The Enchanter Heir (3 page)

“Well? What did you find out?” The younger man was an American, his voice as penetrating as a sliver of ice.

“Not as much as I’d hoped for,” Longbranch said, scowling.

“So you’ve given
up
?” The scarred man snorted.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Wylie,” Longbranch said. “She’s dead.”

After a strained pause, the American spoke again. “If there was any chance at all she knew anything—which, for the record, I doubt—then
why the hell
did you kill her?”

“I didn’t mean to, clearly,” Longbranch said, her voice low and tight with anger. “Sometimes they just die.”

Everyone needs a hobby. Jonah’s was tracking wizards. Something that his mentor, Gabriel Mandrake, discouraged. In Gabriel’s view, Jonah’s mission was elsewhere—hunting shades. The undead victims of the Thorn Hill Massacre.

“Well,” the American said, glancing at his watch. “That’s that. This has been a colossal waste of time. I’ve got to get back to New York.”

“Hang on, DeVries.” Longbranch leaned back against the sideboard, swirling her drink. “The Thorn Hill angle
is

worth pursuing, and you know it. The best sorcerers of the age flocked there, because they knew that they could source any botanicals they needed without the risk of anyone coming after them in Brazil. Their expertise could be the key to freeing ourselves from the underguild tyrants in Trinity.”

“No doubt,” DeVries said. “After all, the Thorn Hill conspiracy was a smashing success—or would have been, if they hadn’t managed to poison themselves.”

“Fine,” Longbranch flared. “Moss and her cohorts can go right on killing wizards until we are extinct.”

“What’s the count now?” Wylie asked.

DeVries shifted his gaze to Wylie. “Fifty-seven dead,” he said. “And I understand that some from the underguilds have been killed as well.”

“Red herrings, no doubt,” Wylie said. “To obscure the real culprits.”

“Maybe,” DeVries said, as if he didn’t care, one way or the other.

“Are there truly no clues at all?” Wylie asked.

“Some of the bodies don’t have a mark on them. Others have been found—to be blunt—dismembered. The commonalities are that their Weirstones are destroyed, their magic drained, and all of the bodies have dead flowers scattered over them.”

“Roses?” Longbranch guessed.

DeVries shook his head. “Nightshade.”

Nightshade? Jonah’s hand crept inside his neckline, to his Nightshade pendant, brushed over the engraved design. Really? Was it possible that someone from Nightshade was moonlighting? Somebody besides him?

“Any updates on the Interguild Council investigation?” SWylie asked.

“Don’t look for any help from
them
,” DeVries said bitterly. “Some on Council are probably responsible for the killings; the rest merely celebrate them. Madison Moss has to be involved. Wizards just aren’t that easy to kill.”

“That’s exactly why we need to take matters into our own hands,” Longbranch said. “The survivors of Thorn Hill represent the greatest reservoir of knowledge about materials magic and Weirstones that exists.”

“Existed,” DeVries said.

“Don’t you see?” Longbranch continued undeterred. “What if we could modify Weirstones so that they no longer require the connection to the Dragonheart in order to function? Failing that, if we could determine exactly what agent got into the water supply at Thorn Hill—”

“Why? Are you planning some kind of mass murder, now that we’re finally at peace?” DeVries said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look, investigating Thorn Hill
seemed
like a good idea,” he said, as if Longbranch had crocheted an especially clever potholder at the old folks’ home. “But we’ve no way to pursue it if there aren’t any records, and if everybody who knew anything is dead.”

“The healer survived. There must be others,” Longbranch said. “More who left before the disaster.” She paused. “Perhaps some of them are working for you.”

“Working for me?” DeVries said, his eyes narrowing. “Do go on.”

Wylie and Longbranch exchanged glances, as if negotiating the next move.

“We’re well aware of your expertise in poisons and toxins,” Wylie said, trying for charm, and failing. “You were brought up in the business, after all. And isn’t it true that your

father was murdered by some in the underguilds who blamed him for this so-called Thorn Hill Massacre?”

“I have no idea who murdered my father,” DeVries said, clearly not seeking a heart-to-heart with Wylie. “He was a successful businessman, and successful businessmen attract enemies. Those were violent times, if you recall. As for poison, that’s a sorcerer’s weapon. Wizards have other options.”

“I’ve heard rumors that the Black Rose is back,” Wylie persisted, “that it’s resurfaced in response to the recent killings. We thought, perhaps, that you—er, the Black Rose—might have recruited some Thorn Hill survivors to—”

“Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said, glaring at him. “We don’t want to imply that young DeVries here is in any way involved with assassinations and the like.”

“Another day, another conspiracy theory,” DeVries said, rolling his eyes. “People who consort with assassins have a rather short shelf life, don’t you think?”

After another exchange of glances with Wylie, Longbranch decided to change the subject.

“What about the Anchorage?” she said. “Every one of the inmates there is a Thorn Hill survivor. One of them might know something. They may even have records and archives from the camp.”

Jonah stiffened. He didn’t like that these wizards had the Anchorage in their sights.

“I can’t imagine that
they
would be of any help,” DeVries said, his voice laced with contempt.

“Why haven’t you mentioned this place before?” Wylie asked, seemingly annoyed to be on the outside. “I never Sheard of it.”

“I only just thought of it,” Longbranch said. “The Anchorage is an institution that houses the children of the rebels at Thorn Hill, the few hundred who didn’t die with their parents. The ones that survived the mass poisoning ended up as magical cripples. Some are barely functional, requiring round-the-clock care. Others are kept confined, because they pose a danger to themselves and to everyone else. A few run loose on the streets.”

“Fascinating. But who would want to
do
that—take care of underguild freaks, I mean?” Wylie mused. “Moreover, who would want to pay for it?”

“You’ve heard of Gabriel Mandrake—the American music promoter?” When Wylie nodded, Longbranch continued. “He’s a sorcerer who’s adopted the labrats, as they’re commonly called, as his pet charity. If you ask me, it would have been cleaner to have dealt with them at the time. It’s easier to dispose of mutants and monsters when they’re small.”

Bitterness boiled up in Jonah.
This proves, once again, that wizards are the monsters we should be targeting, Gabriel. Not our own kind.

“You have a point, Jessamine,” DeVries said, paging through messages on his phone. “The magically damaged are really quite . . . useless.” He looked up at Longbranch, a smile curving his lips. “They shoot horses, don’t they?”

Longbranch’s face paled and her lips tightened. Jonah felt the sharp push of her rage meeting the chill of DeVries’s indifference.

Wylie broke the charged silence. “Why don’t we go after Mandrake? He might know something. Or be able to finger someone who does.”

DeVries shook his head. “Gabriel Mandrake is an extremely visible figure who lives a stone’s throw from the headquarters of the Interguild Council. He also has the best security system money can buy. I don’t need that kind of attention.”

“Fine. Maybe the Anchorage is out, but there must be leads we could explore,” Longbranch said. “We can’t give up now.”

“Who says
we’re
giving up?” DeVries smiled, more a showing of teeth than anything else. “Don’t contact me again unless you have a solid lead. It’s too risky. And, next time, turn your prisoner over and let us handle the interrogation. No doubt we’ll get better results.”

Jonah ducked away from the doorway to allow DeVries to stride past him. He left through the front door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

Jonah returned to his vantage point just in time to see Longbranch snatch up a vase and smash it against the doorframe, sending shards of glass flying past Jonah’s ear. “What an insufferable, smug bastard,” she snarled. “We don’t need him.”

“Yes we do,” Wylie said. “If we want to regain any real power, that is.” He motioned toward the sideboard. “I’ll have a drink, if you’re offering.”

“Pour it yourself !” Longbranch stalked to the large windows that overlooked the gardens and pulled them open. The scent of roses wafted in. “For all we know, DeVries is behind the killing. Everyone knows the Black Rose will kill anyone for a price. Maybe the council gave him a contract.”

Jonah rubbed his aching head. He’d had enough. He had no interest in hanging out, listening to bickering wizards. He knew who to blame for Jeanette’s death, and that was what

Scounted.

He yanked off his gloves with his teeth and tucked them into the waistband of his jeans, then rounded the corner and walked toward the two wizards.

Longbranch was the first to spot him. Her eyes widened at first, then narrowed speculatively. “How did
you
get in here?” she demanded.

Wylie spied Jonah in that same moment, his face contorted in surprise. “What the—?”

“How did you get over the security fence?” Longbranch interrupted.

“Well,” Jonah said, shrugging. “It wasn’t much of a fence.”

Longbranch rolled her eyes, as if Jonah’s presence were more an annoyance than a threat. “Why am I paying for twenty-four-hour security? I’m going to fire them all.”

“No need,” Jonah said, raking his hand through his hair. “They’re dead.”

“Ah.” Longbranch nodded. “Well, then. That’s the price of failure, I suppose. How many of you are there?”

“Just me,” Jonah said. “That’s usually enough.”

“Why, you arrogant son of a—” Wylie began.

“Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said. Her eyes traveled over Jonah approvingly, lingering on the sword hilt poking up over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a
breathtaking
young man?”

A thousand times, Jonah thought. A lot of good it does me.

“Are you a warrior, then?” Longbranch continued. “Or a wizard?”

Jonah shook his head. “Neither.” Wizards were unable to identify Weirstones—one of the few advantages the under guilds had.

“Hmm . . . definitely not a seer. They are so tiresome. A sorcerer—no—an enchanter, perhaps?” Lust glittered in the wizard’s eyes. “An enchanter with a sword? Like—like a gladiator. How intriguing. And versatile. Would you like a job?”

“I have a job,” Jonah said. “I’m here about Ms. Brodie.” Longbranch smiled. “Wylie, our luck may be turning. Just when we think we’re at a dead end, fate hands us this second chance.” She took a step toward Jonah. “Who was she to you?”

It was a verbal ambush. “She—she—” Jonah’s words stuck in his throat. He took a ragged breath, then regained control of himself.
Get a grip, Kinlock. You ought to be used to losing the people you love by now.

“I’m not here to answer your questions,” Jonah said, back to icy calm.

Wylie thrust his hand under his sweater and produced a massive pistol, which he pointed at Jonah. “Think again,” he said, waving the thing like a movie badster.

Compensating for something? Jonah thought wearily.

Longbranch tilted her head back, studying Jonah like she was hungry and he was dinner. “Brodie wasn’t much help, even after hours of torture. In retrospect, I’m thinking that maybe she didn’t actually know anything. You, on the other hand . . . you’re
much
more promising.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming faster. Like most wizards, she took pleasure in inflicting pain.

Jonah, on the other hand . . . not so much. He pushed back his sleeves. He had to try to come away with something, anyway. Something that would convince Gabriel to act. Easy questions first. “You’re Jessamine Longbranch, Sright?” he said. “And you’re Geoffrey Wylie?”

“Shut up,” Wylie said, motioning with the gun. “Put the sword on the floor and step back from it.”

“No,” Jonah said.

“No?” Wylie looked down at the gun in his hands, as if to make sure it was still there. Then back up at Jonah. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I’m keeping the sword. It was a gift,” Jonah said.

Fragarach, was one of the Seven Great Blades made at Dragon’s Ghyll. Gabriel had given it to Jonah when he signed on with Nightshade. It was ensorcelled bright metal, good for killing both gifted and Anaweir, for cutting up cadavers to free the shades inside. Ideal for multitaskers like Jonah.

“Now,” Jonah said. “What did you want from Jeanette?”

“Drop the sword or I’ll shoot!” Wylie roared, his face going purple.

Jonah sighed. Fine. He needed to make an example of one of them. “So shoot me,” he said, feinting a move.

Wylie fired, but Jonah was already across the room. He disarmed the wizard before he could get off a second shot. It was as if Wylie were moving in slow motion, his eyes widening, his mouth opening, and words rolling out slowly, along with drops of spittle.

Jonah closed his bare hands around Wylie’s neck. A light touch, a gentle kind of violence, but enough. Wylie’s eyes went wide with wonder, and then his face took on a familiar, blissful expression.

He crumpled, and Jonah let him go, his still-open eyes glazed over before he hit the floor.

This was how Jonah’s interrogations tended to go, since he couldn’t deal with the blowback associated with inflicting pain. Still, killing wizards was so much more satisfying than killing shades. Especially these particular wizards.

Jonah stepped over Wylie, advancing on Longbranch. Her eyes had gone round with horror, her complexion dead-fish pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but it took some time for words to emerge. “Who
are
you?” she croaked. “And
what
are you? An enchanter with a sword
and
a deadly sting?”