Wolves of the Northern Rift (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 1) (29 page)

Luthor sighed. “Yes, I can see how this truly is an argument of semantics. Come, help me get him up.”

As they slipped their hands under Orrick’s armpits, the bell above the telegraph office’s front door jingled and Simon emerged.

“Done already, sir?” Luthor asked as he strained to lift the uncooperative Orrick.

“It was a simple message to send,” he said, walking down the two stairs that led to the building’s front door. “What seems to be the matter with him?”

“A rather unfortunate side effect of breaking the spell, it would appear,” Mattie explained through breaths as she threw Orrick’s arm over her shoulder.

“Come now,” Simon said, rushing over and taking Mattie’s side. “It won’t do to have a woman carrying an inebriated man back to the inn, even a woman as physically capable as yourself.”

Mattie smiled and patted the Inquisitor on the shoulder. “It would appear that the slap to your face has done wonders for your disposition toward me.”

Running to the alley, she hefted the stolen flamethrower onto her back. She hurriedly caught up as the two men began carrying Orrick down the street, his feet alternating between steps and merely being dragged over the stones.

They all sighed with relief when they encountered no one else during their return trip. Stopping at the front door to the tavern, the men allowed Mattie to open the door. They were forced to turn sideways to get everyone through the narrow doorway, which made dragging Orrick even more complex than it had prior been. Mattie followed them through the door and was immediately met with an utter silence in the bar.

The group paused at the doorway as all gazes fell on the motley crew, one of whom was blindly drunk and the woman who carried a flamethrower on her back, its nozzle clutched in her hand.

Simon caught sight of the bartender, as the man shook his head disapprovingly.

“Don’t look at us judgingly,” the Inquisitor chided, “as though this were the worst thing you’ve seen us do.”

The group walked past the dumbfounded patrons and dragged Orrick up the staircase to their room.

Mr. Orrick lowered the jeweler’s lens, increasing the magnification as he scrutinized one of the valves on the flamethrower. He probed the seal gently with a dental pick, nodding in satisfaction at the resistance.

“Can you please hand me the soldering iron?” he asked without looking up.

Mattie reached toward the row of tools, but her hand paused with indecision. She bit her lip as she looked back apologetically. Orrick glanced up from his work, his one eye grossly magnified under the lens. He quickly gestured toward the nondescript metal rod.

“Do grasp it by the handle,” he offered. “The rod itself is abnormally hot at the moment, hot enough to melt metal.”

Mattie cringed as she grasped the tool by its rubberized handle. She untangled the long cord that ran from the base of the handle to an electric box. The box hummed with energy. Watching them work, Luthor quickly cranked the handle on the side of the box and the speed of the humming increased.

Orrick took the soldering iron with a polite nod and placed it against the seal while pressing a thin coil of metal to its tip. The metal liquefied from the heat, dripping and pooling around the clamp holding the hose in place. He moved cautiously and deliberately, ensuring the seal was complete between the two pieces of metal.

“Are we nearly done?” Simon asked from his seat on the bed.

“Inquisitor Whitlock,” Orrick replied, though his words were muffled from his stooped position, “I am working with canisters of highly pressurized gas. A single wrong move will result in either a puncture, which would send the canister rocketing through this room with severely destructive force or, in a worst-case scenario, actually explode. Need I remind you that these canisters are currently filled with a highly flammable fluid? As an Inquisitor, I’m sure you can extrapolate the potential strength of the blast, should those gases ignite.”

“I could,” Simon confirmed, “I merely choose not to in an attempt to save my sanity from inevitable boredom.”

“It sounds as though your mind has already been consumed with boredom, sir,” Luthor remarked.

Simon scowled at his companion. “Shouldn’t you be drafting more of your brew?”

Luthor nodded. “I should but like you, I’m saving myself from the tediousness of my work. Besides which, my drafting of the concoction takes mere moments, the most laborious of which won’t be required until the final moments before loading the flamethrower.”

Simon leapt to his feet excitedly. “Excellent, then you’re currently free from any obligations.”

Luthor frowned, sensing an impending trap. “That depends wholly on your intent.”

“We should leave Mr. Orrick to his work. I believe Mattie can serve well enough as an assistant?”

Orrick didn’t bother looking up from his soldering. A faint wisp of smoke rose from around her stooped frame. “She’s been a fine assistant thus far, and I most certainly could do without either of you sighing heavily or moaning about your boredom.”

“You haven’t answered my question,” Luthor remarked as Simon pulled him toward the door. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Even aerosolized, your gas will dissipate unless it’s confined to an enclosed space. We’re going to secure a space.”

They walked through the tavern without drawing odd stares from the patrons for once. The midday sun was shining, and Simon frowned at the sight. He had hoped to complete the vast majority of their tasks the previous night, but the modifications on the flamethrower had consumed far more time than he had anticipated.

The two men walked through the streets, making small talk as they went to appear as normal as possible, though they constantly perused the faces of those they passed. The citizens seemed normal, lacking the wrathful glares seen on the faces of Gideon’s puppets.

Through twists and turns in the streets, they walked the perimeter of the city, staying as close to the walls as possible. Ahead, the massive, metal doors of the main gate towered overhead. A pair of guards were posted nearby, though they chattered inanely amongst themselves, paying little attention to passersby. Not eager to tempt fate, Simon and Luthor pulled their hats low and acted as though they were examining the storefronts on the far side of the road as they passed the gate, avoiding exposing their faces to the guards.

Once well clear of the gate, they two men angled toward a large, metal barn set against the city wall. The doors were open, and the braying of the sled dogs echoed from within.

Mr. Parrish sat on a stool by one of the barn doors, retooling a broken leather harness. He worked diligently, his focus entirely on the work at hand. As Simon’s shadow fell across the street in front of him, he looked up absently. Only upon recognizing the Inquisitor did his expression harden and malice appear in his eyes.

“You,” he hissed as he stood, the leatherworking awl grasped in his hand like a knife. “I’ll kill you for—”

Simon kicked the man in the chest, sending the sled master sprawling into the barn. They followed him inside, pulling the barn doors closed behind them as they did.

Luthor tugged once more on the straps around Mr. Parrish’s feet. The man groaned as the wet leather pulled on his skin, biting slightly into the flesh. The strip of cloth tied firmly around his mouth muffled his complaints, however.

“He’s secure,” the apothecary remarked. He turned his attention back to Mr. Parrish. “Again, Mr. Parrish, forgive us for treating you so harshly. Once you’re freed of the hold Gideon Dosett has over you, you’ll surely thank us for what has transpired.”

Luthor couldn’t decipher the exact words of Parrish’s response, and his gentlemanly sensibilities were glad of that fact.

The wolves barked loudly around them, excited by the flurry of activity within the barn. Simon stood beside one of their pens and stared up toward the ceiling. As Luthor joined him, the Inquisitor gestured toward the tin roof.

“There’s a skylight,” Simon remarked.

“It could work,” Luthor agreed.

Simon nodded and climbed onto the narrow wooden divider that separated the canines’ pens. Holding his arms out wide, he balanced as he moved gingerly down its length to the barn’s wall. Reaching only slightly above his head, he unlatched the narrow window, letting it swing inward. A cool blast of air poured through the open window, but Simon ignored the discomfort. Turning rather acrobatically, Simon walked back down the divider’s length before jumped back to the ground.

“I think we’re ready,” he said, “though I believe we should cover poor Mr. Parrish with one of the parkas. He’s going to be lying in a rather cold barn for some time before we return.”

Luthor nodded and collected one of the thick parkas, draping it over the angry sled master. The length of the parka covered most of Parrish’s exposed skin, his pants and long-sleeved shirt having been stripped away to ensure a better hold of the leather restraints.

Satisfied, Luthor and Simon exited the barn, pushing the doors closed behind them lest someone stumble upon their captive. They walked back to the inn nonchalantly, even nodding politely to the gate guards as they passed.

Once they reached the inn, they hurried through the tavern and up the back stairwell. The door to their room was unlocked, and they entered quickly. Mattie still stood at the end of the table, watching Mr. Orrick like a prison guard. Orrick, for his part, seemed oblivious to Mattie’s impatient stares. The flamethrower had been reconstructed with various new nozzles and hoses connecting the canisters. The spray handle had been removed, and the smoke stack was wrapped protectively in fabric. Most notably, there were a series of tall pint glasses on the table before him, all filled to various levels with the gasoline mixture that had previously been housed within the pressurized containers.

As they entered the room, Mattie looked up to greet them. “Is it done?” she asked.

“It is,” Luthor replied.

Simon smiled as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “The guards have seen us as well. Coupled with our attack on the telegraph office last night, word should reach Gideon of our general location within the city.”

“Now we just have to hope he sends the werewolves after us,” Mattie said, ignoring Orrick’s obvious shiver at the mention. He stopped his work to glance cautiously at the redhead standing at the end of the table.

“He will,” Simon confirmed. “Everyone is expendable in Gideon’s eyes, but none more so than the werewolves. Humans are malleable whereas werewolves—other mystical creatures like himself—are a threat. He’ll send them. Now we must ensure we’re ready when they arrive.”

“One of us already is,” Orrick remarked. He turned the smokestack toward Simon and turned one of the valves. A cloud of white smoke poured from the stack, enveloping the Inquisitor.

Simon coughed and waved his hand rapidly in front of his face. “Is that steam?”

Orrick nodded. “I replaced the gasoline with water. It will act as a filler for Mr. Strong’s mixture, helping increase the overall volume of the gas.”

Simon coughed once more as he felt the moisture settle on his skin. “Well done, sir.”

Luthor clapped his hands. “Then I suppose it’s time for me to get to work.”

He walked to the far side of the room, collecting the large pot Simon had acquired from the tavern earlier that morning. His doctor’s bag was open on the nightstand, and he withdrew the required vials. He frowned as he observed the quantities of what remained, noting that many of his vials were already less than half full.

“Is everything all right?” Simon asked, noting Luthor’s sour expression.

“Everything is fine,” the apothecary remarked. “My supplies are quickly dwindling, however. If this doesn’t work, I doubt I’ll have the supplies necessary to recreate this endeavor.”

“All the more reason not to fail.”

Luthor poured the entirety of his chosen test tubes into the pan, filling it nearly a quarter way once he added the distilled water. He glanced over his shoulder to where Simon sat, ensuring the man couldn’t see the odd color changes occurring within the pot. Though the current mixes were merely mundane reactions, he knew it would be difficult to explain the next stage of the process.

Reaching into his bag, he withdrew one of the remaining leafy twigs. “I should warn you all that this stage of the process involves a rather significant and violent chemical reaction. Like Potassium when it’s added to water, this will produce a rather impressive flame. There’s no reason to be alarmed, however.”

Without awaiting a response, he dropped the flora into the pot. The reaction was immediate. Blue flames leapt toward the top of the pot, illuminating the corner of the room in a vibrant cerulean. The flames quickly died away, leaving the yellowish brew behind.

Simon stroked his chin thoughtfully at the sight. “Out of curiosity, would that be the same brew you had me ingest?”

“And me?” Mattie asked.

“And me as well?” Orrick added.

“Obviously, which only goes to show that it’s completely harmless,” Luthor added hastily. He glanced to Orrick, eager to change the subject. “Are you prepared with a funnel?”

Orrick glared at Luthor a moment longer before nodding. He held the funnel aloft before placing it at the mouth of one of the canisters.

Luthor lifted his pot and carried it to the artisan, careful not to spill any of the draught. Together, they cautiously poured the brew into the metal cylinder, shaking the pot at the end to ensure every last droplet of the mystical compound was captured.

Orrick removed the funnel and threaded a hose onto the end of the container. With a spin of a valve, pressurized gasses flooded the canister. The artisan raised his head with a smile.

“It’s ready for field testing,” he remarked.

Simon stood. “Gideon Dosett wants to hunt us with a tribe of werewolves. I believe it’s about time we let them find us.”