The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (8 page)

Looking up, Simon realized that there were only a few people remaining in the theater. Ushers waited patiently by the doors, eager to clean before retiring for the night.

The quartet stood and walked toward the building’s exit. The night had turned colder while they were inside. Simon removed his coat and draped it over Veronica’s shoulders. The brunette smiled sweetly toward the Inquisitor, and she pulled it tightly across her. Luthor, likewise, removed his jacket and offered it to Mattie, though they both knew it was unnecessary. Aside from living in a frozen tundra, Mattie’s increased metabolism kept her warm despite the relative chill in the air.

“Forgive us, but we must head home,” Luthor said as he stifled a yawn. “Mattie has made me promise to show her more of the city.”

“This was truly an enjoyable evening,” Veronica said. “We simply must do it again soon, though we should avoid attending another film. It was my fault, and I readily take blame, but it seems impersonal and doesn’t offer us ladies a chance to get to know one another better. I hardly feel like I know the real you, Mattie.”

“She’s a bit beastly on the inside,” Simon joked, which earned him a sharp elbow in the ribs from Mattie.

Veronica laughed. “Despite Simon’s obvious lack of class, I’m so glad to see someone other than me putting him in his rightful place.”

Simon rubbed his bruised side. “With a new bruise to add to my ever-growing repertoire, I believe that’s our cue to say goodnight.”

“Agreed,” Luthor replied. “Veronica, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Always, Luthor.”

Mattie took Veronica’s hand. “We will certainly do this again. I can’t help but feel you have a plethora of ammunition with which I could use against Simon the next time he decides to be rude.”

Veronica squeezed her hand and offered a knowing wink. “More than you could ever know, but nothing I wouldn’t feel too embarrassed to share.”

Simon groaned and pulled Veronica away. “We simply must be off. Have a good evening.”

“You as well, sir,” Luthor replied.

Simon and Veronica turned as Luthor and Mattie signaled for a taxi. It was only a few blocks to the Ace of Spades and only a few more beyond that to Veronica’s apartment, so they chose to walk rather than wait for another taxi to come by.

“Mattie seems very pleasant,” Veronica remarked as they walked, hand in hand. “She and Luthor make a rather adorable couple, wouldn’t you agree?”

Simon smiled. “An odd pairing, to be sure, but they seem to complement each other nicely.”

Veronica smiled coyly. “An odd pairing? As odd as an Inquisitor courting a burlesque dancer?”

Simon glanced at his love and smiled mischievously, a look that clearly confused Veronica. “They are indeed far more odd a pairing than you could ever imagine. In due time, I look forward to explaining all their respective nuances.”

In time, they arrived before Veronica’s apartment. She paused at the door, even as the doorman held it open for her.

“Will you stay tonight?” she asked. “Just for this once?”

Simon smiled and brushed a strand of hair from out of her face.

“We’ll see,” he replied, a polite response, the answer to which Veronica already sadly knew.

Breaking what had evolved into a morning ritual, Simon took his breakfast alone the next morning, choosing not to bother Luthor and Mattie. His dry toast and mediocre tea was hardly a good substitute for Luthor’s more substantive morning meals, but the Inquisitor didn’t feel prone to intrude. Instead, he glanced once more to the latest letter that had been delivered at an obscene hour. The Grand Inquisitor’s seal was still evident, despite the severe crack that ran through its center from where Simon broke the wax globule.

He unfolded the letter, which very concisely demanded Simon’s attendance at the Grand Hall that morning. Pulling his watch from his pocket, Simon glanced at the time. If he didn’t hurry, he knew he would be late for his appointment, but he wasn’t eager to repeat his previous day’s reprimand. The retribution for not attending, however, would be far worse. With a sigh, he dropped his toast onto his plate and folded the napkin from his lap as he stood.

The sun was shining brilliantly as he emerged from his townhouse. A few automobiles rumbled along the road before him, infecting the air with their clouds of noxious fumes. His gaze shifted up the street and he frowned, noting the taxi parked on the curb. The taxi driver leaned patiently against the automobile’s passenger door, glancing occasionally toward the watch in his hand.

Simon had no doubt the taxi had been sent to retrieve him. The leash he was normally allowed upon his return to Callifax was growing ever smaller, tightening like an invisible noose. The Grand Inquisitor clearly wanted to keep Simon close at hand until his misadventures in Haversham could be resolved.

The taxi driver looked toward the Inquisitor as Simon rounded the gate at the end of his sidewalk. Smiling, the taxi driver motioned toward his automobile. Simon didn’t hurry toward the vehicle, though the chauffer held the rear door open for his easy entry.

“Good morning, sir,” the taxi driver said, tipping his hat as Simon approached.

“It’s not feeling like much of a good morning,” Simon replied sourly as he climbed inside the shaded interior.

Without a reply, the taxi driver closed the door behind him before climbing into the driver’s seat. The taxi started with a lurch and cough of the backfiring engine. With a rattle, the vehicle pulled away from the curb and merged into the sparse traffic.

The trip to the Grand Hall was blissfully short and devoid of any unwanted conversation. As they pulled to the curb before the pillared building, Simon didn’t wait for the taxi driver to politely open his door. The Inquisitor stepped onto the sidewalk and hurried toward the entryway, leaving the confounded chauffer in his wake.

Guards opened the double doors and Simon hurried inside, the Grand Inquisitor’s letter still clutched in his hand. The foyer was surprisingly empty, though he heard voices wafting from the sitting room.

“May I take your coat and hat, sir?” a servant asked as he emerged from a coatroom.

Simon removed his top hat and handed it to the man. The servant walked behind him and grasped the shoulders of Simon’s coat as the Inquisitor slipped his arms free of the dense garment.

“Please let the Grand Inquisitor know that I have arrived,” Simon said.

“Of course, sir,” the servant replied. “I believe he’s already expecting you.”

“I should assume so.”

The valet bowed before hurrying back to the coatroom. Simon barely gave the man a second glance as he walked into the sitting room.

The large room—filled with a series of couches, plush chairs, and a large fireplace that dominated the far wall—was mostly empty. A small group of Inquisitors sat on two sofas, facing one another, as they lost themselves in conversations of past investigations and other exploits.

Though his back was to Simon, a long, braided ponytail revealed that Ambrose was among the Inquisitors. Smiling, knowing that a friendly face would be much appreciated, Simon walked toward the group.

One of the Inquisitors noted his approach with a broad smile before motioning Simon to join them.

“Inquisitor Whitlock,” the man said, though Simon couldn’t quite recall his name. “To what do we owe this immense pleasure?”

Simon shrugged as he took an offered seat at the head of the couch closest to Ambrose. “If only I knew, though I doubt it’s for anything good.”

“Nonsense,” Ambrose replied. “You’re the golden child amongst the Inquisitors.”

Simon laughed, recalling the berating he had received the day before. “I do believe this golden calf is quickly becoming a black sheep. My tongue has a tendency to get me into trouble.”

Ambrose smiled and gestured toward the other Inquisitors. “From someone who is oft accused of letting his tongue talk him into unfortunate situations, let me welcome you to our prestigious group.”

“We’ve all talked ourselves into trouble more often than we’ve talked our way out of it,” one of the other Inquisitors remarked. “That’s why they teach sword fighting and marksmanship during our training, but only offer the barest training in proper gentlemenship.”

“Apparently, they assume we come from good breeding, rather than from the tenement houses like I did,” Ambrose said.

“Or from the remote corners of the kingdom,” another said.

“Or from overseas,” replied the dark-skinned Inquisitor sitting beside Ambrose.

“Or from jail,” Simon replied with a wistful smile.

“Do you know everyone?” Ambrose asked, gesturing to the other Inquisitors.

Simon glanced at the group. Though he recognized their faces, he struggled to recall their names.

“Inquisitor Merryweather you met briefly yesterday,” Ambrose said, concluding that Simon would not be forthcoming with names.

Simon nodded to the older Inquisitor. His thinning hair had grayed slightly around his temples. “Bertrand, was it not?”

Bertrand smiled. “Indeed it was, Simon. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”

“The fair skinned and dreadfully skinny Inquisitor seated beside Bertrand is Mister Connor Pettimore.”

“A pleasure, sir,” Connor replied with a nod of his head.

“And this dark-skinned savage to my right is Mister Thaddeus Poole, who has the unique distinction of being the only Inquisitor from the Marakath Kingdom.”

Simon arched his eyebrows in surprise. The Marakath Kingdom resided on the westernmost continent. Few, if any, immigrants arrived from the distal continent.

“A foreign transplant, I presume?” Simon remarked.

Inquisitor Poole nodded, revealing the faint tattoos on the top of his dark, bald head. “My parents arrived in Callifax two years before the kingdom closed its borders. Few people realize that the privateers keeping foreign ships at bay also keep people from leaving the continent, as well. We’ve become naturalized as citizens of the crown by default.”

“Can I offer you a drink, sir?” a waiter asked as he approached the group, interrupting the fascinating conversation that had been taking place.

“Scotch, please,” Simon answered.

“One for me as well,” Ambrose added, holding up his emptied glass.

“Very good, gentlemen.”

The waiter departed, and Simon let his gaze drift back over the gathered men. From the corner of his vision, he noted the tanned folder resting against the armrest beside Ambrose.

Simon pointed toward the folder. “Have you received another assignment?”

Ambrose nodded. “Indeed. I only just arrived in Callifax, and they’re already eager to see me gone. Apparently, my reputation continues to precede me.”

The men laughed as the waiter returned with two tumblers of brown liquor.

“Where are they sending you?” Simon inquired.

Ambrose retrieved the folder and glanced at the printed words across its cover. “Burtons Grove.”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “I’m not familiar with the name. Where is it located?”

The ponytailed Inquisitor flipped through the papers within the folder with a disinterested shrug. “It’s a small town north of here, somewhere in the marsh.” Ambrose looked up morosely. “Swamp and humidity aren’t very agreeable with my disposition. Would you care to take this assignment for me?”

Simon laughed and held up his free hand. “No, but thank you. I nearly had frostbite from my last assignment. I’m not at all eager to delve into a swamp full of mosquitoes large enough to carry me away.”

Ambrose sighed sadly. “I had forgotten the mosquitoes. Irrespective, the assignment itself sounds interesting. Apparently, there are reports of witchcraft.”

Inquisitor Poole shook his head with a heavy laugh. “I’ve investigated four reports of witchcraft just this year. It seems to be the favorable allegation whenever there’s the most mundane squabble between neighbors.” His voice became suddenly nasally as he mocked his latest investigation. “My cow gave birth to a stillborn calf. It must be because my neighbor placed a hex upon the creature and certainly not because I live in abject squalor and hardly care for the nutritional needs of the beasts in my care.”

“You sound awfully bitter,” Ambrose teased.

The dark-skinned man huffed. “Not bitter, though jealous perhaps. I’m growing weary of investigating petty mockeries of true magic. I long for one assignment like Simon’s, where I can face a real monster of the Rift.”

Simon quickly shook his head. “You most certainly do not! Trust me; there was nothing fun about having a demon throw me the length of three tables.”

The men laughed as they settled back into their seats. The valet from the foyer hurried into the room and approached Simon.

“It appears I’m being beckoned,” he said, placing his half-finished scotch on the end table beside him. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure.”

“Our good times are hardly at an end,” Ambrose replied. “I can say with some certainty that we will still be in these very seats when you return.”

Simon nodded toward his friend. “Then I guess I’ll see you again shortly. If I don’t return, assume my tongue got me into more trouble than I could successfully talk my way out of.”

“If you don’t return, we’ll have a drink in your memory.”

“Gentlemen,” Simon said toward the remaining Inquisitors, “it has been a pleasure sharing your table today.”

The valet stood by patiently, awaiting the conclusion of Simon’s farewells. As the Inquisitor turned toward the younger man, the valet motioned toward the foyer and the hallway beyond.

“Inquisitor Whitlock, the Grand Inquisitor—”

“Yes, yes,” Simon replied dismissively. “Just lead me to him.”

The Grand Inquisitor’s door opened with a faint creak, revealing the older man sitting behind his desk. Upon seeing Simon, he motioned for Simon to take the seat across the table.

Simon entered without pomp or circumstance and wordlessly took his seat.

The Grand Inquisitor glanced at the stack of reports before him and retrieved the topmost folder. Simon couldn’t read the words printed across its surface, but one phrase was unmistakably written across the bottom: Royal Inquisitor Simon Whitlock.

“I’m sending you on another assignment,” the Grand Inquisitor stated before Simon had a chance to question the folder.

Simon’s heart fell. “Sir, I’ve only just returned from Haversham.”

“You’ve returned under dubious circumstances, need I remind you? I’ve spent the night awake, pacing a hole through the carpet of my study, trying to decide what to do about you and your… new companion. The simple fact is that the evening has offered little insight. The only thing I have decided is that I won’t have her in Callifax, sitting a stone’s throw away from the king and court.”

Simon frowned. “Are you intending that Miss Hawke should accompany me on this mission?”

“Miss Hawke and the apothecary,” the Grand Inquisitor replied. “Everyone with knowledge of what you’ve done will accompany you on your assignment while I make any final decisions about your fate.”

“If I may inquire, sir, what assignment have you given me?”

Simon felt utterly dejected, as though his mentor’s dismissal was a knife being slowly twisted in his chest. Simon didn’t hear notes of understanding in the elder man’s voice, nor a sense that the Grand Inquisitor was growing accustomed to the idea of Mattie’s presence as a person rather than just a monster. Perhaps, though Simon dreaded admitting it even to himself, Luthor was right. Telling the Grand Inquisitor what had transpired may have been foolish.