The Wizard Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Or maybe that was just a dream.

  Christmas was coming, but Seph wasn’t looking forward to it. Trevor had invited Seph to spend Christmas in Atlanta, but Leicester vetoed the idea. Seph’s condition was too delicate, he said. Seph had to admit that anyone who saw him would have to agree. He looked terrible. He continued to lose weight despite eating all he could.

  He had begun to think of ways to kill himself: clever, foolproof ways that wouldn’t land him in the infirmary. He imagined he was locked in a room with two doors. Death lay behind one of them, Gregory Leicester and his offer behind another. There was no other way out, as far as he could see.

  * * *

  Trevor Hill was worried about Seph. He knew from experience that one night of “therapy” was life changing.

  From what he’d seen and heard, Seph had suffered through forty or fifty of them. Yet there seemed to be something iron-hard in Seph, some stubborn instinct for survival that kept him going.

  Still, Trevor could tell that Seph was failing. He looked frail, insubstantial, like someone whose spirit is devouring his flesh. By now, he might actually be mentally ill, his brain damaged by days and nights of torture. Trevor felt guilty because he hadn’t been able to offer any help. Guilty because he was glad it was Seph and not him. Confused because he couldn’t figure out why Seph was being targeted. He wasn’t like the other alumni, who treated Trevor and the others like dirt when they noticed them at all.

  On the day the term ended, Trevor invited Seph to his room to keep him company while he packed. Trevor had ordered Christmas presents through the mail to take home with him. He’d wrapped up some books for Seph, and insisted that he open them.

  Seph sprawled on his back on Trevor’s bed in a kind of persistent twilight. He clenched and unclenched his hands, twitching and shivering by turns, staring out at the world with his changeable eyes as if he could see things no one else could see. Sometimes he touched the cross he always wore around his neck and muttered to himself in French.

  “Look,” Trevor said finally. “Give me the name of that law firm in London. I’ll call them from my folks’ house while I’m home.”

  For a moment, Trevor thought he hadn’t heard. Then Seph stirred. “Won’t do any good. I’ve written to them a hundred times. They’ve never responded.”

  “Well, maybe it would help if they heard it from someone else,” Trevor insisted.

  “All right. I’ll get you the number.”

  Trevor studied him. “Hey,” he said softly. “You going to be all right?”

  Seph didn’t answer for a moment, and that hesitation worried Trevor even more. “I’ll be okay,” he said finally. “I don’t know what else they can do to me.”

  The campus was eerily quiet after the departure of the other students. The regular meal service was discontinued over break, but the dining room in the Alumni House continued to operate. Seph took his meals there with the faculty and other alumni who remained on campus.

  It made no sense. Didn’t they have families? Didn’t they have anywhere better to go for the holidays?

  Seph shuffled through Trevor’s books with the idea of losing himself in fiction, but couldn’t seem to concentrate. Entire days vanished from memory. He continued to walk when he felt up to it.

  Sloane’s sent a large gift basket and a generous gift certificate, a card printed with his name. Back in September, Seph had been convinced he’d be expelled from the Havens by Christmas. Now all he could think about was escape.

  Christmas Eve dinner was served by candlelight in the elegant, two-story alumni-staff dining hall. Bruce Hays and Warren Barber, the two enforcers, sat on either side of Seph. The other thirteen alumni were ranged around the table. He grappled with the names, was pleased when he remembered most of them. He hadn’t dreamed for several days, and his head was clearer than usual.

  Martin Hall was functioning as sommelier, circling the table, opening wine and pouring. Liquor flowed at the open bar, and a different wine was paired with each course. Leicester wasn’t there.

  Tension crouched in the room like a snappish dog, and Seph couldn’t help but think that he was the source of it. The others watched him when they thought he wasn’t looking and whispered together at the far ends of the table.

  “Where’s Dr. Leicester?” he asked Bruce, as the fish course was taken away.

  Hays wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He left two days ago. Went back home to England, I guess. Be gone a week.”

  “So, drink up, Joseph.” Barber put the wine glass into his hand. “Cat’s away.”

  Seph had, in fact, been pacing himself, making a show of sipping at his wine, and ignoring the whisky Barber set by his right hand. The others drank with desperate intensity, like mourners at a wake.

  After dessert, Ashton Rice sat down at the piano and began banging out carols. Their voices rose in a drunken, off-key chorus. Hays and Barber didn’t sing. They set a whisky bottle between them and took turns pouring.

  “Doesn’t anyone go home for Christmas?” Seph asked, oppressed by the forced gaiety, yet hoping he might learn something useful.

  “Home is no longer . . . relevant,” Hays mumbled, looking surprised to have come up with the word. He blinked at Seph owlishly. “You’ll find out. You’ll see. We’re like . . . blood brothers. Bloody . . . Siamese twins.” He groped for the bottle.

  Barber slammed his glass down on the table, rattling the crockery. “Only, Joseph’s too good to join, remember?”

  The singing dwindled away, and Seph was once again the reluctant center of attention. He cleared his throat. “Maybe if you tell me what’s going on . . .”

  “He’d rather go crazy.” Barber clutched at Seph’s shirtfront and dragged him to his feet. “The rest of us have to answer to Leicester. But Seph’s got his principles.”

  Seph found himself nose to nose with Barber’s stub-bled face. “Hey, let go!” Seph tried to wrench himself free, and heard fabric tearing. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Hays pawed ineffectually at Barber’s shoulder. “C’mon, Warren. Joseph’ll be all right. Give him time.”

  “In the meantime, we’re paying for it.” Barber shoved Seph up against the wall. “Maybe we haven’t properly explained . . . the benefits of membership. We’re your only friends now, do you hear me? Other than us, you got nobody.”

  Seph felt the burn of power building at his core. “Let go. I’m warning you.”

  “Warren . . .” Hays sounded worried. Eggars rose to his feet like he wanted to intervene, but was unsure how to proceed. The others clustered unhappily around them.

  “Leicester’s been . . . on our backs . . . since September,” Barber gasped, punctuating his speech by slamming Seph against the wall. “What’s it going to take?” “Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Seph shoved out with both hands. Months of fear and frustration seemed to detonate in his fingers and a percussion like a gunshot sent Barber flying backward onto the table. He slid across it on his back and off the other side, sending wineglasses and dessert plates crashing. Seph charged after him, vaulted over the table, and leaped on top of Barber as he lay on the floor. They wrestled briefly, Seph smashing his fist into Barber’s face, Barber too drunk to evade him. And then they dragged Seph back, several of them together, pinning his arms, their hands hot and electrical against his skin.

  Barber staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Seph, murder on his face. But help came from an unexpected quarter. Martin Hall stepped between them, holding the butcher knife that had been used on the crown roast. The blade wavered in his hand, but it was very large. “Get back, Warren. You’re not yourself.”

  “Get out of the way!” Barber said, coming on.

  “And if Dr. Leicester comes back and finds you’ve beaten him to death, what then?”

  Barber’s forward progress slowed, then stopped.

  “Stop it, Warren! Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed already?” Martin waved the knife wildly, and Barber stepped back. Martin turn
ed toward Seph, and Seph was surprised to see that his face was streaked with tears. He gestured with the knife. “Let him go. You know as well as I do that he’s not the enemy.”

  After a moment, the grip on Seph’s arms relaxed. The hot hands dropped away.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Seph pivoted so he could look into all their faces, hidden and revealed in the candlelight. “Why do you stay here? What kind of hold does he have on you?”

  Barber clenched his fists. “Who the hell do you think you are, lecturing us?”

  Seph was beyond caring. “He’s gone! He’s in England. This is our chance. Let’s get out of here. Or, if you like it here so much, then let me go.”

  Martin spoke with great dignity and sorrow. “We can’t do what you ask, Joseph. Now, go on back to your room and lock the door until my colleagues have sobered up.”

  They all stood watching as Seph backed out of the dining hall, leaving with more questions than answers.

  Despite the episode in Alumni House, Seph slept peacefully on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, nearly twenty-four hours in all. He assumed that it was because Leicester was away. As a result, his head was clearer than it had been for a long time, and being in the Alumni House gave him an idea.

  He knew his letters to Sloane’s were being intercepted. After all, Seph was a valuable client with a large trust fund who would gain control of it one day.

  Which made him think of e-mail again.

  Surely the alumni were online. That must be why they had their own library. If there was no access in the library, he’d break into someone’s room. Maybe Trevor had called Sloane’s, but Seph decided he couldn’t afford to wait until classes resumed to find out. By then, Leicester would have returned and he would no longer have easy access to the Alumni House.

  He waited until the day after Christmas, after his third good night’s sleep in a month. He ate a late breakfast with Martin and Peter in the dining room at the Alumni House. He made it a point to sit with them, and tried to question them, but got nowhere at all.

  Barber slouched in just as they were finishing, wearing what looked like a major hangover. Seph jumped when Barber patted him on the shoulder, but Barber acted like he didn’t remember the confrontation at dinner. And perhaps he didn’t. He’d been pretty wasted.

  When the dining room began to empty, Seph went to the washroom and took his time. Finally, he slipped through the hallway and into the back stairwell beyond. The door into the stairwell bore a sign, FACULTY AND ALUMNI ONLY. He took a deep breath. What could they do, kick him out of school? Send him another nightmare?

  The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a small circular landing, with hallways spoking off to either side, the stairway to the third floor directly ahead. The corridors were lined with gleaming wood molding, shaded wall sconces, rows of closed doors. No one seemed to be around.

  He’d try the library first. His presence there would be easier to explain.

  The hallway to the left was lined with classrooms, with the library at the far end. Fortunately, the heavy wooden door was unlocked. He glanced over his shoulder, stepped inside, and pulled it shut behind him.

  The library smelled like Genevieve’s attic: of dust and mildew and disintegrating paper. He stifled a sneeze. The books on the first set of shelves appeared to be quite old, with dark leather covers and stamped gold lettering. Curious, Seph pulled a volume from the shelf, tilting it so the title caught the light. It seemed to be in Latin. Transformare. The next one was entitled, Extracten Poysoun 1291. Not Latin, exactly. He’d studied Latin with the Jesuits. But close. Middle English? He moved on into the room, hoping to find what he was looking for at the rear.

  He worked his way toward the back wall. More old books and some new ones. He pulled out one of the newer ones. Spellbinding: The Art of Influencing Others. Here was the reading he should have been doing. Rows and rows of large volumes were shelved together, books that looked somewhat alike. Their titles were similar, too. Weir Smythe John Artur. Weir Thompson Harold Franklin. Weir Huntingdon Bru Amfeld.

  Weirbooks. They must be. Seph lifted one down and leafed through it. The first part was taken up with a family tree, all handwritten, going back centuries, illuminated in bright colors. Another section of the book was entitled “Charms and Incantations.” Something about the books struck a chord with Seph, stirring up a memory he could-n’t quite capture. Reluctantly, he returned the book to its place on the shelf.

  He finally found what he was looking for under the windows at the back of the room. There were six computers lined up on tables and networked to a cable plugged into the wall. They shared a common printer.

  Seph couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his arms prickled with gooseflesh. The building creaked and complained under the assault of the wind. He peered over his shoulder, seeing only books and dust and narrow aisleways. Shrugging, he hit the power button on one of the PCs. It sounded jarringly loud in the stillness as it booted up.

  The computer hadn’t even made it through its startup routine when he heard running feet. Swearing softly, Seph hit the power button again and the screen went dark. The door slammed open, and the lights overhead flickered, then kindled into brilliance.

  “I saw someone moving around in here,” someone said breathlessly.

  “You stay by the door,” the other replied. “I’ll check it out.”

  Seph slipped between the rows of shelves and cat-footed up the aisle along the wall toward the exit. Peter Conroy waited by the door, nervously scanning the aisles, forehead gleaming in the overhead light.

  “You sure you’re not seeing things again?” The other voice was familiar and startlingly close at hand. “You’d better not have dragged me up here for nothing.” Seph could hear the sound of feet moving toward him. He was trapped.

  Someone clapped a hand over his mouth and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him back against the wall. “Be quiet!” a voice hissed in his ear. It said something else Seph couldn’t make out.

  At that moment, Warren Barber came around the corner and walked toward them. He still looked a bit green from last night’s drinking. Seph didn’t struggle. He stood quietly, wondering what the penalty for breaking into the alumni library would be.

  To his amazement, Barber walked right past them toward the front of the library. “Nobody’s back here now.”

  “I swear I saw someone on the monitor.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe he flew out the window. As if someone would break into a freaking library.”

  “Keep still!” the voice whispered again. Seph turned his head slightly so he could see who had hold of him. To his shock, he saw nothing but the shelves of books behind him. There was no one there. The hand over his mouth tightened, smothering his exclamation of surprise.

  He felt sick. He was hallucinating again. He must be. His palms went clammy with sweat, and he wiped them on his jeans.

  Barber and Conroy met up at the front of the room, then walked up and down the stacks again, passing within inches of Seph and his invisible captor. Barber still reeked of beer.

  “You’re delirious, Conroy,” Barber said, shaking his head. “You must’ve blundered onto the Sci-Fi Channel.” Conroy was still protesting as they walked out and closed the door behind them.

  “Just be cool a minute,” Seph’s captor instructed him. “Make sure they’re really gone.” Seph stood as still as he could, although he was beginning to tremble, his heart pounding wildly. After a minute, the hand was removed from his mouth.

  “Come on,” the disembodied voice said. Someone shoved Seph up the aisle to the front of the room, then to the right, toward a door marked AV Storage. “In there,” the voice said, and Seph pushed the door open. It was a large closet, lined with projection equipment, AV carts, and a couple of old computers. Seph stepped inside and the door was pulled shut behind him.

  “No cameras in here,” the voice explained, following with somethin
g that sounded like Latin. Suddenly, as if assembled out of the air, he could see the body that went with the voice.

  He looked to be seventeen or eighteen, slightly built, dressed in a black T-shirt and jeans. His hair was dark, but had been bleached out at the tips and spiked, an amateur job. He had two earrings in one ear and one in the other. He was grinning as if delighted.

  “So you’re the newbie,” he said. “I heard you were here. Not that anyone offered to introduce us, of course.” He swept an arm toward an audiovisual cart. “Welcome to the catacombs,” he said gravely. “Have a seat.”

  Seph sat down on the cart with a bump and put his head in his hands. He’d thought he was clearheaded after two nights of sleep. Apparently he’d thought wrong.

  “Are you all right?”

  Seph looked up to find the stranger staring at him. “I . . . I’m not sure,” Seph replied cautiously. “I . . . ah . . . I haven’t been well.”

  The boy leaned against the wall. “Allow me to offer you a belated welcome to the Havens—where all your dreams turn into nightmares.”

  Seph laughed in spite of himself. It struck him that it had been forever since he’d laughed, forever since he’d actually heard anyone make a joke. “I’m Seph McCauley.” He hesitated. “How’d you do that? Are you one of the alumni? I don’t remember you from Christmas dinner.”

  The stranger rolled his eyes. “No, I’m not planning to join that particular club. I’m just the poltergeist in this haunted house. I’m Jason Haley.”

  Jason. According to Trevor, he was the one who’d instigated the ill-fated rebellion. Who’d gotten Sam killed.

  “You’re gifted, but you’re not one of them?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Well, you heard wrong. By the way, if you’re going to be sneaking around in here, you ought to know that they have cameras just about everywhere. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t do or say anything in your room that you don’t want to share.”

  “Then you’re a student?” Seph persisted.

  “So to speak,” Jason said dryly. “I’m not supposed to be up here, either, but I’m doing a little independent research.”