The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) (2 page)

Though their zeppelin had landed in Callifax nearly two weeks earlier, Simon still appreciated the nuances that made the capital city unique. The sun warming his face was his personal favorite, having suffered through the bitter cold in Haversham for far longer than his liking. Whereas the frozen tundra city had been a virtual ghost town, with few pedestrians braving the elements, Callifax teemed with life. The sidewalks were busy with pedestrians moving to and fro. The streets were crowded with automobiles and the much larger double-decker autobuses of the public transportation system. They left clouds of acrid black smoke in their wake, but Simon overlooked their smog in light of their technological marvel.

He raised his hand as a taxi passed. The black, open-sided automobile pulled to the curb beside where he stood, and he climbed aboard.

“Where shall I take you, sir?” the cab driver asked.

“The Grand Hall, if you please,” Simon replied as he tried to get comfortable on the firm backseat.

The driver glanced over his shoulder, giving Simon a once over. “You’re an Inquisitor, then?”

Simon nodded, though he merely wished the driver would continue onward. “I am.”

“Here for the conference, are you?”

“I’m actually from Callifax, though I am attending the conference. Speaking of which, I’m in a spot of a hurry, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, sir,” the cab driver replied as he moved the tall gearshift into drive and pulled away from the curb. He raised his arm out of the side of the car, announcing to the vehicles behind him that he was merging.

Though Simon loved the intricacies of the technological age, being aboard a car made him uneasy. It jostled along the cobblestone streets, its firm wheels bouncing roughly on the uneven stonework. The open sides of the taxi let in the pungent fumes of petrol and exhaust, a scent that seemed to permeate his skin and clothing. He would smell foul by the time he arrived at the Grand Hall, but it was unavoidable. He would have been similarly tarnished had he walked, what with the fumes and smoke belching across the sidewalks as well.

Simon stared out the window, admiring the towering structures as they passed. The terrace of townhouses gave way to rows of storefronts, above which men and women glanced from the upstairs apartments.

As they reached the end of his road, the brick edifices of the buildings vanished and the paved sidewalks gave way to the lush greenery of a well-manicured lawn. A stone behemoth of a building rose from the center of the garden. An ornately carved wooden door was affixed in the middle of the gray stone building, flanked by rounded, stained-glass windows. At each of the four corners of the cathedral, pointed towers rose skyward, where crouched gargoyles topped them.

Simon drummed his fingers absently on the windowsill of the taxi as they passed the Callifax Abbey. He had been within the building a number of times, in the company of Veronica who, despite her predilections, clung firmly to her faith.

The interior of the building was every bit as opulent as its exterior appeared. Towering marble pillars held aloft vaulted ceilings. The golden altar near the front of the church was bathed in a myriad of colors, as sunlight filtered through an ornate pane of stained glass that dominated the far wall.

The taxi turned at an intersection, and the Abbey disappeared from Simon’s view. The incline of the road rose slightly as they approached the bottom of the aptly, yet unimaginatively named Castle Hill. The taxi came to rest at the next intersection, yet their road didn’t continue on. Instead, a large, marble building rose before them.

The Grand Hall was built in the style of civilizations long since passed, a remembrance of a more enlightened era of thinkers and philosophers. The front of the building was pillared, with the tall, marble spires framing the large, wooden doors.

The taxi driver waited politely for a break in the ceaseless traffic before driving across the street and pulling to the curb. Simon fetched some silver coins from his jacket pocket and handed them to the man, knowing that his payment far exceeded the actual cost of the short trip.

“Thank you kindly, sir,” the taxi driver said excitedly.

Simon climbed from the cab and watched as it pulled away before turning toward the Grand Hall. The marble building was recessed from the street, leaving a wide, stonework courtyard between the edge of the curb and the front of the building. A small row of trees flanked the sidewalk leading to the entrance. Young men and women sat in the shade, reading or talking amongst themselves.

Eyes fell upon Simon as he walked toward the front of the building, the young men and women looking up appreciatively at the dapper gentleman walking past. The morning had been filled with Inquisitors coming and going from the Grand Hall. The Inquisitors rarely had such meetings, in which members arrived from throughout the kingdom, but Simon’s revelation of demons in their land had prompted the necessity for this particular gathering. As he neared the front doors, a shadow fell over him. He craned his neck upward as a zeppelin eclipsed the sun, passing high overhead on its way to the tall airship docks on the far side of the castle. Even the zeppelins came with increasing regularity, another necessity of the returning Inquisitors.

“Unless my eyes deceive me, I do believe that I’m in the presence of greatness,” a man said from behind him.

Simon dropped his gaze and turned, coming face to face with a broad-shouldered man who stood a few inches taller than Simon did. The man wore no hat and his long hair was tied in a single braid that fell down his back. The man smiled broadly, an expression that seemed well at ease on his chiseled face.

“Indeeed, I am in the presence of a true hero of the crown,” the man said. He turned toward a much younger man, barely out of boyhood, who stood beside him. “Peter, show some respect. You’re standing before Royal Inquisitor Simon Whitlock, slayer of demons.”

Simon smiled and laughed softly at the young man’s awed expression. “Perhaps, Ambrose, you would be so kind as to carry a trumpet next time so as to better announce my presence?”

Inquisitor Ambrose Supperwood laughed before patting Simon firmly on the shoulder, nearly knocking him aside. “It’s good to see that your fame has certainly not bewitched your sense of humility.”

“Of course not,” Simon remarked ironically. “I’m by far one of the most humble men you’re likely to meet.”

Inquisitor Supperwood turned toward his young charge. “Inquisitor Whitlock is an old friend of mine. We attended our schooling together a few years ago.”

“We’ve been friends a long time,” Simon corrected. “Neither of us are hardly old.”

“Of course not. In fact, I believe we’re still in our prime.”

“Never felt better,” Simon quickly agreed.

“Come on, then,” Ambrose chided. “I don’t believe this discussion of demons will advance far without the slayer himself.”

Ambrose gestured toward the Grand Hall before them. Guards standing on either side of the doorway pulled the ten-foot doors apart as the two Inquisitors approached. Both guards bowed with a flourish at their presence, causing Simon some general discomfort.

“Are you feeling well, Simon?” Ambrose whispered as they entered the buildings entry hall.

“Of course,” Simon replied dismissively. “I surmise there’s just a small part of me that would rather forego today’s festivities in lieu of another assignment.”

Ambrose nudged Peter, who rubbed his arm where the larger man had struck him. “He has the bug, Peter. Give the man a sense of the glory that comes with being an Inquisitor and he yearns for more. Is that about right, Simon?”

Simon chuckled as he handed his top hat and jacket to a servant. “Nothing quite so abstruse, I’m afraid. It’s not the fame for which I yearn—”

“Though you’re generally not opposed, I should say,” Ambrose interrupted.

“I certainly won’t argue. No, it’s less the fame and far more the freedom. There was a palpable excitement when Luthor and I discovered the real mystery behind the goings-on in Haversham. It makes my heart race at just the thought.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Mr. Strong. Are you still traveling with the apothecary? When will you get a proper apprentice like Peter?”

Simon looked to the young and hopeful apprentice. “Never. No offense meant, Peter, but I simply prefer the company of someone closer to my own age. Besides which, Luthor proved invaluable in defeating Gideon Dosett.”

Ambrose huffed. “An Inquisitor of your caliber, one trained by the Grand Inquisitor himself, should be teaching our future generations rather than dallying about with a medical professional. I apologize. This conversation is neither here nor there. What were we discussing before I rudely interrupted you?”

“I do believe that is the first time you’ve ever properly apologized for interrupting me. Perhaps you have changed. In any regard, I was discussing the thrill of the hunt. I should say you’re more than familiar with that sensation.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Alas, I’m not. I haven’t received so thrilling an assignment in some time. In fact, my last assignment was investigating a demon bird harassing a logging expedition. It turned out to be merely a large bat to which someone had affixed a duck’s bill. Can you imagine a more preposterous creature?”

“A forgery, then?” Simon asked as a valet directed them toward the large meeting hall.

“Most certainly, and poor taxidermy work at that. Even Peter saw right through the guise, though how the loggers hadn’t is still beyond me. It was most certainly a waste of Inquisitor resources and time.”

The meeting hall doors were open and the interior exceptionally crowded. The din of conversation rolled from the room, filling even the foyer with a general indistinguishable rumble of voices. Simon paused at the doorway and looked into the busy room beyond.

The meeting hall was a tiered affair, with rows of seats rising to either side of a central floor. The middle of the room was open, save for a raised dais near the far end of the chamber on which a pair of ornate chairs rested. Behind the chairs were two doors, closed at the moment, leading to hidden rooms beyond.

The middle of the room was as much of a divide between philosophies as was the central hall of parliament, in which either side of the room held the two opposing political ideations. In the Inquisitors’ hall, however, the two sides worked toward a common goal, though the means to their end differed greatly.

To the left, the seats were filled with Inquisitors of Simon’s and Ambrose’s order, those who investigated reports of magical maladies with due diligence. Simon noticed many a familiar face amongst the Inquisitors and a few even offered friendly nods as he caught their eyes.

Simon’s gaze drifted to the right side of the room, where the Order of Kinder Pel sat, talking amongst themselves. They looked no different than his own Inquisitors, though Simon knew there was darkness within the Pellites, one of fanaticism that would see magic destroyed by any means necessary, collateral damage be damned.

“They even appear as hulking brutes,” Ambrose remarked as he too glanced toward the Pellites.

“Give them nary another thought,” Simon said. “We should find seats. We’re practically late as it is.”

The two men wove through the rows of seats, Simon receiving a fair share of pats on the back and offered handshakes. There were seats available near the top of the tiered seats, the front-most seats having been reserved for those with more political clout than a mere second-year Inquisitor.

Simon and Ambrose sat and gave polite introductions to the men sitting on either side. They settled back in their chairs and glanced across the vast space between the two factions. A few Pellites glanced toward them as they talked in low tones.

The sheer number of Pellites filling the seats, which had nearly reached maximum capacity, took Simon aback. “I don’t recall there ever being so many of them before.”

Ambrose shook his head. “Their numbers have been growing steadily over the past year. The younger generation seems more astutely attuned to their brazen approach to investigations, finding our more practiced approach to be archaic and old-fashioned.”

Simon laughed. “We’re in our thirties, and yet somehow time has already passed us by, it seems.”

“Still in our prime,” Ambrose echoed from their earlier conversation.

Simon crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “They’re mere children, barely older than Peter, yet they’re being sent on missions just the same as we are. It seems mildly blasphemous.”