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Vincent Brown was the head Alchemist Analyst at the AFD and had been of great help to them during the investigation of Millbrook’s murder.

As for Noctis Bloom , it was a rare purple flower that only bloomed at midnight on a full moon.

Drying and finely grinding its petals produced a powder that could be used in magic rituals.

More notably, dark mages were said to ingest it in some capacity or another to enhance their powers.

“I want you to lead the investigation, Ravenwood,” Winterbourne declared.

“Your connections to the Institute will prove invaluable. According to Whitley’s wife, the faculty has proven challenging to deal with lately.

They even tried to obstruct her when she attended the premises this morning.

They may be more forthcoming with one of their own, especially someone of your”—he waved a vague hand—“ particular status.”

Rufus’s mouth pressed to a thin line. Winterbourne ignored the inspector’s brooding look and studied Evander expectantly.

Though he didn’t like it one bit, Evander understood the commander’s implication.

The recent revelation that he was an Archmage had sent ripples not just through London’s high society and the government, but across the Empire’s magical community.

While many magic users regarded him with newfound awe, others—particularly within the Institute’s conservative hierarchy—no doubt viewed his choice to serve in the Metropolitan Police with barely concealed disdain.

“I’ll do what I can,” Evander said reluctantly. “Though I must admit, my relationship with the headmaster has been somewhat strained since I declined his offer of a teaching position in favour of joining the Met.”

Winterbourne waved this away too. “All the more reason. They wouldn’t dare hinder an Archmage, regardless of their personal feelings on the subject of you being an officer of the law.

And your familiarity with their protocols will prove invaluable.

Miss Shaw will continue to assist in this investigation.

” He cut his eyes to Rufus. “As for Inspector Grayson, he too will work with you on this case. I already have the approval of the head of the Homicide Unit.”

Rufus’s expression told Evander he had been informed of this decision.

“This is not a homicide case.” Evander observed to his commander steadily. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us, sir.”

Winterbourne’s eyes grew hooded. “Let’s just say certain people in the Ministry of Arcane Affairs recommended we provide you with all the necessary support,” he admitted cagily. He hesitated a beat. “I’ve authorised full Arcane Division resources for this case.”

Evander heard Rufus’s sharp inhale. He kept his gaze on the commander, his shoulders knotting at the enormity of the assets that were being put at his disposal.

“Is this because of the rumours running amok in Parliament?”

Winterbourne’s expression grew razor-sharp. “You’re not a fool, Ravenwood. You must be aware that the two chambers are experiencing a deep …malaise over a possible magical conspiracy to overturn the order of our society.”

“And yet there was no sign of such malaise when they were turning a blind eye to the plight of the magicless individuals they should be serving,” Evander retorted sharply.

Rufus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Winterbourne lowered his brows. “Don’t quip with me, Ravenwood.”

“I apologise, sir.” Evander rose stiffly and picked up the case file. “We’ll leave immediately.”

“Did you really have to rile him up?” Rufus muttered once they were outside Winterbourne’s office, his stride matching Evander’s brisk steps as they navigated the crowded hallway.

“I was making a point.”

“He’s not the one you should be making a point to,” Rufus argued. “You know he’s on your side.”

“He should make it more obvious then!” Evander snapped. Remorse immediately stabbed through him at Rufus’s hurt expression. “I apologise. That was uncalled for.”

Rufus exhaled noisily and rubbed the back of his neck with an awkward movement.

“You know I’m of the same mind as you.” Concern darkened the inspector’s eyes.

“It’s just—these matters are best handled with the precision of a scalpel, not the recklessness of a sledgehammer.

” His face grew pinched. “Which you are usually very good at, I might add. I fear a certain recent acquaintance is rubbing off on you.”

Evander pursed his lips. Though their relationship had mellowed a little, Viggo and Rufus still acted like bickering cats and dogs on the best of days.

“Do you think this might be connected to Renwick and that mysterious ‘I’ character?” Rufus asked uncertainly as they descended a staircase.

“It’s too early to tell.” Evander frowned. “But if Shaw is correct about the Noctis Bloom she found, then dark mages should be our first suspects.”

He didn’t tell Rufus that what concerned him the most was the fact that a renowned professor who was an expert in advanced Elemental Magic had gone missing.

He had no doubt Whitley had been a colleague of Caine Renwick, who had also been a professor at the Royal Institute for the Arcane and had taught Elemental Magic.

It was only after Renwick’s death that the latter’s involvement in dark magic had come to light, as had unsavoury rumours that he had influenced a number of his students into taking up the forbidden practice.

Whitley’s disappearance so soon after the truth about Renwick’s activities had emerged could not be seen as a mere coincidence.

“The sooner we examine the scene and speak with Whitley’s colleagues, the better.” Evander tucked the file under his arm as they exited the building.

A police carriage awaited them outside the gates of Scotland Yard, its black-lacquered sides emblazoned with the Met’s insignia. A pair of familiar faces sat in the box seat.

“Your Grace, Inspector Grayson.” Constable Freddie Fitch tipped his hat as they approached, his lanky figure bowed where he held the horses’ reins.

Constable Oliver Bartley beamed at them beside Fitch. “Top o’ the morning to you, your Grace, Inspector.”

“Constable Fitch, Constable Bartley,” Evander murmured.

“You appear quite chipper this morning, Constable Bartley,” Rufus remarked.

“Every day is another day to be grateful for this wonderful life, sir,” Bartley positively gushed.

“He won a game of cards last night,” Fitch explained at Evander and Rufus’s stares.

Rufus frowned. “Gambling is an unhealthy enterprise, Bartley.”

“But a legal one, sir,” the constable quipped.

Evander’s mouth twitched.

Fitch sighed. “Ollie?”

“Yes, Freddie?”

“Remember how I told you there are times when you’re too cheeky for your own good?”

Bartley’s expression turned sheepish. “Was this one of those times, Freddie?”

“Yes, it was, Ollie.”

Rufus rolled his eyes. “Royal Institute for the Arcane, if you please.”

They climbed aboard. The carriage lurched into motion, wheels clattering on cobblestones as they joined the flow of traffic on Parliament Street.

Evander gazed out the window and watched London pass by in a blur of grey stone and bustling humanity as they headed north, his stomach churning despite his outwardly calm appearance.

He hoped there was a simple explanation for Whitley’s disappearance.

Maybe he’d run into old friends, had gotten blind drunk in some downtrodden tavern in the slums, and was currently waking up from a terrible hangover.

Or maybe he had a lover and had disappeared to a bolthole in the countryside with her.

Alas, he feared his suppositions would prove to be incorrect.

Because his instincts were telling him that this case involved dark mages. And if he was right, the ultimate outcome of this new investigation might turn out as bad or worse than the Millbrook and Renwick affair.

Viggo furrowed his brow as he reviewed the stack of paperwork on his weathered walnut desk, a cup of tea cooling next to his hand.

Though the concoction was nowhere near as delectable as the ones he’d gotten used to having in Evander’s home, it did the job of quenching his thirst and warming his bones.

The reports he was examining had come in overnight from various Nightshade agents working outside London and across wider England. The ones from his men and women on the main continent were shipbound and would not arrive until tonight.

Bar a few squabbles in the north between crime gangs, there was no news of growing disputes between thralls and magic users or dark magic and dark mages being sighted. A muscle jumped in Viggo’s jawline.

That’s one thing to be grateful for, I guess. Although, this does feel like the calm before the storm, as Evander surmised.

There was a soft knock at the door.

Solomon Barden entered the room Viggo called his office, inside the network of limestone caves that constituted the headquarters of Nightshade and under an area of Stepney locked in by Limehouse and London Docks.

The only way to access the guild was via a nondescript door at the back of Ironclad Shipping , the merchant company belonging to Viggo’s uncle, Jack Stonewall, and the hidden tunnels that led to the Thames, as well as various exit points throughout central and north London.

The hum of activity filtering through from the underground chambers died down as Solomon closed the door behind him.

Viggo’s right-hand man crossed the floor, his quiet footfalls barely audible on the stone. He wordlessly replaced Viggo’s cold cup of tea with a mug of steaming coffee and settled in the chair opposite him.

“Thanks,” Viggo murmured. He took a sip of the hot brew and met his friend’s cool stare. “What’s wrong?”

“Are we really doing this?” Solomon said stiffly. “Continuing to aid the Met?”

Viggo sighed and leaned back in his chair, wood creaking under his weight. “We’ve already had this conversation, Sly. Winterbourne wants us on board until this whole affair is over. Considering what’s at stake, I don’t really see a reason to refuse his offer.”

“There are other ways to protect thralls,” Solomon intoned bullishly.

Viggo lowered his brows. “Not against dark magic there isn’t. However many anti-magic devices we get our hands on, we cannot battle hordes of dark mages.”

“You can.”

Solomon’s quiet statement filled the fraught silence.

Viggo’s face tightened as he recalled what had happened at Charing Cross and inside the warehouse where he’d almost lost Evander.

“I’m not invincible, Sly. It was a miracle I survived that explosion.”

“We can rally the Brutes in England to our cause.” Solomon leaned forward, elbows on knees and face growing animated. “Even the ones on the Continent would be willing to?—”

“Do you really think the War Office would allow that?” Viggo scowled. “That they will look the other way while I gather a force that could bring havoc to the city?!”

He cursed softly under his breath at Solomon’s hurt look.

Viggo rose, came around the desk, and dropped into the chair next to his friend.

“I know it’s hard to trust Scotland Yard.

To trust mages.” The Brute hesitated and pressed a hand on Solomon’s knee.

“To trust Evander.” He clenched his jaw.

“God, Sly, never in a million years could I have imagined that I would be saying these words to you right now, but I am. I am asking you to trust Evander.”

A fraught hush ensued.

“I don’t dislike the man, Viggo.” Solomon’s shoulders drooped. “It’s just…” He trailed off and shot a conflicted look at Viggo.

“It’s just what?”

“He’s an Archmage.” Solomon ran a hand through his hair and released a sigh heavy with frustration. “And there hasn’t been a single Archmage in history who’s ever been on our side.”