The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4)

The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4) Page 46

“You know you can tell me anything.”

Not this, he thought. He’d killed a girl and now she’d come back to life?

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m all right. It’s not unusual for me to feel crappy. In fact, I feel crappy most of the time. I just try and ignore it. That’s what I do.” Stop it, Kinlock! You’re babbling. “About this girl. Did you figure out what was wrong with her? Is she—how is she doing now?”

“She’s doing much better,” Natalie said. “And no, I don’t know what was wrong with her. Some kind of poison or toxin or spell. Nothing I’ve seen before. She did hit her head, but that doesn’t seem serious.”

“Who are the wizards? Did you get any names?”

“DeVries. Rowan DeVries, a Burroughs and a Hackleford. DeVries’s sister was killed, apparently.”

DeVries. He’d killed Rachel DeVries that terrible night in Cleveland Heights. And Rowan DeVries had come to the Interguild Council, vowing revenge. And said nothing about a witness. Clearly, they meant to keep that information to themselves.

Jonah struggled to keep his voice polite, concerned, under control. “So they invited you in to treat this girl and then they let you go? That’s so . . . unwizard-like.”

“DeVries wiped my mind, not realizing that I’m immune to conjured magic. I sure wasn’t going to tell him. So I played along.”

“The girl. Emma. What did she say about the killings?” Jonah asked, his mouth as dry as dust. “What does she remember? Would she recognize . . . anybody who was there?”

“She remembers very little of what happened. Maybe she’ll remember more as she recovers. To be honest, there’s a chance that nobody was murdered at all. Emma asked to see the bodies, but DeVries claimed they’d been destroyed.”

Oh, somebody was murdered, all right, Jonah thought. Nine somebodies, and it could have been ten. “If she can’t help them, do you think they’ll let her go?”

“That’s what I was hoping for,” Natalie said. “I thought they might wipe her memory and send her off. But Emma seems convinced that they intend to wring everything out of her and then kill her.” Natalie put her hand on Jonah’s arm. “In the meantime, they’re torturing her, Jonah. She didn’t say anything, but there were blisters all around her neckline.”

“Tortured! They’re torturing her?” Jonah surged to his feet. “Exactly.” Natalie tilted her head, noting his reaction.

“Does that surprise you?” She scraped back the hair that the wind had pulled loose from her ponytail.

Maybe Emma would remember him, and his secret would be out. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except seizing this chance to undo some of what he’d done.

“Where is she? Is she still at the house in Cleveland Heights?”

Natalie shook her head. “Cleveland Heights? Who said anything about the Heights? She’s in Bratenahl. Up by the lake. It’s just a house—a mansion—on the lakefront, but the property is walled in, and they have an alarm system and fulltime security.”

“No problem,” Jonah said, already building his wall of secrets. “I’ll get in. In the meantime, please don’t say anything about this to Gabriel or anyone else. And if I bring her back here, absolutely nobody can know that history about her.”

“But Gabriel will want to debrief me on what happened when I—”

“Just tell him your patient was recovering and so you came back to school.” When Natalie still looked unconvinced, Jonah resorted to begging. “Please, Nat. If you care about me. If you care about—about Emma, you won’t say a word to anyone.”

“All right, Jonah, I trust you.”

Don’t trust me, Jonah thought. I’m asking you for my sake, not hers.

“Just be careful,” Natalie said, trying to smile. “We have a gig to practice for, you know.”

Maybe I’ll be killed in the attempt, Jonah thought, showing his teeth in a smile. Then I’ll be off the hook.

Chapter Thirty-three

North Coast Blues

If help ain’t coming, you got to help yourself. That’s what Sonny Lee always said. And so the night Natalie left, Emma began planning her escape.

She considered her options. Emma was a city girl . . . not the best coordinated or athletic person. The outer walls were high, alarmed, and guarded, so the notion of her scaling them was ridiculous. All of the trees had been cut back so that they didn’t overhang the wall, so shimmying down one of them wasn’t a path out.

There was an attendant at the driveway gate, so even if she managed to get hold of some car keys, it was unlikely she could bluff her way out. She could try to hide in the back of somebody’s car, but she suspected that that ploy worked only in the movies.

Even getting out of the house would be a challenge. At night, they locked her in her room, and during the day, there were people everywhere.

Down was easier than up. So, like it or not, over the cliff and down to the lake seemed the most likely way out. If she managed not to fall into the water, she might actually make it.

She knew she’d need a rope of some kind. So while Rowan was driving Natalie back downtown, Emma sneaked down the basement stairs.

It was cool and damp-smelling, dark and apparently little used. She found an unlocked wine cellar and several locked doors (the torture chambers?) and, happily, a coil of sturdy nylon rope in a metal cabinet. She wasn’t sure how long it was, but the cliff wasn’t all that high, maybe thirty feet? Huddling in a corner, she tied knots into the rope at intervals. And that pretty much summed up the climbing plan. She’d tie one end to a tree and slide over the edge, using her feet to keep from smashing against the cliff.

In a box marked Donations she found a heavy sweatshirt, a knit cap, and a pair of jeans that more or less fit her, though they seemed in danger of sliding off her hipless frame. These must have belonged to Rachel DeVries, she thought, which was creepy, to tell the truth.

She carried the rope and the clothes back to her room and hid everything between the mattress and the box spring. The next day, she rooted around in the hall closet and found a pair of leather gloves in a jacket pocket. She’d need those if she didn’t want to shred the skin on her hands.

She was just closing the closet door when someone behind her said, “Going somewhere?”

Emma jumped and spun around, heart thudding. It was Burroughs. And beyond him, she saw Hackleford and DeVries. Rowan had been off-site all afternoon, strategizing with his wizard colleagues. They must have just gotten back, because they were still wearing their jackets. Burroughs was still right there, seemingly waiting for an answer.

“Oh! I . . . uh . . . it’s getting chilly, and I thought I might sit out in the garden. I was afraid my hands might get cold.” She held up the gloves.

“It’s supposed to storm tonight,” Burroughs said, moving in so he stood uncomfortably close. “Might be best to stay inside.” He reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears. There was an implied ownership in the gesture that made her shudder. But Emma also noticed a wired intensity in him that hadn’t been there before, a certain eagerness.

Emma weighed the gloves in her hand, debating whether she could get away with keeping them. “Well, maybe I’ll just hang on to them in case I—”

Suddenly Rowan was there. He gripped her wrist with one hand and ripped the gloves away with the other, stuffing them into his pocket. “I don’t think you realize just how precarious your situation is. Come with me.”

He half dragged her away from the others, down the hallway toward her room. Wrenching open the door, he thrust her inside and slammed the door behind them. Then stood, glaring down at her.

“What is the matter with you?” Emma demanded, rubbing her bruised wrist. “What do you want from me?”

“Two more wizards have been murdered.”

“Murdered? Where?”

“Chicago,” Rowan said. “Sometime yesterday.”

“How?”

“Similar to the others. Cut to pieces, their heartstones destroyed. Nightshade scattered over the bodies.”

“It’s not my fault.”

“No? Well, it may as well be, because you’re going to pay the price.”

“What do you mean?” Emma asked, her heart plummeting.

“Think the Mafia, Emma, only a thousand times worse. For what it’s worth, I believe that you’re doing the best you can. But this situation has fueled speculation about whether I have the right temperament for this job. Whether I’m ruthless enough to lead the syndicate. Some of my colleagues are less interested in the truth than in the political advantage to be gained if you implicate members of the Interguild Council. You are the wedge that drives support to my enemies. And that can’t happen—not right now. If I lose control of the Black Rose, there’s no way my successors will leave me alive.”

“And, so . . . I am the sacrifice.”

Rowan’s lips tightened. “You are the sacrifice. Unless you can give me what I need.”

“Unless I lie, and say I remember when I don’t.”

“That’s one option,” Rowan said. “Tonight, members of the Wizard Council are meeting here at the house. I’ll question you in front of the council. You’ll need to confirm that McCauley and Moss were there for sure, and maybe some of the others. That will bring those wizards who are wavering over to our side. You may be asked to sign a statement. Just make sure you’re convincing, or no doubt Burroughs will get a chance to try his hand. Neither one of us wants that.” Rowan moved to turn away, but Emma grabbed his arm, pulling him back around.

“And what happens to me after that?” she demanded.

“After you have what you need?”

“I think you already know the answer to that,” he said coldly. “I was born into this game. I didn’t make the rules. If you cooperate, you can avoid considerable pain. The ending is the same, either way.”