The Enchanter Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “EMS is on the way, honey,” the dispatcher said. “What’s your name?”

  “Emma Greenwood.”

  “And you’re Mr. Greenwood’s granddaughter?”

  “Yes.”

  Emma heard the clatter of a keyboard as the dispatcher took down the information.

  “Anything else, Emma? Can you see any other injuries? Broken bones?”

  Emma shook her head, which of course the dispatcher couldn’t see through the phone. “No.”

  “Any history of stroke?”

  “Not that I know of,” Emma said.

  “They’ll be there any minute. Listen for the sirens. Are you on the first floor?”

  “Yes. Door’s unlocked. Come in through the shop. Studio Greenwood. I won’t hang up.” Emma set the phone down on the floor next to her and leaned over Sonny Lee.

  To her surprise, her grandfather opened his eyes. He tried to speak, but the words came out garbled.

  “Sonny Lee! Hang on,” Emma said. “The paramedics are coming and you’re gonna be fine; all you have to do is lay there and wait.”

  In answer, Sonny Lee flopped his right hand, banging it on the floor. He clutched an envelope in his gnarly fingers.

  “What’s that?”

  He flopped his hand again in answer. Carefully, she extricated the envelope from his grip. On the outside, Memphis Slim was scrawled in pencil.

  Memphis Slim. Sonny Lee’s name for her.

  Emma sat on the floor next to him. “Just hang on a little longer,” she said, pressing her hand against his cheek, blinking back tears. He breathed out, a long sigh of letting go. His head drooped back and his eyes glazed over, like a skin of ice on a blackwater puddle. He was dead.

  Emma tilted her head back, closing her eyes against the fly-specked ceiling. Tears ran down her face as that place in her heart that never quite healed broke open once again. Emma could hear the faint sound of sirens through the open windows, too late. They couldn’t bring Sonny Lee back to life. What would happen to her now? Would she end up in foster care? That old fear kindled and burned.

  No. She had places she could go, people she could crash with for a night or two.

  A night or two. What about the rest of her life? And what about the shop, with all its woodworking tools? And Sonny Lee’s collection of vintage instruments, many of them one of a kind. What would happen to them?

  She needed time to think. To plan, and she wouldn’t have it if she stuck around. She needed to get out of there.

  She could at least take the guitars that she’d built herself. She could claim that much. Maybe she could get the rest later somehow. When she had a place to stay.

  In a daze of grief, Emma climbed the stairs to her bedroom. She yanked a backpack off a hook on the wall and stuffed four T-shirts, a pair of jeans, a flannel shirt, and socks and underwear inside. That was most of her clothes, when you counted the ones on her back. She pushed up the loose ceiling tile over the mattress she used for a bed and pulled down her money stash—the proceeds from the sale of two guitars. She slid the money into the backpack pocket, and Sonny Lee’s letter into the front pocket of her jeans. That was about it: her whole life inside one backpack.

  Sirens clamoring right outside pulled Emma out of her thoughts, and emergency lights bloodied the windows. There was no time to pack anything else. The two Studio Greenwood guitars she’d finished leaned against the wall, still in their cases, where she’d left them the last time she came back from Mickey’s.

  She pulled one of Sonny Lee’s fedoras down low over her eyes, slung the backpack over her shoulder, scooped up the guitars, and descended the outside stairs to the alley as the paramedics came in the front.

  Moments later, she was walking down Beale Street, a guitar in either hand. Emma looked just like a hundred other guitarists in Memphis, heading for a gig. Except for the tears streaming down her face.

  By the time Jonah broke into the dungeon, Jeanette was dead. She hung from the wall, her long plait of gray hair matted with blood, her face swollen, her body bruised and broken. Tools of torture had been flung carelessly aside—useless now.

  Jonah knew she was dead because he couldn’t feel her pain. The pain he was feeling was all his own. “Jeanette,” he whispered, his voice breaking, along with his heart.

  He snapped the manacles around her wrists in two with his fingers, letting the chains clatter back against the wall. Gently, he lowered her to the stone floor, giving her damaged body the care it deserved, that it should have had. She’d saved his life many times over, but he’d failed her now.

  Until five years ago, Jeanette had worked in the infirmary at the Anchorage, where Jonah had spent much of his early life after leaving Thorn Hill. She would hold his head over the basin until the black sick was out of him, then clean his face and mop his sweaty forehead and change the mitts on his hands. After his doses, she would cradle him and sing songs to him until he slept. She’d loved him when nobody else could. Most important of all, she’d saved his brother’s life. She’d left the Anchorage when he was twelve, but not a week went by without a phone call or text or e-mail from Jeanette.

  Even at the worst times in his life, he’d never stopped believing in Jeanette Brodie. And she’d never stopped believing in him.

  Stripping off his leather glove, he cradled her cheek with his bare hand, knowing he no longer posed any danger to her. “Be at peace,” he whispered, closing her eyes with his fingertips. He texted Gabriel and Kenzie, one word only: Dead. He resisted the urge to send a second text to Gabriel alone. Told you so.

  Jeanette might be at peace, but a fine, fresh anger flamed inside of Jonah. Why would anyone—even wizards—target Jeanette? She was one of the gentlest people he’d ever known. She’d only left Gabriel’s service because she could no longer steel herself against the dying of children.

  The world was full of monsters, and Jonah meant to find out which one was to blame for this.

  He mounted the stone steps two at a time, at savant speed, quiet as the vapor of death. As soon as he reached the first floor, he heard voices. When he breathed in the stench of conjured magic, he knew: wizards.

  Jonah ghosted down the hallway. The voices spilled from a large, arched entryway into an adjacent room. His unusually good hearing was, ironically, a gift from wizards.

  He edged his head around the door frame so that he could see.

  Three people stood around the fireplace, though the hearth was cold on this summer day. One was a young man with sun-streaked brown hair, his lean body rigid with impatience. He looked to be in his early twenties—but it was always hard to tell with wizards. The fifty-ish woman with raven-black hair would be Jessamine Longbranch, the owner of the house Jonah had broken into minutes before. The other man was older, gaunt, with a badly scarred face. That was likely Geoffrey Wylie, a known associate of Longbranch’s.

  “Well? What did you find out?” The younger man was an American, his voice as penetrating as a sliver of ice.

  “Not as much as I’d hoped for,” Longbranch said, scowling.

  “So you’ve given up?” The scarred man snorted.

  “I didn’t have much of a choice, Wylie,” Longbranch said. “She’s dead.”

  After a strained pause, the American spoke again. “If there was any chance at all she knew anything—which, for the record, I doubt—then why the hell did you kill her?”

  “I didn’t mean to, clearly,” Longbranch said, her voice low and tight with anger. “Sometimes they just die.”

  Everyone needs a hobby. Jonah’s was tracking wizards. Something that his mentor, Gabriel Mandrake, discouraged. In Gabriel’s view, Jonah’s mission was elsewhere—hunting shades. The undead victims of the Thorn Hill Massacre.

  “Well,” the American said, glancing at his watch. “That’s that. This has been a colossal waste of time. I’ve got to get back to New York.”

  “Hang on, DeVries.” Longbranch leaned back against the sideboard, swirling her drink. “The Thorn Hill an
gle is worth pursuing, and you know it. The best sorcerers of the age flocked there, because they knew that they could source any botanicals they needed without the risk of anyone coming after them in Brazil. Their expertise could be the key to freeing ourselves from the underguild tyrants in Trinity.”

  “No doubt,” DeVries said. “After all, the Thorn Hill conspiracy was a smashing success—or would have been, if they hadn’t managed to poison themselves.”

  “Fine,” Longbranch flared. “Moss and her cohorts can go right on killing wizards until we are extinct.”

  “What’s the count now?” Wylie asked.

  DeVries shifted his gaze to Wylie. “Fifty-seven dead,” he said. “And I understand that some from the underguilds have been killed as well.”

  “Red herrings, no doubt,” Wylie said. “To obscure the real culprits.”

  “Maybe,” DeVries said, as if he didn’t care one way or the other.

  “Are there truly no clues at all?” Wylie asked.

  “Some of the bodies don’t have a mark on them. Others have been found—to be blunt—dismembered. The commonalities are that their Weirstones are destroyed, their magic drained, and all of the bodies have dead flowers scattered over them.”

  “Roses?” Longbranch guessed.

  DeVries shook his head. “Nightshade.”

  Nightshade? Jonah’s hand crept inside his neckline, to his Nightshade pendant, brushed over the engraved design. Really? Was it possible that someone from Nightshade was moonlighting? Somebody besides him?

  “Any updates on the Interguild Council investigation?” Wylie asked.

  “Don’t look for any help from them,” DeVries said bitterly. “Some on Council are probably responsible for the killings; the rest merely celebrate them. Madison Moss has to be involved. Wizards just aren’t that easy to kill.”

  “That’s exactly why we need to take matters into our own hands,” Longbranch said. “The survivors of Thorn Hill represent the greatest reservoir of knowledge about materials magic and Weirstones that exists.”

  “Existed,” DeVries said.

  “Don’t you see?” Longbranch continued undeterred. “What if we could modify Weirstones so that they no longer require the connection to the Dragonheart in order to function? Failing that, if we could determine exactly what agent got into the water supply at Thorn Hill—”

  “Why? Are you planning some kind of mass murder, now that we’re finally at peace?” DeVries said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look, investigating Thorn Hill seemed like a good idea,” he said, as if Longbranch had crocheted an especially clever potholder at the old folks’ home. “But we’ve no way to pursue it if there aren’t any records, and if everybody who knew anything is dead.”

  “The healer survived. There must be others,” Longbranch said. “More who left before the disaster.” She paused. “Perhaps some of them are working for you.”

  “Working for me?” DeVries said, his eyes narrowing. “Do go on.”

  Wylie and Longbranch exchanged glances, as if negotiating the next move.

  “We’re well aware of your expertise in poisons and toxins,” Wylie said, trying for charm, and failing. “You were brought up in the business, after all. And isn’t it true that your father was murdered by some in the underguilds who blamed him for this so-called Thorn Hill Massacre?”

  “I have no idea who murdered my father,” DeVries said, clearly not seeking a heart-to-heart with Wylie. “He was a successful businessman, and successful businessmen attract enemies. Those were violent times, if you recall. As for poison, that’s a sorcerer’s weapon. Wizards have other options.”

  “I’ve heard rumors that the Black Rose is back,” Wylie persisted, “that it’s resurfaced in response to the recent killings. We thought, perhaps, that you—er, the Black Rose—might have recruited some Thorn Hill survivors to—”

  “Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said, glaring at him. “We don’t want to imply that young DeVries here is in any way involved with assassinations and the like.”

  “Another day, another conspiracy theory,” DeVries said, rolling his eyes. “People who consort with assassins have a rather short shelf life, don’t you think?”

  After another exchange of glances with Wylie, Longbranch decided to change the subject.

  “What about the Anchorage?” she said. “Every one of the inmates there is a Thorn Hill survivor. One of them might know something. They may even have records and archives from the camp.”

  Jonah stiffened. He didn’t like that these wizards had the Anchorage in their sights.

  “I can’t imagine that they would be of any help,” DeVries said, his voice laced with contempt.

  “Why haven’t you mentioned this place before?” Wylie asked, seemingly annoyed to be on the outside. “I never heard of it.”

  “I only just thought of it,” Longbranch said. “The Anchorage is an institution that houses the children of the rebels at Thorn Hill, the few hundred who didn’t die with their parents. The ones that survived the mass poisoning ended up as magical cripples. Some are barely functional, requiring round-the-clock care. Others are kept confined, because they pose a danger to themselves and to everyone else. A few run loose on the streets.”

  “Fascinating. But who would want to do that—take care of underguild freaks, I mean?” Wylie mused. “Moreover, who would want to pay for it?”

  “You’ve heard of Gabriel Mandrake—the American music promoter?” When Wylie nodded, Longbranch continued. “He’s a sorcerer who’s adopted the labrats, as they’re commonly called, as his pet charity. If you ask me, it would have been cleaner to have dealt with them at the time. It’s easier to dispose of mutants and monsters when they’re small.”

  Bitterness boiled up in Jonah. This proves, once again, that wizards are the monsters we should be targeting, Gabriel. Not our own kind.

  “You have a point, Jessamine,” DeVries said, paging through messages on his phone. “The magically damaged are really quite…useless.” He looked up at Longbranch, a smile curving his lips. “They shoot horses, don’t they?”

  Longbranch’s face paled and her lips tightened. Jonah felt the sharp push of her rage meeting the chill of DeVries’s indifference.

  Wylie broke the charged silence. “Why don’t we go after Mandrake? He might know something. Or be able to finger someone who does.”

  DeVries shook his head. “Gabriel Mandrake is an extremely visible figure who lives a stone’s throw from the headquarters of the Interguild Council. He also has the best security system money can buy. I don’t need that kind of attention.”

  “Fine. Maybe the Anchorage is out, but there must be leads we could explore,” Longbranch said. “We can’t give up now.”

  “Who says we’re giving up?” DeVries smiled, more a showing of teeth than anything else. “Don’t contact me again unless you have a solid lead. It’s too risky. And, next time, turn your prisoner over and let us handle the interrogation. No doubt we’ll get better results.”

  Jonah ducked away from the doorway to allow DeVries to stride past him. He left through the front door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

  Jonah returned to his vantage point just in time to see Longbranch snatch up a vase and smash it against the doorframe, sending shards of glass flying past Jonah’s ear. “What an insufferable, smug bastard,” she snarled. “We don’t need him.”

  “Yes we do,” Wylie said. “If we want to regain any real power, that is.” He motioned toward the sideboard. “I’ll have a drink, if you’re offering.”

  “Pour it yourself!” Longbranch stalked to the large windows that overlooked the gardens and pulled them open. The scent of roses wafted in. “For all we know, DeVries is behind the killing. Everyone knows the Black Rose will murder anyone for a price. Maybe the council gave him a contract.”

  Jonah rubbed his aching head. He’d had enough. He had no interest in hanging out, listening to bickering wizards. He knew who to blame for Jeanette’s death, and
that was what counted.

  He yanked off his gloves with his teeth and tucked them into the waistband of his jeans, then rounded the corner and walked toward the two wizards.

  Longbranch was the first to spot him. Her eyes widened at first, then narrowed speculatively. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

  Wylie spied Jonah in that same moment, his face contorted in surprise. “What the—?”

  “How did you get over the security fence?” Longbranch interrupted.

  “Well,” Jonah said, shrugging, “it wasn’t much of a fence.”

  Longbranch rolled her eyes, as if Jonah’s presence were more an annoyance than a threat. “Why am I paying for twenty-four-hour security? I’m going to fire them all.”

  “No need,” Jonah said, raking his hand through his hair. “They’re dead.”

  “Ah.” Longbranch nodded. “Well, then. That’s the price of failure, I suppose. How many of you are there?”

  “Just me,” Jonah said. “That’s usually enough.”

  “Why, you arrogant son of a—” Wylie began.

  “Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said. Her eyes traveled over Jonah approvingly, lingering on the sword hilt poking up over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a breathtaking young man?”

  A thousand times, Jonah thought. A lot of good it does me.

  “Are you a warrior, then?” Longbranch continued. “Or a wizard?”

  Jonah shook his head. “Neither.” Wizards were unable to identify Weirstones—one of the few advantages the underguilds had.

  “Hmm…definitely not a seer. They are so tiresome. A sorcerer—no—an enchanter, perhaps?” Lust glittered in the wizard’s eyes. “An enchanter with a sword? Like—like a gladiator. How intriguing. And versatile. Would you like a job?”

  “I have a job,” Jonah said. “I’m here about Ms. Brodie.”

  Longbranch smiled. “Wylie, our luck may be turning. Just when we think we’re at a dead end, fate hands us this second chance.” She took a step toward Jonah. “Who was she to you?”