Genre: Historical Fantasy

Word Count: 82,000

Pitch:

Non-magicker Wayward is blackmailed into the service of a rich wizard. When he is dragged into a murder investigation, he must sacrifice his safety and learn to survive in his new position of power.

Excerpt:

I’ve been a valet for four days, and hated every second of it.

‘Chin up, Collins. You’re not at a funeral.’

Lord Alfred Gordon Byron Lyte Cadogan. A long name for a long pedigree better suited to a dog than a man. He holds out his arm. The creases in his shirtsleeve are so perfect they’re almost a work of art. I think about stabbing him with the cufflinks, but instead thread them through his sleeves. He fastens them himself, which is a miracle as I have to do everything else for him.

I hate rich people, and I hate wizards. Cadogan is both.

Wizards are the silver spoon arsehats of the city, full of good breeding and fine manners. And magic, of course—innate elemental power that they’ve polished and fine-tuned until it comes as easily as thought.

They’re all snobs. I think they take extra delight in living apart from the rest of the world. Lording it over all the unmagickals like me who know about magic but struggle to scrape two working spells together without charms and amulets.

Cadogan flicks his hand in my direction. ‘Collins. Jacket.’

Fuck you and your jacket.

I pick it up from the chair, help him into it. Smooth the collar, brush down the shoulders. He looks at his reflection in the full-length mirror, turns and examines his figure. He smiles. He knows what he looks like, and he enjoys it. He’s tall, strong from fencing and boxing at his club. Dark hair, dark eyes, all manners and charm.

Prick.