Page 9

Evander’s frustration mounted as the afternoon wore on.

Interviewing the faculty of the Royal Institute was proving to be an exercise in futility.

Each professor they’d spoken to so far had been the picture of politeness and had offered vague platitudes about Professor Whitley’s character that revealed nothing of substance to aid the investigation into his disappearance.

“I’m afraid I cannot recall when I last saw Walter,” Professor Abbingdon Musgrave said affably.

The specialist in magical artefacts and enhancements who shared an office on the same floor as Whitley adjusted his spectacles and pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“Perhaps at the faculty meeting a week ago? He keeps to himself these days.”

“And what was his demeanour at this meeting?” Rufus pressed, his patience visibly fraying.

“Quite normal, I should think,” Musgrave replied with a shrug. “Walter has always been unhealthily preoccupied with his research.”

This pattern repeated itself with maddening consistency.

Professor Whitley was described variously as “brilliant but distant,” “dedicated to his research,” and “not one for social engagements.” When pressed about the nature of his current work, his colleagues either claimed ignorance or cited academic confidentiality.

“It’s almost as if they’ve all been coached on what to say, your Grace,” Shaw muttered in disgust as they left yet another office. “Or rather, what not to say.”

Evander couldn’t disagree with her. The uniformity of the responses suggested coordination, though whether born of genuine concern for a colleague’s privacy or something more sinister remained unclear.

By late afternoon, they had interviewed eight professors and made precisely zero progress. Evander’s temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache as they returned to Whitley’s chambers for a final examination before departing.

Luckily, Shaw had secured the sample of Noctis Bloom she had found in the room and had dispatched it to the AFD for analysis along with her preliminary report before she’d been escorted out of the premises.

Surprise shot through Evander when they entered the missing professor’s office.

Cecillia Harrington was waiting for them, shoulders stiff and figure silhouetted against the window as she gazed out at the courtyard below. She turned at their entrance, her expression troubled.

“I take it your interviews proved fruitless?” she asked, her tone suggesting she already knew the answer.

“Remarkably so,” Evander replied curtly. “One might almost think there was a concerted effort to hinder our investigation.”

Cecillia’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “The Institute protects its own. Even from those who once belonged to it.”

“You seem less inclined to such behaviour, Professor Harrington,” Rufus observed, his eyes narrowing slightly. “May I ask why?”

She hesitated and glanced towards the open door. She closed it with a flick of wind magic, the subtlety of the gesture demonstrating her absolute control over her ability.

“Because I’m concerned,” Cecillia confessed anxiously. “Walter has been different these past few weeks. Ever since the news about Caine Renwick broke.”

Evander exchanged a cautious look with Rufus. “Different how?”

“Paranoid,” Cecillia said bluntly. “Jumpy. He began locking his chambers even when stepping out for a moment. He’d fall silent when others entered the faculty lounge. And he was researching something that clearly troubled him deeply.”

Shaw leaned forward eagerly. “Do you know what he was studying?”

“Rare magical abilities,” Cecillia replied reluctantly. “Particularly those that manifest in only a handful of individuals in every generation.”

A chill skittered down Evander’s spine. “Such as?”

Cecillia looked nervously towards the door again, as if half-expecting someone to burst in. When she spoke, her voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.

Still, her words sent a jolt of ice though Evander’s veins that confirmed his worst fears.

“Shadow manipulation,” she began, each word seeming to cost her considerable effort.

“Blood Magic. And something called Midnight Obsidian . A rare mineral from Siberia that can absorb or augment magic.” She crossed her arms across her body as if she were experiencing a chill, her fingers fidgeting with her sleeve.

“Walter was particularly interested in—” She faltered, clearly struggling with how to continue.

The room seemed to grow colder. Dread roiled Evander’s stomach.

He prompted her gently nonetheless. “Professor Harrington?”

Her eyes finally met Evander’s, something like resignation reflected in their depths. “The powers of Archmages,” she finished, the words hanging heavily in the air between them. “Especially the more obscure manifestations of such power.”

Rufus and Shaw exchanged a startled glance.

Evander kept his expression carefully neutral despite the alarm bells ringing in his mind, conscious Cecillia was watching him closely. Perhaps looking for some reaction to confirm whatever suspicions had driven her to share this information.

“That’s quite a range of subjects for someone whose specialty is advanced Elemental Magic,” he said evenly. “Did he share why he was interested in these particular powers?”

“Not explicitly. But he intended to make some sort of announcement at the faculty dinner two nights ago. The dinner he never attended.” Cecillia wrung her hands, a gesture at odds with her otherwise composed voice. “He told me it was important—that it could change everything.”

“Change everything how?” Rufus pressed.

“He wouldn’t say.” Cecillia’s expression grew pinched. “But he was frightened. Genuinely frightened.” Her voice dropped even lower as she met Evander’s gaze. “And Walter Whitley was not a man who frightened easily.”

Evander frowned, the implication behind her words not lost on him. “Did he mention any names? Anyone he was wary of?”

“No.” Cecillia hesitated. “But there is one thing you might want to look into. Walter was collaborating with a French professor.” She furrowed her brow. “He was quite secretive about it. He never told me his name. But I gathered it was someone from the Paris Institute for the Arcane.”

Evander’s pulse raced. He took a sharp step forward. “When did their collaboration begin?!”

Cecillia blinked at the urgency of the question. “Two months ago, I believe.”

Evander could tell Rufus was thinking the same thing from his darkening face. Caine Renwick had commissioned Alastair Millbrook to create the Blood Siphon over three months ago.

Is there a connection?

“I think Walter’s consultations with his French counterpart had become more frequent in recent weeks,” Cecillia continued. “Walter seemed increasingly agitated every time he received his correspondence.”

“Did Whitley mention any plans to travel?” Evander asked stiffly.

“He did request leave for next month,” Cecillia confirmed. “He told the headmaster he needed to consult archives in Paris, though he was uncharacteristically vague about the specific purpose.”

Evander digested this with growing unease. “Is there anything else, Professor Harrington?” he pressed. “Anything at all that struck you as unusual?”

Cecillia faltered, her fingers worrying at the cameo brooch at her throat.

“The night before he disappeared, I saw him burning papers in his fireplace,” she finally admitted.

“When he noticed me at the door, he seemed startled. Almost guilty, in fact. He claimed they were failed drafts of a new paper, but Walter never disposed of his work that way. He was meticulous about keeping his archives.”

Shaw’s eyes lit up. “That’s why the hearth was so clean when I examined it.” She glanced at Evander and Rufus. “He must have thoroughly cleared away the evidence.”

“And you believe these papers were related to his current research?” Evander pressed Cecillia.

“I can’t be certain, but I cannot see what else they would have been about.

” She frowned and glanced at Whitley’s desk.

“He’d been making notes in a small, leather-bound journal for weeks.

He always kept it with his papers. I noticed it was missing when I came to check on him the morning after the dinner. ”