Luthor grimaced at every bounce of the sled as it raced back toward Haversham. Though it was hidden from Simon’s view, the magic coursing through Luthor’s blood had already begun healing the broken bones and damaged skin on his forearm. By the time they reached the city, the bite marks would be scabbed over and the infection better controlled. For now, however, each bounce sent new waves of pain racing through his body.
Their riding position was far from ideal, only adding to the apothecary’s discomfort. Their legs were draped over the husky body of the werewolf, leaving their knees pressed nearly to their chins as they sat in the wicker seats. Mr. Parrish’s sled wasn’t made to hold more than the two passengers, so the addition of the werewolf corpse had required some creative positioning.
Simon stole a glance at his friend, leaning forward to see around the sled’s only other addition: the flintlock rifle dropped by the werewolf Luthor fought. The apothecary sensed eyes upon him and glanced over at the Inquisitor.
“You’re staring at me again.”
Simon didn’t bother denying it. “I know it makes me sound heartless and uncaring, but I’m intrigued about the process of transformation, if it really is to happen. Do you feel anything unusual? Anything at all that might be the early signs of an incubation period?”
Luthor frowned. “Ever the scientist, aren’t you, sir? You know, sir, I do feel unusual.”
Simon arched an eyebrow inquisitively.
“I feel an indescribably level of anguish, though I can guarantee every bit of that is related to the dozen or so new holes that are adorning my arm and not, as you so callously hoped, associated with early stages of lycanthropy. If it’s all the same to you, sir, I would greatly appreciate being able to focus on this investigation. If I am going to become a werewolf, I might as well serve some purpose other than future dissection.”
Reaching over, he patted the flintlock rifle resting between them.
“Do you recognize it?” Luthor asked.
Simon’s gaze fell to the rifle as though he were scrutinizing its features, though it was unnecessary. He had recognized the model of firearm the moment it had been placed between them.
“It’s a Renault,” Simon said.
Luthor nodded. “A fine quality weapon to be in the hands of savage monsters.”
Simon frowned, though his eyes were unreadable underneath the tinted lenses of his goggles. “Especially considering I’ve only seen this caliber weapon in the hands of the governor’s personal retinue.”
Luthor ran a hand across his thick muttonchops. “Could the werewolf have possibly taken the weapon from a slain guard?”
Simon furrowed his brow as he looked at his friend. “There is always a possibility, though I remain skeptical. During the brevity of our stay, I have yet to see the gubernatorial guards further away from the estate than the elevator during our welcome. Though if one of Governor Godwin’s guards was assaulted within the confines of the city and everyone simply failed to mention such crucial information, I will be very put out.”
“Then how did a werewolf come to possess one of their rifles?”
Simon bit his bottom lip thoughtfully. “How indeed, my good fellow.”
Luthor saw the pensive look spreading across Simon’s face and knew the Inquisitor was formulating a theory. Simon had worn a similar expression shortly before revealing the elaborate series of marionette wires used during their case involving pixies. The apothecary waited patiently for Simon to elaborate, but the Inquisitor instead glanced back toward the distant city walls.
Luthor let his gaze follow Simon’s as he pulled his arm close against his chest.
“We’ve now confirmed the presence of mystical creatures in Haversham,” Luthor said loudly over the whipping wind. “What will you do now?”
Simon stroked his chin and shook his head. “The proper procedure of an Inquisitor would be to notify the Order immediately and await further instructions.”
Luthor swallowed hard, nervous for his own safety. “I sense that there’s a ‘however’ in your response.”
“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 in
timately acquainted.”
Luthor nodded in satisfaction and leaned back in his wicker chair as the sled raced over the frozen ground.