It was still the early hours of the morning when they reached the police morgue. Ned felt absurdly nervous seeing Blackwood again, but the Inspector seemed as calm and collected as usual.

“I am sure you have a question or two, Sergeant Kelly, but we will deal with them later,” he said before Ned could even open his mouth.

Ned just nodded, not trusting himself to speak without bitterness. St Clair rubbed his sleepy eyes like a child, then asked in a resigned tone, “Who is the victim?”

“William Brockton,” the Inspector replied.

St Clair’s tense shoulders relaxed, but his eyebrows shot up. “Brockton? But the Shadow already took Lilly’s powers. Why would he need another Enchanter?”

Blackwood hesitated for a moment. “I am not even sure this is connected. Have a look for yourself.”

He led them into a cold room where a covered corpse lay on a slab. Ned had seen quite a few murder victims in his five years as a policeman, but he had never got used to it. St Clair, however, seemed to have no such qualms as he unceremoniously lifted the plain white linen from the body.

The face of the dead man underneath was almost the same colour as the cover. There was something familiar about the sleek brown hair and those full lips, which looked almost girlish in the otherwise strikingly handsome, masculine face.

A memory of the same man throwing his head back in lust, his eyes rolling back, his mouth open in a sigh of pleasure, rose in Ned’s mind. It felt like someone had poured a bucket of cold water over him.

St Clair put his bare hand on the wound while magic sprang from him, lighting up the room more than gas lamps ever could. His mind still reeling and half blinded, Ned turned away from the scene, only to find himself facing Blackwood.

“You look a bit green around the gills, Sergeant Kelly. Go and get some air.”

Ned fled the room and leaned against the cold wall in the corridor.

William Brockton. He had never known the name of the man he had found in Michael’s bed on that cursed day. He had never asked. It had not mattered.

Four years of happiness destroyed in a heartbeat.

There had been days when he had found himself wishing that he had not gone to Michael’s rooms that afternoon in May. That he had never found out. That everything had just stayed as it was.

A stupid wish. A stupid coincidence.

Ned had run all the way to Michael’s new lodgings to make sure he caught him before he left for the theatre. He could not wait to tell him about his promotion. No one had answered the knock, so Ned had let himself in and run up to the bedroom, taking two stairs at once.

What he had found there felt like a gut punch. He could still feel the cool metal of the door handle as he pressed it, still smell the musk and lavender oil, still hear the moans. He could still see the ecstatic expression of the naked stranger sitting on the bed while Michael’s blond head bobbed up and down between his legs.

His stomach turned at the memory, but the gut wrenching pain that usually followed did not come. There had been times when he felt he could not even breathe if he allowed himself to think about it. He inhaled deeply and immediately regretted it. The whole place smelled of death, carbolic and formaldehyde.

An arm went around his waist. The scent of bergamot and sandalwood brought some relief from the stench of the morgue.

“You really are squeamish for a policeman,” St Clair whispered in his ear.

Ned shook him off. “It’s just the smell. It makes me nauseous,” he said, hurrying towards the door.

The cold winter air outside helped him come to his senses. “What did you find?”

“He was stabbed like the others. But there is no blood mark on him, and his magic was not stolen,” St Clair reported.

“So either the Shadow was interrupted in his work, or this is unconnected.”

“That seems too much of a coincidence. Then again, I would not be surprised if someone used the current circumstances to get rid of him,” St Clair said.

“Did he have enemies?” Ned asked.

“I only met him once and in passing, but Lilly told me there was speculation that he abused his powers for … indecent things. But Enchanters are always subject to such rumours, and there was never any proof.”

“Indecent things?” Ned repeated, his heart sinking.

“You must understand by now how easily magic can be abused,” St Clair said uncomfortably.

“He … he made people fall in love with him?” Ned asked.

“You cannot create love through magic. Desire, however, is comparatively easy.”

Ned swallowed the bile rising in his throat. “You said there was never any proof.”

St Clair nodded unhappily. “Ordinary people do not know they have been violated. No matter how much they regret it afterwards, they think they wanted it at that moment. Even witches would think twice about coming forward about such things. It is too shameful.”

Ned did not dare look at him, for fear of betraying himself. He had to leave before Blackwood came in search of him.

“I … I need to go. I will be back by noon.”

St Clair’s gloved hand grabbed his arm as he turned to go. “Ned. Wait.”

The familiar use of his first name made Ned stop for a heartbeat. The better part of him knew that this was not the time to give in to his emotions, but the sudden regret and guilt felt overwhelming. He had to find out the truth.

He tried to yank his arm free, but the grip tightened. “I’m coming with you.”

Anger exploded through Ned. He grabbed St Clair by the collar with his free hand and pushed him against the wall.

“You all think that magic gives you the right to force your will on others, do you?” he growled.

The amber eyes flashed angrily. “Don’t you dare compare me to Brockton. I am just trying to protect you …”

“Sergeant Kelly!” Inspector Blackwood’s voice thundered from behind him.

Ned turned to see two nervous constables approaching him, but Blackwood waved them away and said quietly, “If you two are done making a spectacle of yourselves, I want some answers.”