Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (4 page)

“Which brings us to why you are with the Inquisitor,” Gideon said with a smile. “I had wondered the purpose of an apothecary as a cohort.”

“Indeed,” Luthor said with a nod. “Vapors and hysteria are both treatable conditions through a regimen of chemicals or other pharmaceutical interventions. An apothecary is actually the perfect associate for an Inquisitor.”

“You make a very solid argument,” Gideon said. “I guess I must raise my glass to you both. We’re truly lucky to have you here in Haversham.”

He raised his glass and nodded to Simon. “To the Inquisitor,” he turned toward Luthor, “and to the apothecary.”

“Here, here,” the other guests said, raising their glasses.

Simon raised his glass begrudgingly and looked toward the governor. The man took a long drink from his wineglass. He smiled broadly, as he pulled his glass from his lips.

“Here, here,” he said.

The servants brought the main course, setting down a plate of beef. The smell was amazing, and Simon’s stomach growled. He waited for the governor to take a bite before picking up his fork and knife and carving off a piece of meat. As he was lifting the food to his mouth, Gideon spoke again.

“So will you begin your investigation tomorrow?”

Wistfully, Simon sat his fork back down and glanced across the table. “That is our intent.”

“What do you expect to find?” he asked.

Simon shrugged. “I won’t know until I have a chance to inquire, though I presume I’ll find that there is a much more rational explanation for these werewolves than something supernatural.”

“You speak of the monsters beyond our borders but you’re still very much a skeptic, aren’t you?” Gideon asked. “You don’t actually believe you’ll find werewolves when you investigate?

“The basis of my work requires me to be skeptical. I still keep an open mind, however, and reserve judgment until after my investigation is complete.”

Gideon turned toward Luthor. “You, however, seem like a true believer. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were actually excited at the prospect of finding a real monster during your visit.”

Luthor scratched absently at his arm and furrowed his brow as he thought. “I am loath to admit, while in the company of an Inquisitor, that I secretly do hope to find creatures of legend when we are sent out on missions.”

The guests at the table chuckled.

“Though it’s our station to contain any magic that might threaten our lands, it’s almost heartbreaking to prove that the mummy of the lower catacombs is nothing more than a pauper in ragged clothing scaring away grave robbers.”

Simon picked up his fork and placed the meat in his mouth. Gideon took a long draw from his wine. As he sat the glass down, he licked the purple tint from his lips.

“You both seem to take your work very seriously,” he said.

Simon swallowed and nodded. “Magic, in all its forms, represents a threat to the sovereignty of the kingdom. It must be discovered and, if it can’t be contained, destroyed. It’s the motto by which every Inquisitor lives.”

“So you think our werewolves are a hoax?” Gideon asked again.

“Until I see one with my own eyes, I will believe them to be trickery of the mind.”

Gideon smiled. “So you won’t believe them real until you see one for yourself?”

Simon set down his fork again. “What game are you playing at?”

“We killed one during their last raid on one of my refineries. It’s available for you to inspect, if you feel so inclined.”

“My good man,” Simon replied, “I must teach you which information to lead with when starting a conversation.”

He slid his chair back, the wood screeching on the hardwood floor as he pushed away from the table.

Simon held his hands aloft as Luthor tied the strings of the smock behind his back. With the apron firmly in place, the apothecary retrieved rubber gloves and slid them over Simon’s hands. He flexed his fingers as he maneuvered the gloves into a more comfortable position. His hands immediately began to sweat within the thick rubber. The gloves kept him sanitary during autopsies but were uncomfortable and often ungainly.

A tall man opened the door to the tiled room and stepped inside. He wore a roughly hewn wool vest and slacks, with a stained, white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He had a hat in his hand that he twisted nervously in the presence of the Royal Inquisitor.

“Pardon the intrusion, sir, but it’s arrived if you’re ready.”

“I’ve never been more ready,” Simon replied. “Have them bring it in carefully.”

“Very good, sir.”

The man stepped aside and held the door open for a group of muscular laborers behind him. The men entered the wide doorway, each at the corner of a large burlap bag. Despite the strength of the men, they clearly strained under the weight of their cargo. They huffed loudly as they tried to walk, though the center of the bag drooped low to the ground and impeded their steps.

“Set it up here,” Simon said, patting the metal table beside which he stood. “Be gentle with it.”

The men moved to one side of the table and, in unison, hefted the bag onto the table. They let out an audible sigh of relief when the job was done and, with a polite bow to Simon and Luthor, exited the room.

The other man remained at the door, holding it open.

“Is this everything?” Simon asked.

“No, sir,” the man replied and quickly looked over his shoulder. “There is a pair of boxes that go along with the… the…”

“Werewolf. It’s fine if you say it. Unless there’s something about werewolves I don’t know, saying their name isn’t going to bring it back to life.”

“No, I would suppose it wouldn’t,” the man said, though he didn’t sound confident in his reply.

He looked visibly relieved when two of the muscular men returned carrying wooden crates. The insides of the crates were lined with hay. Simon could see row after row of glass jars jutting from the hay, filled with a blue liquid. Floating within the jars were bloated organs of different natures.

The men set down the jars and hastily exited. The man at the door watched them leave before turning back to Simon.

“If there’s nothing else, sir, I’ll be taking my leave.”

Simon was looking at the shape beneath the burlap bag and waved his hand dismissively. “On your way out, send in the doctor, if you please.”

The door swung shut as Simon retrieved a knife from a table beside him. He cut carefully at the corded string holding the edges of the burlap bag closed. With each cut of the string, he was able to pull away more and more of the bag. Slowly, the white fur beneath the bag was revealed.

His work was interrupted as the door swung open again, and a man in a white coat entered the room. The doctor had tuffs of gray hair protruding from the sides of his head, though he was perfectly bald on top. Aside from his hair, the man looked surprisingly young.

“You’re the doctor?” Simon asked.

“Mr. Parrish, at your service,” the man replied. “I conducted the original examination of the creature.”

“Very good. Please stand beside Luthor and be available to answer any questions that might arise.”

Simon went back to his work, carefully cutting away the string holding the satchel closed. The work was boring, but Simon had incredible patience when it came to his work. With a final slice, he cut away the last of the cord. With little pomp or circumstance, he threw back the top half of the burlap bag, exposing the body within.

He looked down in awe at the sheer size of the creature. The wolf measured nearly six feet long, even with the slight curvature of its body caused by rigor mortis. The specimen’s body was covered by coarse, white fur, the same color as the snow falling over the city. The only break in its otherwise pure white body was a dark brown stain just behind its front leg. Pushing the fur aside, Simon could see a smooth bullet hole from where it had been shot.

“The creature has the appearance of a common winter wolf,” Simon said as Luthor quickly transcribed onto a notebook, “albeit unnaturally large. I measure it at approximately six feet in length, not including the tail. My estimation is that it stood nearly four feet in height while walking on all four paws.”

He moved around to the head of the wolf and pulled open its mouth. Both sets of canines were missing. Bloodied stumps marked the places where the teeth once sat imbedded in the jawbone.

“Canines have been removed by—” He looked toward the doctor for an answer.

“The canines were already gone by the time he arrived for my examination. They’re prized by local hunters, so I wouldn’t be surprised if they were torn out right after the kill.”

Simon nodded, assuming as much. The tongue was missing as well, though he could see the clean surgical incision where it had been cut from the mouth. He ran his hands over the wolf’s cheek until he reached the eyes. As he presumed, the eyelids were stitched shut.

He stepped away from the table and turned toward the pair of wooden crates filled with jars. He lifted a couple from their resting places in the hay and examined their content. The creature’s organs floated in a blue concoction. Simon noted the liver and stomach before putting the jars back down. He sorted through a few more jars before he found the eyeballs. Despite the blue of the liquid, the pupils still shone a bright sky blue.

“Previous autopsy of the creature has resulted in the removal of the internal organs. Luthor, please note that the creature had blue eyes, consistent with the anatomy of a winter wolf. The internal organs all appear to be in good condition, preserved as they’ve been in a solution of formaldehyde, but removal from the body makes it impossible to discern their original placement or the true internal anatomy of the creature.”

The doctor raised his hand to speak, and Simon nodded to him. “I have extensive notes and diagrams of the autopsy. I can provide those for your review, which should provide you all the information you need about from where the organs were removed.”

“That would be most beneficial. Luthor will coordinate with you following my examination.”

Simon sorted through the rest of the jars, seeing nothing out of the ordinary. “Luthor, please continue transcribing. The organs are consistent, again, with those of a winter wolf, though slightly enlarged to match the increased girth of the creature itself.”

“As you’ll see from my diagrams,” Parrish said, “the organ placement within the werewolf when standing on its hind legs is actually more consistent with a human than a wolf.”

Simon frowned at the interruption. “I’ve found nothing so far to allude to this being anything more than a wolf, but my autopsy is not yet completed.”

“If I may,” the doctor said, “I think you’re being a little dismissive. I think this is far more than a simple winter wolf.”

“You may not,” Simon replied harshly.

“Please at least check the opposable thumbs on the forelegs,” Doctor Parrish added.

Simon shot the man a stern look, and the doctor shrunk from his gaze. Dejected, the doctor leaned back against the far counter.

The Inquisitor approached the table again and pulled the front leg toward him. It ended in a padded foot, though he immediately noted the longer than normal fingers on the end of the paw. He stretched the fingers from side to side, noting their flexibility. Despite the fur and the claws protruding from the tips of the fingers, even he had to admit that they were remarkable human-like.

Simon turned the paw upward and immediately saw the thumb protruding from underneath. He reached up and grasped the thumb, tugging firmly to see if it was actually attached. When he received resistance, he ran his fingers along the digit, feeling the joint bone where the thumb connected to the creature’s wrist. He expected to find stitching where it had been sewn in place, but the connection seemed complete. For argument’s sake, he ran his hand further up the creature’s front arm, checking for any stitching where a taxidermist might have worked to create the monster of legend. Finding none, he frowned slightly.

He knew he should have been ecstatic at the idea that he had found a true werewolf, but his training wouldn’t allow him to grow too overwhelmed. A clinical mind, not an emotional one, was needed during his investigation.

“What do you think, Simon?” Luthor asked as his pencil hovered over the page. The Inquisitor had been surprisingly quiet for the past few minutes, leaving the apothecary little to write in the journal.

“Is it a werewolf?” Parrish asked.

Simon turned and approached the jars once more. He pulled one of them at random from the crate, removed its lid, and sniffed. He immediately recoiled and replaced the lid.

He turned toward the doctor. “Your work was sloppy. Removing the organs and keeping them in this concentration of formaldehyde ruins any possibility of me conducting a further examination. Furthermore, the specimen should have been preserved so a proper autopsy could have been conducted by an Inquisitor, rather than by a local physician. Now leave us. We have Inquisitor business to discuss in private.”

The doctor looked crestfallen as he exited the room. Simon looked up to catch Luthor’s disapproving stare.

“What?”

Luthor shook his head. “You were far too hard on that man. He was only looking for your approval of his work.”

Simon huffed. “He bungled his examination and left little for us to work with. Anyway, he’s a doctor. He shouldn’t require my approval of his work to feel validated.”

“You’re a Royal Inquisitor, Simon. Your words carry weight.”

Simon pointed toward the werewolf in an attempt to assuage his guilt. Luthor was right; the man was only looking for Simon’s validation of his work. Despite his harsh reply, he had been impressed with the doctor’s abilities during the autopsy. The lines were clean and despite the overuse of the preserving agent, the organs all seemed to be in good condition.

“Do you think it’s real?” Luthor asked, knowing he wouldn’t get much more of a worthwhile discussion out of his partner. “Or do you think that this is merely a large winter wolf?”

Simon lifted the front leg and held up the paw so Luthor could see the opposable thumb jutting from its wrist. “I’ve checked underneath the fur. I’ve felt under the skin for any internal stitches. I’ve found nothing. If this was the work of a taxidermist in an attempt to fool us, then I owe the taxidermist a drink. This work is exquisite and the best I’ve ever seen.”

“The alternative is that this isn’t a hoax. I think it’s time we admit that as a possibility.”

Simon cringed at the thought. Despite wanting to find monsters on his missions, the report had stated that dozens of these creatures had been attacking Gideon’s businesses. If that were true, it wasn’t merely a single monster that slipped across their border from the south. This was an infestation.

“I’m not ready to say that this is a werewolf. I reserve that decision until after we talk to Mr. Dosett’s naysayers.  There were plenty of people who believed this whole thing to be an elaborate farce. I have to assume Gideon was willing to present this corpse as evidence, and they still said he was wrong. Let’s talk to them in the morning, and then I’ll decide whether or not we notify the crown.”

As they exited the examination room, Luthor bid Simon a good night before turning toward one of the back stairwells. He glanced up the stairs to make sure none of the servants were nearby, and then peered around the corner to ensure the hallway beyond was empty as well.

He absently scratched at his arm beneath his sleeve, much like he had done at dinner. Undoing his cufflinks, he pulled back his sleeve to expose the redness beneath.

In the center of his forearm, a puckered rune was carved into his skin. The flesh around it was enflamed and angry. He scratched at it again and frowned.

Looking around once more to ensure he was alone, he pulled down his sleeve and hooked his cufflinks. With a slightly nervous huff, he hurried up the stairs toward his bedroom.