ARCANE ENTANGLEMENT (SPECIAL EDITION PAPERBACK)

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The body of the dead man lay at a strange angle, his broken arms and legs spread out where he’d landed awkwardly on his front, as if he had been attempting to take flight to escape his fate.

His neck was twisted in away that would not have been possible in life, his dilated pupils staring unseeingly at a brown brick wall. A gaping wound in the left side of his torso exposed his ribs and innards. 

A sliver of unease skittered down Evander Ravenwood’s spine as he observed the injury. Pale bones and gristle gleamed under the dull sunshine attempting to pierce the overcast sky above the East End of London, the perpetual clouds of smoke that shrouded the district casting it in a near permanent twilight that reflected its sombre mood.The wound looked too clean to have been made by an animal. More to the point, the victim’s heart was missing. As a Special Investigator for the Arcane Division of the Metropolitan Police, Evander had seen his fair share of horrific things over the years.

Though this case might appear to be a straightforward murder, the fact that someone had deliberately removed an organ from the victim made it more chilling than a bloodied crime scene littered with corpses. 

He was distracted from his grave musings by Lyra Shaw’s low mutter.

“That’s interesting.” The forensic mage squatted beside him and gently poked a gloved finger inside the corpse’s chest cavity, heedless of the filthy water soaking into the hem of her department-issued coat. Her button nose wrinkled not so much from distaste at what she was doing or the stench of rotting refuse and horse piss rising in the cool autumn air, as it did from being deep in thought.  

A rising star in the Arcane Forensics Division, Shaw was an earth mage known not just for her razor-sharp intelligence, but her meticulous attention to detail and her ability to spot clues others might miss. She could also drink most Met officers under the table.

“His arteries look to have been drained of blood,” the mage commented, as if giving her opinion of what shade of ribbon would best suit a friend’s new dress. Her keen gaze swept the ground around the dead man.“Probably explains why he didn’t make more of a splashdown.”

A young constable who looked too green around the ears to be wearing his black badge heaved at her comment.

Shaw ignored him and furrowed her delicate brow. “I wonder what kind of magic did this.”

“What makes you think this was magic rather than a physical weapon of some sort?” Evander asked lightly.

He was watching an alchemical analyst carefully collect a lump of the unfortunate victim’s brain where it had in fact splashed rather messily in a puddle some ten feet away. It was a moment before Evander became aware of Shaw’s silence. He turned his head and met her pointed stare.

“Is that a trick question, your Grace?” the forensic mage voiced with her usual no-nonsense frankness.

“Humour me.”

Shaw pursed her lips at his request. “Because the wound bears evidence of magic cauterisation, your Grace,” she said in the tone of one addressing a fool. She pointed at the barely visible burn marks lining the hole in the dead man’s chest.

They both overlooked the disapproving scowl Sergeant Griffiths shot at Shaw for her discourteous manner. Though many would be forgiven for not knowing Evander’s station as a Duke, one need only examine his clothes and bearing to know he was of high nobility.

Evander paid no heed to such formalities among colleagues.

He gave Shaw a rare half smile. “Just making sure you noticed.”

The forensic mage blinked. Evander’s aloofness was legendary not only in the Met but in the whole of London society. The expression that flashed across her face for a split second before she looked away showed she was pleased by the compliment. She prodded around the corpse’s innards some more.

Evander grimaced. “How about you stop doing that? You know what Inspector Grayson will say if he finds out you interfered with the body.” He looked over his shoulder at the figure at the opening of the alley.  

Rufus Grayson, the man in charge of this sorry affair and a good friend of Evander’s, had his back to them and was taking notes while he interviewed the poor shopkeeper who’d discovered the dead man behind his establishment that afternoon. Rufus’s magic quill danced over the yellow papers of his notebook as they conversed in hushed tones, his black hair curling where it brushed the collar of his dark blue coat. The silver aiguillette on his left shoulder flashed faintly in a rare ray of sunlight.

It denoted his rank as an inspector.

Evander carried a similar insignia on his official winter coat and summer jacket. Except his was silver and gold, a symbol of his status as a Special Arcane Investigator. His aiguillette also bore blue threads. He was the only officer in the Met to possess them.

They signified an additional station that had nothing to do with his role in the Arcane Division.

A temporary cordon rose a short distance beyond Rufus and the witness, the translucent barrier issuing from the magical device sitting on the ground catching the light here and there as it held back the crowd of curious onlookers who’d gathered at the mouth of the alleyway to gawk at the crime scene. Unfortunately, the projection did little to block out the noise of the slum sandwiched between Hackney Road and Bethnal Green.

The cries of street sellers, hawkers, and barrow boys mingled with the clip-clop of horseshoes striking cobblestone and the jarring rumble of wheels rising from carts and carriages trundling through the thoroughfare.

The East End was a noisy, messy place on the best of days. Market Day made it ten times worse. 

“What Inspector Grayson doesn’t see won’t hurt him,” Shaw muttered presently.

Evander traded a resigned glance with Vincent Brown, the alchemist who’d just gathered another piece of the victim’s brain and was tucking it inside a secure slot in his evidence box. A rotund man with a bushy red beard, Brown wore a constant glint of curiosity in his eyes.

“Look here, Shaw,” the alchemist started, “how about you stop mucking around and—”

Something went “squelch” under the mage’s probing finger. Blood and a sticky black substance spurted out of the dead man’s chest cavity, flew an inch past Shaw’s left cheek, and landed on one of Evander’s expensive, lace-up boots with a wet splat.   

They stared, horrified.

Evander swallowed a groan.

Jasper is going to kill me.

Jasper Hargrove was his manservant. A caster and former Navy man, he prided himself on making sure Evander was smartly dressed whatever the occasion. Evander suspected if he ever had an appointment with Death, Hargrove would make sure he was perfectly presentable for the deadly rendezvous.

The constable who’d barely recovered his composure gagged, twisted around, and vomited noisily against a wall. Griffiths patted him on the back and directed a dark look at Shaw.

The forensic mage was too busy chewing her lip to pay attention, her eyes locked on the unsightly blob presently sinking into the exquisite leather of Evander’s boot.

“Oh, you’ve gone and done it now, Shaw,” Brown grumbled. He threw his hands up in the air. “His Grace’s boots are bound to be worth at least half a year’s salary!”

Evander didn’t bother correcting the man. His boots had cost far more than that. He knew because he’d seen the receipt from Greystoke & Co, the fine leather goods shop in Pall Mall Hargrove purchased his dress shoes and boots from.

Shaw paled, her expression a mixture of remorse at what she’d done and shock at the idea that someone would wear boots equivalent to half her annual wage.

Evander reconciled himself to getting an earful from his manservant and sighed. “Would you be so kind as to lend me one of your specimen vials, Mr. Brown?”

The alchemist had just passed him a glass tube and a scooping stick when a voice made them flinch.  

“What the devil happened here?!” Rufus snapped.The inspector had joined them. 

He took one look at the bloodied end of Shaw’s gloved finger and the grim evidence Evander was patiently scraping off his footwear before clenching his jaw so hard they heard his teeth grind.

“Miss Shaw,” Rufus grated out, “what have I told you about sticking those fickle hands of yours where they don’t belong?”

Shaw recovered and flashed a smile at the inspector, undeterred. “Look on the bright side, sir. I just saved Dr. Mortimer the trouble of discovering that black substance, whatever it is.” She waved at the stygian lump on the scooping stick Evander was holding.   

Ambrose Mortimer was the chief physical examiner of the Arcane Forensics Division. Despite his morbid sense of humour and his unsettling habit of talking to the corpses he examined, Mortimer was a stickler for following procedure.

Rufus closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

Brown heaved a weary sigh and shook his head.

Evander didn’t blame them. Mortimer was going to have an apoplexy when he found out what Shaw had done to his precious body.

Rufus frowned at the constable who was still hurling his breakfast and, by the looks of it, yesterday’s dinner, before observing Evander candidly.

“What do you make of this, your Grace?”

Coming soon