A Frequency of Truth

  The Resonant Arcana

  Book Three

  Nicole R. Taylor

  A Frequency of Truth

  (The Resonant Arcana - Book Three) by Nicole R. Taylor

  Copyright © 2024 by Nicole R. Taylor

  All rights reserved.

  This book is written in British/AU English.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  www.nicolertaylorwrites.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

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  About Nicole

  Chapter 1

  Detective Inspector Blair Calloway strode into the London Metropolitan Police’s evidence storage, her footsteps echoing against the polished floor. The sterile space hummed with the quiet thrum of ventilation, rows of grey metal lockers and cages lining the walls.

  She moved with purpose, her thoughts tangled with the Selene O’Connor case, a death she had never fully believed to be a simple suicide. Her enchanted watch gave a faint buzz against her wrist, an almost imperceptible vibration she had learned to associate with lingering traces of magic.

  Sometimes she found them in evidence—a misplaced artefact, something unknowingly touched by magic, smuggled goods, or worse…a crime committed by or against a witch or mage.

  She paused at locker 2317, her fingers hovering over the keypad. The case had gathered dust for two months now—officially closed, neatly filed away, forgotten by everyone except her. The lock clicked open with a metallic snap.

  Blair pulled open the metal door, its hinges protesting with a quiet whine. The familiar scent of paper and metal wafted out as she lifted the evidence box, setting it on the nearby examination table. Her fingers, well-versed in countless hours of file review, moved through the contents with practised efficiency.

  The folder marked ‘Selene O’Connor’ caught her attention, but something made her pause. The usually crisp edges of the files were askew, papers jutting out at odd angles. She lifted the folder, examining it under the harsh fluorescent light. The metal staple in the corner had been wrenched free and clumsily reattached, leaving tiny tears in the paper.

  Her heart rate quickened as she opened the folder. Pages fanned out across the metal table, but gaps in the sequence leapt out at her trained eye. The post-mortem report—which she’d reviewed thoroughly during the initial investigation—was gone. So were the witness statements from the building’s security guard, several crime scene photographs, and the thumb drive that contained security footage from the CCTV cameras near Selene’s flat.

  Blair’s jaw clenched. The muscles in her neck tightened as she methodically checked each remaining document. This wasn’t simple mishandling or administrative error. The missing items were too specific, too crucial to the case. Evidence that had been overlooked in the face of the wounds on the body, which the coroner had ruled self-inflicted. No one cut themselves hundreds of times, then suffocated with no explanation.

  Blair’s watch buzzed faintly, a subtle vibration against her wrist. Her eyes narrowed. Magic.

  She spread her fingers across the remaining papers, feeling the residual energy that lingered there. Someone with access to police evidence storage had deliberately stripped this file—someone who knew exactly what they were looking for.

  The temperature plummeted, raising goosebumps along her arms. Years of experience had taught her to trust these subtle shifts—they rarely proved coincidental. The ring on her right hand grew warm, its heat building steadily against her skin. Dark magic. Here, in the evidence room of all places.

  She lifted her hand, tilting it under the harsh fluorescent lights. The warmth concentrated on one side of the ring, like a compass pointing towards its source. Following its pull, her gaze settled on the open locker. There—a faint iridescent shimmer clung to the metal edge, barely visible unless someone knew exactly what to look for.

  Blair reached into her coat pocket, fingers closing around the modified UV torch she’d had specially crafted for tracking magical signatures. The weight of it felt reassuring in her palm as she clicked it on, sweeping the beam across the locker’s frame.

  The effect was immediate. What had been a mere suggestion of something otherworldly burst into life under the specialised light. The residue glowed with an oily sheen, its colours shifting between deep purple and sickly green. It curled away from the locker like smoke frozen in time, forming a distinct trail that led towards the evidence room door.

  Her watch vibrated more intensely now, confirming what the ring and her instincts had already told her. This wasn’t just any magical trace—this was powerful, and deliberately masked from casual detection. The kind of magic that had no business anywhere near mundane police evidence storage.

  Magic that was recent. They’d only just left, Blair realised. If she was quick, then she might be able to catch them.

  She hesitated for only a moment, returning the altered file before securing the locker. The metallic clang echoed through the empty evidence room as she strode towards the exit, her boots tapping against the polished floor. Her watch’s vibration intensified, the magical signature growing stronger.

  The crisp London night hit her face as she pushed through the station’s heavy doors. A gust of wind carried the scent of rain and exhaust fumes, the city’s heartbeat pulsing around her in a clash of distant sirens and occasional car horns. The darkness pressed in, broken by the harsh glow of orange streetlights that cast long shadows across wet cobblestones.

  Her ring burned hot against her skin, urging her away from the familiar path to her car. The magical trail curved east, towards the warren of narrow streets that branched off from the main road. Each step matched the steady thrum of her watch, the vibrations forming a rhythm that pulled her forward like an invisible thread.

  Blair’s hand brushed against the modified torch in her pocket. The weight of the evidence file pressed against her ribs beneath her coat, reminding her that she was at a distinct disadvantage. In her years bridging the gap between London’s mundane and magical worlds, she’d never encountered traces this potent inside the station itself. Someone had walked into a secure police facility and left behind a magical signature strong enough to set off multiple detection devices—either incredibly sloppy or deliberately provocative. Or, they didn’t know that a human Detective Inspector worked both sides of the Fold.

  The magical residue led her through London’s back streets, her footsteps silent against centuries-old cobblestones. The trail twisted through narrow passages between Victorian buildings, their weathered brick faces looming overhead. Each turn brought a fresh pulse from her watch, confirming she hadn’t lost the trail.

  Her grandmother’s ring burned steadily against her skin. The old woman had pressed it into her palm years ago, muttering about protection and darkness. Blair hadn’t understood then—thought it merely the ramblings of age. Now the ring served as her most reliable defence against magic that could strip flesh from bone.

  A grey fox darted across her path, its eyes reflecting before vanishing into shadow. The sight triggered memories of her first venture into Nightreach, when she’d discovered London’s hidden magical underbelly. The way her partner’s face had drained of colour as reality shifted around them, revealing the truth beneath the city’s skin. She’d adapted. He hadn’t. And those who didn’t, never came back.

  Her breath clouded in the cold air as she pressed forward. The magical signature pulled her towards Kings Cross, past shuttered shops and graffiti-marked walls. Industrial buildings rose ahead, their metal frames black against the night sky. Steam rose from vents, carrying the scent of oil and iron that marked the edge of the station’s maintenance yards.

  The trail strengthened, but Blair’s steps slowed. Here, caught between mundane London and its magical mirror, she felt the weight of her position. No witch’s power coursed through her veins, she wasn’t born with a mage’s inner fire, and no ancestral spells protected her beyond the few enchanted items she’d gathered. Just a human detective trying to bridge two worlds that were never meant to touch.

  The ring flared hot as the trail veered sharply left, leading towards a row of abandoned warehouses bordering several active railway lines. Rust-streaked doors lined the building’s face, their padlocks gleaming dully in the weak light.

  Blair rounded the corner, her steps precise and calm despite the urgency thrumming through her veins. The orange lights cast long shadows across the rail yard, but they couldn’t mask the sickly glow that clung to the hooded figure standing in the alley between two buildings. The light shifted and swirled around them like oil on water, visible only to those
who knew where to look.

  Her ring blazed against her skin, confirmation of what her eyes already told her. Dark magic, fresh and potent, exactly matching the residue from the evidence room.

  The figure turned, and even in the dim light, Blair caught the flash of recognition in their pose. They bolted, their footsteps echoing off the brick walls.

  Blair launched after them, her breath controlled and steady from years of similar pursuits. Her boots struck wet asphalt in a practised rhythm as she vaulted over a stack of wooden pallets blocking her path. The figure darted between buildings, leading her across a maze of railway service roads.

  The chase cut across multiple sets of train tracks, steel rails gleaming in the darkness. Blair’s enchanted watch vibrated wildly as they approached a towering warehouse, its windows long since shattered. A rusted gate barred the entrance, chain-link rattling in the wind.

  The figure slipped through a gap in the metal like smoke through a keyhole. Their magical aura flickered once before vanishing into the warehouse’s dark maw.

  Blair pressed her back against the cold metal gate, her breath steady despite the chase. The warehouse loomed before her, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Her watch’s vibration intensified, no longer the subtle warning from the evidence room but an urgent, insistent hum that travelled up her arm.

  Voices drifted through the broken windows—different tones, different cadences than what she expected from someone she’d just pursued. The words themselves were muffled, but the rhythm carried the distinct pattern of calm, but insistent discussion. Her ring grew hot enough to sting.

  She unholstered her modified torch, its weight familiar in her left hand. Her right brushed the grip of her police-issue sidearm, cold metal a reminder that some threats responded to more mundane solutions.

  The gap in the gate was barely wide enough for her to fit through. Blair turned sideways, sliding through. Her dark coat caught for a moment on the rusted metal, but she freed it with a sharp tug. The warehouse air hit her face—stale, thick with dust and the metallic tang of active spellwork.

  Her boots touched concrete, the sound absorbed by years of gathered grime. The space stretched into darkness, support columns rising like ancient trees in a dead forest. Broken glass crunched beneath her feet despite her careful movements.

  The voices grew clearer now, echoing from deeper within the building.

  She lifted the torch, its beam cutting through layers of shadow. The light caught floating motes of dust, each particle shimmering with unnatural iridescence. The magic here was so thick she could almost taste it—bitter and sharp, like blood on her tongue.

  The torch’s beam cut through decades of accumulated dust, illuminating ancient wooden crates that loomed like forgotten monuments, their surfaces scarred by time and neglect. The concrete beneath her feet bore deep cracks, spreading like dark veins through the grey surface.

  The light caught movement ahead—two figures standing near what appeared to be a ritual circle. Its faint luminescence painted the ground in sickly hues, the magical residue forming patterns Blair had never encountered in her years of investigating supernatural crime scenes.

  The woman turned first, her movement unnaturally fluid. Power rolled off her in waves that made Blair’s enchanted items buzz and hum in warning.

  The man moved with practised efficiency, positioning himself between Blair and his companion. His stance spoke of combat training, but the magic crackling around him felt wild, barely contained. Static electricity raised the hair on Blair’s arms as his power filled the space between them.

  Blair lifted her torch higher, illuminating their faces fully. Her grandmother’s ring blazed against her skin, its heat almost unbearable. In all her years working between London’s two worlds, she’d never felt it react so strongly. Whatever—whoever—this woman was, she wasn’t just another witch or mage.

  The woman’s power pulsed once, making Blair’s watch stutter in its usual rhythm. The air grew thick with static, like the moment before lightning struck.

  “Detective Inspector Blair Calloway, Metropolitan Police.” Her voice cut through the warehouse’s stale air. “Identify yourselves.”

  The pair remained silent. Blair’s enchanted items thrummed with warning as the woman’s power continued to pulse through the space. The ritual circle at their feet cast strange shadows across their features, its sickly glow making their faces appear hollow and otherworldly.

  Blair lowered her torch a fraction, years of training taking over as she assessed the situation. The weight of her warrant card pressed against her chest, a reminder of her authority in this world—though such things held less sway in matters of magic.

  “I won’t ask again.” Her gaze shifted between them, cataloguing details. The man’s stance spoke of both magical and physical combat training and she realised who she was looking at. Rafe Thorne, a name that had crossed her desk more times than she cared to count. A powerful mage who walked the line between London’s two worlds with the same careful balance she did.

  But it was the woman who set every magical detection device Blair carried into overdrive. Her presence felt wrong, like a wrong note in an otherwise familiar song. The magical signature radiating from her wasn’t just powerful—it was ancient, fundamentally different from the magic Blair had encountered in her years of supernatural investigations. Whatever this woman was, she was something else. Something new.

  “Last chance,” Blair said, her voice steady despite the tension crackling through the air. “Identify yourselves.”

  “Vesper Ainsley.”

  Blair froze. Vesper Ainsley was named and questioned in the O’Connor case. She was a co-worker and friend.

  “Rafe Thorne.” The man’s shoulders relaxed a fraction, though his stance remained protective. “Look, there’s no need for this to become a thing.”

  Blair’s attention snapped to her watch as its steady vibration faltered, then ceased. The magical trail she’d followed ended abruptly at the residue glowing on the warehouse floor. This wasn’t just any magical trace, it was a Thread.

  “I followed someone here,” Blair said, choosing her words carefully. “Strong magical signature. Matched evidence tampering at the station.”

  “We know.” Rafe stepped forward, his movement measured. “We’re tracking the same person. That mark you’re looking at—it’s what’s left of a Threadthread.”

  Blair nodded, her grandmother’s ring cooling against her skin as the immediate threat dissipated. “Into the Fold.” She’d seen enough Thread remnants in her work to recognise the telltale signs, though this one bore marks of corruption she’d never encountered before.

  Blair kept her torch trained on the Thread, studying its corrupted patterns while she spoke. “Approximately two hours ago, someone accessed evidence storage at the Met. They took something from a sealed file—a file connected to a murder case I’m working.” She paused, gauging their reactions. “The magical signature led me here.”

  “Which case?” Rafe’s voice remained neutral, but his stance shifted subtly.

  “The death of a woman named Selene O’Connor.” Blair watched Vesper’s face carefully, looking for tells. “The file showed signs of tampering. There was surveillance footage missing—it was grainy, but clear enough to identify a woman. Translucent skin, silver hair. Goes by Cassandra.”

  Vesper’s sharp intake of breath cut through the warehouse’s musty air. Her eyes darted to Rafe, who had gone completely still. The surrounding temperature seemed to drop several degrees.

  “You’ve encountered her before.” Blair didn’t phrase it as a question. Her enchanted watch began vibrating again, responding to the sudden spike of magical energy around Vesper.

  “She attacked me…and a lot of other people.” Vesper’s voice was tight, controlled. “A week ago.” She trailed off, her hands clenching at her sides. “And we think she had something to do with…your case.”