Luthor struck Simon’s hand as the pistol fired. The bullet screamed past his ear before striking the mirror above the vanity. Mirrored glass crashed onto the table and shattered as it struck the hardwood floor beneath. The apothecary quickly grasped Simon’s hand before he could bring the revolver to bear once more.
The Inquisitor’s face was a blank slate, staring unblinking at Luthor with eyes that were dilated until his normal blue was consumed by the black of his pupil.
“Stop this,” Luthor hissed as he tried to hold back Simon’s hand. Simon tried his best to turn the barrel of the pistol toward the apothecary, despite Luthor’s pressure on his wrist. “This isn’t you, this is Gideon Dosett.”
Simon tilted his head to the side once more before raising his leg and kicking Luthor in the chest. Despite the close range, his heeled foot carried impressive weight, lifting Luthor from his feet. He slammed down onto the coffee table in the recessed sitting room, smashing through the sturdy wooden table.
He clutched his chest and coughed painfully as his back felt as though it were ablaze. He could feel ugly bruises spreading across his shoulder blades and ribs.
With his hand free of Luthor’s clutches, Simon raised the pistol again, pointing it at the prone apothecary. The Inquisitor pulled back the hammer on the back of the revolver as he took aim.
Despite the throb behind his eyes, Luthor quickly waved his hand and the air before him shimmered as though a pane of warped glass had divided the room. Simon, who stood impassively on the far side of the shimmering wall, looked distorted with features out of proportion to the rest of his body.
The report of the pistol firing was muffled through the mystical divider. Sparks flew as bullets struck the protective wall in rapid succession. The ricocheting rounds struck the walls to either side of the doorway, splintering the plaster in puffs of white, chalky smoke.
Simon pulled the trigger until the hammer fell to a dry click on an empty cylinder. He turned the weapon to the side and stared at it inquisitively, as though struggling to comprehend why the weapon would fail to fire. Without any emotion on his face, he tossed his beloved revolver aside, letting it clatter and slide to the bedroom door.
He marched forward, as Luthor struggled to stand. The Inquisitor’s body struck the shimmering barrier, barely slowing as he passed through its glassy exterior. Luthor frowned at the sight. He hadn’t the time to create a proper barrier, one that would have kept Simon at bay for longer. Instead, he had hastily erected one that would stop projectiles. Simon’s physical form, however, passed through with minimal resistance.
Luthor stepped backward, stumbling through the wreckage of the former coffee table.
“Fight it, Simon,” Luthor begged. “Gideon has you ensorcelled. You’re an Inquisitor, for God’s sake! Show them that your will is stronger than a man’s hypnotic magic.”
Simon didn’t appear to hear Luthor’s plea. Once through the near side of the barrier, he strode toward the apothecary. Luthor struck his hands as Simon reached out to him, but to no avail. Possessed as he was, Simon was far stronger than the much shorter man was.
The Inquisitor’s hands closed over Luthor’s neck, squeezing tightly and closing most of Luthor’s windpipe. The pressure was exquisite, and he could feel Simon’s fingers biting into the sides of his neck. A trickle of air seeped between the Inquisitor’s fingers and Luthor’s lungs began to scream for more, unsatisfied with the minimalistic oxygen they received.
Simon squeezed harder, and speckles of light danced in Luthor’s vision. The diminutive man stared at his friend and felt wildly unnerved by the expression on his face, one completely devoid of his previous humanity. His intricate mind had been reduced to a machine, following a single command, much to Luthor’s chagrin. He doubted appealing to the man’s humanity would have any chance of success.
Despite his growing lack of oxygen and the drumming of his pulse that seemed to be growing exponentially in his ears, Luthor closed his eyes and focused his breadth of magic within him. The palm of his hand began to radiate its own unnatural light. He raised his hand until the palm was even with Simon’s chest.
“Forgive me, sir,” he croaked through his practically closed throat.
He placed his palm against Simon’s chest, and the air between them was filled with blue sparks. The Inquisitor’s hands immediately left Luthor’s throat as the man was rocketed backward. He was propelled only a few feet before striking the invisible barrier. Simon’s body, now flying like a projectile, was denied access through the wall. Instead, yellow sparks were added to the previous blue and the air was filled with an acrid smell of burnt hair and clothing.
Simon ricocheted from the barrier and crashed unapologetically into the couch, tumbling with the furniture as it turned over. He rolled along the floor, his momentum carrying him forward, before coming to a rest near Luthor’s bedroom door.
Luthor rubbed his throat and coughed hoarsely. Though the hands were gone, he could feel the heat and feel the minor indentations where Simon’s fingers had pressed against his soft skin.
The apothecary cringed as he saw smoke rise from the back of his mentor. He hurried around the fallen furniture and crouched at his side, pressing a finger to Simon’s carotid artery, checking for a pulse. He sighed with relief as he felt the steady rhythm of a heartbeat. Licking his fingers, Luthor pinched a strand of smoldering hair, extinguishing the nubile flame.
For a moment, Luthor merely crouched above his friend and watched his body rise and fall with each labored breath. He doubted very much that lying on the floor was in any way comfortable, even for a man who had so recently tried to murder him. The apothecary glanced around and realized the entire main room of the suite was in shambles. The vanity mirror was shattered. Bullet holes marred the plaster walls near the doorway. The couch and Luthor’s articles of clothing that had been draped across it were upended. The doorway to the room itself was still wide open. Luthor quickly rushed to the door and glanced out into the hallway.
At the end of their hall, the butler stood hesitantly, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as he stared nervously. At the sight of Luthor, the man relaxed considerably and smiled. He approached Luthor’s open doorway, but the apothecary raised his hand to keep him at bay.
“Is everything all right, sir?” the butler asked as he stopped in the middle of the long hallway.
“Of course,” Luthor lied. “There’s nothing going on that should alarm you.”
“Sir, begging your pardon, but we heard gunshots.”
Luthor bit his lip as he stared at the butler and the menagerie of other servants gathered at the mouth of the hallway. “You are absolutely correct, of course, though it’s all a great misunderstanding. Inquisitor Whitlock merely dropped his firearm, and it discharged. It’s an older weapon, sadly, and it carries a sensitive trigger.”
The butler looked thoroughly unconvinced, but he nodded all the same. “I shall send someone at once to clean up your room and repair any damages.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Luthor said hastily. As the butler frowned and furrowed his brow, Luthor quickly added, “Not today, at least. I believe the Royal Inquisitor could use some rest after the start he suffered during the accidental discharge. Tomorrow would be optimal to send someone by, say at ten in the morning?”
The butler bowed slightly at the waist. “Very good, sir. I shall have someone come by promptly at that time.”
“Very good,” Luthor echoed.
As the butler turned away with one final cautious look over his shoulder, Luthor quickly closed the door and turned back to the devastation. He sighed heavily as his eyes fell on Simon’s still unconscious form, knowing he would have to deal with his mentor sooner rather than later.
Luthor sat on the edge of the couch, which he had painstakingly righted, and placed a damp rag on Simon’s forehead. The Inquisitor stirred slightly and his eyes flickered beneath closed eyelids, but he remained unconscious. Luthor left the damp cloth where it
was and walked to the vanity, where his doctor’s bag rested. He stepped gingerly through the shards of broken glass, pushing many of them out of the way with the toes of his dress shoes.
The bag was still open from where he had treated his own infection earlier. A few shards of mirror jutted from the depths of the bag, and he removed these carefully. A quick inspection ensured none of the vials had been broken during the fight, nor had any become uncorked during the room’s upheaval.
An empty glass sat on the side of the washbasin. Luthor blew out a few small slivers of mirror and wiped out the interior of the tumbler with one of the few remaining clean washcloths. With the glass sufficiently cleaned, Luthor set it on the counter and began withdrawing tubes of liquids from his bag.
The stopper was removed on the familiar extract of poppy, and a thin layer of the yellowed liquid was poured into the bottom of the glass. He pulled a small paper envelope from the side of his bag and unfolded a corner. With a tap of his finger, a small amount of white granules dropped into the glass and began to immediately dissolve. A larger beaker filled nearly to the brim with distilled water was removed from the corner of the deceptively small bag. Luthor poured a couple finger’s worth of water into the glass. The white powder vanished in the water, and the coloring took on only the faintest of yellows from the poppy extract.
Luthor glanced over his shoulder and was relieved to see Simon still asleep. He doubted Gideon’s control over the Inquisitor would be so easily broken as by physical violence. In fact, he was rather certain that physical violence was exactly the trigger that drove Simon forward in his attempt to murder Luthor.
Turning his attention back to the doctor’s bag, he slipped his hand into a hidden compartment along the side of the bag. He pulled out a cloth drawstring bag. As he untied the cord holding it closed, the aroma of earthy rot assaulted his senses, mixed with the faint underpinning of an overbearing sweetness. He withdrew a few twigs of an unidentifiable plant and dropped them into the glass.
The water hissed as the blade-like leaves struck the surface of the fluid. The plants ignited, glowing a vibrant blue as the flora charred and quickly dissolved. The water turned a deep blood red before the dark color swirled away, leaving behind a brown liquid.
Luthor leaned over the glass and breathed in its scent. The smell of pungent scotch filled his nostrils, and he smiled appreciatively. Luthor retrieved the glass from the table and walked back to Simon.
He sat on the edge of the couch near Simon’s hip. Leaning forward, he slipped his free hand beneath his head and raised the man to a seated position. The Inquisitor’s lips were faintly parted in his slumber, and Luthor wasted no time pouring a modicum of the false scotch into Simon’s mouth.
The Inquisitor sputtered as the alcohol struck the back of his throat. His eyes opened in surprise and his hands flew to his mouth as he coughed painfully. Spittle flew from his lips, and he indignantly wiped the strands of mucus from his mouth with the back of his sleeve.
Simon’s eyes were full of confusion and anguish, a far cry from the automaton that had assaulted Luthor minutes earlier.
“Did you just pour scotch down my throat as I slept?” Simon managed between rough coughs.
“Forgive me, sir, but it was a necessary evil,” Luthor replied calmly. He observed his friend but didn’t see the murderous intent reflected in his actions.
“A necessary evil?” Simon echoed. His eyes scanned the room, adding to his burgeoning disorientation. “Where am I, Luthor? Is this your room?”
Luthor stood from his spot on the edge of the couch, allowing Simon to remove his feet from the couch and sit properly on the cushioned furniture. Simon grasped the sides of his head as soon as he sat upright in an attempt to suppress the piercing ache behind both eyes.
“It is,” Luthor said. He furrowed his brow in concern. “Can you look up for me, sir?”
Still attempting to brush away the cobwebs that so thoroughly coated his every thought, Simon blindly obeyed. Luthor noted the series of bright red blood vessels enveloping the sclera of both eyes.
“Dear Lord,” Simon muttered as he lowered his gaze once more. “What happened to your room?”
Luthor knelt in front of his mentor so that he might look into Simon’s eyes. “Sir, do you genuinely have no recollection of this very night’s events?”
Simon shook his head, perplexed. “I remember visiting Mr. Dosett and you taking suddenly ill. After that I remember… nothing.”
Luthor placed his hand on Simon’s shoulder and raised the glass. “Drink some more of this. It will help immensely with your headache.”
Simon took the glass but examined it hesitantly. “Is it worth inquiring what’s in this brew?” He sniffed the glass and arched his eyebrow in surprise. “Aside from scotch, which is readily apparent.”
“Poppy extract to control the pain,” Luthor replied.
“Naturally,” Simon said with a smile.
“Powdered willow bark to help with the inflammation.”
Simon took a draw from the glass before Luthor had to explain any of the other more mysterious ingredients. The Inquisitor sighed as the alcohol ran over his raw throat.
“Is it helping, sir?” Luthor asked.
Simon nodded. “Impressively so.” His gaze fell to the brilliant red finger marks on Luthor’s neck. “My good chap, I believe it’s time you told me what in the bloody hell has happened.”
Luthor looked Simon sternly in the eyes. “You attacked me, here in my room. Don’t worry, sir, it wasn’t of your own volition.”
Simon blanched before turning scarlet red. “That in no way sets my mind at ease. Are you insinuating that I fell under the sway of a mere hypnotist? Have I truly become so simpleminded that a parlor trick such as having me stare at a swaying watch would so readily put me under—?”
“Sir,” Luthor interrupted, “I don’t believe you were hypnotized.”
“I don’t understand. You said I did this not of my own volition. If not hypnotized, then what would overcome me that I would assault my dear friend and yet have no recollection of the event?”
Luthor motioned toward the half-finished glass resting forgotten in his hand. “Drink more, if you please. I believe it will help restore some of those lost memories.”
Simon looked down at the liquid once more before finishing the drink in a single large gulp.
“Tell me again, sir. What do you remember of this evening?”
Simon furrowed his brow as he struggled to remember. “I told you once already. I remember confronting Mr. Dosett, and then I remember you growing ill and asking me to accompany you back to your room. Is that when this happened?”
“Concentrate,” Luthor reprimanded. “Speak less and focus more on retrieving those lost memories. Again, tell me what you remember.”
“I remember nothing else,” Simon chided. “We went to Mr. Dosett’s office to confront him about being a hypnotist. He poured himself a drink, and you fell ill.”
“What happened following my departure?” Luthor prodded.
Simon shook his head. “Mr. Dosett returned to his desk and then… I just can’t seem to remember.”
The Inquisitor rested the cool glass against his forehead. The pounding of his headache had receded to a barely noticeable hum and his eyes no longer ached when he looked toward the lamps in the room, but he still felt out of sorts.
Luthor sighed and stood, pushing splinters of the broken table away from him with his heel. He absently raised his hand to his neck, rubbing the red marks on his skin.
“Wait,” Simon said excitedly. “I feel like the veil holding back my memory is receding ever so slightly, as though I’m on the cusp of remembering something very important.”
“Do go on,” Luthor said. He knew that Simon had to arrive at the answer on his own, rather than being told the truth.
“He sat down and began to explain how we had misconstrued the facts of the case. I scoffed at the notion that I could misconstrue facts,
as though it were in any way in my nature.”
Luthor crouched again. “Then what happened, sir?” he asked quietly, his voice barely louder than a whisper.
“Then he… he said something,” Simon said, though the difficulty remembering was evident as he pursed his lips in thought.
His eyes suddenly flew open in shock, and his breath froze in his throat. “Oh dear God!” the Inquisitor said breathlessly. “It wasn’t what he said. It was him or, more precisely, it was what he became.”
“What did he become?” Luthor goaded.
“His skin turned black like the night and from his forehead, curved horns like a ram’s grew, curling into a spiral around his ears.”
Simon reached forward and grasped Luthor by the collar. “My good man, I’ve been the greatest of fools. Gideon Dosett isn’t a hypnotist at all. He’s—“
“A demon,” Luthor replied sternly.