Page 14

Leon frowned. “You mean the Charing Cross disaster? Only a little. It made the newspapers in Paris.”

Evander spent the next ten minutes bringing the Frenchman up to speed on the growing tension between thralls and magic users in London, the escalating presence of dark mages in the capital, and the sinister plot the Met had recently foiled.

Leon stared.

“A dark mage commissioned a Charm Weaver to invent a device that can absorb the life force of magicless individuals so that it can be used to fuel magic?” he asked, his tone underscored with disbelief.

“It’s the truth, Leon,” Evander said calmly. “I recovered a crucial component of the Blood Siphon from Alastair Millbrook’s murder scene. It’s currently in the possession of the Ministry of Arcane Affairs.”

The Frenchman frowned. He hesitated for a moment.

“Chevalier was researching rare magical abilities,” he finally admitted.

Evander traded a sharp glance with Rufus and Shaw before fixing Leon with a focused stare.

“Did Chevalier’s chambers show any signs of dark magic having been recently used?”

“None,” Leon replied. “But there was something unusual found at the scene.” He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small glass vial filled with a small amount of a familiar purple powder.

“This was hidden beneath a floorboard in Chevalier’s office.

Our alchemists identified it as Noctis Bloom . ”

Shaw sucked in air. “Just like in Whitley’s chambers.”

“Shaw found a trace of the same substance next to Whitley’s desk,” Evander explained at Leon’s confused look.

“Does this mean the Noctis Bloom Shaw discovered in Whitley’s office was not left there by whoever attacked him, but was part of what he and Chevalier were researching?” Rufus said with a frown.

“It would seem so,” Evander said grimly. “We should ask the Met’s cryptology expert to take a look at Professor Chevalier’s journal.” He glanced at Rufus and Shaw. “And we should check in with Viggo and Nightshade . They may have fresh information for us.”

Leon tensed. “ Nightshade ? You mean the infamous information guild run by the Ironfist Brute?”

Evander nodded. “Viggo Stonewall and Nightshade are currently assisting the Met in our investigation of the trade of Noctis Bloom in the capital. We are certain it is linked to dark mages and whatever Renwick and his mysterious master are attempting to achieve.”

Leon’s jaw tightened. “I am well aware of your sentiments concerning thralls, mon cher, but Viggo Stonewall is a dangerous man. His reputation precedes him even on our side of the channel.”

Heat flushed through Evander. “Viggo helped me bring down Caine Renwick,” he said in a hard voice. “I would have died had he not been there.”

A fraught silence descended around the office.

“Somehow, I doubt that.” Leon arched an eyebrow. “I’m surprised your commissioner has agreed to work with thralls.”

“Times are changing, Leon.” Evander furrowed his brow. “Lord Watson and I share the same views about expanding the rights of the magicless. I, for one, believed you did too.” He couldn’t help the tinge of accusation his words contained.

“I still do.” The undercurrent of steel creeping into Leon’s voice made Evander all too aware that the charming facade the Frenchman projected was a ruse to mask his intelligence and his commitment to his work. “But I would prefer not to associate with suspected criminals to achieve that goal.”

“Uh-oh,” Shaw mumbled as Evander fisted his hands.

Rufus hushed her, his expression wary.

“Then I am as much of a criminal as Viggo Stonewall,” Evander snapped, not even bothering to hide his fury. “At least wait until you meet the man before you pass judgement!”

Leon blinked at his enraged voice. A chagrined light dawned in his eyes when he realised he’d crossed a line.

“I apologise. I should not have said that.”

Evander unclenched his fists and swallowed. “And I apologise for my rudeness.”

A sad smile curved Leon’s lips. “You always were loyal to a fault.”

A sharp knock at the door broke the awkward moment.

“Come in,” Evander called out briskly, his emotions under control once more.

A constable entered. “Sorry to interrupt, your Grace. An urgent message just arrived for you and Inspector Grayson.” He handed Evander the missive and left.

Evander stiffened when he recognised the seal of the Royal Institute. He broke it and unfolded the paper.

The note was from Cecillia.

His blood ran cold as he read her message, the slight tremor of the letters in her otherwise elegant handwriting betraying her distress.

Concern clouded Leon’s eyes at Evander’s expression. “What is it?”

“There’s been another disappearance,” Evander said grimly, passing the note to Rufus. He rose and came around his desk. “A student from the Royal Institute. James Thornfield, a promising young mage being privately tutored by Professor Whitley.”

Shaw cursed under her breath. “When?!”

“Last night,” Evander replied, already reaching for his coat. “His roommate reported him missing this morning when he failed to return to their quarters. We need to return to the Institute immediately.”

Leon stood and smoothed down his suit. “I shall accompany you.”

Evander hesitated. The thought of navigating the Institute’s politics with Leon at his side was less than appealing, particularly given their history. The Frenchman’s expertise might, however, prove invaluable, especially if this incident was connected to Chevalier’s disappearance.

“I’m not certain that’s wise,” he began. “You know?—”

“On the contrary, mon cher,” Leon interjected smoothly, “as the French representative in this investigation, I have a diplomatic obligation to observe all aspects of this case.” His grey eyes glinted with determination.

“Besides, I speak the language of academia as fluently as you do. Perhaps between us, we might extract more information than either could alone.”

Rufus cleared his throat. “He has a point, Evander.”

Evander mulled this over a moment before sighing. “Very well. But I must ask that you follow my lead. You know how difficult the Institute can be.”

“Mais oui,” Leon replied with a slight bow. “I shall be the very soul of discretion.”

Evander narrowed his eyes. “The last time you said that, we ended up in Rigley’s office and had to stand there and endure a twenty-minute lecture on why mages shouldn’t duel in the dining hall.”

Leon shrugged. “You must admit, that imbecile deserved it.”

Evander’s mouth twitched. The idiot who had insulted the Frenchman had been built like a brick house and had a nasty reputation for bullying those he deemed weaker than him.

Being repeatedly slammed face first into the ceiling of the dining hall with wind magic had fast remedied that unpleasant situation.

Even the prospect of having to foot the bill for the repair hadn’t deterred Leon’s enthusiasm during the incident.

The journey back to the Royal Institute was tense, the carriage filled with a hush broken only by Leon’s occasional observations about the London scenery where he sat next to Evander.

“You’re thinking very loudly, mon cher,” Leon murmured after some time, his voice low enough that only Evander could hear. “Your brow always furrows in that particular way when you’re piecing together a puzzle.”

Evander met his gaze briefly. “Some habits never change, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Leon replied, a wistful smile playing on his lips. “Though many things do.”

The carriage pulled up to the Institute’s gates before Evander could respond to his enigmatic words.

The atmosphere had changed markedly since their earlier visit.

Students huddled in small groups across the courtyard, their expressions anxious as they whispered among themselves.

Faculty members moved with purpose amidst them, robes billowing as they hurried between buildings.

Cecillia was waiting at the entrance, her face drawn with worry.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, your Grace.”

Evander made the introductions. “Professor, this is Leon Beaulieu. He’s a Special Arcane Investigator from Paris who will be working with us on this case. Leon, this is Professor Cecillia Harrington, a close colleague of Professor Whitley.”

Leon nodded politely to a surprised Cecillia. “Enchanté, Professor Harrington.”

She murmured a greeting and worried her lip for a moment, clearly eager to ask questions but conscious their surroundings were not suited to sharing confidential information. She ignored the curious stares of students and faculty alike and led them swiftly through the courtyard.

“Headmaster Rigley has granted you access to Thornfield’s quarters and Professor Whitley’s laboratory,” she explained in hushed tones. “Though I suspect it’s only because he fears the scandal should another disappearance become public knowledge.”

“Has Headmaster Rigley ordered a full accounting of all students and staff?” Evander asked as they climbed the grand staircase.

“Yes. The entire Institute is in an uproar about it.”

“And so it should be,” Rufus muttered. “It will be a miracle if this doesn’t make the gossip rags.”

“Has anything been disturbed?” Shaw asked sharply.

Cecillia shook her head. “Not to my knowledge. I insisted the rooms be sealed until your arrival.”

She led them through a maze of corridors and up several flights of stairs to one of the male student dormitories. Unlike the grand public spaces of the Institute, these quarters were more austere, though still far more luxurious than most university accommodations.

The corridor where Thornfield’s quarters were located was eerily silent, with only a prefect standing guard outside the door.

Cecillia thanked him and dismissed him with a nod.

“James Thornfield shared his rooms with another student, Geoffrey Hunniford,” she explained as she unlocked the door. “Hunniford is currently being questioned by Professor Dearmont.”

“I’m sure that’s going splendidly,” Rufus remarked dryly.

Evander turned to Shaw. “I’d like you to speak with the housemaster and the students on this floor. Find out if anyone heard or saw anything unusual not just last night, but in the past week.”

“Yes, your Grace.”

“I’ll help Shaw,” Rufus volunteered.

Evander nodded. “Very well. Leon and I will examine the rooms.”

Thornfield’s quarters consisted of a modest sitting room with two desks, bookshelves, a sitting area with a fireplace, and doors leading to separate bedchambers.

The chamber was neat but looked lived-in, papers and books stacked on both desks and a half-played game of chess abandoned on a small table between two armchairs.

Evander released a faint pulse of magic. It failed to pick up anything untoward.

“Which side belongs to Thornfield?” he asked, scanning the room.

“The desk by the window and the bedchamber on the left,” Cecillia replied.