Prologue
From the Journal of Jack Moondancer.
When I was five years old, my mum sold me. I never held it against her; even at such a tender age I understood that hunger and fear could make a person do things he thought he would never do. In my new circumstance, I quickly learned the devil wore gentlemen’s clothing, and I ran away, convinced I would be better off on the streets than in an elegant house where fancy gents pretended respectability.
I was not long on my own when I fell in with a notorious den of child thieves, managed by a crafty old blighter who went by the name of Feagan. Under his tutelage I learned anything could be stolen… given the proper preparation. My own skills, my determination to succeed and thus to survive, were unmatched, and I soon rose in his esteem. He affectionately called me Dancer, and by the time I was eight, I found myself spending the better part of my evenings sitting in front of a coal fire with Feagan, smoking my clay pipe, drinking gin, and soaking in the rare bits of wisdom he shared with only a respected few.
But my palm constantly itched to hold more coins. One day a proper-looking gent offered me sixpence to lure a ranked wolf and his family into an alley. I did it with false tears and the claim that my mum was dying. The man and his mate were promptly killed, but the boy escaped. Terrified by what I had been party to, I was quick to chase after the lad, fearing the same fate as had befallen his parents awaited us. I followed him to another alley, where he collapsed, huddled, and cried. We didn’t have time for such nonsense. To my relief, he didn’t recognize me. The shock of it all, I supposed. I mucked up his clothes, his person, and convinced him I possessed the wherewithal to save him.
The boy’s name was Lucian, but that sounded too swell, so I introduced him as Luc. Feagan handed me threepence for bringing in a new recruit. Not a bad tally for the day, even if it meant I didn’t sleep well that night.
To my everlasting irritation, although I was only two years older, I felt responsible for the lad. When he was caught stealing, I stupidly thought to rescue him. We spent three months in prison. The prison brand that marked us served to strengthen our friendship, and we became inseparable.
Until the night he killed a man.
He was fourteen, awaiting trial, when the Alpha of Claybourne declared Luc was his long-lost grandson. He was released into the old Alpha’s care. Luc’s good fortune quickly became mine. The old Alpha took me in as well. We were constantly at odds. He worked diligently to transform me into a gentleman, but I preferred to remain a scoundrel. It seemed a more honest way to go.
When I was nineteen, a solicitor informed me that I had an anonymous benefactor who had grand expectations where I was concerned and wished to bestow upon me ten thousand coins so my future might be assured. I never questioned who my benefactor was, because I had no doubt he was Luc’s grandfather… seeking to rid himself of me without disappointing his grandson. I had lived on the streets long enough to know money was to be made investing in vice. I purchased a building and transformed it into an exclusive gentlemen’s club.
And so it was that I became a man of means, far exceeding what I was certain my benefactor… or anyone else, for that matter… had expected of me. But no matter how much money I earned, it was never enough. I was always hungry for the next coin. I would do anything, anything at all, to possess it.
