Chapter 4
Ginny had gone pale opposite the young man. She traded a glance with Evander and Viggo, her eyes dark with disquiet.
They’d all feared there might be unintended consequences to the forced magical transference Tom had been subjected to in Musgrave’s laboratory. It seemed their concerns had been warranted.
“When did it start?” Evander asked stiffly.
“A week ago,” Tom confessed in a low voice. “It’s been happening more frequently these past three days. And there’s something else. A sort of buzzing sensation, like there’s something trapped inside me that wants to get out.”
Evander moved closer, his gaze fixed on Tom’s hand with the kind of intensity Viggo had seen him bring to particularly complex magical evidence. “May I?” He reached out with his hand.
Tom nodded and extended his arm.
Evander placed his fingers lightly on Tom’s wrist. His eyes unfocused slightly. A long moment passed before he finally released Tom’s arm and stepped back, his expression deeply troubled.
Viggo’s stomach churned. “What is it?” he asked, his tone sharper than he’d intended.
Evander didn’t seem to mind. “There’s magic in him.”
Emily gasped, hands rising to cover her mouth. Ginny swore.
Viggo’s heart started a rapid tempo against his ribs.
“So, it truly is magic?” Katie asked insistently.
Evander met her narrow-eyed gaze unflinchingly. “Yes. It’s not much, but it’s there, nonetheless.” He looked steadily at Tom. “Have you been able to do anything with it? Channel it in any way?”
Tom shook his head jerkily, his expression dazed as he struggled to absorb this astounding truth. “I wouldn’t know how. I’m thrall-born, your Grace. I don’t understand magic.”
“What”—Emily’s voice broke, tears pooling in her eyes—“what will happen to my brother?!” She looked pleadingly at Evander and Viggo.
Katie rose and took her in her arms. “There, there,” she murmured, patting the young woman’s back. “It will be alright.” She shot a harried look their way, her alarm evident for the first time.
“Will it though?” A muscle jumped in Solomon’s jawline. He jutted his chin at Evander. “Will he be alright?”
Viggo waited for Evander’s answer with the same breathless expectancy as everyone else in the room.
Evander hesitated. “I don’t know,” he finally said with unvarnished honesty. “There has never been a case like this.” He studied Tom with a faint frown. “As far as I am aware, there has never been a thrall like him in the entire history of magic.”
The blood drained from Tom’s face. Ginny reached over and took his trembling hand.
Evander squatted next to the young man and took a gentle hold of his shoulder.
“We will get the best minds in this country to look into this, Tom,” he said quietly. “You have my word.”
Tom nodded weakly, his entire body radiating dread.
Viggo’s stomach clenched. He could see his own trepidation mirrored in Evander’s tightening expression.
Whatever Musgrave had done to Tom in that godforsaken lab, it had changed something fundamental inside him. Something that Viggo feared could rock the very fabric of the British Empire and lead to another War of Subjugation.
They took their leave a short while later.
Viggo and Evander pulled back a little as Tom and Emily said their goodbyes to the others at the door.
“How did it go at the ministry?” Viggo asked quietly.
“I’m probably going to get an earful from Winterbourne.”
Viggo grimaced at Evander’s resigned expression. “That bad, eh?” He lowered his voice. “See you tonight?”
Evander dipped his head imperceptibly.
“I would like that very much,” he murmured, brushing his hand lightly against the back of Viggo’s.
It took all of Viggo’s willpower not to pull his lover into his arms there and then and kiss him. He swallowed a groan.
It was going to be a long afternoon.
Weak sunlight pierced the grim skies and cast long shadows through the tall windows of Scotland Yard as Evander and Rufus climbed the stairs to the fifth floor of the west wing, on their way to Winterbourne’s office.
The building smelled of coal smoke, ink, and the faint acrid tang of magical residue that never quite left the Arcane Division.
Evander’s anxious thoughts lingered on Tom Simmons. He feared the silver lines beneath the young man’s skin were only the beginning of the radical changes taking place inside the thrall’s body.
The trapped energy he had sensed within Tom felt worryingly like twisted magic threatening to break free of its vessel. He suspected the only reason Tom had survived the forced transference was because of his unique constitution.
According to scientific hypothesis first postulated by Les Prophètes Illuminés and more recently researched by Professor Whitley and Professor Chevalier, some thralls possessed unique nervous systems that allowed them to store magic inside their bodies.
If magic could be forcibly transferred into thralls and allow them to use it—however imperfectly—it would shatter everything our society was built upon. He frowned as an unpleasant thought came to mind. Did “I” foresee this?
Fergus Brent, Winterbourne’s secretary, glanced up from his desk as they approached the commander’s office. He stiffened and shot out of his chair.
“Ah, Duke Ravenwood, Inspector Grayson,” he blurted in an overbright tone that immediately raised Evander’s suspicions. “Please wait a moment. I shall inform the commander of your arrival.”
Evander narrowed his eyes slightly. His gaze swivelled between the secretary and the double doors leading into Winterbourne’s office.
“He has a guest?”
A thin sheen of sweat beaded Brent’s brow. “I’m not in a position to divulge that, your Grace.” He swallowed nervously.
The man would never make a good spy.
Rufus scowled. “Spit it out, Brent. Who is it we’re supposed to avoid meeting?”
The door opened before the secretary could be coerced into breaking his employer’s confidentiality. Evander tensed at the sight of General Hartwick. The older man’s face grew shuttered when he spotted Evander.
“Your Grace. We meet again.”
Evander dipped his head curtly. “General.”
Rufus issued a stiff greeting.
Evander frowned as they watched Hartwick disappear in the direction of the exit. He knocked on Winterbourne’s door and entered the office with Rufus, his mind racing as to the reason the head of the War Office had paid a visit to the commander of the Arcane Division.
Winterbourne stood at the window, his hands clasped behind his back.
His weathered face seemed strained behind its habitual stern expression as he twisted on his heels and acknowledged their presence, his silver-streaked hair catching the light from outside and his grey eyes sharp.
At fifty-three, Winterbourne had spent the better part of three decades in law enforcement and had the scars, both visible and invisible, to prove it.
“Your Grace. Inspector.” He gestured to the chairs opposite his desk. “Sit.”
Evander lowered himself into the chair and noted the numerous files spread open on Winterbourne’s desk. The commander had been busy.
“How is young Simmons?” Winterbourne asked as he returned to his seat.
Evander exchanged a guarded look with Rufus. “In himself? Better. But I’m afraid I have worrying developments to report.”
Winterbourne’s shoulders knotted. “What is it?”
Evander explained what they had learned during their visit to the Simmonses.
Winterbourne turned haggard. His chair creaked as he sat back heavily, looking much older than his years for a moment. “By the Gods!”
“Indeed,” Evander concurred grimly. “We’re going to need our best experts to help him navigate the changes he is going through.”
“Of course,” Winterbourne said distractedly. He faltered before meeting Evander’s gaze squarely. “Do you think there is a possibility he will be able to wield magic one day?”
Evander hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m more concerned about what the magic inside him might do to his lifespan. There is a good chance it will kill him, long term.”
Rufus cursed softly.
Winterbourne recovered his composure.
“We should keep a close eye on the lad,” the commander stated in a hard voice. “He will be in danger if word of this gets out.”
Evander nodded briskly. “Viggo is assigning a couple of Nightshade operatives to watch the Simmonses’ home and guard Tom from afar as he goes about his daily business. They can share the workload with the Met.”
“Is that wise?” Rufus interjected. He glanced uneasily between Evander and Winterbourne. “If Tom’s condition deteriorates rapidly—”
“You think we should lock him away?” Winterbourne’s eyes grew sharp. “Make him a prisoner for having magic forced into him?”
Rufus had the grace to look uncomfortable. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Isn’t it?” Winterbourne rubbed his forehead tiredly.
“The moment we start treating victims like criminals is the moment we lose whatever moral high ground we’re still clinging to.
” He paused. “But I take your point, Inspector. If young Simmons becomes dangerous to himself or to others, we’ll have no choice in the matter. ”
The words settled like lead in Evander’s stomach. Tom had survived being tortured. Now they were discussing possibly locking him away like some kind of villain. It felt obscenely wrong.
“Now.” Winterbourne’s tone shifted, becoming more clipped. “Regarding this morning’s Parliamentary committee hearing.”
Evander stiffened. “Sir—”
Winterbourne raised a hand. “I already know what happened. Before you ask, it wasn’t General Hartwick who tattled. He was here on another equally unpleasant matter.”