Page 30

The room Thornfield and Mary had rented was small and spartan, with peeling wallpaper and two narrow beds.

A trunk in the corner appeared to contain their only possessions.

Despite the squalid surroundings, someone had clearly made efforts towards cleanliness—the floor was swept, and the bedding, though worn, was neatly arranged.

Thornfield sat on the edge of one of the beds while Mary busied herself making tea on a small spirit stove. The student addressed Viggo.

“I apologise for attacking you.” He glanced at Evander and Rufus. “When I heard footsteps on the stairs, I assumed the worst. There are only three rooms in use on this floor. The other lodgers aren’t due back until late tonight and it is not yet meal time.”

Evander could see the fear still gripping the young man from the way his hands trembled slightly.

“Who did you think we were?” he prompted.

Thornfield’s expression darkened. “The same people who took Professor Whitley.”

Rufus leaned forward. “Do you know their identity?”

Thornfield frowned and shook his head. “No. We were certain we were being watched the past few weeks, but we never actually saw anyone suspicious around us. There was just this…feeling of eyes observing us.” He shivered and rubbed his arms briskly.

Evander exchanged a guarded glance with Viggo. The theory they’d discussed in bed that morning was starting to look more and more convincing.

“Viggo and I wonder whether the dark mages who were after you were using shadow magic to spy on you.” He hesitated, conscious of Rufus’s surprised stare. “We think that may be how they’ve been watching the thralls they kidnapped too.”

“Why did you not tell me this earlier?” the inspector asked in a chagrined tone, his gaze swinging between Evander and Viggo.

“It was pure speculation on our behalf until now,” Evander said apologetically. “And we only discussed it this morning.”

Rufus’s mildly flustered expression told Evander he’d guessed under exactly what circumstances they’d conversed about said theory.

Thornfield had gone pale. “Thralls have gone missing?!”

Evander nodded stiffly. “They’re not the only ones. Did you know Professor Chevalier also vanished?”

“What?!” Thornfield gasped, horrified.

“A Special Arcane Investigator from Paris arrived in London yesterday,” Evander explained. “Chevalier disappeared five days ago from the Paris Institute for the Arcane. No one has seen or heard from him since.”

Thornfield’s knuckles whitened in his lap. “My God!”

He startled when his maid gently took his fingers, unfurled his fist, and placed a steaming cup of tea in his hand.

“Thank you, Mary,” Thornfield whispered shakily.

The old servant smiled softly, affection gleaming in her eyes.

“Mary was my nursemaid.” Thornfield’s face radiated gratitude as he gazed warmly at his servant. “She insisted on coming with me when she found out I intended to disappear for a while.”

“I promised your mother on her deathbed that I would do everything to make sure you live a long and happy life, Master James,” Mary murmured as she served Evander, Viggo, and Rufus tea in chipped cups.

Thornfield’s throat worked convulsively. He took a sip of his tea.

“It’s best you show them what you’ve been hiding, Master James,” Mary encouraged gently.

Thornfield faltered before bobbing his head.

The student put down his cup, went over to the trunk, and withdrew something from it. Evander’s pulse quickened at the sight of the leather-bound object in Thornfield’s hands.

“Is that?—?!”

Thornfield dipped his head, his features set in determined lines.

“This is Professor Whitley’s research journal. He entrusted it to me the day before he disappeared.” He crossed the floor and handed over the journal.

Evander carefully accepted it.

“The professor discovered something terrible,” Thornfield said, his voice dropping.

It took all of Evander’s willpower not to immediately open the worn leather volume in his hands.

“What did he discover?” he asked Thornfield instead.

Thornfield looked nervously at them before squaring his shoulders. “Have you heard of the Magical Conduit Theory?”

Evander shared a puzzled look glance with Viggo and Rufus before shaking his head at the student. “We’re aware Whitley was researching magical transference.”

“The Magical Conduit Theory is based on magical transference,” Thornfield said grimly.

“It’s a concept Professor Whitley and Professor Chevalier were researching.

” Thornfield shot an awkward glance at Viggo.

“It postulates that some thralls possess a unique neurological structure that allows them to temporarily hold magical energy.”

Evander’s blood ran cold at this, the anatomical diagrams from Whitley’s hidden chamber swimming in front of his eyes.

Viggo straightened where he’d been leaning against the wall, his expression growing thunderous.

“Wait. You’re saying whoever’s targeting thralls is intending to use them as—as experimental subjects for magic?!”

“Probably,” Thornfield said in a small voice.

“Whitley and Chevalier believed thralls born with the distinctive biological property that makes them ideal conduits for magical storage cannot generate or wield magic themselves.” He faltered.

“But their bodies can be used as vessels to hold and transfer magical energy between sources.”

Tension hummed through Evander. He narrowed his eyes.

“By ‘sources,’ you mean between mages?”

A muscle ticked in Thornfield’s cheek. He nodded reluctantly.

“How are the dark mages selecting these thralls?” Viggo asked, his voice tight.

Evander was not fooled by his apparent self-possession. He could practically feel the anger and outrage bubbling beneath the Brute’s skin.

“They will be targeting people with high intelligence and special talents,” Thornfield admitted quietly. “Chevalier discovered that thralls who possess that particular biological ability are usually above average intelligence and gifted in ways that make them stand out from their peers.”

Evander’s breath locked momentarily in his throat as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

Horror drained some of the colour from Viggo’s face.

“So those thralls are the kind of people who could end up working for the nobility?” the Brute said hoarsely.

Rufus sucked in air, realisation dawning on his face. “By the Gods!”

Thornfield fidgeted uncomfortably. “I suppose so. But that in itself is a double-edged sword.”

“What do you mean?” Evander asked, his heart pounding.

Thornfield ran a hand through his hair. “Whitley told me Chevalier had a certain theory about the magicless who possessed those biological characteristics. Being regularly exposed to magic could actually refine their neural circuits and make them even more receptive to storing it inside their bodies.”

Viggo scowled.

A thought came to Evander then. It pierced the storm roaring through his mind, so chilling he almost wished he’d never imagined it.

“Professor Harrington told us Whitley, and likely Chevalier, were researching rare magical abilities,” he said, his mouth dry. “Of those, the powers of Archmages were of particular interest.”

His words echoed in the hush that befell them.

Thornfield swallowed nervously at his unblinking stare.

“Yes, he was,” the student finally confessed, his voice barely above a whisper.

A buzzing filled Evander’s ears. The young man’s expression had given him the answer he was after. An answer he wished was not true, but knew in his bones was likely on the mark.

“Did they find a way to steal rare magic from mages and gift it to other mages?” he asked leadenly.

Horror widened Rufus’s eyes. Viggo cursed viciously, causing Mary to startle.

Thornfield looked miserable in the face of their accusing looks.

“It was never their purpose to do something that horrific,” he protested. “Their research was meant to be theoretical. Or so I was led to believe.”

“It seems the people sponsoring them felt otherwise,” Evander said bitterly.

Dread tightened his chest.

If “ I ” was indeed the one behind these crimes, then it seemed subjugating thralls was not his only mission.

He intended to make himself and the ones faithful to him the most formidable mages in the Empire by stealing magic from others.

Having living vessels that could store limitless magic meant they would never run out and would be in a position to access enormous power at will.

Evander clenched his jaw so hard he almost cracked a tooth.

And if he gets his hands on the powers of several Archmages, he will be invincible.

A sharp knock at the door made them all tense.

“It’s probably just Mrs. Flack with dinner,” Mary whispered, though she didn’t sound convinced.

Viggo moved silently to one side of the door. Evander’s hand drifted to his hidden cane, magic surging in his veins. Rufus positioned himself defensively in front of Thornfield and his servant.

Evander signalled to Thornfield with a curt bob of his head.

The student swallowed. “Who’s there?” he called, his voice rising to a feminine pitch once more.

“Comte Leon Beaulieu, Special Arcane Investigator from Paris,” came the low reply. “Duke Ravenwood sent a message to Scotland Yard. I came as quickly as I could.”

Evander released a pulse of magic. It was met with the familiar power of his former lover. He nodded to Viggo, his shoulders unknotting.

The Brute cautiously opened the door.

Leon stood in the dim hallway. He was immaculate despite the weather, his elegant clothing a stark contrast to the squalid surroundings.

“How did you know we were in this room?” Viggo asked the Frenchman suspiciously as he closed the door after him.

Leon lowered his brows. “You caused quite a fracas in the alleyway. It didn’t take long to figure out where you’d gone.” He assessed the cramped room and its occupations with a sweeping gaze. “What do we have here?”

Evander quickly explained their findings at Whitley’s home and what had ensued. Surprise widened Leon’s eyes as he listened.

“This is Monsieur Thornfield?” he asked, shocked.

“Yes.”

“Remarkable,” Leon murmured, studying the young man’s disguise. “That transfiguration potion was worth every penny you paid for it.”

“I made it myself,” Thornfield muttered.

“Even more admirable, then,” Leon concluded. His gaze settled on the journal in Evander’s hands. “Is that?—?”

“Professor Whitley’s journal,” Evander said grimly.

He summarised what Thornfield had told them.

Leon visibly stiffened. “The Magical Conduit Theory?”