“I hope you found what you were looking for,” she said politely.
“That we did and far more, madam,” Simon replied. “We greatly appreciate your hospitality and your forgiveness for the mess we left in our wake.”
“You would hardly be the first.”
Simon placed his hat on his head and tipped its brim to her before walking back into the glaring sun and frigid winter winds.
The telegraph office seemed well used and busy, especially early in the morning. Simon and Luthor waited patiently behind a row of people sending telegraphs to their loved ones in distant cities and towns, encouraging them, one and all, to visit their quiet hamlet of Haversham. They moved forward at a slow pace, shifting a few steps every time someone completed their telegram and left the building.
Simon’s mind swirled with the case before him. It all painted a clear picture of deceit on the part of Gideon Dosett, though Simon still struggled with a different question of why. He no longer wondered why the werewolves hated Mr. Dosett; that reason was evident from the sales in the ledger. Instead, he began wondering why Mr. Dosett would risk the ire of the werewolf tribes. At the time of the land sales, he had to have known their true nature. Yet he still risked his fiscal and physical health by robbing the monsters blind.
Eventually, there was only a single man standing in line ahead of the men. The hunched gentlemen walked to the counter, rubbing his balding head nervously.
“What’s your destination, sir?” the telegraph operator asked politely.
“Wollen Hall,” the man said in a shaky voice. “The telegraph is addressed to a Mr. Peter Bronwell, my brother.”
The man behind the counter wrote down the name onto a yellowing piece of paper. “And what would you like the message to say, sir?”
The balding man cleared his throat. “Dear Peter. Stop. Great job opportunity in Haversham. Stop. Working for Mr. Gideon Dosett’s oil refinery. Stop. Bring the entire family. Stop. Your loving brother, Quincy.”
The man’s message struck a chord with Simon. He furrowed his brow as he tried to compile the pieces of an ill-fitting puzzle, but one whose picture was steadily becoming clearer by the minute.
As the balding man paid and stepped out of line, the man behind the counter gestured for Simon and Luthor to advance. Instead, Simon spun brusquely on his heel and impolitely pushed his way past the other customers waiting in line. Luthor, dumbfounded, hurried to catch his mentor.
“Sir?” Luthor asked as they exited the telegraph office. “I thought you were inclined to send a telegraph.”
“I’ve been a fool, Luthor,” Simon said, striking his fist into his open hand.
“You’ve been called many things in your time as an Inquisitor, sir, but a fool was never one of them.”
Simon turned toward the apothecary and fiddled anxiously with his thin moustache. “Gideon Dosett is a villain; I think we can both agree to that fact.”
“Indeed,” Luthor agreed.
“Yet, though a villain, has he ever tried to impede our investigation? Has he placed any roadblocks in our way that would keep us from learning the truth? Quite on the contrary, he’s been more than forthcoming with evidence. He provided the first werewolf corpse for us to examine. He provided a sled and driver to take us wherever our heart’s desired beyond the city walls. He had to know that we would find the ledgers eventually. Yet he hid nothing from us. Does that sound like logically devious behavior?”
Luthor arched an eyebrow. “Admittedly not, though I don’t follow your reasoning or your sudden departure from the telegraph office.”
Simon scowled at his own blindness and ignorance. “What is the only thing Gideon Dosett has requested, time and time again? What was the only demand he made following the first autopsy, and the second, and following our trip into the tundra? What would be the only thing he would request were I to present the evidence we uncovered at the Hall of Records?”
Luthor smiled knowingly as the realization dawned upon him. “He only requested that we send our telegraph requesting support from the Order.”
“And what would have happened had I sent that telegraph, confirming the existence of werewolves in Haversham?” Simon asked, guiding Luthor toward the answer.
“The Order of Inquisitors would have gladly obliged. They would have sent numerous teams. Had the Pellites received word of this discovery, teams from Kinder Pel would have arrived as well.”
“And an exceptional hypnotist like Mr. Dosett would have brought them all under his sway, as he’d already done the governor and many of the business leaders within Haversham. He would have created a personal army, one that would have granted him a fairly direct line of access to the crown itself.”
“That’s why he hypnotized the governor,” Luthor said. “He knew he was a cousin to the king, though obviously he overstated their relationship. With the governor giving him no further leads—”
“He requested an Inquisitor,” Simon concluded. “We were pawns in his malicious game. We were literally a few feet from handing over the crown to a devil of a man like Gideon. I abhor the thought of what would have happened had I sent that telegraph as intended.”
The two men paused and let the realization of their situation settle. Simon took a deep breath and looked away, staring down the road without seeing anything beyond the brim of his top hat. He prided himself on his intellect and both cognitive and deductive skills. To have been so readily played for a fool sat very poorly with him.
“If we are, in essence, cut off from the Order,” Luthor queried, “then what shall we do?”
When Simon turned back toward his friend, his face reflected his steely resolve. “We will confront Mr. Dosett. If we can’t garner the support of the rest of the Order without endangering the kingdom, then we’ll simply have to handle the situation ourselves.
Luthor coughed politely, breaking the spell of brash confidence that Simon was exuding.
“I sense that you have something to say,” the Inquisitor remarked flatly.
Luthor removed his bowler cap and scratched at his mop of hair. “Meaning no disrespect, of course, sir, but I fear there’s a very important fallacy in your otherwise masterful plan.”
Simon frowned. “And that would be?”
“The entire reason we can’t send our telegraph is because Gideon would simply hypnotize those that responded to your request for reinforcements. Every Inquisitor that arrived would become enthralled by Mr. Dosett.”
“Which is exactly why we can’t send the telegraph.”
“Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re an Inquisitor. If you and I go and face Mr. Dosett alone, what’s to stop him from simply hypnotizing you and making you send the telegraph?”
Simon laughed. “Hypnotism works on the weak-minded and weaker-willed, of which I’m neither. Strong minds like mine are immune to such parlor tricks and other frivolities. Now come, Luthor, we have an investigation to complete.”
The Inquisitor turned on his heel and started walking toward the governor’s estate. Luthor frowned and glanced quickly over his shoulder, ensuring no one was watching. He pulled up his sleeve slightly, revealing the lower edge of the rune of warding carved into his arm. The inflammation he had seen before had receded and the thin, puckered lines of the rune looked as fresh as the day it had been burned into his skin. He quickly pulled down his sleeve and hurried after his mentor.
Simon knocked politely on the closed door leading to Gideon’s office suite. He could hear the man shuffling within but opted against barging into his office like he had done to the governor the day before. After a few moments of waiting, Gideon opened the doors. He immediately frowned at the sight of the Inquisitor and apothecary.
“To what do I owe this visit?” Gideon asked matter-of-factly. “Are you here to berate me as you did the governor last night? Shall you interrogate me? Perhaps you should go ahead and tie me to the chair and torture me until I talk.”
Simon waved his hand dismissively, not even ackn
owledging Gideon’s obvious irritation. “Nothing so severe, I’m afraid. We’ve come only to talk.”
Gideon stood in the doorway a moment longer before stepping aside and inviting the two men into his office. Simon and Luthor took their seats in front of the oak desk again, while Gideon walked around and sat behind it. The businessman leaned back in his chair and brought a finger thoughtfully to his lips.
“So if not an interrogation, then why are you here?” Gideon asked. “You’ve shown a clear disdain for my concerns thus far, I can’t imagine you have much more to offer me.”
“We know about your purchase of the lands beyond the wall,” Simon said bluntly. “We know you conned the tribes—the werewolves—out of their lands for far less than it was worth.”
Gideon shook his head. “If you know that, then you also know that their land was sold to me willingly by their chieftains. Every business venture I’ve entered into since my arrival in Haversham has been well documented and above reproach.”
Simon laughed derisively. “If that were the case, I certainly wouldn’t be here today.”
Gideon lowered his hand and leaned forward, placing his forearms on the table in front of him. “What, exactly, do you think you know, Inquisitor?”
“I know that you cheated a lot of hard-working men and women out of their livelihood, all in an attempt to expand your rapidly growing fortune.”
“I didn’t cheat men and women,” Gideon hissed through clenched teeth. “If I cheated anyone, it was werewolves—monsters of the worst kind, straight from the Rift itself. You, of all people, should know that. How many of these monsters have you now faced personally? Yet you become fixated on my business dealings, while ignoring the more painfully obvious threat to the sanctity of our kingdom. Any Inquisitor worth his salt would have already requested support from the Order. Any Inquisitor worth a damn would have already ensured that Haversham was crawling with Inquisitors, slaughtering these werewolves one and all.”
Simon dragged his fingers on the table, oblivious to Gideon’s rising infuriation. “Except that you and I both know that I won’t do that. You and I both know that I won’t risk bringing more Inquisitors into this town before I ensure it’s safe for their arrival.”
“Safe from whom?” Gideon screamed.
“From you, Mr. Dosett,” Simon replied calmly, a stark counterpoint to Gideon’s anger. “I’ve learned many things about Haversham and her operations since arriving a few days ago. I know far more than I did from the dossier that I read on the zeppelin ride from the capital. Most importantly, I know what you are.”
Gideon froze, the flush of anger draining from his face. His eyes narrowed dangerously and he stood, not aggressively, but cautiously. Gideon turned away from the two men and walked to his liquor cabinet against the back wall. He stared at both men as he retrieved the scotch and a single tumbler from the cabinet.
“So you think you know what I am?” Gideon asked defiantly. His eyes gleamed maliciously as he watched the two men through the mirror.
Luthor seized his arm as a lance of pain pierced him to the bone. He bit his lip to suppress the groan of surprise and anguish.
“You’re a hypnotist,” Simon said. “You’ve brought the leaders of this city under your thrall in a play for power. The governor, the leaders of both the Artisan’s Union and Miner’s Guild, and I’m sure countless others, have been brought under your hypnotic sway. We’re here to put an end—”
He was interrupted as Luthor flinched again, squeezing his forearm so tightly that the hand beneath the rune was ash white. Throughout his anguish, his eyes, wide with surprise, never left Gideon’s reflection.
“Is everything all right, Luthor?” Simon asked quietly, irritated at the interruption.
“Forgive me, sir,” the apothecary replied through gritted teeth. “I seem to have taken suddenly ill.” He stood abruptly and tried to step around the chair, stumbling as his heel caught the chair’s leg. “I believe I must retire to my room until this abysmal feeling passes.”
“If you feel that’s for the best,” Simon said, his previous irritation giving way to genuine concern. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Luthor taken ill, or if he ever had, for that matter. For the first time since the apothecary was bitten, Simon wondered if the lycanthropy was infectious after all.
“Perhaps you could do me the honor of escorting me back to my room, sir, in case I’m suddenly taken faint during the walk.”
Simon shook his head. “The walk is brief, and there are plenty of servants that can assist if you require aid.”
Luthor’s cheeks turned rosy. “I believe I’d be better tended with your assistance, sir, rather than a stranger that I might pass along the way.”
Simon stood and turned toward his friend. “There is an investigation to conclude,” Simon said quietly, his irritation returning. “If you’re ill, get rest and drink plenty of fluids. I’ll check on you once this business is completed.”
Luthor clutched the Inquisitor’s lapel, pulling him in close enough that Simon could hear his harsh whisper. “Don’t trust him. There is far more to Mr. Dosett than meets the eye.”
Simon gently removed Luthor’s hand from his jacket and smiled reassuringly. He spoke loudly enough that Gideon could hear his response. “This won’t take much longer, I promise. I’ll check on you once this nasty business is concluded. There are just a few more things I’d like to discuss with Mr. Dosett.”
Luthor looked over his friend’s shoulder as he backed slowly out of the room. Gideon’s eyes never left the apothecary; they bored into him with an unholy intensity.
“I couldn’t agree more,” Gideon replied impishly. “I believe there are a few more things left to discuss, Inquisitor. Don’t worry, Mr. Strong, I’ll send him along to you shortly.”
Luthor hurried through the halls with his arm clutched to his chest as though it were broken. Another wave of pain rolled up through his shoulder and pierced his heart. His breath froze in his throat as he leaned heavily against the hallway wall until the pain subsided.
“Are you well, sir?” a servant asked from behind him.
Luthor angrily waved the man away before pushing off from the wall and continuing toward his room. The apothecary glanced over his shoulder to ensure the servant had disappeared from view before he risked pulling up the sleeve of his jacket.
Beneath the thick fabric, the warding rune on his arm burned a furious red. The puckered scaring looked new, as though it had recently been burned into his flesh, as opposed to the faded scar it normally appeared to be. Most disconcerting were the black tendrils that spread from the edges of the rune. They ran like dark veins, stretching away from the scar and spreading far enough up his arm that they disappeared beneath his jacket’s sleeve.
Luthor unbuttoned the top pair of buttons on his dress shirt and slipped his hand beneath the open collar. He could feel the heat radiating off his skin and knew the black threads stretched deep into the muscles of his neck and chest.
He coughed, and it sounded raspy and wet in his lungs. For a second, his vision swam as he tried to focus on the doorway to his room. Blinking furiously until his vision cleared, he staggered to his door. His fingers felt thick and numb as he attempted to retrieve his keys from his vest pocket. As his fingers finally closed around the wide metal, he pulled the key free and with fumbling and shaking hands managed to slip the key into its lock.
The interior of his room was blissfully cool compared to the stifling warmth in the hallway. He shoved his door closed carelessly, ignoring the thunderous sound it made as it slammed shut behind him.
Stripping away his suit jacket and vest, he tossed them onto the couch. He fumbled with the cufflinks on his shirt for some time before they finally slipped free. The dress shirt and undershirt came off equally as quickly as the suit and both were discarded with as much care.
Feeling slightly more himself in the magical coolness of his suite, Luthor walked to the washbasin set in front of the
vanity across the room. Crystal clear water swirled in the stone basin, and Luthor gladly dipped his hands into the water before splashing it across his face. He allowed a handful of water to pour over the back of his neck and run down his back. He barely gave a second thought to the water as it soaked into the back of his pants.
Standing upright, he observed his reflection. As he surmised, the black tendrils stretched up his forearm, weaving an intricate pattern across his bicep and shoulder before settling in a latticework of webbing across his chest. Numerous black threads culminated above his heart, leaving a wide, dark stain on the skin of his chest.
The tendrils accentuated the dozens of other small runes and scars that laced his chest and torso. He knew an equal number marred his back, each with their own purpose, though many existed merely to keep him from ever growing ill. He frowned at his reflection, the boyish face standing in stark contrast to the battered body. Though he hated lying to Simon—and he had worked incredibly hard to always remain shirted when in the Inquisitor’s presence—he doubted Simon would fully understand his predicament.
Wordlessly, he walked into his bedroom and retrieved his doctor’s bag. The vials within clinked as he brought the bag into the sitting room and dropped it onto the vanity beside the basin. Opening it, Luthor drew forth a number of glass tubes with varying colors of liquid within. Some had labels written in clear handwriting. Some had words written in a language known by few others, chemicals and plant extracts from rare fauna found only on distant continents. Still others weren’t labeled at all, their opaque liquids clinging to the side of the glass as though straining toward the cork that kept them in place.
The apothecary selected a few of the vials and pulled free their stoppers. Pouring with little thought to exact measurements, he added a rainbow of chemicals to the basin’s water. The clear blue quickly grew cloudy and dark, first turning a muddy brown before swirling to an inky black. Bubbles rose to the surface of the water. As they popped, white smoke hissed out of the bowl, pouring over the surface of the vanity before drifting to the floor.
Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) Page 16
