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

death, as though this whole day is going to result in my very slow demise. This dress, this interview, the entire thing is excessive. Why couldn’t I have simply worn my normal clothes?”
    Luthor touched her elbow and tried to look confident for her, though he was equally as nervous. “Your normal clothes make you look like a woman from the northern tribes.”
    “I am a woman from the northern tribes,” she hissed.
    “A fact that we wish to downplay as much as possible today, not just for your benefit but for your tribe. The Grand Inquisitor expects a savage, not a formal lady of court.”
    Simon could see the sheen of sweat along her exposed neckline as she pulled on her collar once more.
    “Don’t worry, Matilda,” Simon said in an attempt to be reassuring. “There’s nothing to fear.”
    The apothecary glared at Simon. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” Luthor asked, his voice a harsh whisper. “There are a hundred things of which she should be afraid right now, nearly all of which are your fault.”
    They fell silent as a few Inquisitors passed them. Those that walked to and fro nodded in deference to Simon, the demon slayer. Under normal circumstances, Simon might have felt a keen sense of pride at the respect shown, but for now all he felt was the same unbridled fear that was portrayed on both Luthor and Mattie’s expressions.
    Mattie forced her attention away from the ground and occupied her time examining the marble busts set into alcoves around the room. Each bore a plaque beneath the stone face, telling the story of the Inquisitor who had come and passed. She only halfheartedly read the inscriptions, though most of the causes of death were fairly mundane. One Inquisitor died of natural causes while examining a sudden and inexplicable illness in the marshlands. Another was thrown from his horse after returning from an assignment. None were slaughtered by hordes of magical beasts, as she would have expected. Only one that she found was slain by anything closely resembling a magical creature, and that was only because the man was crushed after a pixie spooked a wagon that, in the driver’s haste to avoid the fairy, tipped onto the Inquisitor investigating the claim.
    “Inquisitor Whitlock,” a servant said as he approached the trio. “The Grand Inquisitor will see you now.”
    They exchanged glances before turning and following the servant, walking into the narrow hallway beyond the meeting chamber. The Grand Inquisitor’s office appeared shortly thereafter, his seal emblazoned upon the wall beside the doorframe.
    The door was closed, and the servant rapped gently. After a moment’s hesitation, a quiet but stern voice from within replied, “Enter.”
    The servant opened the door and stepped aside. They received no fanfare or announcement of their arrival. Instead, they were quickly ushered into the chamber and the door hastily drawn behind them.
    Pulling thick glasses from his nose and setting them on the table before him, the Grand Inquisitor looked up from a report. From his vantage point, Simon could clearly see his own handwriting, its small, compact letters exceptionally distinct amongst the more traditionally flowery prose of his peers.
    The Grand Inquisitor offered no salutation to either Simon or Luthor, instead locking his gaze on Mattie. He pushed away from the table and stood. He walked around the table and approached the redheaded woman, who wore a brave façade, though her nervousness practically oozed from her pores.
    “Is this her?” the Grand Inquisitor asked. His eyes never left Mattie, but his question was clearly directed at Simon.
    Simon cleared his throat, knowing his future not just as an Inquisitor but as a living, breathing man hung in the balance.
    “Yes, sir. May I present to you Miss Matilda Hawke.”
    The Grand Inquisitor harrumphed and walked slowly around Mattie. At first, she turned with him until he placed his hand sternly on her shoulder, keeping her in