The Enchanter Heir (21 page)

“What’s
your
name?” Emma said.

He hesitated, a fraction of a second. Then said, “Zorro.” His eyes had fixed on the guitar again.

“Are you here to steal a guitar or what?” she asked bluntly.

“Steal a . . . ? No.” He shook his head. “But . . . may I give it a try?” he asked, almost shyly.

Mutely, she extended it toward him. He took it, flipped it around, and rested one foot on the cross brace of Emma’s stool. Fitting his fingers onto the frets, he brushed his other hand across the strings. Sound rippled out, like water over stone, sweeping her along. She spun helplessly in its current, unable to gain footing. He played a few riffs—bits of rockand-roll standards. Then a haunting instrumental Emma hadn’t heard before.

When he’d finished, he closed his eyes, shivering, savor ing each note as it died away. “It’s like sex, isn’t it?” Emma said, her mouth, as always, running ahead of good sense. She clapped both hands over her mouth, too late.

For a moment, the joy faded from his eyes. Then he laughed. “Yes,” he said. “It’s just like sex.”

Desperate to change the subject, Emma said, “What was that last piece? I’ve never heard it.”

“My brother wrote it,” the boy said, handing back the guitar.

“Well, he has a gift.”

“He does.” The boy nodded, his expression softening into unguarded love.

This boy would not hurt me. This boy could never hurt me.

“I never saw anybody play guitar with gloves on before.” Emma set the guitar aside, on the workbench.

“I like to challenge myself.”

“You going to tell me why you’re here, or not?” Maybe it was a risky thing to ask, but she couldn’t stand the suspense anymore.

Zorro winced. “Right,” he said. Digging in his pocket, he pulled out a bundle of cording and a pair of handcuffs. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “The thing is, I’m going to have to tie you up.”

Well, that broke the spell for sure.

“Oh, no,” Emma said, sliding off the stool, both feet hitting with a thud. “You don’t.” She ran for the stairs, but the boy moved impossibly fast, easily intercepting her.

He caught her about the waist, pulling her back against him, speaking low and fast, his breath warm on her neck. “I won’t hurt you, Emma, I promise I won’t hurt you. Just let me do this.” His voice was like Southern Comfort—smooth and sweet and just as potent. As he talked, he turned her so she faced the wall, bringing her hands behind her back with the ease of long practice.

He’s done this before, Emma thought, her head swimming. He’s one of those serial killers. The kind that sweet-talk you into opening your door.

He kept right on talking. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but this is the best way to make sure you don’t get hurt. I just need a little uninterrupted time with your father.”

She wanted to float on the current of that voice, like a chip of wood in a river at flood.

I need to find a way to stop it.

Emma slammed her head back, shooting up from the balls of her feet, feeling a satisfying crunch as her skull hit his nose. His voice stopped, his iron grip relaxed, and she ripped free, hurling herself toward the stairs.

She stumbled, though, and he caught her before she got there and dragged her back, into the dirty room, one gloved hand over her mouth, pressing her tightly against his body to prevent any further head-butting. He pushed her to the floor next to the band saw, trying to pin her with one hand, but she rolled onto her back, gouged at his eyes, ripped at his mask, kneed him in the groin—used every street-fighting trick she knew to hurt him all while he seemed to be doing his best to get her tied up without hurting her.

She screamed bloody murder, too. Likely Tyler couldn’t hear her with his music going, but it did dilute Zorro’s voice a little.

In the end, she lay on her side on the basement floor, her cheek in the sawdust, breathing in that familiar scent, hands bound together behind her, feet bound, too, and handcuffed to the leg of the band-saw table, enraged and still swearing.

Was this what Tyler had been so worried about? Had she somehow brought trouble straight to her father’s door after all this time?

“What do you want with Tyler?” Emma demanded while Zorro was still fussing with the cords. “What are you going to do to him? You’d better not hurt him.”

Zorro’s hands stopped moving. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t plan to.”

“Then promise me you won’t,” Emma said.

“Can you breathe okay? Are you reasonably comfortable?” Zorro asked. He wasn’t nearly as charming now that he had her tied up.

“Promise me,” Emma repeated, tears stinging her eyes.

“Hopefully this won’t take too long,” Zorro said. He stood, and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Chapter Twenty-two
Melee

Jonah mounted the stairs, already dogged by misgivings. He’d wanted this rogue operation to be clean and uncomplicated, and already it was getting messy. There was no longer a clear win to be had, here. If Greenwood knew something, Emma would pay a price. If he didn’t, well, Jonah was back where he started.

But now that he was on this path, he had to follow through. He’d risked a lot already, and he needed to come away with something or this visit would only send Greenwood on the run again.

A wall of sound hit him when he opened the basement door—music, amped up high. It struck Jonah that Greenwood might be jamming with his band. That would be just his luck.

Jonah followed the sound, through the kitchen lined with ancient appliances, the sink piled high with unwashed dishes. Through the dining room and down the center hall to the back of the house.

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, muttering 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.”