Ned leaned back into the claw-footed bathtub and rinsed the expensive lavender soap out of his hair. He was still undecided on what he should do. Visconti had asked him to think about the proposal, and while Ned wasn’t sure if he believed everything he’d told him, it all came down to one simple thing.

He knew himself well enough to know that sitting in his small room at the lodging house and doing nothing while the murders went on would drive him mad. There was only one thing stopping him from taking the job.

Determined to get it over with, he dried himself off and dressed in the clothes St Clair had lent him. They fit surprisingly well, though the shirt sat uncomfortably tight across the shoulders, and the collar was starched within an inch of its life. He tugged at it as he made his way through the manor back to the library.

St Clair sat alone at the large mahogany desk, turning the pages of a book. The sunlight coming in from the window behind him let golden highlights dance through his light brown hair, making him look like a painting of a perfectly composed young gentleman.

The impression disappeared as he closed the book and looked up. Dark shadows lay under the slightly reddened eyes, betraying a sleepless night.

“There is something I need to ask you, before I make my decision,” Ned said.

St Clair didn’t even wait for the question. “I kissed you because I wanted to. It wasn’t a trap.”

Ned felt more relieved than he expected, but all he said was, “It doesn’t matter why you did it. But if we are to work together, it can’t happen again. Let’s forget about it.”

The amber eyes finally met his. “But I don't want to forget. I am sorry I attacked you. But I am not sorry for wanting you. I've waited for five years. I can wait until you’ve forgiven me.”

He looked so sincere and vulnerable that Ned almost fell for it again. Catching himself in time, he replied, “Don’t mistake momentary desire for real feelings, St Clair. And nothing tends to cool a man down as much as being imprisoned and almost executed. There is nothing to wait for. Do you understand me?”

The golden head sank in defeat and nodded. Ned hated the flicker of sympathy the sight provoked in him, and he pressed on, “I have two other conditions.”

“Aside from no kissing and no flirting?”

Ned lost his patience. “Pull yourself together, golden boy.”

“I do have a first name, you know.”

“Leave your first name for your friends. I am not one of them.”

Ned hardened his heart against the hurt wolf-cub look that earned him and continued, “Do you want to hear my conditions or not?”

“I do. Under the condition that you never call me a boy again. Golden or otherwise,” St Clair said.

“Accepted.”

“Fine. Then tell me the rest.”

“You tell me everything relevant to this investigation. No games, no stalling."

“Agreed.”

“And when it comes to security, my word is final. You don’t take risks without consulting me first. No more offering yourself up as bait.”

St Clair cocked his head like a curious bird. “What makes you think I did?”

“The way you strut around shining like a golden beacon. You did it in Soho, and you even did it on New Year’s Eve. You don’t seem heartless enough to go celebrating while your friends are dying. You were drawing all attention to yourself on purpose.”

“And achieved nothing at all,” St Clair said ruefully.

Ned barely stopped himself from clapping him around the ears. “If you had, you might be lying dead in the ditch somewhere. You can’t just do this on your own.”

“I wasn’t. Some of my people were watching the whole time,” St Clair protested. Seeing Ned’s face, he hastily added, “Not when we were … uh … alone. They waited under the window outside.”

“They must be good if I didn’t notice them,” Ned admitted grudgingly.

“They are. But they are also potential targets. Especially now that the Shadow has Lilly’s powers.”

Ned opened his mouth to ask what they were, then realised the brat had distracted him again.

“You didn’t agree to my second condition.”

St Clair thought about it for a moment, then said, “You must stay with me at the townhouse, then.”

“Excuse me?”

“If you want me to consult you about every step I take, you have to stay close enough. We can tell everyone that Blackwood recommended you as a private security consultant.”

Ned wasn’t sure if he liked that, but nodded.

“Let’s start then. Where is the notebook?”

“Uncle Gio has it. He says there is something familiar about the handwriting. But I remember everything that’s in it. What do you want to know?”

“Those symbols for one.”

“I can draw them for you,” St Clair offered.

He picked up a pen and opened the book he’d been looking at. Ned realised it wasn’t a novel, but a thick sketch book. He blinked at the drawings of naked bodies inside. There was nothing erotic about them. They looked like perfectly executed anatomical studies, and he suddenly realised who they were.

“You … you made sketches of the victims?”

“Of course I did.”

“You just walked into the morgue?”

St Clair shrugged as if that was the most natural thing in the world. “I had to examine the bodies. How else do you think I know that someone took their magic?”

“Uh. Maybe start with that, then. How can you tell that from a dead body?” Ned said, averting his eyes from the gruesome drawing.

“When witches die, traces of our magic remain in our flesh and bones until they dissolve. But the bodies of the victims just felt empty like those of regular humans. There is usually only one way that can happen – when a warlock destroys the witch’s core. But when Captain Ritson was killed, I had no explanation for it. I knew I didn’t do it, and Uncle Gio was still in Italy.”

“And you two are the only ones who can do that?”

“Yes. It is a regular punishment for those who have abused their powers, but whose crime doesn’t warrant an execution.”

“Didn’t that make you the main suspect among your own?”

St Clair smiled mirthlessly. “Half the witches in this city still suspect it was me. But when I examined Richard, I found something worse. Do you know how he died?”

“Obviously. All three victims had a knife sticking out of their hearts.”

“True. But Richard was already dying when he was stabbed. Drowning.”

“Drowning? In Mayfair? Miles away from the Thames?” Ned asked with a frown.

“That is one of the powers Captain Ritson had as a Water Elemental. That is what a boat stands for.”

Ned blinked at him. “You lost me there.”

St Clair flipped a few pages and showed him a drawing. “You can summon water directly into the lungs through this…”

“Uh, I’ll take your word for it,” Ned said, pushing the book away. “Just please tell me you didn’t do an unauthorised autopsy in the police morgue.”

“I didn’t. A friend who is a doctor did.”

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. “Poisoning, kidnapping, desecration of a corpse. Anything else you would like to confess to?”

St Clair gave him a droll look and simply continued, “Anyway, that was already worrying enough, but I was sure when Lilly got murdered.”

“So she didn’t die from the stab wound either?”

“No. Her blood vessels were all burst from the inside. She probably didn’t even notice anything.”

“Huh?”

St Clair flicked his finger. A thin line of crimson energy flew towards a stuffed bird on the windowsill and exploded into a mass of filling and feathers.

“Use your words, St Clair,” Ned grumbled, but his heart was beating in his throat.

The brat shrugged and sent more crimson light from his hand. The mess he’d made started dissolving until it turned into a small heap of dust, which he flung into the fireplace.

“I have a third condition,” Ned said.

“Too late. But I’ll refrain from further demonstrations unless strictly necessary,” St Clair replied.

“So you are telling me the MP had some sort of destructive power. That’s why his symbol is a sword,” Ned concluded, ignoring the impish glint in the amber eyes.

“He was what we call a Protector.”

“Executioner would seem more fitting.”

“Depends on the circumstances, but I see your point.”

“So the murderer can now manipulate water and make people explode from inside, but it is Miss Morton’s power that worries you most? That spiral next to her name in the notebook makes the least sense.”

“The spiral is the symbol of Enchanters. It is the most difficult and unpredictable power. If you are good at it, you can plant suggestions in people’s minds. If you are not trained well, it ends up with people’s brains being … eh… scrambled.”

Ned closed his eyes in exasperation. “Is that what you did with the guards in the Tower?”

“I used only a little bit for practice, and I am very good at it. Their brains are completely fine,” St Clair said defensively.

Ned refrained from asking him how ‘good at it’ he had been at fifteen and wondered if there was still a chance to lock the brat up.  Maybe the whole burning witches at the stake thing in the Middle Ages had not been all that wrong.

He shook himself out of the brooding thoughts and asked, “So the next victim is likely to … what? Go insane?”

St Clair squirmed in his chair. “That is the most likely outcome with someone who can’t control that power. But otherwise, the easiest way for an Enchanter to kill someone is to drive them to suicide.”