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

good, gentlemen.”
    The waiter departed, and Simon let his gaze drift back over the gathered men. From the corner of his vision, he noted the tanned folder resting against the armrest beside Ambrose.
    Simon pointed toward the folder. “Have you received another assignment?”
    Ambrose nodded. “Indeed. I only just arrived in Callifax, and they’re already eager to see me gone. Apparently, my reputation continues to precede me.”
    The men laughed as the waiter returned with two tumblers of brown liquor.
    “Where are they sending you?” Simon inquired.
    Ambrose retrieved the folder and glanced at the printed words across its cover. “Burtons Grove.”
    Simon arched an eyebrow. “I’m not familiar with the name. Where is it located?”
    The ponytailed Inquisitor flipped through the papers within the folder with a disinterested shrug. “It’s a small town north of here, somewhere in the marsh.” Ambrose looked up morosely. “Swamp and humidity aren’t very agreeable with my disposition. Would you care to take this assignment for me?”
    Simon laughed and held up his free hand. “No, but thank you. I nearly had frostbite from my last assignment. I’m not at all eager to delve into a swamp full of mosquitoes large enough to carry me away.”
    Ambrose sighed sadly. “I had forgotten the mosquitoes. Irrespective, the assignment itself sounds interesting. Apparently, there are reports of witchcraft.”
    Inquisitor Poole shook his head with a heavy laugh. “I’ve investigated four reports of witchcraft just this year. It seems to be the favorable allegation whenever there’s the most mundane squabble between neighbors.” His voice became suddenly nasally as he mocked his latest investigation. “My cow gave birth to a stillborn calf. It must be because my neighbor placed a hex upon the creature and certainly not because I live in abject squalor and hardly care for the nutritional needs of the beasts in my care.”
    “You sound awfully bitter,” Ambrose teased.
    The dark-skinned man huffed. “Not bitter, though jealous perhaps. I’m growing weary of investigating petty mockeries of true magic. I long for one assignment like Simon’s, where I can face a real monster of the Rift.”
    Simon quickly shook his head. “You most certainly do not! Trust me; there was nothing fun about having a demon throw me the length of three tables.”
    The men laughed as they settled back into their seats. The valet from the foyer hurried into the room and approached Simon.
    “It appears I’m being beckoned,” he said, placing his half-finished scotch on the end table beside him. “Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure.”
    “Our good times are hardly at an end,” Ambrose replied. “I can say with some certainty that we will still be in these very seats when you return.”
    Simon nodded toward his friend. “Then I guess I’ll see you again shortly. If I don’t return, assume my tongue got me into more trouble than I could successfully talk my way out of.”
    “If you don’t return, we’ll have a drink in your memory.”
    “Gentlemen,” Simon said toward the remaining Inquisitors, “it has been a pleasure sharing your table today.”
    The valet stood by patiently, awaiting the conclusion of Simon’s farewells. As the Inquisitor turned toward the younger man, the valet motioned toward the foyer and the hallway beyond.
    “Inquisitor Whitlock, the Grand Inquisitor—”
    “Yes, yes,” Simon replied dismissively. “Just lead me to him.”
     
    The Grand Inquisitor’s door opened with a faint creak, revealing the older man sitting behind his desk. Upon seeing Simon, he motioned for Simon to take the seat across the table.
    Simon entered without pomp or circumstance and wordlessly took his seat.
    The Grand Inquisitor glanced at the stack of reports before him and retrieved the topmost folder. Simon couldn’t read the words printed across its surface, but one phrase was unmistakably written across the bottom: Royal