Simon was still under his blanket when Luthor and Mattie arrived, though his eyes were open and he was clearly alert. His gaze of bewilderment turned to joy as his companion entered the domed structure.
“Luthor,” Simon croaked through a dry throat.
“Can we get him some water?” Luthor asked Mattie.
“Of course,” she replied before slipping back outside.
Luthor walked over to his friend and sat heavily on the pile of furs beside him. Simon slipped his hand free of the blanket and grasped Luthor’s, squeezing it tightly. He immediately winced and withdrew his hand, glaring at the offending limb as though it had caused him great personal harm. Which, in truth, it had.
“How are you feeling?” the apothecary asked.
Simon coughed to clear the phlegm from his throat. “I feel as though all my extremities have been passed through a meat grinder and only loosely reformed into their previous shape.”
Luthor glanced at the Inquisitor’s exposed hand. Though the skin didn’t appear darkened with frostbite, small blisters covered most of his fingers near the fingernails. In contrast to Luthor’s hands, which while red had healed quickly, Simon’s still appeared painful.
“They’ll heal in time, sir. I’m just glad you’re alive.”
“You as well,” Simon replied as he slipped his hand beneath the blanket.
Mattie pulled the tent flap aside and stepped into the room. Simon glanced past Luthor and caught sight of the redhead as she brought him a leather water skin.
“You,” Simon remarked.
“Are you surprised to see me, Inquisitor?” Mattie asked as she knelt beside him.
“Pleasantly so,” he replied, taking the water skin from her and drinking deeply. He rolled to his side, spewing water and coughing violently.
“What was in the skin?” Luthor asked as he reached for the water skin.
Simon quickly pulled it away, clutching it to his chest. As his coughs subsided, he glanced at his companion.
“The water is fine,” Simon explained. “It’s my own fault for attempting to drink too quickly. I was overzealous.”
Luthor sighed with relief and sat back on the furs.
Simon shifted his gaze to Mattie. “You must think me a walking contradiction. What Inquisitor actively seeks a werewolf for help?”
Mattie smiled. “The same type of Inquisitor that takes a chance on a werewolf at a formal ball. The type of Inquisitor who finds the decency within himself to believe a werewolf he barely knows, rather than assuming her silver tongued.”
“I was right to trust in you,” Simon said flatly. “Gideon Dosett is indeed a dangerous man.”
“More than a man, if Luthor is to be believed,” Mattie replied.
Simon exchanged a glance with the apothecary before continuing. “I assume Mr. Strong has told you what we discovered?”
“That Mr. Dosett is a demon, yes, which explains many of our problems with the man.”
“Yes, I intended to ask you about that,” the Inquisitor said. He forced himself up on an elbow so that he was nearly eye level with Mattie. “We discovered that your chieftains sold nearly all your lands to Mr. Dosett a few months ago.”
Mattie nodded and joined Luthor on his fur-lined bed. “Shortly after Gideon arrived at Haversham, he requested a meeting with the tribal leaders. He offered them work with wages that were hard to refuse.”
“If a deal seems too good to be true,” Luthor said, leaving the end of the quote unfinished.
“And it was,” Mattie replied. “Hindsight being what it is, I can now say that Gideon used his demonic abilities to sway their minds. They willingly sold our lands for a mere pittance.”
Luthor furrowed his brow. “If your chieftains were under his spell, what happened to them?”
Mattie raised her chin defiantly. “We killed them. We tried to free them from his hold but to no avail. In the end, we knew they would have preferred death over a life of servitude, especially knowing that Gideon Dosett was dangerous enough without a personal werewolf army.”
Simon nodded. “As I surmised. As a result, you’ve declared a personal war on the man and his businesses?”
“Our new chieftains have devoted their lives to destroying that which Gideon builds with his blood money, constructing drilling operations on our stolen lands.”
“Then you’re not a chieftain?” Simon asked.
Mattie laughed heartily. “Me? No. I was born to immigrants who came to Haversham looking to establish themselves in a nubile town. They both died during an outing beyond the city walls when an ice shelf gave way. I survived and was taken in by the tribe. As such, I’m best suited for reconnaissance inside the city, since I lack their naturally tanned skin and dark hair. No, our chieftain is a stern woman who you will meet in due time.”
“A woman?” Simon remarked, surprised.
“Is there a problem with that?” Mattie quickly asked defensively.
Simon raised his hands painfully. “No, none at all. It just caught me off guard.”
Luthor cleared his throat, slicing through the intensity that had suddenly appeared. “Forgive me for prying, but how is it that you became werewolves in the first place? Clearly you weren’t born to it, were you?”
“You mean since I was born of immigrant parents but still became a werewolf?”
“It’s not… well, that is to say, it’s not contagious, is it?” Luthor asked, acutely aware of the healed scars on his forearm.
“Nothing so vile,” she replied.
Luthor exhaled with relief.
“It happened quite unexpectedly, shortly after I came to live with the tribe. Two men argued over a kill and one suddenly grabbed his chest as though struck. As he straightened again, his hand tore away large strips of flesh, revealing the stark white fur beneath. One transformation led to more. In all, nearly half the tribes on the tundra became the werewolves we know today.”
“It must have been horrifying,” Simon said morosely.
Mattie lowered her gaze. “It was. We’re not complicated people, Inquisitor Whitlock. For all of you with your fancy technology, magic is an abomination. It’s why you and your order even exist. For those of us who live on the fringe, however, magic is a disease, a plague that leaves us unclean. Magic isn’t the abomination here. To those that didn’t transform, we were the abomination, to be shunned. The day that I realized I was one of the werewolves, I lost some very close loved ones.”
Simon looked at Luthor. “Then we were right. This isn’t an invasion from the Rift. Magic has become an airborne contagion.”
“Then aren’t we all at risk, sir?” Luthor asked.
“I believe the more poignant question is whether or not we’re already infected.”
Silence fell between the two men. Mattie glanced back and forth inquisitively, unsure of how their conversation would continue.
Simon drank again from the water skin before setting it aside. “We have to notify the crown of our findings. I have to find a way back to the telegraph office with all haste.”
“Wait,” Mattie interrupted. “You can’t send them a telegram. You know now that we’re not monsters; at least we’re not the type that they fear from the Rift. You may seem understanding, but somehow I doubt that the rest of the Inquisitors will be quite as forgiving. If you contact them, you’re condemning us all to death.”
“Ms. Hawke, my hands are tied,” Simon replied, recalling her surname from their introduction at the ball. “I promise you, however, that I intend to contact them not to warn about you and your ilk, but to warn them about the demon prowling Haversham and to warn them that magic has infiltrated our lands.”
Mattie looked alternately crestfallen and defiant. “I want to believe you, but I find it difficult. Even the best of intentions can go awry when you’re dealing with fanatics like the Order of Kinder Pel. I know you believe you’re doing the right thing, but whether or not you leave this camp isn’t up to you or even me. Our chieftain will have
to make that decision.”
“Then let me speak to her,” Simon said.
A commotion arose outside the tent, a sound like barking and howling emerging from the otherwise quiet exterior.
Mattie glanced over her shoulder. “It seems like you’ll have your chance sooner than expected. Chieftain Kidnip has returned.”