Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (13 page)

Luthor blanched at the news. “Perhaps their disease really is magical in nature and not scientific. Perhaps there isn’t anything to observe under a microscope.”

“And perhaps you will still turn into one of them,” Simon concluded. “That’s your real concern, is it not?”

Luthor didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to.

“Did you find anything abnormal in the tissue surrounding the bullet wounds?” Simon asked.

Luthor shook his head. “They appear to be normal by all indications.”

“No abnormal inflammation or weeping of pus?”

“None, sir.”

“Most odd,” Simon replied. “I don’t think the silver had any effect on the monster. I can find no antigens in his blood against the invasion of silver in his system. He appears to have died of a normal series of gunshot wounds.”

Simon spun in his chair so he could face his companion. “If the myth of silver being positively deadly to a werewolf can be debunked, then perhaps spreading their disease through their bite might also be nothing more than over exaggerated hearsay. You may be nothing more than a man who was unfortunately bitten by a wolf.”

Luthor looked up and offered a weak smile. “I certainly do hope so, sir.”

“Excellent. Now that that’s settled, let’s conduct an autopsy.”

The organs were stacked neatly on trays beside the hollowed-out remains of the werewolf. Simon brushed his gloved hands on his bloodstained smock, smearing viscera across his covered torso.

“What can I bring you, sir?” Luthor asked.

“The scalpel, if you please.”

Luthor ran the instrument underneath the spray of water, washing away the gore that clung to its exterior. With a quick pat dry, he handed it to Simon.

The Inquisitor ran his gaze across the collection of organs, settling finally on the engorged stomach. He deftly sliced into the soft organ. A wave of partially digested food and bile poured from the pierced stomach, filling the bottom of the raised pan in which it sat. Simon handed the scalpel back to Luthor before sticking both hands within the stomach. With a jerk, he pulled the remaining contents onto the tray.

He used the back of his hand to brush aside the clinging digestive juices, exposing the creature’s final meal. Simon arched his eyebrow curiously, as he picked up a partially chewed but evidently sliced piece of vegetable.

“Could you get me the glasses?” Simon asked, his eyes never leaving the tuber.

Luthor picked up a pair of jeweler’s glasses. A series of lenses clung to the wire frame, each with increasing magnification. Simon lowered his head as Luthor approached, allowing the shorter man to set them comfortably on his face.

“Which lens would you like?”

Simon tried his best to look at the options dangling just beyond his periphery. “Let’s start with three times magnification.”

Luthor flipped down the appropriate lens over his left eye and stepped away.

Simon raised the plant root in front of his face and stared at the scoring across its surface. He rotated the plant slowly, examining it from different angles.

“Most curious,” he muttered.

“What is, sir?”

Simon looked up as though surprised Luthor was still in the room. He raised the root over his head as though celebrating his find.

“The incisions on this root weren’t made by the creature’s teeth or claws, as I originally assumed they would have been,” Simon explained. “The lines of the cuts are far too precise. These were cut with a tool, most likely a knife of some craftsmanship.”

Luthor shrugged noncommittally, stealing some of Simon’s thunder. “These creatures were using rifles with relative ease. It hardly seems unlikely that they’d have the ability to manage a flintlock rifle but suddenly lack the manual dexterity to cut a vegetable with an ordinary knife.”

Simon frowned and dropped the vegetable into the tray. He brushed aside more of the stomach’s contents. His hand paused, however, when he found a partially chewed piece of meat. The blackening around the edges of the meat caught his attention. He lifted it from the tray and brought it to his nose. Despite the foul stench of the creature’s stomach acid, he could still discern the faint underpinnings of char.

“That’s truly disgusting,” Luthor remarked, wrinkling his nose at the filth that Simon held to his face. “I really wish you wouldn’t do that, or at the very least warn me before you do so that I might leave.”

“Oh you of little faith,” Simon mused to his companion. He set the meat back in the tray and removed his glasses, oblivious to the blood he smeared on the delicate lenses. “We’ve been assuming that these werewolves are, to some degree, savages, correct? That despite their use of tools and their opposable thumbs, they’re magical monstrosities?”

Luthor nodded. “Findings that are supported by the accounts from Mr. Dosett and the governor.”

“Exactly,” Simon replied excitedly. “We’ve been told that they eat the flesh of their victims raw like their wolf cousins. But this meat isn’t raw, Luthor. It’s been cooked, as though over an open flame.”

Luthor arched an eyebrow and ran his hand across his muttonchops. “So you’re insinuating that they’re civilized? That they’ve set up a settlement somewhere in the frozen tundra?”

Simon smiled his damningly knowing smile as he pulled off his entrails-stained gloves. With the gloves removed, he untied the smock and dropped it on the countertop beside him. He turned sharply on his heels and walked toward the door.

“What do you know?” Luthor asked, hurrying to keep up.

“I know nothing. I only presume to know.”

Luthor stopped at the doorway in frustration and watched his mentor walk calmly down the hallway. “Are you really going to do this to me again? Just simply walk away with a wealth of conjecture and theories bouncing around your head while leaving me completely in the dark?”

“A hunch is only a hunch until supported by scientific evidence,” Simon called back over his shoulder. “Scientific evidence is what separates us from the mystical monsters that have escaped the Rift.”

“Then where are you going?”

“To see Mr. Dosett. We owe him our findings.”

“And from there?” Luthor asked, exasperated.

Simon paused and stroked his chin. “Perhaps after that we’ll get lunch.”

“Lunch? I ask for answers and all you offer me is lunch?”

Simon began walking again, climbing the stairs that led to the main floor of the mansion. Luthor hurried to catch up.

“I truly do hate when you do this,” he yelled, ensuring his mentor heard his displeasure.

“Can you at least give me a hint as to what you discovered?” Luthor begged as they climbed the last of the winding stairs from the mansion’s basement. “An inkling with which to satisfy my indelible curiosity?”

“Patience, Luthor,” Simon chided. “I am still missing a few pieces of the puzzle.”

Luthor frowned. “That’s far better than me. I’m still not sure what picture the completed puzzle is supposed to reveal.”

The doors at the top of the stairs were closed but unlocked. Simon pulled them inward and stepped into the hallway that ran between the kitchen and the foyer.

“Mr. Dosett will be able to provide a few more of the answers we seek,” Simon continued. “That’s why we are going to visit him now.”

As they entered the foyer, the butler emerged from the sitting room with a severe expression on his face. He stopped curtly in front of the pair and nodded to them both.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Archibald said, “forgive my interruption. A telegraph came for you while you were out, sir.”

He handed an envelope to Simon, who took it hesitantly. The envelope wasn’t sealed, and the yellow telegraph could be seen jutting from its folds.

“Thank you,” Simon said quietly before stealing a glance at the apothecary.

“Do you require anything else?” the butler asked. When Simon shook his head, the man turned in place and disappeared back into the sitting room, pulling the sliding doors closed behind him.

“What will you do?” Luthor asked, his eyes never leaving the envelope in Simon’s hand.

Simon glanced down at the telegraph. “You mean if it’s actually from the Order? What will my response be?”

Luthor nodded.

“Well, I don’t know,” Simon replied. “I haven’t read it yet to know what they want.”

“You know damn well what they want. They want to know why you’ve failed to update them on your investigation.”

Simon looked pensively at the envelope, as though weighing his options.

“Sir, I’m begging you not to do something foolish,” Luthor chided. “I’m ready to accept my fate, but I won’t let you fall on your sword to protect me. Read the telegraph and give them the appropriate response, including informing them of my affliction.”

“Which we haven’t even confirmed yet that you have,” Simon corrected.

“Sir, you’re arguing semantics. Do the right thing.”

“Right is so arbitrary,” Simon muttered, as he pulled the yellow telegraph from the envelope.

His eyes darted quickly across the minimal lines of typed font. He furrowed his brow for a brief moment before his entire expression relaxed considerably. A faint smile pulled at the corners of his mouth as he lowered the telegraph.

“What does it say?” Luthor asked.

Simon brought it back up to his gaze. “Dearest Simon. Stop. I hope this finds you well. Stop. I worry that I haven’t yet heard from you. Stop. Please write me at your earliest convenience. Stop. With all my love, Veronica.”

Luthor visibly shook as he lowered himself down onto the bench against the wall. His face brightened with a smile before he let out a shaking, nervous laugh.

“A love letter? I’ve been worrying myself into an ulcer all because you got a love letter from your lady caller?”

His laughter grew louder as he tilted his head backward. Simon’s expression didn’t change; he arched an eyebrow in Luthor’s direction as the man suffered his hysterics.

“I thought it was rather sweet of her to check on my well-being,” Simon remarked.

Luthor wiped a tear from his eye and stood. “It was the most generous thing I think that woman has ever done for you. And her timing was utterly impeccable.” He grasped Simon by the shoulders and shook him firmly. “Do give Veronica all my love when you respond.”

“I didn’t think you cared for her.”

Luthor shrugged. “I don’t, but for this moment, I am truly in love with her.”

“She doesn’t share your distaste, you know. She genuinely likes you.”

“Good for her.”

Simon frowned. “What is it you don’t like about her?”

“You’re an Inquisitor, sir. You deserve to be courting a lady of class, rather than one of such dubious reputation.”

Before Simon could reply, Luthor turned toward the stairwell that led to Mr. Dosett’s office. “Come, sir, we have work to be done.”

Simon shook his head as he followed the apothecary up the stairs. “You’re a very odd man, Luthor.”

“You have no idea, sir.”

Gideon’s office was a pristine comment on modern opulence. He waved them into the expansive suite as soon as he noticed the Inquisitor standing in his doorway. Simon and Luthor entered and took seats on the near side of the broad oak desk that dominated the center of the room.

“I’m waiting with bated breath to hear your findings,” Gideon said.

“Do you have any scotch?” Simon replied.

Gideon paused, taken aback by the sudden change of conversation. “I believe so.”

Simon rubbed his throat dramatically. “Science always seems to leave me parched.”

Gideon seemed put out as he stood and walked toward the liquor cabinet behind him.  He stood before the assorted bottles of alcohol for a moment, staring at Simon through the mirror mounted on the wall. Eventually, he pulled a bottle and glass from the shelf, pouring a healthy amount into the tumbler. He walked back and set it in front of the Inquisitor.

“Now can we please get down to business? My time is very valuable.”

Simon motioned to the room around them. “So I surmised. Yes, let’s get down to business. We concluded our autopsy of the creature, but have left with little useful knowledge about their weaknesses. I killed the creature in question with silver bullets, which seemed to have no effect on the werewolf’s physiology. They seem like a sturdy lot, but susceptible to death by normal means.”

Gideon stared as Simon blankly. “That’s all? You turned this autopsy in a practical circus of enthusiasm and fanaticism; I would have expected something far more remarkable in your findings.”

“I approached the autopsy with theories, but science doesn’t exist to be shaped to fit a theory. Theories are proven or disproven by the scientific process. In this instance, our assumption was disproven. However, even in failure, we advance our knowledge.”

“Enough of your Inquisitor rhetoric!” Gideon barked angrily. “I’m not interested in hearing about the hundreds of things that you didn’t discover. I need to know a way to end the threat of these werewolves once and for all. Have you found anything that can help me or not?”

“Not, I’m afraid,” Simon said.

“And yet I see no movement on your part toward requesting more Inquisitors.”

“I don’t think we’ve reached that point yet in our investigation.”

Gideon slammed his hand down on the table angrily, though it spurred no response from Simon, who remained impassive. “I don’t understand you, Inquisitor! You have all the proof you need. I offered you a corpse, and it wasn’t good enough. You faced the monsters yourself and killed one. You performed the autopsy yourself and concluded that the beasts are real, that it isn’t some elaborate hoax on our part. Yet, you still persist in delaying your report. What more could you possibly need?”

“A rushed investigation begets poor results,” Simon said flatly.

Luthor looked over toward his mentor cautiously, sensing the open hostility from Gideon.

Taking a deep breath, Gideon pushed loose hairs from his face, affixing them in the ponytail tied at the back of his head. “You infuriate me, Mr. Whitlock. Perhaps you aren’t the capable Royal Inquisitor that I thought you to be. Perhaps it’s time the governor sent a second request for assistance, citing your incompetence and bumbling of this investigation.”

Simon merely shrugged noncommittally. “Perhaps, if that’s what you feel would best serve.”

Gideon sat back in his plush chair and frowned. He drummed his fingers together in front of his face, as though contemplating Simon’s bluff. “You surprise me, Inquisitor, in more ways than one. But be forewarned: you’re not the only one here full of surprises. If the Inquisitors are impotent in this situation, I will find my own creative means to deal with these monstrosities. I’ll leave you to continue your so-called investigation, but you’ll remain out of my way as I eliminate the werewolf threat once and for all.”

Simon nodded and stood abruptly. “I apologize that I wasn’t able to offer you more insight.”

Gideon waved his hand dismissively. “I’m not sure why I expected anything more from you.”

“Very good, Mr. Dosett. We’ll be taking our leave now.”

Simon turned without offering his hand and walked out of the room. Luthor hurried to keep up, his gaze lingering on Gideon a moment longer, though the businessman never looked up from his desk. As they exited the room, Simon pulled the doors closed behind them.

“I’m not exactly sure what just happened,” Luthor said matter-of-factly.

“We briefed Mr. Dosett on our findings.”

Luthor shook his head. “It was more than that. I don’t understand why you insist on instigating him so.”

Simon turned toward his friend as they reached the top of the stairs. “Mr. Dosett assumed that we came here to give him information. He was sadly mistaken. I wasn’t here to give him information, but rather to extract information from him.”

“In your inevitably infuriating manner, no less,” Luthor remarked. “So what have we—or should I clarify by saying ‘you’—learned?”

“The werewolves have an insatiable hatred for Mr. Dosett, but we have yet to discern why. Mr. Dosett knows that he’s the target of their rage but, far more importantly, he has the means to eliminate these monsters. He practically said so just now. If he has the means, then why weren’t these werewolves destroyed long ago? Why even bother contacting the crown and the Inquisitors in the first place?”

Simon began descending the stairs with Luthor at his side.

“You have another assumption about this as well, I presume?”

Simon nodded. “Mr. Dosett sits in a place of power within this estate—nay, this whole town—and yearns to know everything that happens. He holds far more sway than a man of his stature and position should dictate. What we’ve done today is set smoke to the rabbit hole. He will eventually come up for air, once the smoke grows too thick.”

Luthor frowned and placed his hand on his friend’s arm as a warning. “Normally when you smoke a creature from its hovel, you do so with the intent of bashing in its skull when it finally reveals itself.”

Simon didn’t return Luthor’s gaze but shook off the apothecary’s hand. Luthor sighed heavily and followed him down the stairs.

Before they reached the foyer, the governor’s advisor burst through the front door. He looked excitedly toward the two gentlemen descending the steps and waited patiently for them.

“Mr. Mulvane,” Simon said with a broad smile. “We haven’t seen you since our arrival in Haversham. I assume you were looking for the two of us in particular?”

Patrick nodded. “I’ve been looking for the two of you throughout the city. You can imagine my surprise when I heard you had gone beyond the wall and my even greater concern when I heard that you had been attacked. As soon as I was notified you returned, I’ve been searching the city thoroughly, though I’ve had the devil of a time finding you both.”

“Do take a breath, sir,” Luthor offered, “before you pass out here at the base of the steps. Inquisitor Whitlock is a fine forensic scientist, but he’s far more comfortable autopsying the dead than reviving the living.”

Patrick blanched, clearly not acknowledging Luthor’s dry humor.

“Forgive my companion,” Simon interjected. “He jests. For what reason were you looking for us?”

The advisor cleared his throat and retrieved a white envelope from his jacket’s inner pocket. He offered it to Simon, who admired his and Luthor’s names written in elaborate calligraphy on its surface.

“The governor is hosting his annual Winter Ball this evening. He would like to extend an invitation to attend to you both. He would be delighted to have you as his guests of honor.”

“Thank you for the kind offer, Mr. Mulvane,” Luthor began with a polite smile, “but—”

“Will Mr. Dosett be in attendance as well?” Simon interrupted.