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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.
"So you are Lady Violca, then?" he questioned, drinking in the state of the little place. Despite the damp, rotting floorboards and the plaster falling off the walls, the room was decently kept. It was plain, save for a small couch with an old fraying carpet before it, and the candles that stood on tall stands in the corners of the room. It was a true testament to the London disjunction; all the neighboring houses likely accommodated multiple families at a time, the whole place teeming with filth and disease and death.
"People rave about your wondrous... gifts," Vasilis continued, returning his attention to the old woman, Violca, who had her back to him as she pulled a little table to the center of the room. "Only familiar company, of course," he added. "We know how such things are treated by our society."
"All too well," the woman muttered as she righted herself, and gestured to a stool she had placed behind the table. Vasilis hung his top hat on his cane and rested them against a wall. He then took his seat, as did the woman, the two of them separated by a large crystal ball sitting on the table.
"Release your heart, your mind and your soul," Violca declared, in an unnaturally theatrical voice, as she lifted her arms above her head. "Allow me to walk through your past, unlock your deepest desires, bring messages of loved ones lost, whichever you may-"
"I implore you, please do not waste my time," Vasilis interrupted, rolling his eyes. "I am not here for a performance act. I am not one of your ignorant customers with their desperate pleas to contact the dead." He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. "I know what you can really do."
"I- I am not certain what you mean by that, sir," Violca responded with a frown, but for a second she had looked as though she were caught in some terrible act. Vasilis knew she was who he had been searching for. He lifted his hand to his neck, and pulled a chain from under his coat. He held the necklace out to the light before the woman, an ellipsoidal white gem hanging at the end – a moonstone.
Her eyes flashed at the sight of the stone, and she glared at Vasilis with renewed defiance. "How did you find me?"
He leaned back in his seat with a satisfied smile. "One of your girls selling lavender flowers over in Limehouse." He had seen them in the street market, customers milling among the rows of grocers and furniture-sellers, the costermongers hollering their songs as the stench of the Thames wafted over the district. "Your granddaughters, aren't they? Well, once I'd found one, it wasn't hard to draw the truth out of her," he said, unwrapping his hand and displaying the lock of hair.
Violca's eyes grew wide, her boldness drowning in fear. "No," she whispered. "Not my little ones."
"Calm yourself," Vasilis said sharply, dropping the curl on the table. "She came under no harm. All I needed from her was your location. And all I need from you-" He leaned forward, clenching his fists. "-is a glimpse into the future of my family. The future of my coven."
"I do not aid the mystical witches," she muttered with an air of indignation, her hands wringing together. "Just as you British have shunned and mistreated us Roma, so have your witches shunned and mistreated ours."
"Oh, I'm certain you could make an exception," he replied, reaching into his pocket. He produced a small stack of notes – ten pounds. This visibly caught the woman's attention, though she quickly tried to hide her astonishment. Vasilis rolled his eyes. "Pride will do you little," he scoffed, his eyes wandering the room quickly. "We both know you need it."
Violca glared at him bitterly, but snatched the money out of his hand. He grinned as the woman stuffed it under her shawl, and thrust her hands on either side of the crystal ball. Vasilis did the same, and placed his hands in hers. She shut her eyes, arching her head up in the silence, and then a gust of wind filled the room. Vasilis watched her anxiously as she scrunched her eyes up, wincing every few seconds as the wind ruffled her hair.
"Yes," she said, her voice breathy and soft. She opened her eyes, her dark stare now upon the crystal ball. "I see... power in your family. They have always been formidable and revered by others."
Vasilis frowned. The woman spoke the truth – his coven was arguably the most powerful of their kind – but where she saw that, he had no clue. He stared at the dull, glass surface of the crystal ball, but all he saw was his own dark hair and amber eyes – traits that appeared quite often in the history of his family. "These are facts I am already aware of," he said impatiently, staring up at the woman again. "What future truths do you see?"
"Patience," she snapped, and focused her eyes on the ball. "The power in your family has been... growing for centuries." Her brows knitted together. "There will soon come the product of that power, a force greater than any before. A force for the world to fear."
Violca gasped, ripping her hands away from him, her eyes wide with shock. "This is unnatural – sacrilegious! What your family has done, and what will come of it... When people learn of this-"
"It is quite fortunate, then," he interrupted, rising from his seat with a grim smile, "that people shall not learn of this."
The woman shuddered with terror, and tried to push her seat back in an effort to get away, but he was too quick for her. He reached over and grabbed her forearm. "Quiescite motus," he said, and almost instantly the woman's body went rigid. Her arms and legs snapped into place against her body, and she fell backward with her seat to the floor.
Vasilis walked around the table, and knelt down beside Violca, her face frozen in horror. "I am terribly sorry," he muttered, and pulled a knife out from an inner pocket. He placed the blade against the woman's throat. "But I must protect the future of my coven."