Arcane Entanglement (The Mage and His Brute #1)

Chapter 16

Butterflies swarmed Evander’s stomach at the sight of Viggo.

His breath caught when he glimpsed the array of emotions that flashed in the other man’s eyes.

Surprise. Dismay. A smouldering heat that sent his heart aflutter and made him forget his resolution to ignore the burn of attraction between them. A resolution he’d come to after several sleepless hours last night.

Viggo’s jaw set in a hard line, expression growing shuttered.

Evander could practically feel the invisible wall he’d just put up. He swallowed his disappointment.

This is a good thing. The more distance there is between us, the better it is for the both of us.

He became aware of young Samuel fidgeting beside him.

“Yes?”

“My—my Lord,” the footman squeaked, “is this—is this gentleman Viggo Stonewall ?!”

Evander’s face relaxed at the excitement in his eyes. Young Samuel was acting like he’d just met his idol.

“Yes, it is.”

Samuel almost swooned. “Oh.”

An idea came to Evander. “Would you like his autograph?”

Viggo furrowed his brow. Samuel blinked.

“You mean,” the footman’s voice quavered, “like his signature ?!”

Evander removed his notebook from the pocket of his coat, tore out a page, and presented it to Viggo along with a magic quill.

“Would you be so kind as to oblige? It appears my footman is one of your ardent admirers.”

Viggo looked at the paper and quill like they were poison.

Solomon pressed a fist to his mouth and turned away slightly, shoulders quaking.

Viggo glared at his associate.

Evander bit his lip, similarly struck by a sudden urge to laugh at the Brute’s outraged look.

“I promise, they don’t bite,” he managed in a strangled voice.

Viggo clenched his jaw. He eyed Samuel’s breathlessly expectant expression, snatched the page and quill from Evander, and scribbled his name.

“There.” He thrust the autograph to Samuel. “Though I do not know why a magic user would want the signature of a Brute of all things.”

“I’m not a magic user, sir,” Samuel said distractedly, staring at the treasure in his hands.

Evander had no doubt he’d be sleeping with it under his pillow tonight. He clocked Viggo’s surprised look.

Solomon’s pensive gaze swung from the footman to Evander.

“So, the rumours are true? You employ thralls?”

“Yes,” Samuel chirped enthusiastically before Evander could reply. “My sister and cousins work as maids for his Grace. My other sister and uncle work at Lady Hartley’s townhouse. There are thralls working on their country estates too.”

“Come now, Samuel,” Graham murmured from the box seat in the awkward silence. “We should let his Grace get on with his business.” He dipped his head courteously at Evander. “We shall see you this afternoon, my Lord.” The coachman smiled faintly and tipped his hat off to Viggo as the footman reluctantly climbed into the seat beside him. “Young Samuel here has long talked about your exploits, Mr. Stonewall. It is a pleasure to finally put a face to the name.”

Viggo stared after the disappearing carriage.

“Are all your employees like that?” he murmured.

“You mean, the opposite of a cold, unfeeling bastard who distrusts everyone he meets at first sight?” Evander said mildly.

Solomon made a choked sound.

Viggo narrowed his eyes. “You think I’m a cold unfeeling bastard who distrusts everyone he meets at first sight?”

Evander arched an eyebrow, not in the least bit intimidated. “Do you deny it?”

The question seemed to startle the Brute.

Remorse flashed through Evander. He sighed.

“Forgive me. I am being rude despite the fact that I’m the one in need of your assistance. Come, let us go in.”

Viggo and Solomon signed the visitors’ logbook with the kind of expression that suggested they were being made to donate a limb. The eyes of the sergeant and two constables manning the gates bulged as Solomon divested himself of his many weapons.

Evander frowned at the pistol, two knives, leather sap, and knuckle duster in the tray.

Where the devil was he keeping all that?!

The sergeant handed Solomon a receipt and gazed expectantly at Viggo.

“Do I look like I need a weapon?” the Brute said coolly.

The sergeant swallowed, gaze darting to Evander.

Evander sighed. “I shall vouch for him.”

“Alright, your Grace.” The sergeant nodded at Viggo and Solomon. “You, er, may proceed.”

The pair followed Evander through the gates and into the grounds.

There was a drill going on in the yard, the sergeant leading it barking orders at the young constables running briskly in the cold morning air. Dozens of curious eyes followed Viggo and Solomon’s progress as they headed for the iron clad doors at the top of the steps fronting the main entrance of Scotland Yard.

A couple of sergeants came out of the building.

They stopped and greeted Evander with deference before going about their business.

“You appear to carry a lot of weight around here,” Viggo observed. “Is it because you’re a Duke?”

“No.” Evander met his guarded gaze. “It’s because I’m a Special Arcane Investigator.”

“Is it true that only dual elemental mages are allowed to be Special Arcane Investigators?” Solomon asked curiously.

“That is correct.”

Viggo frowned at the aiguillette on Evander’s uniform. “Is that the reason yours has gold and blue threads?”

“The gold, yes.”

“What of the blue?” Viggo asked doggedly.

Evander smiled faintly. “That’s a secret.”

This answer seemed to annoy the Brute.

Then they were inside the foyer and amidst the morning rush of officers and staff swarming the administrative block of the Met.

Evander saw Viggo’s shoulders subtly knot as they navigated the crowded space in front of the ornate, imperial staircase rising towards the upper levels of the building. The movement would be invisible to most but the keenest of observers.

“You have quite a varied taste in literature,” he told the Brute in a conversational tone. “I spotted books pertaining to subjects other than philosophy on your shelves last night.”

Viggo’s stiff gaze shifted from the dozens of constables and sergeants milling about the marble-floored lobby.

“You want to talk about books?” he asked Evander leadenly. “ Now ?!”

Solomon was similarly looking at Evander like he’d lost his marbles.

Understanding dawned belatedly on Viggo’s face. He lowered his brows. “If this is an attempt to distract me?—”

“It is,” Evander said briskly. “I’d rather we reach our destination without you accidentally,” he waved a hand, “—killing anyone with your death glare.” His face softened at Viggo’s scowl. He wasn’t sure why he’d ever been afraid of this man. “Humour me. I am genuinely interested.”

Viggo hesitated for so long Evander thought he might avoid the topic entirely.

“I’ve always enjoyed reading,” the Brute finally confessed. “I like…learning new things.”

“Did your uncle teach you to read and write?”

Viggo shook his head. “My ma did. There was a school in the village where I was born. She was the teacher.” A haunted expression clouded his face. “She died a long time ago.”

Evander could tell the Brute was recalling the tragic circumstances surrounding his mother’s death.

The War of Subjugation began in 1825 and lasted five years. Since those with magic were afforded advantages that those without never received, the unequal society where rich mages and magic users routinely abused the poor magicless masses created a festering resentment that finally exploded into a conflict that swept not just across England but across half the continent.

The war was triggered by a single incident.

A family of thralls was unjustly accused of crimes they never committed and burned at the stake by a mage before a formal investigation was carried out. Six children and two adults died that night while their neighbours and friends were forcibly held back and made to watch.

Though the real criminal, a caster, was caught the very next morning and punished, no apology was ever offered to the relatives of the dead family.

Like the crack in a dam, one thrall rebelled. Then another. Then half a dozen. By the end of that first week, riots had broken out across the south of England and began spreading north.

Appalled by the actions of people they considered nothing more than cattle, the magic users retaliated with a brutality that far exceeded what the thralls did.

The war that followed was led by the five most powerful Archmages in England and became a period of history that would forever be tainted with the terrible tragedy that was the deaths of thousands of innocent magicless. Thralls who perished at the hands of organised mobs of mages who swept through capitals, towns, and countryside villages on a misbegotten mission to rid themselves of the enemy amidst them.

It was as if those who’d inherited their powers by the simple virtue of their births had decided to purge the world of those who hadn’t been as lucky as them. To cleanse humanity of the defective bloodlines that could never birth magic. To “rid the world of dirty thralls.”

Evander had felt sick to his stomach when he’d learned that that had been the motto and the objective of the war in its last year, the real reason behind why the conflict started in the first place lost amidst a sea of spite and venom.

It was the protests of the highest born nobles of the land, among them Evander’s father, and their European counterparts that finally drove an ill King William IV to rise from his bed and persuade his niece Queen Victoria to put an end to the awful war. Queen Victoria eventually threatened to divest the Archmages of all their titles and lands and restrain their magic, the royal family having in its possession a secret artefact that could do this.

Though the war officially ended in 1830, the persecution of the thralls did not. It was another two decades before the zealots who, fuelled by a twisted ideology of magical supremacy stemming from the Archmages who led the War of Subjugation, had subjected dozens of thrall communities and villages to campaigns of terror were finally arrested and their leader sent to Irongate Prison. Stripped of his powers by Queen Victoria, the Archmage was ironically set upon and murdered by a mob of thralls a few years later. His body was buried in a nameless grave and his once powerful family lost their seat in the House of Lords.

Evander had heard rumours concerning Viggo’s origins. The Brute was said to be the sole survivor of the last terrifying purge led by the Archmage. One where he had seen his entire village massacred before his eyes when he was but a boy. Remorse knotted Evander’s insides at having inadvertently caused Viggo to recall his painful past.