“However, I don’t know what to report.”
Luthor looked over at his friend. “You don’t know what to report, or are you hesitant to tell the Order that your companion might be infected with the very disease you came to investigate?”
Simon kept his gaze stoically ahead. “They seem like two sides of the same argument.”
“Forgive me for playing the Devil’s advocate, but we’ve seen the werewolves. We’ve met them face-to-face. For God’s sake, our feet are resting on the remains of one as we speak. What more do you require to be satisfied?”
“A reason,” Simon replied, driving his fist into his palm. “I require a justification as to why these monsters are attacking isolated drilling and refinery sites and not the city itself. Do you remember when the governor’s assistant told us the tunnels led beyond the wall? Why wouldn’t the werewolves simply use the tunnels to enter the city, where they could do the most harm?”
“A personal hatred for Gideon Dosett, perhaps?” Luthor surmised.
“That would be my assumption, but it’s all conjecture. Before I send a telegraph back to the Order, I want to ensure I have all the facts.”
Luthor shook his head. “Procedure dictates you contact them the moment you have any indication of magic. They won’t like this delay, nor will they accept your excuses without bitter disapproval.”
Luthor blanched slightly as he continued. “And what if they contact you instead, demanding an update of your investigation? What will you tell them, about the werewolves and about me?”
Simon turned his gaze back to the jostling landscape. “That will just have to be a bridge we cross when we come to it.”
Luthor let his gaze follow Simon’s to the desolate frozen tundra over which they raced. “For what it’s worth, thank you,” Luthor said. When Simon didn’t reply, the apothecary cleared his throat and continued. “It’s more than just a quest for information, isn’t it?” he asked.
“If I send a telegraph with no more information than that werewolves exist, you and I both know what the Order will do.”
“They’ll send Kinder Pel,” Luthor answered.
Simon nodded. “The Order of Kinder Pel is a little, shall we say, heavy handed. If Inquisitors are surgeons, tactfully exercising the magic from our kingdom, they’re performing said surgery with a mallet.”
“Do you fear for the lives of the denizens of Haversham, should Pellites arrive?”
“Nothing so altruistic, I’m afraid. While I do worry about their well-being, I’m far more concerned with the werewolves themselves. A pack of werewolves of this size, assuming what we’ve seen today is but a fraction of their full strength, is clearly an advance force, but of what, I cannot say. Before I can release the tactless Pellites on Haversham, I have to know why the werewolves are here. Sadly, the Order of Kinder Pel doesn’t share my concerns. They’d destroy any further evidence and our investigation—the reason ‘why’, mind you—would disappear forever.”
Luthor turned toward the Inquisitor sternly. Though Simon refused to return Luthor’s hard stare, he read his companion’s confused expression well enough. He understood the apothecary’s concern. Simon was ignoring the written doctrine of his order by continuing his investigation, especially without notifying the crown. Luthor was right that the Order wouldn’t be happy about this breach. Despite the fact that Simon didn’t envy the conversation he’d have with the Grand Inquisitor upon their return to the capital, he knew his path was righteous.
“If we are to uncover this mysterious reason why to which you keep alluding, what do we do once we get back to Haversham?” Luthor asked.
Simon patted the corpse under their feet. “We start by conducting a right and proper autopsy. Then I think it’ll be time to have a more candid conversation with Mr. Dosett.”
“And then, sir?”
“And then we discover whether or not you and the next full moon are to become intimately acquainted.”
Luthor nodded in satisfaction and leaned back in his wicker chair as the sled raced over the frozen ground.
Simon hung his parka on the hook as the sled dogs yipped from their respective kennels. He shook gently as though mentally dusting off the snow that had accumulated during their trip. Like returning to an old friend, the Inquisitor affectionately retrieved his top hat and placed it, canted, on top of his head.
He joined Luthor outside as the apothecary supervised the loading of the werewolf corpse onto the back of a wagon. Luthor quickly climbed up onto the back of the wagon and unfolded a coarse, woven blanket. He winced as he draped it over the wolf, ensuring all of the white fur was concealed. Once the deed was done, he drew his bitten arm closer to his chest protectively.
“We should take you to the doctor,” Simon remarked, gesturing toward Luthor’s wounded limb.
Luthor shook his head. “It’s nothing, sir. A doctor will give me nothing that I can’t produce more effectively on my own. I merely need to return to the estate and my doctor’s bag.”
Simon stepped forward and stared up at his companion. “The role of the solemn hero is unbecoming on you, Luthor. You will do me no good if the wound gets infected.”
Luthor looked down, appreciative of his friend’s genuine concern. “I appreciate the sentiment, but it’ll heal far better on its own. I can dress the wound properly once we’re safely returned to the gubernatorial mansion. I promise, sir.”
Sensing the end of Simon’s protests, Luthor grasped the wooden side of the wagon and began lowering himself to the frosted cobblestones below. As Luthor climbed down from the horse-drawn wagon, the driver approached the Inquisitor. The portly man’s gaze struggled to remain on Simon, as he repeatedly looked toward the covered monster as though expecting it to rise from the dead at any moment.
“It’s thoroughly deceased,” Simon reprimanded the man. “It poses no threat to you. However, failing to follow my instructions could be detrimental to your future employment.”
The man brought his gaze immediately back to the Royal Inquisitor. “Of course, sir.”
“You are to take the body back to the governor’s estate with all haste. Mr. Strong and I will be accompanying you the whole way and will answer any questions that may arise. You are to stop for no one and no matter the inquiry that may arise, under no circumstances are you to remove or allow to be removed that blanket before we arrive. Do you understand my directions thus far?”
The man nodded.
“Good. Then let’s be off.”
Simon scrambled into the front seat beside the driver as Luthor climbed himself onto the open back of the wagon. His feet dangled over the back as he pressed his weight down onto the loose end of the blanket, ensuring it wouldn’t rise up as they rode off.
The driver swung himself onto the wagon. It started with a lurch, and its wooden wheels clacked along the cobblestone street. The ride through the town was blissfully quick and uneventful, though Simon’s stomach churned at every wary eye that watched the Inquisitor pass. He could sense the growing suspicion as to the contents of the wagon, though he kept his expression stoic toward their scrutiny. He politely tipped his hat to anyone who stared for longer than a brief moment.
The gubernatorial guards let the wagon pass into the estate without question, and the battered cart pulled in front of the house as though it were a nobleman’s carriage. Simon climbed hastily from the seat and approached the front door.
“Find Mr. Dosett at once,” he demanded of the guards. “Tell him we have need of his autopsy room once more.”
Before the guard could turn to leave, Simon grabbed his arm and forced him to turn. “And find some burly chaps who can carry a great weight. We’ll have need of their services as well.”
Simon returned to the wagon but walked around to the back, where Luthor sat nervously. His legs swung back and forth and his gaze was distant.
“You look deep in thought,” Simon remarked.
“It’s supposed to be a full moon tonight, you realize,” L
uthor stated. “I took note of the lunar patterns as soon as I was told our mission, in case the effects of the full moon did have an impact on the transformation of these creatures.”
Simon lowered his voice so the wagon driver couldn’t overhear. “And you fear tonight you will become a beast?”
Luthor shrugged. “I’m not sure what I think, though I believe a werewolf loosed in the mansion would create an unfortunate panic indeed. All attempts to keep the Order of Kinder Pel at bay would be for naught if the governor himself reports a direct attack.”
“If it’s a transformation you fear, then tonight I will lash you to your bed with the best seaman’s knots I can recall. I can’t say you’ll sleep at all comfortably, or at all, for that matter, but you will be better… contained, shall we say?”
Before they could continue their conversation, the front door to the estate opened and Gideon appeared. He rushed down the steps and approached the back of the wagon. Without a word to the two gentlemen, he lifted the back corner of the blanket. At the sight of the dead werewolf, he smiled broadly, dropped the blanket, and patted Simon appreciatively on the back.
“Well done, gentlemen,” he said excitedly. “Well done.”
“I wouldn’t grow too excitable at this one creature’s death,” Simon responded. “This one death hardly outweighs the cost to your business or men who were run off or worse during the attack.”
Gideon waved his hand dismissively. “We can always rebuild a drill, but until these creatures know that we’ll hunt them and stop them at every turn, then all our actions are for naught. You’ve delivered them a great blow today, and I can’t thank you enough.”
“You most certainly can thank us,” Simon corrected, “by having this corpse delivered to the surgical suite in the basement. I would like to conduct my autopsy, a proper one, this time.”
“Of course,” Gideon said. He turned toward the door and motioned for a pair of large men to join them. The two brutish workers wrapped the corpse fully in the blanket before lifting it from the wagon with strained grunts.
Gideon led the way through the foyer, much to the chagrin of the butler who stood impassively to the side. The frown etched on his face was evidence enough of his feelings of a monster being towed through his clean antechamber.
The doorway to the basement was open, and both Simon and Luthor followed the parade of workers down the winding steps. At the bottom, Gideon led the group into a familiar sterilized room. The werewolf’s corpse was placed onto the metal table and unwrapped. The two large men struggled to shift its weight and pull the blanket from underneath it, only successfully doing so after Simon offered his assistance.
With the blanket removed and the body on display, Gideon dismissed the two workers and turned toward Simon.
“What shall we do first?”
“We won’t be doing anything,” Simon quickly corrected. “Mr. Strong and I will be conducting this autopsy in private.”
Gideon frowned, clearly not used to being so readily dismissed. “I would like to stay, if it’s all the same.”
His words carried weight, as though spoken by someone who did not intend to be denied. Luthor turned away from the growing battle of wills and absently scratched at his arm.
Simon stared blankly at Gideon for some time before finally shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Dosett. My stance is very firm in this situation.”
If possible, Gideon’s frown deepened for a moment before he nodded submissively. “Very well. Though I would appreciate a full report of your findings. If this autopsy can assist in eliminating the werewolf threat once and for all, I would like to be kept informed.”
“That would be acceptable,” Simon conceded.
Gideon stared a moment longer before turning and walking out of the room.
Both men sighed in relief, glad that the battle between the iron will of Simon and the oozing charisma of Gideon didn’t last longer than it did. By the time Simon turned back toward Luthor, the apothecary had already laid out a series of surgical instruments on a rolling table beside the corpse. He reached up above his head with the arm on the opposite side from his fractured ribs and pulled down a shower nozzle. Even so, the movement sent a brief spark of pain through Luthor’s side, despite the magical healing coursing through his body. A squeeze of the handle produced a quick spray of water. He released the nozzle and let it retract back toward the ceiling.
“Where shall we begin, sir?”
Simon looked around the room until he spotted a microscope set against the wall. “Before we conduct the autopsy, I would like to examine the creature’s blood. Can you draw a vial for me?”
“Of course, sir,” Luthor replied, retrieving a syringe from the table.
“While you are at it,” Simon continued, “draw a vial from yourself.”
Luthor’s hand froze above the syringe and he looked back at his mentor. “Sir?”
“If these creatures are carrying pathogens that, as you presume, are transmitted through its bite, than there should be traces of this disease in your own blood as well. I would like to confirm if you are or are not infected.”
“Of… of course,” Luthor stammered.
Simon walked past the table and picked up a long stick wrapped at the end in a cotton swab. He moved to the creature’s mouth and crouched in front of it. The werewolf’s mouth was agape as it had died, and its tongue hung flaccid from between its sharp teeth. Simon inserted the cotton swab and soaked up samples of the monster’s saliva in the absorbent cotton. Satisfied, he stood and walked back to the microscope. He smeared the saliva onto a glass slide and slid it under the lens of the machine. A turn of the handle adjusted the mirror beneath until it caught the light, reflecting it through the slide and into the microscope’s lens.
“Here are your samples,” Luthor said from behind Simon.
Without looking up from the microscope, the Inquisitor motioned to an empty rack beside him. “Place them there, please. They’re properly labeled so I know which is whose, correct?”
“Of course,” Luthor replied. Simon heard the clink of the glass vials settling into the wooden slots. “Is there anything else I can prepare in advance of the autopsy?”
Simon lifted his head from the microscope’s eyepiece and glanced at his clearly nervous companion. He knew Luthor’s concerns, though he found the man’s worrying unnecessary and a bit presumptuous.
“I fired three silver bullets into the creature. Could you please retrieve the bullets for me? I’d like to see the condition of the shells and any affect they might have had on the surrounding tissue.”
“Gladly,” Luthor replied, clearly glad to have something to keep him occupied.
Simon removed the saliva slide from the microscope and picked up the nearest blood sample, which was labeled with Luthor’s name. A dropper beside him offered the means to collect a droplet of the apothecary’s blood. Like the saliva before it, he smeared it onto a slide and placed another on top of the sample, spreading and trapping the red fluid. He slid it quickly under the microscope.
“Elevated white blood cells,” Simon said after a moment’s examination. “Though that’s easily explained by the trauma you recently suffered. Good concentrations of red blood cells and platelets. No clear sign of any abnormalities or pathogens. Luthor, your blood says that you’re in overall good health, albeit fighting off an infection that I can only assume stems from the bite on your arm.”
“I do so hope that’s the case, sir,” Luthor said as he pulled the second silver bullet from the corpse.
Simon repeated the procedure with the next vial of blood, that which had come from the werewolf. He slid the slide under the microscope and looked through the eyepiece. As the blood sample came into focus, Simon frowned.
“This bullet has splintered,” Luthor said from behind him. “It’ll take some time to collect all the pieces.”
When Simon didn’t reply, the apothecary turned curiously toward the Inquisitor.
“Sir?�
�� he asked. “What do you see?”
“Normal red blood cell count,” Simon said quietly, just audibly enough for Luthor to hear. “Elevated white blood cell count and concentrated platelets. I was hardly trained in zoology during my Inquisitor training, but this blood looks decidedly, well, human to be honest. Luthor, are you sure this blood came from the werewolf?”
“Of course, sir. What’s the matter?”
Simon shook his head. “There’s no sign of any pathogens in this creature’s blood. I would have expected to have found something buried in the werewolf’s blood that would indicate the potential for a spreading infection.”
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.
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 11
