Chapter 24
The Préfecture de Police sat on the ?le de la Cité like a fortress of order amidst the chaos of Paris.
Whereas London’s Metropolitan Police headquarters favoured imposing Gothic architecture designed to intimidate criminals and reassure citizens in equal measure, the French had opted for something altogether more elegant—a sprawling complex of pale stone buildings arranged around manicured courtyards, its classical facades softened by rows of arched windows that caught the morning light.
Viggo found himself unexpectedly impressed as their carriages rolled through the main gates.
The interior proved equally refined. Marble floors gleamed beneath their boots as a young officer escorted them through corridors lined with oil paintings depicting famous moments in French law enforcement history, their passage earning polite if curious stares.
The air smelled of beeswax polish and coffee rather than the damp wool and coal smoke that permeated Scotland Yard.
“It’s like a bloody palace,” Solomon muttered beside him.
The thrall evidently felt as out of place as he did.
“The French do love their grandeur,” Ginny observed.
“We should petition the Commissioner for better working conditions, Inspector,” Shaw hissed to Rufus. “Even their coffee is better than ours.”
Rufus rolled his eyes. “I doubt Baron Watson cares about how our coffee tastes, Shaw.”
“Well, he should,” Shaw grumbled. “A happy officer is a more efficient officer.”
Viggo shot a glance at Evander as they headed up a flight of stairs to the second floor. His lover had worn a permanent frown since breakfast, as if his mind wouldn’t settle. Viggo suspected that their findings in Faubourg Saint-Germain had preoccupied him most of the night.
As for Fairbridge, he’d appeared somewhat mollified when they’d explained what they’d discovered in Brassard’s basement. Their findings constituted a significant step forward in their investigation after all.
Viggo’s attention returned to the present as the officer stopped before a set of double doors. He knocked twice before opening them to reveal a spacious office dominated by a mahogany desk the size of a small boat.
The man who rose to greet them was tall and silver-haired, with the ramrod posture of a former military officer and eyes that missed nothing. His uniform was immaculate, the epaulettes that denoted his position gleaming on his shoulders.
Leon stood near the window, his expression carefully neutral in the presence of his immediate superior. Viggo caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
“Duke Ravenwood.” The older man extended his hand to Evander, his English precise but accented. “I am Commander Michel Rousseau, head of the Arcane Division. We never met on your previous visits to the city. Welcome to Paris.”
“Commander.” Evander shook his hand. “Thank you for meeting with us.” He introduced the rest of their team.
Rousseau’s gaze lingered on Fairbridge. “Please give General Hartwick my regards.”
Fairbridge dipped his head respectfully.
Viggo wondered if the two men already knew one another and if Rousseau was aware of Fairbridge’s special abilities.
He became conscious of the French commander’s curious stare.
“The Ironfist Brute. I am honoured to make your acquaintance, Mr. Stonewall. Thank you for saving Comte Beaulieu’s life.”
Surprise jolted Viggo when Rousseau offered him his hand. The Brute shook it, masking his bewilderment behind a polite smile.
A secretary brought coffee and pastries while they arranged themselves in the chairs Rousseau indicated, Shaw nursing her drink with fond affection.
“Have you been able to glean anything of use in the notebook Viggo gave you?” Evander asked once they had settled, his gaze switching between Rousseau and Leon.
The frustrated set of Leon’s jaw suggested otherwise.
“We’ve had our best cryptologists working on it through the night,” the Frenchman said.
“The names we were already aware of. They are former Les Prophètes Illuminés members who have died or gone missing or people linked to their research. The notations are in some kind of personal code. So far, their meaning continues to elude us.”
“And the body of the dead Belgian?” Viggo asked.
“Being exhumed as we speak.” Leon’s expression darkened.
“The original autopsy found water in his lungs consistent with drowning. But now that we know what to look for, I’ve ordered our Chief Arcane Forensic examiner to check for traces of dark magic.
” He faltered. “If he was killed the same way as Molyneux, there may be residual signatures we missed the first time.”
Viggo’s gut tightened. Another thread to follow, another dead man whose secrets might help them unravel this conspiracy—if they could decipher them in time.
Rousseau fixed Evander with a penetrating stare. “Tell me about your discovery in Faubourg Saint-Germain.”
The commander listened intently as Evander delivered their carefully edited report of the previous evening’s events and his conclusions.
“So you attended Viscount Brassard’s soirée and found evidence of covert shipments in his basement and an object you last saw during your investigation of Professor Musgrave a few weeks ago?” Rousseau summarised with a frown when Evander finished. “An object capable of forcing magic into thralls?”
“Yes, the Magical Conduit device,” Evander confirmed with a brisk nod. “Leon saw it when he was in London.”
Rousseau’s expression sharpened. “You believe Brassard is connected to ‘I’ and this network of dark mages we’ve been investigating, but yet, you don’t wish for us to arrest the man?”
Viggo heard the disbelief underscoring the commander’s voice.
He and Evander had had the same discussion after they’d returned to their hotel last night.
Though Viggo had wanted to inform Leon of their findings straightway and have Brassard and his accomplices arrested and interrogated, Evander’s reasoning for not doing so had made sobering sense in the end.
Fairbridge had surprised Viggo further by agreeing with Evander’s assessment.
“There is no shadow of a doubt about Brassard’s involvement in this matter.
” Evander’s tone remained even as he elaborated on his thinking.
“The shipping manifests we obtained indicate his legitimate business interests are serving as a cover for something more sinister. But he is just a middleman, in it for the money. He is not a dark mage. Arresting him won’t help our investigation.
We should have him and his associates tailed instead.
I believe that avenue will yield more useful information.
Especially the man called Guillaume. He is a dark mage and a dangerous one. ”
Leon straightened in his seat. “You think he’s the one who killed Molyneux?”
Evander met his gaze steadily. “Probably. It would explain his presence at the crime scene in Marais. He wanted to see who would investigate Molyneux’s murder.”
Rousseau’s gaze swept their group, pausing briefly on Viggo and Fairbridge before returning to Evander. “And you encountered no difficulties during your reconnaissance?” he said insistently.
“None worth reporting,” Evander lied smoothly.
Tension coursed through Viggo. He had the impression Rousseau didn’t completely believe their story. Leon’s sharp glance in their direction told him the Frenchman also suspected something was off.
He, Evander, and the others had decided as a team last night not to reveal details of their clash with dark mages to the French authorities. Because doing so would mean exposing Fairbridge’s secret.
Did they already have someone working under cover in Brassard’s mansion?
Viggo’s gaze drifted briefly to Fairbridge, seated composed and unreadable beside Shaw. If such a person was there last night, he or she would no doubt have fallen victim to Fairbridge’s magic.
The memory of yesterday’s revelation still unsettled Viggo. Though he’d not sensed Fairbridge’s magic the way Evander had, he’d seen the amber sparks in Fairbridge’s pupils as he’d worked his Enchanter abilities on the entire ballroom.
Elemental magic Viggo could understand. He’d witnessed Evander and Leon’s powers enough time now to grasp how their abilities worked.
But Enchantment—the ability to manipulate minds, to fog memories and compel obedience—that was something else entirely.
Something that made him wonder what else the War Office spy had been concealing behind his bland exterior.
Yet, Viggo sensed Fairbridge would never deliberately harm them.
Call it a gut instinct.
According to Fairbridge, Brassard and Guillaume would need days to piece together what had happened. The confusion wouldn’t last forever, but it would buy them time.
Time they needed now more than ever.