The Enchanter Heir thc-4

by Cinda Williams Chima

Jonah found his quarry in the living room, jamming with himself, filling in the bass track alongside some vintage rhythm and blues. The Rolling Stones.

  Jonah watched for a moment. Greenwood was a decent bass player, all right, so that wasn’t just some kind of cover story.

  Jonah ghosted forward. He was halfway across the room when Greenwood looked up and saw him. The bass guitar cut off abruptly, though the other tracks played on. In one smooth movement, Greenwood set down the guitar and came up with a pistol, pointing it at Jonah.

  The sorcerer studied Jonah through narrowed eyes. Then he chuckled softly. “You’re sure not who I expected,” he said.

  “Who did you expect?”

  “Not you,” Greenwood said. He paused. “Do you always bring a big old sword to a shooting match?”

  “I didn’t know it was a shooting match,” Jonah said. “You always pack a pistol when you practice?”

  “This neighborhood ain’t what it used to be,” Greenwood said. “What are you, some kind of ninja warrior or something?”

  “Something,” Jonah said. He could tell by Greenwood’s puzzled expression that something wasn’t adding up. “You’re wondering about my Weirstone,” he said. “Sort of broken, isn’t it? Muddy, some people call it. Does it remind you of someone?” He paused, took a chance. “Emma, maybe?”

  Everything changed. Greenwood went ashy gray, radiating a mix of love and fear of loss. His eyes flicked to the floor, as if he could look through to the workshop below, then back up at Jonah. The barrel of the gun drifted a little.

  He really loves her, Jonah thought.

  The gun steadied, Greenwood’s face hardened, and he took a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m one of those so-called Thorn Hill survivors,” Jonah said, looking into Greenwood’s eyes. “I had some questions for you.”

  “I got nothing to say about Thorn Hill,” Greenwood said. “Please,” Jonah said, increasing the persuasive pressure. “Put the gun down. I don’t want to hurt you, and I won’t if I don’t have to. But I will have answers.”

  Greenwood hit the volume button, cranking up the Stones to teeth-rattling levels. “Don’t try and charm me!” he shouted. “I’m not falling for that shit.” Jonah raised both hands in surrender, and Greenwood cut the volume back to a less earsplitting volume. Still loud enough to make persuasion difficult.

  “Who sent you?” Greenwood demanded. “Who else knows you’re here?”

  “I’m not here to blow your cover or expose you,” Jonah said. “I’m just trying to save some people I care about.”

  “So am I,” Greenwood said grimly. “Now I want you to turn around, put your hands on your head, and walk ahead of me, into the conservatory.” He gestured with the gun.

  Unlike Wylie, he didn’t even tell me to drop my weapon, Jonah thought. Reason being, he’s not going to question me, he’s going to kill me.

  Jonah walked ahead, pausing in the doorway of the conservatory. Glassed-in room, stone floor, with inset drains to catch any spilled water. He wants to kill me in a place where cleanup is easy. Who thinks of that?

  Someone who’s done this before.

  Jonah lunged sideways, then turned and charged at Greenwood. The sorcerer fired, and he must’ve been a quicker, more accurate shot than Wylie, because he got off three shots before Jonah slammed the gun away. It went spinning back into the living room. A searing pain in Jonah’s side said he’d been hit—at least once.

  Greenwood could have run, but he didn’t. Instead, he attacked, pitching them both through the doorway, landing hard on the stone floor of the sunroom. The sorcerer was strong and wiry, and fought with a ferocity born of desperation. Given that and the distraction of the wound in his side, it took Jonah a few minutes to pin him to the floor.

  “Now,” Jonah gasped. “Just listen to me a minute.”

  Greenwood’s eyes locked on Jonah’s face. When cool air kissed Jonah’s skin, he realized that his mask had been ripped away in the struggle.

  “I need to know what you know about Thorn Hill,” Jonah said. “Specifically, about the part where everybody died.”

  All around them, the glass walls of the conservatory exploded inward, shards pinging on the stone floor around them. Followed by the stink of conjury as wizards crowded into the room.

  They both scrambled to their feet. Greenwood swore, and took off running, back toward the living room. To fetch his gun? To find Emma? To escape?

  Jonah reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, feeling blood trickling down as the wound in his side ripped wider.

  Wizard flame jetted in every direction, a chaotic laser light show against a Rolling Stones sound track. Greenwood screamed as the flame caught him in the doorway, and he fell, writhing, to the floor.

  Jonah lunged toward Greenwood, putting himself in the line of fire. Fortunately, his layers of clothing offered some protection, but where the torrents of flame found bare skin, it was blisteringly painful. Fragarach clattered to the floor as he raised his arms to protect his face.

  At least it distracted him from the wound in his side. He scarcely noticed that now.

  “Don’t flame them, you idiots!” somebody shouted. “Immobilize them!”

  Now the flames died away and a chorus of voices shouted conjury . . . immobilization charms, Jonah guessed.

  Jonah knew he should cut his losses and leave, but then Greenwood would end up dead, and that door would be closed. Not to mention that he’d left Emma tied up in the basement.

  He sorted through his goals: Keep Greenwood alive until he could question him. Keep Emma alive. Find out why these wizards were here, what they knew, how they knew it. Stay alive himself long enough to get all that done. And escape.

  Yes. Pretending to be immobilized was the way to go. Was he supposed to collapse or freeze? Since it was easier to move from a standing position, Jonah froze in his tracks just inside the conservatory and stared straight ahead.

  It was a surreal scene, lit by the moonlight that cascaded through the glass, the light shivering with the movement of the trees overhead, the room full of jittery young wizards. Well, six were young, two a little older. The younger ones looked familiar, but Jonah couldn’t fathom where he’d seen them before.

  Finally, blessedly, somebody killed the pounding sound track.

  Why were they here? Had they known Jonah would be here? Were they (a) trying to keep Greenwood from telling what he knew? Or (b) here as reinforcements, to protect him?

  Based on Greenwood’s reaction to their arrival, Jonah guessed (a).

  The two older wizards dragged an apparently immobilized Greenwood back into the conservatory between them.

  A young woman began issuing orders—a tall girl, with shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Cameron, Brooke—secure the rest of the house. If you find anybody else, bring them back here immobilized but unharmed. Look for compounding equipment, paperwork, computers, any records that might help us.”

  Cameron? Brooke? Jonah took a second look. Yes, it was them, the young wizards who’d been at Club Catastrophe. They moped out of the room, looking over their shoulders as if they were worried that they would miss the big reveal.

  Graham was there, too. He’d scooped up Fragarach, struggling to lift the heavy sword to waist level.

  And the one in charge was Rachel, the wizard who’d ordered them to back off on their harassment of Emma at the club.

  This is like a replay of Worst Days of My Life, Jonah thought. And now, to top it off, Cameron and Brooke would find Emma in the basement, helpless to escape, because of Jonah.

  “All right, then,” Rachel said, joining the group around Greenwood. “Somerset, Hardesty, search him.”

  The wizards patted Greenwood down in a businesslike manner, turning up nothing but a capo and some flat picks. “Disable the immobilization charm, but keep hold of his arms,” Rachel said. “He’s more dangerous than you think.”

  Somerset pointed at Greenwood, mutterin
g a charm. The sorcerer just stood there, impassive, a wizard on each arm, his eyes as flat and opaque as old pennies, perspiration glistening on his forehead. His clothing was charred, and the right side of his face had blistered up.

  Rachel faced off with him. “Tyler Greenwood,” she said, smiling grimly. “Finally. I was beginning to wonder if you really existed.”

  “My name is Boykin,” Greenwood said, “I guess you have to keep looking.”

  Rachel tilted her head toward Jonah. “Who is this . . . your bodyguard?” she asked.

  Greenwood didn’t even look at Jonah. “I got no idea who that is,” he said. “He just showed up. We hadn’t made it to introductions.”

  “We heard gunshots. What was that about?”

  “I was shooting at him,” Greenwood said, nodding at Jonah. “I think I winged him, too.”

  “Where’s the gun?”

  Greenwood shrugged. “I don’t know where it got to.”

  “Hey! I recognize him,” Graham said, pointing Fragarach at Jonah. “He broke my Viking cue—the one with the Predator shaft.”

  “What are you talking about?” Rachel snapped.

  “Remember? I got into it with him at that bar in the Warehouse District,” Graham said, with a hint of swagger.

  Rachel scowled. “This is exactly why we aren’t supposed to draw attention to ourselves. You never know who you’re talking to.”

  Graham didn’t get the hint. He turned, swinging the massive sword, thrusting and parrying invisible opponents, setting Jonah’s teeth on edge. “I think I should get to keep the sword. You know, in payment for the cue.”

  “Rowan will decide what to do with the sword,” Rachel said. “And when he hears about all this, you’d better hope he’s in a good mood. Getting thrown out of the syndicate is the least bad thing that can happen to you.”

  Graham’s expression clouded. “D-does Rowan really need to know about this? I mean—”

  “Would you just shut up?” Rachel turned back to Greenwood while Jonah, fuzzy-headed from pain and blood loss, struggled to recall who Rowan was. Then it came to him. Rowan DeVries, the wizard he’d seen with Wylie and Longbranch in London. Head of the Black Rose.

  “Look,” Greenwood said, “if you want drugs, I don’t have any. I don’t have much money, and what I do have is in the bank. There’s nothing here worth stealing. But if you drive me to the ATM, I’ll get you some money.”

  He’s trying to get them out of the house, Jonah thought.

  Because of Emma.

  “We’re not after money,” Rachel said. “You know what we want—information about Thorn Hill.”

  “Thorn Hill?” Greenwood shook his head, drawing his eyebrows together. “What is that?”

  “We’ve already been to Brazil,” Rachel said, ignoring the question. “There’s nothing there. After it was abandoned, the property burned to the ground, except for the buildings around the mines. There must have been records, notes, lab books, something.”

  “Brazil? I’ve never been there. The only records you’ll find around here are vinyl albums and old sheet music and bills I need to pay.”

  “Everyone’s dead, except for you,” Rachel said. “Why is that? How come you’re the only one that survived? Or are there others we don’t know about?”

  Greenwood said nothing.

  The young wizard reached out and brushed her fingers against Greenwood’s neck. The sorcerer went rigid, arching backward. His pain surged through Jonah like an electrical shock, but Greenwood didn’t make a sound.

  Empathic connection—the gift, and the curse of enchanters everywhere. The gift of perceiving the pain and emotions of others. The curse of sharing them, whether you wanted to or not.

  “What was your connection to the Black Rose, back then?” Rachel demanded. “How did you know my father?

  He didn’t keep very good records because, you see, he didn’t plan on dying.”

  “Tell me what you want to hear, and I’ll go ahead and make something up,” Greenwood said. “What makes you think I’m this dude you’re looking for?”

  Rachel pulled out her phone, brought up a photo, and shoved it into Greenwood’s face. “Give it up. You’ve been on our list for years. We knew that, sooner or later, you’d slip up. And you did, in Memphis. Who are you working for now, Tyler? Who is killing wizards? Tell us what we want to know, and we’ll finish you off quickly.”

  Rachel flamed him again, her fingers leaving behind a trail of blisters and charred skin. Sweat rolled down Greenwood’s face. He’s not screaming, Jonah thought. Why isn’t he screaming? I would be screaming.

  And then he answered his own question. Because he doesn’t want Emma to hear. Because he’s hoping she’ll stay in the basement, out of harm’s way. He doesn’t know she’s tied up.

  Rachel snorted in disgust. “Hang on to him,” she said to Hardesty and Somerset.

  She turned her attention to Jonah, unzipping his jacket and sweatshirt and patting him down thoroughly. It was all Jonah could do not to flinch as her hot wizard fingers prodded his blistered skin. As she ran her hands down his sides, she jerked away and peered at her bloody fingers. “You’re bleeding,” she said, rubbing them together.

  Jonah said nothing, because he was, of course, “immobilized.”

  Yanking his T-shirt free from his jeans, she lifted it up and poked at the bullet wound while sweat trickled down between Jonah’s shoulder blades. “Well,” she said, “they’re telling the truth about that, anyway. This one’s been shot— looks like a clean pass-through.”

  She ran both hands over Jonah’s chest, found the Nightshade amulet, and pulled it out from under his sweatshirt. Standing on her toes, she lifted the chain over his head, turned, and held it up so it dangled, glittering in the moonlight. She sucked in a breath, swung around, then, and took another hard look at Jonah.

  Clenching the pendant in her fist, she pointed at him, murmuring a charm. Disabling the immobilization charm, Jonah guessed, so she could question him.

  “Greenwood claims he doesn’t know you,” she said, “that you just showed up here. Why?”

  “I’m from Medieval Pizza,” Jonah said. “Somebody here ordered a deluxe with extra cheese.” He glared around the room, as if to find the culprit.

  Several of the young wizards snickered.

  Rachel was unimpressed. “Did Greenwood shoot you?

  How come?”

  “We had a disagreement,” Jonah said. “Mr. Boykin claims he didn’t order any pizza.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jonah.”

  “Jonah. Why were you at the club that night? Were you tailing us?”

  “I went to the club to hear the band,” Jonah said. “Didn’t you?”

  “And now you just happen to be here,” Rachel continued.

  “Are you and Greenwood working together? Did you know we would be here tonight?”

  “Yeah, we’re working together,” Jonah said. “That’s why he shot me. Frankly, if I had known you were going to be here tonight, I would have come last night.” He nodded toward the wizard posse. “What is this? Take-a-wizardlingto-work day?”

  Rachel’s lips tightened. The wizardlings muttered among themselves.

  Stop it, Kinlock, Jonah said to himself. You’re getting cranky. You can’t afford cranky, not right now. “I’m intrigued by your pendant,” Rachel said. “Where did you get it?”

  “I bought it in an antique shop,” Jonah said. “I think I have a receipt for it somewhere.”

  She snorted. “Did you know that we’ve been finding nightshade flowers scattered over the bodies of murdered wizards?” Extending her hand, she opened her fingers to display the amulet, then looked up into Jonah’s eyes. “I’m no botanist, but this looks very much like deadly nightshade.”

  “Nightshade?” Jonah held her gaze. “Oh, no,” he said. “Those are trumpet flowers. Some things look deadly, but they’re totally harmless. And other things look harmless, and they’re totally deadl
y.” They stood, their eyes locked, for a long moment. Rachel extended her free hand, as if to touch his face.

  “Hey! Rachel?” Graham tapped her on the shoulder. “You all right?”

  Rachel blinked, took a step back, shook her head. “What did you . . . ?” She took another step back, apprehension stealing over her face. “Graham. Let me see the sword.”

  Graham handed it over reluctantly.

  Rachel turned Fragarach so it reflected the light. “This looks like a museum piece, and yet . . . very functional. Did you buy this in an antique store, too?” Not waiting for an answer, she handed it back to Graham. “I’m calling Rowan,” she said, all business again. “We’re going to take these two someplace more secure for questioning, someplace where we won’t be interrupted.”

  She gestured at Jonah, spoke a quick immobilization charm, and turned away, punching numbers into her phone. After a hurried conversation, she rejoined the group. “He’s coming, and bringing some help,” she said.

  We need to be gone before the posse arrives, Jonah thought—me and Emma and Tyler. But how to manage that? And where the hell were Cameron and Brooke?

  As if called by Jonah’s words, Cameron and Brooke walked in from the living room, hands raised. Followed by Emma holding Tyler’s pistol like she knew how to use it.

  “Emma!” Greenwood said, his face gone ashy with dismay. “Go on! Get out of here! Run!”

  “No,” Emma said. “You’re all I’ve got, and I am not going to lose you, too.” She raised her voice. “You let my father go,” she said to Somerset and Hardesty. “Then . . . all of you . . . get on out of here before I start shooting people.”

  The wizards looked at one another, seeming more amused than frightened.

  What’s wrong with them? Jonah thought. Aren’t they the least bit concerned? Hasn’t it occurred to them that this might be dangerous work? Then again, maybe not. Being at the top of the magical food chain, they weren’t used to worrying about other predators.

  “Don’t you remember her?” Cameron said to Graham, pointing at Emma. “She’s the labrat that beat you at pool.”

  “So a labrat with a gun overpowered two wizards?” Graham smirked. “Not your best day, Cam.”