The Enchanter Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “We didn’t want to get your hopes up,” Thing Two said, his eyes flicking down to Jonah’s mittened hands. “He’s been very ill, and so have you. We thought it was better to wait.” He gestured down the corridor. “It’s this way.”

  Thing One blocked Alison’s way as she tried to follow. “Not you. You need to go back to bed.”

  “I want to go with Jonah.”

  Thing Two nodded to the nursing assistants. Each took one of Alison’s arms and dragged her, still protesting, in the other direction.

  “Why can’t Alison come, too?” Jonah asked.

  “Your brother’s too sick. One visitor at a time. You’ll see.”

  Fear quivered through Jonah. He’d just gotten Kenzie back, and now he might lose him again.

  They made several twists and turns, and Jonah realized they were on their way to the dining hall. Why the dining hall?

  They passed through it and crossed the yard toward the kitchen, which was in a separate building. Jonah heard helicopters, at a distance, but coming fast. That was odd. Helicopters often came and went, bringing medicine and supplies, but never at this time of day.

  Thing One and Thing Two didn’t seem to hear them. Jonah scanned the slice of murky sky overhead, but the Things hurried him along, into the kitchen building, and back to the storerooms and freezers.

  “Kenzie’s here?”

  “It’s the safest place,” Thing Two said, unlocking the door to a huge, stainless-steel freezer.

  “He’s in the freezer?” Jonah’s voice came out in a terrified squeak.

  “It’s not turned on,” Thing Two said, impatiently, pushing open the door.

  He switched on the light, but it wasn’t necessary, because Kenzie himself lit up the entire room. He sat on the floor in the corner, knees drawn up to his chin, his arms wrapped around his knees. Flames flickered across his skin—the same blue-white flames Jonah remembered from the night his parents and Marcy had died.

  “He’s still on fire!” Jonah cried. “Why don’t you put it out!”

  “We can’t,” Thing One said. “He makes the flame himself. He’s been burning since the night of the massacre.”

  Kenzie didn’t have any clothes on. Maybe that was why Alison hadn’t been allowed to come.

  Jonah crept closer. Though Kenzie was burning, he shivered and shook constantly, his teeth chattering, his eyes rolling back in his head. Now and then his head banged against the wall.

  “You should give him a helmet,” Jonah said, because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “We’d like to help him,” Thing Two said, shrugging his shoulders. “I mean, we’ve been leaving him food and water. But, unfortunately, we can’t get near him.”

  “Kenzie,” Jonah said. “It’s me, Jonah.”

  The sound of Jonah’s voice seemed to catch Kenzie’s attention. The shaking eased, and his little brother leaned forward, hands on his knees, eyes wide with fright. “Jonah? Help me! Please help me! I’m so c-cold. And hungry.”

  Jonah was desperate to help. “Can’t you at least get him a blanket?” he said.

  “They just burn up,” Thing One said. The two Things looked at each other, then Thing One continued. “You can help him, though.”

  “Me?” Jonah blinked up at the tall man beside him. “How?”

  “You can put the fire out, Jonah,” Thing Two said softly. “There are so many children here you can help. Will you?”

  “I guess so,” Jonah said warily, looking up into Thing Two’s face. “I do want to help.”

  Thing Two brought out a shiny pair of scissors. Thing One held Jonah’s wrists while Thing Two carefully cut Jonah’s mittens off. Then stepped back quickly.

  Jonah flexed his fingers, glad to have the mittens off, but puzzled at the same time.

  The freezer door was slightly ajar. Outside, Jonah could hear people talking and footsteps coming closer. Thing One and Thing Two didn’t seem to hear, maybe because Jonah’s hearing was better than theirs.

  “I’ll wait outside,” Thing Two said, turning away.

  “You’ll stay right here,” Thing One growled under his breath. “You agreed to this, now man up.” He turned to Jonah. “Now, Jonah. Just take Kenzie’s hand. It will put the fire out.”

  “Why would that put the fire out?” When they didn’t answer right away, Jonah said, “Won’t I get burned?”

  “We think the fire will go right out. Give it a try,” Thing One coaxed.

  Why were they coaxing him? He wasn’t a healer. Jonah looked up at Thing One and saw the lies behind his eyes.

  “No,” he said, turning his back on Kenzie and facing the two Things.

  “Look at him,” Thing Two said. “You think he’s happy the way he is?”

  He took a step toward Jonah, and Jonah raised both hands in defense. To his surprise, Thing Two flinched back, his face going fish-belly pale.

  Thing Two was afraid of Jonah. Why? They wanted him to touch Kenzie. Why?

  “We can’t help Kenzie,” Thing One said to Jonah, his voice roughening from silk to burlap. “We need to focus on the ones that might actually survive.”

  “No,” Jonah said.

  “Would you want to live like that? This is the kindest thing you can do for him now.”

  “No,” Jonah said.

  “I told you this wouldn’t work!” Thing Two said.

  “He’ll come around,” Thing One said. “He’s a smart boy. He’ll figure it out.”

  “That’s the problem. He has figured it out,” Thing Two spat. “Why don’t you—”

  The door to the freezer banged open. In the doorway stood one of Jonah’s music teachers, a man named Gabriel, who only stayed at Thorn Hill part of the year. Who’d been away the night everybody died.

  “Who do you think you are?” Thing One spluttered, blocking Gabriel’s path. “This is private property, and if you think you—”

  “I’m Gabriel Mandrake, I own this property, and I pay your salary, I believe.”

  “Mandrake!” Thing One seemed to shrink, right before Jonah’s eyes. “You should have told us you were coming. We could have prepared—”

  “That was the idea,” Gabriel said. “A surprise visit. It looks to me like you’ve been spending more time working the mines than doing the work I’m paying you for.”

  Thing One licked his lips. “Well, you know, we thought it was important to keep it going, to raise funds for the kids—for their future and all.”

  Gabriel pushed past the Things and on into the freezer, followed by Alison and—

  “Jeanette!” Jonah cried.

  But Jeanette didn’t answer. Her eyes were fixed on Kenzie, her face displaying disbelief and then growing horror.

  When Gabriel saw Kenzie—when he saw him naked on the floor in the freezer—he flinched, his face first going pale as milk, then dark with fury. “Good God,” he said, turning on the Things. “What were you thinking? They’re children.”

  “That’s easy for you to say,” Thing One said. “They’re dangerous. If you’d seen what we’ve seen, you—”

  “I’ve seen enough,” Gabriel said, his voice low and hoarse. He looked different than Jonah remembered, thin and scruffy and sad.

  Jeanette crossed to Kenzie and knelt beside him, talking to him soothingly. She wasn’t afraid. As Jonah watched, she reached into her carry bag and pulled out a brown bottle.

  Jonah squatted next to Jeanette, as close as he dared come. “What’s that?” he said as she poured some of the sludgy brown contents into a spoon.

  “It’s a medicine that might relieve his symptoms some by dampening down the magic.” That was one thing Jonah always liked about Jeanette: she always told the truth.

  Jeanette tried to guide the spoon to Kenzie’s mouth, but he flailed around so much she couldn’t hit her target.

  “Kenzie,” Jonah said. “What’s that song you like? That John Lennon song?”

  Kenzie blinked up at him. “‘Imagine,’” he whispered thr
ough cracked lips.

  Jonah began to sing, softly. Kenzie’s body relaxed and his movements slowed enough that Jeanette was able to slide the spoon between his lips.

  The Things were still arguing with Gabriel. “I have the baseline numbers,” Gabriel said, his voice low and tight. “Two thousand adults and three thousand children dead. There were a thousand children who survived. Where are they? How many have died since you took over?”

  Thing One and Thing Two looked at each other. “Maybe a couple hundred?” Thing One ventured.

  “No,” Gabriel said. His entire body slumped, and he covered his face with his hands. Tears leaked between his fingers. “I never thought—I never even guessed it would be this bad.”

  “Yeah, well, now you know,” Thing One said. Like usual, Thing Two wasn’t saying much. He slid to the floor in the corner, and pillowed his head on his arms.

  Kenzie’s fire had finally gone out, and he sagged back against Jeanette’s shoulder, exhausted. Jonah would have thought he’d be covered in blisters, but he wasn’t. Maybe the flames he made himself didn’t burn him.

  “Alison,” Jeanette said, rocking Kenzie back and forth, rubbing his back, her voice calm as ever. As if she took care of flaming boys every day. “Can you bring Kenzie some water and some of those animal crackers he likes? And a box of chicken broth.”

  Jonah could tell Alison wanted to stay and listen, but she left anyway.

  “Jonah,” Jeanette said, giving him a tired smile. “I’m so glad to see you up and walking around. Do you think you can find your brother a blanket?”

  As Jonah ducked through the door, Thing One said, “So, I guess now you can see what we’re dealing with here. It hasn’t been easy, believe me.”

  “Is that why you’ve been chaining children to their beds?” Jeanette’s voice stung like a whip.

  There was a new nervousness in Thing One’s voice as he replied. “You have to understand, there’s been too much to do, too little manpower, not enough—”

  “Yes, it’s no wonder you’re shorthanded, when I found ten people working in the mines,” Gabriel put in. “Ten people I’m paying to take care of children.”

  Jonah found a blanket back in the Horrible Room, where newly arrived healers were busy unchaining children and examining them, questioning them in gentle voices. Some of the healers were weeping.

  When Jonah returned with Kenzie’s blanket, Thing One was scowling, his voice rising in protest. “Listen, some of these kids haven’t stopped heaving since we came here. Others are so deformed they make us want to throw up. And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. You fire us, we leave Brazil for good. Then good luck finding other healers to come out here to this godforsaken place and take care of that.” He pointed at Kenzie as Jonah wrapped the blanket around his brother’s shoulders. “Do you even understand what you’re dealing with? See his big brother here? Cute kid. Only thing is, his touch is lethal. His lips, his hands…and we don’t know what else. He killed his own sister.”

  Thing One kept talking, but Jonah wasn’t listening. Marcy? He’d killed Marcy? He extended his hands, studying them. Turned them over and looked at the backs. They didn’t look any different than they always had.

  “Don’t worry, Jonah,” Jeanette said, softly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

  Tears came to Jonah’s eyes. Nobody had kissed him—hardly anyone had touched him for two months. Jeanette wasn’t afraid of him. And, yet…

  Jonah shook his head and backed away from her. “No,” he said. “I’ll hurt you, too.”

  “The point is,” Thing One said, “most sorcerers wouldn’t set foot in here after what happened. They don’t want to risk the Wizard Guild coming after them.”

  “Maybe some people are braver than you,” Gabriel said. “Now get out, before I have you arrested.”

  By the time she woke up in the booth at Mickey’s, Emma Claire Greenwood hadn’t been home in three days. She knew it was wrong, that Sonny Lee would be worried, even though she’d called him every day. They’d agreed on that the last time they’d had a sit-down about her wild ways.

  But it was sweet summertime in Memphis, and the call of the streets was like a siren song—impossible to resist. School was out, and there was no place she had to be.

  Sleep all day, then stay out all night, walking pavement still breathing heat at midnight. Passing open doorways, letting the delicious music sluice over her from all the little clubs. Music that picked your heart apart and put it back together again. She was just sixteen, but she had a ticket into every club in Memphis. She’d sit in with bands all over town, big names and unknowns. Mickey put it this way: “That girl Emma? She’s an old soul. That girl can play the blues.”

  It sure didn’t hurt that she was Sonny Lee Greenwood’s granddaughter. Sometimes she’d cross paths with him in some smoky dive. She’d hear him before she ever saw him—he played slide guitar like nobody else. Sometimes they’d coax her onto the stage and she’d play alongside him, the air thick with cigarettes and beer and sweat—the smell of the blues.

  Sonny Lee warned her about the streets. He told her there was danger out there. But she’d always fit in better there than anywhere else. Better than she’d ever fit at school. Besides, she was street-smart enough to say no to the pretty boys who’d try to sweet-talk her into making that first big mistake. To the older men who wanted to buy her a drink. It was the music that seduced her—nothing else. She looked out for herself because nobody else did.

  She’d slept all night on the vinyl seat, her long legs and arms hanging over the edges, stirring only when the staff started trickling in. The clatter and bang of Robert as he racked dishes finally woke her up for good.

  Yawning, she checked her phone. Two in the afternoon.

  She had one text from the guy who’d ordered a guitar months ago, wondering where it was. Three calls from Sonny Lee. He’d be in the shop by now. Where she should be.

  Sonny Lee should fire her and get some good help is what he should do.

  Her mouth tasted like sawdust, which she totally deserved. Stretching the kinks out of her back, she hobbled over to the bar, where Robert comped her a Coke. She carried it to the ladies’ room and sipped at it while she cleaned up as best she could—raking her fingers through her tangle of hair and gathering it into a rubber band. She dabbed at a spot of mustard on her T-shirt with a wet paper towel. Where’d that come from? Was it new? Or had it been there when she put it on? At home, laundry was hit-or-miss.

  Good intentions rattled around her brain like dice against an alley wall. I’ll stay home tonight. I’ll get caught up on my custom work and anything Sonny Lee asks me to do. I’ll cook Sonny Lee a nice supper.

  Cooking was hit-or-miss, too.

  She shoved open the door, letting it bang shut behind her, squinting in the sunlight. It must have rained overnight, because the wet cement was steaming. The air hung honey-thick, pressing all the scents of the city close to the pavement.

  Emma turned off Beale Street and followed the cut-throughs and alleyways to the shop. She stopped at Sweetie’s along the way and bought two of the sticky buns Sonny Lee liked, though they cost her last few dollars. A peace offering.

  The neon sign in front of the shop flickered. S. L. GREENWOOD, LUTHIER. CUSTOM GUITARS AND REPAIRS. And underneath, their new sign, put up a month ago as a symbol of their new partnership. STUDIO GREENWOOD. To her surprise, the sign in the front window had been flipped from “open” to “closed.” Way too early.

  Maybe business had been slow, and he’d closed up early so he could get some work done. Which he probably needed to do since Emma had let him down. Again.

  Or had he not opened up at all? Sonny Lee wasn’t as young as he used to be. He sometimes had trouble making it down the stairs after a late Friday night. But music was blasting from the speakers inside the shop, turned up louder than Sonny Lee allowed, during business hours anyway. />
  The front door was locked, so Emma let herself in with her key. “Sonny Lee?” she called, but there was no way he’d hear her with the music blaring. She circled behind the counter and hit the off button, and an eerie silence descended. “Sonny Lee?” she repeated. “It’s Emma. I’m home.” No answer.

  The air in the store had a charred quality, as if Sonny Lee had been using his wood burner recently. The coffee in the pot had boiled away to a thick syrup and the carafe had cracked. Her heart flip-flopped.

  She pushed through the swinging door that divided the store from the workshop. It was dead quiet. Spooky quiet. Tools lay scattered on the workbench and sawdust littered the floor. The drawer in his workbench hung open. Her grandfather hadn’t cleaned up the night before. He always cleaned up. His apartment was a disaster, but you could eat off the floor of the shop.

  “Sonny Lee!” she shouted, circling around behind the workbench.

  And that’s where she found him, crumpled on the floor, his head haloed by a pool of blood.

  Emma screamed, an anguished animal sound, and fell to her knees beside him. She pressed her fingers under his gray-bristled chin, felt for a pulse, and found one—thready and weak.

  “Hang on, Sonny Lee. Hang on,” Emma whispered, reaching for her phone and punching in 911. The dispatcher had barely answered, when Emma burst out, “I’m at Greenwood’s on Hoopeston. My grandfather—Sonny Lee Greenwood—he’s been hurt.”

  “Hurt how?” When Emma fumbled for an answer, the dispatcher said impatiently, “Is he shot or stabbed or what?”

  “I don’t know. I think he fell, and hit his head. His head’s bleeding, anyway.”

  “Is it bleeding a lot?”

  “Looks like it was, but it’s scabbed up now.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” To Emma’s guilty ears, the dispatcher’s voice sounded accusing.

  “I—I don’t know. I haven’t been home.”

  “Is he breathing? Does he have a pulse?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Does he have a history of heart disease? High blood pressure?”

  “Who knows? He’s seventy-three, but he never goes to the doctor’s. Look, can’t you ask these questions later? My grandfather, he needs—”