The guard led the two men into a wooden elevator. When they were both safely inside, he pulled an extendable metal cage across the door and latched it into place. Reaching out, he pulled a lever that stood beside the door. Near its base, large, metal gears turned against one another as the elevator’s brake was released. It vibrated, and then shook roughly, as the gears above it began turning. They slowly descended toward the subterranean tunnels. Simon occupied himself by watching the hammered copper wall of the elevator shaft slowly glide past.
“What about our other bags?” Luthor asked after he grew sufficiently bored with their descent.
The guard looked to the shorter man. “A porter has already procured your bags. They will be waiting for you when you arrive at the governor’s estate.”
Simon knew the answer to Luthor’s question before he had asked it but knew that the apothecary was likely just passing the time. Their trip on the zeppelin had been long from the capital, and the dreadfully slow elevator ride wasn’t the enthusiastic adventure he hoped it would be.
He looked around, admiring the craftsmanship that went into the car itself. Small reliefs had been expertly carved into the wood, leaving intricate patterns throughout each of the three main sides of the elevator car. The electric light hanging above them was encased in frosted glass, diffusing the harsh light. In another setting, the ride would have been a remarkable display, as Simon was sure the governor had intended it to be. Unfortunately, the capital was full of technological wonders, the least of which seemed to be the pulley-operated elevator.
The guard looked at the Royal Inquisitor, and Simon offered a smile he hoped expressed that he was pleased. The truth was that he would have much preferred taking the stairs down the four or five flights. In the time they had ridden the elevator, he could have been in the tunnels and halfway to the governor’s estate. Sadly, he realized, pomp and circumstance often took priority over practicality.
After seemingly an eternity, the moving wall in front of them gave way and exposed the worked stone of the underground passageway. The elevator came to rest on the hard ground with a jarring stop and the guard unlatched the metal door, sliding it aside. Simon nodded to the man before stepping out of the car.
The reception beyond the door was more than Simon would have preferred. A precession of gubernatorial guards stood at attention on either side of the tunnel, their livery emblazoned with the governor’s crest. A bespectacled man stood in the middle of the passageway, calmly adjusting the cufflinks that protruded from the ends of his charcoal-colored suit. He wore a bowler cap, tilted low in the front so that the brim nearly touched the frame of his glasses. Seeing Simon and Luthor, the man approached and extended his hand.
As Simon shook the man’s hand, the governor’s liaison introduced himself. “It’s an honor to have you visiting our humble town, gentlemen. My name is Patrick Mulvane, advisor to the governor. He apologizes for not being able to meet you in person but his responsibilities often keep him indisposed.”
“Inquisitor Whitlock,” Simon said, making introductions. “This is my assistant, Luthor Strong.”
Patrick arched his eyebrows in surprise. “Just the two of you, then? I was told a team of Royal Inquisitors would be responding to our request.”
Simon placed his hands on his hips, feeling slighted at the insinuation that he and Luthor alone would be inadequate. “Mr. Strong and I are a team. The Inquisitors, too, are often so busy as to be indisposed when help is requested. Be glad that you received a response at all.”
Patrick noticed the acidic tone and realized he had overstepped his bounds. “My apologies, sir. Perhaps it would be best if I led you to the estate.”
“Perhaps that would be for the best.”
Patrick led the way. As Simon and Luthor fell into step behind the man, the guards turned and followed, flanking the small group. Simon glanced at the heavily dressed guards with passing interest. The men kept their gazed locked straight before them, not bothering with a glance toward the two visiting dignitaries. Sabers bounced against their hips as they walked. Each of the guards held a flintlock rifle, the barrels of which rested against the men’s shoulders, allowing for a regular arm swing while they walked.
Despite the swaying weapons, Simon nodded approvingly as he read the thin, metal plates affixed to the barrels of the rifles.
“What do you see?” Luthor asked, knowing the Inquisitors propensity for noticing minute details.
“They’re carrying Renault flintlock rifles,” Simon replied. “They’re an exquisite brand. The boring in the barrel is practically unmatched for ball-firing rifles.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, sir,” Luthor remarked, “but they have a price that matches their craftsmanship. Unless I’m mistaken, of course.”
Simon shook his head. “You’re not mistaken. Clearly, the governor spares no expense when it comes to his employees. It already tells me much about the man we are to meet.”
The tunnel from the elevator merged into a wider passage. Like the one they had just left, the tunnel was smooth, polished stone, with lacquered wood support struts set intermittently throughout the corridor. Naked bulbs dangled from wires overhead and exposed copper cables ran across the ceiling, providing power to the long string of lights. Between the bulbs were oil-burning fires that provided pools of warmth to the cold, stone passageway. Simon alternated shivering from the chill and feeling bothered by the intense heat as they passed underneath the heat lamps.
Unlike the street above, the tunnels were alive with people and foot traffic. Wagons bounced merrily along the cobbled corridor floor and more people flooded from merging side passages.
“These tunnels are remarkable,” Luthor said as he examined the craftsmanship of the smooth, chiseled walls.
Patrick glanced over his shoulder and smiled. “These tunnels were once a cave system that existed before the city was built. They extend beneath the entire city and beyond. Once they were discovered, they were smoothed and reinforced. Now they serve as a refuge for the citizens during particularly severe winter storms, when even our walls can’t hold back the winter winds and massive snowdrifts.”
“Remarkable,” Luthor muttered again.
Simon looked over to his friend, who seemed enthralled with the architecture. “I wish I knew how long it would take before we can delve fully into our work.”
Luthor looked over, and his eyes came back into focus. He coughed faintly to clear his throat. “We’ll be required to have dinner with the governor at a minimum, as decorum dictates. Beyond that, I believe we’ll be at his mercy.”
“Forgive my prying,” Patrick interjected, “but the governor does indeed have a dinner planned for you both. He’s invited a number of local dignitaries to help welcome you to our land and to show his appreciation.”
Simon reached up and ran his hand along his thin moustache. “Will Gideon Dosett be one of those dignitaries?”
“I should assume so,” the advisor replied. “Mr. Dosett is one of the wealthiest and most influential men in Haversham.”
“Where would I call on Mr. Dosett if I wished to speak to him during my investigation? Does he live near the governor’s estate?”
If Haversham were anything like the capital, then every noble would have their residence near the ranking royal as they jockeyed for political favor.
“You wouldn’t have to go far at all,” Patrick explained. “Mr. Dosett was actually recently granted quarters within the estate.”
Simon frowned and exchanged glances with Luthor. Though Haversham’s governor was only a far distant cousin of the king, he was still a royal. Opening his home to a businessman, even one clearly as influential as Dosett, was unusual.
Simon noticed many of the pedestrians in the tunnel moved hastily out of the way at the sight of the governor’s advisor and guards. They eyed Simon warily from their places as he passed, as though untrusting.
The din of conversation grew as it echoed along the stone walls. Their tunne
l suddenly opened into a massive, rounded hub, where a half dozen other tunnels converged into an underground marketplace. Vendor stalls were erected around the walls of the room, and merchants hawked their wares to the people who passed by.
Looking up, he could see the ceiling arched overhead as though forming a natural dome. Sunlight spilled from the top, which was open to the air above. A soft, white snow fell through the gap, collecting in a pile that was illuminated by the shaft of light from the surface. The snow melted quickly near the mounted heaters, and its water collected in vats submerged into the floors nearby.
Patrick led them across the room to a staircase carved into the stone. It was a much narrower passage, requiring the guards to follow single file behind the group. The stairwell twisted as it rose, and Simon could feel the cool breeze blowing through the passage. Though he had felt uncomfortable under the intense heat of the overhead lamps in the tunnel, he immediately longed for their warmth as the wind blew over him. Patrick seemed unfazed by the biting chill as he led the way. Soon, natural sunlight filtered over the rocks, illuminating the passage ahead.
The stairs ended at an open doorway, its glass doors propped open, that led out onto a wide, cobblestone street in the city. Though it seemed that the majority were wandering through the tunnels below, Simon found the surface streets equally busy as people moved from store to store, purchasing provisions.
People walked with a stoop, huddled in their thick jackets and fur-lined boots. Their carried groceries were tucked under their arms as they hurried home before their fresh-baked bread froze in the arctic air. Simon could feel the breeze blowing across him. It cut through his jacket and straight to his bones. He knew that the wind beyond the city wall was much worse as it howled down from the mountains and across the plains. He was glad that the majority of the wind was kept at bay by the walls, but he and Luthor were from a much more temperate region of the continent. He was woefully unprepared for the cold this far north.
“The wind can be difficult to adjust to,” Patrick said, noting Simon’s discomfort. “You do eventually grow accustomed to it.”
Simon looked over to Luthor and wasn’t surprised to see the man shivering uncontrollably. “You have a keen mind, Luthor, but you lack the constitution for winter.”
Luthor frowned as he looked at his friend. “With all due respect, sir, this is why I’ve repeatedly insisted that we investigate reports only from the southern coast.”
Simon laughed as he followed Patrick onto the street. Their walk was blissfully short. At the end of the lane, the road ended at a wrought-iron gate. It was already open, offering a view of the palatial estate that sat in the middle of the city. Turrets rose from the corners of the three-story building. Balconies protruded from most of the open windows, culminating with a giant terrace that covered much of the third floor, where the building itself was recessed. Stone gargoyles sat perched at any exposed corners, adding to the opulence of the manor house.
Though Simon was loathed to admit it, he was impressed. He had assumed that the governor had been assigned to this distant outpost because he was of low standing, despite the royal blood in his veins. He would have expected to see a more subdued home, one fitting the governor’s station. The home before him rivaled many of the mansions owned by royals in line for the throne.
Valets opened the doors to the mansion as they approached, and the glittering chandelier that hung in the vaulted foyer entranced Simon. Light filtered through the thousands of crystals, casting dancing droplets of light that sparkled on the floor.
A footman approached and took Patrick’s jacket before extending his arm for Simon and Luthor’s as well. The men removed their thick jackets and draped them over the man’s arm before he retreated into a nearby parlor.
A line of maids and footmen stood at rapt attention before the stairwell that curved gently to the second floor. Patrick paused before the butler, a stout man who looked to be in his mid-forties.
“Mr. Archibald,” the advisor said. “Is everything in order?”
“Yes, sir,” the butler responded with a polite nod of his head.
“Excellent. Let me introduce you to the Royal Inquisitor and his assistant. They will be our guests until such a time as their investigation into this dreadful werewolf business is completed.”
That was the first time Simon had heard anyone else mention the beasts. He gauged the reaction of the staff and was surprised to see many of them involuntarily cringe in fear. He frowned at the obvious superstitious lot and felt more justified that his investigation would debunk yet another legend of yore.
“Very good, sir,” the butler replied.
Patrick returned to the two men who stood just inside the doorway with their shoes dripping melting snow onto the hardwood floor.
“The governor will see you for dinner promptly at seven,” he told them. “If you have any needs or wants, please let Mr. Archibald know. He and his staff are among the best you will find.”
“Thank you for your generosity,” Simon said.
With a bow, Patrick turned and disappeared into an adjoining room.
The butler introduced Simon and Luthor to the wait staff that would take them to their rooms. The footmen offered to carry their few remaining bags but Luthor adamantly refused, clinging tightly to his doctor’s case.
They were led up the stairwell and onto the second floor. The walls were flourished with flowered wallpaper. Simon could smell potpourri seeping from underneath the closed doors that they passed, adding to the illusion of springtime in the land of perpetual winter.
When they reached the end of the hall, Simon’s guide led him to the left while Luthor went to the right.
“See you at dinner then?” Simon asked as the footman unlocked and opened the door to his room.
“I’ll knock on your door shortly before seven, if that’s all right,” Luthor replied.
Simon nodded and the two men parted, entering their respective suites. As part of his station as an Inquisitor, Simon had grown accustomed to being housed in large rooms. The size of the suite in which he found himself took his breath away. The door opened onto a living room, beyond which double glass doors led to one of the many balconies around the building. His bedroom and washroom were separated, with doorways leading to each on his right.
“I hope everything is in acceptable order for you, sir,” the footman said.
“Everything is… remarkable.”
“Very good, sir. Is there anything else you require?”
Simon shook his head. He fetched a silver coin from his coat pocket and handed it to the man. The footman backed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him.
Walking into the room, Simon glanced into the bedroom and was pleased to see his leather bag already resting on a chest at the foot of his bed. He walked past the leather couch and pulled open the double doors. Stepping out onto the balcony, he admired the view. The squat buildings of the city were sprawled before him, their rooftops glistening as the sunlight reflected off the snow. It was a magical view, ruined only by another strong breeze that washed over him. Without his thick jacket, he felt his muscles seize in revolt. Simon hurried back inside, shutting the doors before he rushed over to the burning fireplace.
As his body warmed again, he pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. Knowing he only had an hour before Luthor would call on him, he walked into the bedroom and began preparing for dinner.
Simon looked in the mirror. He tilted his head from side to side, examining his coifed hair, held in place by an obscene amount of hair grease. He pulled a comb from his pocket and ran it along the side of his head, smoothing out a stray strand of hair.
He had changed into a more formal suit for the dinner, leaving behind his pistol but retaining his pocket watch. He pulled the silver piece from his vest pocket and checked the time, frowning when he saw that it was nearly seven already. He tucked it away and walked to his suite’s front door. As he pulled it op
en, he startled Luthor as the diminutive man exited his own room.
Luthor had tried his best to tame his wild mane of curly hair, but to no avail. Large curls stood out defiantly from where he had tried to smooth them against his head, and they draped over the upper half of his trimmed muttonchops.
“I thought you were going to knock on my door well in advance of our dinner reservation?” Simon chided.
Luthor brushed his hands together, cleaning off a white powder that clung to his fingertips. “I was, sir, but I lost track of time. I barely got myself dressed before meeting you here in the hall.”
Simon stepped into the hallway and pulled his door closed. He reached across the divide and straightened Luthor’s tie, which hung askew from the center of his neck. As he straightened the tie, he caught a scent of something foul in the air. He wrinkled his nose and glanced over his friend’s shoulder.
“Do you smell that? It’s atrocious. It’s a mixture of spoiled milk and gangrene. Please tell me that isn’t coming from your room.”
Luthor blushed slightly and looked over his shoulder. “I accidentally broke one of my vials when I was unpacking. It’s an unpleasant scent, to be sure.”
Simon frowned. “Please don’t tell me that was one of the liquids in that foul brew you gave me on the zeppelin.”
Luthor pushed his glasses back up his nose but remained silent.
“Luthor?” Simon asked, arching his brow inquisitively. “It wasn’t, was it?”
When the apothecary didn’t reply, Simon threw up his hands in disgust and stormed down the hall.
“In my defense,” Luthor said as he hurried to catch up, “you told me not to tell you.”
“I swear that you’re trying to poison me. You slip these terrible concoctions into my drinks just to kill me slowly.”
“There are actually indigenous tribes along the far eastern shores that intentionally ingest poisons in an attempt to build a resistance to the natural venoms that exist in their flora and fauna. Despite a wide spread acceptance of the practice, only a very small percentage of them actually die.”
“You find the most remarkable ways to try to defend your inane actions,” Simon said. “I’m not an indigenous tribesman from the eastern shore. Please stop trying to poison me.”
“I’d never poison you without your knowledge,” Luthor said before reconsidering his word choice.
“I guess I should be pleased that my friends will stab me in the face, rather than stabbing me in the back.”
They descended the curved marble staircase and were met at the bottom by the butler. He led them through an empty parlor, though Simon could smell the lingering scent of whiskey and cigars. He regretted being so late to the dinner and having missed the social hour leading up to the meal. It would have been a good opportunity to discuss his investigation with those involved or, at the very least, a chance to enjoy fine alcohol and a smoke.
The butler slid a set of double doors aside and stepped into the formal dining room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, Royal Inquisitor Whitlock and Mr. Luthor Strong.”
The guests all slid their chairs across the floor and stood politely as the two men entered. A long table dominated the room, capable of holding far more than the dozen people that were currently seated. Most of the guests looked like couples—aristocratic husbands and wives who were enjoying the company of the local royalty. Simon gave them all only a halfhearted inspection, wondering if any of them matched the pictures buried in the report they received. The governor sat at the end of the table in the place of honor. The man was portly and leaned back heavily against the velvet-lined chair.
Though he was a cousin to the king, the two men shared very little similarities. They both had the same hazel-colored eyes and dark hair that ended in a widow’s peak on their forehead. There were little comparisons beyond that. The king was a man who maintained peak physical conditioning through swordplay and boxing. It was possible that beneath the governor’s borderline obese physique hid a man of similar musculature to the king, but Simon had his doubts.
The governor’s cheeks grew rosy as he came face to face with the Inquisitor. Simon knew he had that effect on people. The position was one of great honor in the royal court but was viewed as little more than a witch hunter occupation by the common populace. Though Simon considered his approach to his investigations to have a more gentle touch than his peers, he knew the reputation of most Inquisitors. If there was a rumor of supernatural or paranormal activity, the Inquisitors became Death, riding into towns with the intent to destroy not just the mystical creature, but also anyone who stood in their way. The result had been fewer legitimized reports, despite Simon knowing that these monsters existed and appeared on occasion within their borders. Villagers would rather face their own fears and slay the monster alone, than call on an Inquisitor and risk their own lives even further.
“Inquisitor Whitlock,” the governor said, “please come and sit by me.”
The chair immediately to the governor’s left was unoccupied. Simon looked at Luthor apologetically as his associate took his seat at the far end of the row of chairs. As Simon reached his seat, the governor waved for everyone else to be seated as well.
“Sit, sit,” the rotund man at the head of the table said, patting Simon’s chair. “It’s so rare that we get visitors from the capital, and an Inquisitor no less. I must know everything. Tell me all there is to know about the city and my family.”
Simon smiled politely at the man, but he felt dreadfully uncomfortable sitting beside the governor. He cared little for small talk and had never mastered the subtle nuances of political repartee. If left to his own devices, he would have arrived incognito and conducted his investigation from the privacy of a hotel room somewhere within the city. It was Luthor who served as Simon’s protocol guide, letting him know what was demanded of him by his royal position.
“Yes,” said a voice across from Simon. “Do tell us all about the capital and the royal family.”
Simon turned toward the suited man sitting across from him. His dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which was tied in place with a broad ribbon. A frilly cravat protruded from the top of his high vest. His facial features were hard to discern, as he drummed his fingers together in front of his face. The intensity of his black eyes, however, seemed to bore into Simon.
“Mr. Dosett, I presume,” Simon said with a nod.
Gideon Dosett nodded and raised his hand in a mock salute. “It appears my reputation precedes me.”
“Your name is spoken in many of the circles around this city,” Simon replied tactfully.
Gideon dropped his hands, exposing the abnormally red lips that had been concealed. Simon couldn’t tell if it was the result of makeup or just a natural blush.
“You’ve heard only good things, I hope.”
Simon nodded. “Only the most pleasant of descriptions, though my associate and I hardly came here to confirm rumored reputations.”
He looked to the governor, expecting the man to respond. Since he was the dinner’s host, it was his right to bring up the subject of the pending investigation. Such unpleasant topics weren’t normally discussed during dinner, but Simon was already growing impatient. He had already overstepped his bounds by alluding to his mission.
The governor nodded. “The werewolves are a dreadful business and threaten the safety of our city. They’ve become a painful thorn in our collective sides. We’re honored that the crown saw fit to grace us with an Inquisitor. Though, truth be told, I’m hardly the man with whom you should speak. Mr. Dosett’s businesses suffer the worst from these assaults. The werewolves have destroyed, what is it now, three of your drilling stations?”
“Four,” Gideon replied flatly. His lips pressed together until the blood drained from them. “Four drilling stations destroyed and over a dozen men killed. We are, indeed, lucky to have an Inquisitor looking into this unfortunate business.”
Simon was flattered but still uncomfortab
le with the attention. Before he could respond, servants appeared with the meal’s first course. Conversation forgotten, the entire table sipped their soup quietly, the still air broken only by the occasional slurp of the thin liquid.
As soon as they finished their soup, the servants appeared again and cleared away the plates.
“We visited the capital once, you know?” an elderly man remarked from further down the table.
Simon was glad to have someone else to talk to and turned with a broad smile toward the older gentleman. “I hope you found the capital to your liking.”
His wife chuckled and placed a hand affectionately on his arm. They exchanged glances before the older man spoke again. “Heavens no. It was far too busy and full of people. We hardly ever had a chance to be alone with our thoughts, much less alone with one another.” When he noticed the surprised looks from another couple, the man politely cleared his throat. “Forgive me, I get carried away sometimes. Things like that are hardly dinner conversations.”
“There is no need to apologize,” Luthor said. “I find the city to be oppressive sometimes. I grew up near the marshes of Narampoor, where your nearest neighbor was an hour’s ride by train and even longer by horse and buggy.”
“You’d fit in perfectly with us in Haversham,” the man replied. “If you ever get tired of being around the busy city, you can always take the tunnels out of town and wander the ice flows for a while.”
“I believe I would like that,” Luthor replied.
“I want to ask about the Inquisitor’s line of work,” said the woman sitting beside Luthor, “but I fear it would be imposing. Would you mind?”
Simon could barely see her around her husband, but her powdered wig extended high above the man’s head. “I don’t mind at all, madam, but it’s our host’s right to allow such talk at the table.”
He turned toward the governor, who glanced over to Gideon before waving his hand, permitting the topic to be broached.
Simon turned back to the woman. “What would you like to know, madam?”
The woman leaned forward, and Simon could see her painted face. Her skin was white, though her lips were a brilliant scarlet. Unlike Gideon, hers were clearly caused by an application of lipstick.
“Have you seen any monsters?” she asked.
“Gertrude!” her husband interjected.
“No, madam,” Simon said quickly, before she felt embarrassed by the topic of conversation. “We have yet to see any real monsters.”
“But surely this isn’t your first assignment as an Inquisitor?” her husband asked.
Simon laughed. “No, sir, though every Inquisitor has to begin somewhere. Luthor and I have been on a number of missions thus far, but we have yet to encounter an actual monster. All our experiences have been debunking general tomfoolery.”
“It’s a fascinating life you must lead, Inquisitor Whitlock.”
“Please, just call me Simon. I believe we’re among friends here and can be slightly less formal with one another.”
“We’ve heard so many stories of monsters since the Rift appeared but never saw one for ourselves,” she continued. “I started to wonder if they truly existed until the werewolves, of course.”
“The Rift and the monsters it produces are quite real, I assure you,” Simon replied. “The issue is not whether they exist… but if people would recognize them when they saw them. The reason Inquisitors disprove so many reports of monsters in our kingdom is because people assume the monsters to be things of subtlety; that if they were to encounter them on the street, they’d look mostly like a man but with slight monstrous variations to the brow or the shoulders or the legs. The truth is, the monsters are far more, well, monstrous than people are wont to believe. They see a disfigured man and assume him a byproduct of the Rift when, in fact, he’s just an unfortunate soul.”
“The Rift has made people paranoid, jumping at shadows,” Luthor expounded. “The majority of reports filed to the Inquisitors are proven false by the team deployed. Most of the reports are filed because the people involved either suffers from the vapors or hysteria.”
“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.