Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (11 page)

Simon’s fingers finally closed around the handle of his revolver, and he drew the weapon fluidly from his parka. In practiced motion, he pulled back the hammer nearly simultaneously with squeezing the trigger. The first round struck the werewolf in the gut, causing it to stumble during its long stride. No sooner had the first rapport rang out than Simon pulled the trigger again. The second and third rounds both struck the werewolf in the chest.

Momentum carried the monster forward, though Simon doubted it still had the strength to strike him. It swayed unsteadily as it took one last step before finally pitching forward at his feet.

Simon looked down at the creature and sighed with relief.

Another gunshot rang out, and the snow at his feet exploded upward. Simon raised his head and saw the werewolf on the hill hastily reloading his long rifle. The creature used its teeth to tear off the top of the powder horn, and it tilted it toward the lip of the rifle.

Simon adjusted his stance and straightened his firing arm. He closed one eye as he took aim and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the powder horn as the werewolf turned it upward. The black powder within ignited from the impact, exploding in a giant fireball that consumed the wolf. When the smoke cleared from the top of the hill, Simon could see no sign of the insolent monster.

He turned his gaze elsewhere and sought a new target.

Luthor rushed into the drilling operations, ducking as a lead ball struck the framework directly above his head. He slid to a stop beside the central drill, digging the tip of his cane into the ice to stop his momentum. He looked around for the site workers, but he appeared to be alone. Most had fled away from the werewolves, thinking that putting distance between themselves and the monsters would save their lives. Sadly, the creatures merely adjusted their charge to intercept the fleeing workers.

Luthor was alone under the framework pyramid around the drill. He could see a few of the werewolves rushing across the tundra, though most gave the actual drilling site a wide berth. A few gunshots cut through the air, though Luthor struggled to identify exactly where the sounds were originating.

He glanced around quickly to make sure no one was watching him. With a wave of his hand, a translucent shield encompassed his left hand. Luthor muttered under his breath as he continued the incantation, covering himself with a protective spell. Though it wouldn’t stop the razor-sharp claws of the beasts, it would hopefully let him survive the creature’s first salvo.

As he turned away from the drill, a tall shadow fell over him. A werewolf stepped into one of the entryways between the metal legs of the rig. It towered over the much shorter man, though it wasn’t the creature’s height that had Luthor worried. The werewolf carried a flintlock rifle that was already trained on him.

“Damn it all to hell,” Luthor muttered as the werewolf pulled the trigger.

Flames leapt from the end of the rifle as the lead ball flew from the barrel. Luthor’s eyes couldn’t trace the trajectory of the bullet, but he felt it as it connected with his spell. The translucent light around him sparked madly, like steel striking flint. Sparks erupted from its impact, but the spell miraculously held. The lead ball was turned aside, passing within an inch of his left hip. It struck the drill behind him with a hollow thud before dropping to the snow.

Luthor let out a sigh of relief but frowned as the werewolf howled into the air and charged at him.

He raised his cane in defense, but the werewolf ignored the paltry weapon. He swung the rifle like a club, connecting solidly with Luthor’s chest. The protective spell flared again but, weakened as it was, it sputtered and failed. While it absorbed some of the kinetic energy from the impact, Luthor was tossed from his feet. He felt ribs crack and break beneath his thick parka as he slid unceremoniously on his back through the snow and ice.

The werewolf growled as it rushed at him again, in an attempt to finish off the prone man. Luthor waited until it was close before rolling quickly to his side. The werewolf drove the butt of the rifle into the snow where he had lain moments before.

Despite the pain in his ribs, Luthor rolled to his feet, brandishing the cane. The werewolf seemed unimpressed as it bared its teeth again.

Luthor swung the cane like a club, striking the werewolf across the face. The creature reared back more in surprise than in pain. Pressing his advantage, Luthor raised the cane above his head and swung sharply downward.

A white, furry claw shot up and caught the cane in the middle of its arc. Luthor tugged on the cane, trying to free it from the werewolf’s powerful grip, but to no avail.

With his cane gripped firmly in one clawed hand, the werewolf snapped its jaws forward, closing the razor-sharp canines over Luthor’s exposed forearm. The residual magic of his spell kept the powerful jaws from snapping bone and severing his arm, but the teeth still sank deeply into his flesh. Luthor bit back a scream of pain, as he felt blood seep into the underside of his parka’s sleeve.

The werewolf growled gutturally as it tried to bite down further into his arm. Luthor hoped he never had to hear the crunching sound again. The bite was accompanied by a flare of pain as the monster shifted its jaws back and forth.

Luthor winced as he stared into the creature’s dark eyes. It looked back at him with malevolence, though he saw a spark of intelligence behind its animalistic façade.

“I’m truly sorry for this, old chap,” Luthor said through clenched teeth. “Nothing personal.”

The werewolf cocked its head to the side as though it understood the apology. Luthor winced once more at the creature’s movement, his arm still latched between powerful jaws.

Luthor released the cane with his trapped arm but grabbed it with his free hand quickly before the werewolf could pull it away. He pressed a button on the side, releasing the cane’s pommel and the rapier that had been concealed within the haft of the walking instrument. With a practiced flourish, Luthor slashed across the werewolf’s forearm. It dropped the rest of the cane and howled in pain, clutching its damaged arm with its free hand. Its howl freed Luthor’s injured arm, which dropped weakly to his side.

A turn of the blade dragged the rapier across the creature’s stomach. Though it lacked the strength to cut through the thick fur and hide more than a few inches, the slash drew an angry red line of blood across the monster’s gut.

Whimpering with surprise and pain, the werewolf dropped the rifle in its uninjured hand and covered the seeping blood on its belly with its claw. With a surprised and angry glance at the apothecary, the werewolf turned away to flee. Luthor took the opportunity to drive his point home with another slash across the shoulder blades of the retreating creature.

The magical creature dropped to all fours and bounded through the powdery snow. Luthor waited until the werewolf had disappeared over the nearest snow bank before he lowered the tip of his rapier. He glanced around and was glad to see that he was alone once more.

He saw the rest of his cane resting half submerged in the snow. He reached down to retrieve it, groaning softly as he felt pressure in his broken ribs and the anguish rolling through his bitten arm. He knew that when he was finally alone, he’d have to use a spell to repair the damage. It wouldn’t do for him to be incapacitated during their investigation.

A werewolf in the distance howled, and the noise was picked up and echoed by the rest of the pack. Simon watched as the werewolves rushed hurriedly through the snow, disappearing back the way they had originally come. Much of the white fur of the wolves was stained red with fresh blood. Simon didn’t envy their task ahead, as they sought out survivors of the drilling crew.

The foreman was alive, Simon was happy to note. The lead bullet had pierced the man’s shoulder cleanly, exiting through a hole in his back not much larger than the entry wound. Simon found some fabric used for packaging the coring samples and used the cloth to pack the man’s wound. He groaned but didn’t resist the treatment.

Simon dropped his gaze to the foreman and tried to smile reassuringly. “Good news, you won’t bleed to death before the city guards arrive. In fact, there is even a good chance that you won’t die even after they arrive, though I wouldn’t place much faith in the ill-trained country doctors at your disposal back in Haversham.”

Before the foreman could manage a stinging retort to what had to have been the worst bedside manner he had ever experienced, Simon noticed Luthor approaching and stood.

Luthor staggered through the snow, favoring his broken ribs and clutching his bitten arm close to his chest. His face bore a smile, though it only thinly veiled the pain.

“Are you all right, Luthor?” Simon asked.

“I’ve certainly been better.”

Simon reached over and stuck his finger through a hole in Luthor’s parka. Pushing deeper into the parka, his finger emerged from a similar hole on the backside of the coat.

“Good Lord, man. You were nearly shot,” he remarked.

Luthor looked down, noting that the passage of the bullet passed less than an inch from piercing his side. He had been so intently focused on his other injuries, he had nearly forgotten about the gunshot.

“Had I been a fatter man—”

“—the sled dogs would have never been able to drag you through the snow in the first place, saving you the discomfort of the motion sickness you experienced. You also would have never been attacked by, dare I say it, a werewolf,” Simon concluded. “Be thankful you’re in such good shape.”

“It appears to be both a blessing and a curse,” Luthor joked, though he wasn’t sure how much Simon had spoken in jest. “Has anyone ever told you that you speak quite a bit when you’re nervous?”

“My mother,” Simon said wistfully. “Quite often, actually. More than you realize, or I realize, or anyone realizes, really.”

Luthor placed a hand on the Inquisitor’s shoulder, though lifting his arm caused him pain as well. He let go and slipped his hand into the inside of his parka. His fingers came in contact with a viscous fluid and, for the briefest moment, Luthor was sure he had suffered far more injuries than he originally believed. As soon as his fingers brushed against the broken glass of the vial, he felt simultaneous relief at not being injured and anger at the loss of more reagents. Feeling deeper into the pocket, his fingers found the other vials concealed within. He fetched a vial of amber liquid and sloshed it around before handing it to his friend.

“Drink this,” Luthor ordered. “It will calm your nerves.”

Simon took the vial but looked at it dubiously. “What did you put in this elixir?”

Luthor smiled. “It’s scotch. I find the vast majority of ailments can be fixed with the right application of alcohol.”

Simon hastily uncorked the vial and drank its contents in a single swallow. He shook his head as the alcohol burned the back of his throat, but it also warmed his belly and helped clear his mind. He handed the empty vial back to the apothecary.

As Luthor retrieved the vial with his healthy arm, Simon’s gaze fell to the one cradled protectively.

“What has happened to your arm?” Simon asked.

Luthor swallowed hard, as though he was reticent to tell Simon the truth. Begrudgingly, he pulled up his sleeve. The bleeding had already stopped, though tacky blood was smeared across his forearm, matting the fine hairs. The bite marks were puckered and rimmed in an angry red as though an infection were already burning through the apothecary’s skin.

“Forgive me, sir,” Luthor said quietly. “I was bitten.”

Every child’s tale about the infectious bite of a werewolf poured through Simon’s mind. He had heard enough werewolf stories to know that the lycanthropy was passed through the saliva. A bite could turn a normal man into another of the magical creatures like a disease. A cold lump formed in Simon’s chest as he looked at his apologetic companion. He shook his head softly, hoping beyond hope that the stories were just that—stories. He wasn’t sure what he believed of werewolf mythology, and he told himself that the legends surrounding the bite of the creature could be nothing more than folklore. He sighed, however, knowing that he was forcing himself to believe that his accomplice wasn’t going to turn into another of those monsters. He had no way yet to know, one way or the other.

“Luthor?” he asked, knowing that the hanging question was enough for his friend.

“It hurts, to be certain,” Luthor replied, “but I don’t think it’s anything worse than a bad injury. I certainly don’t feel like howling at the moon, if that’s what you’re insinuating, though for good measure, it might not be a bad idea to lock me away somewhere safe once we return.”

Simon sat down heavily in the snow but kept his eyes trained on his friend. “This is a fine mess.”

The Inquisitor looked around the destruction caused by the werewolves. Luthor followed his gaze initially but grew distracted at the sight of the one Simon had shot, now lying dead, facedown in the snow.

The apothecary pointed at the remains. “It seems we can put the argument of authenticity to rest now.”

“Yes,” Simon sighed, “there’s no doubt in my mind that magical creatures have invaded our kingdom.” His gaze fell again to Luthor’s injured arm, which was, once again, covered by the thick parka. “We must make haste back to Haversham. I’ll find Mr. Parrish at once. I’m not sure how he’ll manage, but we’ll have to make due with a third passenger for the ride home.”