Gwendolynne is right, of course. There are a handful of spells on the Ministry’s Dangerous and Restricted list, andresigniois one of them. Mostly they’re spells that could be used for crime, torture, or homicide. They’re highly regulated, accessible only to specificgroups of people—such as the magical police or certain first responders. To the rest of us, they’re banned, and there are hefty penalties for their use.
Which is why I had to venture into the dark side of the web to get it.
“For the right price,” I say, smirking, “nothingis impossible.”
She considers that for a second, then lets out a breath. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified at how easily you throw around money.”
I stride through the door, not looking at her. “How about both?” I say. But what I don’t tell her is that I’ve just drained a third of my trust fund to do it. Restricted spells cost a lot. The thought makes me feel faintly ill.
When we’re finally both in the study, the reek hits me. A singed smell, like something’s burning, alongside the distinctive scent of too much magic. Gwendolynne and I glance at each other. Her eyes betray her concern—wide, the whites showing, her brown irises like deep pools of liquid in the darkness.
I reach out with my magical senses, ascertaining that the energy is just residual; there are no active wards or security protections to bind the room. I curb my grin—it’s lucky that my father did not think to protect his private sanctum with anything but a simple lock.
“You check the desk,” I whisper. “I’ll take the shelves and the filing cabinets.”
We set to work, methodically searching through Father’s personal belongings. We’re looking for anything that might incriminate him, suggest he’s privy to the cause of the surges. The desk drawers scrape as Gwendolynne opens and shuts each one.
The bookshelves are neat and orderly, but the sheer amount of magic shows me where my father has been. Like a footprint left onwet sand at low tide, his magical presence is absolutely smeared across his stuff. I just have to follow the spark of his life essence until it leads me to a small stack of books stashed in a corner behind a truly horrible pink floral vase. Groping at my chest pocket, I fish out my glasses and jam them on top of my nose.
“Son of a witch,” I mutter as I pick each book up and flick through the pages. All of them are historical volumes, and a quick scan shows that each of them delves into incidences of magical surges that occurred over the millennia.
I’d wondered yesterday why I couldn’t find anything at the library. Now I actually know.
I’m still perusing the books when Gwendolynne lets out an audible gasp. Immediately, she clamps her hand over her mouth in horror. Luckily there’s no one around but me to hear.
“What is it?” I say, shutting the book and sidling up to her. She’s bent over the third drawer, fingers still pressed to her lips.
She doesn’t respond, just points at what she’s been looking at. A scattered mess of ID cards on lanyards. The type of ID card I’ve seen hundreds of times before.
“Yes, and?” I say, confused. “Those are just Magecorp staff passes. My father works there. It’s not so strange.”
Gwendolynne finally finds her voice, though it wavers more than usual. “But it’s not just any old Magecorp staff. Look.” She rummages through the bag she has slung over one shoulder, pulls out Nora Chapman’s creased, marked-up scroll, and flings it at my chest.
I catch it and unroll it, but not before shooting her a disapproving look for being so needlessly loud. Then I start to read what’s written on it.
It’s a list of names. They seem familiar. I grimace.
“What am I looking at, Chan?”
Gwendolynne rolls her eyes, then taps the parchment with herfinger. “Look at the names. Compare them with what’s on the cards. These are all the people who’ve gone missing. They match. Every single one.”
Gorge rises in my throat as I stare at the list. Elouise Forrester. Hani Nguyen. Benjamin Purcell. Dr.Demi Wallan. Even a pimply-faced teenage intern called Li-wen Tan. All names confirming that my father does, in fact, have a drawer full of missing—presumed dead—people’s IDs locked inside his study.
My organs feel frosted with ice, while outside my skin is scorching. A bead of sweat detaches itself from my hairline and runs down the back of my neck, catching on my collar.
Gwendolynne plucks the parchment from my limp fingers and rolls it up. “Maybe there’s an explanation.” Carefully, she tucks the scroll back in her bag. “Maybe they’re just…in hospital, being treated for magiphilia, or something.”
I frown, thinking.
“If that were the case, surely Nora Chapman would have a record of their treatment,” I say eventually. “Besides, why cover it up? Why weren’t these disappearances all over the news? And why keep their photos locked inside a drawer?” I’ve watched enough true crime documentaries to know that this isn’t normal behavior. In fact, this feels more like trophy-collecting, serial-killer-type behavior.
In truth, my father hasn’t been acting normally formonths. Maybe even longer. Perhaps I’d just been too caught up in my own life to notice.
What the hell are you up to, Father?I’d always known he was an arsehole. But tonight is the first time that I’m beginning to suspect, a tiny bit, that he might also be a homicidal maniac.
“What do you think happened to them?” Gwendolynne’s voice is just a whisper. “Do you think Magecorp could have…could’vekilledthem?”
“I’m not sure,” I say, my voice cracking. “But we certainly can’t rule it out.”
