Chapter One
The crowd gathered around the young dockworker preparing to toss the dice was an eclectic mixture of London’s wealthiest and poorest. Gentlemen and lords dressed in top hats and long coattails knocked elbows with scrawny porters and dirty street sweepers in the dark alley behind Black’s card house.
Although a frequent guest of Black’s, Jovan didn’t come to play vingt-et-un or whist but to go out back and watch the dice game of hazard. A game of complete luck and one he’d consistently won at years ago. Now he just watched, an atonement of such for his sins. Of which he had plenty.
There was five pounds—a whole month’s wages for most—lying in the dirt and he hoped the scruffy boy would pocket it but suspected the game was rigged.
The boy squeezed the dice, then, flicking his wrist, tossed them against the brick wall. He needed a nine to win. One die rolled and settled on the four, the other rolled a little farther. Concentrating on it, Jovan saw it was heading to a six. With his right hand pressed tight against his leg, he moved his index finger ever so slightly, and under his breath he muttered, “Volvo.”
The die did one extra flip and settled on the number five.
“Nicks!” a few of the grizzled men cheered. The others didn’t look as happy to see the boy win.
The portly gentleman smoking a cigar on Jovan’s left patted him on the back and said under his breath, “That’s a bit of luck there for that boy. If I didn’t know better, I’d say there’s magic in the air.”
Jovan smiled at the man who knew full well there was indeed magic in the air. Lord Effington was one of a very small number of people in London who knew of the existence of sorcerers and magic.
“Your brother would not approve.”
“My brother would disapprove of everything. I don’t think he’s smiled in ten years.”
As the boy reached for his money, another hand, a rather large and dirty one, slapped the top of his before he could gather his winnings. The crowd looked up into the flushed square face of a hard man named Ruddy, named so because his skin was always flushed with anger.
“You’re a cheat.”
The boy cowered away, too small and fearful to fight for what was rightfully his.
Jovan stepped forward. “How did this boy cheat? The dice weren’t loaded, were they? They are your dice, after all.”
The others in the crowd looked at Ruddy warily. He was known to call out cheaters and beat them until they confessed to the crime they may have committed or not.
“You helped him.” He pointed at Jovan. “I saw your…finger move.”
“My finger? Truly?” Jovan smiled at the other gamers. They all laughed. “So are you saying I moved the dice with my finger from all the way over here? Without even touching it?”
The crowd laughed again. This made Ruddy’s face even redder.
“Now isn’t there a rule that says that if someone calls another a cheat and his allegations are found false, that someone must pay double his initial bet?” Jovan spun around the crowd, engaging them. “Am I right?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” some in the crowd answered.
He turned to the big man. “So that means you owe this boy another two quid.”
Instead of answering, Ruddy rushed at him with his ham-hands swinging at Jovan’s face. But Jovan was smaller and quicker than the lumbering giant. In anticipation of the attack, Jovan spun his walking stick into a defensive stance. As Ruddy swung with his left, Jovan’s stick found the soft vulnerable spot under his arm. Pivoting on his right foot, Jovan sprung around and whacked the thug across the back of the neck, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
Once down, Jovan stepped on the man’s back and tapped his cheek with the brass-embossed tip of his cane. “You’re going to stay down, aren’t you, Ruddy?”
The giant nodded slowly.
“Good man.” Jovan gestured to the wide-eyed boy. “Gather your winnings, son, but I would play dice somewhere else from now on.”
The boy scrambled for the money just as Jovan’s valet came out the back door of the card house.
“Message for you, sir.” His man handed him an envelope. It was sealed with the Davenport sigil, a crossed pair of broadswords.
Jovan opened it and read the note inside.
“Good news, I hope,” Lord Effington said.
“It’s from my father.”
Lord Effington knew not to press for more. Like many in good society, he knew that Jovan and his father didn’t speak often, and when they did, it usually meant Jovan was in some sort of trouble.
* * *
His feet leaden, Jovan swallowed down the bile rising in his throat and stepped across the threshold of his father’s private chambers. The sweet smell of cigar smoke wafted to his nose, overpowering the delicate scent of lilies that were in vases in every dark corner.
His gaze swept the inner room, taking in the low banking fire in the hearth and the family portrait on the wall above the mantel. Painted by some French impressionist when he was a boy, it was one of the only paintings of the entire family—and one of the only times he’d seen his late mother smile.
His father’s mahogany desk stood nearby. Today, no papers littered its usually disorganized surface, just the inkwell and his fountain pen. The high leather-backed chair was empty.
Tramping down the nerves that tingled over his spine, nerves he always seemed to possess on such visits to his father’s home, Jovan pulled at one sleeve of his navy jacket and moved across the den to his father’s bedroom. Given the nature of his illness, he was bedridden. But Blake Davenport was such an imposing man, an impressive figure no matter the circumstances, Jovan never would’ve thought mere sickness would overwhelm him enough to force him to it.
For as long as Jovan could remember, Blake had been like stone, formidable and stoic, the strongest person he knew. He ruled his household with a firm hand and even firmer resolve, much like how he governed the League of Illusion.
The do/p>="-1">Tor to Blake’s room was ajar. Taking in a deep breath, Jovan pushed it open and walked through. The scent of cigar tobacco hit him square in the face and made his nose wrinkle.
“Jovan, my boy. I was wondering when you were going to show up.” Blake’s usual booming voice had lost some of its vigor but it still managed to make Jovan flinch. “I thought Rhys and I would have to smoke all of these ourselves.”
Jovan nodded to his older brother sitting rigidly in the solid ornate wooden chair next to Blake’s kingly sized canopied bed. It had been over eight months since he’d last seen Rhys. He hadn’t changed much. It still looked like he had a stick up his arse, and from the way he regarded Jovan, he was totally laying the blame squarely on his shoulders, as usual.
Pulling up another heavy chair, Jovan sat on his father’s other side. “You ordered me home because you were ill.” His knee brushed the mahogany handle of the bed warmer that was under the covers heating his father’s bed.
Blake puffed on his cigar, ashes flaking onto his brocade smoking jacket. “I am.”
“Then why are you smoking?”
“Why the hell not? It’s one of life’s small joys that I can still indulge in. Your mother’s gone so there goes any enjoyment I would’ve gotten from being confined to this bed.”
Their mother, Madeline, had died over ten years ago, when Jovan turned fifteen. Blake had never remarried, which some in proper society found unusual, but Blake didn’t care much for what society thought. The Davenports had always hovered on the edges of it. They had ample money to be included and even revered but some of their customs weren’t to others’ liking.
“So, where’s mine?”
Rhys flipped open the cherry wood box, plucked one thick cigar out, cut the tip and tossed it over the bed. Jovan put it in his mouth and swiveled it around between his lips to moisten it, savoring the rich flavor. Rhys pitched him the box of matches.
Jovan snapped his fingers. “Accendo.”
The tip of his cigar smoldered to life. Taking a puff, he blew out the smoke in tiny rings.
With an angry sigh, Rhys set the small box down on the side table with a distinctive click.
Jovan blew more smoke rings in his brother’s direction.
“Magic waster,” Rhys muttered under his breath.
Jovan grinned around his cigar. “You’re just jealous.”
The loathing in Rhys’s eyes made Jovan’s jaw clench. His brother had been looking at him like that for a long time, ever since Jovan’s magical ability had surpassed his some years ago.
Jovan couldn’t help the fact he was better at magic than Rhys. He also couldn’t help it that what little magic Rhys did possess, he squirreled away only to be used in dire circumstances and emergencies. The last time Jovan had seen his brother use magic was when they were children and Rhys used to scare him with complicated illusions involving spiders.
On the other hand, Jovan liked to use his magic whenever he could. Why have that kind of power and not use it? It made life so much easier. At least it did for him. Not every sorcerer was as lucky.
Jovan looked at his father. Magic hadn’t stopped the cancer from eating his insides out.
“I didn’t call you two herenctyou two so you could fight.” Blake sat up higher in his bed, a somber expression on his granite face. “I’ve had enough of it. It’s time the two of you put aside your differences and be brothers again.”
Rhys scoffed. “It’s going to take more than your illness to do something of that magnitude.”
“I’m not just ill, Rhys. I’m dying.”
Flinching, Jovan sat forward in his chair. “You must be mistaken.”
Blake pinned him with his steely gaze. “I wish I were, son. The cancer’s too far gone. The laudanum has done nothing for me but make me sleep. I have a matter of months at most.”
Jovan met Rhys’s gaze across the bed. He had the same sinking feeling pinching his face that Jovan felt in his stomach. Rhys dropped his gaze and ground out his cigar in the ashtray on the small side table.