“You are wrong about so many things,” Emma said. As she bolted past him, fumbling at the door, he whipped around, and extended one bloody hand toward her. She lurched to the side, smashing headfirst into the wall, knocking herself half silly, then went down on her side, twisting her ankle. That was when she realized that nothing had happened.
Rowan examined his hand, as if to see why it wasn’t working. He took a step toward her, took aim again, his face twisted in fury. He’s going to kill me, she thought. He’s that angry.
“Leave her alone!” The voice was familiar, a razor-wire web that ensnared her…seductive and deadly.
Rowan half turned, and then Jonah Kinlock slammed into him and the wizard went flying, smashing into a piece of furniture.
The scene reverberated in Emma’s head, a strobing flashback. Memory flooded in, to fill the empty places.
A boy slammed into her, and she flew across the room, smashing her head into a table.
Jonah dropped to his knees beside her. “Emma,” he said, gently straightening her arm with his gloved hands. “Are you all right? Is anything broken?”
She opened her eyes to see a boy leaning over her, his gloved hands searching for injuries. Eyes like oceans so deep that light can only penetrate a few layers. And a scent that was life and death, joy and pain, inextricably mingled together.
Images rippled through her mind, like bodies surfacing in a murky pool: a tall, dark figure who brought death through the door. Impossibly strong. Incredibly quick. Insidiously lethal. Inhumanly beautiful.
Eyes that shaded from sapphire to tanzanite to emerald like fine black opals.
A flame kindled in her heart, a flame of truth hot enough to burn up everything that had existed between them. She shrank back against the wall, raising both hands to ward him off.
“Please say you’re all right,” Jonah said.
No. She was not all right. That was something she would never be.
Jonah read her heart in that way he had. He sat back on his heels, pain flickering over his face. He glanced over at Rowan, who lay unmoving against the wall.
“Go up to the house,” Jonah said. “Wait there for me.” He tugged off his gloves and tucked them under the waistband of his jeans.
Emma stared at his hands. It was the first time she’d seen them bare of leather. They were beautiful hands, supple and strong, the nails clipped short.
“What’s wrong with your hands?” she asked. “You said they were disfigured. They look fine to me.” She reached for his hands, and he yanked them back.
“Go inside, Emma,” Jonah said, his eyes glittering in the security light over the door, his cheeks hollowed by shadow.
A shiver went through her as a line from an old song came back to her.
Death came calling, and I couldn’t say no.…
“What are you going to do?” She didn’t really have to ask. She knew. She knew what was going to happen. There was death in Jonah Kinlock, and he meant to unleash it.
“Something I should have done in the first place.”
“You’re going to kill him, aren’t you?” Emma said. “You’re going to murder him, just like you murdered my father. Just like you murdered his sister. Just like you tried to murder me.”
Slowly, he shook his head, as if to turn away her words. “No,” he whispered. She saw the column of his throat jump as he swallowed. “No. I—I never…I didn’t mean to hurt you, Emma.”
Did that mean that he was admitting to everything but that?
“Prove it,” Emma said, tilting her head toward Rowan. “Don’t kill him.”
“I have to.”
“No.”
“But…he tortured you. He threatened you. He’ll do it again if I give him the chance. He’ll never let this go.”
“He lost his sister,” Emma said. “He wants answers. Can you blame him?” She paused. “Anyway, you’re not doing it for me. It’s all about you.”
Their eyes met, and held.
“Go ahead and kill him, then,” Emma said, tilting her head toward Rowan. “But I’m not going anywhere. Show me how it’s done.” She stood, arms folded, immovable as stone.
Rowan was stirring, groaning, trying to prop himself up. He succeeded on the second try, rubbing his head, and looked around. When his eyes focused on Jonah, they widened in fear. His feet scuffled against the floor as he pushed himself to his feet.
“You want me to let him go?” Jonah said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“Since when does it matter what I want?” Emma said.
Jonah settled back onto his heels, the deadly energy seeming to drain out of him. “Go,” he said to Rowan in a hollow, flat voice.
Rowan seemed to be trying to decide whether it was some kind of trick. He edged toward the door, never taking his eyes off Jonah. Reaching the doorway, he stopped and turned to Emma.
“I’m not leaving you here with him,” he said. “There’s no telling what he’ll do. Come on.” He took a step back toward her, reaching for her arm.
“Just go!” Emma shouted, her voice clouded with tears. “Would you all quit dragging me here and there and telling me what to do?” She took a shuddering breath, almost a sob. “Go on, get out of here before I change my mind.”
Rowan hesitated for a long moment, then turned, bolted through the door, and disappeared.
Emma blotted at her eyes with the backs of her hands and swung around to confront Jonah. “So. Any other murders I should know about?” she said. “Were you the one who went to Memphis and killed the person I loved most in the world? Maybe you remember him: old man with woolly hair, kind of bent over, bright-complected. Man could build a mean guitar.”
“No,” Jonah said. “I didn’t kill anyone in Memphis.”
“Think hard,” Emma said. “I bet it’s not easy to keep track. Probably all runs together after a while. What are you, sort of a one-night-stand assassin?”
“Emma, please,” Jonah whispered, and Emma heard a prayer for forgiveness. But she’d gone deaf to Jonah Kinlock’s seductive voice.
“Why am I alive? Why?”
Jonah shook his head. “I—I didn’t go to your father’s house to kill anyone,” he said. “That was the last thing I wanted to happen.”
“Accidents happen, I guess,” Emma said bitterly. “Did you think it was funny…you having all the secrets when I had none? Me mooning after you while you’re thinking I’m a fool.”
“No,” Jonah said.
“What, exactly, do they teach at the Anchorage? Is murder part of the curriculum or did you do this on your own? And why am I alive?” She stepped closer, too angry to worry about the danger. “Did you mess up? Or are you losing your touch? Is that it?”
Jonah stared down at his hands. “Would that I could,” he murmured.
“Right. Now I should feel sorry for you?” Emma shook her head. “I’m going now. Don’t follow me unless you’re prepared to murder me, too.”
She turned on her heel and limped away, resisting the temptation to look back.
Jonah didn’t follow.
Jonah couldn’t say how long he stayed in the gazebo. He remembered slumping onto the bench, pulling his gloves back on, and sitting, head down, listening to the sound of the waves on the beach and the wind in the trees.
He wished he could simply walk into the lake and keep heading north until the gunmetal-gray waves closed over his head and the fireworks exploded in his brain and the voices stopped.
But the instinct for survival had been hardwired into him, along with his deadly touch.
What would Emma do? Would she go to the police? The bodies were long gone, the evidence destroyed, the witnesses dead. She had no love for the authorities, and she had a record…of minor offenses, anyway.
Would she go to Gabriel? For all she knew, Gabriel had engineered the mission that had led to her father’s death. Would she actually go to Rowan after she cooled off? It was hard to imagine she could believe he was the innocent in this.
> And Rowan…how much had he heard?
It didn’t matter what Emma could prove. What mattered was what she knew to be true…that Jonah was a killer. That he’d maybe killed her father. He had no defense. It could be true.
Guilt boiled up inside him as he realized just how alone Emma was. Everything and everyone had been taken from her. There was no one she could trust. Jonah was pretty much in the same situation, but most of it was his own fault.
By the time he left the gazebo, he was shivering in his T-shirt. He looked up at the brightly lit house. What about the second set? What would Emma do? Would she beg off? In the end he took the coward’s way out and sent a text to both Natalie and Emma. I won’t be there for the second set. I’m so sorry for everything. Jonah.
He could take the van and drive back to school. Lock himself in his room. Cross his heart and hope to die before morning. Without really making a decision, he began to climb the hill toward the house. The trees stirred and the breeze brushed past him, bringing with it the metallic scent of blood.
He heard a twig snap behind him, felt a pinch at his neck, and was unconscious before he hit the ground.
When Jonah awoke, the smell of blood was even stronger than before. He was chilled to the bone, stiff and aching from contact with the cold ground. He was lying awkwardly across a tree root. He heard voices some distance away, people laughing, scuffing through leaves. He turned his head from side to side, spitting out leaf mold from a desert-dry mouth. He felt sluggish, muddleheaded, so terribly tired.
“What’s this?” somebody said. It sounded like he was just a short distance away. “Leesha!” he shouted. “Come give me a hand. Looks like this guy might’ve had a little too much to drink.”
Leesha snorted. “Is it anybody you know, Fitch? Otherwise, maybe we should let him sleep it off.” Jonah heard footsteps rapidly approaching.
“Wait a minute,” Fitch said, with a new urgency. “It looks like…maybe he’s been stabbed. There’s blood everywhere.”
“It’s Halloween, remember?” Leesha sounded amused. “It must be part of the display. You never know what Seph and Maddie—” Her voice cut off abruptly. “I just…I just stumbled over…somebody else,” she said, sounding uncertain. “It’s a girl. I—I think she’s dead.”
Jonah tried to move, but it was like his wrists and ankles were weighted…too heavy to lift. When he lifted his face out of the dirt, his head was spinning, and he nearly puked. He finally managed to lift his head enough to look past the tree toward the house. He could see two costumed figures kneeling on the ground about thirty feet away. His vision swam until all he could see were blotches of color and lurid streaks of light.
“Leesha,” Fitch said, his voice low and strained. “There’s another body. Over that way.” He pointed.
Jonah struggled to clear his head. Had he been attacked as well? Was he in shock from blood loss, or…? Truth be told, he felt sicker than he’d been since—since right after Thorn Hill. And Emma…what about Emma? She’d gone straight back to the house after the argument, hadn’t she? Could Rowan DeVries have returned with reinforcements?
His heart froze in his chest. Was Emma lying dead with the others?
“Do you know any of them?” Fitch was asking.
“No, but there’s a lot of people here I don’t know,” Leesha said. “And this one…he’s wearing a mask. Do you…do you think I should take it off, or—”
“Don’t touch anything,” Fitch snapped, pulling out his cell phone. “We don’t want to compromise the crime scene. Just…we better go back to the house until the police get here. I don’t think anybody should be out here alone.” He sat back on his heels, jaw set, peering into the trees. Instinctively, Jonah froze, knowing that movement would draw attention more than anything.
You’re not guilty of anything, he thought. Why are you hiding? That does look guilty. And yet, he didn’t move.
After a long moment, Fitch and Leesha stood, turned, and sprinted toward the house.
Jonah rolled over onto his back and propped up against the tree, fighting back another wave of nausea. His hand closed over something metallic. Familiar. He looked down. A dagger with a long, razor-sharp blade, smeared with blood. At first he thought it was a shiv, but no. Just a dagger.
His muddled mind tried to make sense of it. Had he brought a blade along for some reason? No. Why would he?
It seemed to take a superhuman effort to get to his knees. On all fours, he scanned the ground around him. Here was another dagger, similarly bloodied. And bits of leaves and berries, as if someone had put a fistful of plants through a shredder. His skin prickled and burned, like he’d been scalded. There was something about plants—something he should remember.
And then it came to him. Nightshade. Deadly nightshade. Belladonna. Had he been left for dead like the other victims of Lilith and her crew? Or had he been set up to take the fall himself?
Using the tree as a prop, he managed to get to his feet. His hands were smeared with blood to the elbows. His T-shirt and jeans, too. He ran his hands over his body. No obvious wounds. He felt more sick than wounded, but he probably looked like he’d been the guest of honor at a bloodbath.
Or the host.
He swayed, nearly falling before he caught himself. His head felt like it might explode. Was it possible? Could he have totally lost it, out here in the dark? Blanked out and gone on a rampage?
If he hadn’t done it, then who had? Lilith? Or Rowan DeVries, making damned sure that Jonah was caught with blood on his hands this time?
One thing reassured him: none of the victims was dressed in torch-singer black. Emma was not among the dead scattered around him.
Already, he could hear sirens in the distance. He needed to buy some time. He needed to figure this out. And if he went to jail, he’d never, ever come out.
So Jonah did the only thing he could do.
He ran.
Some book births are more difficult than others. This particular project had many skilled midwives to help it along the way. First, thanks to my agent, Christopher Schelling, who suggested we say yes to readers asking for more Heir Chronicles. Then my wise editor, Abby Ranger, helped me rein in the story, define my characters, and articulate the stakes and the through-line. And, yes, Abby, I did cut back on the throw-up.
My current editor, Lisa Yoskowitz, adopted my orphaned baby when Abby moved on to new challenges. Lisa propelled the project forward, never hesitating nor flagging in her enthusiasm. I appreciate her hard work on this under trying circumstances.
Thank you to book designer Tyler Nevins and illustrator Larry Rostant, who’ve partnered to produce an incredible cover. Now if the book can only keep the promise the cover makes. Kudos to the publicity team at Hyperion: Lizzy Mason, Holly Nagel, Dina Sherman, Andrew Sansone, and Lloyd Ellman, who are working hard to assure my novel gets a warm welcome.
It is an increasingly rare blessing to be able to publish eight books with the same publisher. Many thanks to Hyperion for their outstanding support over the years.
Thank you to my writing companions and early readers, as always, though there aren’t as many early readers as usual due to just-in-time writing: thanks to Marsha McGregor, whose kindness and wisdom calms the waves; to Pam Daum, who is a Renaissance woman with multiple artistic facets; to readers who are game for the long read—YAckers Jody Feldman, Debby Garfinkle, Mary Beth Miller, Martha Peaslee Levine, and Kate Tuthill.
And, as always, thanks to Eric, Keith, and Rod—I couldn’t do it without you! And a warm, warm welcome to Jess!
And don't miss The Seven Realms Series, also from Cinda Williams Chima! Keep reading for a preview of book one, The Demon King!
CHAPTER ONE
THE HUNT
Han Alister squatted next to the steaming mud spring, praying that the thermal crust would hold his weight. He’d tied a bandana over his mouth and nose, but his eyes still stung and teared from the sulfur fumes that boiled upward from the bubbling ooze. He extended hi
s digging stick toward a patch of plants with bilious green flowers at the edge of the spring. Sliding the tip under the clump, he pried it from the mud and lifted it free, dropping it into the deerskin bag that hung from his shoulder. Then, placing his feet carefully, he stood and retreated to solid ground.
He was nearly there when one foot broke through the fragile surface, sending him calf-deep into the gray, sticky, superheated mud.
“Hanalea’s bloody bones!” he yelped, flinging himself backward and hoping he didn’t land flat on his back in another mudpot. Or worse, in one of the blue water springs that would boil the flesh from his bones in minutes.
Fortunately, he landed on solid earth amid the lodgepole pines, the breath exploding from his body. Han heard Fire Dancer scrambling down the slope behind him, stifling laughter. Dancer gripped Han’s wrists and hauled him to safer ground, leaning back for leverage.
“We’ll change your name, Hunts Alone,” Dancer said, squatting next to Han. Dancer’s tawny face was solemn, the startling blue eyes widely innocent, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “How about ‘Wades in the Mudpot’? ‘Mudpot’ for short?”
Han was not amused. Swearing, he grabbed up a handful of leaves to wipe his boot with. He should have worn his beat-up old moccasins. His knee-high footwear had saved him a bad burn, but the right boot was caked with stinking mud, and he knew he’d hear about it when he got home.
“Those boots were clan made,” his mother would say. “Do you know what they cost?”
It didn’t matter that she hadn’t paid for them in the first place. Dancer’s mother, Willo, had traded them to Han for the rare deathmaster mushroom he’d found the previous spring. Mam hadn’t been happy when he’d brought them home.
“Boots?” Mam had stared at him in disbelief. “Fancy boots? How long will it take you to grow out of those? You couldn’t have asked for money? Grain to fill our bellies? Or firewood or warm blankets for our beds?” She’d advanced on him with the switch she always seemed to have close to hand. Han backed away from her, knowing from experience that a lifetime of hard work had given his mother a powerful arm.
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