Destined (The Spellbound Series, #3)

Prologue

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Prologue

January, 1881

London, England

The clip-clop of the horse's hooves became softer and slower as the wheels of the carriage ground to a halt.

"Never mind the door, Arthur," Vasilis called to the driver, who had already released the horse's reins and was making a dismount from his seat behind the beast. Vasilis grabbed his cane and his top hat in one hand, and wrapped his other hand around the door handle. "I shan't be more than ten minutes. Keep watch until then."

"Yes, master," the driver replied, and at that Vasilis opened the door. He placed a foot on the step of the carriage and descended to the ground, wrinkling his nose in disgust as his shoe squelched in a murky puddle at the edge of the road. At least his breeches were dry, he thought in annoyance as he shook the filthy water off his shoe as best he could. He then smoothed down his coat, and donned his hat as he stared at the sight before him.

Having grown up in London, being part of the second generation of his family to reside there, Vasilis had been equally intrigued and repulsed by the dichotomy of the city. His people had come here seeking commercial opportunity – shipping, commodities, and the like – and had settled themselves in districts of the thriving middle-class. But here, not twenty minutes outside of the city limits, was the East End of London, a motley of densely-packed streets and filthy slums where a large chunk of the city's poor resided.

Through aid of a streetlamp, Vasilis's eyes drank in the sorry sight of the Old Nichol houses as he crossed the road towards them. Mud and dirty water covered the street, creating an irregular path to the row of bleak, identical buildings piling into one another, their walls wrinkled and sagging. The windows were mostly cracked or missing behind the broken shutters, loaded up with newspapers and material and plastics and anything else that could keep out the winter's chill.

He stopped on the bank, leaning against his cane as he reached into his pocket. From it, he pulled out a considerable length of string, its end looped around a lock of dark hair. He held it up, staring at it intently, and then exhaled as it began to sway back and forth. It struggled against the cold wind, being pulled here and there, but after a few moments it was pointing in a particular direction – the third house from the end of the street. He wrapped up the stringed-hair, closing his fist around it, and made his way toward the house.

His body thrummed with anticipation as he neared the front door, his mind preparing himself for what could possibly lie ahead. But before he could reach up and rap his knuckles against the battered old wood, the door swung inward with a creak. A small figure appeared in the doorway; a woman, brown-skinned and wrinkled. She wore a long, dark blue skirt with white embroidery, and a pale blue blouse with billowing sleeves, complemented with a beige shawl, and a matching kerchief bejeweled with beads along the hem, which held back her long waves of dark hair.

Her dark eyes regarded him coolly, as though she were taking in his appearance. It was only a few seconds before she spoke. "To walk willingly in the domain of those you consider beneath you, sir," she said in a rich accent, which Vasilis could only describe as Eastern, "must surely be out of a desire for a swift end."

He felt a smirk forming on his face. "Worry not for my life. I am not an easy man to kill. Particularly on a night such as this, when I am a man in vehement search of answers."

She gave him her cool stare again, and it was unclear whether she was amused or troubled by his response. Whatever it was, she stepped aside to let him in. Vasilis nodded slightly as he entered the house, removing his hat as he did.