Chapter 11
Harrisford
I really, really wish she’d listened to me and put on something warmer.
We’re soaring over Surrey when she starts shivering, the movement so violent her teeth clack together. Even though it’s summer, at the altitude we’re cruising the air is bitterly cold.
Adjusting myself in my seat, I throw my cloak around the both of us, but she continues to tremble, her backside bumping against my crotch.
“Christ, Chan,” I snap, trying not to think about the heat of her body against mine, or her scent wafting off the skin of her neck, or the movement that’s happening down below.
There’s a very embarrassing reflex happening that I’ve no control over, and the shivering is not helping. “Will you stay still already?”
“Cant…help…it…” she says, perfectly oblivious to my torment. “It’s…so…cold…”
“Well, I told you to wear—”
“Shut it, Briggs.” She’s still chattering. “Or I won’t…hesitate…to push you off.”
I narrow my eyes at the back of her head. “And lose the extra warmth from my cloak? You wouldn’t dare.”
She snorts, but doesn’t respond. All she does is wriggle back against me more firmly.
Goddammit.
It’s not long before we’re descending, our hair streaming in the wind, and we land in a remote corner of the Briggs estate. Fortunately, Father and me traveling by dragon is a common enough occurrence that we have special stables set up for such trips.
Gwendolynne immediately slides off, putting a few meters of distance between us. As I drop to the ground, her gaze flicks down to my trousers, then away. She flushes. Fuck. She wasn’t so oblivious after all.
The house is still and quiet, which is not surprising since Father’s recently taken to doing overtime at the Magecorp offices. His study is at the end of a long corridor, a good distance from the bedrooms, and as usual it is locked.
Gwendolynne hovers in the shadows behind me as I try my master key—but frustratingly, it doesn’t work, even though it used to.
“It’s locked.” I give an exasperated sigh and lean my shoulder against the wall.
Yesterday in the library, when I’d been perusing the WTS website, a striking detail had suddenly become clear.
The dates and locations of the power surges correlated almost exactly with places my father frequented.
Not precisely, of course, but pretty closely.
And it seems so obvious in retrospect, but he’s been acting strangely—so strangely—for months now.
Staying late at work; trying to mask his signs of obvious stress.
And now? Now he’s gone and changed the bloody locks.
My suspicions, which were once as hazy as shifting smoke, are solidifying within my mind.
I’m certain Magecorp, and my father, are connected with the magical surges somehow.
It would make sense, since Magecorp is the biggest worldwide manufacturer and distributor of magic.
It would also explain why Percy, who until recently was the CEO’s familiar, was one of the first animals to suffer from magiphilia.
Perhaps they’ve lost control over the magical harvesting system and are trying to cover it up by leveling accusations at the MLO.
Whatever the reason, if Father truly is hiding something in this study that could affect me, affect Gwendolynne, even affect the entire world, then I have to stop at nothing to find it.
Thinking hard, I unlock my strap screen, tapping out a quick message to one of my less…savory…contacts.
“What are you doing?” Gwendolynne asks, her eyes narrowed.
“Definitely nothing illegal. Now hush.”
She watches me suspiciously as I continue texting back and forth. Finally, after what feels like a million years, there’s the ping that tells me the spell has arrived in the inbox of my burner account.
I hurriedly download it. The magic unfurls in my fingertips, feeling warm—a tingling caress. They glow as I reach forward, my hand hovering midair. Then, squinting at the doorknob and summoning all my concentration, I deliberately rotate my hand.
The lock clicks and the door unlatches, settling slightly ajar.
Gwendolynne makes a surprised noise from somewhere deep in her throat. “What? How?” she stammers. “That was—”
“A resignio spell,” I murmur, pushing open the door. It swings wide, completely silent on its hinges.
“But that’s…It’s impossible, it’s—”
I arch an eyebrow at her. “Illegal?”
She crosses her arms and raises her chin. “Well…yes.”
Gwendolynne is right, of course. There are a handful of spells on the Ministry’s Dangerous and Restricted list, and resignio is one of them.
Mostly they’re spells that could be used for crime, torture, or homicide.
They’re highly regulated, accessible only to specific groups of people—such as the magical police or certain first responders.
To the rest of us, they’re banned, and there are hefty penalties for their use.
Which is why I had to venture into the dark side of the web to get it.
“For the right price,” I say, smirking, “nothing is impossible.”
She considers that for a second, then lets out a breath. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified at how easily you throw around money.”
I stride through the door, not looking at her. “How about both?” I say. But what I don’t tell her is that I’ve just drained a third of my trust fund to do it. Restricted spells cost a lot. The thought makes me feel faintly ill.
When we’re finally both in the study, the reek hits me.
A singed smell, like something’s burning, alongside the distinctive scent of too much magic.
Gwendolynne and I glance at each other. Her eyes betray her concern—wide, the whites showing, her brown irises like deep pools of liquid in the darkness.
I reach out with my magical senses, ascertaining that the energy is just residual; there are no active wards or security protections to bind the room. I curb my grin—it’s lucky that my father did not think to protect his private sanctum with anything but a simple lock.
“You check the desk,” I whisper. “I’ll take the shelves and the filing cabinets.”
We set to work, methodically searching through Father’s personal belongings. We’re looking for anything that might incriminate him, suggest he’s privy to the cause of the surges. The desk drawers scrape as Gwendolynne opens and shuts each one.
The bookshelves are neat and orderly, but the sheer amount of magic shows me where my father has been.
Like a footprint left on wet sand at low tide, his magical presence is absolutely smeared across his stuff.
I just have to follow the spark of his life essence until it leads me to a small stack of books stashed in a corner behind a truly horrible pink floral vase.
Groping at my chest pocket, I fish out my glasses and jam them on top of my nose.
“Son of a witch,” I mutter as I pick each book up and flick through the pages. All of them are historical volumes, and a quick scan shows that each of them delves into incidences of magical surges that occurred over the millennia.
I’d wondered yesterday why I couldn’t find anything at the library. Now I actually know.
I’m still perusing the books when Gwendolynne lets out an audible gasp. Immediately, she clamps her hand over her mouth in horror. Luckily there’s no one around but me to hear.
“What is it?” I say, shutting the book and sidling up to her. She’s bent over the third drawer, fingers still pressed to her lips.
She doesn’t respond, just points at what she’s been looking at. A scattered mess of ID cards on lanyards. The type of ID card I’ve seen hundreds of times before.
“Yes, and?” I say, confused. “Those are just Magecorp staff passes. My father works there. It’s not so strange.”
Gwendolynne finally finds her voice, though it wavers more than usual. “But it’s not just any old Magecorp staff. Look.” She rummages through the bag she has slung over one shoulder, pulls out Nora Chapman’s creased, marked-up scroll, and flings it at my chest.
I catch it and unroll it, but not before shooting her a disapproving look for being so needlessly loud. Then I start to read what’s written on it.
It’s a list of names. They seem familiar. I grimace.
“What am I looking at, Chan?”
Gwendolynne rolls her eyes, then taps the parchment with her finger. “Look at the names. Compare them with what’s on the cards. These are all the people who’ve gone missing. They match. Every single one.”
Gorge rises in my throat as I stare at the list. Elouise Forrester.
Hani Nguyen. Benjamin Purcell. Dr. Demi Wallan.
Even a pimply-faced teenage intern called Li-wen Tan.
All names confirming that my father does, in fact, have a drawer full of missing—presumed dead—people’s IDs locked inside his study.
My organs feel frosted with ice, while outside my skin is scorching. A bead of sweat detaches itself from my hairline and runs down the back of my neck, catching on my collar.
Gwendolynne plucks the parchment from my limp fingers and rolls it up. “Maybe there’s an explanation.” Carefully, she tucks the scroll back in her bag. “Maybe they’re just…in hospital, being treated for magiphilia, or something.”
I frown, thinking.
“If that were the case, surely Nora Chapman would have a record of their treatment,” I say eventually.
“Besides, why cover it up? Why weren’t these disappearances all over the news?
And why keep their photos locked inside a drawer?
” I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know that this isn’t normal behavior.
In fact, this feels more like trophy-collecting, serial-killer-type behavior.
In truth, my father hasn’t been acting normally for months. Maybe even longer. Perhaps I’d just been too caught up in my own life to notice.
What the hell are you up to, Father? I’d always known he was an arsehole. But tonight is the first time that I’m beginning to suspect, a tiny bit, that he might also be a homicidal maniac.
“What do you think happened to them?” Gwendolynne’s voice is just a whisper. “Do you think Magecorp could have…could’ve killed them?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my voice cracking. “But we certainly can’t rule it out.”
After searching the rest of the study and finding nothing else of interest, Gwendolynne and I leave my father’s study, the door clicking shut behind us.
She’s clutching one of the staff IDs she found—Hani Nguyen’s—and I’m holding one of the history books, the one that seemed to contain the most detail.
We’d thought it safer to only filch the bare minimum; if we take too much my father will notice.
We’re almost around the corner when I hear footsteps approaching.
“Shit,” I hiss, then yank Gwendolynne back into the shadows. I recognize the heavy tread—the cadence of it—and fear twists itself into my gut like a knife. “My father is coming.”
Even in the darkened corridor I see her face blanch until it’s as pale and white as the risen moon.
And of course she’s scared. She’s right to be scared.
Hell, even I am scared. After all, my father is approaching, and we’ve just discovered a bunch of possible dead-people trophies hidden in his third desk drawer.
It’s too late to escape; we can’t slip past him without him noticing, and we can’t retreat into the study since that’s where he’s probably headed. And if he catches us here…
Before I can overthink it, I do the only thing that might work. I lean into Gwendolynne, pressing her body against the wall with my own.
“What the hell are you doing?” she hisses. Her hands are at my chest, trying to shove me off.
“Shhh,” I urge, my voice low at her ear. “Just go with it.” My blood is pulsing through my head and I want to plead, want to beg, want to make sure she does not give us away. But there’s no time. All I can hope for is that she’ll somehow catch on to my plan.
I press against her harder and, as she lets out a little gasp, I slide the book I’m holding beneath the hem of her shirt. She’s trembling against me, I can feel it, and I am pretty sure she’s holding her breath.
Shifting slightly, I keep my hand beneath her shirt, securing the book in place, then push my free hand up into the hair at the nape of her neck.
Twining my fingers in her hair, I tilt her head, then move my lips down to the little hollow beneath her ear.
My nose skims her hairline; her scent fills my nostrils.
She lets out a ragged breath, which hitches as my lips just brush the soft skin of her neck. “Briggs.” Her voice is shaky. “Don’t.”
“Don’t worry, Chan,” I murmur, my words vibrating against her skin. “I’m not going to kiss you. Now slip the ID into my pocket.”
Her lips part in surprise. “What?”
My voice drops to a whisper. “Slip. The ID. Into my pocket.” I can’t risk my father finding us with the evidence.
Locked in the same position, her hands fumble a bit, her fingers tracing along my belt before sliding the card into my front pocket.
Her touch is hot, searing, leaving a trail of electricity prickling across my skin.
The sensation makes me flex my hips unconsciously, and I draw in a sharp breath, grasping her hair tighter.
If anyone were to stumble across us, they’d see an amorous couple: the woman pushed up against the wall, the man kissing her neck, one hand shoved up her top.
The footsteps approach. Slow. Stop. “Harrisford.” My father’s deep voice is stern, his intonation disapproving.
I raise my head and blink at him slowly, letting my lips curl up into my cockiest grin. “Why, hello, Father.”
He doesn’t move for several moments, just stands there peering owlishly at me through his glasses. Then he shakes his head and sweeps past us. “Take it to your room, Harrisford. I shouldn’t need to tell you again.”
I do not move. Do not blink. Instead, I stay pressed up against Gwendolynne, a smirk plastered across my face. It’s only when he’s slammed the door behind him that I allow my expression to morph to a scowl.
I’m still staring at my father’s closed door when Gwendolynne’s voice sounds in my ear.
“Briggs,” she hisses. “You can move now.”
My gaze swivels to her face, to the flushed sheen lining her cheeks; her slightly parted lips; the languid, liquid brown of her large, long-lashed eyes.
I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I seem incapable of stopping myself. Perhaps I’m not even thinking—not with my head, anyway. Leaning down, I press a gentle kiss against her neck, right where my lips had hovered mere moments ago.
Then I push away from her and stride off, leaving her panting against the wall.