A row of Chinese vases lined a shelf over Leicester’s desk. They began to vibrate—then, one by one, imploded like targets in a shooting gallery.
The headmaster spoke in his psychiatrist voice. “Joseph. You’re out of control.”
The track light flickered, and the fixtures exploded. The front window bowed outward, then shattered, bits of glass glittering in the sunlight as they fell into the harbor.
“I’ll go to the Roses,” Seph said. “They’ll give me the training I need.”
Leicester extended his hand and spoke a charm. Something slammed into Seph, like a missile from a compressed air weapon, and he was down on his back on the floor, unable to move.
Leicester spoke from above him. “We call that a subduen charm.”
Seph said nothing.
“Given the current political situation, I can’t risk your alerting the Roses to what’s going on here. They would murder us all.” Leicester paused. Seph still didn’t respond. “I’ll let you up when you can control yourself.”
Seph lay there a moment, breathing hard, then said, “Okay.” Leicester muttered a few Latinesque words and Seph was able to sit up and drag himself to his feet. “So you’re going to hold me prisoner here.”
Leicester twisted the ring on his right hand. “Write a letter, Joseph, if you must, and we will mail it. And carefully consider the choice before you. If you don’t learn to manage your power, it will destroy you. I will not waste time on anyone who is unwilling to commit to our cause and submit to my leadership. It’s unfortunate, but that’s the way it is. Until you complete the ceremony, nothing happens.”
“There are plenty of lawyers in the world. If Denis Houghton committed me without a proper evaluation, I’ll sue both your asses.” Seph stalked out, slamming the door and clattering down the stairs.
When he was sure the boy had gone. Gregory Leicester picked up the phone and pressed an extension. “Joseph McCauley may attempt to call off-property,” he said. “See that he’s unsuccessful.” He thought a moment, then added, “Meet me in my office in ten minutes. All of you.” When he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he was smiling again.
He walked to the window. It was a beautiful autumn day. The sun glinted off the waves in the harbor, and the trees on the point were all in high color, the reds and golds that brought the tourists out. He sighed, flexing his hands. He must find the time to go sailing again before the weather turned.
Joseph was incredibly powerful. As soon as Leicester had reviewed the boy’s carefully worded recommendations, he’d known. He had an instinct, after all these years. But he’d been overeager. He’d tried to move too fast, and the boy had balked. He should have laid the groundwork, should have softened him up before he asked him to commit.
Still, Leicester thought he could be managed, untrained as he was. Right now he was more angry than frightened. But that would change. Leicester would break him, he would rein in that wild power and put it to use. He closed his eyes, and his breath came a little faster.
It would have been easier if McCauley were younger. Twelve was ideal, but sixteen would work. He’d never known his system to fail, save once. Last year, he’d accepted an older student who had received some training elsewhere. It had been a mistake. The boy was still at the Havens, but perhaps not for much longer.
There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Leicester said. The alumni filed in, fifteen of them, all talented wizards. But none so powerful as Joseph McCauley. Leicester surveyed them, sorting through his mental notes. Being linked to them, he knew more about them than they ever suspected.
Warren Barber hated serving anyone. That, and the fact that he was the most powerful of this lot, made him dangerous. But his cruelty and his lack of a moral compass made him useful.
Bruce Hays loved having power over others. He would serve, if in turn, others served him.
Aaron Hanlon was smooth and articulate, a master of mind magic. Kenyon King was reasonably powerful, physically strong, and skilled at covert operations. John Hughes was invaluable as a systems expert. They were the core.
Wayne Eggars had accepted his role as physician. Ashton Rice and Elliott Richardson would serve, if reluctantly. They were reasonable men. They had accomplished much already.
Martin Hall and Peter Conroy were weaklings. It was not a matter of lack of power, but a reluctance to take ruthless action when required. Conroy in particular was a loose cannon, but they both contributed power to the mix.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Joseph McCauley still declines to link to us.”
A mutter of surprise rolled through the alumni, but was quickly stifled.
“He has threatened to go to the Roses. This is unacceptable. I believe a peer-to-peer approach may be effective. I make it your charge to convince him to join us, through whatever means necessary.
“When he links with us, you will be richly rewarded. If he continues to resist, well, I think you all understand that there will be consequences.” Now they all looked down at their feet, afraid he’d use one of them as an example. He’d done it before.
“Give him to me,” Warren suggested. “I’ll turn him around in a day.”
Leicester sighed. “If it were a matter of brute force, Warren, I’d have settled the matter already. This requires subtlety. Creativity. Seduction. Not your long suit, I’m afraid.” He rubbed his palms together. “We’ll meet again on the subject in two weeks. Are there any questions?”
There were none.
The next day, after another night of excruciating dreams, Seph walked over to the art and music building and found a house phone back in the vending area in the basement. He picked it up and dialed 0. When the secretary in the admin. building answered, he said, “I’d like to place an outside call, using a calling card.” He gave her the calling card information and the phone number, including the country code.
There was a brief pause. “Your name, please?”
“Joseph McCauley,” Seph replied, hope evaporating.
“You’ll need to get administrative approval,” she said briskly. “Shall I put you through to Dr. Leicester?”
“No, thank you,” Seph said, and hung up the phone.
The classroom routine was soothingly familiar, a little eddy in the madness of life at the Havens. Lecture, discussion, homework, examinations. All of the usual tools were in evidence: wood-and-metal desks lined up in rows, chalkboards, sinks and burners and hoods in chemistry lab. New textbooks that smelled of ink, with spines that crackled when you opened them. Like students everywhere, the students at the Havens whined about homework.
Seph sat in math class, chin propped on his fist, watching Mr. Richardson scribble equations on the board. Richardson would have been at the outdoor chapel, garbed in long gray robes, helping preside over that magical sacrifice. In retrospect, it seemed like a bad dream. What had spooked him? Rain and mist and bats and mummery.
And the fact that it seemed so important to Leicester.
In music, Mr. Rice told Seph he could schedule private lessons outside of class to work on piano or saxophone or another instrument. He encouraged Seph to consider joining the wind ensemble.
The bloody wind ensemble. It was so normal. So hard to reconcile with his fear of sleep, his dread of getting into bed.
After his last class, and before dinner, Seph went back to his room and booted up his computer. He’d decided to go ahead and write his letter.
TO: Denis Houghton, Esq., Guardian of Joseph McCauley
FROM: Joseph McCauley
RE: School placement at the Havens
When I arrived at the Havens, I was told that I’d been committed here for psychiatric treatment. I’m not sure what your intentions were, but the staff is unqualified and the methods used are cruel, arbitrary, and inconsistent, thus unlikely to prove effective.
This placement is not meeting my needs. I would like to request an immediate move so that I miss as little school as possible. I would consider a public school
placement with private therapy if that is easier, in any geographic location. I will do everything I can to make it work out.
It is critical that this request be acted on right away. At the very least we need to meet to discuss my situation and arrange to get a second opinion. If you believe I would benefit from therapy, I have to think that there are better options.
He read it over again and bolded the part about doing everything to make it work out. He thought it sounded, well, sane. And non-accusing. He got it ready to mail and dropped it in the mail chute at the admin. building when he went in for supper.
The dreams came like heat lightning in summer, terrible dreams that illuminated those places in Seph’s soul that were better left in the dark. The violence was sometimes physical, sometimes emotional, or both. All of his fears and insecurities surfaced and became weapons against him. The worst of it was that he never knew what to expect. Sometimes he would struggle to stay awake, then fall asleep in the early hours and sleep untroubled until his alarm sounded. Sometimes he dreamed three nights in a row, then nothing for three days.
The bizarre occurrences that had always dogged Seph seemed to intensify. He touched a light switch in his room and the electrical power in three buildings went out. Cakes fell and milk went sour in his presence. Hawks and ospreys collected on the roof of his dormitory and escorted him to his classes, swooping down on faculty along the way. The water froze in the pipes of the administration building, and trees bloomed out of season. A pack of wolves haunted the campus for a time, gray shadows lurking among the trees.
Seph constantly second-guessed his decision. He knew there was no guarantee he could find help outside of the Havens. Maybe Leicester’s offer was his only option. Maybe his magical outbursts would increase until he had to be shot like a rabid beast.
The leaves on the aspens had been turning when Seph mailed his first letter to Sloane’s. They lay like gold dust on the ground when he posted his second. He began to write several times a week so he could feel that he was really doing something. He gave up on sane and nonaccusing and resorted to desperate and threatening. There was never any response.
He tried to phone off-campus a half dozen times, from various phones and under assumed names. He was always intercepted by polite staff members who referred him to Dr. Leicester.
He continued to eat dinner at the Alumni House. They were his only potential sources of information, his only avenue of hope. They’d been trained in wizardry; they already knew how to manage their power. He reasoned that if he could win some of them over, they might share the secret that would prevent the dreams.
He focused especially on Peter Conroy. That first day, Peter had been eager to talk with him, obviously had information he wanted to share. But now Peter practically ran the other way when Seph approached. If he managed to corner him, some of the other alumni would intervene. Something had happened to frighten him away.
Others of the alumni worked hard to win him over. They shared no useful magical secrets with him, but plied him with offers of food, liquor, and illicit drugs. Faculty and alumni mingled at parties where he seemed to be the unwilling guest of honor. Maybe, he thought, drugs and alcohol would help.
But something told him they wouldn’t.
Bruce Hays whispered to Seph about the unlimited power that lay within his grasp. “Maybe you report to Dr.
Leicester,” Hays explained. “But when you think about it, the rest of the world reports to you.”
Aaron Hanlon advised him that, given the current unsettled political situation, it was best to shelter under the protection of a powerful wizard. “There’s going to be bloodshed,” he warned. “Though Dr. Leicester is doing his best to prevent it. Just like during medieval times, it wouldn’t hurt to have a patron.”
It was like being rushed by a desperate and diabolical fraternity. But, given the fact that Trevor and the other Anaweir were avoiding him, Seph found himself spending more and more time in their company.
Seph was in the warehouse, stumbling through darkness, his wet shirt pressed to his face to defend against the oily smoke. His throat was raw from shouting and from breathing in the toxic air. He could see nothing, could hear nothing, save the roar of flames and the groaning of the old building as the timbers burned through.
“Maia! Maia, can you hear me?”
The fire crews had arrived, and were pouring water on to the roof. He was sloshing through knee-deep water while the skin on his upper body blistered and burned. He reached down, wet the shirt again, and pressed it to his face. He breathed in the stench of burning hair, and realized it was his own.
He was in a corridor now. When he extended his arms, he could feel walls to either side. He must be in the office areas to the back. Perhaps she’d taken refuge here when the way out was blocked. He passed through several doorways, carefully closing the doors behind him to keep the flames at bay a little longer.
Then he heard it, a faint cry from somewhere ahead. “Help!”
He stumbled on, touching the walls now and then to guide him. The walls were hot, the paint sticky under his hand. “Maia!”
He pushed through another doorway.
“Seph!”
The voice was weak and thready, but close, now, only a few feet ahead and to the right.
“Keep talking, Maia. I’m here to get you out.” He crawled along the floor, groping with his hands, until he felt fabric under his fingers. She was huddled in a corner, where she’d retreated to try to keep her face beneath the smoke.
He tried to gather her up in his arms, but at his touch, her skin charred and burned and turned to ash, spiraling to the floor. He tried again, and her flesh crumbled in his hands, revealing bone. He screamed and let go, and she fell.
“Maia,” he breathed, sliding to the floor, gathering her lifeless body into his lap, rocking her as gently as he could. “Maia, I’m so sorry.” The heat was blistering. His tears evaporated, hissing, as soon as they emerged.
He was aroused by an incessant pounding. Firefighters. He didn’t answer. He’d resolved to stay and burn. Somewhere, a door opened and closed.
“Seph?”
How did they know his name?
Everyone knew. Everyone knew he was guilty.
“Go away,” he whispered, holding fiercely to Maia’s body. “You’re too late.”
Someone had hold of his arm, shaking him. “Seph! Come on! Snap out of it.”
Seph opened his eyes to a view of Trevor’s worried face. He looked over Trevor’s shoulder. He was in his room. Sunlight dappled the hardwood floor. He had no idea what time it was. “Sorry.” He forced the word out painfully, groaned, and wound his fingers into the bedclothes. “I’m okay now. Please. Leave me alone.”
Wood scraped against wood as Trevor pulled a chair up next to the bed. It creaked as he dropped into it. “I don’t get it,” he said.
Seph turned his face away. There was no point in pretending. He felt like crap and knew he looked it. The room still reeked of vomit and terror.
When he was younger, they’d said he was possessed. He supposed he preferred crazy. But he knew what happened when the only people who care about you are on retainer. You end up in places like this. He needed to plan, to strategize. But first, he needed to get rid of Trevor.
“Look, I was up barfing all night, all right?”
Trevor cleared his throat and looked away. “I heard you.”
“So I don’t want company.”
Trevor didn’t move, but sat, biting at his lower lip. “I don’t get it,” he repeated. “You’re one of them.”
Seph blinked, brushed the back of his hand across his eyes, refocused on Trevor’s face. “What?”
“You’re one of them. You’ve been hanging out at Alumni House. So why are you up screaming every single night? I have to wear my headphones to get any sleep.”
“Oh. Well. Sorry. I get nightmares when I’m sick. That’s all.”
“What did you do? You must’ve really messed up.
”
“What are you talking about?” Seph rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Trevor leaned in close, breathing the words into Seph’s ear, as if afraid of being overheard. “He calls it therapy.” Trevor looked down at his hands. “The dreams, I mean.”
Seph’s battered mind grappled with this, teasing out a revelation. “You’re telling me Leicester has something to do with ...with ...”
The look on Trevor’s face was a yes. “It’s like, whatever you’re scared of, that’s what he uses.”
Seph shoved himself into a half-sitting position, leaning back against the carved headboard. “You’re saying he makes people hallucinate. Dream. Have nightmares.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“This happened to you?” Seph gestured weakly, taking in the trashed room.
Trevor swallowed hard. His dark face was nearly gray, the brown eyes muddy with remembered pain, his hands clasped tightly together. “I acted out a lot when I first got here.”
“He uses this . . . as punishment?”
“He calls it therapy,” Trevor repeated. “If you don’t cooperate, I guess he thinks you need more therapy. So ...in a way ...”
“And other people have dreams? The Ana . . . other students? Not just us?”
“Everybody has dreams, at least at first. He says they’re working through their hostility. Only, I figured you were different. I mean, you’re like him. You and the alumni. Y’all have . . . some kind of power. Elsewise, why would the alumni stay? I’d leave, quick as I could.”
Seph was only half listening. He wasn’t crazy. It wasn’t his own power that was destroying his mind. It was a spell. It must be. Leicester was spelling him, making him think he was crazy, make him desperate enough to agree to . . . to ...what?
“Just do what he says,” Trevor said, as if reading his mind. “Whatever he asks. I can tell you from experience what will happen if you try to fight him. It’s up to you, but my advice is to sit up and speak and roll over, whatever it takes. Sucking up ain’t that hard, once you get the hang of it.”
“Doesn’t anybody complain?” Seph asked.
The Heir Chronicles Omnibus Page 42