Chapter 50

Chapter 50

He’d intended to divert the public’s attention away from Rose Taylor and himself, while still reaping the advantages of announcing their engagement. After all, “Miss Blavatsky” was just the fake identity Rose had cast aside.

James had imagined the headlines would keep the public busy chasing the phantom of Miss Blavatsky, whose real self had conveniently vanished. He hadn’t expected one of his estate’s maids to be murdered, sparking lurid gossip columns and sordid speculation about Miss Blavatsky herself.

It irritated him deeply. Even if it was a false persona she’d abandoned, seeing her name dragged through that filth felt, to put it bluntly, like absolute shit.

He didn’t even want to imagine what would happen if she read those trashy articles. The thought alone made him sick.

He hadn’t expected to regret his calculated maneuver on such an emotional level.

James stood abruptly and clapped Philip on the shoulder. “I’m counting on you.”

Philip blinked, watching his boss slip on the jacket he’d tossed aside earlier. “Ah—sir, are you going out somewhere?”

“No. Just to see Rose.”

What good would sitting here worrying do? That sort of moping only produced toxic, useless self-recrimination. He had to see her.

She must have seen the morning papers. Was she hurt? Angry? The questions gnawed at him, leaving him restless.

Come to think of it, it’s been three days since I last saw her.

He was still frowning when he opened his office door—and froze.

Rose Taylor was standing there, eyes wide like a startled rabbit. “Eek! You scared me!”

She blinked rapidly, clearly spooked, and somehow that sight set something warm and ticklish stirring in his chest.

“Rose? What brings you to my office…?” he asked, brow quirking.

She peeked inside, lowering her voice. “I need to speak with you. Alone.”

No sooner had she finished than Philip all but bowed himself out of the room, leaving with commendable speed.

James, pleased with his perceptive secretary, waved Rose in.

“Rose. If it’s not about that cult investigation, I might be able to help. What exactly are you asking for?”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind them, Rose didn’t waste a second. “Betty Jones’s murder.”

She gestured at the stack of newspapers on the table. “This case might be something the Golden Raven Order needs to investigate, not the police.”

James saw the conviction burning in her eyes.

“First, we need to confirm if Betty was a Revis. Then find that woman Grace. And…”

“Hold on. Hold on a minute.” He put up both hands and tried to calm her, steering her to the plush chair reserved for visitors. “Slow down and explain. You’re saying we need to confirm whether Betty was a Revis? That there’s another Revis besides me?”

Rose nodded, her expression grave as she launched into a careful recap—Amélie’s first visit, the rumors of witchcraft, Betty’s terrified account.

James listened, brows drawing together. “So you’re saying Betty could see your magical traces because she might have been a Revis herself.”

“Exactly. And there’s Grace, who supposedly saw those traces too and even ‘banished’ them.”

“You mentioned she cleansed the ghost—that is, erased the magical residue herself.”

“Yes. And you can’t do that without knowing magic. Grace has to be a Mythos.”

Rose leaned forward, her voice taut with urgency. “A Revis who was interacting with a Mythos was murdered. That’s not a matter for Logos police. That’s for the Golden Raven Order!”

She watched him expectantly, eyes bright with determination.

James found himself momentarily at a loss for words, caught by the intensity of her gaze.

“Rose. But all of this is just conjecture right now. How exactly are you planning to investigate? What do you want me to do?”

She didn’t hesitate. She practically shoved a letter under his nose, stamped with the golden raven seal.

“First, we confirm whether Betty was a Revis.”

He squinted at the handwriting on the page:

Rose,

Really? You send me a question with no context at all? I nearly went bald trying to guess what you meant.

I’m including the multi-layered test kit recipe and the circuit formula you’ll need to operate it. Don’t go starting any disasters with it.

—Your Uncle Crowley

P.S. Mr. Dautryche, thank you for looking after this hornet-stung colt of a niece. Please keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn’t blow anything up. I’ll be in touch soon.

James pinched the bridge of his nose. “Did you telegraph the Minister for this?”

“Nope. Magic. Much faster than a telegram.”

She flashed him a bright, conspiratorial smile. “You’ll help me, right? Uncle specifically asked you to.”

James let out a long, resigned sigh. “He even called it ‘a favor.’ Crowley’s more shameless than I gave him credit for.”

He managed not to groan as he nodded. Fine. It was better than poking at that devil-worshipping cult she’d originally wanted to investigate. Safer, too.

“All right. Let’s say we make the kit. Then what? Planning to summon the dead and ask them outright?”

“What are you talking about? Of course not. We go to the body.”

He blinked. “Come again?”

“The Romberton City Morgue.”

“How exactly?”

“Skillfully.”

James closed his eyes and pressed his palm to his forehead. “God help me.”

A dense fog blanketed Romberton at two in the morning.

A woman with jet-black hair and round, glassless spectacles walked carefully along a side street, accompanied by a tall man with a bowler hat pulled low over his brow.

“Don’t worry so much, James,” Rose said lightly, casting a glance at him. “You look completely different.”

James frowned, fingering the neat mustache that had sprouted beneath his nose, conjured by Rose’s magic. “I didn’t think you’d actually make me grow a mustache.”

She watched his uneasy fussing with thin amusement. “It’s not like you could suddenly grow one overnight. Even if you hate it, bear with it. We can’t exactly let the whole city gossip that the illustrious Mister Dautryche came visiting the morgue at dawn.”

James grunted. “I had no intention of giving them my real name anyway.”

Their disguises were simple illusions—just enough magic to alter their appearances.

“We’re really going this far, sneaking in under false names, just to see the body?” James asked with a skeptical lift of his brow.

Rose’s voice was quiet but steady. “…Because I feel responsible.”

She walked briskly ahead as she spoke. “I talked to Betty right before she disappeared. I had a bad feeling and let her go anyway.”

James followed silently, watching the determined line of her back.

“We can’t bring back the dead. We can’t talk to them,” she added in a subdued tone, “but if my hunch is right about who killed her, at least her death won’t have been in vain.”

James’s gaze softened. “So this is for Betty.”

Rose gave a bitter little smile. “Honestly? It’s for me. So I can live with myself. The dead don’t feel anger or sorrow anymore.”

The admission hung between them like the fog itself, cold and heavy.

They took two more sharp turns through narrow alleys before arriving at the entrance of the Romberton City Morgue.

As they stepped through the always-open door, a uniformed guard stopped them. “Who goes there?”

Rose didn’t even blink. “Sorry for the late hour. We spotted an error in the report that’s due to the police by seven. Just need to confirm something.”

James watched her smooth performance, shaking his head in reluctant admiration.

The guard examined the investigation liaison passes they handed over, then nodded. “Ah—Doctors Bennett and Dalton. Understood. Please sign your names and the time in the log before proceeding.”

Rose and James took turns writing in the visitors’ book, both using their false names.

“Watch the time,” the guard added gruffly. “With all the recent body snatching, outside visitors have a strict one-hour limit.”

He opened the door fully, and a dimly lit, chilly corridor stretched out before them, its sterile gloom somehow even more oppressive in the silence.

As they walked down the long hallway, James muttered, voice low with grudging respect. “The Golden Raven Order’s paperwork really works.”

Rose didn’t even glance at him. “Of course it does. The Royal Paranormal Investigation Bureau has an official cooperation agreement with the Logos police. They call it ‘external consultation’ on paper.”

The ID passes themselves had name fields that remained blank until written, the text then fading over time thanks to enchanted ink; they could reuse them under any alias.

James checked his scrawled ‘Gerald Dalton’ one last time before tucking the pass back into his coat.

“Morgue’s cold storage. This is it.”

They reached the heavy metal door at the end of the corridor. James gave it a push, and a frigid gust hit them instantly, carrying the sharp reek of chemicals and the unmistakable heavy scent of death that clung to the dim chamber beyond.