Fairbridge climbed in beside Evander, Viggo and Ginny taking the seats opposite.
“I distinctly recall you telling me you would handle things discretely, your Grace,” he said icily as they lurched into motion.
Evander met his angry gaze guardedly. “You’re an Enchanter.”
His quiet words echoed in the stark silence, the only sounds that of their carriage rattling through the darkened streets of Paris while Brassard’s mansion glowed like a gilded fortress behind them.
Ginny and Viggo exchanged startled glances.
“An Enchanter?” Viggo repeated hesitantly.
“Someone with the power to influence the emotions of others,” Evander said quietly, never taking his eyes off Fairbridge. “To manipulate their minds and control their thoughts.”
“Is that what that was, in the ballroom?” Ginny said, admiration dancing across her face as she studied Fairbridge. “You enchanted Brassard and his guests?”
The man looked even less pleased than he’d done a moment ago.
Enchanters were rare. As rare as healers. Though some ended up on the wrong side of the law, most chose professions that suited their skills best. Many became diplomats, some businessmen, others negotiators. And then there were those who decided to embrace the more shadowy aspect of law enforcement.
Evander now knew why Fairbridge had always felt so dangerous.
The enchanters he had met in the past in his capacity as a Special Arcane Investigator had only ever been able to mesmerise one, at most a few people at a time.
Someone like Fairbridge, someone capable of bewitching an entire ballroom, was practically unheard of. Add to this his ability to wield wind magic and he became one in a million.
The one in a million General Hartwick had chosen to assign to this case as a spy.
CHAPTER 24
The Préfecturede Police sat on the Île de la Cité like a fortress of order amidst the chaos of Paris. Whereas London’s Metropolitan Police headquarters favoured imposing Gothic architecture designed to intimidate criminals and reassure citizens in equal measure, the French had opted for something altogether more elegant—a sprawling complex of pale stone buildings arranged around manicured courtyards, its classical façades softened by rows of arched windows that caught the morning light.
Viggo found himself unexpectedly impressed as their carriages rolled through the main gates.
The interior proved equally refined. Marble floors gleamed beneath their boots as a young officer escorted them through corridors lined with oil paintings depicting famous moments in French law enforcement history, their passage earning polite if curious stares. The air smelled of beeswax polish and coffee rather than the damp wool and coal smoke that permeated Scotland Yard.
“It’s like a bloody palace,” Solomon muttered beside him.
The thrall evidently felt as out of place as he did.
“The French do love their grandeur,” Ginny observed.
“We should petition the Commissioner for better working conditions, Inspector,” Shaw hissed to Rufus. “Even their coffee is better than ours.”
Rufus rolled his eyes. “I doubt Baron Watson cares about how our coffee tastes, Shaw.”
“Well, he should,” Shaw grumbled. “A happy officer is a more efficient officer.”
Viggo shot a glance at Evander as they headed up a flight of stairs to the second floor. His lover had worn a permanent frown since breakfast, as if his mind wouldn’t settle. Viggo suspected that their findings in Faubourg Saint-Germain had preoccupied him most of the night.
As for Fairbridge, he’d appeared somewhat mollified when they’d explained what they’d discovered in Brassard’s basement. Their findings constituted a significant step forward in their investigation after all.
Viggo’s attention returned to the present as the officer stopped before a set of double doors. He knocked twice before opening them to reveal a spacious office dominated by a mahogany desk the size of a small boat.
The man who rose to greet them was tall and silver-haired, with the ramrod posture of a former military officer and eyes that missed nothing. His uniform was immaculate, the epaulettes that denoted his position gleaming on his shoulders.
Leon stood near the window, his expression carefully neutral in the presence of his immediate superior. Viggo caught the slight tension in his shoulders.
“Duke Ravenwood.” The older man extended his hand to Evander, his English precise but accented. “I am Commander Michel Rousseau, head of the Arcane Division. We never met on your previous visits to the city. Welcome to Paris.”
