The Enchanter Heir thc-4

by Cinda Williams Chima

“A reasonable response to a thousand years of oppression,” Hastings countered.

  “With the guilds at peace,” Moss said, “it seems likely that handing out weapons might be more of a hindrance than a help.”

  “So you think we are at peace?” Burroughs laughed bitterly. “Spoken like somebody living far from the war zone. Most of the sefas in the Hoard were made to be used by wizards, so it’s no inconvenience to the underguilds that they are locked up.” His gaze flicked from face to face, stopping on Hastings’s. “How many, Hastings? How many of us are going to have to die before you take this seriously?”

  “They don’t care about children,” Morrison shouted from the audience. “Why should they care about wizards?”

  Ellen stood again, and glared around the sanctuary. A warning.

  Hastings scowled, drawing dark brows together. “We do take it seriously,” he said. “But why should we believe that more weapons would be helpful when we don’t know who did the killing and how they managed to overpower eight wizards?”

  “So if it’s wizards, you don’t care?” Hackleford snapped.

  “I didn’t say that,” Hastings replied. “What I meant was, if it’s wizard on wizard, or wizard on Anawizard Weir, that game has been played for a thousand years.”

  “Not like this,” DeVries said. The young wizard’s eyes darkened to bronze. “Not to this degree. Not at this pace.”

  “You’re wrong,” Downey said. “You just never noticed until wizards began dying.”

  DeVries turned toward her. “It’s been only a few weeks since Longbranch and Wylie died in London . . . right after I visited them. And yet nothing was done.”

  “They were murdered?” Mercedes said. “I hadn’t heard that.”

  “The medical examiner could not determine a cause of death,” DeVries said. “Nor could the healers we called in. There wasn’t a mark on either of them. This time eight wizards died, and there wasn’t a mark on five of them.” He paused. “Well, some of them appeared to have been scorched by wizard flame, none of them seriously. We think it may have been friendly fire.”

  “Friendly fire?” McCauley repeated. “What about the others?”

  “One was shot to death. The others were hacked to pieces.

  Including my sister Rachel.” DeVries turned his head and looked straight at Jonah. After a flare of momentary panic, Jonah realized that he was actually looking at Jack and Ellen, behind him. At the swords propped against the pews.

  McCauley followed DeVries’s gaze and scowled. “I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to DeVries. “Where were they when they were killed?”

  “We can’t tell you that,” DeVries said flatly. “Let’s just say they were engaged in investigative work of their own.”

  McCauley and Moss exchanged incredulous looks.

  “What do you mean, investigative work?” Moss asked.

  “Wizards have been dying for months now,” DeVries said. “And nothing has been done about it. Do you blame us for looking for the killers on our own?”

  “These eight that died . . . they were all wizards?” Hastings asked. “Nobody else?”

  DeVries hesitated for a heartbeat, then said, “Just wizards.”

  One sorcerer, and one savant, Jonah added silently. Like always, they didn’t count.

  “All right, then,” McCauley said, like somebody who’s decided to just get it over with. “Based on your own investigation, do you have a theory about the identity of the assassins?”

  The three wizards looked at one another. DeVries nodded to Burroughs, who spoke. “We believe that this council is a sham intended to distract us while this—this witch murders us one by one.” He glared at Moss.

  “You think I did it?” Moss blurted, looking stunned.

  “Who else?” Hackleford snapped. “Who else has the power to suck the magic right out of a person? Who else is immune to wizardry? Who else has powers we don’t even understand? Who else is under the control of the most murderous wizard who ever lived?” He looked pointedly at Hastings.

  “Oh, come on,” Ellen said, breaking her own rule about interrupting. “Don’t exaggerate. Think of all the competition he’s had over the past thousand years.”

  “You think I hacked two wizards to death, too?” Moss had gone pale, so her freckles stood out against her creamy skin. “With what? My fingernails?”

  “We think you had help,” DeVries said, nodding toward Jack and Ellen. “We think you brought a team of assassins with you.”

  “I don’t ‘suck the magic’ out of a person,” Moss said. “I just . . . disconnect. And why would I go around murdering people? I just want to be left alone.”

  “Where were you last Friday night?” DeVries demanded. “Me? I was in Chicago,” Moss said, flushing.

  “Prove it.”

  “That’s enough!” McCauley said. “Maddie isn’t on trial here. If you think she’s guilty of something, where’s your evidence? Where’s your proof ? When Moss sucks the juice out of a person, it doesn’t kill them.”

  “I don’t suck juice out of anybody,” Moss shouted. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Maybe we haven’t seen the full range of her capabilities,” Hackleford said.

  “Listen,” Downey said. “Mercedes here is something of an expert on poisons and toxins.” She pointed at the sorcerer.

  “Maybe if she could examine the bodies, she could—”

  “That won’t be possible,” DeVries said.

  After a stunned silence, McCauley said, “If we don’t know where they were or how they died, then how are we supposed to—”

  “After three months of inaction, I don’t expect you to conduct anything more than a sham investigation,” Hackleford said. “Involving Ms. Foster would be like inviting one of the co-conspirators to sit in on the inquest. We’ll be handling this ourselves.”

  “And . . . there were no survivors?” McCauley asked. “No witnesses?”

  “No,” DeVries said. “There never are.”

  He’s hiding something, Jonah thought, sitting up straighter. There’s something he’s not telling us. Could someone have survived? If so, why hadn’t that person identified Jonah himself ?

  “We want access to the magical technology in the Hoard,” Hackleford said, “in the hopes that it might help us protect ourselves while we collect the proof we need. After all, those weapons were the property of the Wizard Guild before they were confiscated.”

  Hastings twisted the ring on his forefinger. “Surely you don’t expect us to hand you an arsenal and send you out to seek vigilante justice for the killers. That’s the kind of thing we’re trying to avoid with the new constitution, the establishment of the council, and so on.”

  “If you want to control everything, then where’s your magical police force?” Burroughs demanded. “Where’s your criminal court? What system have you developed to replace the Rules of Engagement?”

  “We’re working on that,” McCauley said. “It takes time to—”

  “Well, time is running out,” DeVries said. “If you’re not going to protect us, then we will protect ourselves.” He looked at Madison Moss. “If you’re really not the guilty party, you should start magically castrating people until somebody talks. Only this time, start with somebody other than wizards.”

  He took a step back from the table. “My father was murdered years ago. And now my sister is dead. Don’t tell me to be patient. Give me weapons that I can use against these assassins and get out of my way. That’s all I want. In the meantime, I’ll keep what information I have to myself.”

  He turned on his heel and walked out of the sanctuary, followed by Burroughs and Hackleford.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  In a World of Trouble

  The door to the room flew open, and two wizards walked in. A man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, with lean, hard faces.

  Natalie stood and turned to face them, arms folded across her chest, like a wall between Emma and the newcome
rs.

  They froze momentarily, as if startled to see Emma sitting up. “She’s awake!” the man said. “Why didn’t you call us?”

  He crossed the room to Emma’s bedside, followed by the woman. The two wizards stood over her, looking down at her like they were hungry and she was dinner.

  Emma blotted at her face with her forearm, sniffling, and Natalie handed her a tissue.

  The man glared at Natalie. “Why is she crying? What did you say to her?”

  “She’s an emotional wreck,” Natalie said, squeezing Emma’s shoulder. “Can you blame her?”

  “Don’t encourage her,” the woman said. “We don’t have time for hysterics.” She was dressed in a sweater, skirt and fancy leather boots, elaborate earrings, and a heavy gold necklace. Her red-brown hair had that carefully tossed look that stank of money.

  “I gave her something to help her sleep,” Natalie lied.

  “You should let her rest now, and come back tomorrow.”

  “She just woke up, and you gave her something to put her back to sleep? Who do you think you are?”

  Natalie lifted her chin. “I’m a healer. That’s what I do.”

  “If you say so,” the woman said. “Mandrake claims that you’re a gifted healer despite your disability, but I find that difficult to believe.” She paused for a heartbeat. “How fortunate that he’s been able to find useful work for you people.”

  Dismissing Natalie, she turned to Emma. “I’m Ms.

  Hackleford, and this is Mr. Burroughs. We’re going to ask you some questions.”

  “Just so you know,” Natalie said. “Emma’s experiencing some memory loss.”

  “Do you expect us to believe that?” Burroughs asked, scowling. He was whip-thin, with close-cropped dark hair.

  He might have been handsome but for his cruel lips and empty eyes.

  Natalie shrugged. “Temporary amnesia is a common reaction to emotional trauma.”

  Hackleford made a small, unhappy moue. “So you’ve already interrogated her, have you?”

  “Of course not,” Natalie said. “It’s too risky. After all my hard work, I don’t want to see her relapse.”

  “That’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Hackleford said. “It’s already been a week, and the trail is getting colder by the minute. There are eight people dead, my daughter included, and we need answers.”

  It took Emma a moment to wick up the words. “Eight people dead?” she blurted. “What eight people?”

  “Well, nine, counting your father.” Hackleford obviously didn’t.

  “Then he is dead,” Emma whispered. “Tyler’s dead.” Once, years before, she’d been punched in the stomach on the playground, driving all the wind out of her. She felt like that now. She struggled to breathe, to take in air, but it was as if her airway was closing.

  Her father had never been any kind of anchor . . . she hadn’t even known he existed until a few months ago. But still. She felt like she’d been cut loose and cast adrift, with no idea where she would eventually land. She finally understood the truth . . . that there would be no good news coming. Ever.

  A door opened in Emma’s mind, and she saw blood. Blood spattered everywhere. A crowd around Tyler. Somebody slamming into her. Her father’s gun, spinning away from her. Glass raining down from overhead. She began to shake, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

  “You see what I mean?” Natalie said. “This is not the time to—”

  “This is wizard business,” Burroughs said. “If you want to make yourself useful, then identify the toxin. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be good at? Now get out.”

  Natalie stood, fists clenched, and for a moment, Emma thought she might refuse to comply with the wizard’s demand. But she took a deep breath, released it, and left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Hackleford gazed at Emma, lips pursed, as if studying her for vulnerabilities. “So you see, Emma,” she said, in a low, foxy voice. “We’re all on the same side. We want to find out who murdered your father and my daughter and the others. We’re hoping you can help us. You do want to help us, don’t you?”

  “We know who did it,” Burroughs said. “Or at least who gave the orders. All you have to do is say the names. We’ll take it from there.”

  “S-say what?” Emma looked from one to the other. “You already know who murdered my father?”

  Burroughs sat down on the side of the bed. Emma shuddered. She didn’t want him there, not at all. Meanwhile, Hackleford went and bolted the door. Emma’s heart began to thud so loud that she was sure the two wizards could hear it.

  “Do you recognize this person? Was he one of the killers?” Burroughs extended a tablet toward her, displaying an image of a young man with dark curls and green eyes. Totally unfamiliar.

  “No,” Emma said. “I don’t recognize him.”

  The wizard’s lips tightened in annoyance. “Are you sure?”

  “Well . . .” Emma licked her lips. “I can’t be sure—”

  “So he might have been there?” Burroughs said, leaning forward, putting one hand on her pillow, next to her ear.

  “I—I think I remember somebody with a mask.”

  “A mask?” Burroughs and Hackleford looked at each other. “Could it have been him?” Burroughs thrust the screen under her nose again.

  “To be honest, it could’ve been anyone.”

  “How about her?” Burroughs asked, extending the tablet again. This time the screen displayed a photograph of a young woman with long, wavy brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

  Emma pressed her hand against her forehead. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. It hurt to shake her head, but she did it anyway. “No.”

  “Look at this one,” Burroughs persisted. This time, it was a photo of two people, a young man and a young woman, both holding elaborate swords and looking like they knew how to use them.

  “Look, I don’t see the point,” she said. “They may or may not have been there, I just don’t remember.”

  “How about names?” Hackleford asked. “Do you remember any names being mentioned?” She paused and, when Emma said nothing, continued: “Seph McCauley? Madison Moss? Jack Swift? Do any of those names sound familiar?”

  “M-maybe if you came back . . . tomorrow. I’d remember more.”

  “We need to know now,” Hackleford said, “before anyone else is murdered. You don’t want anyone else to be murdered, do you?”

  “All we need is a yes, Emma,” Burroughs said, “and we’ll leave you alone.” He leaned in, his copper-penny eyes fixed on hers, and brushed his fingers lightly along her jawline, leaving a nettlelike sting.

  “Stop that!” She slapped his hand away. “I’m not going to lie and say yes when it’s just not true. I—I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer?” Burroughs laughed. “Who do you think we are . . . the police? Do you think we’re going to read you your Miranda rights, you little—”

  “Careful,” Hackleford warned. “You know what DeVries—”

  “DeVries needs to take off the gloves, or he won’t be running this operation for long,” Burroughs said. Grabbing a fistful of Emma’s hair, he yanked her head back and leaned in so they were nose to nose, his cigarette breath washing over her.

  “That hurts,” Emma whimpered, tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t. It hurts.”

  “This is just the beginning. Let me be clear . . . you are in a world of trouble. The only way out is to give us what we want.”

  Drawing back her arm, Emma slammed the heel of her hand against the bridge of the wizard’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Howling in rage, Burroughs wrapped his fingers around her throat and jammed her back against the headboard, each finger like a tiny torch against her skin. Emma clawed at his forearm, struggling for air. Her head was pounding. No . . . someone was pounding at the door.

  She could hear Hackleford in the background. “Burroughs! Are you out of your mind? Stop
it!”

  But he didn’t stop. Finally, stiffening her fingers, Emma jabbed the wizard in the eyes.

  Burroughs released his hold and pitched himself backward. He landed on the floor and rolled to his feet, murder in his eyes.

  The door slammed open, the bolt pinging as it hit the floor.

  A man stood in the doorway, glowing.

  “DeVries!” Hackleford cried. Both wizards stepped back in unison, as if the move had been choreographed. “We didn’t think you were—”

  “You didn’t think I’d be back so soon?”

  “No . . . I didn’t, but it’s good you’re here,” Hackleford said, quickly covering his initial reaction. “The girl’s awake. We were just about to call you.”

  The newcomer’s eyes flicked from Burroughs, who was dabbing at his streaming eyes, to Hackleford, and finally to Emma, trembling in the bed. Swearing, he crossed the room and stood at the bedside, looking down at her. He looked to be only a few years older than her, with fair skin, streaked brown hair, and tawny eyes, like a jungle cat’s.

  “What’s going on?” DeVries asked, focusing on Emma. “What’s wrong?”

  Emma shifted her gaze to Burroughs, and saw the promise of pain in those copper-penny eyes.

  “Nothing,” she said, resisting the temptation to explore her blistered neck with her fingers.

  “Something happened,” DeVries persisted.

  “They told me my father was murdered,” Emma said. Which was true, as far as it went. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilted her head down to conceal her neck. “I just . . . I just want to be left alone. Could you please leave me alone?”

  “I’m afraid we can’t. Not quite yet.” When he spoke again, it was to the wizards in the room. “Would someone else care to tell me what happened here?”

  “It’s like she said,” Hackleford said. “When she woke, she asked about her father, and we told her he was dead.”

  Burroughs returned to Emma’s bedside like a vulture drawn back to a fresh carcass. “I think you’ll agree, DeVries, that time is of the essence if we’re to win broader support from the Wizard Council before any more wizards are murdered. As you know, I have considerable experience in interrogation. I have no doubt that, given a little time, I can obtain the answers we want.”