Chapter 18
“Shaw,” Evander said tensely. “Tell me what you see.”
Shaw set down her bag and pulled on a pair of gloves, her expression focused. She circled the body once, then twice, before crouching to examine Molyneux’s hands.
“No defensive wounds on the palms or knuckles,” she murmured. “Which suggests he didn’t have time to physically defend himself.” She pointed to faint marks on his wrists. “But there is bruising consistent with magical restraint. Someone held him in place while they killed him.”
“They didn’t just kill him,” Evander stated quietly.
Shaw wrinkled her brow while the others traded puzzled looks. She tilted her head and studied the body once more. She stiffened a moment later, her eyes widening as realisation dawned. The forensic mage swallowed hard before meeting Evander’s gaze.
“They drained him.”
“Drained him?” Leon said, puzzled. “Drained him of what?”
“His magic and possibly his life force,” Evander replied grimly. He met Leon’s shocked stare. “This is the hybrid magic we encountered during the Musgrave case. Dark magic combined with Blood Magic and shadow magic.”
Leon paled. “You mean, they used the Blood Siphon or that other contraption we discovered in Whitley’s lab on him?!”
“Or something similar.” Evander knelt beside Shaw. “The discolouration of the body is comparable to the dead thralls we discovered in Musgrave’s lab, after we defeated him and his associates.”
“Some of the victims didn’t have arcane residue in their veins, which meant they had been used for something other than magical transference,” Rufus told Leon darkly.
Fairbridge’s eyes gleamed shrewdly. “You believe Musgrave and his associates were carrying on Renwick’s work with the Blood Siphon?”
Evander nodded, not surprised that he knew the full details of the case.
Shaw leaned in and examined the back of the victim’s head more closely.
“There’s something here,” she murmured. “A trace of an oily substance around his collar. Here, help me your Grace.” She carefully unbuttoned the top of Molyneux’s shirt, revealing more of the grey-tinged skin beneath, and had Evander carefully tilt the man forward.
Her eyes narrowed. “The base of his skull.”
Leon and the others gathered around them as Evander peered at the spot she indicated. There, barely visible against the discoloured flesh, were two small puncture marks surrounded by what looked like a dark crystalline residue.
The sight brought a sour taste to Evander’s mouth.
“They used a device all right,” he said grimly. “One that can probably fit in the palm of a hand.”
Shaw produced a small scraping tool and carefully collected samples of the crystalline residue before tucking them into a vial from her case. “I’ll need to analyse this properly at the hotel—”
“You can use our forensics lab,” Leon interrupted.
Shaw bobbed her head curtly. “Much obliged.”
Fairbridge moved to the window and gazed out at the street below. “This building has no magical wards, no particular security. Molyneux was vulnerable but still, to kill him in broad daylight indicates—”
“They are growing more brazen,” Evander concluded.
“But why now?” Shaw sat back on her heels. “If someone’s been systematically eliminating researchers linked to Les Prophètes Illuminés for five years, what made Molyneux a priority at this particular moment in time?”
They stared at her, Evander silently cursing himself for not having thought it first.
It was the right question.
He straightened and surveyed the scattered papers on the desk and around the room, his heart slamming against his ribs. “Because he found something. Or was close to finding something.”
Realisation dawned on everyone’s face.
They began searching the study.
Most of the documents they found were academic in nature: correspondence with other scholars, notes on various arcane texts, drafts of articles for magical journals.
It was Fairbridge who found the letter. He’d moved to a windowsill and was inspecting a stack of poetry books when he froze.
“Your Grace.”
Evander looked up from where he was examining the fireplace, immediately alert. “What is it?”
“I found something.”
Evander rose and crossed the room swiftly, pulse racing and the others in tow.
Fairbridge flicked a deadly looking knife from inside his wrist with practised ease and carefully lifted the edge of the endpaper at the back of the book he’d been examining.
Evander’s mouth went dry.
Tucked underneath it, sitting flush against the hardboard, was a single sheet of paper folded in two.
“How did you even spot that?” Rufus muttered.
“I have keen eyes. And the glue is fresh.” Fairbridge lifted his finding out of its hiding place and handed it to Leon.
The paper was crisp and new, the ink unfaded as Fairbridge surmised. Evander scanned the words over Leon’s shoulder. Though they were in French, he grasped their meaning easily.
“Henri,” Leon translated for the others.
“If the hands of Fate ever lead you to this letter, then I am probably long dead. I believe I’ve finally uncovered a piece of lost text relevant to the Crimson Codex.
It’s called the Mercier journal. In it, Les Prophètes Illuminés referenced a ‘place of convergence.’ It may not be in Vienna, as Musgrave initially suspected, but in Brussels.
At first I thought the reference was metaphorical, but it is quite possibly literal.
I think Les Prophètes were describing an actual location—a place where ley lines converge and magical barriers are thin.
It may be where the Crimson Codex has been hidden all this time. I fear—”
The letter ended abruptly, as if Molyneux had been interrupted mid-sentence.
“Anyone else heard of this Mercier journal?” Fairbridge asked quietly. He returned to the window and positioned himself next to the curtains.
Leon’s knuckles whitened where he held the paper.
“Yes. It was mentioned in one of the texts written by Les Prophètes Illuminés. It’s been presumed lost for decades. Where could Molyneux have found—” He stopped, the blood draining from his face as his gaze swept the chaotic study. “Mon Dieu! He had it here. That’s why they killed him!”
“They must have taken it,” Evander said darkly.
“We must warn Princess Victoria and her entourage,” Fairbridge stated with cold conviction. “She could be in danger if dark mages are planning something in the city. And speaking of danger, we’re being watched.”
Evander joined him. At first, he saw nothing unusual—pedestrians going about their business, carriages passing by, the usual bustle of a busy Paris morning.
Then he noticed him.
A man in a dark coat stood across the street, partially concealed in a doorway. He wasn’t moving, wasn’t browsing shop windows or acting like he was waiting for someone. He was simply watching the building.
Their eyes met across the distance.
Evander moved, magic bubbling through his veins. He yanked the bottom of the sash window up and hooked one leg over the sill.
“Your Grace, please tell me you’re not thinking of—” Fairbridge protested.
“I damn well am!” Evander growled.
He ignored the loud protests behind him, lifted his other leg over, and dropped down three storeys, wind magic lightening his body and forming currents under his feet that buffeted his fall.
Startled cries erupted from the crowd as he landed on the pavement beside the gendarme guarding the door in a low crouch. The police officer stumbled back and swore.
Evander was already up and running.
He heard another commotion behind him as he broke through the cordon and dashed across the street. He darted around carriages and foot traffic, protests and curses rising around him. Evander ignored them, his attention focused on his target.
By the time he reached the doorway, the man was long gone.
Evander spun on himself and looked around wildly, seeking a trace of dark magic he could follow. He found none.
Leon and Fairbridge were beside him a scant moment later.
“Please don’t do that again!” Leon snapped.
Fairbridge was scowling. “That was incredibly reckless, your Grace.”
Surprise jolted Evander. He looked back and saw Rufus and Shaw begin to emerge from the building. He levelled a frown at Fairbridge.
Leon following him out of the window he could understand, the Frenchman being a wind mage among other things.
“You can wield wind magic,” Evander stated accusingly.
A muscle jumped in the spy’s jawline. “Yes. And I would have preferred not to reveal that to all of Paris.”