Prologue

Their target was a run-down three-story building in an area of the City of London that had not yet been gentrified. The surrounding streets had been emptied of people and traffic, and the filthy pavement perspired in the thick air. Magical barriers overlaid the soot-blackened brick, beautiful as spun glass. It might have been an ice sculpture, or a fairy castle that hid the menace within.

For once the Dragon had stayed online long enough for them to pinpoint his location. Perhaps he'd thought it safe to emerge in the small hours of the morning.

Six wizards came through the front door like wraiths, shields fixed in place, knowing the Dragon would attack when cornered. It took them less than a minute to discover there was no one in the apartment to kill.

D'Orsay followed them in. The flat was shabby and small. The furnishings looked to be castoffs accumulated over several decades. Layers of grime ground into the carpet made it impossible to guess at its original color. He passed through a front room, a kitchen, into the bedroom in the back. The keyboard and monitor were still there, a harness linked into a tangle of cables, but only a faint outline in the dust of the desk surface revealed where the laptop had been.

An inside staircase at the back of the flat led to the roof. The apartment would have been chosen for that reason, and not for the decorating. They stormed up the steps to find the roof occupied only by cats. D'Orsay scanned the grid of streets surrounding the building. There was no movement anywhere.

Something had spooked him. Perhaps the use of magic had given them away. Somehow he'd sensed they were backtracking through the Net to find him, crawling past all the online blind alleys and mail drops he'd set up to mislead them.

Or someone had tipped him off. The Dragon's spy network was legendary, his operatives astonishingly loyal. For months, D'Orsay had been searching for the flaw in it, the loose end that when pulled would unravel the web.

A loose end. Someone he could carry to the dungeon in Raven's Ghyll and torture into spilling the Dragon's secrets.

But nothing. Even worse, it was possible D'Orsay's own organization had been compromised.

The newly minted Wizard Council was struggling to overcome the centuries-old blood feud between the Wizard Houses of the Red and the White Rose so it could deal with the recent rebellion of the servant guilds. Ending the feud would be difficult under the best of circumstances, but it was nearly impossible with the Dragon fanning the flames of old rivalries, spreading rumors, and posting confidential correspondence to the Internet.

It was particularly galling to someone like D'Orsay, who had so much to hide.

Wizards were murdering each other in the backstreets of London, in castles in Scotland, and in the glittering nightspots of Hong Kong. Magical artifacts were disappearing from vaults and safe-deposit boxes and wine cellars. Traditionally submissive, sorcerers, seers, and enchanters were fleeing their wizard masters. And the Dragon's hand was in all of it.

This was the third near miss since the tournament at Raven's Ghyll. Six weeks ago, they were sure they had the Dragon cornered in a ghetto in Sao Paulo. Then they'd blundered into a magical quagmire, a network of diabolical traps that had decimated D'Orsay's team of assassins and left the Council empty-handed. Three wizards dead, and they were no closer to finding him than before.

D'Orsay recognized his handiwork, the elegant simplicity of the charms and devices. The wizard might as well have scrawled his signature all over it.

Most recently, the Dragon had freed a dozen sorcerers from a stronghold in Wales. That had been triply infuriating because it had been D'Orsay's own project. D'Orsay had hoped that, given enough pressure, the sorcerers might rediscover some of the secrets of the magical weapons of the past.

They found no photographs in the flat, no personal items that might have provided a clue to who the tenant had been.

D'Orsay was disappointed, though not surprised. He was confident he knew the Dragon's identity. In any case, he wasn't fussy about being right. But this was no rat to be caught in an ordinary trap. D'Orsay was uncomfortable with this kind of operation anyway. He was a strategist, not an assassin. He was present only because of the power of their adversary and the need for discretion. It was what you might call an unauthorized operation, outside of the purview of the council.

Why would a wizard involve himself in a rebellion of the lesser magical guilds? What could he possibly have to gain?

Twenty minutes later, Whitehead returned to the kitchen carrying a manila folder. “I found this between the filing cabinet and the wall.” She handed it to D'Orsay. “He probably didn't realize it was back there.”

D'Orsay paged through the contents of the folder— letters and copies of e-mails to and from a law firm in London, relating to the guardianship of a minor. There was also correspondence with a private school in Scotland regarding housing, tuition, and financial arrangements for the same. All of it was at least two years old.

The student's name was Joseph McCauley. D'Orsay frowned. The name didn't bring to mind any of the Dragon's known or suspected associates. He couldn't relate it to any of the Weir families, either, though it would be more reliable to check the databases. Through the centuries, genealogy had enabled the Wizard Houses to find warriors when they needed them, to hunt those who carried the gift and didn't know it. Computers only made the process more efficient.

What could be the connection between this boy and the Dragon? Possibly none, but D'Orsay's instincts told him different. What else would explain the presence of material so personal in the midst of the enemy camp? And why was a law firm handling this kind of routine correspondence? Unless the intent was to hide a relationship that might prove to be a vulnerability. D'Orsay smiled. That would be too good to be true.

This was worth spending a little time on. By now, the others were returning to the kitchen. He finished his cider and handed the folder to Whitehead.

“Find this boy for me, Nora. Contact the school mentioned in the letters and find out if he's still there. See if you can get any information from the law firm about who engaged them.” He thought a moment, stroking his chin. “Check with the General Register Office also. Look for a birth registry, baptismal papers, anything at all. If you don't find any British records, try overseas. See if he's in any of the Weir databases. But be discreet.”

They left the building a half hour after they had arrived, leaving a few traps behind in the unlikely event the Dragon returned. At least they may have driven the Dragon underground for a time. Any delay was to their benefit. By the time he got back into business, it might be too late for him.

Perhaps by then, they would have another card to play.

Chapter One

Toronto

The August heat had persisted deep into the night. Thunder growled out over Lake Ontario, threatening a downpour. When Seph walked into the warehouse a little after 2 a.m., it felt like he had blundered into an urban rain forest. He sucked in the stink and heat of hundreds of bodies in motion and squinted his eyes against the smoke that layered the room.

It was his habit to arrive late for parties.

Seph smiled and nodded to the bouncer at the door. The man was there to intercept the underaged, but he just smiled back at Seph and waved him on. Access was never a problem.

Music throbbed from high-tech speakers wired to the struts of the warehouse ceiling. Sweat dripped onto the scarred wooden planks as the crowd thrashed across the dance floor. The black lights painted the faces of the dancers while leaving the perimeter of the room unviolated. An illegal bar was doing a brisk business in one corner, and the usual customers were already trashed.

He was stopped six times on his way across the room by people wanting to make plans for later.

Seph and his friends always held court to the right of the stage. Carson and Maia, Drew and Harper and Cecile were already there; Seph could tell that they'd been there all evening. They surrounded Seph, fizzing with excitement and the kind of euphoria that comes with hours of sensory overload. His friends were older than him, but the party never really started until he arrived.

They all started talking at once—something about a girl.

“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands and grinning. “Say again?”

Harper glared around the circle until everyone else shut up. “Her name is Alicia. She just moved to Toronto, and she's totally cool.”

“She reminds me of you,” Cecile added. “I mean she…well…there's just something about her,” she trailed off. “We told her about you, and she said she might come back later—you know—to meet you.”

Prickly Maia was the only one who seemed unimpressed. “I don't think she's like you at all.”

Maia was Asian, a part of the stew of races that was Toronto. She had an anime quality, with her spiky hair and quirky quilted cotton clothes. Plus, she could swear in three Chinese dialects.

Seph spoke into Maia's ear so he could be heard over the music. “So you don't like her?”

“I don't know. It's like, I don't trust her.” Maia looked up at him, studying his face as if looking for clues, then plunged her hand into the beaded pouch she wore over her shoulder. She came up with a tissue-wrapped package. “I made you something.” She thrust it toward him.

He weighed it on his palm. People were always giving him things. “What's this for? You didn't have to…”

“It's for your birthday. Open it.”

“My birthday was two months ago.” He smiled at her and tore the tissue away. It was a gold Celtic cross on a chain, centered with a flat-petaled heirloom rose, cast in Maia's distinctive, delicate style. “You can't give me this. It must've taken hours.”

“It was just an art project for school.” She took it from him, stretched up onto her toes, and fastened it around his neck, taking longer than was absolutely necessary. “I thought you'd like it.”

“I do like it, it's beautiful. But …” He searched for the right words. He didn't want to start something that would ruin what they had. “I mean, you are such a cool friend, and I don't want to—”