Chapter 1
One
“Well, alright then.” The flight attendant’s words were muffled from where I lay in wait, folded cleverly within my own traveling trunk. It was the first layer of my complex introductory illusion for the Clotswold by Litchfield and its nest of eager young fanglings.
The attendant heaved a put-upon sigh before his footsteps headed to the far side of the private jet.
Billy Barlow, the extravagant patron of the unofficial fangling school where I’d been invited to guest teach, had also turned his pockets out to ensure my comfort—including a private flight from my humble apartments off the West End.
He had little idea of the surprise awaiting him on the tarmac where I was sure my illustrious host would greet me.
One might think this was making an unnecessary complication of things. Why not greet my new benefactor head on and let my compulsion skills speak for themselves? Why cram myself into a traveling trunk for what would surely be a bumpy ride down the narrow roll-away steps?
Unfortunately, I’ve lived too many centuries within the grandest stages the world has ever seen and my flair for the dramatic has me by the nose.
I’ve been told this will someday be my undoing, but I’ve yet to find that particular day, and I’m willing to push a few personal boundaries in the name of a satisfying grand reveal.
Moments later, I heard the cabin door swing open, felt the tell-tale pressure change as fresh air rushed past its stale, recycled brethren.
“Alright, Charles?” A posh accent called.
“Your guest has taken it upon himself to begin the next leg of his journey,” the attendant huffed back.
Whatever the first speaker said next was lost to me as an unknown set of arms hoisted the trunk from its resting place, jostling me painfully in what I imagined was the short walk from the back of the plane, down the stairs, and onto the tarmac where I was thunked down unceremoniously.
“…not with Alex and I doubt Sally would tolerate being startled like that.” The posh voice came into hearing range.
“He certainly favors an entrance, sir.” The attendant had not appreciated my slipping by him onto the jet at Heathrow, barely arching a brow when I turned around to greet him from the cockpit.
There was a weariness in his voice that suggested he didn’t care where I was actually, so long as I wasn’t near him.
“If you wouldn’t mind, Charles, could you check the jet one last time? I’d hate to send you off with a stowaway just to make you turn back.” Through the keyhole, I spied masculine bare ankles peeking above tasteful leather loafers—a signature look known of my host.
Now. I tugged back the imaginary curtain concealing my concealment, ready to spring into a sweeping, romantic pose that would strike awe into the undead heart of my host, banishing any doubt at all that I was the highest acclaimed compulsory expert he could’ve hired.
Here! Here I was! Here was proof that I was up to this task!
And what a tale to tell the little ones when we gathered for our first lesson.
But instead of springing free, fully formed like some Grecian goddess on a half shell, I simply slammed my head into the very securely closed trunk lid.
I tried again, nearly blinding myself at the impact and cursing silently.
Twisting through what little space I had, I tried unsuccessfully to kick the lid open, aiming for an impressive kick-up-to-standing maneuver that, while less dramatic than my original plan, would have to suffice if it meant I’d get out of this bloody box.
My feet merely thumped against the wood, the metal clasps holding fast on all sides.
Those same unfamiliar hands lifted my wooden prison a second time, the world outside the keyhole no more than a grey, tilting blur until we landed once more with a bruising thump.
A horse snorted nearby, stomping its hooves restlessly, as the creaking of a carriage door sounded just below me.
“He must already be at the hotel. We’ll be off, Alex.” The posh voice sounded before the carriage door closed behind him.
Wait.
A horse?
A carriage?
Below me?
As my Victorian transport whinnied into a steady pace, I realized too late that I was in for a much bumpier ride than I’d originally anticipated—and a much longer one.
I was somehow strapped to a carriage, out of time and place for having just deboarded the highest of modern luxuries in private air travel, and I was doomed to a rocky ride through country roads for who knew how long.
To quote a great many thespians and dramatis personae across the centuries:
Shit.