The Heir Chronicles Omnibus

by Cinda Williams Chima

  She leaned over him. Touched his cheek gently and kissed him on the forehead. “Good-bye, Witch Boy,” she whispered. She stood, retrieved her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and walked away, not in any hurry this time, as if she knew he couldn’t follow.

  He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, unable to move. Like a drunk on the sidewalk. Or a creature that had washed up in a storm. Finally, he propped up on his elbows. His head swam, and he thought for a moment he might be sick, but it passed. He rolled to his hands and knees. Several of the drawings had been trapped under his body. He folded them carefully and stuffed them into his back pockets, then stood, listing a little, shaking the sand out of his hair. He felt empty. He looked up and down the beach. The sun had passed midday, and the beach was crowded. No sign of Madison Moss.

  He hauled himself up the wooden stairway from the beach, laboring like an old man. He found Jack, Ellen, Fitch, and Fitch’s girlfriend, Miriam, sitting at the picnic tables under the trees, slurping down frozen-custard cones.

  Miriam was from Cleveland, and her family owned a cottage at Trinity Lakeside. She wore black crushed velvet, kohl eyeliner, and fishnets to the beach. Seph thought it was cool, in an impractical sort of way.

  “Hey, Seph. Want to play tennis later?” Ellen asked when she spotted him. Then she frowned, shading her eyes. “Are you all right? You look like you’ve got sunstroke or something.”

  Seph dropped onto the bench next to her, exhausted by the climb from the beach. “I’m okay.”

  “Here. Have some.” She handed him her cone. He licked off half and handed it back.

  “Who was that girl you were dancing with at the pavilion last night?” Fitch asked.

  “Christy Laraway. She’s taking classes at the Institute.” He closed his eyes, trying to remember her face.

  “Dude. I thought you were going out with Julie Steadman.”

  “I’ve hung out with Julie a few times,” Seph said, without opening his eyes. “I’m not going out with her.”

  Jack finished his cone and licked his fingers. “The local girls are just thrilled to meet someone they didn’t hate in second grade.”

  “C’mon, Jack, it’s more than that,” Ellen said. She switched to a ditsy high falsetto. “He’s so hot. He’s practically European. I mean, he’s lived all over the world. And he speaks French.” She nudged Seph with her shoulder. “And have you seen his eyes? They change colors, and he has these long, dark lashes. And the way he kisses.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Shut up, Ellen,” Seph said. Their conversation was necessarily edited because of the presence of Miriam, who knew nothing of the magical subtext.

  “So. What’s the secret of great kissing, Seph?” Jack asked. “Is it technique, duration, intensity, or power?”

  Seph sighed theatrically. “Oh, all right, Jack. I’ll kiss you. But just this once.” He rolled sideways to dodge Jack’s half-hearted swipe at him. Somehow, Jack always came off sounding critical. Like he thought Seph was taking advantage of Persuasion.

  “Guys are grumbling about the out-of-town competition,” Jack went on. He stripped off his T-shirt and mopped his face with it.

  Seph shrugged. “Don’t you think everyone brings something to the game?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We all use our assets. For instance, some people are really buff.” Seph glanced sideways at Jack. “Or they’re great conversationalists. They play football or they’re in a blues band. They write poetry or they paint or they’re good listeners. They have great hair, great legs, a boatload of money and a boat. Or they have that je ne sais quois . . .”

  “Or that je definitely sais quois, as the case may be,” Jack replied.

  “Shut up, Jack,” Seph said, grinding the heel of his hand into his forehead. His head was pounding.

  “Some people would say love isn’t a game,” Ellen mused. “I never bought that all’s-fair-in-love-and-war bit.”

  Seph shrugged in surrender. “Anyway, I can’t do tennis tonight. I’m working for Harold this afternoon, and tonight I’m meeting someone at the Legends.”

  “Another date?” Miriam asked. Seph stood to go. “Not exactly. She doesn’t know I’m coming.”

  The manager at the Legends Inn was happy to tell Seph what time Madison Moss got off work. He was even willing to let her off early, but Seph said no, he would just wait. He bought coffee at the carryout counter and found a bench in the park across the street that afforded a good view of the entrance. She came out of the front door right on time, looking up and down the street as if she hadn’t decided what to do next. She jumped and let out a squeak of fright when he stepped out of the shadows and touched her shoulder.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said, when he turned toward the light. “You about scared me to death.” She’d rebraided her hair, but was still wearing the beach-stained blouse and skirt.

  “I need to talk to you.” “Oh. Well. Sorry. I . . . um . . . have plans. I have to go.” She made no effort to be convincing.

  “It won’t take long. Promise.” He took her elbow, careful not to let the slightest dribble of magic escape. He wasn’t sure he had any to spare, anyway. “Do you want to talk here or somewhere else?”

  “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

  “Okay.” He towed her back into the coffeehouse and out onto the terrace overlooking the lake. He chose a remote table overlooking the gardens. The waitress drifted over, grinning and raising her eyebrows at Madison. “May I help you?”

  Madison just stared straight ahead, scowling and tapping her fingers on the edge of the table. Her nails were painted purple.

  “Two coffees and biscotti,” Seph said.

  “I wanted tea,” Madison said when the waitress had departed.

  “You were drinking coffee on the beach.”

  “Right now, I feel like tea.”

  “Next time, speak up.”

  “What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

  Seph pulled her drawings from his jeans pocket and flattened them out on the tabletop.

  Madison pursed her lips and looked out at the lake. “Do you know I got chastised for the state of my uniform, Witch Boy?”

  “My name is Seph.”

  “What kind of name is that?”

  “Short for Joseph.”

  “Is that a family name?”

  “I have no idea.” The scent of jasmine wafted up from the gardens and fireflies sparkled in the lawn. “I don’t really know my family.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “Sometimes that’s not a bad thing. Who do you stay with?”

  “Rebecca Downey. She’s my guardian’s sister.”

  “Oh, I know her. She comes into the inn a lot.” She gave him an appraising look. “She’s very nice.” The subtext being, Unlike you.

  “What about Madison? Where’s that from?”

  “I’m named after a county in Kentucky. Where my parents first—ah—met.”

  The waitress set down coffee cups and plates of biscotti. “Hey, those are good!” she said, pointing from the sketches to Seph.

  “Will you put those away?” Madison gestured at the crumpled pages.

  Seph said nothing.

  “Look,” she said, wrapping her fingers around her cup. “I’m sorry I sketched you without asking permission.”

  Seph waited. “That’s it?”

  “What do you want?”

  “Well, to start, what did you do to me on the beach today?”

  “You mean after you attacked me?”

  He nodded grudgingly, conceding the point. “I’m sorry about that. It’s just that I thought you might . . . have a hidden agenda.” He couldn’t very well say, There are wizards after me and I thought you might be conspiring with them.

  “Well, you came up to me, you know. I was minding S my own business.”

  “I know. But what did you do to me?” he persisted.

  “I kissed you.” The corners of her mouth twitched.

  “Before t
hat. You left me on my back.”

  Now she grinned flat out. “Sounds improper.”

  “This isn’t a joke. I want to know what . . . who you are and what you’re up to.” Seph waved a hand at the drawings. “What’s with the aura? Why do you call me Witch Boy?”

  “Because that’s what you are.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She gave him a look that said he wasn’t fooling her one bit. “There are people in this world who can get whatever they want, who can talk the money right out of your hand and make you glad you gave it up. Some have the knowin’ or the second sight. Where I come from, we call them witches or conjure men.”

  I call them wizards. “Why would you think I’m . . . a witch? I never even spoke to you until today.”

  “You didn’t have to. I’ve always been able to spot it. You shine like a house lit up for a party.” She reached a hand toward him, stopping an inch from his face, as one might hesitate to touch a hot stove.

  “What happened on the beach today?” Seph persisted.

  “I don’t really know.” She shrugged. “I just don’t seem to be susceptible to spelling.”

  Seph leaned forward. “It was more than that. It’s like you wrung me out or something.”

  Madison took a bite of her biscotti. “This is a totally weird conversation, Seth, or Seph, or whatever your name is.”

  “So can you use it? The power, I mean. After you drain it out of a person?” He reached out and gripped her hand.

  She snatched her hand back. “You’re the witch, not me.” She looked at her watch. “Listen, I’m working breakfast tomorrow. I need to get some sleep.”

  Seph ignored the hint. “Why do you sound like you’re from the South?”

  “Because I am. Coalton County’s down by the river. Southern Ohio.”

  “Why are you working here, then?”

  “My cousin Rachel owns the Legends. She needed a waitress, I needed the money, and I thought I could add some beach landscapes to my portfolio.”

  Seph laid some bills on top of the check. “But you’re not sketching landscapes. You’re sketching me.”

  She turned a deep red and looked away. “I . . . I thought you’d make a good subject. You have an interesting face. And challenging. I mean, you actually make your own light.” She stood, signaling that the conversation was over.

  Seph followed Madison back through the coffeehouse. In the entryway, she turned and stuck out her hand to him. “Well, good to meet you, Seph McCauley. And thanks for the coffee.”

  He took her hand, but she didn’t react to his touch the way other girls did. “Where are you staying?” he asked.

  “Me?” She nodded toward the stairs. “Right here, at the inn.”

  “If you work breakfast tomorrow, does that mean you get off early?”

  She pulled her hand back. “No. I’m working a double shift.”

  “When’s your day off? Maybe we could hang out.”

  “I’ve seen you at the pavilion. Seems to me you’re pretty booked.”

  Small towns. “I’m trying to cut back.”

  She lifted her chin. “What am I, a challenge to you, or something?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the one who kissed me.” He knew he’d said the wrong thing when she pivoted away from him and headed for the stairs. “Hey! Madison! I’m sorry, okay? Can’t we just hang out? You don’t have to sign anything. We’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Well . . .” She paused, one foot on the first step, her hand on the railing. She turned back toward him, considering. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on a picnic.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hastings

  The next day was miserably hot. Seph left the beach early and stopped at the market on his way home. Madison had agreed to a picnic, and Seph had agreed to provide the food. He meant to keep it simple: focaccia, cheese, antipasti, fruit. That and a burnt-sugar pecan tart that would steal anybody’s soul.

  At first he thought no one was home, but as he pulled a bottle of iced tea from the refrigerator, he heard voices on the porch. He wandered out, expecting to see Linda and Becka, perhaps. Becka was there, but she was sitting across from a stranger.

  He was tall and lean, yet muscular, and had strong features—that other-side-of-ugly look that women seemed to favor. He had green eyes and dark, unruly hair. He was dressed for the weather in a cotton shirt and khakis, and there was a bottle of beer on the table in front of him.

  There was something compelling about him, a tightly coiled power that drew the eye.

  “Oh hi, Seph. Is Jack with you?” Becka asked, looking over his shoulder.

  Seph shook his head. “I came back from the beach by myself.” He stared at the man, who was looking back at him curiously.

  Becka noticed. “Seph, this is Leander Hastings, a friend of the family. He’s visiting from out of town. Leander, this is Seph McCauley. He’s been staying with us this summer.”

  Seph stuck out his hand to Hastings, and there was that usual electrical exchange between wizards. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you,” Seph said. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  Hastings smiled. “Don’t believe everything you hear.” His eyes were fixed on Seph, taking his measure. There was something about him that reminded Seph of Gregory Leicester. He had the same ability to intimidate, to overwhelm. But just now he looked a little puzzled. “Are you a friend of Jack’s?”

  “No,” Becka explained quickly. “He was Linda’s guest, originally, though we’ve managed to steal him from her. He comes from a complicated family situation.”

  “I see.”

  Seph needed to find a way to talk to the wizard, to ask questions in private. This was likely to be someone who could lead him to the Dragon. “Are you going to be staying in Trinity long, Mr. Hastings?” Seph asked, hoping for a yes.

  Hastings shook his head. “Only a few days, I’m afraid. And a few days in Trinity is never enough.” He paused. “Where do you come from, Seph?” The wizard had a trace of accent, as if he were British, or had learned English overseas.

  “I was born in Canada,” Seph replied. “But I moved around a lot.”

  Becka looked at her watch. “Oh my, I’m sorry, Leander. I need to be down at school in half an hour. Jack should be home soon, though, and I hope you’ll stay for supper. Will you and Seph be okay for a little while?” She seemed flustered, her face rosier than could be accounted for by the heat.

  “I’m fine on my own, Becka, you know that. It’s my fault for dropping in. I’ll stay for supper, if you’ll have me, but I’m sure Seph has other things to do besides entertaining me. I can do some reading.” He rested his hand on a stack of books on the table.

  “Oh, it’s no problem, really,” Seph said hastily.

  Becka gathered up her laptop and papers, kissed Seph on top of his head, and then she was gone, banging the screen door behind her.

  Hastings looked after her for a moment and then turned his attention to Seph. He looked like someone who had forgotten something important and was trying to remember.

  “So you came here with Linda?”

  Seph set his tea on the table and settled into the chair across from Hastings. He decided to answer the next three questions all at once, before they were asked. “She’s my guardian. I’m told my parents are dead. And I don’t know where I’m from. Not really.”

  Hastings looked surprised. “Linda never—”

  “I know, she never mentioned me,” Seph cut in. “I only met her a few weeks ago. But she’s been . . . great. So’s everyone else here in Trinity.”

  “Who were your parents?” Hastings asked, leaning back in his chair. An unusual ring on his right hand caught the light as he did so.

  Seph hesitated, unsure whether to pass along the lie. “I never really knew much about them. I was raised by a foster mother. A sorcerer,” he added.

  “Perhaps your foster mother would tell you about them, if you asked.” His meanin
g was clear. No sorcerer could resist a wizard asking questions.

  “She’s gone now, too,” he said. There is something deadly about this man, Seph thought. In the world of wizards, it was sometimes difficult to tell the good guys from the bad.

  Seph decided it was time to ask a few questions before they were interrupted. He leaned forward. “Jack told me you taught him how to fight.”

  Hastings nodded. “I did.”

  “Can you teach me, too?”

  “Jack is a warrior. That’s his gift. You’re a wizard. You’re not allowed to fight under the rules.”

  “But not everybody plays by the rules, do they?” Seph said quietly.

  Hastings picked up his beer and drained it. “Why do you want to learn to fight?” he asked, rolling the bottle between his hands.

  “I have enemies.”

  “Who?”

  “Gregory Leicester,” Seph said, watching Hastings for any reaction to the name. There was none, not even a flicker, though the wizard paused a moment before he spoke again.

  “What do you have against Gregory Leicester?” he asked, as if they were talking about the weather.

  “He murdered two of my friends.”

  Hastings didn’t seem surprised by this news. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Were they wizards?”

  “One was a wizard. One was Anaweir.”

  “Can you prove that he killed them?”

  Seph thought about it. “Probably not.”

  Hastings sighed and ran a hand through his hair, leaving it more tumbled than before. “Does Dr. Leicester know you are gunning for him?”

  He’s making fun of me, Seph thought, although there was no trace of humor in Hastings’s voice or manner. “I told him I’d kill him,” Seph admitted.

  Hastings shook his head and leaned forward. “Let me give you some advice, Seph. If you really want to kill a man, don’t tell him what you’re about. And don’t tell everyone else, either. It sounds too much like you are trying to convince yourself.” He smiled, and it was not unkind. “For all you know, Gregory Leicester and I are old friends,” he said.

  “But you’re not,” Seph said. “Are you?”