Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (25 page)

Simon turned around with a broad smile. “Does it truly matter if they are or are not? One way or another, we need to send that telegram.”

Luthor picked up his hat from where it had so recently been discarded and placed it back on his head. He grabbed his cane as well, spinning it deftly between his fingers. “Shall we then?”

Simon adjusted the sword at his hip before patting the top of his top hat. “Let’s be off.”

The bartender looked up as they came back downstairs but true to his word, said nothing at all. They exited the tavern and emerged onto the street as the electric street lamps flickered to life. Their glow pulsed as it intensified, illuminating the street.

Simon led them back through the square, remembering the telegraph office as being only a few blocks away. They walked as though they were hardly out of place taking an evening stroll, though their eyes darted constantly toward every approaching man, woman, and child. Simon loathed the thought of fighting either a woman or child but saw no other alternative, if they were pawns of the demons.

Without incident, they reached the intersection of streets that would lead to the telegraph office. Simon pulled Luthor against the nearest building before peering around the corner. His anxious expression collapsed into a disheartened frown. Six men stood guard at the front of the building. They carried an assortment of makeshift weapons, to include pickaxes and haphazardly constructed clubs.

The other passersby glanced oddly at the unmoving men, clearly put off by the sight of the uncharacteristic guards. Despite the stares, the men said nothing and moved only when shifting their weight.

Luthor stole a glance around the corner as well, furrowing his brow at the sight. “Is that Mr. Tambor?” he remarked, pointing at the heavyset man.

“It is, and Mr. Orrick beside him.”

“Then the motley crew is in the service of Mr. Dosett?”

Simon stepped back around the corner, pulling Luthor along. “It would seem so. It appears that Mr. Dosett has anticipated our move. He’s a shrewd tactician.”

Luthor glanced back around the corner, appraising the guard force. “Could we defeat them in a fight?”

“No doubt,” Simon replied, “but we won’t. Defeating six men who aren’t trained in combat is hardly difficult… if I were allowed to use deadly force. A well-placed blade can easily slip through clumsy defenses. Defeating them while only subduing them, however, is a different argument. I can’t guarantee their safety, or our own for that matter, if we only use non-lethal force.”

“Then what is our recourse?”

Simon sighed and pointed back the way they had come. “We move on to plan B.”

Luthor furrowed his brow. “I thought this was plan B, or potentially even plan C at this point.”

Simon frowned at the apothecary. “If you’re quite done, I believe we need to have another strategy session back at the inn.”

Simon brushed past his friend, not noticing the smirk on Luthor’s face.

Luthor looked out the window but hardly acknowledged the soft glow of the streetlamps. His mind was elsewhere.

“I think it’s safe to assume that this whole plan has gone tits up,” he remarked without turning around. “Gideon will be blocking the zeppelin dock by now, not that there’s a scheduled flight for some time. He’s blocked the telegraph office, so we can’t call for help. I’m sure he’s surrounded the estate with a plethora of minions, making himself inaccessible. To top it all off, our own army has turned tail, so to speak, and left us in the cold. Rubbish, this whole speech didn’t sound so full of clichés when I was thinking it through.”

Simon laughed as he took inventory of the few belongings he removed from his over-the-shoulder bag. Nothing seemed glaringly helpful, mostly articles of clothing and a few notebooks.

“I won’t misdirect you, Luthor,” Simon said as he neatly folded his clothes and placed them back in the bag, “the situation most certainly appears grim. However, there’s always an answer if one looks hard enough.”

Luthor turned from the window and walked over to the bed. “What exactly is our answer here, sir?”

Simon looked up from his belongings. “Well, I don’t know just yet, do I? I haven’t had enough time to look quite hard enough.”

Luthor threw up his arms in disgust. He walked over to his doctor’s bag and opened it, sifting through the chemicals even though he knew each of them by heart.

“The answer lies with Gideon Dosett,” Simon explained. “Destroy him and his spell will be broken.”

“And how, pray tell, do we destroy this demon?” Luthor asked sarcastically. “Shall we march up to the gates of the governor’s estate and kindly ask him to join us for tea?”

“Sarcasm is very unbecoming of a gentlemen, Luthor. At any rate, you’re the expert on mythology and the mystical. What do your books tell you about destroying a demon?”

Luthor frowned, though he knew every possible reference to defeating demons by heart. “They’re susceptible to silver, like the werewolves were thought to be. Depending on whether we’re dealing with a demon or devil depends on the effectiveness of holy relics like blessed water.”

“You believe this to be a demon, though?”

“Firmly, sir,” Luthor replied.

Simon shrugged. “Then we’ll need access to more silver.”

“Silver, I might add, that proved completely ineffective against the werewolves, whose mythology much more strongly supported its use as an effective means of destroying the creatures.”

“We won’t know until we try,” Simon replied with infuriating calm.

“We still don’t have a means to reach Gideon, but I know what the answer has to be for what to do next,” the apothecary said. “We try our best not to cause grievous injury to those guarding the telegraph office, but one way or another, we send out our request for reinforcements. With the Inquisitors’ support, we stand a chance of storming the estate.”

Simon shook his head. “I can’t justify severely injuring or killing innocent men who are guilty of nothing other than having their mind controlled by a demon.”

“You know, sir, I’m starting to think that all these people—Gideon, Mattie, Kidnip—are all correct. You truly are an atrocious Inquisitor. What Inquisitor places the lives of six people over the opportunity to kill a demon?”

Simon turned brusquely toward his friend, his calm quickly replaced by barely contained rage. “Do not mistake my compassion for a lack of dedication to my craft. Unlike you, whom I might add sounds deliriously like a Pellite, spouting your nonsense about the ends justifying the means, I was trained to examine all possible outcomes and pick a course of action that minimizes civilian casualties. Until I am absolutely satisfied that killing or maiming those men is completely necessary, I won’t authorize that plan. Do I make myself clear?”

Luthor was stung by Simon’s sharp retort but quickly regained his composure. “Abundantly, sir. If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll take a walk and let the winter air cool my blood.”

“I think that’s a brilliant plan.”

Luthor angrily pulled on his long coat and retrieved his cane and hat before walking out of the door. His feet echoed loudly on the wooden steps as he strolled downstairs. It wasn’t yet obscenely late and the tavern was still half-full of drinking patrons. They barely gave Luthor a glance as he walked out, and the bartender offered only a nod of his head.

As he stepped outside, he realized how frigidly cold the night had become. Though the walls blocked the howling wind, the air was a stagnant cold that settled over him like a wet blanket. He pulled his coat tightly around his torso and turned away from the inn, choosing a direction at random.

The streets were mostly empty, though he knew the catacombs beneath the city would be livelier, out of the chilly night’s air. The few people he passed eyed him as warily as he watched them, neither sure of the other’s intent. Despite his obvious concerns, everyone passed by him without incident, intent only on returning to their homes.

When he was far enough away from the inn, Luthor glanced over his shoulder to make certain no one was around to hear him. The inn was no longer visible and the streets both in front and behind him were empty.

“I truly wish I could just tell him the truth,” he muttered to himself. “It would make life infinitely simpler if I could just tell him that I belong to the Cabal and that he should take my advice on all things demon related. Instead, I’m treated as a second-rate citizen whose advice always seems to be given but never asked for.”

His personal monologue made him more frustrated. As he walked, Luthor wished there was a loose rock or piece of debris he could kick. Though Simon was opposed, it would have made him far happier to release some frustration subduing armed guards at the telegraph office.

After a few more steps, Luthor paused. He didn’t know exactly why, but he knew immediately that something was amiss. He turned slowly, examining the nearby buildings and looking up and down the streets, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.

“Hello?” he said, immediately cursing himself for sounding so juvenile. A killer certainly wouldn’t respond to his query.

He took a few more steps but could feel the eyes upon him once more. Luthor stopped and turned around slowly again, but he still saw nothing and no one. He was, for all intents and purposes, alone on the street. Except that he knew that wasn’t true at all; he wasn’t alone, he just couldn’t see his pursuer.

He tightened his grip on his cane, shifting its pommel until his thumb was resting on the button that released the hidden blade. He walked forward slowly, letting his cane clack loudly on the cobblestone street. From within himself, he began channeling his magic, ready to call down an eldritch blast on whoever revealed themselves.

A rattle of a pebble bouncing against the stones of the road sounded behind him. He spun quickly, drawing the sword from his cane in a fluid motion. In the street behind him, a dirt-covered naked woman stood in the middle of the road. Her arms hung limply by her side and curly locks of muddy, red hair concealed her facial features.

Luthor quickly glanced away, while keeping her in view through his periphery. “Madam, you appear to be quite in the buff. Are you in need of help?”

He waited for an answer but heard none. Slowly, he turned his head back toward the naked woman. She stood impassively in the middle of the road, unmoved since her first startling appearance.

“Madam?” he asked again. “Are you hurt? I could contact the constabulary if you are in need of assistance.”

The woman slowly raised her head, and her hair parted around her face. Luthor cursed himself for being so stupid, having not recognized Mattie by her locks of red hair alone.

“Mattie? Are you all right?”

He took a step toward her but paused as he heard a low growl rolling down the street.

“Mattie, I don’t know what happened, but you seem to be in need. Come back to the inn with me, and we’ll get you properly bathed and clothed.”

He looked at the blade, the tip of which was still pointed threateningly toward Mattie, and gently lowered the sword. His gesture was met with a more savage growl than the one before.

Though he dreaded admitting the truth, even to himself, Luthor knew what he was facing. Her few movements had seemed stiff and unnatural. She obviously didn’t recognize Luthor, though they had spent some involved moments together at her village. Even in the dim glow of the street lamps, he could see her wide, wild eyes staring through him rather than at him.

She was a thrall.

“Mattie, I can help you,” he said nervously. He didn’t want to hurt her but saw few other options if she attacked. “Come with me and I can break Gideon’s spell.”

At the mention of his name, Mattie tilted her head back and howled into the still night air. The tips of her fingers spread wide at her side. The fingers elongated and thick bone claws emerged from the tips. Her clawed hands tore her flesh from her chin to her groin. She thrust her bloody claws into the wound and pulled the skin apart, peeling away her dirty flesh in a single animalistic pull.

The werewolf stood in her stead, even as the tattered remains of her former skin drifted lazily to the road. Her lips pulled back as she growled, exposing rows of dangerously pointed teeth.

Luthor raised his sword again but held his other hand aloft, exposing the empty palm. “I don’t want to do this. Don’t force my hand by coming any closer. If you do, I’m going to have to do something we’ll both regret.”

Mattie snarled before charging at him, her teeth bared and claws extended, clearly intent on eviscerating the apothecary where he stood.