Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (28 page)

They walked down the dark streets, Luthor and Simon shoulder to shoulder as they passed the empty storefronts. Only the clicking of heels and the tip of Luthor’s cane on the cobblestones broke the silence of the evening.

Simon ground his teeth in anticipation, as he fidgeted with the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip. He ran scenarios through his mind, attacks and counters, thrusts and parries. A multitude of strategies circulated, both dealing with armed and unarmed opponents. He recalled a myriad of pressure points that would disable a man without doing lasting harm. Of all the things Simon disliked, and there were plenty, he most of all hated the unknown.

They rounded a corner, passing onto one of the city’s major thoroughfares. The street lamps glowed brightly overhead, illuminating the road in both directions. Behind the pair, the road was empty, which was not uncommon at the late hour. Before them, however, six men stood in a horseshoe shape protectively in front of the telegraph office.

Simon and Luthor pulled their hats low over their faces, letting the glow from the streetlamps overhead cast dark shadows over their features. They continued walking forward without slowing, their pace marked by the maddening clicks of Luthor’s cane.

One of the men looked over, noticing the two men approaching. He looked to his counterparts, who motioned for him to deal with the strangers. The man hefted a crude club, formed by applying coarse engineer’s tape to the bottom of a wooden beam. Resting the weapon on his shoulder, he broke from the other guards and approached the two.

“You’re out after curfew,” the man said hoarsely. His skin was red from standing in the cold night’s air. “You need to return to your homes immediately.”

Neither man responded. They continued forward, the cane clicking in rhythm with their steps.

The man shifted his club from his shoulder, patting the top in his open hand as a warning.

“I won’t tell you both again. Mr. Dosett has set a curfew, and you’re in violation. Go home, or I’ll send you there in a body bag.”

Simon lifted his head and pushed back the brim of his top hat. He smiled calmly to the guard, who stared at him in surprise. “The youth of today clearly have no manners, Luthor.”

Luthor lifted his cane, ceasing the incessant clicking. “None at all, it would seem.”

“It’s them!” the man exclaimed.

He shifted his grip on his club, preparing to swing it in a wide arc when the lights on the street suddenly went out. The entire road was plunged into darkness, leaving bright blue spots dancing in everyone’s vision as their eyes struggled to adjust.

Simon recollected the number of paces to the guard, refusing to let his limited eyesight hinder his ability to fight. He closed the distance quickly, drawing his sword as he moved. Rather than turning the blade toward the man, he drove the hilt forward, catching the guard under his chin. The man’s head snapped backward and blood flew from his mouth as he fell limply to the ground.

Night vision was restored to everyone left standing nearly simultaneously as their eyes adjusted to the moonlight. The five guards stared at Simon and Luthor, their gaze passing over the unconscious man at their feet. Simon nodded to the guards before the two sides rushed one another.

Simon spun his sword, pointing the blade at the approaching men. Tambor broke from the pack and charged at Simon, a pickaxe held threateningly over his head. Just before they crashed into one another, Simon slid to the side and let Tambor’s swing pass inches from his shoulder. The pickaxe struck the stone street with bone-jarring force, stunning the head of the Miner’s Guild.

The Inquisitor flicked his blade behind him, slicing cleanly through the heavyset man’s belt. Tambor’s pants fell unceremoniously to the ground, and the man released his pickaxe in an attempt to save his decency.

Luthor parried the first strong swing by the nearest guard, though the force of the impact reverberated through his cane. A second guard flanked him, swinging a wrench toward Luthor’s head. The apothecary ducked and struck the man’s knee with his cane. He howled in pain and clutched his leg, hopping away from the battle. Luthor was able to stand in time to parry the next swing. He wanted to release the blade in his cane but knew the temptation to use it effectively would be too great. Instead, he used the exterior of it effectively to block the heavy, but slow swings of the guard before him.

The night filled with the sound of clashing metal, as Simon parried a knife thrust from another guard. His gaze shifted over the man’s shoulder as he turned his long knife aside. Mr. Orrick hurried to join the battle, though he struggled to find an opening amidst the chaos.

Simon struck forward with the flat of the blade, catching the knife-wielding man on the side of the face and drawing a thin line of blood across his cheek. The guard seemed infuriated and drew back his knife for a thrust. The Inquisitor easily sidestepped the jab and struck the man across the other cheek. The guard reeled, granting Simon the opportunity to drive the pommel of the sword into the top of the man’s head. His eyes rolled upward as he fell to the ground.

Simon spun quickly and kicked outward, catching Tambor in his rotund belly. The miner groaned loudly before dropping to his knees, his pants slipping forgotten back to his ankles.

Luthor struck his opponent across the neck with his cane. The man grasped his neck immediately as the muscles seized, causing lances of pain to shoot through the right side of his body. He reared back to strike the guard again when he heard a low growl behind him.

The apothecary spun as the guard he had struck on the shin rushed him from behind. No sooner had Luthor spun, however, than a white form crashed into the man, driving him to the ground. Mattie tumbled with the man before pummeling him with oversized paws.

Luthor turned back to his first opponent just as the man drew his weapon over his shoulder for a powerful swing. Luthor jabbed his cane forward, smashing the pommel into the man’s nose. The guard’s weapon tumbled from his hand as he clutched his ruined face. Luthor dropped to his knee and swung his weapon low, sweeping the man’s legs. He crashed hard onto the ground, where he rolled around in pain.

Orrick saw the hasty defeat of his other guards and turned to run. Mattie leapt from her unconscious foe, barreling into Orrick, driving the tall man to the ground. She placed a paw on either shoulder, pinning him to the ground with sheer weight. He tried to struggle momentarily, until she lowered her snout to within inches of his face and growled threateningly. He immediately ceased struggling and lay perfectly still.

The relative silence of the street returned, save the chorus of assorted groans. Simon picked up his top hat from where it had tumbled from his head and replaced it, canted as always.

He strode over to where Mattie snarled above Orrick and knelt down beside the pair.

“Well done, Ms. Hawke,” he commended. “Captured but not seriously injured.”

The werewolf glanced over toward him, its eyes smoldering darkly. “Sorry it took so long,” she said, though her voice was hardly recognizable as the feminine woman’s. “It was a longer run from the breaker box to here than I first imagined.”

“No worries. Your timeliness with shutting off the lights was impeccable. Now I do believe you can let our good friend Mr. Orrick up. He won’t try to run away, will you, sir?”

Orrick turned his head slowly toward Simon before glancing back at the werewolf’s maw hovering over his face. “No, sir, I don’t suppose I will.”

“Excellent,” Simon remarked, clapping his hands together. “Then I won’t be obligated to say something dreadful like, ‘if you try to run, I’ll let the werewolf eat the skin from your face while you’re still alive.’”

Orrick visibly shook as he stared at the pointed canines. For effect, Mattie opened and closed her mouth, snapping her teeth together.

“I believe you can let him go now, Ms. Hawke.”

Mattie climbed off the man slowly, keeping her long snout pointed at him as she did so. To his credit, Orrick refused to move even the faintest bit until Mattie was well away from him. The werewolf skulked toward the darkened alley nearby until her figure was consumed by the dark shadows.

Simon snapped his fingers before Orrick’s face, drawing the man’s attention. “Do look over here, Mr. Orrick. There are things that you and I must discuss.”

The sound of wood connecting with flesh was followed by a dwindling groan of pain. Simon looked over his shoulder as Luthor stood over the now unconscious Tambor.

“My associates and I,” Simon said, pointing to both Luthor and the darkened alley down which Mattie had disappeared, “have use of your unique sets of skills.”

Orrick’s eyes suddenly dilated, and his worrisome expression grew emotionless. “I will never help you. I’ll kill you all and bring your heads to Mr. Dosett. I’ll—”

Simon drew back and punched Orrick in the chin. The spell faded at once, and the fear returned to the artisan’s face.

“Please don’t interrupt me again,” Simon warned. “In a moment, Mr. Strong is going to come pay you a visit and he’s going to offer you a drink. You will drink, Mr. Orrick, or he will beat you unconscious and force the fluid down your throat. Trust me when I tell you that I have observed him do exactly that, and it is not your preferable course of action.”

Luthor approached them as Mattie emerged from the alley. She was human again, dressed in the clothing she had concealed in a bag down the street. She carried Luthor’s medical bag, which she handed to the apothecary.

“Send the telegram, sir,” Luthor said. “Mattie and I can handle Mr. Orrick, should he become rowdy once more.”

Simon stood and nodded to the other two. “Be on your guard, both of you. If Mattie was correct, there is a pack of werewolves roaming these streets and no telling what sort of human guards may be with them. If you see anything at all, don’t hesitate, just run.”

“What about you?” Mattie asked.

“This should take but a minute,” Simon explained. “I’ll be back out before you have time to grow concerned.”

Mattie frowned. “I’m already concerned.”

Simon shrugged as he turned toward the telegraph office. “Then I shall have to work quickly.”

Glass clattered to the ground as Simon smashed a hole in the store’s front window. He reached through and unlocked the door, pushing it open and disappearing into the gloomy interior.

Mattie looked to Luthor, who smiled confidently.

“Watch him,” Luthor said, pointing at Orrick. “I’ll have this put together in a matter of seconds.”

Mattie looked down at the still prone man. “Do I need to turn back into a werewolf so that you behave?”

Orrick shook his head without reply.

She turned her attention back to Luthor, but lowered her voice so as not to be heard inside the store. “Is it safe to assume that this is not an ordinary apothecary concoction?”

Luthor lifted the twig and smiled before dropping it into the glass. It ignited in a brilliant blue flame before falling to ash.

“Clearly not,” he replied.

Mattie took the glass and knelt beside Orrick. The man flinched at her very presence, as though he could see the lingering mass of the werewolf concealed within her diminutive frame.

“Drink this and don’t try anything foolish,” she ordered, “or I will have to follow through with the Inquisitor’s previous threat.”

Orrick reached out with a shaking hand and took the potion. He brought it to his lips and drank deeply, his eyes never leaving Mattie. As soon as the liquid rushed down his throat, he seemed to visibly relax and blinked heavily, as though intoxicated.

“Is he all right?” Mattie asked.

Luthor took the man’s glass before it spilled. “He’ll be fine. Being released from Gideon’s spell is taxing, to say the least. Everyone responds differently, though it appears to have sapped most of Mr. Orrick’s coherent thought.”

Orrick laid his head on the road and covered his eyes with his hands. He rolled his head slowly from side to side and slowly opened and closed his mouth.

“He’s drunk,” Mattie remarked.

“He seems drunk, but it’s merely a side effect of the draught.”

“You’re merely arguing semantics. He looks drunk and is certainly acting drunk. I’m not overly concerned with whether he is or isn’t. I’m far more concerned about the fact that we now have to get a drunkard back to the inn.”