The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) by Jon Messenger Page A

garment.
    “Please let the Grand Inquisitor know that I have arrived,” Simon said.
    “Of course, sir,” the servant replied. “I believe he’s already expecting you.”
    “I should assume so.”
    The valet bowed before hurrying back to the coatroom. Simon barely gave the man a second glance as he walked into the sitting room.
    The large room—filled with a series of couches, plush chairs, and a large fireplace that dominated the far wall—was mostly empty. A small group of Inquisitors sat on two sofas, facing one another, as they lost themselves in conversations of past investigations and other exploits.
    Though his back was to Simon, a long, braided ponytail revealed that Ambrose was among the Inquisitors. Smiling, knowing that a friendly face would be much appreciated, Simon walked toward the group.
    One of the Inquisitors noted his approach with a broad smile before motioning Simon to join them.
    “Inquisitor Whitlock,” the man said, though Simon couldn’t quite recall his name. “To what do we owe this immense pleasure?”
    Simon shrugged as he took an offered seat at the head of the couch closest to Ambrose. “If only I knew, though I doubt it’s for anything good.”
    “Nonsense,” Ambrose replied. “You’re the golden child amongst the Inquisitors.”
    Simon laughed, recalling the berating he had received the day before. “I do believe this golden calf is quickly becoming a black sheep. My tongue has a tendency to get me into trouble.”
    Ambrose smiled and gestured toward the other Inquisitors. “From someone who is oft accused of letting his tongue talk him into unfortunate situations, let me welcome you to our prestigious group.”
    “We’ve all talked ourselves into trouble more often than we’ve talked our way out of it,” one of the other Inquisitors remarked. “That’s why they teach sword fighting and marksmanship during our training, but only offer the barest training in proper gentlemenship.”
    “Apparently, they assume we come from good breeding, rather than from the tenement houses like I did,” Ambrose said.
    “Or from the remote corners of the kingdom,” another said.
    “Or from overseas,” replied the dark-skinned Inquisitor sitting beside Ambrose.
    “Or from jail,” Simon replied with a wistful smile.
    “Do you know everyone?” Ambrose asked, gesturing to the other Inquisitors.
    Simon glanced at the group. Though he recognized their faces, he struggled to recall their names.
    “Inquisitor Merryweather you met briefly yesterday,” Ambrose said, concluding that Simon would not be forthcoming with names.
    Simon nodded to the older Inquisitor. His thinning hair had grayed slightly around his temples. “Bertrand, was it not?”
    Bertrand smiled. “Indeed it was, Simon. It’s a pleasure to meet you again.”
    “The fair skinned and dreadfully skinny Inquisitor seated beside Bertrand is Mister Connor Pettimore.”
    “A pleasure, sir,” Connor replied with a nod of his head.
    “And this dark-skinned savage to my right is Mister Thaddeus Poole, who has the unique distinction of being the only Inquisitor from the Marakath Kingdom.”
    Simon arched his eyebrows in surprise. The Marakath Kingdom resided on the westernmost continent. Few, if any, immigrants arrived from the distal continent.
    “A foreign transplant, I presume?” Simon remarked.
    Inquisitor Poole nodded, revealing the faint tattoos on the top of his dark, bald head. “My parents arrived in Callifax two years before the kingdom closed its borders. Few people realize that the privateers keeping foreign ships at bay also keep people from leaving the continent, as well. We’ve become naturalized as citizens of the crown by default.”
    “Can I offer you a drink, sir?” a waiter asked as he approached the group, interrupting the fascinating conversation that had been taking place.
    “Scotch, please,” Simon answered.
    “One for me as well,” Ambrose added, holding up his emptied glass.
    “Very