The Sorcerer Heir (Heir Chronicles) (2 page)

What was his name?

“Jonah!” the drummer called over to him. “I thought you said you sent me the set list!” She peered at a tablet computer mounted next to her kit.

“I did,” he called back. “I can send it again if you want.”

Jonah. That was it. Jonah Kinlock.

Leesha couldn’t say exactly what made him so engaging. He hadn’t spent much time on his look: his timeworn T-shirt fit like a second skin and was tucked into battered jeans, the kind that start out indigo blue and then fade to a soft cornflower as they shrink to fit. Over the T-shirt, he wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves half-rolled, black leather gloves, and worn sneakers.

Maybe it was the way he moved, the way he chewed on his lower lip while he adjusted the tuning on his guitar, the interplay of light and shadow created by the planes of his face. There was something savage and elemental and feral in him. The fact that he was a savant only added to the intrigue.

I always go for the dangerous boys, Leesha thought.

“You’re staring,” Fitch said, nearly in her ear. “And you’re not the only one.”

Leesha whipped around to face him, and saw that Grace was fixed on Jonah, too, studying him with her usual intensity.

“I’ve met him before,” Leesha said. “At the Medieval Faire in Trinity.” She paused, but Fitch said nothing, just looked from Leesha to Jonah with an unreadable expression. “Well,” Leesha said briskly, “I’m going to go see if Will needs help in the kitchen.” Not that she knew anything about cooking, but she was good at bossing people around.

It turned out there were too many bosses in the kitchen already. When Leesha walked in, Will was busy at the sink. He was making a salad big enough to feed a small army, while pretending to ignore the raised voices leaking from the dining room next door. It was Seph McCauley and his parents.

Leesha greeted Will, slid in beside him, and picked up a paring knife, her ears wide open.

“Seph, you know we’re in favor of normalizing relations among the magical guilds,” Linda Downey was saying, “but your father and I think it’s risky to bring all of these elements together at this particular time.”

“If not now, when?” Seph said. Though she didn’t have the visual, Leesha knew he was wearing his trademark stubborn scowl, so much like his father’s. “Anyway, it’s a little late to be second-guessing me. I sent out the invitations a month ago.”

“That was before the council meeting. You heard young DeVries,” Leander Hastings said. “He blames you and Madison for his sister’s death, and for all of the other Weir killings. He threatened you.”

“I understand that,” Seph said. “But we’re in the Sanctuary, and here of all places it should be safe.”

“Since when has the Sanctuary been safe?” Downey’s voice was low and strained. “You know better than that.”

“You can’t expect me to hide from him,” Seph said, “especially since I had nothing to do with his sister’s death.”

“You do know that his father was the deadliest assassin in the Black Rose,” Hastings said. “The Sanctuary’s not much protection if the boy takes after his father. DeVries Senior never limited himself to magical weapons. He used whatever seemed most suitable to the circumstances: poison, firearms, blades, strangulation, killing charms...”

“Maybe Senior’s back as a vengeful ghost,” Seph said. “Maybe he’s the one behind all the murders.”

“We’re also getting an earful about the Montessori kidnapping,” Downey said. “It seems that many of the parents of the children involved believe that Gabriel Mandrake’s students had something to do with it.”

They were referring to a recent incident in which a group of gifted Trinity preschoolers on a field trip had somehow ended up trapped atop a lift bridge in industrial Cleveland. The children claimed they’d been attacked by zombies. Since the bridge was close to the Anchorage, Mandrake’s school that served savants, some parents blamed the attack on “Mandrake’s Monsters.” As co-chair of the Interguild Council committee investigating the Montessori incident, Leesha had been getting an earful herself.

“Then we find out that Mandrake’s students are going to be here, too,” Hastings said.

“Not all of them,” Seph retorted. “Maybe five? I think we have them outnumbered.” After a pause (just about now he would be rolling his eyes), Seph continued. “I’m not discounting your concerns, but I don’t think we should defer to a bunch of bigots with a lynch-mob mentality.”

“They are concerned parents,” Downey countered. “Though I admit, some of them are bigots.”

“And
they’re
not invited,” Seph said. “This is
our
party. Madison and I think it’s time we bring the guilds together in a meaningful way. It’s one thing to have an armed standoff. It’s another to actually normalize relations. We also need to stop stigmatizing savants as monsters and acknowledge the fact that what happened at Thorn Hill was not their fault.”

“We agree,” Hastings said, “and you know it.”

“If you agree, then you should be supporting what we’re doing,” Seph said. “The only way to change opinions is to encourage contact between us and them. Anyway, are you suggesting we uninvite our guests? How d’you think
that
would be received?”

“
I’ll
uninvite DeVries,” Hastings said in that voice that could knock a person flat. “You don’t have to be involved.”

“This always happens,” Seph growled. “Neither of you are on the council anymore, but whenever you’re here, people start bypassing the council and going directly to you. It makes it really hard for Madison and me to do our jobs.”

“What’s making it difficult is that Madison is in Chicago more than she’s here,” Hastings said. “All of that power brings with it obligations—obligations that she is not meeting.”

This was followed by a long, charged silence. Then Seph spoke. “Maddie never asked for this responsibility. She shouldn’t need to be here, wielding a club to get people to behave. We’re working things out in our own way.”

“Yes, but you must understand that—” Hastings began, but Seph cut in.

“My point is, you can’t ride in here and take over whenever you happen to be in the country. Either run this thing or don’t.” The swinging door between the kitchen and the dining room banged open. Seph froze in the doorway when he saw Leesha and Will, then he strode on past them and into the hall.

Whoa, Leesha thought, meeting Will’s eyes. Go, Seph.

“He’s right, you know,” Downey said, her voice carrying from the other room. “If we’re going to live in England, we’re going to have to stop second-guessing him.”

“You don’t think a bit of counsel would—”

“You don’t offer counsel, Lee,” Downey said. “You have a rather unfortunate habit of bulldozing over people. When it comes to our son, you have just run into your first brick wall. Now let’s go out and say our good-byes before we completely ruin this party.”

Leesha and Will looked at each other, stowed the salad in the refrigerator, and fled.

By now, the dancing had started, though the band wasn’t yet on stage. Nothing ventured, Leesha thought, and looked for Jonah. She found him out on the terrace with a tall girl dressed like a thirties club singer, down to the lacy gloves, finger waves, and red gardenia. A girl Leesha didn’t recognize.

Something about the intimate way they stood, leaning on the wall, heads together, talking, almost convinced Leesha not to interrupt.

But not quite. She wasn’t one to step back from a challenge. Nothing ventured, she repeated. “Jonah?” she said. “It’s Jonah, isn’t it? Remember me? Leesha Middleton? We met at the Medieval Faire.”

Jonah turned away from the wall, and his gaze flicked over her, piercing her skin like icicles. “Right. Good to see you again,” he said, as if it really wasn’t.

Leesha’s head immediately emptied. Finally, she asked, “Where’s your costume?”

“I’m with the band.”

“I am, too,” the girl said when Jonah didn’t introduce her. “I’m Emma Lee.”

“Ah, I see,” Leesha said. “So you’re not...actually...together?”

Emma and Jonah looked at each other. “No,” they said simultaneously.

“Wow,” Leesha said, not sure she believed it. “I can sure tell you’re used to harmonizing.”

Brilliant, Leesha thought. Entirely smooth.

“How about you?” Emma asked. “What are you supposed to be?” The sound of the South in her voice was unmistakable. As was the snark.

Leesha pursed her lips. “I’m a Victorian steampunk vampire, of course. Some people don’t approve of cross-dressing, but—”

“Cross-dressing?” Emma did a double take, a look of disbelief on her face.

“You know,” Leesha went on, “wizards cross-dressing as vampires.
Some
people
think it’s really kinky.” Leesha grinned at Emma, and Emma, somewhat reluctantly, grinned back. Her smile disappeared when Leesha turned back to Jonah. “Want to dance?”

“No, thanks,” Jonah said. “Like I said, I’m working.”

Leesha’s brain was saying, Shut up! Cut your losses and retreat. But her mouth somehow said, “You’re not working now.”

“I’m not dancing either.” Jonah turned his back and looked out at the lake.

Leesha stared at his back for a moment, then said, “Fine. No problem,” and turned and walked away, cheeks burning.

This isn’t like you, she thought, this absolutely isn’t like you. You’re the one who says no, not the other way around.

Well. Until Jason. Jason had said no to her, which she’d totally deserved. And then he’d never had another chance to say yes. Tears blurred her eyes, and she stumbled forward, heading for the powder room. But instead, of course, she ran smack into Harmon Fitch. The lower half of him, at least.

He gripped her elbows to keep her upright. Odd. She was suddenly conscious of the fact that his fingers had no sting to them. No sting at all. Somehow, that was a good thing.

Fitch read her blotchy face; she knew he must have, but he said nothing about it. Instead, he said, “Hey, glad I ran into you, ha-ha. Do you want to dance?”

“What?” Leesha said, like he was speaking Japanese.

“Dance,” Fitch repeated. “You know, shuffle around the dance floor, figuring out where to put your chin, music playing the whole time? I didn’t get in much dancing in Cambridge.”

“You want to dance with
me
?” Leesha squinted at him, trying to guess his agenda.

“Look, I know there’s a big height difference, but I think we can overcome that long enough to get through one dance,” Fitch said.

He saw me get the stiff-arm, Leesha thought, mortified. He’s being kind. And yet, Leesha decided, she would much rather dance than leave the field humiliated.

“I’d be delighted,” Leesha said.

They circled the floor in silence for a few minutes. Then Fitch said, “I missed this, you know.”

“Dancing with me? And here I thought this was the very first time,” Leesha said. It was, and they both knew it.

“No,” Fitch said. “I mean being here, where it’s happening. I mean the constant adrenaline, the high stakes. Saving the world, sticking up for democracy, and all that. I guess I sort of got used to living on the edge.”

“Living on the edge?” Leesha forced a smile. “That’d be me, going to Harvard. No, I think I’d rather live as far away from edges as I can get.”

Fitch grimaced, his cheeks pinking with embarrassment. “That was a stupid thing to say to you, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Leesha said. “You’ve moved on. Everybody has. I’ve had two years of boredom, and I kind of like it.”

“Still,” Fitch persisted, “considering the way it was before, with wizards pushing everyone around, isn’t it better? Even though I wasn’t a major player, I felt like what we were doing mattered.”

“Yes,” she said. “It’s better.” She had to think so—otherwise Jason had died in vain. “But don’t diss what you’re doing. That’s what’s important. Going to college, living your life, becoming the educated kind of genius that can make a real difference. Those are the people who save the world. Blowing things up, setting things on fire...that’s overrated.”

His eyes narrowed, focused on her. He seemed to be debating whether to say anything more. “You’ve changed, since—since everything.”

“I’m a late bloomer,” Leesha said, recalling that she’d once compared Fitch to a cockroach. Why were
those
the memories that came back to her?

Still, as they danced, Leesha felt her pain and humiliation dwindle. Sometimes life throws you curve balls. As with evil, you never know when you’ll be blindsided by kindness. Maybe it was a pity dance, but she’d take it.

A
ny sensible girl who finds out that the boy she loves is a mass murderer would have made a plan. That plan would not have been to leave him in a gazebo and then wander around in the dark woods so he could finish the job he’d started.

No. A sensible girl would have run away from Jonah Kinlock as fast as her legs could carry her; as fast as she could go in her bare feet with a sprained and throbbing ankle. A sensible girl would have been looking over her shoulder all the way back up the gravel path, worrying that he would come after her. A sensible girl would not have been crying, grieving for the boy with the magic in his voice and the blues in his eyes, mourning the loss of something that was a lie—a
lie
—from beginning to end.

A sensible girl would have gone straight back to the house, where there was safety in numbers. For all she knew, Rowan DeVries was still lurking about, too. The wizard’s words came back to her:
We’re going to go where nobody will ever find us, and this time I’m not going to take no for an answer.

Now, at long last, she knew the truth. Jonah had been the ski-masked intruder who’d broken into the home she’d shared with her father. He’d left her tied up on the basement floor while he went looking for Tyler. He’d pretty much admitted to killing Tyler and who knows how many others on that terrible night back in the fall.

And tonight? Tonight Jonah had been ready to kill Rowan DeVries so he wouldn’t give his game away. She’d seen it in his eyes. What was she supposed to do: get back up on stage with him and play the second set at Seph McCauley’s Halloween party as if nothing had happened?

But Emma Greenwood had never been known for being sensible. She did not want to go back up to the house and talk to anyone. She was not good at keeping her feelings off her face. So instead, she hobbled along the lakeshore to where the gravel path ended at a boathouse and a sailboat bobbed alongside a dock.

Just then, her phone pinged. A text from Jonah. She couldn’t help herself. She read it.

I won’t be there for the second set. I’m not feeling well. I’m so sorry for everything.
It went to Emma, Natalie, Rudy, and Alison.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” Emma muttered. She could have pled illness and taken the spare van back to the Anchorage. And do what? Pack her bags? To go where? She had money, but that was for opening her guitar workshop. She didn’t want to dribble it away on rent and groceries. Who would rent to a sixteen-year-old anyway?

Besides, try as she might, she could not jam these puzzle pieces into a picture that made sense. Little inconsistencies kept niggling at her.

Why had she survived the night of the murders? Had Jonah been scared away before he could finish the job? Even if that was the case, he’d had plenty of chances to kill her since then. It would have been ridiculously easy to drown her in the lake the night he’d rescued her from Rowan DeVries. No one would have ever known. And why, then, after saving her life, would he bring her back to the Anchorage? Did he want to keep her close by so he could take quick action if she regained her memory?

Well, she had. She had regained her memory. So why was she still alive? Didn’t he realize that the only way to keep his secret was to eliminate the last remaining witness?

True, what memory she had was imperfect—a collection of sensations and images, really. What came back most clearly was a vivid memory of Jonah Kinlock kissing her, his lips coming down on hers, the weight of his body, flat-bellied and hard-muscled, the pounding of his heart a counterpoint to her own, her insides melting, fiery-sweet. And then...nothing.

Kissing
her! How dare he?

Maybe that never happened. Maybe that was a wish, played out in a dream.

Try as she might, she could not surface any memory of Jonah Kinlock killing anyone. And yet, he’d admitted it. Sort of.

I didn’t go to your father’s house to kill anyone. That was the last thing I wanted to happen.

Oh, really? Well, falling for my father’s murderer is the last thing
I
wanted to happen.

Now what? Should she go to Gabriel? She had no reason to trust him. For all she knew, Gabriel had ordered the murders himself.

Could she go to the police? What kind of evidence did she have? A sort-of confession in the gazebo that could be denied. That was something Emma couldn’t understand: why had Jonah said anything at all? He wasn’t stupid.

Anyway, Emma was not the sort of person who took her troubles to the police.

Should she have thrown in with Rowan DeVries? DeVries had hoped Emma was the witness who’d help him solve a series of recent wizard murders, including the murder of his sister. He had held Emma captive, threatening to torture her until she gave him the information he wanted. No doubt he’d get right back to it, given the opportunity.

So, no.

But DeVries was the only other person who could verify that a murder had taken place at all. Who’d seen the bodies where they’d fallen. Who’d lost his sister, just as Emma had lost the father she’d only just found. He was the only person besides Jonah who might help her piece this thing together, might help her collect enough evidence to finger the guilty.

But DeVries wouldn’t wait for evidence. He had no need to prove what he suspected, since he had no intention of going to the police either. He and the Black Rose assassins would handle this themselves.

A battle of assassins. Why should she care who won? She should just leave the field and let them have at it.

Emma shivered. The wind was picking up, and Tyler’s jacket was no longer enough to keep her warm. She could return to the house, or stay and freeze. Her shoes were still in the gazebo, but she wasn’t going back there. She’d just have to do without.

She limped back up the hill into the woods, her breath hissing out each time she put weight on her ankle. The trees crowded in close, the branches overhead thrashing. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she was being watched. The back of her neck prickled and burned, and she resisted the urge to pull her hair down to cover it up.

Under the sound of the wind, she heard something else—a crunch of gravel, a small pebble rolling down the slope. Soft footfalls behind her that stopped when she did.

She shivered again, maybe more of a shudder, as the realization that she was being stalked seeped through her skin.

Her heart began to thud as panic coursed through her. Without looking back, she staggered forward, zagging off the path and limping up the hill toward the house, cursing her stupid self and her stupid dress, her twisted ankle, and every rock and stick that punished the soles of her stupid bare feet. The footsteps accelerated, and Emma limped faster. Now she could hear somebody breathing, just behind her, and she bolted through the underbrush, desperate to reach the safety of the house. It was like one of those dreams where the monster’s in pursuit, but your feet are glued to the ground.

Breaking out of the fringe of trees, she smashed right into somebody, all but knocking her down.

“Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

It was the Victorian steampunk vampire, Leesha Middleton. And, with her, the tall, red-haired boy she’d been dancing with earlier.

Leesha gripped Emma’s shoulders, steadying her. “Are you okay?” Her gray eyes narrowed as she looked Emma up and down, taking in her shoeless feet, her disheveled clothing, the hair that had escaped from her updo and was now hanging around her face. “What’s wrong?”

“I—uh—thought I heard someone creeping up on me in the woods. So I ran, and I—it was chasing me.” Her voice trailed off as she realized how lame this sounded. This was so not a story Emma wanted to share with Leesha.

“Probably kids from the high school, looking to crash the party,” Leesha said, squeezing her shoulder. “You know, small towns, Halloween. Speaking of, where’s your gorgeous and scowling friend?”

It was like Emma’s mind was frozen, along with everything else. “My—who?”

“Your godlike lead singer. The one that gave me the cold shoulder earlier. Isn’t it nearly time for your next set?”

“Oh. He—uh—he left. He wasn’t feeling well.”

“Ah.” Leesha held Emma’s gaze for a long moment, then changed the subject. Gesturing toward her companion, she said, “Have you met Harmon Fitch?”

Emma shook her head, trying to focus on Harmon Fitch. “I’m Emma Gr—Emma Lee,” she said. Leesha glowed—all of the gifted did. Fitch did not—so he was Anaweir. Leesha was small; Fitch was tall. An odd couple for sure.

The red-haired boy doffed his top hat. “Call me Fitch,” he said, shooting a look at Leesha, “steampunk vampire victim.” He wore a fancy suit along with the top hat, and carried a silver-tipped walking cane. Sweeping his cape from his shoulders, he settled it around Emma’s. “It’s kind of moth-eaten, but it’s warm.”

Emma pulled the cape closer around her, but she couldn’t seem to stop trembling.

Leesha took her elbow, and turned Emma back toward the house. “Why don’t you go on inside and warm up? We’ll be up in a minute.”

Emma set her feet, resisting. “Where are you going?”

“Seph stored some extra drinks in the boathouse,” Leesha said. “We’re going to bring them up to the house.”

“No!” Emma said. “Don’t go off by yourselves. There was—there might be—”

“Hey,” Leesha said. “We’re in the Sanctuary. There are no monsters in here. Anyway”—she smiled—“we’re not exactly defenseless.”

Some things can’t be defended against, Emma thought. “I wish you wouldn’t go out there,” she persisted.

Fitch and Leesha exchanged glances, as if they each hoped the other would handle the crazy woman. “We’ll be careful,” Leesha said. They turned away, heading downslope toward the lake.

Despite her misgivings, Emma hobbled back up to the house, where the heaters on the terrace provided a welcome warmth. Natalie and Rudy were huddled up next to one of them, heads together, talking.

“Emma!” Natalie said, brightening when she spotted her. “Have you seen Jonah? Did you get his text? Do you know what’s going on?”

I wish I did, Emma thought, shaking her head. “No idea.”

“If he wasn’t feeling well, I’m surprised he didn’t come to me,” Natalie said. “Usually I can handle anything minor....” Her voice trailed off.

“We’ve texted him back, but no answer,” Rudy added. “I hope he’s okay. If he left, he must’ve taken the other van. What’s strange is that he left all his equipment here.”

Emma just stared at the two of them. She had no answers, only questions. One thought cycled through her mind:
Were you part of what happened to my father?

Had she been so blinded by their common love of music that she’d missed important clues?

“Alison isn’t answering either.” Natalie swiveled, scanning the terrace and the lawn beyond. “I wish she’d get back here. We need to figure out a Plan B for the second set.”

Emma licked her lips, her thoughts flopping around like a school of beached fish. “Maybe we should just forget about the second set.”

“No,” Natalie said, lifting her chin. “Remember the name of the band: Fault Tolerant. We continue to function, even when one part fails. Anyway, we’ve already been paid, and I don’t want to give half the money back.”

Feeling a little foolish, Emma removed Fitch’s cape, folding it neatly and setting it next to her on the stone wall. Don’t say anything to anyone, she thought. Keep your head down, keep your secrets, and you’ll be all right. None of this brings Tyler back. You don’t even know who your enemies are. Anything you say can’t be unsaid. Play it safe, girl. Give yourself time to figure out what to do.

“Hey. What’s up?”

Emma flinched, and turned. It was Alison. “Isn’t it about time for the second set?” she said, stuffing the last of a slice of pizza into her mouth.

“Where have you been?” Natalie said. “We’ve been trying to figure out what to do.”

“Do? About what?” Alison said, brow furrowed.

Natalie hissed through her teeth, exasperated. “Isn’t your phone on?”

Alison pulled her phone from her pocket. “I guess not. I turned it off during the first set and forgot to turn it back on.” She scanned the screen, her eyes shifting as she read the text. Then swore violently. “Jonah’s
lef
t
?” Alison looked like she’d been smacked in the head. She waved the phone. “That’s—that’s impossible.”

“Never mind,” Natalie said. “He’s not here, so we need a plan.”

Alison flung her phone onto the flagstones. It shattered into pieces.

“Whoa, Alison,” Rudy said. “Anger management, you know? If he’s sick, he’s sick.”

“Emma, you’ll just have to manage the guitar line on your own,” Natalie said. “I’ll sing my usuals, and, Rudy, you’ll have to step up to lead, I guess, for Jonah. I’ve come up with a tentative set list that we might—”

She broke off when Madison Moss shouldered her way through the French doors and onto the terrace, followed by Seph and an Anaweir boy with a football-player’s build. Madison scanned the patio and the grounds beyond, a furrow of annoyance between her brows. “Has anyone seen Grace?” she asked.

Gooseflesh rose on the back of Emma’s neck. “No,” she said. “When did you last see her?”