walking out of the room. Luthor nodded as the man pushed past him and stormed down the hallway. As Gideon passed, Luthor scratched absently at his arm.

Simon approached the near wall shortly afterward, hanging his saber on its hook. He reached up and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“So?” Luthor asked as he approached his friend.

“We leave in the morning,” Simon replied. He took his coat from the apothecary and slid it over his shoulders. Fitting his top hat on top of his head, he canted it to the side.

As he started toward the door, Luthor placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t understand. All Inquisitors spend years training with the blade. You could have easily beaten him.”

“My dear Luthor, sometimes you learn far more from an opponent in the course of a battle, rather than in the man’s defeat. A man like Mr. Dosett has little in his life besides his business and his pride. These werewolves have brought his business to a halt. Had I handily beaten him in our duel, I would have taken his pride as well. Take everything away from a man and you make him unpredictable. If there’s one thing that makes my job difficult, it’s unpredictable men.”

Luthor smiled appreciatively. “So what did you learn about Mr. Dosett?”

“He places the well-being of his business above the well-being of his employees. His concern was with the money he was losing, and not the workers he’s already lost.”

Luthor turned and led them both into the hallway, back toward the stairwell. “Nothing personal, sir, but I could have told you that after our dinner with the man. He’s not keen on interpersonal relationships.”

“Fair enough. I also learned that he’s offended whenever someone questions his integrity. The thought that his word wasn’t good enough to make me believe in the authenticity of the werewolves made him irate, though he kept up a stoic visage.”

“Again, sir, I believe that’s fairly standard for every businessman in the capital. I wouldn’t expect it to be different here, just because we’re far detached from the bustle of the city.”

Simon patted the man on the back. “Then I guess it’s a good thing that I also learned that there’s a secret door in the room we just left that leads into the tunnels beneath the city.”

Luthor looked over his shoulder. “Really? Where?”

“There was dirt on the floor near the far wall, the type you would expect from the worked stone tunnels we passed through after we left the zeppelin.”

Luthor smiled as they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Then I guess it wasn’t a totally wasted trip.”

“Go get some rest. I have the feeling that tomorrow is going to be a hard day for us beyond the wall.”

It was late at night when someone knocked loudly on Luthor’s door. The apothecary buttoned the sleeves of his nightshirt and pulled the bedroom door closed behind him as he hurried toward the front entrance to his suite. The curved glass of the peephole rested right at his eye level, and he peered through it. The hallway beyond was distorted but the well-dressed man on the other side was unmistakable. Luthor frowned as the Inquisitor leaned down toward the peephole, peering back through at Luthor. The warped lens made Simon’s eye appear disproportionate to the rest of his face and elongated his narrow moustache.

With a sigh, Luthor pulled open the door.

“Sir, it’s very late. Why are you knocking on my door at such an obscene hour?”

Simon rocked back on his heels so he wasn’t stooped at a peephole that was no longer in front of his face. He smiled disarmingly at his friend. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither can I, apparently,” Luthor replied dryly.

“Good.” Simon walked past his friend as though he had been invited inside.

“Please come in,” the apothecary said after the fact. “What brings you to my room in the middle of the night?”

“Do you mind if I sit?”

Luthor motioned toward the couch. “Make yourself at home. Since we’re both up, would you care for a drink?”

“Scotch, please. Better make it two fingers worth.”

Luthor arched his eyebrow as he walked to the wet bar against the far wall. “Two fingers? It must be something serious on your mind.”

“I honestly don’t know if it’s important or not, but I trust your advice on the matter. That is, if you have time of course.”

“Clearly I have nothing but time,” Luthor said as he poured drinks for them both. He carried the glasses over and handed one to Simon before taking a seat in one of the armchairs across from the sofa. “What’s bothering you?”

Simon wrinkled his nose as a foul smell drifted past him. It was a similar sulfur smell to the one he had noticed coming from Luthor’s room before. “That scent still lingers. It’s horrific. Could the maids not get the smell of the broken vial out of your room?”

Luthor shrugged and looked toward his closed bedroom door. “They tried, but the smell is persistent.”

“And horrific. Did I mention horrific?”

Luthor smiled and tried to get the conversation back on track. “You were about to tell me about what bothered you.”

“We’ve been partners for nearly a year now, and everything we’ve seen can be easily explained as the shenanigans of a few men,” Simon replied as he swirled the ice cubes in his drink. “This case, however, feels different.”

“You’re bothered by the idea that this case could be real?”

Simon stopped swirling his glass and looked up at his friend. “Aren’t you? Doesn’t it frighten you in the least that werewolves could have infiltrated our borders? It scares me something awful to think that this may be a precursor of something far worse.”

Luthor leaned forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. “What if it is real? We wouldn’t be the first Inquisitors to locate a real magical threat. The simple fact that the threats exist at all is why the Order of the Kinder Pel remains so powerful. They may be uncouth in their methods but there isn’t a magical threat or malady that remains once they arrive.”

Simon frowned and leaned back into the cushioned couch. “Little remains after the Kinder Pel finish, mystical or mortal either one.”

“Is that what’s bothering you as well?”

“If I send a telegram confirming the existence of werewolves in Haversham without being able to confirm that the threat is well contained, the Grand Inquisitor will dispatch the Order. I can’t risk lives until I’m certain without a shadow of a doubt that the werewolves are real.”

Luthor nodded. “Then let’s make sure we are sufficiently convinced before we send that telegram. What do we know of the case thus far? We’ve seen a body.”

Simon smiled, feeling once again in his element. “We’ve seen something that can still be explained as merely an exquisite taxidermy.”

Luthor ran a hand through his muttonchops. “True. We know that these attacks, werewolf or not, have been localized to Mr. Gideon Dosett’s businesses.”

“Gideon Dosett,” Simon replied flatly. “Something doesn’t settle well with me at the mention of the man’s name.”

Luthor raised his glass. “Well, you’ll get little argument from me.”

“So you agree that something is amiss with Gideon?”

Luthor took a long drink of his scotch. He lowered the glass from his lips as the liquor burned down his esophagus. “I agree that something is amiss, though I’d be hard pressed to give you a specific reason.”

Simon scratched his chin. “That, quite sadly, is where I find myself as well. I can’t help but feel that he knows more about this investigation than he is letting on. He’s withholding something; I sense it every time I speak with him.”

“Then there’s the business with the Union and Guild leaders,” Luthor said dryly.

Simon huffed and took another drink. “While I don’t think them completely wrong in their distrust of Mr. Dosett, I cannot abide them speaking ill of the governor. He’s still family, albeit detached, of the king himself.”

Luthor canted his head to the side. “We’re speaking between friends, sir. You can speak your mind.”

Simon smiled. “You know me far too well. Yes, something is wrong about the relationship between the governor and Mr. Dosett. They seem far too friendly with one another, speaking to one another as old friends rather than you would expect a businessman to speak to royalty.”

“Then there might be something to the Union’s and Guild’s complaints,” Luthor offered.

“Perhaps,” Simon said with a coy smile, “but I’d never give them the satisfaction of knowing they were right. They needed to be reminded of their station as much as Mr. Dosett does.”

Simon waved his hand dismissively. “At the end of the day, Mr. Dosett is inconsequential. His overtly friendly relationship with the governor doesn’t matter. All that truly matters are the werewolves and whether or not they exist. Hopefully our trip tomorrow will shed some light on that issue.”

“Agreed,” Luthor replied. “Hopefully, we’ll find something worthwhile. This whole mission is leaving a foul taste in my mouth. The sooner we can leave, the better.”

Simon set his half-emptied tumbler onto the table between them and rose. Caught unaware, Luthor hurriedly stood as well.

“I’ve taken far too much of your time at far too indecent an hour,” Simon said. “I shall leave you to your rest. As always, Luthor, thank you for your friendly ear and keen mind.”

“Of course, sir,” Luthor said, as he followed Simon to the door. “I would say ‘any time’, but I would prefer the next time you visit while the sun is still up.”

They both laughed as Simon stepped into the hallway separating their two rooms.

“Goodnight, Luthor.”

Luthor nodded. “Goodnight, sir.”

He closed the door on the Inquisitor as the smile faded from his face. He pulled the deadbolt lock across the door, ensuring he wouldn’t be disturbed again. Walking across the room, he reached the closed bedroom door and pulled the double doors apart.

Stepping into the bedroom, Luthor bent down and lifted the blanket that had been hastily tossed onto the floor. Beneath, the smeared remnants of a pentagram were still visible on the floor. The removal of the blanket released the scent of sulfur, mixed with the white powdered chalk on the ground. Luthor retrieved a piece of chalk and etched the circle again, strengthening the broken lines. When the pentagram was complete once more, he stood and walked into the center of the chalk design.

He raised his arms to the side and gently turned his head as though listening to a distant voice. For a long moment, he stood frozen in his position. Finally, he nodded slightly.

“No,” Luthor said to the empty room. “He doesn’t suspect.”

He fell quiet again as he listened to the reply.

“Something is amiss,” he responded. “That much is certain. There’s a chance one of them is here, though if they are, no one suspects.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “I have my suspicions as well and will let you know as the situation develops. Keep the Order at bay until I can complete my task at hand. I’ll report back when I know more.”

With his conversation completed, Luthor broke the circle of the pentagram with his toe, severing the connection. He returned to his bed and pulled out a pile of ancient, leather-bound books. Pulling open their covers, he began reading old stories and myths about werewolves.

Returning to his own room, Simon closed the door behind him. He knew he should go to bed, but sleep seemed to elude him. Instead, he went into his bedroom but bypassed the comfortable four-post bed. Kneeling beside it, he reached underneath and pulled out a darkly stained wooden case. He set it on the bed before retrieving a small key from his vest pocket. He slid the key into the lock and heard the click of the tumblers.

With the case unlocked, he lifted the lid and admired the contents. Sharpened wooden stakes sat against the top of the velvet-lined Inquisitor kit. A glass vial with a thick cork stopper rested beside that. A gold cross was embellished on the front of the vial. The rest of the case was filled with an odd assortment of acids and other weapons to use against the supernatural.

Simon found what he was looking for near the middle of the case. He pulled his silver revolver from its shoulder harness and released the drum. With a twist of his wrist, the ammunition drum flicked to the side of the pistol. He admired the copper casings of the bullets already loaded in the weapon.

Ensuring he was over the comforter, he tilted the pistol and let the six rounds drop to the bed. Reaching toward the middle of the case, he withdrew six new bullets. The casings were still copper, but the dull lead of the other normal bullets was replaced by a brilliant silver. He loaded the silver bullets into his revolver, noting the dozen other rounds that still remained in the case, just below a tooled metal plate that read, “Loup Garou.”