The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2)

The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2) Page 50

An image of Hanlon lying on his face in the Vermilion River surfaced. “What else is here on the island?”

Peter blinked in surprise. “The winery, of course. And some abandoned cottages and fishing camps. He owns the whole thing.”

So much for finding help. “How did you get here? Is there a boat?”

“Dr. Leicester has a boat,” Peter said. “There's a dock at the winery. And some of us flew in.”

“How do I get to the winery from here?”

“You could keep following the shore path. But they're waiting for you. There's also a path across the island. They're probably watching that, too.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Turn yourself in?”

Seph thought of Madison hiding near the beach where they'd landed. He should go back and find her, get her to someplace safe. Wherever that was.

There was the problem of Peter. Leicester might suspect Seph was on the island, but he didn't know for sure. Seph preferred to keep it that way.

Peter stirred, reading something in Seph's expression. “Don't leave me like this. If Dr. Leicester finds me, he'll know I screwed up.”

“What am I supposed to do with you?” Seph asked.

“Well.” Peter cast about for an idea. “You could kill me.”

In the end, Seph left Peter alive, tied up and hidden in the boarded-up cottage. He knew Leicester and the alumni might search the place, but he couldn't think what else to do. Eventually, he reasoned, Peter would work himself free.

Seph loped back down the trail toward Madison's hiding place. They'd find a less-traveled sanctuary closer to the inn, and then maybe they would find a way to steal the boat or call off-island or something.

He found the place where the two trees leaned together, the cavelike hollow between. But the hideout was empty. Madison was gone, leaving only a trampled-down place where her body had lain. He just had time to register that fact when the immobilization charm smashed into him.

He went down in the leaves, and a dozen hands grabbed him. They propped him up, and he saw a kaleidoscope of familiar faces: Bruce Hays, Kenyon King, Martin Hall, Wayne Eggars. Then Warren Barber loomed up in his field of vision. He gripped Seph's shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Bracing Seph against a tree, he punched him, once, twice, three times. Face, stomach, face again.

Finally Barber released him. Seph hit the ground hard and lay there, his leg bent at an uncomfortable angle, the world spinning. Someone kicked him.

He heard sounds of a struggle, Barber swearing, saying something about Hanlon, and King saying, “Warren! Hey, Warren! Are you crazy? You know Dr. Leicester wants him alive.”

Why did Leicester want him alive? And where was Madison?

He had little time to speculate. They flipped him face down and tied his hands securely behind his back. Many hands hauled him to his feet. Then they were moving down the path in the direction of the inn. They carried him, hands under his arms, holding on to the waist of his jeans. He dangled like a poorly put together puppet in their grip.

Lights bled through the dripping trees. A hundred yards farther, and he could see a great, hulking mass of stone. It was a huge house, a castle that resembled a large outcropping of the rock itself. Elaborate walkways and gardens surrounded it, illuminated by tiny lights that glittered like stars through the wet foliage.

They brought him in a side entrance, which led into a long corridor paved in stone and lined with elaborate metal wall sconces and slitted windows. The interior was layered in velvets and hand-loomed tapestries depicting hunting scenes. They turned some corners and pushed open a door, ending in a large study lined with bookshelves, a stone fireplace at one end. Oriental rugs covered the floors. A desk and credenza anchored one side of the room, loaded with computer and communications equipment.

“Dr. Leicester?” Hays cleared his throat. “We found him.”

Leicester materialized from the shadows at the perimeter of the room like a predator with perfect camouflage.

He surveyed Seph dispassionately. Seph hung between Hays and Eggars, soaked and slimed with blood, sand, and mud, an anomaly in the elegant room.

“Release the charm and step away.”

Hays disabled the charm and propped Seph up on his feet.

Leicester opened a drawer in the desk and brought out a digital camera. He took several photographs of Seph from different angles, then set the camera down next to the computer. Retrieving a knife from the drawer, he extended it to Eggars, along with a small plastic bag.

“Get me some of his hair. Then cut him free and remove his shirt.”

Eggars carefully lifted a lock of Seph's hair, sliced it away, and dropped it into the plastic bag. Then he cut Seph's hands free.

Seph rotated his shoulders and rubbed his chafed wrists.

“I'm sorry, Joseph,” Eggars whispered, not moving his lips.

He and Hays stripped off Seph's filthy, blood-smeared T-shirt. Leicester held out a larger plastic bag, and they stuffed it in.

“Get him something else to put on,” Leicester said, and Martin Hall left the room.

Seph stood shivering while Leicester opened a small cabinet at one side of the fireplace, chose from the bottles clustered on a sideboard, and poured several inches of amber liquor into a glass.

“Would you like something, Joseph?” he asked, without turning around.

Seph said nothing.

Leicester laughed. “Will you relax? Believe me, I plan on keeping you reasonably intact. For at least a few more days.”

Martin returned with a worn navy sweatshirt and handed it to Seph. He pulled it on.

“Wait outside,” Leicester said. The alumni obediently filed out.

“So,” said the headmaster, in a way that suggested that matters were just as they should be, “welcome to Second Sister.” He paused, anticipating a reaction, and looking disappointed when it didn't come. “Yes. The site of the Interguild Conference. We're quite anxious to show it off.”

“Why did you bring me here? I have nothing to do with this.”

“You'll be staying here a few days, at least until your father comes.”

Father. A percussion began inside Seph's chest, reverberating into his throat.

Leicester misread his expression. “Really. How long did you expect to keep it a secret?”

“My father is dead.” The old lie came back to him. Software engineer. Died in a fire. …

“He sent you to the Havens to spy on me, yes? And then sent Linda Downey to extricate you when you were about to be exposed.”

“What?” It was just like when he was back in school and he was being accused of things. Except in those days he was always guilty.

“Though I'm surprised the Dragon would put his own son in harm's way. He must have considerable confidence in your abilities.” Leicester swirled the liquid in his glass. “I often wondered why you were so resistant to persuasion. You and Jason Haley were the only recruits who refused my offer. I should have known you were getting help.”

“You think the Dragon is my father.”

Leicester smiled, returned to the sideboard, refilled his glass.

“Why? What makes you think so?” Seth said.

“We launched an operation against the Dragon's hideout in London. He escaped, unfortunately, but we found a file on you. Joseph McCauley. Correspondence to and from a law firm, admissions papers from a school in Scotland. Dunham's Field, I believe it was.”

Dunham's Field. He'd lasted six months at Dunham's Field.

“When we looked into your background, we discovered certain … discrepancies.” Leicester sipped at his drink. “You see, we've developed considerable scientific capabilities that will make it easier to track the lesser guilds, to ferret them out of their burrows. We'll come to power in a different world. You left a large quantity of blood behind in my office. We've made a DNA match.”

The tempo of Seph's pulse quickened. “A match with who?”

“Now I suppose we'll see whether your father feels any sort of obligation toward you.”

“A match with who?”

“Since you and the Dragon have been working together, perhaps you can tell us where to find the others involved in your organization. Those who won't be attending the conference.”

“Right. Well, you know, I don't think the Dragon really exists. I think you all use him as an excuse. Someone to blame things on.”

“I had hoped that by now you understood the price of resistance. That you would want to cooperate.” Leicester didn't look disappointed, though. His expression was that of a man sitting down to a feast.

Leicester set his empty glass on the table and came toward him. Seph took one step back, another, then held his ground, his body tensing with remembered pain. He searched his memory of the lessons with Snowbeard. Countercharms. Focus.

Leicester gripped his shoulders. His lips were moving, speaking the charm, but Seph wasn't listening. He was shaping the counter. Flames coalesced on Leicester's fingertips, but when he launched them, Seph gathered them up and sent them roaring back.

Leicester screamed and released him as though he'd been scalded. He managed to throw up a shield—a hardened wall of air—in time to turn Seph's following volley of flame. Seph assembled his shield, hardened it, pressed against Leicester's barrier, forced the headmaster back; back to the wall, flat against the wall; pressed harder. They stood face-to-face, the clear shields between them. Leicester's eyes stretched open in surprise, the white visible around the ball-bearing centers. Sweat rolled down the headmaster's face, his jaw clenched with effort. His hands came up, palms pressing against the shield, trying to force Seph back. Flame ran in rivulets on both sides, like rainwater down a window, eagerly seeking a way through.

Jason, Seph thought. Jason, Trevor, Jason's father, and me. How many tortured, how many lives destroyed? The alumni, once students like him, made into monsters. He pushed harder, trying to squeeze the life out of Leicester, to press him like a grape.