The League of Illusion: Legacy Read online

  “Have you gotten a second opinion?” Rhys asked.

  “And a third and a fourth. There’s nothing that can be done.”

  Jovan jumped to his feet and paced the room. “There has to be a spell or charm that will work.”

  “I’ve tried everything, son, believe me. The League’s top healer, a Druid of high ranking, has been to see me many times. Even the elves sent over an elixir, but it didn’t work.”

  Jovan whirled around, panic making his skin crawl. “Why didn’t you tell us before now?” He ran a hand through his unruly mess of tawny waves. “I didn’t even know you were that sick.” He glared at Rhys. “Did you know?”

  Rhys wouldn’t meet Jovan’s gaze. He brushed at the cigar ash on his dark gray wool trousers. “I suspected.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’re so wrapped up in your own selfish endeavors that you wouldn’t have heard me anyway.”

  “That’s a load of bull.”

  Rhys smirked. “It’s just like when Mother passed. You were out of the country with Uncle Smith.”

  “I didn’t know she was going to die.”

  “Yeah, but you knew she was sick. You had to have suspected she didn’t have long. But you just had to take that trip to Paris, to gamble of all things.”

  Anger swirled in Jovan’s gut. He wanted to jump the bed and wrap his hands around Rhys’s throat and squeeze. The man was a smug bastard—haughty and controlling. It had probably killed him when he realized he couldn’t control Jovan. That his baby brother was the one thing in his life that didn’t quite fit into his perfect preconceived mold of what his wealthy, proper family should look like.

  Jovan was the odd man out and always had been. “I’m not going to apologize for living my life. Maybe if you did some living of your own, you wouldn’t already look like a man with one foot in the grave. Christ, when was the last time you even bedded a woman?”

  Rhys rounded the bed, his hands fisted at his sides. “You selfish, spoiled ingrate. You’ve never thought about anyone but yourself. Even as a boy you were so self-serving. You’ll never change.”

  Jovan readied himself for Rhys’s attack. His brother had an inch in height on him, with a longer arm reach, but Jovan was more muscular and wiry. And he had power simmering in him. He would never use magic directly on Rhys—to do that went against all their father had tried to instill ihadto instn his sons—but the energy reserves crackling under his skin like lightning was enough to give him an edge.

  Ever since Rhys challenged him to a fight at a yuletide ball three years earlier, cutting his chin open, Jovan had wanted to pay him back. Even now the scar throbbed in memory of that night. Sure it hadn’t been one of Jovan’s finer moments—he’d more than likely been drunk and belligerent—but it still didn’t justify Rhys’s physical attack.

  As boys they’d certainly had their fair share of altercations, wrestling and such, but as men that was the first and only time their argument had turned to violence. It still surprised him that it had been Rhys who resorted to it. His control had snapped like a twig. Not something often seen in his aloof, reserved brother.

  Looking at Rhys’s face now, his slate-blue eyes digging into him, Jovan could sense his control fraying at its ends, ready to give at any moment. It wouldn’t take much for Rhys to lose it again. Jovan sure seemed to bring it out in him.

  They were nose to nose before Blake bellowed, “Enough!”

  Jovan flinched but refused to be the one who backed down first. Childish, most definitely, but still he couldn’t let Rhys have the upper hand. He’d use it to his utmost ability and make Jovan’s life more miserable than he already tried to do.

  “I said enough. If I could get out of this bed, I’d kick both of your arses.” Blake started to cough.

  Rhys lowered his gaze and turned on his heel to move to the bed. He helped Blake, who hacked violently into a handkerchief.

  “Get some water, Jovan,” Rhys barked.

  Jovan waved his hand toward the large dresser. “Peto aquero.” The porcelain water jug lifted in the air and floated toward him. Snatching it out of the air, he poured some water into a cup and handed it to Rhys.

  Rhys raised it to Blake’s lips.

  Jovan hated to see his father like this. It broke his heart. To think a man as virile and fearsome as Blake had been reduced in an instant to a frail, weathered old man. A dying man. His father, a man he worshipped, was dying and there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t lift his hand and invoke a spell to wave it all away. At best, he could ease his father’s pain, but he couldn’t stop death from parking on Blake’s doorstep.

  A feeling of impotence raged through him, making his knees ineffectual. Before he ended up on the floor, he settled into the chair. Horror-stricken, he watched as his father took small sips of water and settled back onto the plumped pillows again, his face tight with pain, his usually vigorous eyes swimming in defeat.

  “The council wants my successor to take power,” Blake announced as he dabbed at his cracked lips with the handkerchief.

  “Can’t they just leave you alone for a bit,” Rhys said. “You’ve given them years of your life. I would think they would allow you some time to get well.”

  “No, I’m afraid they can’t wait. The Solstice comes soon. The League has lasted for centuries because of our ability to carry on with what is important.”

  “They’re all daft fools, if you ask me.”

  Blake glared at Jovan. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not asking you. Those old fools, which I am still head of, have kept this family and all the magical families safe and secure.”

  Jse size="ovan had heard the speech before. Actually many times before. It still didn’t change his mind about most of the council members. Stuck in the Middle Ages, was what he thought. The purpose of the League of Illusion was to keep the sorcerers’ secrets. To protect the normal mortal population from ever finding out about them. It functioned as their government, providing regulations that enabled sorcerers and all other magical beings to live peacefully with mortals. The members of the League believed that magic was a wondrous tool only to be used by those skilled and disciplined enough to refrain from using it.

  A bunch of bloody nonsense. He’d thought that way when he was ten and had come into his powers and he thought that now, fifteen years later. Magic could be used for so many things that the League were too blind or unimaginative to envision.

  Unfortunately, they didn’t agree with his arguments, which he’d made on several occasions. Jovan could just imagine what they would’ve done if they’d discovered his use of magic for some other activities. Illegal ones. He’d been reckless and stupid in his youth.

  “Sons.” Blake reached out to both of them. Jovan took his outstretched hand, as did Rhys. “I need you both to do one thing for me. The most important thing I could ask.”

  “Whatever you need,” Jovan said.

  Blake squeezed tight. Jovan could feel the tingle of his magical powers underneath his wrinkled skin. It still had spark, and Jovan knew that his father wouldn’t go down without a fight. He wouldn’t let him.

  “I need the both of you to forget about your past problems, and come together to grant me my last wish.”

  Trepidation filled the room like a thick cloying fog. Jovan could taste it on his tongue. He wasn’t sure if he was ready for what his father was about to say.

  “You need to find my successor before the Solstice. Without him to lead this League, I fear it will fall. Find Sebastian, find your brother, and bring him home.”

  Chapter Two

  The violent wind tried to yank the hat pinned to Skylar’s hair as she jumped out of the black coach and onto the graveled courtyard of Davenport Hall. She had to sidestep the puff of steam coming from the engine on the undercarriage as she nodded to the driver, who’d climbed down from his seat up top to take down her luggage from the roof rack.

  The trip from London had been long, especiall
y at night with only the lamplights on the steam carriage to guide their way. Once they’d traveled past Chelsea, there were no street gaslights along the cobblestone roads. It was dark country outside the city proper. Which was why the Davenports lived so far out. To keep their business secret from prying societal eyes.

  White-blond ringlets blew across her face as she hefted her bags to the edge of the courtyard where one of the servants waited. Pressing her black hooded cape to her body so it didn’t whip in the turbulent air, she strode swiftly across the pebbles to the other man waiting along the grassy border.

  The man smiled and gave her a little bow. “Nice to see you again, miss.”

  She returned the smile. “You too, Harrison.”

  “Right this way. The others are waiting for you in the den. I’ll have your luggage taken to the guest quarters.”

  Trying to not let nerves strangle hs seer voice, she just nodded and followed him into the huge Davenport mansion. It had been over seven years since she’d been to the house. Barely an adult, she hadn’t even completed the tracker training that most Druids of her skill level went through. She’d been green and eager to impress everyone around her, especially Blake Davenport, the head of the League of Illusion.

  Harrison led her through the garden doors and down a long corridor to the den in the center of the house. The flames in the kerosene lamps flickered as they walked by. She unpinned her top hat and gave it to Harrison. She then smoothed her hands over her head, making sure there were no stray curls.

  “I’ll take your cape, miss,” Harrison said.

  She shed her outer garment and handed it to him, as well as her gloves. After a curt nod, he left.

  Another man stood at the ornate stone hearth, a short glass of amber liquid in his hand, staring into the blazing fire. He turned as she entered, and a smile split his usually stoic face.

  “Miss Skylar.” He bowed, then moved across the room toward her.

  “Mr. Davenport.” She curtsied. “Rhys.”

  He regarded her kindly. “You’re a vision as always.”

  She smiled. Rhys was never free with his compliments. Except to her. Despite all that had transpired years before, they’d always maintained a sibling-like relationship.

  “You’re looking well, yourself.”

  His lips twitched up. “Thank you.” He moved to a tall table near the hearth where an assortment of glass decanters stood waiting. “Would you like a drink? We have some lovely Druid fion.”

  “Just tea, thank you.” Skylar settled herself onto the buttery-soft chaise. “I’ve had enough wine to last me two lifetimes.”

  Rhys poured the hot liquid into a china cup. He was a handsome man with flint-colored hair slicked back from a high forehead. The ends curled around his ears playfully, a definite contradiction to his hard character. Serious and introverted, he had a tendency to keep everyone at bay. Skylar had been lucky enough to see through his granite exterior and witness the passionate man beneath. At one point in her life, she’d felt a real connection to him, to all the Davenports for that matter. It was awkward to be in their house after so long, after so much had happened.

  After he grabbed his drink from the mantel, he brought her tea and settled in beside her. “Sláinte.”

  She tapped her cup to his glass. “Sláinte.” Then took a sip and set it down on the table. “So, why am I here? The council told me it was urgent but nothing else. Not surprising for the council though.” She ran a hand over her blue frock, nerves zinging through her body. Something of import was going on. She could sense it the moment she walked into the house.

  He folded his hands in his lap. “We have a situation that requires some level of secrecy and discretion.”

  “It’s your father, isn’t it?”

  Rhys nodded. “He’s sick.”

  “How sick?” she asked, afraid she already knew the answer.

  “He’s dying.”

  She reached across the sofa and grabbed Rhys’s hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I know.” He pulled his hand to ed his away and grabbed his glass. He was not one for affectionate displays.

  “Well, I know I wasn’t called here because of my healing abilities. There are far greater Druid healers out there than I. So, what is it you need me to do?”

  “We need a tracker. Someone close to the family.”

  “And what is it you want me to find exactly?”

  “Sebastian.”

  Skylar nodded. She should’ve known. With Mr. Davenport’s death, the League would require a successor and Sebastian was the eldest of the three brothers. He’d been missing for five years now without a word to his whereabouts.

  “How long do we have?”

  “Until the Summer Solstice. If Sebastian isn’t found by that time, then the head position of the council goes to Darin Hawthorne.”

  Skylar shuddered. Impetuous, self-serving and unkind, Darin was not a man anyone would want the League to be controlled by. She’d had her own troubles with him. He had a difficult time with the word no.

  “I’m glad you called me, Rhys. I’ll find Sebastian.”

  “I’m not the one that called you actually.” He ducked his head sheepishly.

  “Who did then?”

  She felt a shift in the air instantly. A spicy scent ignited her senses like a gas lamp. A low burn smoldered over her skin.

  “Hello, Skylar.”

  Swiveling around, she stared at the open doorway. Jovan leaned against the frame, like a man without any care. She should know because he’d been careless with her once.

  “Late as usual,” Rhys muttered under his breath.

  Jovan moved into the room with a stealthy grace. He had a feline way about him, as if he was always on the prowl, slinking around for his next prey.

  There was so much about him that hadn’t changed. His eyes, his voice, the way clothes fit perfectly over his lean yet powerful form. She hated that she remembered that about him. That after all this time those memories still stirred her blood.

  His tawny hair was a little longer and darker, the ends flirting around the stiff collar of his jacket. His face had also hardened a little, especially around the eyes and mouth. It looked as if he smiled less. She was proud enough to wonder if it was because of her.

  He poured himself a drink. “I take it Rhys has filled you in.”

  “Somewhat.” She sat up straight on the sofa, her body no longer relaxed. “He was just getting to the part about why I was called in.”

  Swirling his drink, Jovan moved across the room, his gait unhurried and casual. In the past, she had found the lingering way he moved arousing, but now it just irritated her.

  “You’re the best tracker, are you not, with scrying skills next to none? That’s what I heard.”

  “Yes, I’m the best. I’ve earned the right to call myself that.”

  “Then that’s why.” Eyeing her over the rim of his glass, he gulped down half.

  “And for no other reason?”

  Frowning, he shrugged. “You also know Sebastian. That gives you a leg up on other trackers, I suppose.”

  “Yes, I “Yesspan>suppose you’re right.” She stood, smoothing down the line of her dark blue dress. “Now if you gentlemen would excuse me, I’d like to go to my room and get some rest. I’ve had a long journey from Blackpool and I’d like to start first thing in the morning. At dawn if possible.”

  Rhys jumped to his feet. “Yes, of course.”

  Jovan took a step toward her. “Can I show you to your room?”

  She pinned him with her gaze, sweeping it up and down. “No. Thank you.” Cocking a brow, she swiveled toward Rhys and held out her hand. “Rhys has already offered.”

  Rhys’s eyes widened suddenly at her lie but he covered his surprise quickly. She knew how much he loved to annoy Jovan. With smug satisfaction, he took her hand and wrapped it around his bent arm. “Shall we?”

  She didn’t have to look at Jovan to know that the grip around his glass had tight
ened and the muscles along his jawline flinched with frustration. After seven years she gloried in the fact that she still knew how to cause a stir.

  Chapter Three

  It was not yet dawn when Jovan wandered down to the east wing of the house. Too restless to sleep more than five hours, he’d donned his black gi, a garment from the Orient fashioned much like a robe, and slip-on shoes to engage in a vigorous training session in what he liked to call the engagement room. With something else to focus on, maybe his mind wouldn’t feel so muddled.

  The only thing that had occupied him for the past ten hours was Skylar. Seeing her again had been a shock to his system. He hadn’t thought it would affect him the way it did. He’d had seven years to exorcise her from his thoughts but to be honest to himself, he had just managed to cover her up a little. Now she was at the forefront of his mind again.

  After performing his Druidian kata, a series of thirty-six fluid movements to connect his mind and body—something he’d learned from Skylar—Jovan moved on to the Wing Chun wooden practice dummy, another item he picked up in the Orient. Once he wrapped his hands tight with cloth wraps and slid on the padded gloves, he took up a fighting stance in front of the six-foot-tall multipronged apparatus.

  Concentrating all his energy on it, he twirled his index finger on his right hand inside his mitt. “Animo.”

  Creaking and groaning, the wooden apparatus jerked from side to side, as if someone was pushing it back and forth. It went still then sprouted two more wooden legs and lifted its bulky weight off the floor. Swinging its three straight arms back and forth, it started to circle Jovan.

  “Good morning, Woody. I see you’re in fine form.”

  Woody just grunted in response.

  Jovan matched its movements step by step, constantly moving in a circle, waiting for its first attack. He knew if he continually provoked Woody, eventually it would make a mistake and launch a ridiculous move out of anger. Jovan loved aggravating Woody. It had a bad temper.