by Rabia Gale
“Hmm.” Trey was no authority on what passed for common knowledge in that unfamiliar county. Arabella’s expression bothered him more than he would’ve have admitted at the moment. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes as she examined Gibbs’s contraband, but if he had to put a word to it, the only one he could think of was…
… harrowed.
Trey bent and rifled through the corpse’s jacket pockets, coming up with a key ring. “All right, then.”
Arabella looked scandalized. “What are you doing?”
“Very shortly, excise men from the Home Office will be crawling all over this place,” he told her, “because I’ll have to report this. If we want to get your ring without them looking over my shoulder, now’s our chance.” The keys chimed against each other as he examined the bank of safe boxes set into the wall.
None were numbered, but he counted across until he found the thirteenth one. A key labeled 13 fit smoothly into the lock.
The safe box, though, was empty.
Trey frowned, then went to work, opening every box. One by one, he pulled them out and rifled through a jumble of watches, rings, pendants, brooches, and the valuables of dozens of wrecked lives.
There was no sapphire ring to be found. Arabella shook her head every time he dumped the contents onto a table.
Trey turned to the shelves. Covering his hands with aether to avoid contamination, he took down jars and peered behind them. Arabella, too, ghosted her searching fingers through every nook and cranny.
Nothing.
Trey poked through every pocket in Gibbs’s clothing. “He might’ve taken it home with him,” he said.
“Do you think it likely?” asked Arabella.
“No.”
It bothered him. It bothered him that not an hour after she’d left this place, Arabella had been hit by a carriage that vanished into the night. It bothered him that Gibbs had been killed by a ghoul a day later.
And now Arabella’s ring was gone. Trey’s hand clenched. With an important personal possession, a dark magician had a range of options at his disposal.
Like keeping a spirit from returning to her body.
“Do you remember anything odd from your visit here, Arabella? Something that seemed trivial at the time? Think, Arabella.”
“You mean, like runes or strange smells or sorcerous incantations?” Arabella wrinkled her nose. “N-no, though… when I entered I had to wait a little bit, because Mr. Gibbs was back here. He was talking to someone. I heard their voices.” She looked around the room, as if expecting Gibbs’s unknown visitor to suddenly appear.
“What were they talking about?” Trey pressed.
“I don’t know,” Arabella confessed. “It was all a murmur, and the other man had such a quiet voice. And, honestly, I was trying not to eavesdrop.”
“I wish you had worse manners,” commented Trey absently. A tiresome course of action was taking shape in his mind.
“What do we do next?” she asked. “Break into Mr. Gibbs’s quarters?” She was trying to rally her spirits, but only succeeded in looking more waif-like than ever.
“No, I don’t think the ring is in Gibbs’s possession anymore,” said Trey. “Nothing to do but ask Atwater if he saw this visitor or overheard something.”
Arabella brightened. “Of course! I’m sure he would be happy to help.”
Trey could not enter into her enthusiasm. The chances of Atwater considering his questions anything less than impertinence were very small indeed. “There’s nothing more we can do here. Time to call in the excise men.” He cast a distasteful glance at Gibbs’s store of banned items.
Arabella looked down at the corpse, more saddened than shocked. “He was rather an unpleasant man,” she said, “but I’m sorry this happened to him.”
“So am I,” said Trey grimly, but for different reasons.
A ghoul had killed in Lumen. Of all the places in Vaeland, a ghoul had come here to the place where Trey Shield lived and worked and walked the Shadow Lands.
He was being challenged.
I have to get Arabella back into her body.
And then I’m going after the ghoul.
After stashing a compliant Arabella back in his house and changing clothes, Trey contacted the Home Office via an aether bird. He waited at Gibbs’s until the excise men arrived, then extricated himself from the situation as soon as he was able. A crowd of the Fleet’s inhabitants had gathered by then, some curious, others sullen. Trey confirmed that the officer in charge would pass along any intelligence from witnesses, then set off for Green’s.
Of all the gentlemen’s clubs in Lumen, Green’s was known for having the most influential membership. It boasted among its ranks cabinet ministers, parliament members, company directors, diplomats, and aristocratic magicians.
Trey’s father, the Earl of Whitecross, was a member, as had been his older brother Damien. Trey decided it was worth it to use his family connections to get in to have a private word with Lord Atwater. This early in the morning, the politician was bound to be reading the latest dispatches and newspapers at Green’s.
In the end, he hadn’t needed to convince anyone to let him into the hallowed halls of the club. Apparently, it was the title that counted as a member rather than the title holder. Viscount St. Ash was cordially greeted and led to a chamber laid out for breakfast.
It still felt all wrong to wear the title that had been Damien’s. Trey’s mood blackened, and not even the excellent kippers could banish it.
It didn’t help that Lord Atwater had left the club while Trey’s message to see him was still en route. Trey left the kippers, grabbed a slice of marmalade-slathered toast, and hurried to the politician’s office.
Atwater’s clerk left him cooling his heels for over half an hour before admitting that Trey’s quarry had left for meetings that would take him all day. “Because of the arrangements for the Viewing, of course,” said the supercilious little man, clearly implying that Trey ought to be busy with those instead of chasing down his employer.
He was probably right. Trey left a message for Atwater, then headed up Hopechurch Street to his own workplace.
A knife-edged wind did its best to blow Trey back down the slope as he trudged up the hill to the Quadrangle. Tomorrow morning, a procession bearing some of the most valuable magical artifacts of the kingdom would make its stately way up this very hill. Similar processions would take place in other cities and towns all over Vaeland, marking the beginning of the Vernal Rites.
Ensuring that everything ran smoothly was a huge task.
Watchmen, peacekeepers, and other government officials were already out in force, marking up the pavement with chalk, closing down narrow side streets, setting wards against disruption. One caught Trey’s eye and touched his hat to him.
Trey nodded—he didn’t know the man at all, but he was used to being recognized on the Hill.
The Keep, an old, stubby structure of dirty stone, capped the hill. It was hard to believe that such an unprepossessing structure had been the first stronghold of the Vaelish people in their new land.
Now, it was more of a museum, a relic of a perilous past, but it was traditional for the Guardians to attune the Mirror of Elsinore within its walls. Their sympathetic magic, with the Mirror as focus, strengthened the country’s magical protections.
After last summer, this year’s renewal was desperately needed. Trey’s mouth tightened. And now a ghoul had slipped into Vaeland under his very nose.
Trey worked at the Quadrangle, a rectangular limestone edifice built around a central courtyard. All of the Foreign Office shared the space, though some departments sprawled more than others. The Phantasm Bureau had the smallest suite on the third story.
Wards threaded around Trey, questioning and familiar, as he sprang up the steps. They dropped away as they recognized him. A gust of wind blew Trey towards the doors. One leaf opened as he came up to it, and he grabbed the handle for balance.
“Morning, Blake,”
he said to the brown-haired man who exited, his pleasant face uncharacteristically serious. “And to you, too, Mistress Ember.” He bowed his head at the flame-colored flicker above Blake’s right shoulder.
“Trey,” Blake lost his preoccupied look. His gaze sharpened. “You look fagged to death.”
Trey rubbed his chin—he hadn’t shaved in two days. “You don’t look much better.” There were dark circles under Blake’s over-bright eyes. His friend nodded, a tired smile on his face.
The Vernal Rites doubled the work for everyone in the Quadrangle.
Trey let the door go—it swung heavily shut. They stood in the portico, Trey with his hands deep in his coat pockets, Blake staring down at the city. Blake’s salamander was a cheery yellow glow, filling the small space with warmth.
“You know how it is,” said Blake. “Every church and cemetery insists it needs purification before Holy Week. Ember is in demand.” He held a slip of silver paper to the fire elemental. She crackled happily as she ate, her small flames delicately licking the treat, her tail curled around her body.
Blake had always been too modest about his own skills, Trey thought. He was a surprise magician: no one else in his family had the gift. Scions of traditionally gifted families—like himself, Trey freely admitted—didn’t suffer from a lack of confidence in their own abilities.
“You’ll always get more requests than you can handle, even from official channels,” he said. “You have to use your own judgement and not stretch yourself too thin.” Trey flicked a glance at Ember, contentedly buzzing. “Ember relies on you to make good use of her powers.”
Blake looked amused. “You don’t look like you’ve been following your own advice, Trey.”
“Damn right I haven’t,” said Trey feelingly. “But I made it my business, so I have an obligation to see it through.”
Blake lost his smile and lowered his voice. “How is Arabella—Miss Trent, that is? Is she—no, of course, not. You wouldn’t bring her here.”
“Arabella, is it?” Trey eyed his friend. “Sweet on her, are you?”
“She’s a nice little thing. Good friend of Charlie’s. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to her. Charlie would be upset.” Blake grinned at him. “She particularly wanted me to tell you to treat her friend gently. Charlie knows how you can be.”
“How I can be?”
“You aren’t always the most pleasant and sympathetic of people, old fellow,” Blake pointed out.
“Miss Trent has bigger problems than my lack of manners towards her.”
“Ah.” Blake looked somber. “No luck yet.”
“Not much luck, but a hint or two.” Trey clapped Blake on the shoulder. “Tell Charlie not to worry. I’m taking care of her friend.”
“I will.” And as Trey pulled open the door, Blake called, “Heard that Winter’s looking for you.”
“Of course he is,” Trey called back. The interior was gloomy and echoing, with marble floors muddy from people tramping back and forth. A servant desultorily pushed a dirty mop across the floor. Trey headed up the three flights of stairs to where his supervisor, August Winter, waited, no doubt ready to take his tardy underling to task.
Chapter Six
The Phantasm Bureau was on the topmost story, next to storage rooms stuffed with rolled-up rugs and broken chairs. Their suite was small, but too empty of people and too full of memories. Trey pushed open the door and was once again assailed by the wrongness of it all.
Desks whose owners would never return were still piled high with papers. Chairs, including Hilda’s big one with the indentation of her body still pressed in it, were pushed to corners and against the walls. Half-empty boxes on the floor were for personal items that no one had time to finish packing and return to grieving families.
Trey put his hat on a rack and his top coat on a peg and glanced at the only occupant of the front room. Sutton hadn’t looked up, still hunched over his dishes of ink and milk and salt and fresh water. Trey didn’t know if the small, thin man ever went home any more, as if his vigilance in monitoring the boundaries of the Shadow Lands was his penance for surviving the Incursion.
Trey crossed over to Sutton, casting a shadow over a small plate of milk. Sutton moved it into the light and said, never taking his eyes from the swirls of ink in it, “Winter wants to see you in his office.”
Trey glanced at the shut door across the room. “Morgan out with the new boy? What’d he have to say about Jem?”
“He said, ‘He’ll do.’” Sutton squirted red ink into water milky with salt crystals. He studied the swirls that meant nothing to Trey.
“Anything come up recently?” Trey asked.
Now, Sutton did look up, light turning his spectacles to silver, hiding his expression. “You mean aside from the disturbance near the cathedral last night? But you took care of that, didn’t you.”
From Sutton’s tone, Trey suspected that he had broken a number of Winter’s interminable rules by his handling of the barghest last night. He probably had an unread copy of recent regulations on his desk somewhere.
“It was only a barghest.” Trey shrugged. “No, I’m looking for something else that was abroad last night.”
“What?”
“A ghoul.”
Sutton’s pinched face paled to the color of curdled milk. He swung back to his dishes, scattering powder over them, lips moving in soundless incantations.
Trey watched for a moment, then turned towards Winter’s office. Might as well get the unpleasant interview over with. He had a request of his own to make, too.
He had his hand up to knock when Sutton said behind him, “You know.”
“Eh?” Trey turned around to look at the man’s narrow wool-clad back.
“You know, you could’ve called for help.” Sutton’s tones were neutral. “The Phantasm Bureau isn’t just you.”
Trey’s mouth twisted as he looked around the room. “Believe me, Sutton, I remember it every time I come in here.”
And he rapped on Winter’s door.
August Winter had taken over the shattered and reduced Phantasm Bureau at the close of the Incursion last year. His predecessor, Horatio Halford, had been invalided out from the position. Trey suspected, though, that Halford’s health had only been the official excuse. Scared politicians tended to look for someone to blame.
Trey had nearly come to blows with some asinine aristocrat for suggesting that the common Halford had been ill-equipped to deal with the invasion the way a born noble would’ve been. Only Blake’s timely intervention had kept him from a duel that would’ve ended his career, Shade Hunter or no.
August Winter prized self-discipline above all.
He was a tall, lean man with smooth black hair and cold blue eyes, always impeccably dressed. Right now, he stood inside a magic circle in the corner of his office, consulting with colleagues from other branches and departments. Privacy runes shimmered in the air, blocking out all speech.
Trey had been waved to a chair to wait, but instead he propped his shoulder against the wall and looked out of the window at the dreary sky and grimy city beyond. From the corner of his eye, he grudgingly admired Winter’s spellwork—the man was one of the best rune masters in Vaeland. His style was both efficient and elegant.
In contrast, Halford was entirely self-taught, his runes written in a slipshod manner, including some that he had made up. Even Trey, an independent thinker, had been startled upon first seeing them.
But it was their unique ways of looking at the world of magic that made Halford and Trey sympathetic to each other’s style. If it weren’t for Halford’s guidance, Trey would never have found himself in government employ. He’d been far too arrogant at the time.
He probably still was.
Prior to Winter’s appointment as supervisor of the Phantasm Bureau, his only interaction with Trey had been the one senior seminar the latter had taken with him at Holyrood. Both had come out of the experience with less than charitable feelings towards each o
ther.
Now they treated each other with guarded respect and that was that. Trey was under no illusions that Winter only suffered his presence.
And he knew just what Winter would say—and do—if he found out about Arabella.
Winter finished his conference and dismissed runes with one precise gesture of his hand. He stepped from the circle and nodded at Trey. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shield.” Everyone was a Mister in the Phantasm Bureau, regardless of birth.
Did he emphasize afternoon with ironic inflection? Trey’s mouth hardened but he responded with chill civility. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
Winter sat in his chair and steepled his fingers. “Last night, there was a significant disturbance near All Saints’. Sutton picked up your presence in the vicinity. What happened?”
“A barghest and some shrikers,” said Trey briefly. “I took care of them.”
“So near the cathedral? What would cause a barghest to venture so close to those wards?”
Trey twitched a shoulder. “It is that time of the year, sir.” Most people looked forward to the Vernal Rites with a sense of relief, believing that the darkness and cold of winter strengthened the demons of the Shadow Lands. Those with the gift knew that the new life of spring could be dangerously twisted by those same demons, strengthening them for a last push against the weakened defenses of Vaeland.
Thresholds, whether in between times or places, were dangerous.
Winter examined Trey in expressionless silence. Trey met his gaze with a bland one of his own. He kept his breathing deep and even, and his shoulders relaxed.
Dealing with Winter had taught Trey more composure than he would’ve thought possible a year ago. Their meetings tended to be terse and business-like, neither caring much for the other’s company.
Pity that the Viewing necessitated daily interactions. Winter was too conscientious to forego them.
Winter looked down at his desk. Trey recognized his own message, rimmed in frost and fuzzy at the edges, upon its rich rosewood surface. All the furnishings Winter had brought in were simple, but expensive.
