The Raven Spell (Conspiracy of Magic #1)(36)

Ian’s regard noticeably shifted, as though viewing her through a different lens. She found herself slightly disappointed by the predictable turn in him, going from being a creature of interest in his eyes back to one deserving of apprehension. Curiously, he swallowed and brushed the back of his knuckles against his Adam’s apple again.

“I can give you something for a sore throat, if that’s what’s bothering you,” Edwina said, letting him know he was being watched as well.

Ian removed his hand as if he hadn’t realized he’d reached for his neck. His clear-eyed gaze had been replaced by something closer to regret as he waved off her offer. “Nae, ’tisn’t that.” He seemed on the verge of saying more when Hob jumped out of the urn holding a bundle of newspapers in his arms. “Ah, you’re back,” he said to the imp, glad for the distraction.

“So many chimneys!” Hob dropped the newspapers at Ian’s feet. “So dirty,” he said and brushed a layer of sooty grime off the sleeves of his coat.

Ian tossed Hob a biscuit for his effort, then picked up the Courier Times off the pile. “Well done, Hob. Now, let’s see if we can sort out what all this murder business is about.”

He didn’t even need to spread the newspaper open to find what he was after. There on the front page awaited the headline: BRICK LANE SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN. The report stated at least five men had been found bludgeoned over the past two weeks, all within a ten-minute walk of Brick Lane Station. Four of the five had their throats cut as well. Robbery appeared to be the main motivation in most of the attacks, as evidenced by their empty pockets, though none of the victims were considered anything more than middle-class workingmen.

Edwina opened the Daily Gazette, which appeared to carry a slightly different version of events. The details were salacious, describing the murders as ghastly crimes committed by a predator of the night. A creature so debased as to leave his bloodless victims lying in the road for any innocent passerby to discover. “Propped in full view, the latest mutilated bodies were as good as trophies at proclaiming the murderer’s aptitude for his newfound vocation,” she read aloud.

Ian looked up from his paper. “Mutilated?” He scanned ahead in his paper. “As well as having their throat cut nearly to beheading, the murdered victims each had a piece of their scalp removed just above the ear, leading some to speculate about a connection to the occult and ritual murder.”

Hob swallowed his biscuit, shrank down inside his coat, and pulled his collar over his head.

“Sensationalist drivel,” Edwina said and tipped the paper to show Ian the illustration accompanying the article she’d been reading, which displayed an artist’s rendering of a man in a plaid suit lying in a narrow alley amid a pool of blood and what she surmised was a layer of straw to wick up the moisture in a narrow, sodden walkway. The artist had inked a bald blotch above the deceased’s left ear.

Ian’s expression changed from a man on the hunt for clues to one of confusion quickly dissolving into distress. He dropped the Courier Times and asked to see her Gazette. While he studied the illustration, she flipped through the morning edition of the City Journal, searching for any new information.

“Well, isn’t that odd,” she said. “This paper has Henry Elvanfoot listed as the latest victim.” Beside her, Hob poked his head out of his jacket, ears twitching. “Could they mean the son, George, instead? Is that why he’s gone missing? How dreadful.”

Edwina covered her mouth with her hand as she read, almost afraid to continue. “But that would explain the connection of your case to the murders, wouldn’t it? You were right.” When Ian didn’t answer, she glanced up to see he’d gone deathly pale. “Whatever’s wrong?” He drew a hand over his face as if he might be sick. “Are you ill? Should I fetch some honey for a tea spell?”

Hob jumped on the arm of her chair. “I can get that for you, milady.”

Ian shushed him harshly. “Never mind that, Hob. I’m not ill. I’m simply seeing shadows.” He tossed the illustrated newspaper on the table between him and Edwina and pointed. “I’ve been there before.”

She turned the paper around and read the description beneath the picture. The victim depicted had been found facedown in Wickham Lane. “A winding walkway between buildings connecting the two main streets of Flint Street and Queen’s Road,” she said, as her intuition began to tingle in warning. “That’s near where I picked you up this morning.”

“Nae, it’s exactly where I was when I sent that boy after you.” He sat back, eyeing her with what she took for suspicion. “I was there. Stumbling as though I were drunk. Hit on the head by a man I’d passed in that alley,” he said, touching the back of his head as if visualizing the attack. “I fell to the ground, only to have the man lift my head up by my hair and slice my throat open in one jagged motion.” He clutched at his throat again, swallowing as if it pained him to do so, then looked up. “It’s where I remember being murdered.”

“You know that’s not possible,” she said, hoping he would see the illogic of his statement. “You haven’t been murdered.”

“Nae, of course not.”

“You did get hit on the head yesterday, but it wasn’t in an alley.”

“But after that. The memory you implanted, the one you thought was mine . . .” He picked up the newspaper again. “You gave me the wrong one. I think it belonged to this man,” he said, pointing at the drawing. “This is what I experienced. I lived his memory of that moment all over again. I know what it felt like to have my throat cut, ye ken? I relived this victim’s last breath. I remember what he suffered.” He stood, too agitated to sit while he thought it through. “Your sister removed the man’s memory from me this morning, aye, but first she took it from him the same way she took mine at the river.” Ian paced so that he stood behind his chair, gripping the back of it. “She was there.”