Read Online The Blood Thief of Whitten Hall (A Magic & Machinery Novel Book 2) by Jon Messenger - Free Book Online
Authors: Jon Messenger
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Inquisitors were all asleep in their own beds or, as Simon had so recently been, enjoying the experiences of the capital’s nightlife.
Though much of the Inquisitors’ business was conducted during the day, the Grand Inquisitor found that the late hours of the night were the only time he could find peace and solitude. A stack of mission requests were stacked high on the edge of his desk awaiting his approval, matched by an equally large pile of folders of completed missions that still required his reading. Though the Inquisitors hired analysts to search for trends amongst the founded magical outbreaks, the Grand Inquisitor still insisted upon his personal review of every mission.
A single oil lamp sat upon the man’s desk, illuminating the room with its flickering light. The Grand Inquisitor shifted in his chair and examined the wall beside him, where a series of grainy, black-and-white photographs had been framed and mounted upon the wall. The pictures were mostly faded from age, their once white paper yellowing and curling along the corners. Still, a much more youthful Grand Inquisitor stared back from many of the pictures. Though it had been only ten years since the founding of the Inquisitors, he felt greatly aged over the course of the past decade.
With a sigh, he shifted his gaze back to the two dominating piles of folders competing for his attention. He reached toward the finished reports but his hand hovered. Slowly, his hand drifted instead toward the cases still requiring an Inquisitor’s assignment.
Pulling the topmost folder from the pile, he opened it before him. He quickly scanned the synopsis provided by the analyst who initially received the report. The file spoke of witchcraft in the marshlands to the north of the capital. No substantial evidence had been provided by the local council and, in the analyst’s opinion, it was questionable whether anything substantial would be uncovered by an Inquisitor’s intervention.
For a brief moment, the Grand Inquisitor considered rejecting the mission but at the last moment, he retrieved his pen and scribbled a name along the bottom of the report. An Inquisitor had now been assigned, for good or bad. He closed the folder and placed it onto a newly formed pile before sighing, realizing he was now finished with only one of dozens of reports awaiting his personal attention.
The Grand Inquisitor reached for the next folder on the stack but instead shifted his attention back to the completed mission reports. He retrieved the top folder and opened it, quickly reviewing the handwritten calligraphy of the Inquisitor who had been assigned. Like so many others, the report had been unfounded, with the reports of ghosts in the dense woodlands being nothing more than wind chimes and whistles hung from high branches by bandits in an attempt to protect their hideout and subsequent treasure. The Inquisitor had summarily decimated the bandit camp and retrieved much of the stolen coin, so the mission hadn’t been a complete failure, though the local constabulary could have easily handled the case without Inquisitor intervention.
The Grand Inquisitor wrote a few minor remarks at the bottom of the report and closed the folder, placing it atop the one from moments before.
He nearly reached for a folder from the first pile, alternating back to those awaiting Inquisitor assignment, but the word “Haversham” stared at him from the top of the next completed mission folder. Curiously, the Grand Inquisitor drew Simon’s report from the top of the pile and placed it before him.
As he opened the folder, Simon’s small, tight handwriting was glaringly apparent. Like many of the things in his life, Simon’s handwriting was reflective of a man who attempted to place as much as he could in as little space or time as possible. His handwriting was efficient and crisp, foregoing much of the floweriness that marked most of the handwriting of the age. The Grand Inquisitor smiled, knowing
Though much of the Inquisitors’ business was conducted during the day, the Grand Inquisitor found that the late hours of the night were the only time he could find peace and solitude. A stack of mission requests were stacked high on the edge of his desk awaiting his approval, matched by an equally large pile of folders of completed missions that still required his reading. Though the Inquisitors hired analysts to search for trends amongst the founded magical outbreaks, the Grand Inquisitor still insisted upon his personal review of every mission.
A single oil lamp sat upon the man’s desk, illuminating the room with its flickering light. The Grand Inquisitor shifted in his chair and examined the wall beside him, where a series of grainy, black-and-white photographs had been framed and mounted upon the wall. The pictures were mostly faded from age, their once white paper yellowing and curling along the corners. Still, a much more youthful Grand Inquisitor stared back from many of the pictures. Though it had been only ten years since the founding of the Inquisitors, he felt greatly aged over the course of the past decade.
With a sigh, he shifted his gaze back to the two dominating piles of folders competing for his attention. He reached toward the finished reports but his hand hovered. Slowly, his hand drifted instead toward the cases still requiring an Inquisitor’s assignment.
Pulling the topmost folder from the pile, he opened it before him. He quickly scanned the synopsis provided by the analyst who initially received the report. The file spoke of witchcraft in the marshlands to the north of the capital. No substantial evidence had been provided by the local council and, in the analyst’s opinion, it was questionable whether anything substantial would be uncovered by an Inquisitor’s intervention.
For a brief moment, the Grand Inquisitor considered rejecting the mission but at the last moment, he retrieved his pen and scribbled a name along the bottom of the report. An Inquisitor had now been assigned, for good or bad. He closed the folder and placed it onto a newly formed pile before sighing, realizing he was now finished with only one of dozens of reports awaiting his personal attention.
The Grand Inquisitor reached for the next folder on the stack but instead shifted his attention back to the completed mission reports. He retrieved the top folder and opened it, quickly reviewing the handwritten calligraphy of the Inquisitor who had been assigned. Like so many others, the report had been unfounded, with the reports of ghosts in the dense woodlands being nothing more than wind chimes and whistles hung from high branches by bandits in an attempt to protect their hideout and subsequent treasure. The Inquisitor had summarily decimated the bandit camp and retrieved much of the stolen coin, so the mission hadn’t been a complete failure, though the local constabulary could have easily handled the case without Inquisitor intervention.
The Grand Inquisitor wrote a few minor remarks at the bottom of the report and closed the folder, placing it atop the one from moments before.
He nearly reached for a folder from the first pile, alternating back to those awaiting Inquisitor assignment, but the word “Haversham” stared at him from the top of the next completed mission folder. Curiously, the Grand Inquisitor drew Simon’s report from the top of the pile and placed it before him.
As he opened the folder, Simon’s small, tight handwriting was glaringly apparent. Like many of the things in his life, Simon’s handwriting was reflective of a man who attempted to place as much as he could in as little space or time as possible. His handwriting was efficient and crisp, foregoing much of the floweriness that marked most of the handwriting of the age. The Grand Inquisitor smiled, knowing
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