Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (26 page)

Mattie charged at Luthor, her claws extended and mouth agape, showing long, pointed canines. Luthor raised his sword again, though his hand shook.

“Stop this madness,” he yelled in an attempt to be heard over her guttural growling. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

She didn’t hesitate in her charge. Froth formed in the corners of her mouth as she closed the distance to her prey.

The tip of Luthor’s blade wavered with uncertainty as his mind debated the finer points of harming Mattie in an attempt to preserve his own well-being. Sensing his weakness, she increased her speed, nearly dropping to all fours as she reached Luthor.

A single gunshot rang out, splitting the night air and silencing Mattie’s incessant growling. The round tore through her shoulder, spinning her madly from the bullet’s momentum. Her feet tangled around one another and she collapsed hard onto the cobblestones, sliding to a halt at Luthor’s feet. The werewolf looked up at him confusedly as bright red blood began to stain the fur on her left shoulder. Luthor pointed his blade at her but looked as equally confused.

“For God’s sake, Luthor,” Simon reprimanded as he hurried down the street toward the pair. “Knock her unconscious before she gets her bearings and actually decides to devour you.”

Luthor looked at his mentor, but his thoughts were disconnected from his actions. He was struggling to piece together all that had transpired during his short evening walk.

Simon reached his side and pushed Luthor out of the way just as Mattie placed a fur-covered hand on the ground and attempted to stand. Simon reared back and lashed out with his booted foot. The toe of his shoe connected solidly with the werewolf’s temple. Mattie’s head rocked to the side and her eyes fluttered backward as she slumped to the ground.

As she slipped into unconsciousness, the concentration necessary to maintain her transformation failed. The fur began to slough off her in droves, spilling into the street around her like gelatin. It lost its consistency shortly thereafter and the stones around her once again naked body became slick with viscous filth.

Luthor’s mind finally came to terms with the situation as he looked down on her unconscious body. An angry purple welt was already forming against her temple, and blood still seeped from the bullet wound in the delicate skin of her shoulder.

“What the bloody hell did you do?” he demanded as he knelt down beside her. “This is Mattie. You shot her, not to mention kicking her in the head.”

Simon shook his head reproachfully. “My good man, I don’t care if she was the Queen of Khovus, she was trying to eat you. I did what was necessary.”

Simon’s gaze trailed past the apothecary to the naked redhead sprawled across the cold street. He quickly turned his head away and coughed politely. “It does appear that she’s quite naked.”

Luthor was already removing his long coat, which he draped over her body. Lifting her gently, he wrapped the jacket fully around her to try to stave off the cold.

“Will you quit being so damnably proper and help me lift her?” Luthor demanded. “We have to get her back to the inn.”

“We’re not taking a savage monster intent on our destruction back to our living quarters.”

Luthor cradled her in his arms but glared sternly at his mentor. “Yes, sir, we are. I can create another concoction like the one I used on you to break the demon’s hold. I cannot, however, do much of anything worthwhile so long as she is lying limply on the cobblestones.”

Simon bent down and grabbed her legs gingerly, though he appeared squeamish at the touch of her soft skin.

“Were you not the one who was staring blatantly as the entire tribe transformed earlier?” Luthor chided.

Simon cleared his throat. “I was, but that was merely an investigation for scientific purposes. It’s something quite different when I know the subject personally.”

Together, they lifted her and began walking briskly back toward the inn. Luthor’s shorter legs had trouble keeping up with Simon’s long strides, and he moved in constant fear of dropping Mattie’s shoulders. As he shifted his grip, he felt her squirm uncomfortably as he pressed against her wound.

“I don’t have a very good grip, sir,” Luthor warned.

“Then find a good one because I won’t let you drop our patient before we get a chance to treat her properly.”

Luthor flushed angrily. “She’s only our patient because you shot and kicked her.”

They both glanced toward a storefront and noticed an elderly woman watching the two men confusedly. Simon released Mattie’s legs with one hand and tipped his hat to her before they hurried past.

“We’re here,” Simon said as he pushed open the tavern’s front door. The bell above the door chimed as they entered, and the few patrons within the tavern looked startled by their appearance.

They paused just inside the door as the entire room held their collective breathes. Simon glanced from face to face as he tried to judge their obviously worrisome expressions. Near the back of the room, a man pushed away from the table, his chair scraping on the wooden floor.

Simon stooped over and gently rested Mattie’s legs on the ground. He stood again with both hands splayed before him disarmingly. “Gentlemen, there is nothing for which to be alarmed. I am a trained doctor and this woman is in need of care.”

“That’s not what it looks like to me,” the burly worker said as he stepped around his table. “Looks to me like you’ve got a young poppet and are planning some immoral things between the both of you.”

“I’ve never, sir!” Simon replied.

He wanted to tell the man that he was a Royal Inquisitor, which would have been enough of an excuse for them to continue, but he was hesitant to reveal their identities. If word were to spread of the whereabouts of the Inquisitor, Gideon would send his hordes after them both this very night.

“This woman is in my charge as a physician,” he continued. “She’s been shot and assaulted, and I intend to treat her injuries.”

The stocky man stopped before Simon and scowled. He was quite a bit taller than the Inquisitor was and had a significant weight advantage, most of which was corded muscle from working in the nearby mines.

“I think you ought to leave her with us, and we’ll take her to a proper doctor,” the man said matter-of-factly.

Simon gritted his teeth together, knowing they didn’t have the time to deal with such a Neanderthal. “I told you, sir, that I am a doctor and this woman is in need of my attention.”

The man poked Simon in the chest. “And I’m telling you that this woman isn’t going anywhere with you.”

Simon’s hand moved faster than Luthor could follow, grasping the burly man’s finger and twisting it painfully backward. The bone snapped as Simon twisted it awkwardly to the side. The miner screamed in both pain and surprise, cupping his healthy hand to his chest.

Taking full advantage of the opening provided, Simon kicked outward, driving his hardened shin into the man’s groin. The yell of surprise was immediately silenced, replaced instead by a wet heaving as the man doubled over. Simon grabbed a handful of the man’s hair and drove his knee into the man’s face.

The miner was driven upright by the strike and stood unsteadily on his feet a brief moment longer. Simon reached out and pushed him hard in the chest, sending the man tumbling to the ground like a felled tree.

Simon smoothed away the sweat above his moustache and turned his attention back to the room. “As I was saying before being quite rudely interrupted, I am a doctor and now there are two people in need of my attention. Will there be any others?”

The rest of the tavern returned their attention to their respective drinks, refusing to make eye contact with either Simon or Luthor. Satisfied, Simon bent down and collected Mattie’s legs before lifting them again. As they walked past the bar, he retrieved a second gold coin and placed it in front of the bartender. The bartender’s eyes widened before he once again mimicked placing an imaginary lock over his lips.

Through much struggling, they maneuvered Mattie’s limp form up the stairwell and to their room. They placed her gently on the bed, and Luthor replaced his bloodstained coat with the bed’s sheet, pulling it up over her exposed breasts while leaving the gunshot wound visible.

“We have to stop the bleeding,” he said, turning toward Simon.

“Nonsense,” Simon replied. “You need to brew your potion to break Gideon’s spell.”

Luthor placed his hands on his hips. “She’ll bleed to death if I don’t treat her injuries.”

“Nothing personal, but I’m not overly concerned about her physical well-being at the moment. I’m far more concerned with your physical well-being. Bleeding or not, if she comes around while you’re treating her wounds, nothing will stop her from reverting to her previous murderous intent which, in case I need to remind you, was trying to eat your face.”

Luthor frowned but knew the Inquisitor was right.

“Now that you’ve evidently been swayed to my side of the argument,” Simon said, “what can I get you in preparation?”

Luthor opened his mouth to tell his mentor that everything he needed was in his doctor’s bag but quickly realized that he couldn’t possibly create his brew with Simon watching. The mystical components alone would reveal far too much of Luthor’s abilities.

“Scotch,” Luthor blurted.

“Come again?”

“Scotch, or whiskey, or bourbon,” Luthor continued. “Anything with a high alcohol content that can mask the foul taste of the concoction.”

Simon arched an eyebrow. “You need me to go down to the bar and retrieve alcohol?”

“If you please. I’ll leave the specifics of the type to your discerning palette.”

The Inquisitor shrugged. “You are the apothecary and know your craft better than anyone else. Do you require anything else while I’m there? Perhaps some assorted nuts to go with your assortment of booze?”

“A towel would be nice. In fact, anything you can find to help stem the flow of blood would be much appreciated, though I don’t have to tell you such frivolities, since you are the doctor.”

Simon could sense the gentle ribbing and turned toward the door. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

As the door clicked gently closed behind him, Luthor hurried to his bag and began pulling vials from its interior haphazardly. The definitive measurements he had used with Simon’s brew were disregarded completely as he rushed through the chemical amalgamation. The colors swirled madly and for the briefest of moments, he feared the glass in his hand would explode from poorly measured elements, but the liquid eventually settled. As quickly as he would allow himself, he added the plant and watched with both surprise and satisfaction when it ignited in a vibrant blue flame, as he had intended.

From the hallway beyond, Luthor could hear Simon’s booted feet climbing the stairwell once more. Sweating profusely as much from stress as from exertion, he lifted Mattie’s head and gently parted her lips. He poured a small amount of the brew into her mouth, massaging her throat and forcing her to swallow. He repeated the action twice more, ensuring enough of the potion was in her body to counteract the demon’s magic.

As he lowered her head back to the pillow, his hand hovered above the gunshot wound. The bullet had passed cleanly through her shoulder, which meant she would require little in the way of surgery. A blinding white light emerged from beneath his palm, glowing so brilliantly that it was no longer possible to see her wound. Mattie stirred uncomfortably from the intensity of his healing magic but remained asleep.

As the door opened and Simon stepped into the room, Luthor hastily removed his hand and the bright light faded. Where the gunshot wound had moments before been weeping blood in small rivulets, the blood had clotted and the injury was on the mend.

“The bartender was very forthcoming with the alcohol selection,” Simon remarked as he closed the door behind him. “He delivered a remarkable twenty-five-year single malt scotch, which I think might be slightly overzealous for something as simple as a healing draught.”

Luthor stood, his forehead soaked with sweat and his mop of hair matted to his skin. “Then I’m pleased to announce that you and I can share the scotch between us, rather than waste it on something as nonsensical as a patient. I was able to complete the brew while you were downstairs.”

Simon frowned. “That’s fairly remarkable. I guess I should set this aside then until I’m able to provide the proper attention to her wounds.”