The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (6 page)

The Grand Inquisitor sat at his desk. The Grand Hall was silent except for the muted footsteps of the few guards still pacing the complex. The Inquisitors were all asleep in their own beds or, as Simon had so recently been, enjoying the experiences of the capital’s nightlife.

Though much of the Inquisitors’ business was conducted during the day, the Grand Inquisitor found that the late hours of the night were the only time he could find peace and solitude. A stack of mission requests were stacked high on the edge of his desk awaiting his approval, matched by an equally large pile of folders of completed missions that still required his reading. Though the Inquisitors hired analysts to search for trends amongst the founded magical outbreaks, the Grand Inquisitor still insisted upon his personal review of every mission.

A single oil lamp sat upon the man’s desk, illuminating the room with its flickering light. The Grand Inquisitor shifted in his chair and examined the wall beside him, where a series of grainy, black-and-white photographs had been framed and mounted upon the wall. The pictures were mostly faded from age, their once white paper yellowing and curling along the corners. Still, a much more youthful Grand Inquisitor stared back from many of the pictures. Though it had been only ten years since the founding of the Inquisitors, he felt greatly aged over the course of the past decade.

With a sigh, he shifted his gaze back to the two dominating piles of folders competing for his attention. He reached toward the finished reports but his hand hovered. Slowly, his hand drifted instead toward the cases still requiring an Inquisitor’s assignment.

Pulling the topmost folder from the pile, he opened it before him. He quickly scanned the synopsis provided by the analyst who initially received the report. The file spoke of witchcraft in the marshlands to the north of the capital. No substantial evidence had been provided by the local council and, in the analyst’s opinion, it was questionable whether anything substantial would be uncovered by an Inquisitor’s intervention.

For a brief moment, the Grand Inquisitor considered rejecting the mission but at the last moment, he retrieved his pen and scribbled a name along the bottom of the report. An Inquisitor had now been assigned, for good or bad. He closed the folder and placed it onto a newly formed pile before sighing, realizing he was now finished with only one of dozens of reports awaiting his personal attention.

The Grand Inquisitor reached for the next folder on the stack but instead shifted his attention back to the completed mission reports. He retrieved the top folder and opened it, quickly reviewing the handwritten calligraphy of the Inquisitor who had been assigned. Like so many others, the report had been unfounded, with the reports of ghosts in the dense woodlands being nothing more than wind chimes and whistles hung from high branches by bandits in an attempt to protect their hideout and subsequent treasure. The Inquisitor had summarily decimated the bandit camp and retrieved much of the stolen coin, so the mission hadn’t been a complete failure, though the local constabulary could have easily handled the case without Inquisitor intervention.

The Grand Inquisitor wrote a few minor remarks at the bottom of the report and closed the folder, placing it atop the one from moments before.

He nearly reached for a folder from the first pile, alternating back to those awaiting Inquisitor assignment, but the word “Haversham” stared at him from the top of the next completed mission folder. Curiously, the Grand Inquisitor drew Simon’s report from the top of the pile and placed it before him.

As he opened the folder, Simon’s small, tight handwriting was glaringly apparent. Like many of the things in his life, Simon’s handwriting was reflective of a man who attempted to place as much as he could in as little space or time as possible. His handwriting was efficient and crisp, foregoing much of the floweriness that marked most of the handwriting of the age. The Grand Inquisitor smiled, knowing how many times he belabored the point to Simon during their tenure together as mentor and apprentice.

The Grand Inquisitor began reading the report with more attentiveness than he had offered the two previous ones. The slaying of a demon was worth his attention, not to mention the corpses of the two werewolves Simon returned as well.

As the Grand Inquisitor concluded the first page and began reading the second, his smile began to falter. His smile quickly became a flat effect on his face, which in turn deepened to a frown that was borderline disappointment and outright anger.

By the time he finished the last sentence of Simon’s report, he slammed it closed. For a moment, he merely sat in silence. The Grand Inquisitor interlaced his fingers and rested them on the table as his face flushed with disappointment.

Taking a deep breath, he unlaced his fingers and slid a hand beneath his robe, retrieving a key kept upon a chain around his neck. He slipped the chain over his head and used it to unlock the drawer by his left elbow. The drawer slid open, revealing a small ensemble of seemingly innocuous items, to include a letter opener, a long quill, and what appeared to be a miniaturized snow globe. The Grand Inquisitor took Simon’s report and dropped it into the drawer before closing and locking it quickly.

From the drawer to his right, he retrieved a sheet of parchment and placed it before him on the table. On the parchment, he wrote five simple words before folding the parchment neatly. He lifted the glass globe that covered the oil lantern and set it aside, exposing the flickering wick within. From the same desk drawer, the Grand Inquisitor took a stick of red wax, which he held to the flame. As it began to run, he removed it from the fire and pressed it against the seam of the note, sealing the parchment shut. Before the wax could cool, the Grand Inquisitor slipped a ring from his finger and pressed the signet ring into the pool of wax. As he withdrew the ring, the perfect form of the Inquisitor’s seal was visible in the center.

Pushing back from his table, he carried the note across the room, opened the door, and stepped into the hallway.

“Messenger!” the Grand Inquisitor yelled into the hallway.

A few doors down, a door flung open and a young man rushed to his side. The young letter carrier, kept on retainer specifically for purposes such as these, stood at rapt attention at the man’s side.

“I need this to be delivered to the residence of Inquisitor Whitlock at first light,” the Grand Inquisitor said, his voice intentionally softened despite the gruff irritation he felt. “You know where he resides?”

“I do, sir,” the messenger replied.

“Good. At first light, do not be late.”

The messenger shook his head hastily. “No, sir.”

The carrier took the letter and stuffed it into the inner pocket of his oversized jacket. The boy rushed back to his room to get some rest before he had to depart.

The Grand Inquisitor waited for the boy to close the door behind him before walking back into his office. He shook his head softly and frowned to no one in particular.

“Simon, you damnable fool. What have you done?”

A bothersome knock sounded at Simon’s front door. He opened his eyes a crack. Though the dim light of dawn was barely creeping through his window, he didn’t feel nearly rested enough to face the day as of yet. He closed his eyes again, hoping that whoever rapped at his door would soon leave him be.

Moments later, the knock sounded again, louder and more insistent than the time before.

Uncoordinatedly, Simon reached toward his pocket watch resting on the nightstand beside his bed. For a moment, he considered reaching past the watch toward the silver-plated revolver that lay beyond it, but he thought better of it. Tilting the watch toward him, he saw that it was barely past six in the morning. At most, he had been asleep for four hours.

With a groan, Simon slid his legs over the side of the bed and rested his face in his hands. His feet sought the slippers that sat somewhere along the side of his bed. Before he could locate the offending slippers, the incessant knock sounded once more.

“I’m coming,” Simon grumbled, though he knew no one could hear him from his upstairs bedroom. “Be patient.”

His toes touched the tops of the slippers, and he slid his feet into the warm shoes. Placing his hands on his knees, he pushed himself upright. A smoking jacket hung upon a hook on the back of his bedroom door. He retrieved the jacket, slipping it over his pajamas.

As he tied the belt around his waist, the persistent visitor knocked for a fourth time.

“I said I’m coming,” Simon yelled, hoping that his visitor could hear his inflamed reply.

With a quiet string of profanity, Simon walked downstairs and into his foyer. A round window on the door was beveled, leaving the features of the knocker distorted. He could make out the person’s youth only from his height and generally narrow build, but he could tell little else.

He unlocked the door and opened it to his visitor.

A young boy looked up excitedly. He quickly removed his hat, holding it to his chest.

“What is it, boy?” Simon asked coarsely.

“Pardon the interruption at such an early hour, sir,” the boy began.

“I believe I would have used the term ‘ungodly hour,’ but do go on,” Simon replied.

“Yes, sir,” the boy continued, clearly familiar with gruff responses from his patrons.

Simon arched his eyebrow toward the boy as the young man merely stood in his presence. “What brings you to my door at such an ungodly hour?”

His question spurred the boy into action. He pulled his hat away from his chest and reached into an inside pocket of his jacket. From within, he pulled free a neatly folded letter. A red wax seal was emblazoned upon the front of the correspondence.

“I have a letter for you, sir,” the boy replied.

Simon nearly asked the origin of the letter but immediately recognized the Inquisitor’s seal. He frowned as he quickly took it. The boy stood patiently at the door, as though he had a further need to be in Simon’s presence.

“Is there something more to deliver?” Simon asked.

The boy looked at him but shook his head. With a sigh, Simon realized why he was still standing by patiently. The Inquisitor looked to the interior table beside the doorway and noted a pair of copper coins. He took the coins and shoved them into the boy’s outstretched hand.

“Be gone,” Simon replied curtly.

The boy slung his hat back onto his head, leaving it dilapidated and crooked as he nodded to the Inquisitor. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

The young messenger hurried down the townhouse stairs and ran down the street, back in the direction of the Grand Hall. Simon had no doubt he would report back to the Grand Inquisitor that his mission had been a success.

Simon closed the door and locked it behind him before breaking the seal on the letter. The wax cracked along its base, leaving the seal intact as Simon unfolded the letter.

With the parchment unfolded, he read the five simple words written across the middle of the page. The letter had no signature, but he had recognized the seal and knew the elder man’s handwriting well enough.

The letter read simply:

I want to meet her.

Simon frowned and reread the letter, as though a secret continuation of the message would soon present itself. He knew more than well enough whom the Grand Inquisitor meant. Clearly, he had finally read Simon’s report. However, those five deceptively simple words revealed nothing of the author’s state of mind, whether he was calmly curious or infuriated.

I want to meet her.

Simon surmised that it was good the letter hadn’t read, “Bring her to me at once.” The second connotation was clearly angrier. Still, it wouldn’t do to keep the Grand Inquisitor waiting for any amount of time.

Simon set the letter on the same table from which he had retrieved the copper coins before he hurried upstairs to bathe and hastily dress.

“No,” Luthor said adamantly as he paced across the sitting room floor.

“No?” Simon asked, arching an eyebrow inquisitively.

Luthor stopped and stared at his friend. “I won’t drag Mattie before the Grand Inquisitor. Everything about that seems like an ill-advised idea.”

Simon leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I’m not entirely convinced refusing is really an option.”

“There’s always a choice.”

Simon uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “While you’re technically correct, I’m fairly certain that refusing the Grand Inquisitor’s invitation constitutes a poor life choice. It is, in fact, the type of life choice that significantly shortens one’s life.”

Luthor threw up his hands in disgust. “You should have never told him in the first place, sir. You had no right.”

“It wasn’t an issue of right and wrong, dear Luthor. It was an issue of responsibility. You yourself wanted this acceptance of Mattie and her ilk to progress. This is how it progresses.”

Luthor finally stopped his pacing and took a seat across from Simon. “Maybe, but of all your acquaintances amongst the Inquisitors, was it absolutely necessary to tell the Grand Inquisitor?”

“Of all the Inquisitors, he’s the most prone to support our cause.”

“True, so long as he doesn’t string us up by our necks first, or have us drawn and quartered. Perhaps he’d have us burned at the stake instead for heresy.”

Simon shook his head. “If we were to ignore the Grand Inquisitor’s invitation, what then?”

“I don’t know,” Luthor admitted. “We’d run, perhaps; take a zeppelin to the far reaches of the continent.”

“Sail south, perhaps, into Khovus? I’m sure the Khovelian Knights would be beyond thrilled to have someone of your stature joining their ranks. Then again, I don’t believe they’d be overtly keen to the idea of a werewolf in their midst. Certainly you’d be fine, so long as she never revealed her true nature.”

“You’re an insufferable bore, sir.”

“Breathe deeply, Luthor. You’re overreacting. You’ll be prone to bouts of hysteria if you’re not more careful.”

Luthor narrowed his eyes dangerously but bit his tongue.

“I should have a say in this, shouldn’t I?” Mattie asked from the doorway to the kitchen.

Both men turned toward the redhead, who merely folded her arms defiantly across her chest. “By all means, don’t let me interrupt your heated discussion. Finish so that I might find out my fate, as it was decided by two men, neither of whom, I might add, have any claim to my life and subsequent well-being.”

Luthor flushed with embarrassment but Simon merely arched his eyebrow, encouraging her to continue.

“Luthor,” she said as she walked over and sat beside the apothecary, “I am truly touched by your genuine concern for my health. Simon, likewise, you are trying your best to fulfill the request made by both Luthor and me when we left Haversham. I can find no fault with either of your positions. However, this decision has to be mine alone and I would like to meet the Grand Inquisitor.”

Simon’s heart pounded in his chest as they entered the Grand Hall. The morning was quiet around the Inquisitors’ offices. The great meeting had concluded a few days earlier, and many of the Inquisitors and Pellites had returned to their distal stations. A few remained, those awaiting assignments or recently returned, like Simon himself.

A valet took their hats and coats. Mattie drew her hands across her stomach as her thick jacket was taken. Her nervousness was palpable as she glanced periodically around the expansive entry hall. Her hands drifted upward and tugged on the tight collar of her dress.

“Quit tugging on it or the whole thing will tear,” Luthor warned.

Mattie frowned. “I feel like a very weak man is trying to choke me to death, as though this whole day is going to result in my very slow demise. This dress, this interview, the entire thing is excessive. Why couldn’t I have simply worn my normal clothes?”

Luthor touched her elbow and tried to look confident for her, though he was equally as nervous. “Your normal clothes make you look like a woman from the northern tribes.”

“I am a woman from the northern tribes,” she hissed.

“A fact that we wish to downplay as much as possible today, not just for your benefit but for your tribe. The Grand Inquisitor expects a savage, not a formal lady of court.”

Simon could see the sheen of sweat along her exposed neckline as she pulled on her collar once more.

“Don’t worry, Matilda,” Simon said in an attempt to be reassuring. “There’s nothing to fear.”

The apothecary glared at Simon. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Luthor asked, his voice a harsh whisper. “There are a hundred things of which she should be afraid right now, nearly all of which are your fault.”

They fell silent as a few Inquisitors passed them. Those that walked to and fro nodded in deference to Simon, the demon slayer. Under normal circumstances, Simon might have felt a keen sense of pride at the respect shown, but for now all he felt was the same unbridled fear that was portrayed on both Luthor and Mattie’s expressions.

Mattie forced her attention away from the ground and occupied her time examining the marble busts set into alcoves around the room. Each bore a plaque beneath the stone face, telling the story of the Inquisitor who had come and passed. She only halfheartedly read the inscriptions, though most of the causes of death were fairly mundane. One Inquisitor died of natural causes while examining a sudden and inexplicable illness in the marshlands. Another was thrown from his horse after returning from an assignment. None were slaughtered by hordes of magical beasts, as she would have expected. Only one that she found was slain by anything closely resembling a magical creature, and that was only because the man was crushed after a pixie spooked a wagon that, in the driver’s haste to avoid the fairy, tipped onto the Inquisitor investigating the claim.

“Inquisitor Whitlock,” a servant said as he approached the trio. “The Grand Inquisitor will see you now.”

They exchanged glances before turning and following the servant, walking into the narrow hallway beyond the meeting chamber. The Grand Inquisitor’s office appeared shortly thereafter, his seal emblazoned upon the wall beside the doorframe.

The door was closed, and the servant rapped gently. After a moment’s hesitation, a quiet but stern voice from within replied, “Enter.”

The servant opened the door and stepped aside. They received no fanfare or announcement of their arrival. Instead, they were quickly ushered into the chamber and the door hastily drawn behind them.

Pulling thick glasses from his nose and setting them on the table before him, the Grand Inquisitor looked up from a report. From his vantage point, Simon could clearly see his own handwriting, its small, compact letters exceptionally distinct amongst the more traditionally flowery prose of his peers.

The Grand Inquisitor offered no salutation to either Simon or Luthor, instead locking his gaze on Mattie. He pushed away from the table and stood. He walked around the table and approached the redheaded woman, who wore a brave façade, though her nervousness practically oozed from her pores.

“Is this her?” the Grand Inquisitor asked. His eyes never left Mattie, but his question was clearly directed at Simon.

Simon cleared his throat, knowing his future not just as an Inquisitor but as a living, breathing man hung in the balance.

“Yes, sir. May I present to you Miss Matilda Hawke.”

The Grand Inquisitor harrumphed and walked slowly around Mattie. At first, she turned with him until he placed his hand sternly on her shoulder, keeping her in place. She bit her bottom lip as he finished his perusal and returned to stand before her.

“She doesn’t look like much,” the Grand Inquisitor remarked. “Are you sure she’s this… werewolf?”

“
She
is standing right in front of you, sir,” Mattie replied angrily, “and would greatly appreciate it if you could address her as though she were a cognizant woman rather than an inanimate object.”

The Grand Inquisitor looked down on the brash redhead. “In Callifax, women know not to speak unless spoken to.”

Mattie placed her hands on her hips. “Then I’m thrilled to not be from the capital. Where I’m from, women carry spears and stab insolent men in the throat for lesser offenses.”

Simon swallowed hard and prayed to any deity that would listen that they weren’t immediately executed. From his periphery, he could see Luthor tensing at her brash rebuttal. Simon added a second prayer that Luthor could hold his tongue through the rest of this interrogation, for that was truly what it had become.

The Grand Inquisitor walked back around his desk and sat once more.

“I would like to see the… other you,” the Grand Inquisitor said, his tone leaving little interpretation that it was an order far more than it was a question. “I’d like to see the wolf.”

Mattie glanced toward Luthor, who gritted his teeth but nodded. They had little option. She returned her gaze to the Grand Inquisitor.

“You understand that there are extenuating circumstances to my transformation, most glaringly of which is that I must be nude.”

The Grand Inquisitor coughed politely. “Of course.”

He turned his chair toward the far wall. Simon and Luthor turned away from Mattie as she stripped out of her clothing. They listened as her boots clicked on the wooden floor as she removed them. Her belt was dropped upon a pile of clothing, its buckle still ringing as it struck the hardwood. Following the belt, there was a dense silence in the room.

Simon fought the urge to glance over his shoulder, though he wasn’t sure if it was more likely that he would see a naked Mattie, a werewolf, or nothing at all as she fled from the room. Instead, he kept his focus on the series of weathered photographs mounted on the wall.

The silence was broken by a guttural growl, one that portrayed a combination of pain and predatory glee. Something tore, like paper being shredded. The smell in the air was pungent, like a wet dog, Simon realized with a frown. He needn’t turn around to know that her transformation was complete. He had seen her transform many times before and it was always disturbing to see the diminutive woman tearing at her flesh with sharpened fingernails, exposing the stark white fur beneath the bloody gashes in her skin.

Without warning, Mattie, now fully transformed, padded around the trio on all fours. She appeared far less like a werewolf and much more like a massive winter wolf, one far larger than Simon would have believed possible from the short redhead, had he not previously seen it with his own eyes.

The Grand Inquisitor sank further into his chair as her large maw turned toward him. Her eyes were nearly black as she stared at him, her nose rising and falling as she sniffed the edges of his heavy robe.

“Is… is this her?” the Grand Inquisitor stammered.

Simon smiled, for once feeling back in control of the situation. “Sir, once again, I would like to introduce Miss Matilda Hawke.”

Mattie pulled her snout from the elder man, allowing him room to stand. The Grand Inquisitor stepped forward cautiously until his outstretched hand hovered inches away from Mattie’s snout. She quickly turned her head and nuzzled his hand with her cheek. His hand sank into the thick, white fur.

“Remarkable,” the Grand Inquisitor said. “It doesn’t seem feral or aggressive at all.”

“She, sir,” Simon corrected. “Not it.”

The Grand Inquisitor turned toward Simon. “Would it be okay if I touched her again?”

Simon shrugged. “That’s hardly up to me, sir. You’d have to ask Ms. Hawke.”

“You mean she can understand me, even in her more primitive state?”

“I can do far more than understand you,” Mattie said. Though her voice was far more guttural and coarse, it was still unmistakably hers.

The Grand Inquisitor turned sharply back toward Mattie. “You can speak?”

“Did you expect that I turned into a mindless predator after the transformation?” she asked, her canine lips bending and twisting oddly as she pronounced each word.

“Forgive me, madam, but I actually did.”

Mattie reared back, lifting her front paws from the ground and balancing on her back legs. She was able to look the Grand Inquisitor in the eyes, even as he stepped slowly away from her more imposing posture.