Chapter Text
William Hawkes stood in the foyer of the Darcys’ home, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. He felt out of place among the lavish curtains and carpets, walls polished bone-white, despite living his entire life in a similar space. Expansive entryways that inexplicably seemed more suffocating than the bars of a cage were not something he was estranged to; it was the circumstance that had him fidgeting.
Robin, the detective who had been chosen to accompany him, regarded the home with indifference and her stance held a confidence he envied. He knew there was no reason to be nervous. He had express permission to be standing there, evidenced by the documents in his hands that tasked him with investigating the murder of Lady Neyra Elena Darcy. But permission did nothing to combat the strain in his throat, the weight on his chest. He was certain the tension reached his eyes as he forced a cordial smile at the maid who had greeted them at the door.
“The Darcys await you in the dining room.” She said, dipping her head in Will’s direction.
He nodded in acknowledgement, trailing behind as she led them to a hall on the right of the grand staircase, under an archway framed by alabaster pillars. The sight that greeted them was a painfully familiar one. An impressive room with checkered flooring, a long table set in the center of an ornate rug and an unlit chandelier dangling from the ceiling. The crystal teardrops sparkled softly in pale light that filtered through a single unobstructed window. Everything was faded, as if the interior had been washed of color, leaving the walls and furniture alike in various shades of gray. There was something numbing about it, the way each surface was bare of decoration, spare for a few paintings and a vase of gardenias. Mr. and Mrs. Darcy completed the monochrome landscape, each dressed in dark garments that blended with the dim lighting.
Grief hung heavy around them, eyes dull and plagued by sleepless nights, the glitter of noble life snuffed out with the loss of a flame that had once burned brighter.
Neyra had always outshone her circumstance. She was more than a carefully crafted image, she pursued change with a heart that was stolen from her chest. Perhaps that was why she died while he lived. Perhaps the Hawkes family went untouched by phantoms because they never dared to challenge the way things were. More useful as idle pawns that could disappear in the blink of an eye. Will swallowed hard at the thought. He would forever be a puppet no matter who held the strings.
“Please, sit down.”
A tear-shaken whisper, snapping him back to the ashen hall, his mind lost somewhere among the shimmer of the chandeliers.
He obeyed, sinking into one of the silver chairs arranged around the table.
“I-Is there any new information?” Neyra’s mother asked.
“The APD still has yet to find conclusive proof that the murder was faked,” Will began. “But I’ve been given authorization to search the crime scene. In the event that it was staged, Neyra is still missing, and could have left behind clues to her location.”
“Missing?” The question was sharp, almost an accusation.
“Well, yes. She has to be somewhere, but it would be inefficient to send out search parties unless we are certain she’s alive.”
“She must be,” Mr. Darcy insisted. “I see no reason to refrain from searching. Every moment we spend waiting, she could be put at risk”
“I’m well aware, sir. This situation…it’s extremely complicated. There are so many possibilities, and we are taking every measure to uncover the truth. We simply cannot devote resources exclusively to this case. There’s a Phantom Scythe shipment we plan to intercept in a few days, among other things.”
“Surely you have officers to send after her,” Mrs. Darcy stood, bracing herself against the table. “Please, I have to–” her voice broke, “I just want to see my daughter again.”
Will’s heart clenched painfully, and he coughed around the sudden lump building in his throat. “I hope you understand that I share your sentiment wholeheartedly. I want nothing more than to believe she is alive and well. However, we must accept that this may not be the reality.” He willed his voice to remain steady. “The murder could have been faked, but this could mean a variety of different outcomes depending on who faked it. I see no reason for the Purple Hyacinth himself to do such a thing, as his victims are always easily identified. Unfortunately, he’s been known to have a flair for dramatics in the past, so he can’t be written off entirely. And as of now, determining the possible motivations of a copycat is close to impossible. We need more information.”
“What more is there to know? I…there was nothing to suggest…” Neyra’s mother didn’t finish the sentence, her words trailing into a sob. “Wouldn’t anything of importance at the crime scene have been found already? Why is there still nothing… ”
“I wish there was more to tell you.” Will murmured. “Something will come to light, eventually…”
“Lieutenant Hawkes, if I may.” Robin interjected, leaning forward slightly in her seat as she sought Will’s approval. At his nod, she continued.
“I’m of the firm that believes that asking the right questions is essential to receiving answers. We have yet to address why Neyra would be targeted in the first place.”
“She wasn’t–”
“Allow me to elaborate. As Mr. Hawkes has described, the motivations of a copycat would be difficult to pinpoint. But in the event that this murder was in any way affiliated with the Phantom Scythe, there will be more leads to follow. They are known for targeting members of the nobility, but social status is not the only factor. They are much more calculated than that, and certainly wouldn’t send their most high profile assassin merely to spark fear. It’s far more likely they wanted Neyra gone for a reason.”
“Are you suggesting that our daughter was involved with–” Mr. Darcy's gaze darkened, face twisting as he spat the words, “– them?”
“Perhaps. Victims of the Purple Hyacinth have often been double agents tasked with infiltrating the Scythe.”
“Neyra would never put herself in such danger–” Neyra’s father seemed downright offended by the suggestion, and Mrs. Darcy shook her head violently. Robin was quick to de-escalate.
“My most sincere apologies. It was only something to consider. I take it that you never noticed anything unusual about her behavior as of late, then?”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Darcy replied immediately. After a moment’s pause, she added with reluctance, “Although…I suppose she wasn’t quite herself when the topic of engagement came up.” She cast a glance at Will, who was beginning to wish the floor would swallow him. This revelation was far from surprising. It was much too easy to forget that he played both the part of a stoic Lieutenant and a heartbroken suitor. Except he was something else, Neyra was something else, and no one would ever know. “But even that wasn’t so unusual.” She sighed. “Never so enthusiastic about marriage, I’m afraid.”
“I see,” Robin said, saving Will the agony of crafting a reply. “I’m sorry, I know this isn’t a conversation anyone wants to have. Perhaps it would be best if we proceed with the investigation?
Neyra’s mother nodded, arm tightening around her husband’s for support as she swallowed, a broken smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. “Of course. We won’t keep you any longer.”
She gestured down the hall, where the grand staircase awaited. Will stood, heading in the direction she indicated only to feel a tug at his sleeve. Neyra’s father looked up at him, eyes dark and unreadable, some sort of plea etched in the lines of his brow.
“I’m sorry,” He murmured, drawing his hand back. “For asking so much of you, but…I refuse to believe she’s truly…” His breaths were shaky as he ran a hand through his hair. “There must be signs somewhere, ones we were too blind to see. But I'm confident that with your eyes, the truth will come to light. Please, help us find her.”
Once again, Will fought to gather words in his mind. They were still drowning in denial. He wondered which stage of grief he was in. He couldn’t quite believe she was dead either. It was too fast, too sudden, one minute a facade was dropped, he had gained a friend, something he rarely had these days, and not a week later she was gone. Completely, utterly gone. No warning, no hint that she would be the next victim. But that’s how it always was, wasn’t it? Phantoms, striking like specters in the night, claiming names that would be known for a brief moment before they were forgotten again. All anyone remembered were the flowers. The assassin who left them behind, and never the dead who soaked petals with their blood. Neyra was but an ink stain on a list, a record of every person he’d killed.
Will had glanced over the names on multiple occasions, but they were never ones he recognized. Now that the loss was personal he realized, perhaps he was in denial. He must have been, because he replied,
“Of course. I’ll handle it.”
He and Robin vacated their seats, returning to the hall lined with gold filigree and iron sconces, and soon the entrance. They ascended the stairs, a dizzying helix that seemed to spiral forever. Climbed past portraits with smiling faces framed in copper and set with amethyst, past chandeliers dripping with thousands of pearly teardrops, a shine to everything that even the shadows crowding the manor could not subdue. Robin remained two steps behind him , her dark eyes drinking in every detail with a sharp perceptiveness. Adjusting the glasses perched on her nose, she turned to Will.
“You seem to have a history with the Darcys.”
He cringed. “I–yes. Neyra and I were to be engaged.”
“Ah. You have my condolences.”
Will hummed, shying away from her narrowed gaze.
He flinched when they finally reached the highest floor, wrinkling his nose as the pungent stench of alcohol hit his senses.
“Not pleasant, huh?” Robin coughed. “The crime scene has been completely sterilized, so I doubt we’ll find fingerprints or anything of the sort. Forensics is still looking into the blood samples and the heart, but it seems they don’t have the technology to accurately determine that it was hers.”
“So…what are we looking for?”
She shrugged. “Things that seem disturbed or hastily moved, or a clue among her belongings that could point us in the right direction.”
“Of course.” Will hesitated, contemplating whether the question forming on his tongue was worth asking. “Why…what makes you think Neyra could have been a spy? I assumed she was targeted as a warning, perhaps a reminder of the Scythe’s ruthlessness. Especially after our raid on the Devil’s Den…”
“That may be. It’s the unusual nature of her death that has me inclined to wonder if there was more to the story than fear tactics.”
“She did prove herself to have some sort of training, perhaps acrobatics…”
“Oh?” Robin raised an eyebrow.
“At the opera house, she was the first to react when Greene died. Jumped from the box seats and began performing CPR.” Will explained.
“Hm. She was also an attendant of the queen, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to guess that Lizbeth was using her as a spy.”
“...I suppose.”
Bypassing the caution tape that blocked off the hallway, Will tried to breathe as little as possible. His eyes were burning from the fumes as he stepped through the open doorway of Neyra’s room. He hadn't seen the crime scene the morning it was discovered, but the newspapers had been enough to paint a vivid image, nearly every inch of the space painted in crimson.
Not a drop of blood remained. Every surface had been scrubbed clean, the carpets and curtains and bedsheets likely replaced or else soaked in alcohol for several days. He was left to assume this was more or less what Neyra’s room had looked like before it was ravaged, and that he’d find remaining evidence if he knew where to look. Everything was too neat, too perfect, as if no one had ever lived here.
None of it was her. Neyra was bold, she was fearless, she was a shadow diving onto a stage, determined to save a dying ghost. The room was draped in finery, overflowing with wealth and beauty, pristine yet soulless. It was a lie. The world’s memory of Neyra would always be a lie.
Robin marched toward the balcony and Will set about opening anything that was closed, as if secrets might come pouring out of the doors. All he uncovered was a closet lined with colorful garments, several dozen pairs of shoes neatly placed on shelves, and a vanity that held an ornate hairbrush, pins and other accessories. The only piece of furniture he had yet to touch was the desk. Somewhat forcefully he pulled out the drawers, casting aside blank pieces of parchment and pens. He let out a huff of frustration when nearly all of the compartments were empty, spare for a paperweight and other such knickknacks here and there.
Neyra was the very image of a perfect, unassuming princess. She was organized, she was polished, she fit in the box that had been drawn for her, she never stepped out of line, she had nothing to hide. And yet, she was dead. She was all of those things and yet she wasn't. The Purple Hyacinth didn’t kill nobles for the fun of it, though Will was sure he would if given the chance. He killed them because they got in the way, because they knew too much, because they posed a threat. All of which were things he suspected Nerya was capable of. There had to be a reason. She must have died for a reason, if only she left it in plainer sight. His fingers drummed against the desk, other hand pinching the bridge of his nose in thought. If he couldn't find Neyra, he had to find out why , any amount of closure…they deserved that, at the very least. He resisted the urge to scream. Why was he always falling short? If there was one thing he accomplished with consistency, it was failing everyone around him. Everyone who depended on him for comfort, for answers, even though he had nothing left to offer. He’d already given himself up far too many times.
Will slammed the drawers shut, making no effort to be careful. As he stood, he froze midstep, glancing back at the desk. Opened all the compartments again, closed them.
There.
Third drawer from the right. The sound it made when it struck the back of the desk was different from the rest.
Hollow.
“Robin?” He called. She looked up from the table she’d been inspecting.
Will pried at the back of the drawer, digging his fingers into the wood. The slat was fake. He reached deep into the compartment, skin brushing against paper. He removed a small, crumpled sheet of parchment.
“False wall,” Robin commented, now peering over his shoulder.
Will frowned, unfolding the paper and smoothing it down. “Why would she have a hidden compartment to hide a single letter?”
“Maybe there were more,” The detective suggested. “What else did you find in the desk?”
“Not much. A few scraps of paper, pens. Almost as if…everything else had been removed.”
“They did say parts of her room were wrecked when they discovered the crime scene. So this could be the murderer’s doing. Or it could have been Neyra herself.” Robin sighed, tugging at a strand of curly hair. “I’ve noticed several things that seem misplaced, but it’s hard to tell who was responsible for moving them.”
Will was no longer listening, his attention focused on the cramped lettering filling the time-touched page.
It is a bewitching wonder to play with fire.
To tame the untamable, to be surrounded by golden light in a dance among stars. You must have precision in every step to avoid being burned. But everyone is burned, at some point. I suppose that’s what makes it so alluring, the way some manage to walk amidst flames as if the heat is nothing but phantom pain brushing their skin.
The fire bends to my will, spins to my command. I never feared it, even when my fingertips singed. In fact, for the longest time I thought I was fearless.
You were the one who proved me wrong.
Don’t let it get to your head, princess. You don’t scare me, though I’d love to see you try. You don’t scare me because you are not an uncontrolled flame.
I am the fire, and I am afraid to burn you.
Will drew in a shaky breath. There was no signature, no greeting. No way of knowing who had poured their soul into these words. He could only assume that Neyra had been in correspondence with someone who cared for her deeply. A person who must know by now that Neyra was dead, reduced to nothing more than a headline in the newspaper, a name that would be whispered for a day before it was forgotten by the masses.
“May I see that?” His thoughts scattered by Robin’s query, he offered her the letter.
He watched as her expression shifted from one of mild frustration to shock and– recognition .
“What-?”
“Did Neyra write this?” She asked, voice suddenly urgent.
“No, I think she only wrote in cursive.”
“Do you have a sample of her handwriting?”
Will rifled through the few papers he’d found in the desk, eventually settling on what appeared to be quotes taken from a book. “This is hers. Why do you need–?”
Robin was already wandering toward the door, eyes flicking back and forth over the letters. Finally she looked up, eyes wide.
“I could be mistaken,” She said. “But I think we have a lead.”
________
“You heard of the massive arrests two days ago.” Robin began as they returned to the precinct.
“Of course. It was the most progress we’ve made in…well, ever.”
“Exactly. And one of the Phantoms we took into custody was none other than the Golden Viper. She put up a hell of a fight, took out four officers before they managed to sedate her.” Robin shook her head, nudging open the glass doors emblazoned with the royal crest. “Anyway, her caravan was raided soon after, and a box of letters was recovered.”
“She was a member of the Circus Royale, right?”
Cold dread seeped into Will’s bones, a memory of his brother standing silhouetted by strings of light, snow drifting down around them.
“A fire dancer, coincidentally,” Robin confirmed, waving the paper still grasped tightly in her fingers. “Nothing remarkable was found among the Viper’s belongings, other than the letters. We’re still running low on detectives after the opera house incident, so I was tasked with tracing her correspondent. If I’m right, we’ll be solving two cases for the price of one.”
“You think Neyra was involved with…the Golden Viper?” Will asked, incredulous. He followed the detective through the precinct halls, shoes clacking on the tile floor. Eventually they reached one of the IU’s offices, where she stopped at a desk crowded with dozens upon dozens of folded letters. She sifted through them, comparing the script to that of the copied quotes penned by Neyra’s hand. It matched.
“Yes. If she was a spy, this could have been a means of infiltration. But the messages imply a much…deeper bond. Here–” She sorted through the parchment with increased fervor. “Most of these have Neyra’s handwriting–supposedly–but there were few that–ah.”
Laying the paper she’d withdrawn next to the one they’d found in Neyra’s desk, the slanted penmanship was terrifyingly similar.
Will’s hands were trembling as he bent to inspect the letters more closely. The page Robin produced had been creased countless times, worn thin and fragile. Detailed renditions of flowers and butterflies occupied every space left unfilled by words, and there were many, many words, two distinct scrawls following a pattern of call and response, question and answer. There was something forbidden about it, but he began reading despite himself.
Before you ask, and before the Wonderfully Talented Artistic Genius who is currently reading this over my shoulder stabs me, I must admit that the illustrations in the margins of this letter were done by him, not me. And only because he owed me a favor, though I’m beginning to regret enlisting his skills because the insufferable idiot refuses to leave me alone. I suggest sending your reply with compliments to his expertise if you ever want to hear from me again.
You mentioned wanting a more reliable method of communication. Personally, I see nothing wrong with our current routine of hidden notes and spontaneous encounters. I find them quite thrilling, but since your highness insists, I’m willing to concede. Perhaps a set meeting place would be more to your liking? Of course, I would never be so foolish as to list my suggestions here. You’ll have to find me again if you wish to form an agreement.
I hear divine judgment draws nearer. In three flights of an eagle, I shall tend to the fire Prometheus left behind.
It must have been a reference to the circus. Will wondered briefly if the Viper was the only member of the pantheon with skeletons to hide. The writing that followed was Neyra’s, carefully perfected and graceful, unlike that of her companion.
Firstly, I’d like your friend to know that his drawings are lovely—does he take commissions? I’m sure he could, if he wanted. Though I suppose if he did I would have heard of him by now. Second, stabbing? An awfully large price to pay for a minimal offense, in my humble opinion. I’d recommend that both of you be more careful with sharp objects.
May the judgment not be too harsh, for I seek the warmth of flames.
He should have torn himself away, ran from the room and never looked back. The words were not his to read. And yet he found himself sifting through years of exchanged endearment, hesitant adoration that bled into the ink swirled across each page. Paragraphs written in methodic calligraphy, as if the writer had become lost in her thoughts, others hasty scrawls, jotted down in the eye of the storm. Every sentence made him sick, overwhelming nausea brewing in the pit of his stomach. It clawed up to his throat and soon the room was swimming before his eyes and he had to look away, pressing a hand to his face. He was an intruder in countless moments lost to time, a love he had no part in severed by a single sharpened blade.
The Golden Viper. “ How could–” He faltered, each word weighing heavier on his tongue. “Neyra wouldn’t–”
Or perhaps she would.
He didn’t know her. Not as well as he should have. He’d known a lie, had been one himself, and she was gone soon after the truth emerged. He had no right to question her choice of company. She might not have thought to question her choice of company. There had to be an explanation, one only a dead woman could give.
A dead woman…and an imprisoned one.
Robin was watching him carefully, her brows drawn together in sympathy. “Forgive me, I’m sure this has been…overwhelming.”
Will blinked, waving her away. “It’s alright, I’m–if you’ll excuse me, I need to request a visit with the Golden Viper.” His reassurance was rushed, breathless, as if he was physically winded by the discoveries. “Do you mind if I take these?” He gestured to the letters.
“Not at all.”
“Thank you, I’ll make sure to send you a report of any findings.”
With that, he gathered a stack of the messages, practically sprinting to the patrol unit office. His breathing was frantic, heart pounding in his ears as he threw the door open, squinting at the intrusion of light streaming through the open windows. The sun was dying, bathing the room in a russet glow. He sat down heavily at his desk, blind to everything but parchment in his hands and the form he began filling out at frantic speed. He didn’t notice Kym’s presence until she was hovering inches away from his face.
“What’s this?” Her dramatic gasp echoed directly in his ear. She pointed an accusing finger at his pen, still scribbling away at the application. “Could it be that I, the almighty Sergeant Ladell, have finished my paperwork before the Lieutenant? Dear gods, the world really is ending!” She frowned, tone becoming serious as she took in his expression. “Are you okay?”
Will sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Just tired. If you must know, I’m requesting to visit a prisoner. I finished my work hours ago.”
“A prisoner?” Kym echoed. “Who is it?” She snatched the paper from his desk before he had time to reply. “Belladonna Davenport,” She read aloud. “ Oh! She’s the pretty one, right? With the pink hair?”
Will stared at her, put off by the enthusiasm. “She’s the assassin who killed Harvey, Kym.”
Kym’s arms dropped to her sides. “Right. Well then.” She blew out a breath, ruffling the strands of hair that hung over her face. “Don’t die,” She said, patting Will solemnly. “I’d rather not come to work tomorrow morning and find your corpse stuffed in a closet.”
“That's not funny.”
Kym released his shoulder. “I’ve been told my humor is an acquired taste.”
“No shit,” he muttered.
“Why are you visiting her anyway?”
“I…” Will hesitated. He’d hoped the sensitive nature of this case could be kept to himself. But…Kym deserved to know, didn’t she? She’d known Neyra, at least a little. And somehow in recent months, lying to her had become almost equally impossible as it was with Lauren. He scanned the office, dropping his voice to a whisper even though he was certain they were alone. “I’d like to keep it under wraps for the moment, but she had some sort of connection to Neyra. They were very close.”
“Oooooooooh,” Kym breathed. “How scandalous. They had good taste, though.”
“ Kym, ” He grumbled.
“Sorry. Can I come with you?”
“I think it’s better if you didn’t. Wouldn’t want you drooling over a mass murderer and embarrassing yourself in her presence.”
Kym gave a huff of indignance. “I would not drool, much less dare to inflate her ego. Hot though she may be.”
“Good.” Will said, shuffling the letters together and tying the bundle with maroon string. He placed it carefully in one of the drawers, snatching the completed visitation form.
The last thing we need is an officer falling for one of the very criminals we’ve sworn to destroy.