The League of Illusion: Prophecy

by Vivi Anna

  It took only a few seconds for the orb to engulf the man’s insides. First an orange glow emanated from his throat as it traveled downward. Then the glow came from his eyes, his ears, his nose, and from his very center.

  Bruno pushed him forward and he fell to his knees. He opened his mouth to scream but a man couldn’t scream without a tongue or vocal cords. Those had already been reduced to ash. After another minute passed, the man crumbled into himself, leaving a big pile of dark soot on the floor. Darin toed it with his shoe.

  The other man looked up at him with terror-filled eyes. His bottom lip quivered.

  “Do you see what happens when I don’t get what I want?”

  Slowly, the man nodded.

  “Good.” Darin closed his hand and snuffed the flames out. He smiled at the man. “You have three days.” He turned on his heel to leave the kitchen. “See him out, Bruno. And make sure this mess is cleaned up.”

  Now he had to report his failure to his father. If those men thought Darin was frightening, then they’d never met Clive Hawthorne.

  He was in his seventies, appeared to be frail and withered, with wisps of white hair on his bald pate, but had more power simmering inside his little finger than most sorcerers had in their entire bodies. But it was his eyes, the cold, hard, brutal stare he gave most men, that reduced them to sniveling, quivering cowards, because inside those eyes was a soul so dark it sucked the life out of any who dared to meet it.

  And his father always saved the worst of it, the worst of himself, just for Darin, his only son.

  When he reached the west wing and the closed doors of his father’s study, Darin rapped a knuckle against the wood. He knew his father was awake as the man rarely slept.

  “Come,” came the gravelly voice from inside.

  Darin pulled at his shirt sleeves, fixed his cravat and proceeded inside the room.

  His father was behind his desk, head down. A fire raged in the hearth beside him. Even during the hot summers, a fire roared in the fireplace. As a boy, Darin had hated coming into this room. It had always been sweltering. Even now, sweat dripped down his back and beaded on his top lip.

  But his father was not alone. A hooded figure sat in one of the high-backed chairs near the desk. It wasn’t until Darin came closer that he spied the long black hair and pointed faced of the elven councilman, Amathon.

  Darin bowed. “Councilman. I didn’t know you were here.”

  “Of course you didn’t, boy,” his father cackled. “Why would you, when this is my business and not yours.” He had yet to even look at Darin. To the councilman he said, “Would you excuse this interruption, Amathon?”

  The elf rose. “Our business is finished, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Then I shall leave you.” He glanced at Darin, gave him a barely noticeable nod of acknowledgement, and left the room. He appeared to have glided across the room but Darin knew it was only because of the floor-sweeping robe he wore. Elves could certainly do many things, but floating above the ground was not one of them.

  When they were alone, his father’s gaze went back to the papers on his desk instead of to his son. “Come to show me the map?”

  “I don’t have it.” He cleared his throat. “Yet.”

  Now his father looked up at him. All the air seemed to evaporate from the room. Darin tried not to fidget under his father’s withering gaze.

  “Then why are you here disturbing me?”

  “You asked for progress reports.”

  “I only want to see you when you succeed, boy, not when you fail. Which seems to be quite often of late.”

  “Father, I can...” His throat constricted. He had trouble getting air.

  “I will not hear excuses.” His father’s hand curled into a fist and the pressure around Darin’s throat increased. “It’s too bad I only have one son to put on the League, especially when that son continually fails me. If this is to be done I realize now I will have to do it myself.”

  He opened his hand and waved it at him, as if swatting away some bothersome fly. The pain in Darin’s throat subsided and he was able to take in a greedy gulp of air.

  “You can go now.” He turned back to his paperwork on the desk. “If I see you again it better be when the Davenports cease to be a problem.”

  Darin left the room. Not until he was back in the hallway did he rub his neck. Anger and humiliation swirled in his gut. He needed to channel those feelings into something productive.

  As he strode down the corridor back to his wing of the house, he considered all the ways in which he was going to make Rhys Davenport suffer. By the time he reached his bedroom, he was in a much better mood.

  Chapter Five

  Corina had never been to the big city before. She’d heard stories but it didn’t prepare her for all the noise, all the hustle and bustle of a million people scurrying down the streets all at once. Although out in the open with a sultry breeze coming off the thunderous Thames River, she still couldn’t breathe.

  After stabling her horse at the livery, she’d taken to walking the wide streets. She had no real idea where she was going. She just knew she needed to find Rhys Davenport and see if he had the rest of the map she currently had folded into her satchel.

  She went down two busy streets, taking in the steam carriages chugging past and the dirigibles flying overhead. One contraption with only two wheels rolled by her, like a bicycle but with no pedals. She was jostled about on the second street and ended up pressed against a stone building as streams of people, fancy gentlemen and beggars alike, rushed by. One pleasant young lady with what appeared to be a small metal bird perched on her shoulder stopped to ask if she needed assistance, but moved on when Corina convinced her she was fine.

  It wasn’t until she made her way to the huge Hyde Park that she felt remotely better. She found a vacant spot on the velvety green grass, took off her scuffed-up boots and lay down on her back with her eyes closed. She splayed her arms and legs and pretended she was back home.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Oh, now you’re talking to me. Where were your words when I was rummaging through the house?” She sat up and noticed a few people nearby looking at her strangely. They were likely not used to someone having a conversation with themselves. She could have told them it was no slice of pie having the other side of the conversation in her head either.

  “You need to find Rhys Davenport.”

  “I know, Mother.”

  “Then why are you playing around here?”

  “I’m not playing. I’m resting. It’s so loud here and busy. I can’t concentrate.”

  “Well, concentrate harder, girl.”

  The venom in her voice made Corina wince. It was getting harder each day to deny that her mother’s spirit was darkening. Eventually she would become malevolent. There was a way to save her mother from turning though, a special powerful place that could heal her spirit. It was on the map, the complete map as fate would have it. She just had to be patient, play her part, and bide her time. Once the map was whole again, she would take it right from under the nose of the insufferable Rhys Davenport.

  Crossing her legs, she rummaged in her bag for a focus, an object that helped direct her energy. She pulled out a folded piece of paper, unfolded it and placed it in her lap. Rhys Davenport’s face looked up at her. It was the picture she’d drawn as a child, and she had no doubt now wh
om she’d drawn. His eyes and mouth were unmistakable.

  She concentrated on his face, pictured him in her mind, and released her energy into the world to find him. It was hard with so many people around. So many faces and voices battling to be seen and heard. She had to push harder through the chaos. The pressure on her head increased as she searched a sea of noise for one clear voice.

  Then she heard it. Not Rhys’s voice but his name. Mr. Davenport. Someone had spoken it aloud.

  She stood, setting the picture aside, and followed the thread. It was thin at best, delicate, easy to sever. If she wasn’t quick she might lose the connection altogether.

  She zigzagged through the park, going left then right, and left again. She stepped over a picnic blanket; the couple was otherwise engaged whispering in each other’s ears. She bumped into a young man out strolling with a young lady but she didn’t dare break her stride and risk losing the connection.

  The pull on her mind stopped right beside a stone fountain. She spun around, searching for it again. So intent on the search, she didn’t see the horse charging toward her. Reacting too late, she stumbled backward and, hooking the back of her leg on the ledge, she went tumbling into the fountain.

  The water was bracingly cold when she first went under. Sputtering and wiping hair from her face, Corina sat up and looked around. Everyone had stopped what they were doing to gape at her.

  “Lovely.” She wiped at her eyes.

  Defeated, she sank back down in the water to float on her back. Might as well enjoy the water while she was there.

  “Corina Adelaide Stratton. What in heaven’s name are you doing?”

  “Swimming.”

  Then the thread she’d been chasing appeared in the form of a young towheaded boy who proceeded to poke her with his stick. “Are you dead?”

  Corina blinked at him. “A dead person wouldn’t be able to do this, now, would she?” She scissored her legs back and forth and stuck out her tongue.

  This made him giggle. “You’re funny.”

  Another shadow, a large one, fell over her. “John, why are you bothering this ah...lady?”

  “I thought she was dead, Papa.”

  Corina sat up as the much larger version of the boy eyed her suspiciously, likely taking in her wet and rumpled condition. “He wasn’t bothering me, sir. We were just having a chat about being dead.”

  “I see.” He eyed her bare feet, her soggy rugged mismatched clothing, and her hair, which she suspected had escaped her plait and was now plastered to her head. “You are new to the city, Miss...?”

  “Stratton. Corina Stratton.” She stood and he helped her out of the fountain. “I’m here looking for someone. A gentleman. I believe your son knows him.”

  “Really? What is this gentleman’s name?”

  “Rhys Davenport.”

  The man’s eyes bulged, then he coughed. That coughing fit turned into a jolly loud guffaw. He laughed so hard he had to hold his rather large belly.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t realize I said something so amusing.”

  “Oh, dear lady, you have no idea.” He wiped at the tears in his eyes. “You must be the psychic from Salisbury.”

  “Must I be?”

  “Mr. Davenport told me all about you.” This got him laughing again. When he was finally finished, he offered his hand. “I’m sorry for being rude. I’m Lord Percy Effington, one of Mr. Davenport’s closest friends.”

  She shook his gloved hand.

  “Now why have you traveled all this way to see Mr. Davenport?”

  “I have something for him.”

  “It wouldn’t happen to be a map, now, would it?”

  She gaped at him.

  He just continued to smile, as if they were old family friends. “I see by your face it is. It would be my pleasure to escort you to Mr. Davenport’s abode. He just adores surprises.” He looked at the water dripping from her skirts. “Oh and don’t worry about the seats in the carriage. They’ll most certainly dry. In time.”

  I hardly doubt it. Corina followed Lord Effington to his carriage, wondering what Rhys had said about her. By the man’s delight, she imagined it wasn’t anything flattering. She shouldn’t have been surprised though. Rhys Davenport was a cold, humorless man. A fortnight wasn’t going to change that.

  Twenty minutes later, Lord Effington’s carriage stopped in front of an elegant brown town house on a clean, quiet street. The driver opened the door for her and offered a hand out. Unaccustomed to the niceties of police society, Corina clumsily took it but ended up stumbling out and nearly falling on her face on the brick walkway.

  Lord Effington joined her at the bottom of the steps and offered his arm. “Shall we?”

  She glanced behind her at the carriage. “What about my bag?”

  “Reginald will bring it.”

  “No, I need it now.” Corina held her hands out to Reginald, who glanced at his employer for permission to hand over the satchel he’d just removed from the carriage. Lord Effington nodded.

  “There you go, miss,” Reginald said as he passed the satchel to her.

  “Thank you.” Corina clutched it in her hand, then wrapped the other around Lord Effington’s arm.

  At the door, he pulled the bell, thrice. “It’s a code. So he knows it’s just me.” He tapped his nose as if it were a joke between the two of them.

  Corina just stared at him, unable to form any kind of logical response.

  The door opened and a uniformed servant bowed them in. “Lord Effington. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Bartlett. Is Mr. Davenport in?”

  “He is. I will direct you to the sitting room.” He gestured for them to enter.

  The house was clean and uncluttered and completely sanitized. Corina found the place devoid of any warmth or charm. Much like the owner, she dared to say. Although in the sitting room she did discover a few treasures that delighted her.

  One whole bookshelf was devoted to folklore and mythology. She’d read up on many cultures but here there were books about ancient civilizations she’d never even heard of. She ran her fingertips over the spines of the various tomes, and her heart leaped with joy. She wondered if she’d be allowed to read any of them.

  Bartlett brought them tea. As she sipped the delicious brew and coveted the books in the corner, the host burst into the room, a smile almost evident on his hard face. He obviously had yet to see her.

  “Percy. I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Did your wife forgive you for the other night?”

  “She did.” Lord Effington dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. “I brought you a present.” He gestured to the bookshelf.

  “Not another worthless trinket, I hope...” Rhys’s voice trailed off and his face dropped the second he spotted her.

  Corina lifted her tea in salute. “Good afternoon, Mr. Davenport. Lovely day, is it not?”

  Chapter Six

  A combination of dread and interest filled Rhys. The second emotion was a surprise to him, although he suspected it had everything to do with why she was in his home and how she’d gotten there.

  “How do you know Miss Stratton?” he asked Percy.

  The fat man chuckled. “I didn’t until this morning in Hyde Park when young John poked her with a stick, thinking she was dead. She was lying in the fountain.”

  “Interesting.” Now it made sense why she looked like a drowned
sewer rat.

  She took a step forward. “I brought you the map you need.”

  “How do you know I need a map?”

  “I’m psychic, remember?” She reached into her satchel and took out a folded paper. “Besides, it looks like that one is missing a piece.” She gestured to the map laid out on the table.

  He took the offered paper, unfolded it and spread it out next to his piece. It was an exact match. The torn edges lined up perfectly. Once they touched, the paper fibers knitted back together until the map was whole again. Looking at it, a person would never have known it had been rent in two.

  Mouth agape, Percy shook his head. “Amazing.” He ran his fingers over the map. “Not even a seam.”

  Rhys glanced at Corina. “Thank you for bringing me this.”

  “Don’t thank me. It wasn’t my doing.” She picked at her skirt, her eyes downcast.

  “Then who should I thank?”

  “My mother. She’s the one who told me where to find it and to bring it here to you. Believe me, I didn’t come here on my own accord.”

  Rhys recalled the woman who appeared to him when he’d touched the torn edge of the map. They did have the same look about them. Not pretty, per se. Handsome maybe.

  “Your dead mother?” he asked.

  She smirked. “Yes, Mr. Davenport, my dead mother. How many do you think I have?”

  Percy lifted his hand to his mouth to cover his grin. But Rhys saw it regardless.

  “And now that I have done my duty, I will be on my way.” Corina curtsied and made for the door, hesitating slightly on the threshold as if she truly didn’t want to leave quite yet.

  “Please stay, Miss Stratton,” Percy blurted. “We’re having a ball at our home this evening and I would be honored if you would attend.”