Page 33

He grabbed ink and paper and sent a scroll, surely to Obryn. “Fine, follow me.”

They walked out of the room, down the hallway, and up a windy staircase.

“Wielders have been turning up dead,” he said as he opened the door to the main area of his house.

Old oil paintings hung silently on dark green walls. As Dawson marched down the hallway, the lights turned on with every step he took, as if the house knew its master had returned.

“Many of them used to be Mercer’s soldiers. Each time they die of something like a heart attack, a seizure, or an aneurysm. But it seemed too coincidental.”

They arrived in the living room, and even the fireplace turned on as Dawson’s feet touched the marble floor.

Mira looked up at the tall ceiling, marveling at the intricate design of the crown molding. It was as if she had stepped into a cathedral. The Dawson estate brimmed with old magic, similar to Ivercrest, and yet, it felt very different. Mira was permitted to walk the halls of the estate but not welcomed. The walls seemed to keep watch, gauging this stranger in its presence.

“So you’re saying someone is killing Wielders who used to fight for Mercer?”

“That’s the working theory.”

“If that’s true, then the council would surely do something.”

Dawson scoffed. “Oh yes, I’m sure the council is dying to help Mercer’s former soldiers.”

“If there is someone out there killing them, then yes.” But then another thought struck her. If this was a murder victim, how did Dawson get hold of the body? “Does the council know about Buckley?”

He nodded and checked his watch. “He had a funeral and everything.”

She swallowed. “Do they know his grave is empty?”

Dawson crossed the room, and even candles lit themselves in his presence. “What do you think?”

What had she gotten herself into? In her blind pursuit to heal her scar, she had agreed to this arrangement without much thought. But it was more than that. Ever since the war, she had been paranoid about the next terrible thing to happen. For life to turn bad again. It was a typical trauma response, she was told; feeling like it wasn’t over. Standing in Dawson’s ornate living room, she realized that feeling might not be paranoia after all.

Something was wrong, and she was in the middle of it.

“Obryn made me assist in a crime?” she asked angrily.

He shook his head with a chuckle. “What a very Caster thing to say. I just told you that the biggest authority in the magic world is doing nothing about a bunch of murders, and your concern is that what we’re doing is against the rules?”

“Obryn should have told me what this was about.”

“Would you have done it if he had?”

That was irrelevant. She was still deserving of the information.

As if summoned by his name, Obryn appeared in the middle of the living room, pocketing his travel coin.

“The potion worked?” the Highmage asked.

“Yes,” Dawson replied.

“Good. Now that we are able to locate the poison, we can begin to analyze it. However, this will take time. I need samples of Buckley’s treated blood.”

“How many have been poisoned so far?” Mira asked.

“We don’t know. Since they die, supposedly, of natural causes, it is hard to say which were murdered and which were not. From now on we will be able to tell the difference.”

Dawson leaned his shoulder against the mantel of the fireplace. “I can administer the potion by myself. I don’t think she is necessary for this case anymore.”

Obryn shook his head. “Miss Winters stays on the case.”