The Warrior Heir

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “You know what,” she said to the bartender in a voice dripping with charm. “My ex-husband’s out there waiting in the parking lot, and I’m afraid there might be trouble. He’s been following us around all night. I’m scared we might have words, and I don’t want my boys getting mixed up in this.”

  The bartender nodded sympathetically. He was a huge man with a florid complexion, massive shoulders, and beefy hands. If he thought she had a peculiar-looking family, he didn’t say so.

  “I wonder if they could just slip out the back,” Linda went on. “Do you have a kitchen door?”

  The man nodded again. “No problem. I understand how it is sometimes with exes. I have one myself.” He jerked his head at a door at the back labeled RESTROOMS. “Just go through there and keep heading straight back. There’s a door that lets out to the alley.”

  “I really appreciate it,” Linda said. “If it’s okay with you, I think I’ll sit here a bit until I know they’re safe away.”

  “No problem,” the bartender said solicitously.

  Jack and his friends pushed back their chairs.

  “Be careful!” Linda called after them. Jack looked back. His aunt seemed small and vulnerable sitting alone at the table.

  They pushed through the swinging door at the back of the restaurant and found themselves in a shabby hallway with a linoleum floor and restrooms to either side. There was another door at the far end, under an exit sign.

  The door let out into an alley between two huge Dumpsters. The music from the bar seemed distressingly loud when they opened the door. They jerked it shut quickly behind them and lingered between the Dumpsters for a moment. No one appeared. Then, like ghosts, the boys slipped down the alley and into the street beyond.

  “Excuse me.”

  The night clerk was perched on a stool behind the counter, immersed in a handheld video game. He looked to be in his mid twenties, scrawny, with a generous supply of post-adolescent acne. After briefly surveying Jack and his companions without interest or curiosity, he returned to his game, which played a little tune as he advanced to the next level.

  Jack cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he repeated.

  “Mmmm?” This time he didn’t lift his eyes from the screen. His name badge said “Stan.”

  “We have reservations. Name of O’Herron,” Jack persisted. Finally, Stan ran out of lives and the game came to a sudden and tragic end. Reluctantly, he shut it off and turned his attention to Jack.

  “We don’t rent to teenagers,” he said abruptly. He took a long drink from a can of Mountain Dew. “You boys better go back home.”

  “The reservation’s in the name of my aunt,” Jack continued, pushing a credit card and the slip of paper with the confirmation number on it across the counter to Stan. “She’ll be here later.”

  Why does Aunt Linda have a credit card in the name of O’Herron? Somehow, he hadn’t thought to ask her.

  Stan eyed the credit card suspiciously. “Well, where’s your aunt right now?”

  “She, uh, she met someone at a bar in town. She said she was going to stay a while longer, but me and my cousins were . . . were getting tired.” Jack stifled a yawn. “So she told us to come ahead.” Will and Fitch yawned also.

  Stan rocked back on his stool, folding his arms across his chest, the picture of stubbornness. Just then the phone buzzed. Now keeping his full attention on the trio in front of him, Stan picked it up and listened for a moment.

  “Well, they’re here,” Stan replied to something the caller said, “but I don’t think I can let them check in without your being here.” He sounded suddenly less sure of himself.

  He listened for a moment, shaking his head as if she were there to see it, then launched a weak protest. “Miss O’Herron, I really think you’d better get over here and check in yourself—” he began, but then stopped, listening again. “Well, I suppose, if you’ll be here in a few hours—” He listened some more, swallowing rapidly, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Well, ’course, whatever I can do to help, honey, you know.” Finally, reluctantly, he hung up the phone, another victim of Aunt Linda’s uncanny charm.

  “Well, okay, I guess there’s no harm in letting you wait for your aunt in your room,” Stan said, suddenly gracious. Jack had a feeling Stan would stay past quitting time, waiting for Linda to arrive. “You all got any luggage?”

  “Our aunt has the rest of our things,” Fitch explained.

  They were directed up a flight of open stairs to a concrete walkway on the second floor, on the far side of the motel from the office. The room had the cozy feel of public housing: two double beds with imitation wood headboards, plastic cups in the bathroom. There was a lingering stench of tobacco smoke, and cigarette burns in the carpet. They tried the television, but the cable was out and the reception was poor. There was little else to do, so they undressed and slid into bed.

  “What d’you think your aunt is looking for?” It was Will’s voice in the darkness.

  “I have no idea,” Jack said. Aunt Linda was sharing information in small, miserly installments. He wondered where she was at that moment, and if the man from the courthouse was following her. He realized his hands were clenched under the sheet, and he forced himself to relax his fingers. Now that he had stopped moving, his back had stiffened up. He shifted, trying to get comfortable on the unforgiving mattress. “I don’t get it. Why do you guys want to get involved in this?”

  “We’re already involved, aren’t we?” Fitch pointed out.

  “I could go to the library by myself,” Jack suggested. “I know the family names. You could hang out here. It might be better if we aren’t seen together.”

  “Maybe there’s safety in numbers,” Will said.

  Jack propped up on his elbows. “Look, I could call my mom. She could pick us up in a few hours. We could step out of this thing right now.”

  The thought of explaining all this to Becka depressed him. He might never see Linda again, except in small, supervised doses.

  “You’d leave Linda here on her own?” Will sounded scandalized.

  “That man is after her,” Fitch added. “She’s scared. We should help her if we can.”

  She’s charmed them, Jack thought. Just like she’s done me, all my life. “Look, I know you want to help a maiden in distress, but did you consider the fact that you might get hurt? And if she’s innocent, then why won’t she tell us what’s going on? Why doesn’t she call the police?”

  “Maybe the police can’t help her.” Fitch was picking his way, trying to make sense out of disorder. “I wouldn’t want to try to fight that flamethrower dude.”

  “At least the police have guns. What do you think he’ll do when he finds out what we’re up to?”

  They didn’t have much to say to that. There was a long, uncomfortable silence that wasn’t broken until their regular breathing told him they were asleep.

  Jack lay on his back, staring up at the fake stucco ceiling. Sleep seemed far away. Aunt Linda was his godmother, but there was something stronger between the two of them, some genetic and spiritual linkage that went beyond ceremony. He couldn’t shake the idea that she’d brought him along for a reason, that this artifact she was hunting had something to do with him.

  But it wasn’t just that. He felt danger closing in, drawing closer with every breath he took. He pulled the thin sheet up to his chin. The motel felt like a frail eggshell, a feeble shield against the dark. And he worried that all his relatives and friends together would not be enough to save him.

  Chapter Four

  Shadowslayer

  The house had good bones. It was built of rough-hewn rock quarried on the property, still standing stone on stone after years of neglect. But the skeleton was all that remained. The roof and porch and wooden parts had rotted away to reveal a stark and decaying beauty. A stone set into the wall next to the entry was engraved A. Hastynges, 1850. The footprints of other buildings were nearly obscured by the undergrowth: a barn, perhaps, a
shed, the remains of a stone wall.

  Linda shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. She’d had no difficulty finding it again, this site of long-ago tragedies. Lee had brought her here once, when he was trying to explain who he was. She ran her hands over the cool stones, velveted with moss, and stood where the porch had been, looking down on the great river. She could see it glinting in the early-morning sunlight, several miles to the south.

  She’d led the wizard on quite a chase, along narrow, twisting mountain roads, back onto the interstates, making a great circle around Coalton County so she never put too much distance between herself and Jack. She knew the area better than her pursuer and had avoided any traps he’d laid for her. Until now.

  She circled the ruins, cut through the new growth behind the house, picking out the remnants of an elaborate garden, the winter-burned canes of old roses against the foundations of old walls. The leaves of red maples still lay like blood on the ground. She walked back to the front of the house.

  “A delicate flower amid the ruins.” The voice was like the rustle of dead leaves. She froze in place like a startled animal, a scream caught in her throat.

  He was there at the edge of the yard in front of the porch, tall and spare in a long coat, bearded, hatless, shimmering with power. Wylie, she thought, the name coming back to her as if from a former life. She had never met him, but she had known too many like him. She tried to draw inward, to hide what she was, knowing it was already too late. Although his appearance was not unexpected, he’d still taken her by surprise.

  He smiled, a slow and suggestive rearrangement of his face. She said nothing, fearful that her voice would give her away.

  “Tell me, who sends an enchanter to do a wizard’s work?”

  She shook her head wordlessly. He would be on top of her in three strides if he didn’t knock her senseless first.

  “What is your name? Who is your guarantor? Is he with the White Rose?”

  One question followed another, too quickly for her to answer, even if she wanted to. He didn’t expect her to answer. If she were under the control of a wizard, he would have to force the information from her.

  So Wylie didn’t know who she was. He must have tracked the blade another way. That was something, but it would be nothing if he got his hands on her.

  “Is the blade here somewhere?” he demanded. “Is this the Downey property?”

  She shook her head mutely. Telling the truth, in fact.

  “I asked you about the blade,” he whispered. “Cooperate now, and it will go easier with you. If not . . .” He flexed his fingers, and flames bristled about his hands and arms. “I will pull your feathers, little bird. I will remove your petals, one by one, and leave you screaming.” Wizard endearments.

  She said nothing.

  “First we’ll talk, and then we’ll play. It’s been a long time since I’ve had . . . the pleasure.” He moved smoothly toward her, an experienced predator. But as soon as his boot came down in the yard, he stiffened and spasmed backward, clawing at his face. He landed on his back in the brush, writhing in pain, shrieking as if he were being flayed alive. She watched as he rolled helplessly in the dirt, and finally made out what he was saying. “Help me, Enchanter! It’s warded! Get me out!”

  “Burn in hell, Wizard,” she replied.

  She didn’t dare stay to see the outcome of the trap she’d laid. She had no idea how long the old magic would hold. She turned and ran down the slope toward the dirt track where the Land Rover waited, just beyond the shell of the trailer. Another car, a plain gray coupe, stood next to it.

  She threw herself into the front seat of the Rover and poked the key into the lock with shaking hands. It took several tries. Once she succeeded, she threw it into forward, spun the wheel, and then was bumping wildly down the rutted road that led to the highway. When she looked in her rearview mirror, she could see no one following.

  The Coal Grove Regional Library was housed in an imposing red brick building that had been a schoolhouse at one time. It stood on the square across from the courthouse, a half hour walk from Dave’s Slumbre Inn. Since it was a Saturday morning, the library was already busy when they arrived. A motherly-looking woman at the front desk directed them to the genealogy section in the rear.

  A man clad in a blue work shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots was seated at the large table closest to the genealogy collection. He had a huge stack of books spread out across the table, and was busily typing notes into a laptop. A bright orange extension cord snaked its way across the floor and behind a bookcase.

  “Mind the cord, boys,” he said, shoving his books to one side of the table to free up space for them to sit down.

  Jack pulled Aunt Linda’s notebook from his duffle and dropped it onto the table. Then the three of them looked at each other, at a loss.

  The stranger looked up from his keyboard. “What’s the matter? Don’t know where to start?”

  “No,” the three said together.

  “Well, I think it’s great to see young people taking an interest in genealogy,” the man said, beaming. “Me, I didn’t get started until four or five years ago. What names are you looking for?”

  “Uh, Taylor,” Jack said quickly.

  “Mmmm, Taylor, Taylor . . .” His fingers flew over the keyboard. “I got a Ransom Taylor here, born in 1830. That your Taylor?”

  “We don’t know,” Fitch replied, shrugging. “We’re pretty new at this. Uh, maybe you could tell us about the books in here?”

  “Sure.” The man rose heavily to his feet, seemingly eager to share what he knew. “Where you all from?”

  “Erie, Pennsylvania,” Fitch spoke up again.

  The man nodded. “Well, over here you got your county histories, most of the counties in southern Ohio and a few in West Virginia. This part of Ohio used to be part of Virginia, you know. Over here”—he waved his arm vaguely down the stacks—“you got your census indexes. They have census records on microfilm from 1830 to 1920 in these cabinets. The vital statistics are on these metal shelves—marriages, births, deaths, and cemetery records.”

  “Cemetery records?” Will repeated, with interest.

  “Yep, the county genealogical society has been canvasing the graveyards, copying stones for years. They have them about done. Only thing is, they aren’t indexed yet.”

  “Do they have any old newspapers here?” Jack asked, running his hands across the books of cemetery records. There were three fat volumes. It looked like they had their work cut out for them.

  Their benefactor nodded. “We have the Post-Telegram and the Coal Grove Democrat on microfilm, back to the mid 1850s. Those ain’t indexed, either, but it makes for some interesting reading.”

  Fitch had a plan. “Okay,” he said, nodding to Jack and Will. “Will and I will each take one of those cemetery books and start looking for your . . . uh . . . our dead relatives. Jack, you go through the newspaper microfilm and see if you can find an obituary or something.”

  Jack chose a reel of microfilm for the Post-Telegram. Susannah Downey had died in May, 1900. He rolled forward through the film until he found May, 1900, then carefully scanned each page of the paper for any reference to her passing. After nearly an hour of reading stories about who visited whom, and who was under the weather, Jack switched from the Post-Telegram to the Coal Grove Democrat. And there it was.

  “Look at this!” The boys crowded around Jack, reading over his shoulder. It was a news story: “‘MRS. DOWNEY DIES IN FALL FROM HORSE. Neighbors in Coal Grove were shocked to hear of the untimely death of Mrs. Susannah Downey, late of Munroe Township, who died when she was thrown from a horse last Sunday. Lee Hastens, a visitor in the township, found her lying in the woods near the back of the family farm in the late evening. Her horse was standing nearby, all lathered up, as if he’d been ridden hard for a distance. Although known to be a capable horsewoman, Mrs. Downey took a fall onto a fence post. A severe gash to the chest was the cause of death. Reverend Eugene Carter presided
over the funeral service from First Methodist. She leaves a husband and infant son to mourn.’”

  “Wow,” Will breathed. “What a way to go.”

  Jack had seen hand-colored pictures of his great-great grandmother from the old trunk in the attic. She had been photographed with her husband, who looked stiff and solemn. Susannah, though, looked as if she were just about to break into laughter. She was beautiful, with heavy strawberry blond hair twisted up onto her head, small graceful hands, and fine features. There was a strong resemblance between the woman in the photograph and her great-granddaughter Becka.

  Fitch hit the print button on the microfilm machine.

  “Does it say where she was buried?” Jack asked.

  “No,” said Fitch, “but it says she lived in Munroe Township. Aren’t those cemeteries listed by township?”

  Will checked the table of contents of the book he was reviewing, and turned to the back. “There are eight or ten cemeteries in Munroe Township,” he reported. “Most of them seem to be small.” He ran his finger down the page. “Here! Susannah Downey, wife of Abraham. 1868 to 1900. It’s in the old Methodist cemetery.”

  Their voices had grown louder and louder, and Jack suddenly realized that the man in the cowboy boots had looked up from his microfilm machine and was listening with interest to everything they said. Jack shot a warning look at his friends and turned back to the book. “Wait a minute!” he said. “That can’t be her. The dates are all wrong. She would have been alive much earlier.” He turned suddenly to the man with the laptop. “What if a person isn’t in the cemetery book? How far back do the death records go?”

  The man shook his head. “Not earlier than 1867, which is when the state began requiring the counties to keep records. There might be an estate record up at the courthouse, though that would be uncommon for a woman. Have you all been up there?”