Evander felt a chill at the thought of the dead man from Brussels. Leon had been particularly upset about the news.
Solomon adjusted his cravat awkwardly. “Speaking of prancing, I feel like a peacock about to waltz into a nest of vipers.”
Evander eyed Viggo and Solomon’s evening attire. Ginny had outdone herself; the two men looked every inch the bodyguards of wealthy foreign industrialists, their jackets expertly tailored to accommodate their muscular frames.
“The two of you look fine,” Ginny reassured as they approached the residence.
“We look like we’re about to attend a funeral,” Viggo muttered.
“Hopefully not one of ours,” Shaw said with sobering honesty. The forensic mage squinted at Evander. “I must say, your Grace. That Illusion Amulet is doing a banging job. You seem positively ordinary, as does Mr. Stonewall.”
Evander swallowed a sigh. He’d barely recognised himself when he’d looked in the mirror that evening. Even Viggo had seemed shocked when he’d come out of his room. The Brute’s fearsome figure had shrunk considerably under the effect of his own Illusion Amulet and he now appeared to be of a similar build to Solomon.
Shaw shifted her attention to Fairbridge. “As for Mr. Fairbridge, he looks, well?—”
“Like someone you could pass in the street a dozen times and still not recognise,” Rufus murmured.
Fairbridge appeared pleased at that. No one had the heart to tell the man he gave that impression even without the amulet.
The Brassard mansion was an imposing edifice of pale stone and tall windows that blazed with golden light. Carriages linedthe street outside it, depositing guests in glittering evening wear. Laughter and the strains of a string quartet drifted through the open doors.
“Everyone has their Anti-Shadow Magic ring?” Evander muttered as they neared the entrance.
There was a chorus of murmured “Yes.”
The crystal amulet Philippa Scarborough and Elias McAndrew had created for them a few weeks ago to help alert them to the presence of shadow creatures and combat the vile monsters they’d encountered during the Royal Institute incident had been refined to a narrow silver ring set with a small opal stone. With the scope of their enemy’s plans becoming evident, Winterbourne had commanded McAndrew and the Artificer’s Lab to mass-produce the device for Met officers.
A liveried footman checked their invitations, hastily procured through Brassard’s secretary after Ginny had sent a message to the viscount, and admitted them into a marble foyer that could easily have graced one of the royal residences in England.
“Showtime.” Ginny’s expression transformed into one of languid sophistication as she glided forward on Evander’s arm, Fairbridge beside them.
They’d agreed on their cover stories that afternoon. Evander and Fairbridge were American industrialists with interests in Franco-British trade—vague enough to resist scrutiny, yet specific enough to explain their presence. Viggo and Solomon were their bodyguards. Rufus would be playing Evander’s English secretary, whilst Shaw was Fairbridge’s new and bumbling assistant.
“Remember,” Evander murmured as they followed the flow of guests and moved deeper into the mansion, “we’re here to gather information. Nothing more.”
“Unless we find evidence of dark magic activity,” Viggo said quietly.
Evander exchanged a guarded glance with the Brute.
“Unless that, yes.”
The ballroom they entered could have swallowed Evander’s Mayfair townhouse. It was a cathedral of excess, with gilded mirrors, silk wallpaper, and enough crystal chandeliers and candles to illuminate a small village. A hundred or so guests mingled beneath frescoed ceilings depicting scenes from Greek mythology, their conversation a constant hum punctuated by bright laughter and the clink of glasses where they’d concentrated near an immense table packed with expensive delicacies and dominated by a glittering champagne tower.
The air was thick with perfume, cigar smoke, and the subtle undercurrent of magic that accompanied any gathering of the wealthy and powerful.
Evander’s senses immediately prickled.
There was something else beneath the expected magical signatures he was sensing. A faint taint, barely perceptible, that made the hairs on his nape stand on end.
Dark magic. Old and carefully concealed, but unmistakably present.
He caught Viggo’s eye and gave an almost imperceptible nod.
Viggo’s face hardened at the subtle signal. The others registered it too.
It was the code they’d agreed upon if he so much as breathed even a hint of corrupt magic inside the residence.
Evander accepted a glass from a passing servant and used the moment to scan the room. He recognised several faces from the descriptions in Clementine’s dossier—minor nobility, wealthy merchants, a handful of individuals whose fortunes had mysterious origins. Nothing overtly sinister if you didn’t dig toodeep. But the dark magic residue was still present, clinging to the walls like old smoke.
