Chapter Seven
Isla stood staring at Ray, unable to comprehend what she was seeing. Her mind lagged, struggling to process the horror before her. Her colleague Ray. Mid-forties, married-to-his-work Ray. He was recognizable—yet he wasn’t. His eyes were vacant, his body broken.
Movement briefly made her eyes shift away from the scene; Andrew pulled her into his arms, trying to shield her from the awful sight.
He wasn’t any taller or that much wider than her, so she still had a full view of the body—he seemed to come to that same realization and spun her around so her back was to the gruesome sight and the body now lay in Andrew’s vision alone.
He pulled her in for a hug, and she let him hold her.
The steady circles of his hand against her back anchored her, pulling her away from shock and back into herself.
She took a deep breath. Her thoughts, previously frozen just like her body had been, now raced in a chaotic rush. She pushed away from him.
“Andrew, I can heal him. Juliette said I have the power to heal.” Her voice cracked, high and strange in her own ears—hysterical and out of control.
She tried to push away from him, body turned slightly, eyes locked once again on the broken body, studying it as if sheer will could tell her what to do. Some part of her was already fumbling for an answer—something, anything—some half-formed idea of forcing life back into him.
But Andrew’s arm shot out, barring her path before she could move closer.
“Your healing powers have limits.”
She refused to look away from the body on the ground. Refused to listen to Andrew as she tried to tug away from his grasp.
“Isla, look at me.”
When she didn’t heed his call, Isla felt gentle fingers on her chin, softly encouraging her to look his way.
His blue eyes radiated sorrow as they flicked between hers.
“You can do nothing for him. Your abilities cannot bring people back from the dead.”
At his words, the fight in her drained away. Her shoulders slumped and a single tear ran down her cheek. Andrew’s hand on her chin lifted, and he wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb.
“Come on, Harold needs to know about this.”
Isla looked up from her lesson with Olivia-May. After reporting the murder to Harold, she had decided she would cope best if she could just get on with her day, despite Andrew and Harold trying to persuade her otherwise. She had shoved her emotions deep, suppressing her grief and pain.
Harold had asked them to keep the awful crime quiet, explaining that they were to proceed discreetly. He had assured her that justice would be served, but since it was clearly an Aetheric Arts crime, these things had to be treated with care.
At the same time as the MI5 and MI6 intelligence services had been created, the Aetheric Arts department, known as AEX (The Aetheric Executive Directorate) had been set up, as a separate government department, and although the most senior officers within government and the Metropolitan police at New Scotland Yard were fully aware of Aetheric Arts, and had collaborated on many occasions, this would require discretion to ensure that the local constables didn’t get wind of it.
He had called an Aetherian detective, who was to arrive as soon as possible.
So here she sat with her student, finishing off her private lesson.
She had agreed to give the young woman extra tutoring.
Olivia-May wasn’t the most naturally gifted student, but what she lacked in ease she made up for in determination.
There was a passion in her to prove herself, and Isla had felt a tug to help.
Andrew sat in the corner, reading his papers—though she had felt his eyes on her throughout the day, constantly casting her concerned looks. He wasn’t getting much work done.
“Well, Olivia-May, I think that should do it for today. Shall we meet again, say, next Tuesday?”
“That would be wonderful, Professor. I cannot thank you enough. Today’s session really helped me grasp how roots adapt to different soils.”
Isla smiled at the young woman as she gathered her belongings. “I’m happy to help.”
Olivia-May returned the smile, tucking a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear.
For a heartbeat, her gaze flicked to Isla’s wrist, where the leather strap of her watch hid the mark beneath.
Isla’s spine tightened. It was a foolish reaction—Olivia-May hadn’t seen anything—but the thought of those eyes lingering made her skin prickle.
The Sigil mark felt like a siren, silent but blaring, as if it might draw the whole world’s attention at any moment.
Only yesterday her reality had been steady, ruled by science and reason.
Now she carried something branded into her flesh—it felt like a dangerous secret, inescapable like the war alarms that shattered the night.
Which was silly; Olivia-May was probably an Aetherian herself.
But Isla didn’t know if it was normal to ask, and she was trying her very best not to look at everyone’s wrists.
What a strange world she now found herself in.
“Well, cheerio. I will see you presently.”
The young woman lifted her gaze, nodded, then smiled. She exited the room, glancing back once to look at both her and then Andrew before she closed the door behind her.
“It’s very nice of you to give that young woman help.”
Andrew’s voice pulled Isla’s head around from the closed door. His pale-blue eyes were fixed on her; she saw worry in those eyes, but he was trying to mask it with amusement.
She narrowed her gaze. “Why do I feel you’re not entirely complimenting me?”
He gave a short laugh. “I only wondered if you extend such generosity to all your students—or if you’ve secretly set up a campaign to see the young ladies outpace the men.”
Her chin lifted a fraction. “Perhaps I simply reward hard work. Maybe you could learn something from her.” She looked pointedly at his pile of unmarked papers.
That earned her a grin, though his tone softened as he added, “Still ... she’s fortunate to have you in her corner. Not everyone would give their time so freely.”
Isla blinked, unsettled by the shift. One moment his eyes were all full of worry, then full of cheeky mischief, daring her to rise to the bait; the next they had softened into something else entirely, something she couldn’t pin down.
The swing between jest and sincerity left her off-balance, and she hated how easily he managed it.
Andrew was her fiercest rival in the faculty—driven, diligent, every inch the scholar she strove to prove herself to be.
And yet ... she admired that about him, even as she sharpened her tongue to meet his.
She couldn’t help it; their exchanges had become a contest she secretly relished.
No, not relished; endured. He was just annoying Andrew. The plague of her days.
She shoved her arms into her coat. “I’m done for the afternoon.”
Andrew’s smile widened at her stiff, abrupt movements, which only irked her more. He really was the scourge of her existence.
“It’s been a long day; come, let me make you dinner.”
She stared at him, trying to read what lay behind those twinkling blue eyes.
A snort escaped her at the thought of her and Andrew eating dinner together—hardly ladylike—and her cheeks flamed with embarrassment.
“What?” Andrew asked, smiling at her.
“Erm ... nothing. And no, you are not making me dinner.”
“Why not?”
Isla picked up her satchel and headed out of her office, Andrew scrambling to catch up.
Behind them, the little room was left in its usual organized state.
Isla liked things to be neat; order made her feel more in control.
The shelves sagged under the weight of so many books, and the heavy oak desk, tidy but scored with ink stains from decades of scholars, made her feel privileged to be one of the lucky few to call it her own—until the next scholar took her place. The thought made her stomach tighten.
Out in the corridor, their footsteps sounded again beneath the vaulted ceiling. Isla stiffened when Andrew’s hand brushed her elbow, slowing her hurried pace.
“Why can’t I make you dinner, Isla?”
Right. She hadn’t answered him. Her mind scrambled for an excuse. “Well, because ...”
She was spared from finishing when Harold’s voice rang out.
“Ah, there you two are. You’re needed in the library at once. Detective Whitmore is expected any moment, and I need both of you to give statements about this morning’s events.”
A shudder rippled through Isla. She had done everything in her power to push away the memory of Ray’s lifeless body, but the image still clung to her, sharp and unyielding. After their report to Harold, Andrew had tried coaxing her to talk, to unburden herself, but she had refused.
Word could not be allowed to spread through the community.
Keep calm and carry on had become the day’s refrain.
That suited Isla well enough; she had buried herself in work, her lectures running smoothly.
Still, her gaze had strayed more than once to Jimmy.
Had he been the one to attack her, to attack Ray?
“We will be right there,” Andrew replied.
Harold nodded. “I’ll meet you there with the detective,” he said, turning toward the university entrance.
Isla felt Andrew’s thumb brush lightly once along her arm, where he still held it. The touch was gentle, careful, but it made her stomach flutter; it made her feel safer. She pulled her arm away and looked over at him.
“Are you all right?” he asked softly, his eyes searching hers with quiet concern.
She hesitated, then nodded, aware of how reassuring his presence was, despite him being a perpetual thorn in her side, the torment of her waking hours. She would never admit that having him near her was maybe not the curse she thought she would have to endure.
“I’m fine, Andrew.”