Page 11

Gas lamps cast feeble pools of light across the narrow streets of Whitechapel, their glow barely penetrating the thick fog that had rolled in from the river.

Viggo pulled his coat tighter around his broad frame as he navigated the labyrinthine alleyways of the East End, Solomon and Finn flanking him like shadows.

The stench of the slums, a noxious blend of sewage, coal smoke, and human misery, hung heavy in the damp air.

It was a smell that Viggo had grown accustomed to over the years, though he never quite managed to ignore it entirely.

Tonight, it seemed particularly oppressive, as if warning them of danger.

“Thirteen thralls,” Solomon muttered, his breath misting before him. “I can’t believe thirteen people vanished without a trace and not a single copper appears to give a damn.”

“That’s hardly news,” Finn said, his usual levity absent from his voice. “When have they ever concerned themselves with the plights of our kind?”

Viggo shot them a glance. “Evander cares.”

“One mage doesn’t change the system, Viggo,” Solomon countered, though without his usual bite.

Viggo frowned. His thoughts had been circling back to Evander all evening. He would have to make amends for failing to make their dinner plans. For now, the missing thralls demanded his full attention.

They turned into a cramped courtyard off Brick Lane.

A collection of dilapidated tenements loomed over them, dark rooflines dotted with chimneys spitting out thin trails of smoke.

The building they sought was marginally better maintained than its neighbours—a lodging house known to accommodate thralls who worked for the more respectable establishments in the city.

“This is it,” Solomon confirmed, checking the scrap of paper in his hand. “Third floor, room twelve.”

They’d spent the better part of the afternoon talking to the relatives of some of the missing thralls and interrogating other magicless folks in half a dozen taverns and boarding houses.

It was Hawk who’d come up with Daniel Fletcher’s name as they attempted to piece together information about those who’d vanished.

Apparently, the man used to work as a servant for the Carmichael family and had recently left his position in a panic.

He’d confessed to someone while drinking a couple of nights ago that something unnatural had happened to him, but had refused to go into details.

Though many might have considered the claim an absurd flight of fancy, Hawk had not.

There was a good chance Fletcher had somehow escaped the fate that had befallen the thirteen thralls from the East End. Whatever he knew might be their only lead to finding out the fate of the missing and stop the next disappearance.

The staircase creaked ominously beneath Viggo’s weight as they ascended, the worn wood protesting with each step. The hallway on the third floor was lit by a single guttering candle that cast their shadows eerily across peeling wallpaper.

Solomon rapped sharply on the door marked with a faded 12 . There was a moment of silence followed by the sound of shuffling footsteps.

“Who’s there?” a nervous voice said from within.

“ Nightshade ,” Viggo answered, keeping his own voice low. “We heard you had a close call recently. We’d like to talk to you about it.”

The door opened a crack, revealing a thin face with hollow cheeks and wary eyes. Though the man couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, fear had etched lines around his mouth that aged him considerably. His eyes rounded.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Fletcher whispered, his gaze locked on Viggo. “The Ironfist Brute.”

Viggo nodded once. “May we come in?”

Fletcher glanced nervously up and down the hallway before stepping back to let them inside.

The room beyond was small but meticulously clean, with a narrow bed, a rickety table, and a single chair.

A washbasin stood next to the open hearth where embers glowed.

The trunk at the foot of the bed likely contained all of Fletcher’s worldly possessions.

Finn took up position by the door. Solomon crossed the room to the window and pulled the curtains closed, leaving a tiny gap though which he could keep watch on the courtyard below.

Fletcher swallowed nervously, his gaze darting between them.

Viggo leaned against the wall and indicated the chair. “Please, have a seat.”

Fletcher hesitated before perching stiffly on the edge.

“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” he mumbled. “The constables I reported the incident to certainly didn’t.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” Viggo prompted.

Fletcher’s knuckles whitened on his lap. “It was five nights ago,” he quavered. “I was walking back from the Carmichaels’ townhouse in Kensington. It was late—past midnight. Lord Carmichael had guests and they stayed longer than expected.”

“You were alone?” Solomon asked.

Fletcher nodded. “Yes.” He paused, his fingers unconsciously moving to touch something in his waistcoat pocket. “I was cutting through Hyde Park when I felt it—like the air had gone cold and thick. It became hard to breathe all of a sudden.”

Viggo exchanged a guarded glance with Solomon and Finn.

The description the man had just given sent a chill down his spine and brought to mind his recent clashes with dark mages. Fletcher’s next words made his belly knot, memories of his final confrontation with Caine Renwick flooding back in waves.

“The shadows started moving.” Fletcher faltered, his gaze pleading as he looked at them.

“I don’t know any other way to describe it.

The night came alive around me, along with the most awful smell.

There were shapes—figures and faces the likes—the likes of which I’ve never seen before!

” He shuddered and hugged himself. “They were clawing the air and reaching for me.”

Finn had gone pale. A muscle twitched in Solomon’s cheek.

“These shadows,” Viggo said stiffly, “did they have a consistency to them? Like smoke that could somehow grip?!”

Fletcher startled. “Yes. How did you know?!”

Viggo fisted his hands. He would never forget the shadows Renwick had manifested when he and Evander had fought the dark mage in the warehouse on the south embankment. They had moved with that same unnatural purpose.

“I’ve encountered them before,” he said grimly. “They’re shadow creatures—manifestations of darkness created by magic, but with a will imposed upon them by their creator. Not many have lived to bear witness to their existence.”

Fletcher’s already pale face turned ashen.

“How did you manage to escape?” Solomon asked curiously.

Fletcher’s fingers trembled as he withdrew a small metal object from his waistcoat pocket. “My father gave me this before he died. I’ve carried it ever since. The moment I grabbed it, those shadows recoiled as if burned. I ran away as fast as I could.”

Viggo studied the crude but effective anti-magic disruptor. Unlike the more sophisticated versions Nightshade agents carried, this was a simple copper and iron disc etched with arcane symbols.

“That saved your life,” he told Fletcher. “Keep it close.”

It seemed thralls who’d gained employment with nobles still didn’t trust their employers fully. Viggo’s jaw tightened at that thought.

And who can blame them?

“Did you notice anything else that night?” he urged. “Mages close by? Or something that might help us identify where those shadows came from?”

Fletcher shook his head. “There wasn’t anyone else with me in that section of the park.

” He closed his eyes, clearly forcing himself to relive the terrifying moment.

“There was a whispering though. Not words exactly.” Lines wrinkled his brow.

“More like many voices murmuring just below hearing.” He opened his eyes, his expression miserable. “I’m sorry, that’s all I recall.”

“There’s no need to be sorry,” Viggo grunted. “Your account will hopefully help us track down the thralls who have recently gone missing.”

A grateful look brightened Fletcher’s tired eyes.