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Chapter Text

They found the sleepwalker on Turl Street, collapsed against the walls of one of the colleges. His pale hands were stained with dried blood and curled limply around the hilt of a knife buried deep in his chest, crimson blooming across his shirt like a morbid copse of flora. 

That was the sight that greeted Inspector Thursday and Sergeant Jakes as the Jaguar rolled to a not so silent halt some ways down the street, tyres rolling over the brittle, dead leaves that invariably gathered along the gutters come autumn. The trees were aflame above them, their embers descending from the sky and turning to ash on the cold, unforgiving ground. 

Leaves gathered around the body, the strong winds from the night before having sent them his way, tangling in his long, mousy coloured hair and lodging themselves in every fold of his crumpled form. Like they wanted to bury him. Conceal the sight from the world. Erase the deed. But even the fiery tones of the leaves couldn’t quite dull the splashes of blood that painted the stones around him. 

The body of Ethan Caherty had been cast onto the side of the street like an inconvenient piece of rubbish. Because that’s what he was in the mind of his killer. He became that when his abductor had no further use for him. A match that had been struck, burned through, and tossed into the gutter. Left to die with a blade between his ribs. 

His killer had taken his shoes. The soles of his feet were scratched, bloody, and black with grime. How long had he wandered barefoot down the street in the cold October night? How long before he couldn’t continue any further? How long until the blood loss took hold and all he could do was reach for the wall to balance himself, only to sink to the ground and bleed out?

The final detail was one that Thursday grimly expected. The pathologist- the ever faithful Dr. DeBryn- confirmed it as he gently lifted Ethan Caherty’s eyelids with a small set of forceps to reveal a gruesome sight. 

His eyes had been put out. 

Thursday felt his stomach turn with a horrified disgust. 

The lad was only eighteen. He didn’t deserve this. Not someone that young. 

Sergeant Jakes came back down the street from a newsagent not very far away at the turn of the next street, cigarette pinched between his thin lips as he snapped his fingers and conjured up a small flame at the tip of his thumb. The scent of tobacco preceded the man as he returned and searched through the pocket of his dark coat for his notebook which was always less accessible than his pack of cigarettes. 

“There’s a witness who lives in the flat above the shop on the corner,” Jakes reported, exhaling a cloud of smoke that vanished as soon as it formed, swept away toward the grey sky. As he held his cigarette away from his lips, Jakes’ sleeve dropped just enough for Thursday to glimpse the old burn scar that wrapped around his pale wrist like a permanent band, barely hidden beneath his expensive watch. Jakes dropped his arm to his side and the mark was hidden once again. “Says he saw a light coloured vehicle turn down the street somewhere around midnight. Description seems to fit sightings near the other dump sites. No reg. Not even a partial.”

Those lasts words dashed the small ember of hope that glowed in Thursday’s chest and he could already feel it slowly cooling into ash. 

“I didn’t expect much more,” Thursday grumbled darkly, biting back a curse. “Hoped, maybe. But not expected.” 

The inspector hated how much it felt like a taunt, the way their killer had been seen on all three occasions yet continued to exist in complete anonymity, fading in and out of their grasp like a spectre. He emerged from his self made ether of concealment only to abduct his victims and then later return their bodies to the university. It all seemed to revolve around the colleges somehow, that much Thursday knew. It was their killer’s hunting ground. And right at this very moment the predator would be stalking his next prey. 

Dr. DeBryn gave the nod for the victim’s  body to be moved and thus began the careful process of easing it onto the stretcher, which was proving difficult since the body was still stiff with rigor. Eventually it was managed by massaging the limbs into a more malleable position and Ethan Caherty’s body was laid on the stretcher with a sheet drawn over him in a grotesque semblance of sleep. 

Silently, as if drawn to him, Jakes stepped up as the men carried the body past, reaching out for the boy’s hand where the sheet failed to completely cover it. His fingers lightly brushed against Caherty’s pulseless wrist and Thursday could see the shiver travel up the sergeant’s arm, the cold void of magic’s absence too frigid for even his fire to keep at bay. 

Jakes didn’t have to say anything. Thursday knew. 

“He’s the third, then.” DeBryn said cautiously, trying not to sound like he was accusing the inspector of ineptitude. 

Perhaps it would’ve been kinder if he was, Thursday thought. It wouldn’t feel so much like pity then. He failed Ethan Caherty. They all did. After the second victim they knew there would be a third. But by the time they even glimpsed the start of the pattern, the boy had been abducted. 

Jakes stepped away from the body and let the officers ease the stretcher into the waiting transport vehicle. It had been just the same with the others. Magic always left the bodies of the dead and found somewhere else to seek shelter in the world. A cyclic reincarnation. It was no surprise for Caherty’s to be gone. No, the strange bit was that when they found the second victim, he’d been alive. And even still, Jakes had drawn his hand back with a sharp hiss as the cold savagely bit into him. The magic had already left him before he died. 

Taken, Thursday would have thought. But he’d never heard of magic being stolen. Perhaps the magic simply sensed its time was up and passed before the body could die. It was a curiosity he didn’t have time to entertain. 

“We’ll get him, doctor.” Thursday vowed, but that was a half measured promise. They’d get the bastard alright, but when? And after how many more? 

“Yes, I do believe you will.” The pathologist agreed with the same mild optimism, closing the clasps of his leather satchel and rising to his feet. With one last look, a silent moment to mourn the young life lost, he turned away from the bloody stones and headed to his vehicle. “Until then shall we say three o’clock?” 

Thursday could think of half a dozen other things he ought to be doing instead of attending an autopsy. Chiefly, ensuring that three bodies did not become four. He knew what the results would look like. They would be the same as all the others, no question now. If someone lifted Caherty’s shirt they would be sure to find dozens of cute and bruises, evidence of cruel torture. “I’ll send someone to collect the report.” 

In all his years with the police, from London to Oxford, Fred Thursday had seen all manners of violence against magicals and violence by magicals. Brutal crimes of hate and fear against those deemed “unnatural” by non-magicals and “devils” by the God fearing. Once, Thursday would have laughed at the idea of God or gods or anything even remotely supernatural, written it off as just stories people told, but that was before he saw a woman stop an officer dead in his tracks with a single thrust of her hand. 

Before he had a sergeant who could light his cigarettes with the tip of his finger. 

Magic was real. And for years and years it- or rather, the people who possessed it- had been contained within the bounds of a few cities before containment simply ceased to be a viable option. Children with abilities were born practically anywhere and soon the boundaries began to bleed and vanish. Magic did not abide by political lines, only fools hoped it would. 

Oxford had been one such place, and, for a long time, Thursday could see the effects of it on the city. Dreaming spires that reached for the heavens and buildings that all but turned gold in the honeyed beams of sunlight. Flowers bloomed and perfumed the air around them. But beyond the beauty, there was a turmoil that could almost be easy to ignore if it wasn’t his job to spot it. Scorch marks on the sides of businesses, locks warped and broken by metal benders, and all the little things that could occur without leaving a physical mark but existed in his memory like a bad film. Magic was everywhere. Until it wasn’t. Until it slowly began fading, like the wear on a statue or an old painting losing its colour. Until it started bleeding out from a wound invisible to even those with magic. 

And now, it seemed, it was being exterminated.

Ethan Caherty was missing from his rooms at the colleges for two days. Sergeant Jakes took a statement from the tutor at Beaufort who reported Caherty missing when he failed to turn up to a morning session and couldn’t find him in his room. Normally, such a thing would be considered trivial to Oxford City Police. Some students were prone to skipping classes in exchange for the plethora of pubs that always found themselves packed during Michaelmas term as new students poured in and found their sea legs. It wasn’t the CID’s job to make sure they got to class on time. Or sober, even. 

But these circumstances were not normal. Not in the slightest. 

Because the abduction and murder of Ethan Caherty made three. 

He was the third student to go missing from the colleges in the past two weeks to be discovered dead shortly after their abduction. And it wasn’t random. Not by a mile. There was something special about Ethan Caherty. Just like there was something special about Meredith Sharp and Tom Abram. 

Each one of the victims was magical. Meredith Sharp, the first to go missing, could manipulate metals. She worked in a jewelry shop off the Broad and used her magic to fashion bracelets and the like to pay for her degree. Sharp was found dead with her eyes put out and knife marks scattered across her torso and arms. Tom Abram was much like Jakes in that he could summon small amounts of fire. Thursday had encountered a fair amount of embers in his days, arsonists and trouble makers in the main, but Jakes proved to be the exception. He was one of the many embers who were more lackadaisical with their power and simply used it to fuel his smoking habit. Abram had one mark on his record of an accidental fire when he was a child. He’d never done anything to anyone. They found him lying on Catte Street, covered in burns and his eyes seared out. 

Meredith Sharp was dead when they found her, just like Ethan Caherty. But Tom Abram was alive. He died hours later in hospital when the healers couldn’t save him. It was agony to watch. So Thursday had looked away. The shame still had its teeth sunk in him. 

Caherty had been a sleepwalker. One of those magical folk who could put people to sleep with a single touch and supposedly glimpse their dreams, but Thursday had never encountered one with enough power to perform the latter. No, according to Caherty’s mother, he was only a One on the Wisterian Scale, the system developed to rate the strength of magical abilities. It ran from one to five, one being the lowest, and five being- well, unfathomable. Being a One, the most Ethan could do was knock someone out for a minute or two. Came in handy during primary school when he would put his teachers to sleep and run out with the class to have extra recess. 

They were just innocent young people. 

Jakes flicked ash from the end of his dwindling cigarette and took a final drag before crushing it under the heel of his hand tailored shoe. “What now, guv? We can try shaking up Marcus Rodin again, see if he’s being as honest as he says.”

Thursday shook his head, adjusting his trillby and leading the way back to the Jag. “Mr. Bright’s given us strict orders to stay away from the Rodins and anyone on that Council of theirs, not unless we want Division to bring hell to our doorstep.”

“Damn him and his orders.” Jakes said venomously, yanking the door open with a grip on the handle so fierce that Thursday was worried he might get carried away and melt it. “People are dying. The Rodin family has to know something. They’re the ones spearheading this whole “Purge Britannia” political shite. The Council is meant to regulate magicals, not bloody persecute them.”

“I don’t like it any more than you do, sergeant,” Thursday said sympathetically, but the truth of it was that his disdain for the Rodin family could never equal Jakes’ hatred of them. 

After all, Thursday wasn’t magical. His wife and children weren’t. He didn’t know what it was like to fight for the right to even be seen as human. Magicals were treated with fear and loathing by many, viewed as unnatural, as abominations. The Council for Magical Enforcement was a heavy shadow that loomed over all the magicals in England. Use your abilities for crime and you’ll never see the light of day again. 

The Rodin family, consisting of patriarch Malcom Rodin, his son, Marcus, and daughter, Edessa, all occupied strong positions within the Council, but Marcus was a special type of monster. He led a fringe radical group, the Corvus Society, that would sooner see the witch trials return rather than sit idle and discuss legislative policy in a room full of old men only getting older. Violent attacks against magicals in Oxford and graffiti bearing the phrases “PURGE BRITANNIA” and “BURN THE WITCHES” all seemed to lead back to Marcus Rodin and his people. The CID has become swamped with recent reports of nooses and small pyres being left outside of homes and businesses of magicals. 

With elections coming soon and Marcus Rodin’s campaign for the soon to be vacant seat for head of the Council continuing to gain traction, there was every likelihood that these killings were politically motivated, carried out by his supporters. Or perhaps even the man himself. 

The problem was that the Council had half of Division in their pockets. Marcus Rodin was protected. They couldn’t touch him. 

Just as well, considering that if Jakes ever did get his hands on him it would likely leave scorch marks. 

“We need to speak to all the magical students at the Oxford colleges.” Thursday decided as Jakes started the car up and they began heading back to the nick to regroup. “I want a complete list of their names, lodging information, and Wisterian levels by lunch. Maybe one of them has an idea of who’s doing this. Either way, they need to be warned.” 

He assigned himself the task of contacting Dorothea Frazil at the Oxford Mail to run a short piece on the deaths with emphasis on warning magical students to be vigilant and report suspicious behaviour around the colleges. The danger was that Frazil was a silvertongue and a Two on Wisterian Scale, so would likely coerce Thursday into giving an exclusive he had no rights to deliver on. Still, it was a risk he’d have to take. 

“All of the magical students?” Jakes cast him a look. “Sir, there’s got to be a hundred at least. We can’t question them all.”  

Jakes was right. There were dozens of magical students at the colleges. And who was to say that this killer wouldn’t stop until every last one was found dead on the street?

“We have to.” Thursday said adamantly. “Until we catch this man, every single one of them is in danger.” 

———

In the end, it was just shy of ninety students. Eighty seven prospective victims scattered among the current students at the university. 

The task was divided among the colleges, WPCs to Lady Matilda’s, Thursday and Jakes to Lonsdale, and so on. 

After hours of coordination with some rather insufferable dons and a student by the name of Alexander Reece, undergraduate head of the university’s Wisterian Society, at least fifty of the students were notified to meet with officers at the designated locations within the university, the remainder to be sought out at their lodgings by uniform running door to door. 

That was how Thursday found himself rushing into the alcove of the doorway to the Lonsdale library that afternoon as the first freezing drops of autumn rain pelted him from above. Jakes’ long legs ate up the short distance between buildings and he followed Thursday inside, heat radiating from his hands as he worked to dry his suit and hair where the rain dampened them. 

The heavy smell of books and wood hit Thursday in an instant, that trademark scent of the colleges not yet familiar to him from his limited time within the buildings. Academe was not exempt from the gritty touch of crime but it was rare for Thursday to find himself actually going to the colleges to seek someone out, either sending an officer or meeting them at home, catching them off guard. 

Jakes drew in a breath, no doubt longing for a cigarette, but he knew it would be unwise to enjoy one in such a flammable place. Even without his particular ability, his habits posed a similar threat to the rows and rows of books that loomed high above them. 

“Ah, you must be the inspector.” a voice said from Thursday’s right and a young man with hair so blond it was nearly white extended a hand out to shake from the dark folds of his robes. “We spoke on the phone.” 

Thursday shook his hand. “Which would make you Alexander Reece.”

“Alex, please.” the young man said with an easy smile and moved to shake Jakes’ hand. As soon as their skin made contact he arched a light eyebrow, looking rather amused and he withdrew his hand, fanning it in the air like he’d touched something hot- which made sense considering Jakes’ hands had been radiating enough heat to dry his clothes only moments before. “Interesting. You’re one of those hotheads I hear so much about.” 

That almost made Thursday chuckle had Jakes not looked as irritated as he did. Hotheads, firebugs, he’d heard them all. 

“Most people have the sense not to call an ember a ‘hothead’.” The way Jakes said it sounded like a warning.

It didn’t seem to phase Alex Reece one bit. Instead, he shrugged. “It appears that I’m not most people. Follow me, I have the rest of us waiting in the study area over here.” 

“Insolent little sod,” Jakes muttered darkly. 

“Easy, sergeant.” Thursday said placatingly, letting the student lead the way to the other magicals. There was a time and a place and right now they had bigger problems to concern themselves with than picking pointless fights with a mouthy undergrad. 

Alex gestured toward a table with two seats for the officers and a third for whichever student came up first. “Make yourselves comfortable, officers, and I’ll start sending them through.” 

“I understand that Professor Wellman is the faculty head of the Oxford Wisterian Society,” the inspector said as he set his hat down on the table before removing his coat and settling into the seat. “Might we expect to speak to him at some point?” 

The student managed to sound jokingly offended with a slight vein of honesty shot through it.  “You think me a poor representative of our little magic club, is that it?” 

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“No,” Alex said reasonably. “I suppose you didn’t. Unfortunately, Professor Wellman is in a meeting with the Council this afternoon. I shouldn’t expect him to wriggle free of their clutches for at least another two hours.” he turned toward the doorway to the study room that his fellow magicals were waiting in, pausing just for a moment. “There’s only seven of us, is there any particular order you’d prefer?” 

Thursday shook his head and Jakes sat, readying his notebook and pen. “Just send anyone.”

Alex disappeared through the door and moments later a young woman wearing a green tartan dress under her wool robes came through, her gait thrown off balance by the large bag of books she deposited at her feet as she sat before the officers. Her hair was nearly as dark as the wood of the table and wide eyes shone a pale sage. 

It was all too easy to picture her among the dead. 

“Hello, miss. I’m Detective Inspector Thursday and this is Detective Sergeant Jakes.” Thursday shook her hand and she smiled briefly before folding her hands in her lap. “We’re just here to ask you a few questions and then we’ll let you get on with your day, now how does that sound?” 

“Sounds just fine to me.” the student said amicably. 

Jakes cleared his throat. “Name?”

“Alice.” she replied, and Thursday could tell she was staring at the large face of Jakes’ watch, observing the thinnest hand tick second by second. “Alice Vexin.”

“Vixen?”

“Vexin,” Alice Vexin corrected, spelling it out for him. 

Thursday referenced the sheet they had of the students and addresses and located her with ease since she was at the very bottom. Alice Catherine Vexin, aged 21, her address listed as somewhere on St. John Street. Wisterian Scale results and the nature of their abilities were in sealed records that Thursday simply didn’t have the time arguing to get opened, so they would have to settle for interviews and hope they were getting honest answers. 

“Wisterian Scale?” Jakes asked. 

Alice bit her lower lip before responding somewhat meekly. “One.” 

The lowest rating. Unlikely that there was much she could do with her abilities in comparison to others. Jakes was one level above at two but even with the strong nature of his magic he was still limited in power. 

“And what can you do?”

“I can turn back time for a handful of seconds. Up to a minute.” Alice explained, and suddenly it made sense why she was so fixated on Jakes’ watch. Seconds ticking past. Had she turned a few of them back without either of them noticing? “Ironic for someone here reading history. My history is malleable. It means I can never make mistakes.”

Thursday raised an eyebrow at that, his smile lightly teasing. “Prone to them, are you?” 

Alice smiled back without much warmth, her eyes drifting over to the room where the rest of the students sat. “Oh, you’ve no idea.” 

He let the odd comment pass, folding his hands on the tabletop and leaning forward ever so slightly. “Is there anyone odd you’ve noticed around the colleges lately, Miss Vexin? Someone where and when they shouldn’t be? Someone taking an interest in magical students, particularly?” 

“Aside from you two?” Alice joked, then flushed pink when neither of them reacted. “No. Nothing comes to mind.”

“You’re aware of the recent murders, aren’t you?” 

She nodded. “The boy you found this morning, Ethan- he was in one of my classes. He-” her voice cracked ever so slightly and she turned away, blinking back tears. “He was nice.” 

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Vexin,” Thursday said kindly, deciding there were no further questions needed from her. “We’ll contact you if we have any further inquiries. Be careful and let us know immediately if you see anything peculiar around the university, alright?” 

Alice sniffled and laughed dully. “Anything peculiar? You do know we’re magicals. Not a day goes by that we don’t see something peculiar.” 

“You know what he means.” Jakes looked up from his notebook almost impatiently. “Send the next one over, would you?”

The woman flushed again, snatched her bulging satchel from the floor, and hurried away to fetch another student, heels sounding all too loudly on the stones. 

“Alice Vexin, rating one timekeeper, got it.” Jakes tapped his pen against the page, his lip curling sourly. “This is a constable’s job, sir. I don’t know what you need me for.” 

Thursday raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’d much rather have you here than some wet behind the ears constable who’s still afraid of your party tricks, sergeant. Besides, it’s an advantage having you here. If we run into difficulty with a stubborn student maybe they’ll feel more comfortable talking to one of their own.” 

Jakes seemed to accept the answer but didn’t appear all too happy with it. Still, when the next student sat down in front of them the sergeant brightened considerably, an apprehensive look on his face as he eyed the newcomer. 

She was a looker, no two ways about it, all angelic with her honey coloured hair and shining eyes, but Thursday wasn’t about to let himself get fooled by looks alone. Something in his gut told him he had to watch out for this one. His sergeant, on the other hand, appeared positively beguiled, pen and notebook sitting useless in his hands. 

Thursday introduced them both and looked to Jakes to begin, but when he didn’t, the inspector cleared his throat and started instead. “Could I have your name please, miss?”

“My Christian name?” The young woman pursed her lips like she was tasting something sour, smoothing her skirt back as she took her seat. “Oh, must I?”

“Well, that’s typically how this goes, yes.” Thursday tried not to sound irritable, reminding himself that the youth would persist to be impertinent no matter what he had to say on the matter. He cast a glance at Detective Constable Jakes and nearly scowled. Pick your jaw up off the floor. 

“Gwendolyn Bryce-Morgan,” she said with an air of both regality and a disdain for it. “Just Susan will do.” 

“Your rating?” 

Susan’s golden eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I’m not one of them.” 

“Are you quite sure about that?” Thursday paused his writing and cocked his head slightly. There was no other reason she would’ve been gathered by Alex Reece or fetched by Miss Vexin. 

Her eyes hardened and for a moment they were much too bright, brighter than they ought to be. “I’m not one of them.” 

Suddenly, Thursday didn’t even know why they were questioning her. She couldn’t possibly be a magical, all it took was one look at her. He was mistaken, that was it-

A blistering heat flashed along Thursday’s arm where Jakes gripped him and it felt like the equivalent of a bucket of cold water being thrown on him- except briefly scalding rather than freezing. The thoughts vanished from his mind and he was left confused at the idea that he’d even thought them in the first place. Where had they come from? They felt unfamiliar, unrecognizable. Like they weren’t quite his own. 

Thursday felt that when he spoke with Miss Frazil on occasion. He knew what this girl was before Jakes affirmed it. 

The sergeant scowled, looking rather unhappy with someone- possibly himself. “She’s a silvertongue, sir.” 

Susan’s face flushed a delicate peony pink, her eyes wide. “No- I- how?” 

“I know when I’m being manipulated, Miss Bryce-Morgan.” Jakes conjured up a small flame and sent it from his hand, allowing it to dance in front of her face before it dissipated in a small wave of heat that momentarily cut through the chill of the library. It wasn’t a testament to him being a magical. No one could bend Sergeant Jakes’ will, magical or not. 

Susan looked mildly shocked at Jakes’ display and cast a wary look at the inspector as if she expected him to singe her eyebrows off or something equally magically menacing. Jakes had proved himself as a magical, but Thursday had nothing to offer in that regard. When he made no move to show anything otherwise, the young woman seemed to settle down, but no longer made eye contact with the sergeant. 

Thursday now knew his initial instincts about the girl were right, but a question now plagued him about what she hoped to achieve by lying to them. “I’m afraid I’m not prone to the same theatrics as Sergeant Jakes here, Miss, but I would appreciate it if we could continue this conversation candidly. I’d hate for this to have to move to the station.”

She huffed out a sigh. “My parents don’t want me associating with that sort- our sort.” she amended when Jakes gave her a look. “They’re on the Council. C of E, too. So you can imagine why they’re none too keen on me being the way I am. And they especially wouldn't want me talking to the police about it.”

It was a tale Thursday was all too familiar with. Over the course of the past few years alone he must have been called to at least a dozen different domestic disturbances and child abuse cases where religious parents simply refused to fulfill their parental duties and love the child they bore. To them, those with magic were witches and demons, impure and filthy. Thursday still had nightmares about the little boy they found half drowned in a bath by his mother after he brought the dead flowers in their sitting room back to life. Someone kinder had adopted the boy afterward, thank heavens for that, but Thursday made sure to check in as often as he felt necessary. It took all he had not to bring the lad back to his house and let Win mother him until he was well again, but the magical branch of Welfare had taken the matter into their hands.

There were of course, the parents that could manage having magical children so long as they weren’t too overt with the use of their abilities. Based on Miss Bryce-Morgan’s particular talent, it seemed like an easy one for her mother and father to overlook, even while being churchgoing Council members. To them, Susan was just rather good at being persuasive. Nothing magical about that. Denial worked in curious but effective ways, Thursday supposed. 

“Based on our records here, you share a lodging with Miss Alice Vexin,” Thursday pointed out. “How is that ‘not associating’, exactly?”

Susan flicked a wayward strand of hair into place, smiling ever so slightly. It was then that Thursday noticed the diamond ring on her finger that glinted in the light from the high-set windows. “Small acts of rebellion, Inspector. My previous fiancé suited that purpose and a fair few more, but alas I find myself in the position of having to abandon the battles I seem to be losing.”

They were getting far too many irrelevant answers from the woman, but Thursday supposed it was a small miracle that she was becoming much more talkative now. In an attempt to steer the conversation back to more pertinent territory, he tapped his pen on the table and proceeded with the usual questions and warnings- which Susan now answered much more readily. Unfortunately, she too had nothing to say about unusual figures around the colleges. In fact, she didn’t even follow the murders in the papers. 

Three more students came and went, each with as little information as the one before. One student had something to say about an unfamiliar woman she saw around Lady Matilda’s a few days past, but based on the description it seemed to be that of one of the plainclothes WPCs they had stationed to keep watch and be available if something arose nearby. 

“Two more left,” Jakes said, sounding none too pleased about it. “That’s Reece and one more. What’s his name?”

Thursday consulted the list, going down past all the marked names to the unchecked one nestled in the middle of the alphabetized roster. “Lad by the name of Morse. E. Morse.”

“What’s the ‘E’ for, do you think?” Jakes peered at the paper as if it would give some insight, then sat back as the student in question approached the table. “Something horrible, I reckon.”

“Ask him yourself, sergeant,” Thursday suggested humourously, looking up as the young man reached them. 

Something about his appearance threw Thursday off guard immediately. It wasn’t unlike the impression Susan Bryce-Morgan had, the way her looks seemed to inspire distrust in him, except no, it wasn’t quite like that at all. 

The lad was rather thin beneath his student robes with delicately freckled hands protruding from sleeves just a size too big for him, fingers tapping hesitantly on the back of the chair like he was unsure whether he was to remain standing or draw it out. Even in the low light from the cloud covered sun there was a fiery, autumnal element to his hair, both light and dark in places, a myriad of russet browns and golden reds colliding into waves that fell across his forehead. His wide, crystalline blue eyes stared back at the inspector from a smooth, pale face that held a peculiar mixture of curiosity and sadness, two expressions Thursday didn’t often see coexisting, so it was almost difficult to decipher them in his features. 

Suddenly, Thursday understood what had rattled him about the lad’s appearance. Out of all the students they’d seen so far, he was the one out of all of them that truly looked like he was magic. The slightness of his build, the contrasting fire of his hair, the calmer light in his eyes all came together to create an image that was positively fey-like. 

Fey. That was certainly the word to describe him. Win, on the other hand, would simply say he needed feeding up rather than attribute some poetic quality to his looks. 

“Please, sit,” Thursday invited him when it seemed like he didn’t intend to do so without being told. Those svelte fingers closed around the back of the chair and he drew it back from the table, setting his bag down on the floor with the hard sound of heavy books against stone. When Thursday shook his hand he was surprised at how cold the lad’s hand was in. Or perhaps one handshake from Jakes was just enough to convince him that everyone else was positively frigid in comparison to the human source of ignition next to him. Some people just ran cold though. Perhaps this student’s ability was the inverse of Jakes’, something to do with freezing, maybe. “I’m Inspector Thursday and this is Sergeant Jakes. We just have a few questions to ask of you, is that alright, lad?”

He nodded. 

“Name?” Jakes asked with even less of his earlier decorum, clearly ready to leave. 

“Morse,” the lad said in a voice far deeper and softer than Thursday imagined. “Just Morse.” Then he focused those impossibly clear eyes on Thursday and his brow creased as curiosity overtook the latent sorrow etched into his features. “This is about the murders, isn’t it, sir?”

The more he spoke, the more Thursday could detect what he assumed were traces of the north in the lad’s voice. He certainly wasn’t anywhere close to home down in Oxford, that was for certain. 

“Yes, that’s right,” Thursday nodded, sitting forward a bit and folding his hands atop the table. Morse was the first of the students to actually show some form of interest in the case at hand rather than the abject anxiety or apathy of the previous occupants of the seat. With very little hope left, the inspector prayed that he would at least get something useful from this conversation. Something told him he would. “We just have some preliminary questions to ask first, if you don’t mind.”

Morse looked like he did mind, and Thursday could almost see the thoughts racing through his head in the way his eyes creased ever so slightly, but eventually he nodded again, a short tip of his head. 

Jakes coughed into his fist and then shook his pen a bit, trying to get the ink running. “Where are you on the Wisterian Scale?”

He picked at the hem of a jacket that didn’t seem like it could afford much more of that nervous maltreatment. “Three.” 

The scale went up to five, but no one had ever been designated that highest number before. An overwhelming majority of magicals were Ones, and a smaller percentage were Twos, like Jakes. Fours were rarer than hen's teeth. Threes were only just behind. Fred had only come across a small handful in his day and none were very pleasant encounters. It only takes an errant spark to gut a building with flames, but those who had much more than just a spark- well, they could be dangerous. Those were the sort the Council had their eyes on. 

But this thin young man in front of him hardly looked like he could cause harm to anyone. Thursday doubted he could hold more than his own weight if pressed. Beyond that, he just looked innocent. 

As they learned with the Bryce-Morgan girl, however, looks could be deceiving.

Jakes seemed genuinely taken aback by Morse’s answer, arching an eyebrow in mild surprise which for him counted as something of a near severe reaction. “Three, you said?”

Irritation flickered across Morse’s face, this clearly being something he was used to getting. “Yes. Three.”

“And what can you do, lad?” Thursday asked in a kinder tone, genuinely curious. 

Morse let out a sharp sigh. “I can manipulate fields of probability, essentially altering people’s luck or misfortune at will.”

Thursday frowned. “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“I have,” Jakes now regarded Morse with an unreadable sort of apprehension. “Only heard about it, mind. Never actually met one of your sort. Hard to come by, you are. Rare.”

“You could say that.” Morse said, but he was steadily becoming uncomfortable as this line of questioning continued. 

Thursday elected to spare him, moving on to more pressing matters despite his own lingering curiosity as to what Morse’s ability entailed. It was an ever wider range of possibilities considering he was a Three. But now was not the time for that discussion. “How much do you know about the recent murders?”

Morse seemed grateful, brightening a bit as the topic shifted, and Thursday could see an intelligent glint in his eyes now. “Only what I’ve read in the papers. Three students from different colleges, all magicals. The killer keeps them for a few days before disposing of their bodies. He must take them away from the city before returning them.”

Now that was an odd thing to say. Jakes’ eyebrow went higher and Thursday blinked. “How’s that?”

Morse gave them both a strange look like it was patently obvious what he was saying. “Well, all the victims are magical. And adults, some barely, but adults nonetheless. Surely they would put up some kind of a fight with their captor, using their abilities or even just calling for help. If no one’s reported disturbances like that I’d guess it was because there’s no one nearby to even notice. It would be far too risky to keep them in a densely populated area.”

Thursday quickly jotted that thought down in his notebook. “That’s helpful. We’ll certainly have to take that into consideration.”

“You hadn’t before?”

“We’ve been a little busy trying to keep students getting nicked from the colleges to think about what kind of a house our murderer has.” Jakes said a bit snidely.

Morse bristled at that, turning to glare at him. “Well maybe if you altered your focus to include actually finding the killer then you wouldn’t have to prevent so many victims. Did you think about that?”

“Stand down, sergeant,” Thursday ordered sharply before Jakes could resort to one of his fire related shows of intimidation. Something told him that if Jakes did such a thing, Morse would simply induce a bit of misfortune and the sergeant would catch his own sleeve on fire by ‘accident’. “We’re trying our best, lad, but with the lack of evidence we have it’s hard to narrow down our suspect pools.”

Especially since Marcus Rodin doesn’t have a light coloured car registered under his name. 

“What do you know about a man called Marcus Rodin?” Thursday asked. It was obvious that Morse had devoted a considerable amount of time toward thinking about the murders. Perhaps there was a well of knowledge to be tapped here. 

Morse tugged his earlobe thoughtfully, staring off at the space between the two officers. “Rodin. His father is the head of the Council.”

“That’s right.”

“Is Marcus the one with the walking stick?” Morse frowned. “It has a silver crow’s head at the top with a sharp beak.”

Thursday sat even straighter. One of the peculiarities about Marcus Rodin was that he required a walking stick due to a bad break he sustained to his left ankle when a magical attacked him at a public Council meeting many years back. The limp did nothing to hinder his tenacity and if anything, the cane seemed to enhance the severity of his image. The peculiarity wasn’t that he needed a walking stick- no, the peculiar part was that the knob at the top was fashioned into an elaborate crow’s head, complete with carved feathers and a notoriously sharp beak that had led to assault charges brought against him after he slashed a magical across the face during a confrontation on the street. The crow was fitting, considering Marcus Rodin’s group was named the Corvus Society, after all. Thursday would have expected the man to bear more resemblance to his chosen idol, and while he did have sharp, keen features, his hair was brown, not black, and shot through with premature streaks of silver. 

Morse seemed to take Thursday’s expression as an affirmative. “I see him around the colleges from time to time. He comes to speak to Professor Wellman. Argue, mainly.”

Seeing as Wellman was the head of the university’s Wisterian Society, the magical rights initiative, it wasn’t too unusual that he would find himself in conversation with his opposite, especially since the professor wasn’t a magical himself, merely a sympathizer. 

“Do you have any idea what Rodin and Professor Wellman discuss when they meet?” Thursday knew it was a long shot but they’d made it this far. Maybe he’d get- well, lucky. 

Morse resumed picking at the abused hem of his jacket. It didn’t seem like he was nervous, in fact the action just seemed to ground him when he thought or spoke. “I overheard them just the once. It was last term- June, I think. I had a question for Professor Wellman about the existential dichotomy presented by fate in The Iliad,  which I intended to write my term paper on. We’d arranged to talk it over in his office that afternoon. I arrived on time but there was someone else in the room with him, I could hear them from outside the door.”

“Rodin and Wellman.”

Morse nodded. “I didn’t know it was Rodin at the time, I only learned who he was because there was a photograph of him in the papers a few days later. Wellman didn’t seem keen to disclose who the man was, even as he nearly knocked me over storming from the office. Rodin was shouting at Professor Wellman, something about not understanding what he was doing, wasting his time consorting with magicals and helping us. It- it sounded-” 

He broke off, looking both troubled and thoughtful. 

Never has less than two emotions at war, does he? Thursday thought, studying his face. “Sounded like what, lad?”

“I think it sounded like Rodin was trying to recruit him.” 

There was a brief moment of silence.

“Bloody hell.” Jakes said in a low breath. 

Thursday was preparing to ask another question before Alex Reece appeared, no doubt wondering why on earth they were taking so long with Morse in particular when he was still waiting his turn to be questioned. He glanced at his watch and realized they had indeed gone past the time they expected to spend gathering this information and were running precariously close to needing to leave in order to make the debriefing at the nick for how they intended to proceed with the rest of the investigation. No doubt Thursday would be raising some of Morse’s points, particularly about where they should be looking for their killer. Perhaps he could even argue for another stab at Rodin to be arranged.

“It appears we’re running short on time, Mister Morse.” Thursday said, giving the lad an appraising look. “I think- I think I’d like to speak with you further on this matter.”

“I think I’d like that too.” Morse said honestly. “I’m glad to assist in any way I’m able.”

Thursday had Morse check his contact information on the sheet just to make certain it was all correct, the phone number and address not far from the college. There was something interesting about Morse that Thursday couldn’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it was his intuitive nature, the way he thought about the case like it was a logical puzzle, a crossword with answers yet to be filled in but only a handful of possibilities as to what they could be. Morse wasn’t just a potential victim anymore, but a potential aid. Besides, Thursday wondered if there was anything more to the overheard conversation between Wellman and Rodin. He would ask the professor about it, certainly, but it would be helpful to examine his account against Morse’s. Morse, Thursday decided, had no motive to lie. But perhaps Wellman did. 

Morse stood and Thursday shook his hand once again. Still cold. 

“I expect I’ll be contacting you shortly.” Thursday said. 

The corner of Morse’s mouth lifted in what Thursday supposed was a small smile. “I look forward to it, sir. Good luck with your investigation.”

“You couldn’t use that gift of yours to impart some actual luck on us, could you?” Thursday chuckled as Morse shouldered his bag and pushed the chair back in. 

He half meant it as a joke. Thursday didn’t expect Morse to stiffen, his smile dimming and eyes becoming more wary as he looked at the inspector almost...fearfully. After a moment it settled, so brief that Thursday thought he imagined it. Brief, but powerful. Something had happened just then, and he had the sinking suspicion that it was very much his fault. 

“Have a good day, Inspector.” Morse said finally, turning and leaving, his long legs carrying him away swiftly like he couldn’t bear to be there a second longer.

Jakes stared after him. “Strange little bugger.”

“Who, Morse?” Alex Reece asked as he approached them, clearly having heard Jakes even at the distance he was previously at. There was a fondness in the way he glanced over at Morse disappearing through the far doors, like he was a friend. Perhaps he was. “He’s just shy about using his magic. He’s been taken advantage of more times than either of us care to count. It’s the reason he and Wendy are no longer engaged.”

Wendy? Thursday frowned. Then, he remembered something he heard earlier. From Gwendolyn Bryce-Morgan. 

‘My previous fiancé suited that purpose and a fair few more.’ she had said. 

A fair few more. What did that mean? His magic?

“Morse was engaged to Susan Bryce-Morgan?”

Alex snapped his fingers. “Susan! Yes, I keep forgetting she goes by her middle name now. Our families know each other and her parents and mine always called her Wendy. Anyway, yes, Morse was head over heels in love with her, you’d think Eros struck him with an arrow, my god, he was besotted. Alice Vexin and I made up a four with them on a couple of occasions and you could just see it in his face every time he looked at her. I think if you told Morse back then that Susan hung the stars he wouldn’t doubt it for a single second.” 

Thursday wasn’t very comfortable with the way Morse’s personal life was suddenly being flung out in the open but it seemed there was no stopping Alex as he continued to speak animatedly, like he was having great fun narrating the failed love life of his friend. 

“The trouble, of course, is that Susan, like myself, is a silvertongue,” Alex pulled out the chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. “It became no secret to Alice and I that she was using Morse, taking advantage of his ability to procure a bit of luck for herself. He was more of a talisman, I think, than a fiancé. She did well in classes, aced her finals, and had good fortune in so many little things I can scarcely remember. If there was any love left in the relationship it was only from Morse, not from her. She grew tired and broke it off with him at the end of last term, just flung him aside and rekindled a romance with a former sweetheart. They became engaged only a few weeks ago. I think today is the first time Morse and Susan have been in the same room together since she left him. He was absolutely ruined. To have that done to him, to be used for her own gain, just like his father did-”

“I think that’s quite enough, Mister Reece,” Thursday said sharply, putting an end to it before it could get any further than it already had. He began to realize that perhaps Alex’s magic had kept him able to speak without interruption this whole time, compelling them to listen until Thursday’s outrage broke himself loose. 

Alex blinked, surprised, then slowly realization dawned on him. “Oh, my apologies, Inspector, that does happen from time to time. I start speaking and I don’t notice I’ve compelled people to let me continue. Makes me bloody good at debates, rubbish at holding conversation.”

It didn’t sound like much of an apology, but Thursday let it pass. In a way, it was more than just gossip. It was an explanation. No wonder Morse had reacted the way he did when Thursday jokingly asked for him to use his magic for them. How many times had Morse been asked, or in the case of Susan, compelled, to use his abilities for the benefit of others? Did he go through every friendship, every encounter, worrying about the ulterior motives they might hold in having him around? 

Don’t do that, Fred. He chided his impulsive paternal nature. You’ve only just met the lad, don’t go worrying about him like he’s Sammy. 

He spared a moment to thank whatever powers there were in the world that they hadn’t selected his children. That Sam and Joan would have normal lives, without fear of persecution, without this happening to them. 

And in that same moment he felt like the most selfish bastard in the world. Because these victims were all someone’s children. Morse was someone’s child. Thursday’s son and daughter would always be safe from what others were not. 

They managed to keep the questioning rather short after that and sent Alex on his way. 

Chapter Text

After another day and a half with no leads and the mounting dread of another abduction soon to occur, Thursday was beginning to get tired. It appeared that while they succeeded in getting the warning out to the magical students at the university, scarce few had anything significant to offer up in terms of information. 

Morse, it seemed, was the rare exception.

Looking out of the window in his office, Thursday could see that it was another cold, grey day to look forward to. The chill was beginning to sneak through the window panes where the sealant was wearing thin with age and the chill radiated more strongly from the glass than it had in earlier years. Despite the chill from standing so near to the glass, it was worth it for the ethereal sight that met the aged inspector as he looked through it. There was a power line not far outside, and beyond that, there were trees with fiery, brilliant leaves like splashes of blood and honey against the pale grey slate of the cloud covered sky. Bright coloured leaves tore from their branches in the crisp wind, snatched up into the air like embers from a flame. 

And not for the first time that afternoon his thoughts strayed to that fey-like young man with the autumnal hair he met nearly two days ago. 

Thursday ran Morse’s theory past Chief Superintendent Bright and, soon after, a small set of constables were given the task of sorting through property records and electoral registers to locate secluded residences and buildings just outside of Oxford. 

It just so happened that Marcus Rodin’s estate was set in a giant plot of land out by Wytham Wood. Secluded by the river, the forest, and the sheer enormity of the grounds around his manor. If someone were trapped in that house, they could scream until their vocal cords ruptured, and still, if there was not a caring soul in there with them, if their cries weren’t swallowed by the thick stone and glass, no one would be around to hear for acres. 

The perfect prison. 

Yet still, the man was untouchable. 

Thursday’s notebook was burning a hole in his pocket. He’d taken the liberty of copying Morse’s information into it for ease of access, but he kept himself from enlisting the young man’s aid until at least a day had passed since they spoke. Some residual guilt stood in the way of his logic and Thursday felt it was only right to give the man some space before he dragged him back into an unrelenting stream of questions- many of which Thursday suspected Morse did not have the answers to. 

But it was worth a shot. After all, there was nothing to lose by consulting with him. There was only information to be gained and insight to be sought. 

Then, he thought about what Alex Reece said about Morse being constantly used by others, and his guilt built up just a little bit more. 

People’s lives are at stake, Thursday grit his teeth as he pulled out his notebook and dialed the number, each rotation of the dial sharp and forced. You can’t be concerned about hurting the lad’s feelings. 

Couldn’t he?

After the first few rings, Thursday almost hung up. It was likely that Morse just wasn’t home, surely he had classes, a job, even, but just when the fifth ring began to sound it was cut off as someone picked up and a familiar, low voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Mister Morse, this is Inspector Thursday,” Thursday said, feeling some relief that the lad actually answered and hadn’t been abducted by their killer in the past day and a half. “We spoke the other day at Lonsdale.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Morse’s voice seemed brighter then. “I assume this call means we’re to speak again?”

“You assume correctly,” Thursday replied. “Are you free this afternoon? I have some more questions I’d like to discuss with you if you’re willing.”

“I’m free now,” Morse said after a slight pause. “I have an enga- something later in the afternoon, but that’s not for hours. Should I come down to the station?”

Engagement. Thursday noted the hitch. He couldn’t even say the word now. 

Thursday looked out at the anteroom, cluttered with maps and photos, false leads and false hopes, officers clamoring helplessly as they pored over what scarce evidence they had and combed through the thin array of theories and suspects they still had left. It wouldn’t be any calmer in the interview rooms, especially since they were all booked up with malicious liars pretending to be witnesses intending to throw the CID off the trail of the killer, claiming he was doing God’s work or something equally horrid. It was hard to garner sympathy for magicals, especially with Rodin’s growing influence. 

If there really is a God, he wouldn’t do this. Why believe in someone as cruel as that?

He really needed to get out of the station. 

“No, that’s quite alright, Mister Morse,” Thursday shook his head even though the lad couldn’t see it. “I have your address. I’ll be seeing you shortly.” 

“See you then, sir.”

“See you then.” Thursday hung up the phone and noticed Jakes standing in the doorway, taking a drag from his cigarette. Judging by the casual slackness of his stature he’d been there for the past minute or so. Long enough to hear Thursday on the phone.

Jakes gestured with his cigarette secured between his fore and middle fingers. “That the Morse lad from Lonsdale?”

Thursday stood and began gathering his coat and hat, preparing to leave. “I’m going to see if there’s anything further on what went on between Professor Wellman and Marcus Rodin.”

“And pick his brains about an ongoing murder investigation,” Jakes arched an eyebrow, his lips quirked into a disbelieving smirk. “You know if you told him to walk across the Thames he’d sink, right?”

Thursday shrugged on his coat and tucked his notebook back into his pocket, pushing past the sergeant through the door. 

“He’s not going to save us from this mess.” Jakes added snidely, following close behind as Thursday waded through the chaos of the bullpen toward the stairs. “He reads the papers and thinks about them too much. He hasn’t got what we have here.”

At that, he turned around sharply, his sudden helplessness and irritation fusing into anger. “What we have here, sergeant, is nothing.”

Thursday stormed out of the nick with the sound of typewriters and ringing phones echoing in his ears all the way down. 

------

The address led Inspector Thursday to a decent sized brickwork row house on Blackhall Road, just a short distance from Lonsdale and an even shorter distance from the Lamb and Flag which was practically around the corner in a sense. The walls of another one of the colleges rose high on the opposite side of the street from the house and Thursday craned his neck to see the silver strip of sky above between the stone and trees, adjusting his hat before turning to the path up to the house. 

It was clearly a shared house based off the bicycles chained together beneath the portico above the front door and the two umbrellas leaning against each other in the corner, one slightly shabbier than its counterpart. The same could be said of the bicycles, one seemingly newer and the other a bit older, rusting just slightly around the gears. The doormat was miraculously clear of dead leaves, Thursday noted, likely swept off at some point during the day. 

He rapped his knuckles on the door and waited for a few moments before a voice sounded within the house and a latch clicked, the door swinging wide open to reveal a suit clad young man with straw coloured hair and dark blue eyes who, despite the similar slight build, was decidedly not Morse. 

“Oh,” the man frowned, looking at Thursday then down at a bottle of brandy he had clutched in his hand. He set his bottle down on a table just inside the door and blinked curiously. “You’re not Bruce.”

And you’re not Morse, Thursday almost replied in kind. He was sure this address was correct, he checked before leaving the car. Perhaps this lad was one of Morse’s flatmates. “I’m sorry to trouble you, sir, I was hoping to speak to Mister Morse. This was the address I had down for him. Does he live here?”

The young man laughed suddenly, catching Thursday off guard. “Mister Morse! Good God, man, I don’t actually think I’ve ever heard anyone call him that. I must tell Bruce when he gets here, he’ll have a fit! Oh, sorry, I’m being terribly rude-” he extended a slim hand and Thursday shook it. “The name’s Anthony. Anthony Donn. And you are?”

Thursday produced his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Thursday, Oxford City Police.”

Anthony Donn’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Police! Goodness, Morse isn’t in any trouble, is he?”

“None at all, Mister Donn,” Thursday assured him, stowing his card back in his pocket. “He’s just helping us with some inquiries.”

“Well at present he’s helping me set up a party, but do come in.” Anthony stood aside and gestured for Thursday to enter. He closed the door and grabbed his liquor again, holding it to his chest like a fragile infant. “Do mind the floor if you could, Inspector, we’ve only just swept all the leaves out.”

Thursday followed Anthony from the foyer to the large sitting room and looked around at the spacious flat, mildly surprised at how nice everything was. Much of the furniture looked to be brand new or at least in very excellent condition, with polished wood floors covered by rich patterned rugs only slightly wearing at the edges, and nice dark toned wallpaper. There was a bookshelf by one of the windows, half dedicated to gold embossed, uniform spines of expensive volumes of lengthy collections and essays, with a middle shelf stuffed full of records, the turntable not far away on its stand. The other half of the bookshelf was spilling over with well worn novels and reference books. Much of them looked second hand, only a few of them brand new. He thought of the two umbrellas and bicycles on the porch, one slightly newer, and the other a bit more worn. There was much of that contrast in this flat, it seemed. Two different types of people living there. 

Two different types of wealth, Thursday corrected. There was a beautiful looking piano sat in the corner of the room but its cover was down and the only purpose it seemed to be serving was a drinks counter as Anthony returned the bottle of brandy to sit amongst an assortment of alcohol. 

“Have a seat.” Anthony gestured toward an armchair near the window facing the street. He brushed his hair from his forehead and drew in a deep breath, planting his hands on his hips as he surveyed the living room. “I don’t know why I’m even bothering with this mess, everyone’s only coming to get drunk and trash it all over again.”

“Expecting many people?” Thursday asked only for the sake of conversation, making himself comfortable in the chair as Anthony continued organizing. 

“I only invited half a dozen, but inextricably it always ends up doubling,” he explained breathlessly, pulling more bottles from a case in the corner. Then, he flashed a grin. “But I expect that’s what happens when word gets out your father’s the one paying for all the liquor. Deep pockets on that man, bless him. It’s the only thing he’s good for besides cheating on my mother with the house staff at home.”

Thursday wasn’t entirely sure if that last bit was meant to be a joke so he simply didn’t respond, looking around the room in search of Morse as if he’d suddenly appear through one of the doorways or from behind a couch. 

His eyes caught on box of matches and a small tin of paraffin sat on the ground in front of the fireplace, then looked up at the mantle which was decorated with an autumnal bouquet in a crystalline vase and photographs of smiling young men and women in various scenes of familiar college life. Punting, drinking at a pub, and some in the very same room Thursday was sitting in. He recognized Anthony Donn in a few of the photos, along with Alex Reece, Alice Vexin, and eventually, Morse. 

Anthony had his arms full of books that he was pulling from the couch cushions and paused, looking at one of them with some interest. “Morse!” he shouted toward one of the open doorways. “Weren’t you looking for that Camus earlier?”

“Why, did you find it?” Morse’s voice came from where Thursday guessed the kitchen was, followed by the clinking of glasses and metal, like he was fixing up a tray. 

“It was in the sofa!” Anthony called back and hastily shoved the books onto a shelf without any particular ceremony. “Did you see those candles in the drawer like I said? I swear we still had some left from last Christmas.”

There was a loud shuffling and the squeak of wood as a drawer was wrestled open. A few moments later, Morse finally appeared, clutching a large amount of decorative candles in his arms. He was significantly underdressed compared to Anthony, only in slacks and his shirtsleeves, clearly not dressed for whatever party was going on. Since he told Thursday he was available maybe he hadn’t intended on sticking around for it anyway. 

“Here,” Morse dropped them next to the alcohol. “You’ll want to get some plates for these, your father won’t like you getting wax on the piano.”

“I think you’re the only one who actually cares what my father thinks, Morse.” Anthony poured himself a finger of whisky and downed it in one go. 

Morse snorted, smoothing his hair and stretching his shoulders back. “He pays our rent, Anthony, someone has to.” Then, he noticed Thursday, and he cocked his head a bit curiously, looking surprised to see him. “Inspector? I didn’t expect you to get here so soon.”

Thursday rose to his feet and shrugged, crossing the living room to shake Morse’s hand in greeting. “I had nothing pressing at the station and I didn’t want to keep you from your later commitment if we found ourselves running short on time.”

“I appreciate that, sir.” Morse seemed somewhat taken aback by the gesture. “I’ll just, er-”

“I can wait if you’re needed here.” Thursday offered, but looking around he couldn’t really see what else Anthony might need him to help with. The living room seemed to be in perfectly decent shape but, then again, that didn’t speak for the rest of the house. “Or come back another time.”

Morse opened his mouth to answer but Anthony cut him off, waving a hand dismissively. “Morse, if you’ve something to do don’t let me keep you. I’ll be alright here.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Morse actually looked relieved. “I’ll just grab my coat, then. Oh, and Anthony, don’t use any of my records.”

Anthony held his hands up like he was pledging a solemn oath to some ancient deity. “I swear on my honour that your Puccini will not be wasted on the uncultured ears of drunken undergrads.”

That drew a laugh from Morse and Anthony went back to the candles, giving them a once over before heading into the kitchen, presumably to get the plates. 

Thursday followed Morse in the direction of the front door but the lad took a turn and disappeared upstairs in a hurry, leaving the inspector waiting in the foyer. After only a minute or two, Morse returned, now wearing a jacket and tie, shrugging on a light green car coat that seemed far too thin for the kind of weather they were having. 

“No classes today?” Thursday asked as they headed down the path to the car, deciding he couldn’t count on Morse to break the silence. 

Morse shook his head. “Finished them in the morning.” he paused, looking at the Jag, then at Thursday, vaguely apologetic. “I should’ve said about the party, it completely slipped my mind. I don’t actually have anywhere else planned where we could talk.”

Thursday thought that Morse didn’t seem the type to let things slip his mind. Rather, he suspected Anthony had suddenly sprung this upon him and the lad was just too damned polite to slight his friend and flatmate. 

“Ever been to the Lamb and Flag around the corner?” Thursday proposed, and he immediately saw Morse’s face sour instinctively. 

“I don’t drink, sir.”

“Really?” Thursday’s eyebrows rose as he recalled the copious amounts of alcohol Anthony had in their flat. 

Morse nodded. “Really.”

Thursday looked impressed. “Well you’re the first college lad I’ve met who can claim that. They’re usually chucking your sort out of the pubs far after the last bell.”

“If that’s true I expect they’re not my sort, sir.” Morse shrugged. 

“How about a cafe, then?” Thursday suggested, hoping to find some middle ground that would get them out of the cold with drinks in their hands. “I think I saw one near Lonsdale as I came over.”

------

Morse had only been to the cafe a handful of times before. Despite the proximity to Lonsdale, Morse just often didn’t find himself in need of going. Everyone else around him preferred beer and french cigarettes and try as he might, he never could seem to fall into the same stride as them, always a few steps out of pace with the rest. He was happier with the tea tins collecting in his and Anthony’s cupboards, and certainly his wallet appreciated the frugality of his habits. 

The drive was short and hardly even necessary given how close the place was, but it was too cold a day for even Morse’s stubbornness, and he found himself chafing his hands together to keep them warm even in the inspector’s Jaguar. 

It was a nice car, and Morse suspected that thought only entered his mind because of Anthony’s influence. He was always going on about the newest models coming out on the continent, showing Morse catalogues of sleek vehicles with absurd colours, absurd names, and even more absurd speeds. They certainly weren’t things anyone ought to be driving down the streets of Oxford. Then again, the idle rich weren’t exactly known for their practicality.

Blissfully, the inside of the cafe was warm, and the inspector led the way to a small table nearest the window with a good view of the street and the college just adjacent from where they were on Magdalen Street. The floorboards were scuffed and creaked like an old ship but there was something rather comforting about the rugged, homey atmosphere of the place. It wasn’t all overwhelming chaos and din like the pub would be.

Morse hung his coat carefully on the back of his chair as he sat, unbuttoning the front of his jacket, and a pleasant looking young woman came over to take their orders. 

“Just a coffee for me.”  Inspector Thursday said, then looked at Morse. “What about you, lad?”

“Nothing for me, thanks.” Morse shook his head.

The inspector gave him a stern, almost fatherly look of admonishment. “You were half frozen by the time we even got here in that thin coat of yours. Don’t worry yourself, it’s on me.”

“But-”

“Not coffee, then. What are you, an Earl Grey man?” he asked, and he must’ve seen something in Morse’s face because he nodded and turned to the woman. “He’ll have a cup of Earl Grey if you don’t mind, miss.”

“Not at all,” she said with a smile and headed off to fetch their orders.

“You didn’t have to do that, sir,” Morse said awkwardly, resisting the urge to pick at the hem of his jacket. It was the last one he hadn’t worried away too significantly at and he wanted to keep it that way. 

“I know,” the inspector said kindly. “But seeing as I’m going to be asking you a fair few questions and take up some of your afternoon I figured you might as well get a cuppa out of it.”

“What an odd trade.” Morse mused, and the inspector chuckled. He seemed to be a decent man, and something about him made Morse trust him. That was why he’d even agreed to speak again in the first place. Well, that, and to sate his own curiosity about the case. 

There was a fair amount of talk about it among the students but it wasn’t much beyond anxiety and fear that they might be next. Nothing like Morse’s own thoughts on it. Yes, there was that lingering apprehension that shadowed him, but he couldn’t help but wonder about the questions no one else around him seemed to be asking. Am I next? was far less interesting than Why? Why magicals? And what is the killer doing with them?

He suspected the inspector didn’t have all of the answers, but at least some would do. 

Two steaming cups were set down in front of them and the inspector handed over some coins. Morse closed his hands around his cup of tea and couldn’t help but let out a small sigh and the searing heat leached into his cold hands, thawing them right down to the bones. 

The inspector chuckled again. “Now what did I tell you? Get some of that down you, lad, just looking at you is making me cold.”

Morse snorted but took a drink of the tea anyway, finding it slightly more bitter than he usually took it, but he wasn’t going to complain. Not when it was hot and comforting and the inspector had kindly paid for it. 

“So, Mister Morse-”

“Just Morse,” Morse insisted. When he saw the inspector’s face he simply shrugged. “Everybody just calls me Morse. I prefer it, really.”

“Alright, then. Morse,” the inspector tried again. “I wanted to ask you if there was anything else you heard between Professor Wellman and Marcus Rodin that day. Anything you think might be relevant.”

“I really didn’t hear all that much,” Morse said regrettably, and he cursed himself for not thinking more of it at the time. “They were just finishing up by the time I got there, but Rodin seemed to be trying to persuade Professor Wellman to join his cause. He said that Wellman’s talents were being wasted on the losing side and that he could use someone like him in his campaign.”

Inspector Thursday looked shocked. “Those were his exact words?”

“They stuck with me,” Morse said, lifting his shoulder in the barest of shrugs. “Professor Wellman seemed agitated after Rodin left, but he never said anything to me. Or Alex Reece, as far as I know.”

“I see.” Thursday nodded. It wasn’t the holy grail of information he was looking for, but it was his own fault for getting his hopes up so high. 

Morse took another sip of his tea, blowing on it just a little to cool it down. From the way his brow knit, Thursday could see that the lad was troubled about something. 

“What is it, Morse?”

The lad clutched his tea cup tight, his knuckles going white from the tension. “I told you the other day that I’ve seen Rodin around the colleges on occasion.”

Thursday nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

Morse drew in a breath. “He spoke to me once. I was leaving the library one night at the beginning of this term, and suddenly something cold and sharp hit my hand. Rodin was leaving after me and caught my wrist with the head of his walking stick.”

He saw Morse absently massage his wrist as he said that, and a sick feeling formed in his stomach as he realized that the bastard had likely cut him in the process. That damned crow of his was a weapon. Thursday held back a vile curse and let Morse continue speaking.

“I recognized him immediately and I worried he remembered me from outside Wellman’s rooms.” Morse said quietly. “I still don’t know if he did. But he just said I was lucky to have someone like Professor Wellman supporting me. It sounded like he found that funny. And the way he said ‘lucky’- I don’t know, I just think he knew.” 

“Rodin knew about your ability?” Thursday felt a cold wave of dread begin to trickle down his spine. Not even the university’s records office held that information. Only the Wisterian Society would have access to something like that. Only someone like Wellman. 

“I can’t be sure,” Morse admitted, but he looked concerned. “It was just that word. I don’t exactly hear it often, but I know when people are using it as a joke around me. And that- it felt like he was doing just that. Making a joke.”

Thursday sat back in his seat and stared out of the window for a few moments, trying to process what the possibilities were there. Would Wellman have told Rodin what Morse was? And why? What reason could he have for doing that? More to the point, what if Morse wasn’t the only one?

But no one reported any of the other students having encounters with Marcus Rodin. Not outside protests, anyway. 

So it was just Morse.

He didn’t like that one bit. 

The information troubled him, but it was something Thursday could use. If Wellman really told Rodin what kind of abilities certain magical students had- or even just told him which students were magicals- maybe Rodin used that. Maybe that was how he picked his victims. Bright would have to let Thursday investigate Rodin. Division couldn’t protect a murderer forever. 

There was still the possibility that Marcus Rodin wasn’t the killer, but at this point Thursday didn’t have anyone better for it. The man fit. He had the motive. He had the means. 

If only they could get a hold of that walking stick of his, that malicious crow’s head cane. Thursday wondered what would happen if they compared the sharpened beak to the cuts on the victim’s bodies. It would surely match. 

But apparently he was beyond untouchable, barring Thursday actually catching him in the act. He really hated bureaucracy. 

“What-” Morse swallowed nervously. “What do you think he does with them? The murderer.” 

“He kills them.” Thursday said lightly, deliberately skirting over the real question Morse was asking. 

“I know that.” Morse almost sounded exasperated. “But what does he do while he has them? The papers say he keeps them for nearly two days. There has to be a reason.”

“He appears to be torturing them.” the inspector replied reluctantly. “To what end, I don’t care to say.”

Morse drank his tea, staring quietly at the table. It wasn’t the answer he was hoping for. 

“What do you think he does?” Thursday prodded, deciding it was worth getting what insight he had. “You must have some idea, surely.”

“I-” Morse began to speak but then he looked up and froze, staring at something over Thursday’s shoulder.

He turned around in his seat and followed Morse’s gaze, his eyes landing on a couple taking a seat at a vacant table nearby, both man and woman bearing a silver feather pin on their lapels. The kind Rodin’s supporters wore. 

No wonder Morse looked apprehensive. If they had any idea who was sitting two tables away from them- well, Thursday was glad that he was a police officer. 

Still, it wasn’t safe to talk about Rodin now, especially when some of the man’s own were in the cafe now. Thursday was sure that if he looked around, he might even see more. Oxford was becoming infested with his lot. It was sickening. 

“Finish your tea, lad,” Thursday suggested gently, reaching for his own coffee that was now going slightly cold. “Let’s go for a walk.”

------

Thursday left the car in front of the cafe and decided that they should go across the street to Lonsdale and take a walk around the college. Part of him was hoping to spot Rodin lurking around and corner him, but another part wanted to find Daniel Wellman. He and Jakes weren’t able to catch him that day they were at the library with the students, and when Thursday called him to schedule a meeting, Wellman said he was too busy and suggested he speak to Alex Reece if he had any inquiries regarding the Wisterian Society. Thursday didn’t want to speak to Alex after what he’d unrightfully divulged about Morse and decided he would just have to wait until Wellman was available. 

Morse went on ahead of him, shoulders hunched inward against the chill as he quickly forged across the street toward Lonsdale. He turned around once he reached the pavement, waiting for Thursday to catch up to him. He was halfway across the street when he saw Morse’s eyes widen and he shouted, throwing his hand out toward Thursday. 

“Inspector!”

Everything happened much too quickly after that. A sudden strong gust of wind knocked his hat from his head and Thursday lunged forward to catch it. As he went, however, his foot caught on nothing and he tripped, quickly going sprawling into the other lane. 

Just as a speeding car blared its horn and raced past where he was standing only a few moments ago. 

Thursday’s heart pounded heavily in his chest as blood roared past his ears. His vision blurred as he shakily got to his feet and retrieved his hat, staring in silent shock at the car that would have hit him if he hadn’t accidentally pitched forward into the opposite lane. 

No, it wasn’t an accident, it was-

It was sheer luck. 

Morse ran into the street and grabbed Thursday’s arm, pulling him onto the pavement as quickly as he could. His blue eyes were wide with fright, pale face flushed pink with exertion, looking almost as much of a mess as Thursday himself. The second he let go of his arm, the inspector fell heavily into the nearest wall to support himself, still trying to recover from the shock.  

“That was you,” Thursday breathed heavily, staring at the lad in front of him. He didn’t need to be told, he just knew. “You made my hat blow off. You made me fall out of the way.” 

“You got lucky.” Morse said in a way of a response, the corner of his mouth tilting into a wry smile, but it did little to conceal the remnants of worry. 

“You saved my life.” Or at the very least, spared him grievous injury.

Morse went quiet at that, staring down at the pavement while Thursday gathered himself together. He could see a curious crowd of witnesses beginning to form and took that as their cue to leave, touching Morse’s shoulder lightly to get his attention, letting him know it was time to go. 

The lad didn’t say anything as they walked toward Lonsdale College, lips pressed together in a thin line. Thursday had only about a thousand questions to ask him, but decided it wasn’t for him to pry. Something had come over Morse after he used his magic and it had dragged him into this silence. 

It wasn’t until they passed the porter’s lodge and arrived in the college quad did Morse finally speak again.

“It’s been a while since I did something like that.” was all he said. 

Students rushed past them in the cloister, hurrying to their classes, and someone accidentally hit Morse’s shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance. This time it was Thursday’s turn to catch him, leading them both to a nearby bench facing out into the green. 

The cold wasn’t so bad with a bit of shelter keeping the biting wind at bay for the most part, only slivers of it slipping between the columns and reaching them. The wind stirred Morse’s light hair, sending it across his forehead in a messy wavy of golden red, but he made no move to fix it, still stuck in that strance of his. 

Thursday didn’t think it was a direct result of his magic, not the way Sergeant Jakes’ hands stayed warm even after the fires went out. This was something in Morse’s mind, something he couldn’t quite shake off. 

“Talk to me, Morse.” he implored, speaking in the same tone he would use with Joan or Sam when he needed them to open up about something, whether it was a bully at school or one of them having broken a plate. Thursday wanted Morse to speak to him, get whatever it was off his chest. It was the least he could do for the lad since he’d all but saved Thursday’s skin a few minutes ago. 

Morse crossed his arms over his chest, tucking his hands in his underarms to keep them warm. His cheeks were already starting to redden from the cold, nearly blotting out the light smattering of freckles across his face. He made no move to say anything, merely staring out at the quad, brow creased, like he was thinking about some grand, unsolvable problem. 

Thursday sighed. He didn’t want to pry but Morse needed to say something. Anything. So he asked one of his thousand questions. 

“Was that the first time you saved someone’s life?”

That got his attention. Morse glanced at Thursday briefly, then turned his focus to the ground, watching as small, rust coloured leaves skittered across the stone. 

“That was probably the tenth.” Morse said quietly, his low voice barely resonating in the now empty cloister. 

“What do you call someone who…” Thursday wasn’t sure how to put it. “...can do what you do?”

He actually laughed at that. A single sharp laugh that echoed harshly around them. “Cursed.”

“You can’t mean that.” Thursday frowned. “Not after what you just did for me today.”

Morse drew in a shallow breath and closed his eyes, nearly translucent lashes fluttering against his skin. “I used to use my magic all the time. Especially when I was a child. Turns out a little bit of luck can go a long way for some people. If someone was kind to me, maybe they’d find a few coins on the ground walking home, or maybe a health check they were worried about would go well. I could make people narrowly escape injury, give them good fortune when they needed it. But when my mother took ill… I couldn’t help her. All the luck in the world couldn’t keep her death from coming.”

The inspector didn’t know what he was supposed to say to that. There was no condolence in the world that he could offer without it sounding like something cheap and overused. He couldn’t imagine what it must have been like, being a child and having your mother take ill and you thinking that you could’ve saved her. Because you saved others. But not her. 

“You were just a child.” he decided to say. “That wasn’t your burden to bear.”

His lips twitched into the briefest of smiles, sorrowful, with no warmth behind it. “I know that now. But then- it was enough to break me. Even in the end, she- her last words were to tell me that she loved me. That it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t save- ” Morse took another breath, appearing to battle with himself for a moment before continuing. “I went to go live with my father after that. He was- is- the religious sort, but he didn’t seem to mind that I was a magical. My stepmother bullied me endlessly for it, but not him. I think- I think that’s what made it a little more bearable. Her abuse was tempered by his favour. I didn’t learn until later that he only cared because of what he could get out of me.”

Thursday remembered what Alex Reece said the other day about Susan using him, just like his father had. “He took advantage of your magic.”

Morse nodded, just a slight dip of his chin. “He liked to gamble. Horses, that’s his poison. He’d take me with him to place his bets, and it didn’t matter which horse he chose, or how experienced the rider was. I always made sure he won. Another horse would throw a shoe and the one he bet on would take the lead. Things like that. I never really caused them to happen specifically, the influence of the fortune and misfortune I put out would just simply run its course.”

“If you’d been caught-”

“It was wrong, I know,” Morse said quickly, and there was a brief flash of worry- fear?- across his face. “But I was young, and living in that house-” he blinked rapidly and his throat bobbed like he was holding back tears. “I thought it was a small price to pay for the slightest bit of affection. He was happy when he won. He bought my stepmother and their daughter nice things. But I grew up, and I realized it wasn’t right, and that it wasn’t love. He was angry, but at least I thought I could live with myself. Until-”

He shook his head and cleared his throat once, looking away sharply. “Anyway, it took some time to figure out, but I learned that I can never seem to use this magic for myself. I’ll always be misfortunate. Cursed. I thought my luck had changed when I met-” Morse’s voice broke then. He didn’t have to say it. Thursday knew. When he met Susan. When he fell in love. “I can help others, it seems. But I can never quite save myself. Tell me that’s not a curse.”

Thursday saw his fair share of misery in his line of work, but never had he seen anything close to the abject hopelessness on the face of the young man beside him. Now, he understood why nearly all of Morse’s expressions were tinged with intrusive, persistent sorrow. The one person who ever seemed to truly love him was his mother, and he lost her so early, only to be thrust harshly into an unloving- dare he say, manipulative- home. He used his gift for others in exchange for false love, like it was the closest thing he believed he could get, the closest thing he thought he deserved. 

In that moment, he wanted to forget the whole investigation. Thursday wanted to take Morse by the arm, shepherd him back to the car, and take the lad to his house for tea and let Win fuss over him endlessly until he got a taste of what actual family and love was supposed to be. No wonder he looked so uncared for. Aside from being surrounded by parasites, Morse must surely hold immense trepidation toward letting people close to him. It was nothing short of a miracle that he seemed to trust Thursday to even the small extent that he did.

How misguided that trust was. Thursday was no better than them. He’d been using Morse for information, but how different was that really? 

Morse dried his eyes on the back of his hands and sat forward, leaning his elbows heavily on his knees. He let out a breathless laugh and shook his head. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. In all my twenty one years I don’t think I’ve actually told any of that to someone before.”

“You just needed to get it out.” Thursday rubbed his hand up and down Morse’s back comfortingly, unnerved by how easy it was to feel the knobs of his spine even through three layers of albeit thin clothing. “Maybe you ought to go to that party your friend’s hosting, might do you some good. Cheer you up to no end.”

Morse laughed again, but this time there was genuine mirth behind it. “No. Anthony- Anthony’s a good friend, but his parties are certainly something I could care less for. His father’s the Earl of Marston, he runs with that sort of crowd. I never know if I’m supposed to m’lord or m’lady it around them, it gets rather tedious.”

Thursday chuckled at that. “I take it he’s not gifted like you, then.”

“Gifted.” Morse scoffed. “Damned is more accurate. And I don’t just mean me.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

Morse turned to face him. “Why do you think they call it the Wisterian Scale? Or the Wisterian Society? Why is that name attributed to my kind?”

Thursday shrugged. “Some bloke’s surname I’d have thought.” 

It was half meant as a joke, but Morse didn’t seem to get it. Instead, he raised his slender arm and gestured out in front of them. “Look around, Inspector.”  

So Thursday looked. He saw a few students and professors walking in the cloister across the green. He saw stretches of silver sky above the rooftops. But what caught his attention were the bursts of rich coloured leaves growing on the vine-like trees scattered all around the walls and growing up along the buildings. The leaves were gold, tinged at the edges with red and orange, like they were somehow impossibly rusting- or bleeding. 

He knew that in the spring there would be clouds of delicate purple flowers in their place, floating up along twisting branches and curling around windows and columns, brightening the space with beautiful blooms of wisteria. 

Morse seemed to pinpoint the exact moment Thursday understood. “Wisteria are everywhere. The walls of the colleges, houses, buildings. Decades of human construction slowly devoured by these beautiful snares.” He glanced sideways at the inspector. “They’re poisonous, did you know? People- children, mainly- and animals accidentally consume the seed pods and find themselves in a great deal of pain. Wisteria are beautiful to admire, but get too close-” He gave a tired sigh. “That’s how we’re meant to be seen. Dangerous and beautiful products of nature. The Council trims us back to keep us overtaking non magicals, but we’re not threats. The threat comes when they try to get a taste for themselves. And they find how easily beauty can burn.” 

It was downright poetic, the way Morse spoke about it, and Thursday could hear every inflection of emotion and thought behind the words, like it was something he mused about many times before. Poetry aside, there was more meaning to what he said, the way his voice had seemed to catch on that last part. It was out of place with the rest, unfamiliar. New. 

“Is that what you think our man is doing?” Thursday asked, sitting forward and mimicking Morse’s position. “Trying to get a taste for himself? What does that mean here?”

Morse shrugged his bony shoulders. “You’re the police, you tell me. I never claimed to have all the answers, Inspector.”

You know if you asked him to walk across the Thames he’d sink, right? Jakes words echoed in his ears. He expected too much of Morse. The lad wasn’t an all knowing sage, he was just a student who chose to cooperate. 

And saved Fred’s life. 

In fact, the information about Wellman may very well save his case against Rodin. 

Thursday wouldn’t have thought himself capable of getting so lucky, but then- well, that was what Morse did. 

Across the quad, Thursday could see Alice Vexin and her large, awkward bag of books as she rushed down the cloister opposite the one they sat in. Odd, to see a timekeeper running late. Perhaps she’d magic herself a few seconds once she made it to class. 

If Morse saw her, he gave no indication of it, staring at the floor as he picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his jacket. “You don’t have any more questions, do you, Inspector?”

He had more than a dozen. Thursday didn’t know much about magicals other than basics and Jakes wasn’t exactly a fountain of information on the subject. There were things the sergeant liked to keep to himself, but aside from that he wasn’t very involved with the magical community to Thursday’s knowledge. Speaking with Morse… well, it was the first time that Thursday actually sat down with a magical who was this willing to talk. And as knowledgeable as he was at that. 

“Why are there so few of you in the colleges?” Thursday asked, thinking about the numbers from the other day. “This city used to be the epicenter of England’s magical community, you’d see them all around. And now…” 

A few dried out wisteria leaves blew past his feet as if to emphasize the point. 

Morse’s expression was grim. “People like Marcus Rodin happened. Cambridge actually offers protections for magical students, and Oxford nearly followed if not for him. London is so integrated these days, half the population must be magical. The only reason Oxford was an ‘epicenter’ is because it was made that way, because in the beginning they- we- were kept here.”

Thursday thought back to the days of containment he heard so much about, when men were foolish enough to think that something like magic would obey their fickle political boundaries. When cities were prisons and magic was a crime in itself. 

“There’s safer places out there for people like me.” Morse continued, and he almost sounded wistful, his eyes soft and a bit saddened. “Better ones. Where magic still lives. It’s dying out here, but I- I can still feel it sometimes. Like slowing heartbeat. The Rodins are winning. Oxford is their ground zero. If they can purge this city of magicals then they can do it to others, and soon we’ll be back to where we started. Hated and alone in the cold.”

The image of Ethan Caherty’s body flashed across Thursday’s mind and he remembered Jakes’ reaction to the cold absence of the boy’s magic. Tom Abrams in hospital, barely lucid, delirious and in much more pain than his injuries seemed to account for. 

“It’s… cold,” Jakes had said, cradling his hand to his chest as he worked to nurse some warmth back into his shaking fingers. Someone had thrown a blanket over him and they sat outside of the Abram boy’s private room as magical healers and normal doctors alike did their best to strengthen the resolve of whatever failing tether was managing to keep him attached to life. “Cold like you’ve never felt cold. It’s like…you’ve been hollowed out…and dropped in the dead centre of the coldest sea. The emptiness is enough to rip you apart, only your skin is holding all of it in.”

All he did was hold Tom Abram’s hand for a single second. The sensation had washed over Jakes as soon as their hands touched, and he violently recoiled from the crippling contact, falling back over a chair in his shock. Nothing shocked Peter Jakes. Not like that. 

That was when Thursday realized that all the healers were wearing gloves. No skin contact. They could feel it too. The chasm within Tom Abram that was ripping him apart. But there was nothing to be done about it. 

Could this be connected to what Morse was talking about? That cold absence of magic? Not just in the victims, but affecting the city as a whole? He’d never heard of such a thing, if it was even possible. Cities didn’t feel pain, they didn’t have hearts. Not like people. 

But somehow, Thursday knew he was right. He noticed the change at times, days when the buildings seemed paler and the leaves less vibrant. Was it really magic’s ebb and flow? 

“Does your friend Alex Reece know about this?” Thursday inquired. “It seems like you’re the one who ought to be running things with the Wisterians rather than him.” 

The lad scoffed at that. “The only thing Alex Reece is concerned with is climbing the ladder of academe. It suits him to have more magicals in the university to give him a leg up against the bigots.”

Thursday tilted his head. “All the more reason for you to throw your hat in the ring.” 

Morse reached a hand up to rub the rust coloured curls at the nape of his neck, staring off in thought. “I expect I wouldn’t be much good at it, to be honest.”

“You have a first class mind, Morse.” Thursday said, half in disbelief at the fact that he couldn’t seem to recognize that. “Of course you’d be good.”

Alex Reece’s first impression did nothing to endear himself to the inspector and while he did hold an authoritative air to him, there was something off-putting about his charm. There was more to leadership than social prowess and oration. You had to actually know what you were talking about. 

Morse smiled a little awkwardly at the praise. “That’s nice to hear. Although I don’t see myself hatching any plans to usurp Alex, especially since he’s meant to be giving a big speech at the meeting tonight.”

Thursday raised an eyebrow. “There’s a Wisterian Society meeting tonight?”

From what he knew, they only met once a month, typically in concurrence with Council meetings. And there was already a meeting not more than a week ago. 

“Much of the same.” Morse gave a small shrug. “I normally wouldn’t bother attending, but apparently Professor Wellman is going to be making a statement on the recent events affecting the magical community in Oxford.”

“The murders.”

A nod. 

Thursday could have laughed. Professor Wellman couldn’t even find the time to meet with anyone with the police yet he was going to give a statement on the murders with hardly any background. He expected the professor to have at least reached out beforehand, but no. 

Still, it was helpful to know exactly where and when Daniel Wellman was going to be later in the day. If he couldn’t meet with Thursday, the inspector would just have to search him out. He needed to know what the bloody hell was going on between him and Marcus Rodin.

And, how Morse fit into it all. 

“This meeting,” Thursday said, flipping open his notebook. “It wouldn’t happen to be open to the public, would it?”

Chapter Text

“I can name about five other things I’d rather be doing right now,” Jakes grumbled as he and Thursday took their seats in the lecture room at Lonsdale College, watching as a small handful of students filtered in around them.

Thursday could agree with that, but it didn’t matter that he would much rather be at home smoking his pipe in the dining room as Joanie and Sam did their schoolwork and he tried his utmost to help where he could between being called by Win to help out in the kitchen. But today was the day that didn’t seem to end. He’d dropped Morse back at his flat before returning to the station to finish off the shift, but it all felt wasted there. It was a blessing that the meeting wasn’t until just slightly later so he managed to drop home for a few minutes and give Win a kiss on the cheek before heading back out. 

He didn’t need to explain it to Win. She read the papers. She let him talk once the kiddies were safely in bed, too far away to hear. She knew what was at stake. A few peaceful nights at home would have to be sacrificed, but it was a small price to pay all things considered. 

Jakes had reluctantly agreed to go along with him, both as backup and an extra set of eyes. For him, this meant sacrificing a night at the pub with a few of the blokes from the station, but Thursday knew he was just as motivated to catch this killer as him. They both wanted to nail Marcus Rodin to the wall. The only way to get to him at this stage, however, was through others. Morse had led them to Daniel Wellman. Now Wellman, in turn, would lead them to Rodin. 

Well, that was the idea. 

“Oi, walking four leaf clover incoming,” Jakes smirked, nodding his head toward the door. 

Sure enough, when Thursday turned his head he saw Morse entering the room, thin coat folded over his arm and coppery hair combed much neater than it had been earlier in the day. Thursday had half a mind to call out to him, but before he could even complete that decision, Alex Reece appeared and took Morse by the elbow with a broad smile, leading him over to the row of seats nearest the podium. 

Morse draped his coat over the back of the uncomfortable chair with a small sigh, casting a cursory glance over the small audience before settling down. He didn’t much care for this particular lecture room, not at night, anyway. With the dark walls, wood floor, and wide windows showing little but darkness beyond them, it all felt a bit claustrophobic at times. But seeing as the professor who used it graciously granted the Wisterians permission to use it after classes there wasn’t much to be done. It was this or Professor Wellman’s classroom, but it had been deemed too small by Alex Reece despite it being a perfectly acceptable size. Morse would have preferred to be surrounded by Wellman’s shelves of old books and mismatched lampshades rather than this minimalist void. Chairs, desk, podium, lights. The windows didn’t even have curtains. 

Alex had made his usual mistake and put out far too many chairs than necessary, anticipating numbers that never seemed to occur anywhere outside of his hopeful imagination. The larger number of chairs and the smaller amount of people only served to make the audience seem…emptier. 

Not that many people came to Wisterian Society meetings to begin with. Aside from the broad lack of support, it wasn’t as if anything was ever accomplished anyway. It was all preparation for proposals to be brought before the Council, but hardly any managed to pass. People just weren’t interested in revoking the perception of criminality from magicals. A wage issue in a local guild or other had been resolved last month, a tiny victory in the face of it all. 

He looked to the ornate clock on the wall as Alex busied himself arranging papers at the podium. Two minutes to go until the meeting was called to order. 

Morse turned around and glanced over the audience again. More students had trickled in and filled up the seats, but there was no sign of Professor Wellman. It wasn’t like him to not be early. Even with two minutes to go that was late by the professor’s standards. 

Who he did notice was Inspector Thursday and his colleague, Sergeant Jakes, sitting at the far back row like sentinels at a perfect vantage point to see everything going on in the room. If not for Alex, Morse would have thought to sit somewhere near there. Without a wall to his back Morse felt unnervingly exposed. Four rows of people behind him didn’t feel comforting in the slightest. So he settled for sitting at the edge of his row with a clear view of the door at the front of the room, just paces behind the podium. 

Another small group of students filtered through the door, and with some surprise Morse realized that they might actually meet near capacity for this session. There were many people that he didn’t recognize, but given that it was open to the public there were bound to be strangers among them. He picked out Alice Vexin in her green peacoat as she entered and her eyes lit up upon seeing him. She gave a little wave and smiled, making her way over. 

Morse couldn’t help it. He looked past her at the other women, half expecting to see a flash of golden hair among the dark coats, but there wasn’t. Susan never came to these types of things. He should have felt thankful for that, but the hollowness in his chest only seemed to expand. 

Alice gestured to the seat beside Morse, her dark hair bouncing slightly in the loose curls she’d worked to style them in, a hopeful smile on her face. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no,” Morse shook his head, indicating she sat. “Please, by all means.”

“Alice, love, you didn’t happen to see Professor Wellman in the corridor did you?” Alex leaned over the podium towards her as she shrugged her coat off and draped it over the seat. His near white hair seemed to absorb some of the light from the lamps, gaining more colour than it usually held. There was a slight tinge to his face, a nearly imperceptible flush from nerves. He was getting worried.

“No, I didn’t,” Alice shook her head and glanced toward the clock. Less than a minute to go. Her dark brows furrowed in concern. “He’s not here yet? That’s not like him.”

Alex sighed and dragged a hand over his face, looking out at the now substantial gathering. “Well with any luck he’ll be here within the next minute, otherwise I’ll have to kick things off myself.” His eyes glinted and he looked to Morse almost expectantly. “Speaking of luck, Morse…”

Normally, he would have denied the half spoken request, but he thought about Inspector Thursday’s desire to speak to Wellman. The professor would actually have to be there in order for it to occur. 

Morse closed his eyes and a familiar warmth seemed to snake up his spine as he willed his magic forth. “He’ll be here.”

“Good man, Morse.” Alex thanked him with his usual grin, looking over to the door expectantly. 

Just as the hand on the clock hit eight, Professor Wellman’s tall figure appeared in the doorway and he rushed into the room, setting his briefcase and coat on the desk, looking as composed as he could be despite his unusual tardiness. He was without a jacket as usual, only wearing a waistcoat over his shirtsleeves which he was working on rolling up neatly to his elbows. Alex turned away from the podium to exchange a few hushed words with him as the professor hastily ran his hands through his dark hair in an attempt to make himself more presentable despite his deliberately casual attire. He patted Alex on the shoulder and took his place at the stand, clearing his throat and effectively silencing the room. 

Morse could see the moment Professor Wellman noticed the two policemen in the back of the room and his blue eyes lit with mild surprise. He certainly hadn’t been expecting to see them, but if he was in any way bothered by their presence he didn’t show it in the slightest. 

“Good evening all, and thank you so very much for joining us tonight,” Wellman began, his tenor voice sweeping across the small room as a pleasant smile worked its way across his weathered face and he turned his gaze to the rest of the audience. “I understand many of you had reservations about the timing so late at night due to recent events and I appreciate the efforts toward attendance even more with that in mind. We’ll certainly try to make this worth your time while also keeping it short so we can get you out of here as soon as possible. Mister Reece here has prepared a speech in my place, but I will be open for questions once he has concluded.” Wellman’s fingers tapped the edges of the podium idly.  “I see we also have some special guests sitting comfortably in the back, perhaps they may feel inclined to join us in the front at some point.”

Morse could hear the shuffling around him as people turned to glance at the two policemen, but he didn’t look himself. Was this good? If they’d entertained any hopes of being inconspicuous those hopes were certainly dashed, so perhaps not. But at least something would come of it. 

“Alex, if you would…” Professor Wellman stepped back from the podium and waved Alex forward, drawing the chair out from behind the desk and taking a seat just off to the side. 

Alex began speaking, but Morse couldn’t find it in himself to listen, instead turning his focus to Wellman who had crossed one leg comfortably over the other, sitting back and watching Alex deliver his speech. 

Open for questions. Morse wondered what he would say if asked about his conversations with Marcus Rodin. Would he deny them, or would there be a perfectly reasonable explanation?

Morse wasn’t able to shake the lingering idea that somehow Rodin knew something about his magic. From their interaction outside of the library not too long ago, Morse couldn’t really take it any other way. It made no sense, really. Yes, it was possible he’d been recognized as the student outside of Wellman’s office during their argument, but that didn’t give him reason to know about the nature of Morse’s abilities. 

But, then again, he could just be overthinking things as usual. Lucky. It wasn’t an uncommon word. It could very well be just coincidence and his own paranoia was getting the better of him. That was more likely than Wellman, for some unknown reason, providing one of the most unstable and hostile threats toward magicals with classified details on one of his students. 

At some point, Morse realized that his staring had not gone unnoticed. Wellman was looking back at him with tired eyes, but beyond the deep lines on his angularly thin face there were hints of amusement and curiosity, like he was wondering what on earth Morse was possibly looking at. The corner of Professor Wellman’s mouth tilted into a smile and he very slightly nodded his head toward Alex as if to say ‘ eyes on him, not me’. 

He did his best to focus on Alex’s speech, but it was too full of abysmal platitudes and baseless assurances to be anything close to engaging in terms of content. Everyone else must have been enraptured, due in no small part to his ability, but Morse had been around him long enough to learn how to tune out the effects of it. 

It was nearly halfway through when the lights went out and plunged the room into darkness. 

There was an immediate reaction as people began shuffling and muttering nervously and Morse felt Alice’s hand grip his suddenly in the dark as she gasped. The lights flickered back on as soon as they had gone out, but the room was not as it was before. 

Rather, the audience wasn’t.  

At least ten people were standing now, spreading out to stand along the perimeter of the room like an ominous sentry and Morse turned in his seat to see the middle two rows entirely cleared out where they all had sat innocuously just moments before. Unsettlingly, all the people standing were clad in all black from their coats to their shoes, men and women alike, and were clasping silver pins to their lapels for everyone to see. 

Silver pins in the shape of feathers. 

Inspector Thursday and Sergeant Jakes were on their feet in moments, but there wasn’t much they could do. The two officers were sorely outnumbered by the members of the Corvus Society.

It was an ominous show as they simply stood in silence, eyes fixed emotionless on the students that remained seated, half frozen in shock and fear. Morse felt the beginnings of dread begin to pool in his stomach as he looked around at the motionless antagonists, their faces blank and impassive like mannequins. 

If a fight was to come, they were fairly evenly matched. A room full of magicals against a handful of Rodin’s lackeys. Unless they were armed, that was. Morse had never tried to jam a gun before, but maybe he could make it work. Tilt the odds in his favour against them. 

Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that. Maybe it was just a demonstration, a show of intimidation. 

“What the hell is this?” Professor Wellman demanded, looking around in shocked anger at the number of unwelcome guests who made themselves known. When not a single one of them responded he approached the nearest Corvid and grabbed his shoulder roughly, shaking him. “Answer me! What does he want?”

Silence.

“Alex.” Wellman reached out for the silvertongue, his eyes hard- angry. “Ask him.”

Compel would have been a more accurate term. Wellman wanted Alex to force the answer out. Even Morse only witnessed him pull that particular trick a bare handful of times with varying degrees of success- and consequences. 

All the colour leached out of Alex’s face but he managed to compose himself, taking a step forward. Something shifted in the atmosphere just then, something that Morse was certain only he could feel. The air held the same tension he felt when a die had been cast and the probabilities for him to alter were boundless. Premonition, sensation, gut feeling, Morse didn’t know what it was. Only that he had to act. 

Morse was on his feet before Alex even opened his mouth, grabbing him by his shoulder to still him. “Alex-”

At that same moment, a voice from the doorway tsked admonishingly. “Oh, I really wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Morse didn’t need to look past the walking stick to know who it was. Even without magic, Marcus Rodin could freeze a room into submission. That was an ability all on its own. One that had been gained through violence. Violence and fear. 

Wellman released the Corvid like the touch burned him, drawing in a harsh breath as he took in the identity of the man in the doorway. 

Step. Tap. Step. Tap. The cane echoed his footfalls as the man entered the room, his long, black coat swishing around his legs, the silver feather shining on the lapel of his clearly expensive black suit underneath. Morse’s eyes fell away from his sharp face and landed back on the head of his cane, unable to shake the sensation that the obsidian orb set in as the crow’s eye was looking back at him in recognition. 

“Rodin.” Inspector Thursday snarled, surging forward, but he and the sergeant were rapidly detained by the nearest Corvids, seized by the arms and held firmly back even as they kicked and fought. It wasn’t until one of the Corvids yelped in pain were they released, and Morse swore he saw Sergeant Jakes’ hand glowing red as flames curled around his fingers. 

So that’s what he could do. Morse had wondered. 

The officers didn’t attempt to move again, but the sergeant’s mouth curled unpleasantly as he quelled his magic like he was still itching for the fight. If things went well, he wouldn’t get it. But Morse didn’t feel quite as optimistic as he should have. 

Marcus Rodin’s pale, thin lips curved into something resembling a smile. His dark, inkwell eyes were tinged with humour as he surveyed the two men on the other side of the room. “Well, well, Daniel. What interesting guests you have.”

Wellman looked livid, his hands curling at his sides. “You’re one to talk. What is it you want, Rodin?”

Step. Tap. Step. Tap. “I believe I made it rather clear what I wanted, professor.” Rodin threw his arms wide, grinning with teeth far too white and far too sharp. Everything about his appearance felt serrated and malicious from the soulless black of his clothes to the dead grey streaks in his hair. “I wanted an alliance between our parties, what else? A real chance for magicals and us normal people to resolve our issues…democratically.”

That made the professor scoff, his eyes hardening as he refused to look away from his adversary. “Democracy. You don’t know what the word means. Autocracy is the one you’re most familiar with. After the elections there won’t even be a difference between the Council and your merry band of blackbirds, will there?”

Morse could immediately see that Wellman touched a nerve with Rodin as his cool and collected demeanor rapidly deteriorated into something far less stable. He was rumoured to be rather unhinged, and here it was, first hand. 

Rodin tightened his grip on the head of his cane, his knuckles going white from the effort. “You will address my followers with the respect they deserve, professor. Say the name.”

A vein pulsed in his forehead and Morse found himself almost surprised to see it. So the man did have a heart in his chest after all. Alex liked to joke there was nothing but a cavernous void. Heartless. Bloodless. Soulless. That was Marcus Rodin. A man who lacked all the trademarks of a human being yet claimed to be more of one than magicals were. 

Wellman only seemed encouraged by his anger and smiled mirthlessly. “You’ve tried to peddle your wares with me before, Mister Rodin, but I know snake oil when I see it. You say peaceful resolution and I hear you want us to roll over and let you lock magicals up, just like the old days. Only those who lack imagination rely so heavily on the antiquated beliefs of the conservatives.”

“Oh, you may have imagination, Daniel,” Step. Tap. “But it’s led you to delude yourself. You’re fighting for a lost cause on the wrong side. There’s not an ounce of magic in your blood, professor. You have nothing to gain from helping them.” Rodin’s voice was full of disgust as he surveyed the small audience. “You’re doing the same thing as I am. We both seek to have our control over magicals. You’re just operating under the guise of leadership. Face it. You’re not like them. You never will be.”

“We’ll just have to see about that, won't we?”

Rodin came to a stop no more than a few paces from the professor, hefting his cane so he was holding it around the middle. Then, slowly, his pivoted on his good foot so he was facing Morse and Alex, his dark eyes narrowing as he studied the students before him. 

“Move,” Rodin ordered Alex, gesturing sharply with the head of his cane. The curved beak of the crow’s head fixture glinted maliciously in the light, its razor edge particularly convincing in getting Alex to move aside, leaving no one between Rodin and Morse. 

With his walking stick raised in his hand, Rodin limped forward one step, his unstable ankle lagging behind. There was only a foot between them now and Morse could detect the faintest sickly sweet traces of jasmine tea on the man’s breath as he surveyed him in silence like a predator considering its captured prey. 

There were few other options at the moment so Morse remained frozen in place under his scrutinizing gaze and he scrambled to think of a way out of the situation. He mentally felt out for the intangible loose threads that stuck out and presented themselves, events of fortune and misfortune just waiting to be unraveled into motion. All he had to do was focus-

But all thoughts fled from his mind as his world narrowed down to the razor tip of Rodin’s cane trailing down the side of his face in a stinging caress. The metal should have been at least slightly warm from where Rodin held it but instead it was as cold as ice, leaving a burning trail in its wake as Morse felt the fiery prickling of blood welling up in the cut. 

He bit back a pained hiss, determined not to give Rodin the satisfaction of a reaction. Wellman said something in the background, his voice strained, but it was lost to the pounding rush of blood through Morse’s ears as he stared into the dark eyes of Marcus Rodin once again. There was something unnerving about those eyes. They were dark, so dark they seemed incapable of reflecting light or emotion of any kind. But, as Rodin drew his cane back, there was a faint flicker of something dangerous, like a spark in a sea of oil. 

“You,” Rodin said, his expression unreadable. “I remember you.” 

Then, with no further prelude, he swung the knob of his cane at Morse’s head. 

“No!” Alice shouted. 

The effect of the cry seemed to ripple directly toward Rodin who froze, struck still by her magic, the cane stopped mere inches from its target. 

Morse let out a sharp breath and nearly doubled over in relief as he stepped out of Rodin’s reach and hazarded a glance at Alice. Her pale green eyes were alight with fear and panic and her breathing was slightly shaky but otherwise she seemed resolute as she held her magic steady. 

Time had stopped for Marcus Rodin. Alice Vexin now controlled it. 

It was almost painful to watch Alice’s magic do its work as Rodin’s body was agonizingly forced back in time, his limbs complying against his will. Morse knew it was much more difficult to push both the mind and body back through time, and it seemed apparent which one she’d prioritized here. Had Rodin been unaware of her intentions it may have gone easier, but she’d alerted him with her cry, put him on guard. The movements should have been smooth, but he was fighting against it, causing it to appear jerky and unnatural until he was finally back where he was standing a minute before. Closer to the door, further from Morse. 

But that didn’t stop him from lunging toward Alice the second his lungs began drawing breath again, his features consumed by fury as he drew his free hand back to strike her. 

Thursday shouted something and Morse heard a commotion as the officers struggled toward the front of the room. His own body moved before he knew it and he seized Rodin’s arm, catching it in midair as Alex pulled Alice out of the way. 

Rodin leveled his gaze at Morse, twisting his wrist in Morse’s grip. His voice was pure venom when he spoke, looking at Morse’s hand like the contact was the most disgusting thing in the world. “How dare you touch me!” 

Morse hardly had any time to react. It was in one swift movement that Rodin had reversed the hold and was pulling Morse’s arm taut, slamming his cane down it with unbelievable force. 

Alice’s scream nearly drowned out Morse’s own agonized cry as the bones in his forearm shattered under the strength of the metal rod bearing down on them. 

The room was filled with shouts as chaos quickly descended and Morse fell to his knees, the white hot pain in his arm sending lances of searing agony up his body. He felt intensely nauseous from it, bile scalding the back of his throat and tears burning his eyes as he fought against the darkness infringing on his vision. His arm felt like it was consumed by fire, a million shards of glass crowding in his veins and cutting him from the inside out. Consciousness yielded no mercy for his agony. 

Thursday watched Morse crumple just as he sent one of Rodin’s men to the floor with a punch. The sound of Morse’s bones breaking was like that of green twigs snapping, less brittle and more wet, but his cry was a much more chilling sound that all but froze his blood. The inspector yelled something, possibly the lad’s name, as he rushed toward him. Professor Wellman, bless him, had tried to grab Rodin but instead got his nose broken for his troubles, stumbling back and clutching his face as blood streamed through his fingers, staining his white shirt. 

Jakes assisted in defending Alex Reece and Alice Vexin as the two quickly set to work on evacuating what students they were able to reach, the sergeant holding off any Corvids with the simple threat of fire. The students didn’t appear to be the main target, however, as Wellman was rapidly swarmed and seized by Rodin’s followers. The professor was forced to his knees, hands pulled roughly behind his back as he writhed and swore. The inspector was blocked by one of the black clad fiends as Rodin hefted his cane and twirled it once like a baton, descending on the fallen professor with a look of victory on his face. 

“Dear Daniel, I did warn you not to cross me.” Rodin’s voice was full of mock pity. “I warned you, you’re playing with fire. Don’t do something you’re going to regret.” 

Wellman responded by spitting a glob of bloody saliva on Rodin’s expensive shoes. “And I told you I don’t respond well to threats.” 

“Professor, don’t say another word!” Thursday cautioned, struggling against his own detainers. 

Rodin cast him an irritated look. “Oh, do shut up, old man.”

He raised his cane in preparation to swing down at the professor’s head when Thursday saw Morse unsteadily rise to his feet, cradling his injured arm to his chest. His face was ghostly pale and covered with a sickly sheen of sweat, a long, thin cut trailing down his left cheek. 

There was an expression on his face that Thursday would find very difficult to forget as Rodin’s walking stick descended and Morse threw his uninjured arm out as if to reach for him. 

Then, his fingers closed into a fist, like they’d seized something invisible. 

And he pulled.

Rodin’s cane appeared to rust and disintegrate in his hand, work that would take years occurring within a second. The man stared in shock at the dust that sifted through his slender fingers left grasping at nothing but empty air as the silver and black particles swirled around him and disappeared. The only thing that remained was the now decapitated crow’s head, the metal figure clattering to the floor at Rodin’s feet. 

He turned quickly, staring at Morse with something that Thursday would say very closely resembled… fear . 

“How-?” 

But Morse wasn’t done. Before Rodin could even think to recover from the event, the windows shattered in a deafening cacophony of sound. Hundreds of shards of glass were sent flying as they exploded inward, almost  like a crystalline hailstorm. Miraculously, the glass succeeded in avoiding the students as they fled unimpeded by Rodin’s people who were falling to their knees and clutching at their chests. Some appeared to be struggling to breathe while others simply collapsed, panting heavily and writhing in pain. Whatever was happening, whatever Morse was doing, it was only affecting the members of the Corvus Society. 

Thursday was released as the two holding him doubled over like all the air had been punched from them. They struggled to regain it, sinking down to the floor, only able to manage insufficient gasps of breath before they keeled over, unconscious. 

Rodin turned and fled as quickly as his condition permitted. 

Jakes stood in complete shock over the men he’d been fighting with as they appeared to all suffer from heart attacks simultaneously. A shard of glass had nicked his left cheekbone, a small trail of blood running down his face as he carefully stepped over the fallen people and made his way over to Thursday. The students had managed to get out, leaving only the two officers, Professor Wellman, and a pile of unconscious bodies. 

And Morse. 

The lad’s thin chest was heaving like he’d just run a mile. A thin trickle of blood trailed from his nose and his face had gone pale as a sheet, eyes slightly wild but incredibly clear in colour as they fixed on Thursday for the briefest moment. 

It was almost impossible to believe. Looking around the room at the damage and the chaos- to think that Morse had done all of this. 

Something in his face changed and Thursday surged forward just in time to catch him as he collapsed. 

———

Thursday watched as Jakes slammed the cell door on Marcus Rodin, a smug expression on the sergeant’s face as the keys jangled in his hand and he unlocked the man's cuffs through the bars. He wasn’t hard to catch, especially when he’d already tripped down the stairs of the college by the time Jakes reached him. The inspector couldn’t help but feel a flicker of triumph in his chest at the rightness of Rodin behind bars, but it was clear they were playing with fire, and that flicker might just get him burned. 

They were under explicit orders to leave Marcus Rodin unbothered, but Thursday couldn’t be expected to take blame when the man all but waltzed into their waiting arms. Bright would have to understand that. Two charges of assault in front of an inspector and a sergeant would certainly prove difficult for even a snake like Rodin to wriggle his way out of. Thursday had Wellman lined up to testify to it, and Morse- 

Well, it was just a matter of when the lad chose to wake up. 

“The Council will be hearing about this,” Rodin spat, sitting down on the low bench in the back of his cell as his supporters clamored for him from the adjacent ones, nearly drowned out by the discordant singing of two drunks at the far end. He massaged his wrists as he cast a venomous glance at the officers on the other side of the bars. “You’ll be sacked by the end of the week.”

“End of the week? Now you’re just being generous.” Jakes arched one of his eyebrows and placed a cigarette between his lips, summoning flames to his fingertips to light it. The way he did it made it look like he was signalling a very rude finger gesture and Thursday failed at holding back a smirk. “We’ll have our case against you ready by tomorrow night.” 

Rodin threw his head back and laughed, baring his teeth. They were tinged pink with blood from whatever stunt Morse pulled in the lecture hall. Small bruises and red specks covered what skin was visible, evidence of burst capillaries. Even the whites of his eyes were webbed with red, manic and wild as he laughed and laughed. 

Thursday closed his eyes and stepped back as Jakes began hurling abuses at Rodin through the bars and the laughter continued, ringing and echoing off the walls of the cell until it finally devolved into bloody hacking. There was the sound of spitting and Jakes made a noise of disgust. 

“Inspector,” Rodin called, his voice sounding bloody and thick. Thursday opened his eyes and looked at him through the bars, his lips red with blood and a matching glob of it on the floor by his awkwardly crossed legs. 

Being in a cage should have ruined Rodin’s image, but behind bars or not, a monster was a monster. He was without his cane, his weapon, his defining feature, but the wild look in his eyes and the blood on his face made up for it. Rodin was a wolf without claws, yes, but he still had his teeth. He was dangerous even without a reinforced razor tipped walking stick. 

Rodin saw that he had the inspector’s attention and smiled his bloody smile. “Daniel Wellman is playing a dangerous game, Inspector Thursday. I won’t pretend to understand the extent of it, but you’re in just as deep as he is. I suggest you learn the rules and beat him while the playing field is still even. For the boy’s sake, at least.”

There could only be one person he was referring to. Morse. He was likely a prospective victim, but there had to be something more to it than that. The lad fit into all this in his own way, tangled up in the great, confusing web. The only problem was that Thursday was tangled in it too. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Thursday demanded, unable to keep the inflection of worry from his voice. 

Rodin smirked. “Oh, that would be playing fair, Inspector. You’ll have to figure it out, just as I did.”

“What’s to figure out?” Jakes sneered, producing a small bag from his pocket, the silver crow’s head visible through the plastic. “Pathology gets this first thing in the morning. The cuts on the victims will match your cane and you’ll spend the rest of your life behind bars where you belong.”

The man leaned forward and put his head in his hands, making a sound of sheer exasperation. “I look forward to your continued gloating, then, sergeant. We’re done here.”

Jakes looked as if he wanted to retort something foul back but they clearly lost Rodin’s attention. He shoved the evidence back into his pocket and roughly chalked Rodin’s information on the board before storming up the stairs. Thursday tipped his hat to the guard and followed his sergeant. 

Rodin was in the nick. Wellman and Morse were in hospital. Everyone was where they should be, except Thursday. 

With that, he headed home. Whatever hell was brewing with Division and the Council wouldn’t descend on him until tomorrow. He had to enjoy this small victory while it lasted, n o matter how stale it felt. 

Something told him this wasn't over just yet. Unfortunately, that something had the voice of Marcus Rodin. 

Chapter Text

“Rise and shine, Mr. Rodin.” a voice said from outside of his cell. 

Marcus Rodin stifled a groan as he raised himself up from the stone bench that had served as his bed for the night. They could have at least done him the courtesy of providing a cot, something other than a cold, concrete slab that was absolutely merciless to his spine. He’d sacrificed warmth for comfort and neatly folded his coat under his head as a pillow, suit jacket tucked under his bad ankle to provide some modicum of support. 

The pain was unbearable this morning, radiating up from his ankle and shin to wrap around his entire lower leg, throbbing and intense. It was the first morning in a long while he’d been without his medication, there was nothing to dull the pain to make it bearable over the course of the day. It was getting worse with age, naturally, making it harder to move. He had that to contend with. That, and his cane had been confiscated. 

No, that wasn’t quite right, was it? The police hadn’t taken it, he’d lost it long before- 

It was that damned boy at the college, Wellman’s lad. Not Reece, the other one. Odd name. Morse, that was it. Not many people were able to take Rodin by surprise, but that Morse had managed it, performing quite the spectacle with his abilities. In all his years, Rodin had never seen anything like that. It made the ember’s fire-conjuring look like cheap parlour tricks. He’d known there was something different about the Morse lad, but it wasn’t until then that he properly saw just what that meant. 

His cane wasn’t gone, it was destroyed. Turned to dust with a simple motion of the boy’s hand. Even with a broken arm, he hadn’t been deterred or weakened in that regard.

Rodin swallowed, feeling the uncomfortable dryness of his mouth as he did so. That kind of power- it shouldn’t be allowed to exist. It was unnatural, unholy, it was- 

It was in dire need of eradication. 

But that was a matter for another time. 

Rodin stiffly moved into a sitting position, grabbing his leg beneath the knee to manoeuvre it with as little difficulty as possible, all the while staring angrily at the men standing outside of his cell. The magical sergeant and someone else, a well dressed man with a briefcase in hand.

“It’s about bloody time,” Rodin snarled, ignoring Sergeant Jakes entirely and fixating on the new face. “I rang for a solicitor last night, you’re lucky my father doesn’t-”

The sergeant looked to be on the verge of laughter, smirking insufferable as the other man just shook his head, holding out a placating hand. “Oh, no, I’m not a solicitor, Mr. Rodin. My name’s Dr. Weatherall, I’m the FME.” 

“I don’t need a medical examination.” Rodin sneered, hands curling into fists in his lap. 

“But you do need a doctor,” Dr. Weatherall pointed out, gesturing down at Rodin’s ankle. “I was informed that you took a spill down some stairs while evading arrest, I’m only here to make sure your leg hasn’t worsened.” 

“As if they care enough to-”

“Orders from on high,” Sergeant Jakes said by way of explanation, clearly unhappy with the situation. Of course. If it were up to him and the Inspector, Rodin would be left with his pain as long as they liked. It was a good thing he had allies in high places. 

Still, Rodin scoffed, his pride urging him to simply tell the man off, insisting that he didn’t need assistance. Sergeant Jakes was certainly finding joy in Rodin’s vulnerability, that much was evident by his never-ending smirk and the smug light in his eyes. Insufferable, intolerable youth. And a magical nonetheless. The boiling rage Rodin felt seeing him on the other side of the bars was hotter than any flame that devil could conjure. Their places should be switched. Rodin wasn’t the monster here, he wasn’t the villain. He wasn’t the mistake of creation. He shouldn’t be sitting in a cell while that demon walked free, holding the keys. 

But there was pride, and there was stupidity. And his leg hurt. 

He fixed the doctor with a piercing gaze, the words bitter in his mouth as he spoke. “Fine. But no magic.”

Dr. Weatherall held his free hand up innocently, smiling lightly. “Couldn’t if I wanted to.”

Rodin frowned, feeling righteous relief as the doctor stepped aside to allow Sergeant Jakes to unlock the cell. “You’re not a Healer.”

“I believe I did introduce myself as a doctor,” Weatherall reminded him, and Rodin bristled a bit when the sergeant laughed, closing the cell behind the doctor as he entered. 

Weatherall knelt in front of Rodin, pulling up the leg of his trousers to begin his examination, but Rodin’s attention was caught by a strange clicking sound outside of the cell. He looked up and grit his teeth upon seeing the loaded weapon in Sergeant Jakes’ hand. 

The doctor glanced over and arched an eyebrow. “Is that necessary, sergeant?” 

“He’s killed three people and put two more in hospital, Doctor,” Jakes said darkly, staring over him to Rodin. “That’s just from the past few weeks alone. We’ve got a stack of assault charges gathering dust upstairs. This is for your own safety.”

Rodin laughed, unable to help himself. “Oh, I knew coppers were dim to begin with but this certainly is a new low, even for you.”

The sergeant looked like he was about to retort but Rodin suddenly hissed in pain, slamming his fist into the bench as the doctor prodded his ankle, a fresh wave of agony surging through his leg. 

“Careful,” Rodin ground out, feeling his face tighten with pain. The look of satisfaction on the officer’s face made it all the more unbearable. 

“Nerve damage.” Dr. Weatherall noted, brow furrowed in concern. 

“Obviously,” Rodin gasped sharply, breathing heavily through his nose as the doctor continued to move his leg, feeling around his ankle. “The initial breaks were the tibia and fibula, but-”

Weatherall shook his head. “No, I mean you have new nerve damage, Mr. Rodin. Your ankle is sprained and it looks to me that the swelling is affecting the nearby nerves.”

Well that explained the pain. “I see.”

“Mr. Rodin, I’d really suggest-”

“So put it in a splint and give me something for the pain,” Rodin wrenched his leg away despite the pain, knowing exactly what was coming. He’d heard those words far too many times and didn’t care to hear them again. “I understand my cane is gone so I expect to be given a temporary replacement. I can’t be doing with crutches and a wheelchair is out of the question.”

“Mr. Rodin,” Dr. Weatherall said patiently. “A Healer could fix all of this in a matter of minutes. You wouldn’t need an aid ever again.”

“No.” Rodin spat, feeling positively venomous as he glared at the doctor, the force of his gaze causing the man to rock back on his heels ever so slightly. “I refuse to let those filthy magicals touch me. I’m not having this discussion with anyone again. If I never walk unaided again, so be it, I’d rather be lame forever than allow myself to be touched by that disgusting magic of theirs.”

Sergeant Jakes laughed again, shaking his head. “You really are that far gone, aren’t you? People say you’re mad but I didn’t think they meant clinically.”

Rodin let out an angry shouted and surged upward but the doctor was quick to push him back down on the bench. “Gentlemen, that’s enough!”

“No, let him,” the sergeant grinned tauntingly, spreading his arms out wide as if inviting him to fight. “Go on, Rodin, do your worst. What are you going to do, throttle me through the bars? You wouldn’t even make it two steps before you hit the ground. Well, I say steps-” 

“Mark my words, Sergeant Jakes,” Rodin hissed violently, jabbing a finger forcefully in his direction as Dr. Weatherall continued to hold him down. “The second I get out of this cell- and I will- I’m coming for you. Magic or not, cane or no cane, I will see you bleed.”

Sergeant Jakes lowered his arms, stowing the gun into his waistband as he stepped forward, wrapping his slender hands around the bars of the cell. Beneath his touch, the metal glowed red from the heat, smoldering under his skin. 

“And I,” Jakes said cooly, his pale eyes dancing with invisible flames. “I will see you burn.” 

Rodin had seen anger from magicals, confused demons who didn’t understand or agree with his methods, people enraged by his policies and protests, but this- this seemed oddly personal. It wasn’t like the sergeant was an absolute stranger to him, but as far as Rodin knew they’d never had a violent encounter before yesterday. Yet this anger felt practiced, old, made strong with age. There was something other than glee on Sergeant Jakes’ face when he looked at Rodin through the bars earlier. Something that looked a lot like vindication.

The sergeant saw him staring and he released the bars, the metal slowly cooling. There was an odd look behind his eyes now, something dawning on him.

“You don’t know what you did, do you.” Not a question, but a statement. “You don’t recognize me.”

Rodin shook his head slowly. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re referring to, sergeant.”

The doctor paused from bandaging up Rodin’s ankle, looking between him and the officer, clearly confused by the whole affair. 

“Let’s just say,” Jakes spoke evenly, choosing his words carefully as his ashen eyes bore into Rodin’s relentlessly. “The Blenheim Vale project was a mistake.”

For the first time in a long while- no, since last night- Rodin felt a prickle of fear in his chest. 

“And soon,” Jakes smiled coldly. “You’re going to pay for it.”

------

Morse woke up in a hospital cot fighting off the worst headache of his adult life. 

The realization of where he was made him feel a certain kind of nausea crest over him. Morse despised hospitals. Despised how easy they were to recognize, despised the way they monopolized his memories of his mother. The scent of her hair, her rare splashes of perfume, all replaced with the sharp, astringent odours of bleach and antiseptic that dominated her final moments. Even the flowers he brought her from the garden seemed to suffer from the suffocating atmosphere, withering as she did.

But the pillows beneath his head were soft and when he flexed the arm Rodin broke, he felt no pain, so perhaps those sins could be forgotten for now. 

His mouth tasted horrible, bitter and coppery, like stale blood, and he nearly retched as he struggled to sit up, searching for a nurse- or better yet, a glass-

“Here you go, lad,” a familiar voice said from his left and Morse quickly looked over to see Professor Wellman seated beside him, pouring a glass of water from a decanter on the bedside table which was a mess of poorly stacked papers. Wellman helped Morse into a sitting position, his broad hands firm against his shoulders and back as he eased him against the support of the pillows and handed over the glass of water. 

“Professor?” Morse frowned, blinking blearily as he took in the man’s appearance, replacing the bloody images of the night before with this newer sight. His broken nose was completely healed and there were no traces of blood remaining anywhere. Different clothes. No blood stains or tears. “Why are you here?”

“It didn’t seem right to leave you on your own after all that.” Wellman said kindly.  “Alex has been by with Alice, but I don’t think Mr. Donn will be ‘round until later. I told him you’d be fine until then.”

Morse thought about Anthony finding out this news from Wellman and could only imagine his worry. Then again, he wasn’t quite sure that whatever Wellman told him had permeated the monstrous hangover he likely had as a result of the party. It was no wonder Tony decided to take his time. Just as well. Morse didn’t want to put him through any trouble on his account.

“You put on quite a show last night, Morse,” Professor Wellman arched a dark eyebrow, settling back in his chair at Morse’s bedside. He took a few of the papers from his stack and reached for his thin framed glasses, balancing them on the bridge of his nose as he looked down at the papers. While his gaze was fixed on them, Morse could still feel the attention resting on him. “How are you feeling, lad?”

Morse took a long drink of water, draining half the glass in one go. He felt positively parched and the beginnings of hunger pangs began to prickle in his stomach, but the water did a little to settle it. At least his head was beginning to feel better. Still, there was an odd weariness that seemed to anchor him down to the bed, making his movements feel slow and syrupy. He was awake, that much he was sure of, but his body didn’t seem like it had quite caught up with that yet. 

“Exhausted,” Morse answered honestly, finishing off the glass and allowing Wellman to take it. “I’ve never felt this tired.”

Wellman hummed sympathetically. “Yes, the Healers said you might feel that way. Apparently you overexerted yourself with all that magic, it took quite the physical toll on you. The energy expenditure was no without a cost, it seems.”

Morse closed his eyes and settled back against the pillows. He knew exactly what had happened. He remembered disintegrating Rodin’s walking stick, the look of horrified shock on the man’s face before the room tore apart in a storm of chaos, glass flying and bodies dropping. Except it wasn’t exactly chaos. It was all controlled. 

By Morse. 

He didn’t know he still had anything like that in him. He’d spent years convincing himself that he couldn’t, until one day he’d just believed it. 

“-moved past Durkheim, I see.” Wellman was saying, and Morse opened his eyes again, looking at the professor in confusion.

“I’m sorry?”

Professor Wellman held up the papers he was reading and Morse recognized his own name at the top of them. It was the outline for his term paper. 

Morse almost laughed at the normalcy of it, but instead he felt tears begin to press behind his eyes at the sudden feeling of relief that descended upon him. Wellman wasn’t here to ask questions, he wasn’t going to make him explain what happened. Even though Morse was in hospital recovering from a night of hell, the professor was just sitting there grading papers. 

It was so… normal. 

He swallowed before speaking, rubbing his temple as if to soothe the ache away. “I didn’t have a strong enough foundation for connecting Achilles to Durkheim’s fatalistic suicide concept. I was thinking of bringing Hector in as well, but…” 

Wellman nodded his approval, adjusting his glasses as he flipped through the pages. “I think it’ll serve you better to narrow your focus down to one topic. You’ll have more space to explore it thoroughly rather than spreading yourself thin between two different things.”

“I understand.” Morse nodded, adjusting himself so he was sitting much more upright. “That’s why I moved to Camus, I think the idea behind the existential hero makes for a better thesis than Durkheim.”

“It’s a good choice,” Wellman agreed, setting the papers aside. 

He looked like he meant to say something else but was interrupted by the arrival of Inspector Thursday who had somehow crossed the ward unnoticed until he was at the foot of Morse’s bed. The inspector looked a bit tired, but otherwise his strong and imposing self, commanding the space he stood in with ease. 

“Good morning, Professor,” the inspector tipped his head politely, removing his hat. His dark eyes fixed on Morse, softening as he looked him over. “Morse.”

“Sir.” Morse didn’t feel like smiling so he didn’t even attempt it. Wellman may not have had the intention of questioning Morse, but Thursday had no other choice. It was his job. 

Wellman looked between the two and seemed to understand something, shuffling the papers into his briefcase and collecting his coat from the back of his chair. “I’ll see myself out, gentlemen. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”

“I appreciate that, professor,” Thursday nodded, taking his place in the chair as Wellman left, shrugging on his coat and departing the ward. 

Morse watched the professor go before he turned his focus back to Thursday, folding his hands in his lap in an attempt to calm his own nerves and keep them from shaking. “I imagine you have questions.”

“You imagine right.” Thursday nodded, placing his hat on the nightstand where Wellman’s papers once were. Once he looked at Morse again, however, his expression turned gentler and he sighed, running a hand over his head. “But I’m sure you have some of your own, so out with it.” 

“Rodin,” Morse thought instantly, feeling a spike of fear. “Is he-”

“He’s locked up,” Thursday reassured him, somehow radiating enough calm in the steadiness of his words to put Morse at ease. “Your friends are safe, too. For all that madness, it seems you and Wellman took the brunt of the injuries.”

“That’s not true,” Morse curled his hands into fists, feeling absolutely wretched inside. He knew what he’d done to the Corvids. The way they fell to the ground like that. He was cursed with every memory from that night. Suddenly, his mouth felt very dry and his next words were all but choked out as he struggled to meet the inspector’s gaze. “Did I- I didn’t kill anyone, did I?” 

Thursday’s face was unreadable. “Did you mean to kill anyone?”

“No!” Morse exclaimed far too loudly, eyes going wide at the outburst. A few nurses looked their way but Thursday waved them off with a reassuring look. He felt like he could break into tears at any moment, the fear of possibly- if he’d done anything - “Inspector, please, I-”

The desperation bled into his voice and Thursday looked- well, he looked kind. He reached out a hand to touch Morse’s shoulder, almost as surprised as Morse that he didn’t flinch away from the touch. 

“No, lad,” Thursday told him softly, his tone firm but gentle. “You didn’t kill anyone. The Healers fixed them all right up.”

Morse felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest and he sighed, able to breathe again. “Good.” 

Despite what Rodin and his people had done, they didn’t deserve to die like that. Morse didn’t want to kill anyone. Not then, not ever. To think he could have lost control like that- it was too much. A small part of him had thought that Thursday only came to arrest him for such crimes, but there was nothing to it anymore. Everyone had been healed. It was over. 

“The Healers said-” Thursday looked unsure, like he didn’t know how to continue. “They told us that all of Rodin’s people had suffered heart attacks and the like. Perfectly natural ailments. But it was you.” 

Shame was a familiar feeling for Morse and it burned strong now, threatening to gut him from the inside out. “Yes.”

“How?”

That was the question, wasn’t it?

Morse smiled wanly. “The same way I did everything else. My power isn’t just luck, it’s probability. Making the improbable probable, the impossible possible.” 

“Like disintegrating metal and shattering windows.” Thursday looked like he was understanding. “And causing heart attacks.” 

“Among others,” Morse nodded. 

“But-” Thursday frowned, looking at him curiously. “How?” 

Now it was Morse’s turn to frown. “I just told-”

“No, no,” Thursday waved his hand, realizing his mistake. “I mean- you’re a Three, Morse. In all my time I’ve never seen someone of that rating pull something like this off.” 

“Maybe… maybe they were pulling their punches?” Morse shrugged, unsure of where this line of inquiry was going. “I don’t know what to say, sir.” 

Thursday stared at him for a good moment, as if searching his face for any sign of deception. Morse would have normally become irritable at that but he was far too tired for that. In any case, Thursday seemed content with what he saw, sitting back in his chair with a sigh.

“No, lad, I suppose you don’t.” 

Whatever answer the inspector was looking for, Morse didn’t have it. Not now. 

Their conversation over tea yesterday seemed like a world away, and Thursday thought back to the last time they sat next to each other, looking out at the college quad from beneath the cloisters. Morse had spilled his soul to Thursday then, but now, after everything last night- well, the inspector wasn’t sure he even knew the lad at all. He wasn’t even sure Morse knew himself. There was a distinct lack of confidence in his explanation, like he too was unsure of how he’d taken down ten people and destroyed a room with a single motion. The nature of his ability explained the action, but not the magnitude of it. 

It was simple enough. Morse shouldn’t have been able to do what he did. He wasn’t supposed to be that powerful. If he was a Four, then Thursday likely wouldn’t be having this conversation, but as a Three? That didn’t quite add up. It was damned curious, that was all. 

“You rest up,” Thursday patted Morse’s shoulder comfortingly, smiling warmly. “An officer will be coming by later to take a statement from you. I don’t think I have to say it but we’d very much like you to be available to testify against Rodin.”

“I- of course, Inspector,” Morse nodded complacently, likely too tired to do anything else. His eyelids were already sagging and he looked as if he was going to nod off at any moment. 

Thursday stood, preparing to leave, but something stopped him. “Morse?”

Morse blinked widely, trying to stay awake. “Sir?”

There was something so heartwrenchingly vulnerable about the way Morse looked just then and Thursday felt a surge of protectiveness course through him. “Just- thank you.”

Morse smiled, and, as small as it was, Thursday knew it was genuine. 

------

It was DeBryn who suggested that Thursday speak to a professor at Beaufort about his questions, a man by the name of Andrew Xavier who specialized in magical medicinal practices. As knowledgeable as the pathologist was, as experienced as the hospital Healers were, no one had an answer to the cold, vicious emptiness Jakes felt when he touched Tom Abram and Ethan Caherty. The Healers knew enough to wear gloves when touching the Abram boy. They knew something was wrong. Just not what it was. 

Besides, after Morse’s comments from the day before, it seemed like something worth investigating. 

Jakes was caught up with work at the station, or so he said, leaving Thursday to make the journey alone. It took him back to older days when he went around on his own accord, no sergeant or bagman trailing behind him or forging ahead while he stood back and watched. It didn’t feel like independence, it felt like solitude. It wasn’t exactly pleasant.

He wondered how Morse did it.

The lad had people around him, that was certain, but proximity didn’t equate to connection. In that hospital bed, under the harsh white lights and septic atmosphere, he looked like a withering flower, all the colour and strength leached from him. Thursday didn’t think he’d ever seen someone look so alone. It hurt to leave him, but what else was he supposed to do? It wasn’t like Morse was his bagman, he couldn’t very well drag him around in the Jag searching for leads as they worked to rapidly compile a case against Rodin. Besides, after what he did to protect them all from the Corvids, he needed to rest. There was an air of exhaustion that shrouded the young man, something that went past physical tiredness. His magic was as worn out as he was. Both parts of Morse needed to recover. Thursday knew this all too well from Jakes’ earlier days in the nick where the young sergeant had felt too much of a need to prove himself. He’d use his power to summon the largest amounts of fire that he could, stopping fleeing culprits right in their tracks. It certainly worked to instill fear in the criminals of Oxford, but the second Jakes got back to the car or the station he would promptly collapse and it took hours to rouse him. Eventually, Jakes learned his lesson and found his place in their ranks. He didn’t need to show off to gain their respect. Although, that didn’t prevent him from openly using his ability to light his chains of cigarettes. 

Thursday turned on the windscreen wipers to brush away the fiery autumn leaves that had nestled against the glass, watching as they were quickly reclaimed by the wind and thrown elsewhere. It was another grey day among grey days, each colder than the last, and he found himself dreading winter already. They were well on their way through October, the snow wasn’t exactly that far off. 

Once he reached the college and left the shelter of the car, frigid wind wrapped around him, nearly knocking his hat loose. It reminded him all too much of the manner by which Morse had saved his life the previous day and Thursday caught himself suddenly glancing around as if Morse had done a runner from the hospital and followed him. But of course, he wasn’t there, and Thursday allowed himself a small chuckle at his own folly, wrapping his coat tighter around himself as he forged up the pavement to the college. 

Despite the exterior matching the traditional, aged look of the other colleges, the interior was decidedly very modern. It was almost hospital-like in its white walls, linoleum floors, and subtle air of sterility. Doors to labs looked less like the wooden ones of lecture rooms at Lonsdale and more like those of hospital wards. It was all metal and polished stone, an odd chimera of a building, something like an anachronism among the others. Students brushed past him in the corridors, some wearing the expected wool robes while others were clad in white labcoats, pushing carts of supplies and materials between labs. 

An informative placard on the wall by the stairwell told him that Dr. Andrew Xavier, Specialist in Magical Medicine and Theory, had his offices on the third floor of the building. An earlier phone conversation with a kindly secretary had informed Thursday that Xavier would undoubtedly be present at the time the inspector intended to visit. Already, Thursday’s opinion of the man was rather high due to his accessibility but perhaps after the difficulty of reaching Wellman his standards had just been forced to sink very low. 

Sure enough, when Thursday rapped his knuckles on the door to his office, a voice called from within. “Come in!”

The administrative floor of the building looked more like the usual appearance of the colleges, sleek wood floors and stone walls, wooden doors with golden placards for their occupants. Thursday felt less out of his element up here, away from the bustling corridors and labs below. He pushed the door open with ease, stepping into a relatively neat office filled with bookshelves and file cabinets. 

It was certainly spacious and very well organized, unlike the book cluttered, paper strewn offices of some of the dons at Baidley and Lonsdale, among others. The walls held framed certificates and awards, photographs of people that were likely important but beyond Thursday’s recognition, diagrams of medical models, and- oddly- migratory patterns of fish. Thursday’s gaze followed these pictures until his eyes fell on the man sitting at the desk near the window, overlooking the quad below. 

Dr. Andrew Xavier was a spritely looking man, no more than a few years Thursday’s senior. He was thin, but not frail, lanky, but not all that tall when he stood, extending a slim hand out to shake. The curling mass of silver that was his hair was only barely shot through with black, the final remnants of youth and a state that Thursday himself was nearly reaching. Behind his golden framed glasses, his eyes were a deep brown that held a peculiar light of intelligence to them, one that Thursday could recognize in Morse. 

“You must be Inspector Thursday,” Dr. Xavier said cheerily, his accent bearing traces of the north. “Nora told me you’d be stopping by.”

Nora was the name of the secretary, that was right. Thursday nodded, shaking his hand cordially. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Dr. Xavier. Dr. DeBryn speaks very highly of you.”

Dr. Xavier’s eyes brightened and he smiled pleasantly, like he was reliving a hundred good memories in one moment. “Oh, dear Max. Yes, we know each other from Bart’s. I don’t see much of our crowd from those old days, I’m glad he still holds such regard for me as I do him.”

There was a certain fondness in his voice that made Thursday feel that he could trust him instantly. DeBryn was an astute man, as good a judge of character as any, and this man seemed to fit the bill. Two kindred spirits, perhaps. 

Xavier produced a second chair from the other side of his desk and Thursday sat, the doctor returning to his own seat and crossing his legs in front of him, leaning back casually. It wasn’t the same haughtiness that Thursday saw with other dons, so self righteous and arrogant in their standing, but rather a relaxed comfort, as if they were two old friends that had known each other forever and were just catching up on old times. 

“So,” Dr. Xavier steepled his fingers in front of him, smiling genially. “What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“I have something of an odd inquiry, if that’s alright with you,” Thursday began, testing the waters. Best set the scene a bit before jumping into something as strange and disconcerting as he wanted to discuss.

“Well you’re in luck, Inspector, as I happen to specialize in ‘odd.” 

The word ‘luck’ threw Thursday as he suddenly thought of Morse again- the lad just wouldn’t leave his mind- but he was back on track soon enough. “I assume you’re aware of the recent murders, the deaths of magical students in Oxford.”

Thursday was surprised at how quickly Xavier’s bright expression dimmed and he looked quite sombre, nodding gravely and gesturing to a copy of the Oxford Mail on his desk. “I was just reading about the arrest of Marcus Rodin this morning, and I heard about that poor boy you discovered the day before.” The doctor frowned, looking slightly confused. “Considering the arrest, I thought your investigation might have concluded. Is it still ongoing?”

“We’re tying up loose ends,” Thursday said vaguely, but not untruthfully. “There are still a number of things left unclear, we’re trying our best to come up with answers. I was hoping you might help in this regard.”

“Yes, of course,” Dr. Xavier nodded seriously, recognizing the severity of the conversation. “Of course, please, go ahead.”

Thursday straightened in his seat, preparing himself for the question. “My sergeant is a magical- an ember, to be specific- and we discovered that when he or any other magical touches the victims they feel a painful hollowness within them, an agonizing sort of cold that’s difficult to describe. I was wondering if you’d come across anything like this in your career or if this is at all familiar to you.”

To Thursday’s great surprise, Dr. Xavier nodded slowly, his neck bobbing as he swallowed uncomfortably. 

“Yes, I-” Xavier cleared his throat, looking rather troubled as he met the inspector’s eyes. “I see why Max sent you my way. I know exactly what your sergeant experienced, Inspector Thursday. And, more importantly, I know why.” 

Thursday could hardly believe what he was hearing. Was he really this fortunate? Did this man actually hold the answer to this strange phenomena? 

But this also told him something DeBryn had failed to mention. Xavier was a magical. 

“Please,” Thursday said roughly, wishing Sergeant Jakes was there to hear this. “Continue.”

Dr. Xavier drew in a deep breath and adjusted his spectacles, closing his eyes for a moment. Whatever memory he was bringing to mind, it certainly wasn’t pleasant. 

“Many years ago,” the doctor began, reaching for a pen on his desk to click it absently, fiddling with the thing. “After I completed my training at Bart’s, I was up at Cambridge partaking in a very sensitive project that fell within my purview of magical medicine. There was a trial clinic that ran through the university- it was privately funded, mind, but many faculty were invested in the project both monetarily and occupationally. The goal was to treat magical patients who no longer wished to have their abilities.”

Thursday stiffened. What?

At seeing the inspector’s surprise, Xavier nodded, looking quite morose. “Yes, you see these patients, for one reason or another, could no longer bear to live with their magic. It is not an easy life, Inspector, as I’m sure you have discovered while working this case of yours. For many it is dangerous, it is frightening, and it is difficult beyond belief. Maybe their relationships kept falling apart, maybe they could not control their abilities, maybe they just wanted to be normal. We paired them with people without abilities, people who wanted magic but had none. I was consulted- nay, recruited- to this team of professionals who sought to design a method that would surgically extract magic from a human body while leaving the vessel intact.”

“Surgically?” Thursday repeated, confused. “I thought we were talking about magic. This all sounds very scientific.”

Dr. Xavier merely shrugged. “Magic and science are married, Inspector. It may not be the happiest of unions, but they are a couple nonetheless. It was under this concept that we ran our project. In the end, it was a success. After two years we concluded our research and began trials on willing participants who wanted to eradicate their powers. Make them...normal. It was possible. They- we- did it. The magic was removed, and the body was intact. But it left the subjects in such a state that-” 

He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly distressed. Thursday felt sympathy for the old doctor but refrained from interrupting his difficult tale. “Well, I think death would’ve been a kindness for them. It hurts, apparently. It hurts beyond belief. There’s nothing medically wrong with them, nothing to indicate pain signals in the brain or anywhere else in the body. Their vitals were perfectly ordinary. But when you touched them… you could feel it. A soulless void of freezing cold, like a war raging beneath their skin, like they were hollowed out and filled with every form of agony possible and it was killing them to keep it contained. Death…” Xavier drew in a shaky breath. “Death would have been a mercy. And some of them did find it. On their own terms. I quit shortly after and went home to Lincoln, worked for the local Council branch to designate and assign magical children. A few years later, I came here.”

“I’m sorry,” Thursday said, unsure of what he was apologizing for. Sorry for forcing him to relive such painful memories, sorry for bringing up a past he likely worked to forget. Sorry for the lives lost because they could not live in a world that rejected them at every turn. 

Xavier tapped his own forehead, smiling sadly. “Memory. That’s my ability. I remember every single moment of my life. Beyond that, I can share these memories through epidermal- through skin contact. If I were to take your hand right now, Inspector, you could feel exactly what I felt that day, the cold ripping your veins apart like twine, hollowing out your very being into a receptacle of incomprehensible pain. Imagine something sewn into your existence, something so embedded in your very being, just ripped from you. Then magnify it by a thousand.”

Thursday watched his hand warily, as if it would suddenly snap out and grab his own to prove that very point, but instead Xavier tucked his into his pockets, putting him at ease once again. 

“If that is what your sergeant is feeling when he touches the victims, then I’m afraid whoever is killing the magicals is succeeding in removing the magic from their bodies,” Xavier said sadly, gazing out of the window to a scene much calmer than the tumultuous memories in his mind. “As people with magic, we can sense the loss of it in others. As sure as we feel the ground beneath our feet, we sense when it is no longer there.”

“Could that happen to something other than a person?” Thursday asked, thinking of Morse. “Say, if magic were waning in a city. In Oxford.”

Xavier looked thoughtful. “Is this from your sergeant?”

“No, a magical I know through the case.”

“A potential victim, I take it,” Xavier reasoned. He took a moment to think, rubbing his chin distractedly. “I would say that it’s possible, although I make no claims to this myself. I’m a Three, you see, but I imagine someone higher, like a Four or Five, might be able to sense that change on a larger, subtler scale.”

Thursday felt his breath still in his throat. 

A Four or a Five. Xavier was a Three and even he couldn’t tell. But Morse could.

Morse, who was supposed to be a Three. 

“You said Five, Doctor.”

“I did indeed.” Xavier nodded.

“There are no Fives.” Thursday said, feeling like he was treading on dangerous ground. “Unless you were speaking hypothetically.”

One thing Thursday learned over his years of policing was that good men made for poor liars, and he could see the process flickering over Dr. Xavier’s face as he struggled to come up with an explanation for himself. 

“There are no Fives.” Thursday repeated again, and the question behind it was clear this time.

Dr. Xavier sighed. “None on record. I only ever came across one in all my years. His mother requested I manipulate the results to designate him as a Three rather than a Five.”

“What was his name?” Thursday knew the answer already, but he needed to hear it. He needed to hear it from the doctor whose voice told him of a life lived in the north- just as Morse’s did, who spoke of a loving mother dedicated to protecting her magical child- just as Morse’s was. 

A Three who was actually a Five. 

“I can’t say.”

“But your memory-” Thursday began.

“I won’t say.” Dr. Xavier amended, looking slightly desperate. “She wanted him safe, protected. I can’t betray that wish. I’ve honoured it for all these years and-”

“Red hair like an autumn tree,” Thursday interrupted, seeing the exact moment Xavier froze. “Eyes like a clear sky. A thin, awkward lad. Somewhere in the north. I’ll wager the father was absent, only the mother was with him.”

It seemed that Xavier didn’t need to make contact with him in order to share the memory. The recognition was written all over his face, his expression an open book of surprise and confusion. 

“I don’t- h- how?”

“E. Morse.” Thursday said finally, and he knew he was right. “The Five you met, his name was Morse.”

There was a moment of silence that spoke a deafening truth. It explained everything. How Morse could do what he did- and why he didn’t know how. 

And, just possibly, it explained Rodin’s interest in the lad.

“He looked very much like his mother.” Dr. Xavier said finally, his voice holding a gentle reverence as he brought the memory forth. “She’s the one who brought him in. Constance. That was her name. Her son, little Endeavour, was the Five.”

Endeavour. So that was his name. A virtue name, no doubt, but also quite the burden to put on the shoulders of a child. As if he didn’t have enough trouble already. No wonder he only used his surname. 

“Morse- Endeavour- is in Oxford,” Thursday told him, leaning forward in his seat. “He’s been helping me on this case. He thinks magic is waning in the city. Is there a connection between this and the killings? Could Marcus Rodin do such a procedure? Drain magic?”

“If he can, he’s likely not just draining their magic.” Xavier said, shaking his head. “He’s stealing it.”

Thursday felt his blood run cold. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you can transplant magic.” Dr. Xavier explained, wringing his hands. “This is what we were doing in the trials, just like I told you. Non-magicals could have magic given to them. You can transplant it, but it’s very much like blood transfusions or organ transplants. Sometimes it won’t take to the host. There has to be a suitable match. And from the successful trials it seems like a body can only hold one ability. Whatever your man is trying to do, he’s failing. He’s trying over and over again with no success, hence the multiple victims. I imagine he won’t stop until he figures out what he’s doing wrong or gets very lucky.”

Lucky. Thursday felt a jolt ripple through him. 

Morse.

“And does Marcus Rodin know how to do this?” Thursday was almost afraid to hear the answer. 

Dr. Xavier seemed surprised. “Well- I’d say it’s possible. The Rodin family was one of the main donors to the Cambridge program. But Marcus in particular- I don’t think his interests lay with medicine, considering the Blenheim Vale project.”

Thursday furrowed his brow. “Blenheim Vale? The boys home? What does Rodin have to do with that?”

“He funded it, of course,” Dr. Xavier said like it was obvious. “Marcus Rodin funded and helped set up multiple children's homes across the country, places where parents could get rid of their magical children or have them ‘rehabilitated’ and returned to them.”

The emphasis of that word left a cold feeling in Thursday’s chest and he could read a similar disgust on Xavier’s face. “What do you mean by that?”

“I mean they tried to beat the magic out of these children, Inspector,” the man looked positively furious, his knuckles whitening as they clenched. “They put the fear of God in those little children and tried to psychologically and physically condition their magic out of them, make them afraid or unable to ever use it again. Blenheim Vale was shut down, but too late. And of course Marcus Rodin denied any knowledge of what went on under that roof. I don’t know much, but from what I’ve heard, it was a place of suffering, not care.”

Thursday couldn’t feel any more glad that they had Marcus Rodin locked up in a cell where he belonged. To fight and persecute adults was one thing, but to do that to children-

“Marcus Rodin is the kind of man who wields a big stick, not a scalpel,” Dr. Xavier said sagely. “But what I don’t understand is what need he would have for these procedures. If he hates magic so much, why would he want it for himself?”

“Perhaps he’s just getting his jollies from torturing these poor souls,” Thursday suggested. As a man of medicine he likely didn’t see the kinds of things Thursday saw, he didn’t know everything about the vast capabilities of evil that lay beneath the most ordinary people. 

But Xavier shook his head. “Failure to transfer results in the destruction of that magic. It’s rendered inert. If the magic were just being let go, your Morse wouldn’t feel the magic in the city falling. I believe he can sense the decline in magic that results from the victims’ powers being destroyed through failed transfer into a host. I don’t think this is just torture for torture’s sake, Inspector. I think this is torture with a purpose.”

Morse knew that. He’d wondered as much in the cafe yesterday.

“What do you think he does with them? The murderer.” 

“He kills them.” 

“I know that.” Morse almost sounded exasperated. “But what does he do while he has them? The papers say he keeps them for nearly two days. There has to be a reason.”

Was this that reason? To steal their abilities?

Thursday thought back to that fateful night, the moment Morse surged forward to protect Alice Vexin, grabbing Rodin’s wrist.

“How dare you touch me!” Rodin had spat, looking utterly repulsed and infuriated, like there wasn’t anything filthier in the world than to allow a magical to so much as touch him. The anger with which he reacted to the magical students spoke of unvarnished hatred and disgust. 

Dr. Xavier was right. Rodin truly hated magic. He didn’t want it for himself. All he wanted was to watch it wither and die. Would he really run the risk of bringing magic into his own body to do so?

Something had felt wrong as they booked Rodin into the nick. He hadn’t blatantly denied his crimes, but he was a long shot from confessing. And Morse- Morse was hesitant to point the finger at him. After all their discussions on Rodin, Morse never seemed to reach the conclusion that Marcus Rodin was the man responsible. 

“The threat comes when they try to get a taste for themselves. And they find how easily beauty can burn.” 

“Is that what you think our man is doing?” Thursday asked. “Trying to get a taste for himself? What does that mean here?”

This was what that meant. 

It meant that Marcus Rodin didn’t have the right motive. 

It meant that he wasn’t their killer.