Sugden sighed and nodded. “My son, two years ago now. He was a good lad, smart and polite. For no reason whatsoever, he was stabbed twelve times on the way home one evening, a night not too unlike last night.”
“My condolences. For your sake, if not for our own, I’ll hope this troll is real as well.”
“Thank you, sir,” the detective said, though his heart was clearly no longer in the conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ll go check on my men.”
“Of course,” Luthor replied. When the detective had gone, the apothecary turned toward his mentor. “That poor man.”
Simon no longer seemed to exude the compassion he had shown just moments before. Behind his blue eyes, Luthor could already see his mind at work, considering all the possibilities.
“Are you sure you’re doing well?” Luthor asked. “There’s no need to rush back into investigations so soon after Whitten Hall.”
“I’m fine, Luthor,” Simon said dismissively.
“You went through quite an ordeal.”
Simon turned abruptly toward his friend. “I said I was fine. This is not the first time you’ve brought it up, nor is it the first time I’ve explained I don’t wish to discuss it further.”
Luthor sighed, but he didn’t press the issue.
“What do we know about trolls, Luthor?” Simon asked, changing the subject.
Luthor shrugged. He hadn’t had much time to research their mythology before they departed. “I believe they’re traditionally green skinned, consistent with the eye-witness accounts, and have the ability to heal at an exorbitant rate.”
“Do they have a weakness to sunlight?” Simon asked.
“Possibly, sir, though that’s more in line with vampires.”
“Moonlight, then, perhaps?”
Luthor looked incredulously toward his friend. “I’m pretty sure nothing has a weakness to moonlight. Then again, I guess there are myths that say that werewolves can only change shape during a full moon, but we’ve already thoroughly disproven that one.”
“Silver?”
“Again, werewolves and, apparently, some demons.”
“Holy water, then.”
“Vampires and demons, sir. We’re retreading similar ground.”
“Fire?”
Luthor sighed. “You’re grasping at straws, sir, but I’m sure fire is fairly effective against practically everything.”
Simon turned toward the apothecary and smiled. “Good, then we have a plan.”
“Fire is your plan?” Luthor asked dryly.
Simon gestured emphatically with his hands. “More along the lines of setting things on fire, but yes, more or less.”
Luthor shook his head. “Some days, I don’t think you even try.”
Simon concealed a sly smile as they observed the other Inquisitors continuing their investigations. Luthor wrinkled his nose at the odd scents assaulting his nostrils. The smell of human filth was mixed with a faint sickly sweetness in the air. Although, for the life of him, he couldn’t identify the source.
“Sir?” one of the Inquisitors shouted. “I believe I’ve found something.”
Simon and Luthor exchanged glances before approaching him. The man stood beside the crime scene, the marks of Abigail’s heels dragging through the soot on the cobblestones still visible. Rather than focusing on the ground, however, the Inquisitor examined an oily liquid on the stone railing. He dabbed it with his bare fingers before lifting his hand and rubbing his fingers together.
“It’s thick,” the Inquisitor said, “almost like syrup.”
As Simon reached the man’s side, the Inquisitor shook his head quickly, as though dissuading a persistent fly from landing on his face. He blinked as he peered down at his dark-stained fingers.
“Sir, I don’t feel so well,” the man said as his knees buckled.
Simon and Luthor caught him as he slumped toward the ground. The man’s arms fell limply to his side and his breathing grew shallow.
“What’s wrong with him?” Simon asked.
Luthor lifted the man’s hand, careful to avoid the viscous liquid staining his fingers. The apothecary adjusted his glasses and leaned forward until his face was mere inches from the Inquisitor’s hand. As he turned the man’s hand, Luthor nodded knowingly.
“He has a small abrasion on the back of his knuckle.”
“What happened?” Detective Sugden asked as he rushed to the scene.
“He’s been paralyzed,” Luthor explained, even as the weak Inquisitor’s eyes darted in panic from side to side. “He has an abrasion on the back of his hand, which has been coated with the syrupy droplets.”
“A paralytic of some sort?” Simon asked.
“It appears so, sir.”
Simon patted the side of the man’s face, certainly drawing the man’s ire, though the incapacitated Inquisitor was able to move little more than his eyes.
“What would be capable of causing such an abrupt reaction?”
Luthor rotated the man’s hand once more. “It would have to be a toxin of some sort. With this consistency, I would guess Curare?”
Simon glanced toward the apothecary. “Is that phrased as a question, as though I should know the answer?”
Luthor set the man’s hand by his side and adjusted his glasses once more. “Forgive me, sir, that was just an educated guess. Curare is an exotic toxin that’s poisonous in its most natural form, but it can be refined into a viscous, syrup-like fluid that can be used as an anesthetic, a syrup like the one on this Inquisitor’s hand and on the railing.”
Simon glanced toward the detective. “I would presume that Curare is not easily purchased. Could your constables determine if any had been stolen or purchased from local apothecaries?”
“We’re glad to help however we can, sir.” Sugden said, nodding.
Luthor furrowed his brow as he turned toward the detective. “Before you depart, Detective, can you refresh my memory on the specifics of the attack?”
The detective looked skyward as he recalled the information. “Miss Traunt was attacked by the troll, went limp and fell unconscious, and then was being dragged away.”
Luthor nodded. “Thank you, Detective. Sorry for delaying your work.”
The detective nodded before departing, returning to his awaiting constables.
Luthor sniffed the air. “Can you smell that, sir?”
Simon sniffed but immediately frowned. “Someone is suffering from digestive distress.”
“Beneath that overpowering smell,” Luthor chided. “There’s a faint sweetness in the air. I noticed it when we were standing near the cordon, but it’s stronger here.”
Simon remained silent, awaiting Luthor’s continuation.
“The victim went limp and then fell unconscious,” Luthor said, as though the truth were evident. He smiled to himself as Simon continued to stare. “Forgive me, sir, but I’m savoring this moment as I realize I know more about the investigation than you.”
Simon was still quiet, though his lips pulled into a bloodless line.
Luthor cleared his throat. “The Inquisitor merely went limp, paralyzed by the Curare. He’s still conscious, just unable to move.”
“There was something else mixed with the Curare, then?” Simon surmised.
Luthor nodded. “Ether. It leaves a sweet aroma after its use, one that’s only lingering in the air because it’s been deposited on the stonework all around us, as though sprayed.”
“Aerosolized?” Simon asked. “Like the chemicals we used in Haversham?”
“Indeed, sir. It would explain why the Curare is formed in a series of droplets rather than an even spread like I would expect to see if it had been poured or dripped from a rag. The pressurized spray created uneven droplets as a result of the Curare mixing with the ether.”
“Is it safe to assume that trolls don’t, by mythology, spit or spray ether?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
Simon frowned. “It casts a doubt on
the more monstrous aspects of this case and forces me to take an active role in this investigation.”
Simon stood, allowing the paralyzed Inquisitor to slide to the cobblestone bridge. He approached the edge, careful to avoid touching the paralyzing toxins staining the railing. Leaning as far forward as he dared, Simon glanced over toward the filth-filled waters below. He had no doubt that once upon a time those very waters were clear and beautiful, a refreshing source of drinking water against which the city had been built. That had clearly been generations past. The waters were now dark, even during the day, and filled with floating islands of debris.
He shifted his gaze away from the foul waters and closer to the stonework of the bridge’s exterior. As close as they were to the far shore, the final pylon was exceptionally thicker than the others, grounding it into the soft riverbed. Dangling near the base of the bridge, an iron-mooring ring was affixed to the pylon.
“Detective Sugden,” Simon called.
The detective huffed as he hurried over once more. “Forgive me, sir, we haven’t had enough time to query the nearest apothecaries about the missing chemicals.”
Simon waved his hand dismissively even as he continued glancing over the edge of the bridge. “I’m no longer concerned about the chemicals.”
The detective stared at him for a moment, as though determining if Simon were merely jesting. When he determined that the Inquisitor was quite serious, Sugden sighed heavily. “Sir?”
“Am I to believe that this bridge has been fitted with netting beneath, to keep birds and bats from nesting in its undercarriage?”
The detective shrugged. “It would be a safe assumption, sir.”
“Excellent,” Simon replied as he leapt over the railing.
“There was no way you could have been sure that the iron ring would hold your weight,” Luthor chided as they waded through the knee-deep muck that passed as a shoreline.
“Nonsense, Luthor,” Simon replied. “How else could the troll have disappeared beneath the bridge without a trace? He leapt from the bridge at the intervention of our eyewitness, grasped ahold of the ring, and climbed onto the netting beneath. From there, it was a simple matter to follow the netting to where it finally deposited him here, at the mouth of the sewer tunnels.”
“He could have had a boat waiting, which would explain why the witness heard no splash,” Luthor countered.
Simon paused before furrowing his brow. “I hadn’t considered that. I guess I’m damn lucky that ring held my weight.”
Simon gestured toward the metal cage that had once covered a rounded sewer entrance. The bars of the grill had been bent aside as though with superhuman strength. Simon stared for some time at the metal bars, though he couldn’t determine if a man had forced them aside or if it had been the result of a rather violent storm passing through this area.
Beyond the twisted, wrought-iron bars, the round tunnel was barely taller than a man. The darkness past the entryway was nearly impenetrable. Even during midday, the shadow of the bridge overhead blocked any light from reaching the sewer.
“Our culprit went this way,” Simon said. “We’ll need torches.”
Once lanterns and torches were procured, he claimed one before pushing forward. Simon stepped into the debris that gathered beneath the Unushire Bridge, scowling as the filth filled his shoes and soaked through his socks. He could hear the sloshing footfalls of those that followed him through the eddying muck, runoff into the otherwise-majestic Oreck River.
He paused before the torn manhole cover, a steel latticework cage that once blocked the entrance to the sewers below the city. The metal was yanked free from its moorings, steel bent backward until its ends pointed toward the Inquisitor like spears.
Simon raised the lantern in his hand, pointing its light toward the impenetrable darkness beyond the sewer’s opening. Water glistened like crystals within the rounded tunnel as it reflected his meager light. He raised his silver-plated revolver, pointing it down the tunnel as he stepped toward the opening.
“Are you all right, sir?” Luthor asked from his position behind the Inquisitor.
Simon paused and frowned. “Yes, Luthor, I am.”
The Inquisitor started forward again when Luthor spoke once more.
“Would you like to talk about what happened in Whitten Hall, sir? You haven’t really mentioned it since our return.”
Simon sneered and lowered both lantern and revolver. Perturbed, he turned toward the apothecary. “No, I wouldn’t.”
Luthor shrugged apologetically. “I only ask because you haven’t really discussed it at all, with either Mattie or me. We just figured you accepted this assignment so quickly upon our return because you were trying to avoid discussing the situation.”
Simon set his jaw in irritation and glared at his companion. “No, Luthor. I took this assignment so quickly upon our return because I figured hunting a troll through the sewers of Callifax might keep you from asking me if I was all right for the four hundredth time. Forgive me for my miscalculation.”
The Inquisitor behind Luthor cleared his throat unapologetically and motioned toward the other men standing unhappily in the filth.
Simon gestured toward the men with his hand holding the revolver. “See, now you’ve irritated the rest of the Inquisitors with your incessant nagging.”
The Inquisitors moved briskly aside as Simon pointed the barrel of his pistol toward them. Simon glanced at the weapon in his hand and sighed.
“For God’s sake, do grow up. I wasn’t going to shoot you.”
Disgusted, Simon turned away from his colleagues and approached the sewer entrance. Even with the pointed lantern light, the darkness beyond the mouth of the tunnel seemed to absorb the meager attempts to illuminate its interior. With a sickening squelch, Simon pulled his foot free of the muck and stepped into the curved tunnel.
The smell of feces was even stronger within the sewer than it had been emanating from the river. Simon was glad Matilda had foregone joining them on their city adventure. Her keen werewolf senses would have left her dismally nauseated had she been within the close confines of the sewer.
For his part, Simon refused to look down as he waded through the shallow water. The lantern threw light out a dozen feet before him, catching the occasional reflection of red eyes glowing just beyond his range of vision. He could hear the rats scurrying quickly away at his approach.
“There are footprints, sir,” Luthor whispered. Even hushed, his voice carried well.
Begrudgingly, Simon glanced down. There, in the thick muck beside the floating offal, clear boot prints were visible. The footprints, obviously from the same source, indicated that someone had walked in both directions, in and out of the sewer.
“Our troll wears shoes, apparently,” Simon remarked. He cringed as he heard his own hushed voice echoing from the myriad of twists and turns within the sewer tunnel.
Simon raised his gaze and pushed deeper into the tunnel. He reached out with his pistol as he walked until the barrel struck the nearest wall. There wasn’t much space between his shoulders and the widest part of the curved surface, leaving little room to maneuver should they encounter the monster.
Ahead, just beyond the range of his lantern, where the light died to shades of barely visible gray, the wall seemed disfigured. Simon took a few steps forward until he could see the protruding stonework and the gaping hole in the side. As he stepped again, his foot struck a large chunk of stone that had clearly been blasted free from the otherwise smooth sewer wall.
Simon raised his hand, bringing the rest of the group to a halt. Alone, he walked forward until he reached the edge of the hole. The gap was wider than Simon was tall and appeared as though it had shattered into the tunnel. Stonework and mortar, much of which was a thick paste as it mixed with the murky water, littered the floor. Human refuse floated around the debris as best as possible, but the stones had created a makeshift dam. The smell was atrocious. Even with his quick glance at the stone barrier, Simo
n realized that crawling over all the stones would be difficult in such a confined space.
There were splashes behind him as someone approached, but Simon didn’t need to turn to know it was Luthor.
“Could our troll have done this?” Luthor asked breathlessly.
Simon reached out and touched the edges of the protruding stonework. The closest edges were charred and blackened. He shook his head. “It’s possible, but I doubt it. I think these stones were blasted apart.”
“Not very troll-like.”
“Perhaps our myths about trolls are so very wrong.” Simon smiled. He glanced past Luthor before motioning for Poole and the rest of the Inquisitors to join him.
The dark-skinned Inquisitor ran a hand over his bald head with one hand while adjusting the grip on his shotgun with the other. The long-barreled weapon seemed ill suited for the close confines of the sewers, but Simon knew that if he could bring the weapon to bear, there was nowhere for the troll to go that could escape its wide blast.
“Inquisitor Poole, if you’d be so kind as to lead the way,” Simon said. “My pistol feels rather impotent compared to your much-larger rifle.”
Thaddeus Poole smiled. “Of course.”
He stepped into the mouth of the blasted hole, the light from Simon’s lantern following him through the gap. The room beyond was surprisingly well kept, considering its proximity to the foulness of the sewer, as though the shattered wall had led into an ill-maintained but dry basement of a nearby dwelling. The barren stone walls, unadorned with basic human amenities, radiated a coolness that was a stark contrast to the sour humidity of the tunnel. A wooden table, empty as well, was set against the wall. A few books rested on a bookshelf next to the table, their leather spines worn from use. Otherwise, only a narrow stairwell leading to an upper floor was visible.
The area was small, more the size of a wide corridor than a proper room. Beside the narrow staircase, the broad hallway—for that was what it was—bent to the right at a sharp angle. A faint scent of cooked meat filled the air. The flickering of a campfire reflected off the passage’s back wall and illuminated the stairwell in dancing shades of red and gold.
The Golem of Solomon's Way Page 2
