Clementine arched a delicate eyebrow. “About?”
“About strange disappearances involving researchers and scholars. Anyone connected to arcane studies and the Paris Institute who’s vanished or died under suspicious circumstances.”
“And about mages who practice dark magic,” Viggo added in a hard voice.
Clementine’s carefully composed expression shifted. The playful seductress vanished, replaced by something harder. More dangerous.
“You’re not the first to ask such questions.”
Viggo leaned forward, his pulse quickening. “Who else has been asking?”
“A young man from Brussels. Three weeks ago.” Clementine’s fingers traced the stem of her glass. “He was investigating the deaths of former members of an obscure magical society, here in Paris.Les Prophètes Illuminés.”
Viggo exchanged a loaded glance with Ginny.
“What happened to him?” Ginny asked quietly.
“He disappeared.” Though Clementine’s voice held no inflection, her eyes had grown watchful. “Four days after he sat where you’re sitting now, asking questions very similar to yours. His body was found in the Seine a week later. The authorities ruled it a drowning.” She paused. “I know better.”
A chill settled in Viggo’s gut. “You think he was murdered.”
“I think asking certain questions in Paris has become remarkably dangerous as of late.” Clementine rose and moved to a lacquered cabinet, from which she withdrew a leather notebook. “Before he vanished, my young friend left this with me for safekeeping. He seemed to think someone was following him.”
She handed the notebook to Viggo. He opened it carefully and scanned pages filled with cramped handwriting in Dutch; names, dates, and from his crude understanding of the language, cryptic notations that would likely take hours to decipher.
“He was compiling a list,” Ginny murmured with a frown as she read over his shoulder. “Disappearances going back years. Not just in France, but in Belgium, Austria, and Prussia.”
Viggo met Clementine’s dark gaze. “Are you certain you should be showing us this?” he said quietly.
“What’s been happening in London has not escaped the attention of the authorities here.” Clementine returned to her chaise, all pretence of flirtation abandoned. “In the past month, two of my informants have vanished. Both had been asking questions about exclusive gatherings attended by wealthy patrons with very particular interests.”
“A government job?” Ginny asked shrewdly.
Clementine nodded.
Viggo’s grip tightened on the notebook. “What kind of interests?”
“The forbidden kind.” Clementine’s voice dropped. “Dark magic. Arcane rituals. Things that would make even the most hardened criminal blanch.” She met his gaze directly. “There are whispers of a grand plan afoot. Something significant being planned—something that could alter the geopolitical landscape of the entire continent. My sources couldn’t tell me more before they disappeared.” Her gaze flitted to the notebook. “I believe your group is best equipped to utilise the information in there.”
“These gatherings,” Viggo said urgently. “Do you know where they’re held?”
“They move. Different locations each time, different cities.” Clementine hesitated.
For the first time, he saw fear flicker across her features.
“But there is one tonight,” she confessed reluctantly in the face of his probing stare. “Here in Paris.”
Viggo straightened. “Where?”
“A private residence in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Very exclusive, very secretive.” Clementine’s amber eyes bore into his. “The host is Viscount Alphonse Etienne Brassard. Old money, older connections. He’s been hosting these salons for years, but lately the guest list has changed. Darker names. People even I hesitate to cross.”
“We need to get inside,” Viggo said flatly.
Clementine’s laugh was humourless. “Impossible. Brassard vets every guest personally. You’d need an introduction from someone he trusts implicitly and even then?—“
“I can get us in.”
Viggo and Clementine both turned to stare at Ginny.
