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Evander swallowed a sigh.

He was conscious Viggo didn’t approve of the long hours he put in at the Met. Which was ironic considering the Brute invested as much time and energy in his work as the head of Nightshade.

“Apparently not,” Evander murmured. He set the message aside and poured them both tea from the silver pot. The fragrant steam curled upward, carrying the relaxing scent of Darjeeling.

The mage was well aware he was overdue this rest day.

Alas, the fallout from the ghastly affair with Caine Renwick, the dark mage who had threatened to blow up the southern embankment and kill thousands of thralls a few weeks ago, was still ongoing.

Following Evander’s reports to the Ministry of Arcane Affairs and the War Office, the corridors of power were alive with whispers of a conspiracy that could threaten the very order of not just London society, but the British Empire at large.

Whispers that had reached Parliament and were stirring just as much havoc in the House of Lords and the House of Commons.

The growing tensions in the city between magic users and thralls had only served to make matters worse.

Both Evander and Rufus Grayson, his friend and fellow inspector in the Met, had been asked to provide more detailed accounts of their investigation into what had gone on during the week that had begun with the murder of Alastair Millbrook, the Charm Weaver Renwick had tasked to build a device that could steal the life force of thralls so as to augment the magic powers of mages, and ended with an explosion that had brought down the warehouse where Evander and Viggo had confronted Renwick.

Viggo frowned as he came around the bed and accepted the cup Evander handed him. He plopped down beside him, the mattress sinking under his weight.

“Do you think it might have something to do with the letter you received and that ‘I’ character?”

Evander’s fingers tightened on his drink as he recalled the chilling contents of the missive that had been delivered to his Mayfair townhouse following Renwick’s death.

“Maybe.”

The sender had made it clear that the dead mage had been but a pawn in a much larger scheme. The letter was currently locked inside Evander’s desk, in the small office adjoining his bedchamber.

“Things have been far too quiet these past few weeks,” he observed in a troubled voice.

Viggo kissed his head. “Quiet is a good thing sometimes.”

Evander leaned against his lover, grateful for his warmth and his strength. “It is most quiet before the storm.”

A chuckle vibrated through Viggo, the sound low and rich.

“My, you are feeling very poetic this morning, your Grace.”

Evander rolled his eyes at his teasing tone.

They finished their tea and freshened up in the bathroom before getting ready for the day ahead.

Evander watched as Viggo began to dress, admiring the play of muscles beneath his tattooed skin. Despite the sliver of anxiety still singing through his veins at Winterbourne’s curt message, he found himself reluctant to leave the warm intimacy of their shared morning.

Viggo’s gaze captured his in the mirror. His fingers slowed where he was buttoning his shirt.

“I fear we may never make it downstairs if you keep looking at me like that.” A sultry smile tugged at the Brute’s lips.

Evander flushed and busied himself selecting his uniform for the day, a dark blue wool coat with the silver-and-gold aiguillette that marked him as a Special Arcane Investigator.

He had yet to reveal to Viggo the significance of the blue threads weaved within it.

They enjoyed a pleasant breakfast in the dayroom before parting ways at the servants’ entrance.

Though Evander had insisted Viggo enter and leave his home through the front door, the Brute wished to maintain discretion for the time being, not just because of the delicate circumstances of their affair but because their enemies were still out there.

“Are we still meeting for dinner at Ginny’s this evening?” Viggo asked as Hargrove handed him his coat.

“Yes,” Evander murmured. “She was quite insistent.”

Viggo grinned at his irritated expression. “You don’t seem terribly pleased about the matter.”

“She probably wants details of our torrid love affair,” Evander said tartly.

“Graphic details, no doubt,” Hargrove added in a devilish tone under his breath.

Evander cut his eyes to the deadpan manservant. He was distracted by Viggo leaning in towards him.

“It’s a valuable talent for an informant,” the Brute observed drily. “See you tonight, your Grace.” His eyes twinkled as he pressed a kiss to Evander’s mouth that made a passing scullery maid squeak. He turned and vanished out the door.

Evander flushed and traced his lips with his fingers, the Brute’s gesture of affection making desire stir inside him all over again. He became aware of Hargrove’s grin and heaved a heavy sigh.

“Jasper?”

“Yes, yes, I shall wipe my indecent smile off my face before you punch me, my Lord,” Hargrove declared in a voice devoid of remorse.

It was nine o’clock on the dot when Evander’s carriage deposited him outside the gates of Scotland Yard.

“I shall send a message when I have need of you,” he told his coachman.

Graham nodded courteously.

Samuel beamed and bobbed his head with a shy, “Have a great day, your Grace!”

Evander bit back a dry smile. The young footman seemed absolutely delighted that his hero Viggo was romantically involved with his master. He watched the pair leave before turning to study the Metropolitan Police Headquarters.

It rose dauntingly before him, a rambling gothic fortress with a stone facade blackened by decades of London’s coal smoke. He greeted the sergeant and constables manning the gates and crossed over into the main yard, the protective wards embedded into the perimeter wall brushing against his skin.

Evander’s thoughts drifted once more to the events of the past month as he made for the worn steps leading to the ironclad doors of the main entrance, the voice of the drill sergeant training the new recruits in the grounds echoing against the walls around him.

The investigation into Alastair Millbrook’s murder had led him and Viggo down a perilous path, none worse than the nearly disastrous outcome of their battle with Renwick in Charing Cross.

His magic and Viggo’s brute strength had saved many a life that day, after Renwick and a group of mages attacked the station and attempted to send a magic-driven train crashing into a platform packed with stricken passengers.

Evander still shuddered at the thought of what might have been had his lover not been at his side during that dangerous incident.

Though they had prevailed, the identity of the mysterious “ I ” remained elusive, as did the location of the Blood Siphon , the device Alastair Millbrook had made for Renwick and his master.

Those two facts lurked insidiously at the edges of Evander’s consciousness, setting his nerves on edge whenever he gave them a moment’s thought.

The letter that had arrived after Renwick’s death had made it clear their adversary was far from finished with this horrid affair.

Evander pushed his dark musings firmly aside when he entered the building.

The morning bustle of Scotland Yard enveloped him in its familiar embrace as he navigated the marble floor of the impressive lobby.

Constables and secretarial staff rushed about with files clutched to their chests, the scent of strong tea mingling with ink and magic as it rose through the administrative block of the Met.

The mage was acutely aware of the stares that followed his passage as he answered colleagues’ greetings and made his way to the west wing of the fortress. Several officers nudged one another, their gazes locked on him with barely concealed curiosity.

Though the scandal that had accompanied Evander’s recently revealed status had all but died down, it was still the talk of the town in some circles, chief among them the taverns where coppers hung out.

It seemed the novelty of having an Archmage in their midst hadn’t worn off yet.

As uncomfortable as it made him some days, he’d resigned himself to the fact that it would take time for the people around him to realise he was the same person they had known before his true identity was revealed.

Three salutes and five more “your Grace” greetings later, Evander finally reached Commander Winterbourne’s office in the administrative quarters of the Arcane Division.

He crossed the open area crowded with desks at which men and women already sat hunched over their paperwork and paused before the heavy oak doors.

Muffled voices came from within. Evander glanced at Winterbourne’s secretary.

“Please go in, your Grace,” the man said with a dip of his chin. “The commander is expecting you.”

Evander knocked, announced himself, and entered.

“Ah, Ravenwood. Just the man.” Winterbourne sat behind his desk, his uniform immaculate and the enchanted map on the wall behind him glowing with orange markers that indicated active crime scenes across the capital.

Rufus occupied one of the chairs in front of the commander, his expression uncharacteristically grave. A bolt of sympathy darted through Evander at the sight of the shadows beneath his friend’s eyes.

The inspector looked as worn out as he felt these days.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Evander asked, closing the door behind him.

Winterbourne gestured to the empty chair beside Rufus. “Yes. I’m afraid I have worrying news. Professor Walter Whitley from the Royal Institute for the Arcane has disappeared.”

The name sparked immediate recognition. Evander raised an eyebrow as he took the seat the commander indicated.

“The advanced Elemental Magic specialist?”

“The same,” Winterbourne said.

Rufus took over the conversation while Evander digested this startling revelation. “His wife reported he went missing two nights ago. Apparently, he failed to attend a faculty dinner and never returned home.”

Evander frowned as Winterbourne slid a file across his desk. “Why did she wait so long to report him missing?”

“Because Whitley has a habit of staying over at the Institute when he’s out late,” the commander grunted. “He’s also renowned for shutting himself in his laboratory for days on end when he’s engrossed in his research.”

“Lady Whitley said her husband had been looking forward to attending the faculty dinner,” Rufus continued. “She was expecting him home last night at least. When he didn’t turn up, she went knocking on the doors of the Institute at first light this morning.”

Evander raised an eyebrow. “And you presume foul play because…?”

Rufus’s expression grew hooded. “According to Lady Whitley, they refused her access to her husband’s rooms.”

“We dispatched a forensic mage to examine the premises. She just sent in a preliminary report indicating Whitley’s chambers showed probable signs of magical disturbance,” Winterbourne said.

Tension oozed through Evander. It was clear to him now why Winterbourne had requested his presence. This was not a straightforward missing person case.

He glanced at Rufus as he took hold of the file. “Is Shaw the one at the scene?”

Rufus nodded.

Lyra Shaw was a forensic mage working for the Arcane Forensics Division and one of the best investigative minds to ever grace the halls of Scotland Yard. Everyone had high hopes for her, including Evander and Winterbourne.

Shaw was on track to become the AFD and Scotland Yard’s first female inspector, a status they hoped would attract more women to the profession.

Evander opened the file and scanned the forensic mage’s preliminary survey of the suspected scene of the crime. He narrowed his eyes. “She found a trace of Noctis Bloom on the premises?”

“So it seems,” Rufus murmured. “Mr. Brown will have to confirm the nature of the evidence she discovered, but it is likely the residue is indeed Noctis Bloom .”