Arcane Entanglement (The Mage and His Brute #1)

Chapter 40

Viggo couldn’t help but notice the changes that had come with the arrival of the railway as they made their way through the sun-lit village. What had once been a quiet farming community was now a bustling parish, with new shops and houses springing up alongside traditional cottages.

A horse-drawn cart driven by a weathered old farmer waited for them at the edge of the settlement.

“I’m afraid this is our ride for the next leg of our journey,” Hawk said, a hint of apology in his voice. “It’s less conspicuous than a carriage.”

Evander eyed the cart dubiously, his nose wrinkling a little at the distinct aroma of manure that clung to the wooden slats. Rufus looked no more enthused, his aloof composure slipping as he climbed gingerly aboard.

Viggo felt a grin tugging at his lips as he and Hawk settled on the rough bench behind the driver.

“What’s the matter?” the Brute asked innocently. “Don’t tell me you prefer that fancy steam contraption to good old-fashioned horsepower?”

Evander shot him a narrow-eyed look.

“I think I liked you better when you were nervous about the train.”

Viggo chuckled.

The cart started moving jerkily. Evander and Rufus clung to the sides, their faces a study in barely concealed discomfort.

As they trundled along country lanes and through dense coppices, Viggo found himself relaxing for the first time since they’d left London. He felt more at ease out here, away from the crowded streets and prying eyes of the city. The scent of earth and growing things filled his lungs, a welcome change from the ever-present smog and stink of the capital.

After what felt like hours of bone-jarring travel but was only some forty minutes in reality, they arrived at a small hamlet. The farmer guided the cart past a pond where ducks swam and into what passed for a main street overlooked by a cluster of downtrodden buildings.

Viggo’s throat constricted at the sight of the destitute thralls trying to carve a meagre living from the land under the blazing sun. It reminded him painfully that this was still the fate of his kind through most of the country.

Evander’s troubled expression lingered on the figures toiling the fields as they left the hamlet behind.

The farmer dropped them off at the edge of heavy woodland some two miles later. Hawk handed him some pennies. The man slipped the coins into his pocket, tilted his straw hat at them, and continued down the lane.

Hawk waited until the cart disappeared around a bend before leading them into the shadows beneath the trees, the path he took barely a trail.

The smell of smoke soon tickled Viggo’s nostrils.

A cottage appeared, nestled in a clearing with a well and a small vegetable garden. Lazy trails curled up from a red brick chimney. The faint clucks of chickens and the sound of wood being chopped rose close by.

A curtain twitched at their approach.

The axe stopped a moment later.

A young, stocky man with dark hair and suspicious brown eyes rounded the side of the cottage, the steel blade at the end of the tool he held glinting as he clasped the wooden handle in a solid, two-handed grip.

Evander stopped, certain he was looking at William Millbrook.

The young man bore an uncanny resemblance to his father.

“What business do you have here?” William called out, making no effort to hide his hostility.

“My name is Duke Ravenwood. I’m a Special Arcane Investigator in Scotland Yard,” Evander said calmly. He indicated Rufus. “This is Inspector Grayson.” He met William’s gaze steadily. “We’re investigating your father’s murder.”

William’s eyes rounded for a split second. His face grew shuttered in the next instant.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Please leave. This is private property.”

“Come lad, they only want to help,” Viggo said gruffly.

William clenched his jaw. “And who the devil are you?”

“I’m Viggo Stonewall, the head of Nightshade .”

William flinched. “The information guild?”

“Yes, the very one.”

Fear drained the blood from William’s face. He stepped back, his gaze jerkily scanning the edge of the clearing and the pools of darkness between the trees.

“You’re with them, aren’t you?” His voice grew shrill, his fingers twitching jumpily on the handle of the axe. “You’re with the bastards who killed my father!”

“Enough, William,” someone said harshly.

A woman stood in the doorway of the cottage. She tugged the ends of her shawl closer and studied Evander and his companions with a dull look.

“What do you want, your Grace?”

“We would like your help finding your husband’s killer,” Evander replied.

Something sparked in the depths of Martha Millbrook’s deadened eyes then.

A flash of fear. Despair. And an emotion he couldn’t identify.

“It’s too late,” she muttered. “Alastair is dead and there’s no bringing him back. We just want to be left alone.”

Viggo took a step forward. “Mrs. Millbrook, will you listen to my story?”

Confusion clouded Martha Millbrook’s expression.

“It won’t take long, I assure you,” the Brute continued, his tone gentle. “We don’t have to go inside your home either.”

Evander stared at Viggo, curious as to what he intended.

Martha hesitated. “Alright,” she murmured reluctantly.

William watched them sullenly.

“Twenty-eight years ago, on the night I turned six years old, a group of mages arrived at my village just as my family sat down for supper,” Viggo said. “By midnight, I was the only person left alive in a community of two hundred souls.”

Evander stilled, his frozen gaze on Viggo’s calm countenance. Rufus looked equally stunned as he stared at the Brute.

Hawk listened with an impassive face.

“I had four brothers and two sisters, the youngest barely a year old,” Viggo continued steadily, as if talking about the weather. “By the time the mages finished with them, their corpses were unrecognisable. My father and my mother tried to fight them, but what could thralls who’d lived their entire lives pretending the rest of the world didn’t exist do in the face of evil they could never comprehend?”

Grief constricted Evander’s chest until he could barely breathe.

Even Martha paled at the Brute’s ghastly confession.

“They hung my mother from the apple tree next to our house until her neck snapped. As for my father, they cut off his legs and tossed him to the hunting hounds they’d brought along to hunt us. Not a woman, man, or child was spared that night except for me.” A muscle jumped in Viggo’s cheek, the first sign of emotion he’d demonstrated since he’d begun his dark tale. “You see, I was the lucky one. I was…the chosen one.” The Brute’s eyes gleamed. “They always left one alive. One thrall who would bear witness to their horrifying acts of violence and who would carry that awful burden to his grave. But not before he spread tales of their deeds and instilled fear in the heart of every one of his kind he met. A child who they deemed would not lose his mind and become a gibbering fool rendered insane by terror.” He faltered. “A child the mage who led the massacre inevitably branded with his signet ring.”

Viggo shrugged his left shoulder out of his coat and pulled down the neckline of his shirt. An ugly scar in the form of the letter A wrinkled his inked skin beneath his left clavicle, the mark inches from his heart.

Evander shuddered and gulped down air, his entire body trembling and his legs weak. Rufus clenched his teeth, brow furrowed in an angry scowl.

William dropped the axe and covered his mouth with his hands, his cheeks drained of blood.

Viggo pulled his clothes back up, his voice brittle.

“What you’re feeling right now? I felt it too. For a long, long time. Terror. Desperation.” A bitter sound left him. “There were nights when I hardly slept. When I was afraid to close my eyes for fear of what I would see in my nightmares. But after a while, after I fled to London and found myself living on the streets of the capital, struggling to stay alive each day that passed, I met others like me. Children cast aside by their own terrible circumstances. Orphans who could only count on themselves as they navigated a world full of cruelty and devoid of compassion. And I realised that we had one thing in common.”

“What was that?” Martha said breathlessly.

“Rage.” Viggo’s voice grew flinty. “We were full of rage. At the world. At the unfairness of our plight. At everything .” He took a shaky breath. “We wanted retribution. Revenge. We wanted the people who’d thrown us in the pits of Hell to burn and suffer eternal torment.” He met Martha’s frozen gaze unflinchingly. “And I see you want that too.” Viggo glanced at William. “That you both want that. I promise you this. If you help us, we will make certain to deliver justice for your husband.”

The silence that fell across the clearing was heavy and fraught with tension.

“Come in,” Martha said, her voice barely above a whisper.