The Enchanter Heir (32 page)

Jonah’s heart thudded painfully in his chest, and he could scarcely catch his breath. Sweat pebbled his skin, chilling him as the wind off the river hit him.

“I . . . Gabriel’s changed my dose again,” Jonah lied. “It always takes a while to get used to it.”

“Huh.” Natalie didn’t believe him, of course. “Here. Put your head between your knees.” She put her hand between his shoulder blades and pushed.

“No . . . just—just . . . back to this girl. What’s her name?”

“Emma Greenwood. Why?”

Jonah gripped the top of the wall on either side so hard the stone crumbled under his fingers. A torrent of emotions raced through his mind. Emma Greenwood was alive? How was that possible? And if it
was
possible, how had she fallen into the hands of wizards?

Reinforcements. Reinforcements had been arriving as Jonah was leaving the house. Yet Jonah had stolen her guitar and left Emma there for them to find.

“Jonah, what the hell is the matter?” Natalie put her hands on his shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes.

“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.”

Panic welled up inside her, constricting her throat so that she could scarcely get her breath. She might have a sad-ass life at the moment, but it was all she had.

Emma found her voice. “Just remember this: If I live, there’s the chance my memory will return, and you’ll have answers. If you kill me, you’ll never know who really murdered your sister. You might pass the murderer in the street and you’d never know it. Someone in your own organization may be gloating about it right now. Are you good with that? Are you willing to trade a political win based on a lie for a lifetime of wondering?”

They stood, eyes locked, for one, two, three heartbeats. Then Rowan looked away. “I suppose I’ll just have to take that chance,” he said, a muscle in his jaw working. “Now listen. Here’s how the evening will go. I expect the council members to arrive about six o’clock. You’ll hear a lot of coming and going about that time. We’ll be up front until about seven, then adjourn to the study that lets out onto the terrace. I’ll come to get you between seven and eight.” Releasing her, he dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out the gloves he’d taken from her. “Keep these, if you want.” Then he was gone.

Emma stood, frowning, weighing the gloves in her hand, going back over her conversation with Rowan.
I expect the council members to arrive about six o’clock. . . . We’ll be up front until about seven . . . I’ll come to get you between seven and eight.
Why had he been so specific about times? Why had he returned the gloves to her after taking them away?

Unless he meant for her to use them.

First, she had to get over the garden wall. Emma hauled a chair out of her room and set it next to the wall. Then piled cushions on top of that. When she stood on top of the trembling stack, she could just reach the top of the wall with her fingertips. It was good that she was tall, or she’d never have made it. At least her arms were strong from hand-sanding and carrying wood around. As it was, she skinned both knees through her borrowed jeans as she scrambled for a toehold. Not a good start.

Once on the ground on the other side, she crouched close to the wall and scanned the grounds, looking for the two guards patrolling the compound. She watched until she figured out the pattern. One guard generally stayed in the guardhouse, probably watching the video feed while the other walked the grounds. Then they would switch off. One good thing about their presence was that there were unlikely to be motion detectors, at least nowhere near the perimeter walls.

She waited five minutes after the guard passed by, then fell in behind him, following the same path, every sense alert in case he stopped somewhere along the way.

Burroughs was right. There
was
a storm coming in. The tops of the trees thrashed overhead, sending flurries of leaves spiraling to the ground. The day had been sultry and summerlike, but now the northeast wind stung her skin, bringing the scent of rain, the touch of cold places in the north. She was glad of her sweatshirt, and jeans, and sturdy shoes. Looking on the bright side, the sound of the incoming storm covered any noise she made. And nobody would expect her to be outside in such weather.

Emma looked back at the house. Her phone was back at Tyler’s, and she didn’t have a watch, so she’d have to guess the time from the rough schedule Rowan had given her. Lights were ablaze in front of the house, cars coming and going. Which meant it was just after six, so she had an hour before anyone would notice her absence and sound an alarm.