Page 19

Viggo and Solomon studied the two handwritten notes on the weathered oak desk in his office in Nightshade .

One was the resignation letter Tom Simmons had supposedly sent to Lord Fairfax.

The other was a shopping list Emma Simmons had brought in that day, a mundane document that now held potentially vital clues.

According to her, her brother had written it a week before his disappearance.

“The slant of some of the letters is wrong,” Solomon finally murmured, his brow furrowed. He pointed out the difference between the two notes. “Look at how he formed his S’s and T’s.” He straightened. “I doubt this resignation letter was written by Tom Simmons.”

“So you do think it’s a forgery?” Viggo asked grimly.

“Yes,” Solomon replied.

Viggo frowned heavily. This confirmed what they had already suspected.

Tom Simmons had not willingly left Lord Fairfax’s employ.

He became conscious of Solomon fidgeting beside him. “What is it?”

Solomon scratched his cheek awkwardly. “Although I’m certain it’s a fake, it wouldn’t hurt to get it confirmed by the Met. Especially after what happened to you last night.”

Viggo hid his surprise at that. Still, he was pleased his friend was coming around to the idea that they should involve the authorities. After all, there were more important things at stake here than their pride.

Besides, these dark mages are watching our every move. Which means whatever their mission is, it’s far from over.

“I shall inform Evander straightaway about these disappearances and our findings so far.” Viggo rose to his feet.

Solomon nodded reluctantly.

A sharp knock interrupted them. Finn burst into the room, his face flushed and his breathing rapid. He held up a folded paper sealed with a crest.

“Urgent message from Lord Fairfax.” He crossed the office and handed it to Viggo. “Just arrived.”

Tension oozed through Viggo as he hastily broke the seal and unfolded the letter. His stomach twisted when he began reading its contents.

“What does it say?” Solomon asked stiffly.

“Fairfax heard back from his associates,” Viggo replied, his tone flat. “Two in Belgravia, one in Kensington, and one in Bloomsbury. Between them, they’ve had five more thrall employees disappear in the past fortnight. All left similar resignation letters.”

“Bloody hell,” Finn muttered. “That makes?—”

“Eighteen that we know of,” Viggo finished, the number hanging in the air like a death knell.

His knuckles whitened around the paper as he continued reading.

He cursed out loud. “There’s worse. The body of a man named James Harker was found washed up on the banks of the Thames early this morning.

According to Fairfax, his remains have been taken to the Met.

They’ve identified him as a thrall who worked as an assistant to a bookbinder in Mayfair. ”

A fraught silence fell over the room, the hush broken only by the distant sounds of Nightshade ’s members going about their business inside the guild.

Solomon fisted his hands, his expression growing dark. “Whoever these bastards are, they’re organised.”

Viggo folded the letter and tucked it inside his coat, his mind still reeling from what they’d just learned.

“I’m going to find Evander. He needs to hear about this.

Now.” He strode across the room and paused abruptly on the threshold.

“Don’t forget you need to visit Lady Hartley this evening,” he told Solomon.

“She said to come early so she could have your uniform fitted and have her butler show you the ropes.”

Solomon grimaced. “She’s going to make me wear a cravat, isn’t she?”

Finn snorted, breaking the tension. Viggo managed to keep a straight face by a sheer act of will despite the grim tidings they’d just received.

They’d dropped by Ginny’s that morning to ask for her help with their plans.

Though she’d been intensely curious to find out why Nightshade needed the favour, she’d readily provided her assistance.

The gleam in her eyes when she’d realised Solomon was the one involved in said favour told Viggo his friend had better watch himself around the courtesan.

Another messenger arrived just as Viggo was about to leave Nightshade , this one bearing a note with the Ravenwood crest. He took it with a sense of foreboding.

It was from Hargrove. Evander already had a prior engagement this evening but wished to see him later tonight. Viggo hesitated and looked at his pocket watch. He decided he might as well make his way over to Mayfair now and await his lover’s return.

A delicious tension filled his groin as he flagged down a hansom cab on Commercial Road minutes later. One night away from Evander had been one night too many. He didn’t intend to let the mage sleep tonight. Viggo frowned faintly.

We’re going to have to discuss our living arrangements.

Irongate Prison loomed in the distance to his left when he looked outside.

Viggo’s scar throbbed as he stared at the foreboding outline of the dark fortress etched starkly against the orange sky.

It was the main holding facility for magical criminals in London and the place where the Archmage who had destroyed his village and orchestrated the murder of thousands of innocent thralls had met his final end.

Viggo shook off his bleak mood as the hansom cab left the East End. Now was not the time to dwell on the past.

It was gone six when he reached Evander’s Mayfair townhouse. Hargrove’s chagrined expression when he opened the door immediately alerted him that something wasn’t quite right.

“What’s the matter?” Viggo said stiffly as he entered the foyer.

Hargrove recovered his composure. “Good evening, Mr. Stonewall,” the manservant said smoothly. “I wasn’t expecting your company so soon. Would you like to have supper while you wait for his Grace to return?”

Viggo wasn’t fooled by the former Navy man’s attempt to change the subject. He crossed his arms and scowled.

“Spit it out, Hargrove.”

Evander’s carriage pulled up outside Le Petit Chateau at precisely six o’clock.

The restaurant occupied a handsome Georgian building with a facade of cream-coloured stone and tall, arched windows that glowed amber against the gathering dusk.

Gold lettering adorned the midnight-blue awning and ornate magic lanterns flanked the entrance, the glowing orbs casting pools of warm light onto the cobblestones and the liveried footmen standing to attention beside the gleaming oak doors.

Evander stepped out of the carriage just as the evening fog began rolling into Covent Garden and requested Graham and Samuel to wait for him. He suspected Leon would otherwise make an excuse to arrange for them to spend the entire evening together.

The interior of Le Petit Chateau was the epitome of French elegance transported to London soil.

Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over the dining room, their light reflecting off polished silverware and fine bone china.

The soft murmur of conversation mingled with the gentle strains of a string quartet playing in the corner.

Evander was conscious of the curious glances he received from the restaurant’s well-heeled patrons as the ma?tre d’h?tel led him through the dining room. Word of his status as an Archmage had added a new layer of fascination to the already substantial interest in his reputation as the Ice Mage.

Leon was already seated at a table in a secluded alcove, the section half partitioned from the main dining area by an ornate lattice screen. He rose as Evander approached, a warm smile playing on his lips.

“Ponctuel comme toujours,” he remarked, gesturing to the chair opposite his own. “You always were admirably on time even when we were together.”

Evander noted Leon had already ordered champagne as he took his seat. A bottle rested in a silver ice bucket beside their table, beads of condensation rolling down its elegant neck.

“I hope you don’t mind.” Leon nodded to the waiter who stepped forward to pour their drinks. “I thought the occasion warranted a celebration of sorts.”

“What exactly are we celebrating?” Evander asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Leon raised his glass, his grey eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “Our reunion, of course. It’s been far too long, mon cher.”

Evander suppressed a sigh and lifted his own glass.

“To finding Whitley, Chevalier, and Thornfield,” he countered pointedly.

Leon inclined his head in acknowledgement before taking a sip. “Of course. Though I maintain that life’s small pleasures should not be neglected, even in dire circumstances.”

As they perused the menu, Leon deftly steered the conversation towards lighter topics—mutual acquaintances in Paris, developments in Elemental Magic theory, the inferior quality of English coffee compared to French. It was a familiar pattern, a dance of words Leon had always excelled at.

Evander found it almost soothing in its familiarity. Still, he guarded himself against being lulled into a false sense of contentment. Leon could be most disarming when he turned on his full charm, a trick Evander had fallen for far too easily in the past.

He waited until they’d ordered before fixing the Frenchman with a sharp stare.

“You said you had some intelligence to share.”

An irritated light flashed in Leon’s eyes. “We should eat first.”

Evander lowered his brows. “I consider this dinner a work engagement, Leon. Nothing more, nothing less.”

Leon’s face tightened. He looked like he wanted to argue for a moment. He took a sip of champagne and finally released a dramatic sigh. “You have grown more dour with age, mon cher.”

“It’s called life experience,” Evander retorted.

Leon rolled his eyes. His expression sobered.

“What I’m about to tell you is not widely known, even within French magical circles,” he said, his voice dropping to ensure privacy.

Evander leaned forward slightly, his attention sharpening.

“Chevalier was once part of a secretive research group within the French Ministry of Arcane Affairs,” Leon continued.

“They called themselves Les Prophètes Illuminés —the Enlightened Prophets. Their focus was pushing the boundaries of what was magically possible.” He faltered and took a measured sip of his champagne, as if to steel himself.

“This included the theoretical possibility of transferring magical abilities between individuals.”