“Your Grace, your reckless actions have endangered not only the reputation of the Royal Institute for the Arcane, but the very safety of London’s citizens!”
Evander Ravenwood met the hostile gaze of Lord Horace Beckett, Minister of Arcane Affairs, without flinching. The man’s jowls quivered with barely suppressed fury as he leaned across the polished mahogany table that separated them, in the oppressive room deep within the Palace of Westminster where the Parliamentary committee had convened.
“I would hardly characterise the rescue of twenty-nine innocent people as reckless, my Lord,” Evander replied coolly.
A muscle jumped in Beckett’s florid cheek at his tone.
Evander’s reputation as the Ice Mage referred less to his magical abilities than to his legendary aloofness. A movement on his left caught his eye.
General Sir Edmund Hartwick, Head of the War Office, steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded Evander with the calculating stare of a man who had sent countless soldiers to their deaths without losing a single night’s sleep.
“The Duke makes a fair point, Beckett,” Hartwick said, his voice deceptively mild. “Though I find myself troubled by other aspects of this… unfortunate affair.”
The deliberate pause was not lost on Evander.
A trickle of perspiration dampened his nape. The Parliamentary committee chamber was smaller than he had anticipated, which only intensified the suffocating atmosphere. Heavy oak panelling absorbed what little light filtered through the tall, narrow windows. Though winter had begun to spread its icy grip across London, the furnaces heating the Houses of Parliament made the room feel like the height of summer.
The seven members of the special investigative committee were arranged in a semi-circle before him, the light behind them making it difficult to see their faces and their elevated position designed to intimidate where he sat in the middle of the chamber.
It was working rather better than Evander cared to admit. A bitter taste filled his mouth. This hearing was beginning to feel more like an inquisition than a parliamentary investigation. He realised now why Commander Winterbourne had repeatedly cautioned him to be mindful of his words in front of the committee.
Evander’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Thank goodness they didn’t call Viggo to answer questions. He would have punched the wall by now. Or someone’s face.
Imagining the scandal his lover could have caused lightened Evander’s mood slightly. Viggo Stonewall was a veritable force of nature and no one knew this better than Evander.
“The events at the Royal Institute occurred over two weeks ago,” Hartwick continued, his pale eyes never leaving Evander’s face. “Yet we have precious little to show for the Metropolitan Police’s investigation. The mastermind behind this incident remains at large. The nature of the experiments conducted beneath one of our most esteemed institutions remains unclear. And we are left with a facility in ruins and many victims requiring extensive—and expensive—care.”
“Inspector Grayson and Miss Shaw are still compiling their reports.” Evander kept his tone measured despite the frustration building in his chest. “These matters take time, General. The underground facility was extensive and the evidence many years in the making—“
“Evidence!” Beckett slammed his palm on the table, making two committee members start and a third knock over a glass of water. “What we have, your Grace, is a disaster of monumental proportions. Dark magic practised beneath the Institute. Shadow creatures roaming the halls. Citizens subjected to unspeakable experiments.” His voice dropped to a venomous hiss, seemingly oblivious to the committee member shooting an accusing look at him while she dabbed damp paperwork with a handkerchief. “And at the centre of it all, an Archmage who seems to attract chaos wherever he treads!”
Evander’s fingers tightened imperceptibly on the arms of his chair.
And there it was. The crux of the matter. Unstated, yet painfully clear to all.
It was becoming evident that the line of inquiry the committee had adopted wasn’t directed at the debacle at the Royal Institute for the Arcane, but rather at his status as an Archmage.
Evander was acutely aware of the eyes upon him as he struggled to contain his displeasure at being so unfairly put on the spot—not only those of the committee, but the clerk recording every word in the corner, and the two stoic-faced constables standing guard by the doors.
“My abilities have been instrumental in saving lives,” Evander said silkily. “Both at the Institute and in previous investigations.”
Hartwick’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Several committee members stiffened, equally picking up the subtle warning underscoring his words.
“Your abilities,” Lady Adele Farrington interjected from the far left, “are precisely what concern us, your Grace.” The elderly mage regarded him with sharp grey eyes that told him she’d detected his shot across the bows and had every intention of ignoring it. “An Archmage of your power, working for the police rather than serving the Crown directly. One might question where your true loyalties lie.”
The accusation hung in the air like a poisoned dart.
Magic flared through Evander’s veins as his vexation escalated. He suppressed his powers with an iron will and forced himself to breathe steadily before he spoke.
“My loyalty has never been in question. I serve justice, Lady Farrington. As I have since the day I joined the Arcane Division.”
His words echoed through the chamber, cold and hard.
A couple of committee members shifted uneasily in their seats, evidently unnerved at the way Evander was being treated.
“Justice,” Beckett scoffed, blind to the shifting mood. “A convenient platitude. Tell me, your Grace, what exactly do you know about the mysterious culprit you claim is behind all of this? What was his name again?” The minister shoved his spectacles up the bridge of his nose and shuffled the paperwork in front of him with jerky movements.
“We only know him as ‘I’,” Hartwick supplied, directing an irritated glance at Beckett.
“Yes, this ‘I’ person!” Beckett pinned Evander with a glare. “Where are his confederates? What was the true purpose of their experiments? What”—the minister waved a hand angrily—“is it that you actually know about the man, your Grace?!”
“Like I said,” Evander managed without gritting his teeth, “the investigation is ongoing—“
“The investigation is proceeding at a glacial pace, that is what it is!” Beckett’s face had turned a deep shade of crimson. “We have a madman loose in London, potentially planning further atrocities, and you expect us to simply wait whilst the Metropolitan Police stumble about in the dark?!”
A subtle burst of power leeched the warmth from the room. A couple of committee members straightened where they sat.
Lady Farrington was one of them. Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Evander avoided her knowing stare as he dug his nails into his palms and dampened the magic threatening to escape his control. He had no doubt Winterbourne would hear about this, either from Lady Farrington or General Hartwick, and have words with him. Irate ones that might resonate through the entire fifth floor of the Arcane Division.
Beckett shivered and looked around with a scowl. “Why is it so damn cold in here all of a sudden? You there”—he pointed irritably at one of the constables—“be a chap and go find out what’s happening to the heating system.”
The man glanced nervously at Evander before leaving the room, his drooping shoulders suggesting he knew perfectly well he’d just been sent on a fool’s errand.
Evander frowned as he met Beckett’s heated gaze. He was tempted to throw caution to the wind, but he no longer saw the need to hide his feelings. His voice hardened.
“What I expect, sir, is for you to allow the proper authorities to conduct a thorough investigation, rather than demand answers we cannot yet provide.” His ire radiated like an icy blanket, thickening the air with a commanding power.
Lady Farrington’s expression grew pinched. She shot Beckett a dark look that spoke of her exasperation with her colleague from the Ministry of Arcane Affairs.
“Perhaps it would be best if we let the General ask his questions next,” she said in a voice that implied this wasn’t a suggestion.
Beckett bristled and opened his mouth to protest. He faltered beneath her glower.
Hartwick broke the tense silence. “Your Grace, perhaps you could enlighten us as to the nature of the dark magic involved.” He narrowed his eyes a fraction. “We understand there were references to something called… a Crimson Codex?”
Though Evander tried to keep his expression neutral, his pulse quickened nonetheless.
How in blazes did he learn about that?!
Beckett and the other committee members frowned and started checking their notes. Only Hartwick and Lady Farrington kept their unwavering gazes locked on Evander.
Evander cursed inwardly. He was certain the pair already knew the answer to the question they’d just posed. Tension knotted his shoulders as he weighed how much to reveal.
“From the little we know about the Crimson Codex,” he began carefully, “it is an ancient text rumoured to have been penned by the very first Archmage. We believe Professor Musgrave and his associates were seeking it for their research into magical transference, at the behest of ‘I’.”
Beckett leaned toward the gentleman to his right. “Do you know of this Crimson Codex business?” he hissed out of the corner of his mouth.
The man shook his head, equally puzzled by the reference.
Hartwick ignored their exchange. “And have you located this text?”
“Not yet,” Evander replied evenly.
The lines creasing the corners of Hartwick’s eyes deepened. “Do you know where it might be found, your Grace?”
“We are pursuing several leads,” Evander said in the monotonous tone of a man intent on avoiding a full response, come hell or high water.
Hartwick’s thin lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile at this transparent tactic. “How reassuring. And whilst you pursue these leads, what is to prevent Musgrave or ‘I’ from acquiring this Codex first?”
Evander didn’t miss the irony in the general’s words.
“We are doing everything in our power—” he began leadenly.
“Your power,” Lady Farrington interrupted, her voice dripping with irritation, “seems to extend primarily to destroying property and leaving carnage in your wake, your Grace. The Institute will require months of repairs. The victims may never fully recover. And we are no closer to understanding the scope of this conspiracy than we were a week ago.” She sat back in her chair with a frustrated sigh and pinched the bridge of her nose.
