The Magpie Lord: A Charm of Magpies, #1
By KJ Charles
4.5/5
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About this ebook
A lord in danger. A magician in turmoil. A snowball in hell.
Exiled to China for twenty years, Lucien Vaudrey never planned to return to England. But with the mysterious deaths of his father and brother, it seems the new Lord Crane has inherited an earldom. He's also inherited his family's enemies. He needs magical assistance, fast. He doesn't expect it to turn up angry.
Magician Stephen Day has good reason to hate Crane's family. Unfortunately, it's his job to deal with supernatural threats. Besides, the earl is unlike any aristocrat he's ever met, with the tattoos, the attitude... and the way Crane seems determined to get him into bed. That's definitely unusual.
Soon Stephen is falling hard for the worst possible man, at the worst possible time. But Crane's dangerous appeal isn't the only thing rendering Stephen powerless. Evil pervades the house, a web of plots is closing round Crane, and if Stephen can't find a way through it—they're both going to die.
KJ Charles
KJ Charles is a writer and editor. She lives in London with her husband, two kids, a garden with quite enough prickly things, and a cat with murder management issues. Find her on Twitter @kj_charles for daily timewasting and the odd rant, or in her Facebook group, KJ Charles Chat, for sneak peeks and special extras.
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Reviews for The Magpie Lord
111 ratings10 reviews
What our readers think
Readers find this title to be a thrilling mix of paranormal and romance. The characters and world building are well-developed and engaging. The plot is strong and filled with twists and turns. While there are some issues with the relationship dynamics, overall, readers are captivated by the book. It is well-written and highly recommended by those who have read it.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5AAHHHHHHHH!!!!
I wasn't expecting to love this book as much as I did! From the get go I was hooked, the characters were awesome, and very engaging. Definitely something I would recommend to others. Off to read the next book! - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5One of my favorite trilogy series that I always reread (or listen to) atleast every year. Too bad this isn't on the app as an audiobook because it's also amazingly narrated by Cornell Collins.
Story has great character dynamics. Love the magical aspect and adventure. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I love it! The story flows perfectly and the style of writing is genius! Also the writer doest assume her readers are idiots, so you have to think a bit while reading, and i love it! Up to next book right now!
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5does this series have its problems? yes. will i ever stop re-reading it?
you are funny. of course, not. - Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Fabulous. Day and Crane should be enemies and initially there's little love lost between them. Crane's family cost Day everything so when Day is asked to save Crane's life he wonders why he should agree. The rest is a romp of magic, power-plays, twists and turns and a lot of witty banter. Both a quite complex characters which makes this fun. Merrick, Crane's right hand man rocks and adds balance to the story. I'm so glad I stumbled upon this. I did not think I would enjoy it as much as I did.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5One of the more captivating books I have read in a while. Brilliantly written.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5So good! I was reluctant because magic isn’t my genre, but the characters and world building are so good I picked up the second in the series immediately.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Well-written, with interesting and compelling characters and a strong plot arc
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5A thriller with an exciting mix of paranormal and romance . I will definitely read the rest of the series!
- Rating: 2 out of 5 stars2/5Half-read, liked the magic and the mystery, but can't get past abundance of word " little" and unnecessary violent behaviour, no matter to what steamy times it leads. It's just way too typical relationship dynamics, in not a good - personally- way. But it's probably popular for a reason.
Book preview
The Magpie Lord - KJ Charles
Magpie Rhymes
One for sorrow
Two for joy
Three for a girl
Four for a boy
Five for silver
Six for gold
Seven for a secret never to be told
Eight for a letter over the sea
Nine for a lover as true as can be
One for sorrow
Two for mirth
Three for a funeral
Four for a birth
Five for heaven
Six for hell
Seven’s the Devil his own self
Chapter One
The grey awful misery tangled round his heart and throat, choking him, sickening him with the vileness of his own nature. The shame and self-loathing too deep for repentance, too deep for words. Too deep for anything but the knife and the red flow and the longed-for emptiness of the end...
The voice seemed to come from a long distance away. My lord? My lord! Oh, Jesus. My lord! You stupid sod!
A slap, hard, round his face. He registered it through the haze of grey misery, then felt strong hands dragging him onto his feet and out of the room. His wrist hurt. He needed to finish the job.
He lunged clumsily back towards the knife, only to find his arm twisted up behind his back and a hard tug pulling him off balance.
Out. This way.
He was marched forward, pushed, dragged, the litany of doom pounding in his mind. All he could think of was ending it, making the unbearable guilt and shame stop, removing the foul stain of his soul from the world...
He vaguely noticed the hard grip on the back of his head, just before his face was plunged into icy, greasy water and held there, ruthlessly hard, as he inhaled a lungful of dirty dishwater, and something around his mind snapped.
Lord Crane jerked his head out of the suddenly relaxed grip, came up spluttering but entirely alert, gasped for air, and kicked backwards viciously, aiming to cripple his attacker with a rake of his foot across the kneecap. The grizzled man in black had already jumped out of the way, though, and was standing back, holding up his hands in a gesture of nonaggression that Crane had no intention of testing.
Crane held himself ready to fight for a second, registered that he had just been half-drowned in the butler’s sink by his manservant, let out a long breath and dropped his shoulders.
It happened again,
he said.
Yes.
"Tsaena." He shook his head, sending grey water flying from his hair, and blinked the liquid out of his eyes.
Merrick threw him a dishtowel. He caught it in his left hand, sucked in a hiss at the pain as his wrist moved, and mopped his face. He spat in the sink to get the taste of foul water and bitter leaves out of his mouth. Son of a bitch. It happened again.
Yes,
said Merrick, with some restraint. "I know. I found you sawing at your wrist with a fucking table knife, my lord, which was what gave me the clue."
Yes, all right.
Crane pulled over a chair with a screech of wood on tile. Can you...?
He gestured at his left wrist. The shirt cuff was unfastened and rolled back. He didn’t remember doing that. He didn’t remember the other times.
Merrick was already setting out lint and a roll of bandages, as well as a bottle of volatile-smelling spirit.
"I’ll have some if you’re pouring. Ow."
I reckon that’s enough killing yourself for one evening.
Merrick dabbed the raw wound with the raw alcohol. Jesus, this is deep, you’d have done yourself for sure with anything sharper. My lord—
"I don’t know. I was reading a book, thinking about getting dressed. I didn’t... He waved his right hand vaguely, and slapped it down on the worn tabletop.
God damn it."
There was silence in the kitchen. Merrick wound bandage carefully round the bloody wrist. Crane leaned his right elbow on the table and propped his head on his hand.
I don’t know what to do.
Merrick gave him a steady look from under his thin brows, and returned to his work.
I don’t know,
Crane repeated. I can’t—I don’t think I can do this any more. I can’t...
I can’t bear it. He’d never said the words in thirty-seven years, not even in the times of hunger and degradation. He wanted to say them now.
Merrick frowned. Got to fight it, my lord.
"Fight what? Give me something to fight, and I’ll fight it—but how the hell do I fight my own mind?"
It ain’t your mind,
said Merrick levelly. You ain’t mad.
Right. I can see how you reached that conclusion.
Crane made a sound that was a little, though not very much, like a laugh. After all these years, after he’s bloody dead, it looks like the old bastard is finally getting rid of me.
Merrick began rolling up the lint and bandages with care. You’re thinking about that word again.
"Hereditary, enunciated Crane, staring at his narrow-fingered hands.
Hereditary insanity. We might as well put the name to it, no?"
No,
said Merrick. Cos, I’ll tell you what word I’m thinking of.
Crane’s brows drew together. What?
Merrick’s hazel eyes met Crane’s and held them. He put the bottle of spirits back down on the table with a deliberate clink. Shaman.
There was a silence.
We’re not in Shanghai now,
said Crane eventually.
No, we ain’t. But if we was there, and you started going mad all on a sudden and off again, you wouldn’t be sat there whining, would you? You’d be right out—
To see Yu Len.
Merrick cocked his head in agreement.
But we’re not in Shanghai,
Crane repeated. This is London. Yu Len is half the world away, and at this rate I’m not going to make it to next quarter day.
So we find a shaman here,
said Merrick simply.
But—
No buts!
The words rang off the walls. "You can go to some mad-doctor and get thrown in the bedlam, or you can sit there and go mad for thinking you’re going mad, or we find a fucking shaman and get this looked at like we would back home, because hereditary my arse. Merrick leaned forward, hands on the table, glaring in his master’s face.
I know you, Lucien Vaudrey. I seen you look death in the face plenty of times, and every time you either ran like hell or you kicked him in the balls, so don’t you tell me you want to die. I never met anyone who didn’t want to die as much as you don’t. So we are going to find a shaman and get this sorted, unless you got any better ideas, which you don’t! Right?"
Merrick held his gaze for a few seconds, then straightened and began to tidy up. Crane cleared his throat. Are there English shamans?
Got to be, right? Witches. Whatever.
I suppose so,
said Crane, trying hard, knowing it was pointless, knowing he owed it to Merrick. I suppose so. Who’d know...
His fingers twitched, calling up memories. Rackham. He’s back, isn’t he? I could ask him.
Mr. Rackham,
agreed Merrick. We’ll go see him. Ask for a shaman. You got any idea where he is?
No.
Crane flexed his bandaged wrist and rose. But if I can’t find him through any of the clubs, we can just hang around all the filthiest opium dens in Limehouse till we meet him.
See?
said Merrick. Things are looking up already.
Chapter Two
Crane checked the carriage clock again. Apparently time was standing still; certainly the hands had not moved perceptibly since he last looked.
Have a drink,
recommended Merrick, who was finding minor tasks around the room. Crane didn’t know if he was keeping an eye out for suicide attempts or just equally nervous about the arrival of the promised shaman.
You have a damn drink, this is your fault,
he said unfairly. God knows what this character will be like.
It won’t work. You’re going to die. You deserve it.
What do you call an English shaman then?
asked Merrick. Did Mr. Rackham say?
We were speaking Shanghainese. I’ve no idea. Warlock, probably, or something equally ridiculous.
But Mr. Rackham—
Yes, yes. He said he was real, he said he was good, he said he would come at half past seven. I don’t have anything else to tell you, so stop asking.
Brute. Ingrate. You ruined his life too.
Twitchy, aren’t you?
Merrick observed. My lord.
Oh, shut up.
Crane stalked round the room, too on edge to sit. He had always found hope harder to deal with than despair. Despair didn’t get disappointed. And if you hoped, you were always a suppliant, begging for crumbs, and Crane did not take pleasure in supplication. Quite the reverse.
But somewhere in the roiling misery a thread of hope refused to die. If this was truly an English shaman... If this was a shaman problem, not his father’s blood legacy... If his mind was still his own...
The doorbell rang. Merrick almost ran to answer it. Crane very carefully didn’t follow. He stood listening to the exchange in the hall—Mr. Rackham asked me to call. I’m here to see Lucien Vaudrey,
—and waited for the door to open.
Your visitor, sir.
Merrick ushered the shaman in.
He was incredibly unimpressive. Short, for one thing, barely five feet tall, narrow shouldered, significantly underweight, hollow-cheeked. He had reddish-brown hair cut unfashionably close, possibly against a hint of curls. His worn suit of faded black was obviously cheap and didn’t fit terribly well; bizarrely, he wore cheap cotton gloves. He looked like a clerk, the ten-a-penny kind who drudged in every counting house, except that he had tawny-gold eyes that were vividly glowing in his pale rigid face, and they were staring at Crane with something that looked extraordinarily like hate.
I’m Lucien Vaudrey,
said Crane, extending his hand.
You’re Lord Crane,
said the visitor, not extending his. I had to be sure. But you’re a Vaudrey of Lychdale, aren’t you?
Crane looked at the naked hostility in the other man’s face and posture, and strolled to a conclusion, since he hardly needed to jump.
I take it you’ve encountered my brother, Hector,
he said. Or possibly my father.
Both.
The little man spat the word out. Oh, I’ve encountered your family alright. It’s something of an irony to be sent to help one of you.
Crane shut his eyes for a second. To hell with you, Father, if you’re not already there. You won’t rest till you’ve destroyed me, will you? He struggled to control his voice against the anger, the crushing despair. And your purpose in coming here tonight is to tell me that any member of my family can go to the devil? Very well. Consider me told, and be damned to you.
Sadly, I don’t have that luxury,
said the visitor, upper lip curling into what was probably meant as a sneer but ended up a snarl. Your friend Mr. Rackham demanded a favour on your behalf.
Not a terribly impressive favour,
said Crane, his own sneer calling on eight generations of earldom, as well as the gaping hole in his chest where hope had been. They had waited four days for this man during which he had had another attack. Everything had depended on this last throw of the dice. I understood he was sending a shaman, not a pint-sized counter-jumper.
The other man dumped his battered carpetbag on the floor and clenched his fists. He took a belligerent stride forward, aggressively close to Crane, so that he was staring up into the much taller man’s face. My name is Stephen Day.
He jabbed a finger into Crane’s chest. And—
He stopped there, mouth slightly open. Crane very deliberately pushed his hand away. Day didn’t react, the hand held in midair. Crane raised an eyebrow. And?
Day’s reddish brows twitched, drew together. His tawny eyes were staring into Crane’s, but not quite focusing, his pupils wide and black. He tilted his head to one side, then the other.
"And? Did you by any chance meet Mr. Rackham in an opium hell?" enquired Crane coldly.
Yes,
Day said. Give me your hand.
What?
Day grabbed Crane’s hand with both his gloved hands and stared at it. Crane pulled back angrily. Day kept his left-hand grip, but raised his right hand to his mouth, and dragged his glove off with his teeth. He spat it onto the floor, and said, This will feel strange,
as he seized Crane’s hand with his bare skin.
Christ!
yelped Crane, trying again to pull away, this time with alarm. Day’s grip tightened. Crane looked down with disbelief. Aside from a jagged scar running across his knuckles, Day’s hand looked perfectly normal, if rather large for his small frame. Lightly dusted with dark hairs, gripping and turning Crane’s fingers, but everywhere Day’s skin touched his, he could feel a tingling flow, like a thousand tiny cold pinpricks, alive, electric, streaming into his blood. He gritted his teeth. Day’s thumb gently brushed over the inside of his wrist, and he felt the skin rise into goose pimples.
"What the hell is that?"
Me.
Day released Crane’s hand long enough to remove his second glove, also with his teeth, then grabbed it again. Well, someone wants you dead. How long has this been going on?
About two months.
Crane didn’t bother to question what the man meant. The fizzing sensation was getting stronger, rising through his fingers into his wrists, prickling at the wound under the bandage.
"Two months? How many times have you attempted suicide?"
Four,
said Crane. Three times in the last fortnight. I think I’m going to succeed soon.
I’m amazed you’ve failed to date.
Day scowled. All right. I am going to deal with it, because I owe Mr. Rackham a favour, and because this is not something that should happen to anyone, even a Vaudrey. My fee is ten guineas—for you, twenty. Don’t argue it, because I would measure your remaining lifespan in hours rather than days right now. Don’t provoke me, because I will not need much provocation to walk away. You’ll need to answer my questions fully and frankly, and do what I tell you. Is that clear?
Crane looked at the other man’s intent face. Can you stop what’s happening to me?
I wouldn’t be here otherwise.
Then I accept your terms,
said Crane. Are you really a shaman?
The pulsing counsel of grey despair was beating at his mind, a large part of him wanted to kick the little swine downstairs, and the smaller man’s roiling anger did not inspire confidence in his goodwill, but Crane’s hand was electric with the current flowing through Day’s fingers, and those tawny irises were almost completely obliterated by huge black pupils. Crane had seen Yu Len’s eyes dilated in the same way, and a tendril of genuine, terrified hope was unfurling once more through the darkness.
I don’t know what a shaman is.
Day looked Crane up and down, head slightly cocked, squinting. Sit, and tell me about it.
Crane sat. Day pulled up a footstool and knelt on it, looking intently at—through?—Crane’s head.
I came back to England four months ago, after my father’s death,
Crane began.
Day’s eyes met his for a second. Your father died two years ago.
Yes. I came back here four months ago. Spent the first couple of months ploughing through the mess my father made of his affairs. No problems.
He refrained with an effort from jerking his head back as Day put a hand up next to his face, fingers moving oddly. I went down to Piper two months ago when I could no longer put it off. You’re acquainted with my family, do you know the house?
Not to visit.
Day’s gaze and tone were remote, and his fingers were twitching the air around Crane’s face, picking and flicking at nothing.
"Well. I was in the library at Piper, working on the account books, and I was overcome by this appalling sense of misery and shame and self-loathing. Horror. Despair. It was dreadful. But it stopped as abruptly as it started, and, since Piper is not a happy house, I put it down to a strange mood. And then the next night, I sat down with a whisky and