Seal of Solomon (Journeyman Book 2) by Golden Czermak Page B

Henry intently. “Ready?”
    He nodded, though the prospect of speaking directly to the Council made him incredibly nervous. “As I will ever be.”
    With that confirmation, Marcus smiled and pulled on the door handles and they stepped inside.
    The room was much darker than the hall, the window shades having been shut, but there was still enough light to see. Seated at the large table on the far end were all seven councilors and all of them were there in person. This was a rarity and in the face of the rising threat, a good sign. Marcus thought it reassuring that they were taking the threat at least somewhat seriously.
    A cold voice came from the table.
    “Marcus, we didn't expect to see you again today. You're not here to throw papers all over the floor again, are you?” It was Fenran, still as arrogant an elf as ever, sitting highly in the seat just right of center.
    “That's quite enough, Fenran,” Councilor Jane Carter admonished from the center seat. Her voice was as stern as her face always was and she gave him a long, chastising glare down the bridge of her nose – ironic as he was the one often doing that to the others. She lowered her eyebrows then turned her attention toward Marcus and Henry, speaking in a much softer tone, “Mr. Sheridan, thank you for collecting Mr. Abington for us. We all have a lot to discuss.”
    “My pleasure Madame Councilor,” Marcus said with a respectful bow.
    “Likewise ma’am,” said Henry.
    Timothy Randall, sitting to the left of Jane, could see the nervousness in Henry's face. “Mr. Abington, you can relax,” he said reassuringly. “This is only a testimonial, not a trial or interrogation. You have committed no crime and are with your own here.”
    Fenran snickered, joined in quietly by the gargoyle Drogir on the far right. Between them, a horned beast sat straight-faced. Tyrol was just watching, his hairy fingers strumming the tabletop.
    Without further ado, Marcus took up in one of the seats around the edges of the room, not nearly as cushioned as the ones at the table. He set his stack of documents in the empty chair beside him then crossed his legs and arms to watch Henry approach the table.
    His muffled footsteps stopped just before a circular pattern in the carpet and a baroque chair rose out of the floor, as if it were stretched from the fabric itself. Henry shifted around and sat himself gingerly on the seat, placing his forearms on the surprisingly stiff armrests. It grew lighter around him and the Council darker, as if he were in a spotlight.
    “Let it be stated for the record,” Jane opened, and a pen on a table in the far corner of the room flicked up, transcribing everything being said, “that Mr. Henry Michael Abington has been called forth on the second of November, 2015, to provide testimony to the Council on the demon threat known collectively as the Noctis. All council members are present, in person, and accounted for.”
    The room fell silent.
    Timothy began, clearing his throat and taking a sip of water. “Can you tell us about your time in the Whittingham area – why you were there in the first place?”
    “Of course,” Henry said. Still a bit shaky from nerves, sweat started to pool at his lower back. “I was working a case that appeared to involve werewolves just south of there, in Haighton Green. Seemed that some of the residents had spotted a large, black wolf the size of a man out in the fields a night or two before I got there. Upon further investigation, I confirmed that it was indeed a werewolf, one of several in fact that had been chained up further north at a house on Eaves Green.”
    A few not-so-hushed whispers were passed along the table. “Is that the ‘torture house’ we've heard mentioned in some reports?” asked Tyrol, low and grunting, while shuffling through a stack of papers in front of him.
    “One and the same,” Henry acknowledged as the chill of memory spilled down his spine. “A lot of death happened within