Stone Cottage, it was called. He’d been told that the boy was likely to be alone. His natural wariness had been aroused, however, by the fact that Longbranch was offering an astoundingly generous stipend for a supposedly easy target.
The job had its challenges, of course. It was said that attack magic was forbidden within the sanctuary. But then, murder was likely forbidden, also.
He fingered the blades in his sleeves, and smiled. A scratch from any one of them would suffice to cut the thread of life that was often so strong in the young.
He turned up Lake Street. It was paved in brick, its wrought-iron gas lamps casting pallid pools of light into the darkness. As an assassin, he was fond of dim historical districts.
The houses to the right were waterfront, and some of them had little signposts labeled Land’s End and Sunset House, Sailor’s Rest, Dry Dock, and Snug Harbor. Excruciatingly cute. Dystrophe disapproved.
That must be it, up ahead. An actual stone cottage set amid a rather unkempt garden, overlooking the lake. The porch light was on.
Dystrophe walked around the house, securing the perimeter with magical barriers to prevent escape. Then he turned up the walk, negotiating the uneven pavement. Perhaps the boy would actually let him in.
But there was no answer when he rapped on the door. Ah, well. No need to delay their meeting. It was a thick oak door, but a precisely targeted charm slammed it off its hinges.
Would the boy be asleep? He thought not. Boys of that age liked to stay up late, didn’t they, playing video games and what not? He secured the doors behind him, then began to search the rooms downstairs. The boy was not in the kitchen, the parlor, the dining room, the pantry, or the study.
Just then he heard movement in the back of the house, and a banging noise, like someone trying to force open a window.
Ah, Dystrophe thought. He followed the sound.
At the back of the house was a solarium, probably a lovely room in daylight. The wall overlooking the lake was entirely of glass. Waves pounded against the rocks below. And there in the dark, silhouetted against the rising moon, was the boy.
He turned when Dystrophe entered the room and stood facing him. Dystrophe gathered light into his hands and tossed it down on the floor between them. It flared up, illuminating the boy’s angular features, shadowed eyes, and tangle of dark hair. He was dressed in a T-shirt and blue jeans, and still wore the big-boned, coltish look of adolescence.
It was him, Dystrophe was sure of it. “Joseph McCauley?” he inquired.
“Who are you?”
“Relax, Joseph,” Dystrophe said soothingly. “I’m not here to hurt you.” I’m here to kill you. It was an important distinction, but most people didn’t seem to find it reassuring. Sometimes, at this point, they tried to run, but McCauley didn’t, which Dystrophe appreciated. Chasing down prey was not his style.
“Who sent you? The Roses?” McCauley’s voice rose a little. He was a boy, after all.
“Is it important?”
“To me it is.”
“Then, yes. The White Rose. Dr. Longbranch.”
The boy nodded, filing the information away as if he had a future. It was unusual for one so young to have so many enemies. But these were turbulent times.
Palming one of the knives, Dystrophe glided forward, considering possible targets: the pale column of the boy’s throat, the arms that poked out of his short-sleeved T-shirt. “I assure you, you won’t feel a thing. I’m very good at what I do.”
“Don’t do this,” McCauley said, his hands still at his sides. “I’m warning you.” Not begging. Warning. Ah, the arrogance of the young.
“Please. I’m not impressed by threats and theatrics. It’s just business, you know. Nothing personal.”
The boy adjusted his stance, preparing. The green eyes darkened to the color of deep water in shade. Flame coalesced about his spare figure and splattered onto the tile floor.
Dystrophe forced back a trickle of doubt, then came on. When only a few feet divided them, the assassin struck like a snake, seizing the boy’s left wrist, meaning to drag the poisoned blade across McCauley’s exposed forearm.
Dystrophe gasped and nearly let go when the heat from the boy’s skin seared his fingers.
The boy grabbed his other wrist, his blade hand. Dystrophe was stronger, but McCauley made no attempt to shake free the knife or turn it toward his attacker. Instead, he poured in Persuasion, a hot river of magic that filled the tributaries of Dystrophe’s mind, driving memory and will before it.
“How peculiar,” Dystrophe thought, and then there was nothing else but the boy’s voice, and he didn’t think anything more.
Jack and Ellen found Seph in the garden, on a bench that overlooked the water. He sat rod-straight, his hands on his knees, gazing out toward the lake. He looked whipped and dangerous, like a frayed electrical wire, sending off sparks. Lately, they often found him in the garden, despite the cold, as if he used this setting to clear his mind for magical activity. Besides, he was probably hot enough to heat the whole lakeshore.
He turned his head and watched as they descended the path toward him. His face seemed unnaturally pale, and he looked like he’d slept in his clothes.
“Hey, cuz,” Jack said, lifting his hand in a kind of salute. He had the sense that Seph was not at all surprised to see them. It was a little unsettling.
Something crunched under Jack’s foot. “Hey,” he said, scanning the ground. “There’s broken glass everywhere.”
“Yeah,” Seph said. “Guess I need to clean that up.”
Jack looked around. “Where’d it all—jeez, what happened?” He pointed to the solarium window at the top of the cliff. The glass had been smashed out as if by a massive fist, leaving the room open to the elements.
Seph glanced up at the ragged hole, then back at Jack. “Somebody jumped,” he said, shivering a little, his eyes wide and haunted-looking.
“Who jumped? What are you talking about?” Ellen sat next to Seph and put her hand on his shoulder, then yanked it back, sucking on her fingers. “Ouch! You’re really juiced, you know?”
“The Roses sent another assassin last night,” Seph said. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “He had knives. I told him to leave and he . . . went through the window. He’s in the lake.”
Jack dropped onto a stone bench, unsure what to say. “How many is that, now?”
Seph shrugged. “Three. No. Four.”
“This has got to stop,” Ellen muttered. “One of these days they’re going to get lucky.”
“Maybe you need a bodyguard,” Jack said.
Seph’s head came up. “And who’s going to do that? We’re spread thin enough as it is.” The lake wind stirred the trees overhead and the light played across his face. There was something about his eyes . . .
“Have you heard from your mom?” Jack asked. “She and Hastings need to know about this.”
“No,” Seph said. “Haven’t heard anything from her or Hastings. Don’t know how to reach them.” He paused. “Nick knows what happened. He came over last night, after.” His voice trailed off.
This is crazy, Jack thought. Some sanctuary. If you want to kill someone badly enough, you’ll manage eventually.
“How’d it go with Leesha?” Seph asked abruptly, obviously wanting to change the subject.
“It was great,” Ellen said, pulling off her gloves. “We were bad cop and bad cop.”
“We put on a lot of pressure, and she caved. We think,” Jack added. You could never tell with Leesha.
“Does she know where Jason is?”
“She says she doesn’t. But it turns out everybody who’s anybody knows Jason was at Raven’s Ghyll. D’Orsay. Warren Barber. God knows who else. She says if Jason’s missing, Warren Barber’s behind it. Barber said he was going to get the stuff back from Jason.”
“Warren Barber?” Seph squinted at Jack. “What’s Barber got to do with any of this? I haven’t seen him since Second Sister. And how
does he know Jason was at Raven’s Ghyll?”
“Jason was spotted. And Barber and D’Orsay are partners now,” Jack said.
“Partners?” Seph shed his distracted look. “What are you talking about?”
“But wait,” Ellen murmured. “There’s more.”
“Barber has the Covenant,” Jack said. “Leesha thinks he took it from Second Sister.”
Seph looked from Jack to Ellen. “If he’s working with D’Orsay, and he has the Covenant, why haven’t they consecrated it?”
Ellen shrugged. “Leesha doesn’t know. But everybody’s trying to get back what Jason took out of the ghyll.”
They looked at each other wordlessly. “Why do you suppose that is?” Jack said finally.
“Well, Jason said the Dragonheart was supposedly a weapon that could control the guilds or destroy them,” Ellen pointed out. “That’d be a good reason.”
“How do they know that?” Jack persisted. “Jason said he dropped the book in the ghyll, but . . .”
“So,” Seph broke in. “Leesha is working for Barber?”
Ellen shrugged. “She was. But now she says Barber will kill her if she leaves the sanctuary.”
“Leesha’s been hanging around the church,” Seph said. “Do you think she suspects where the stuff is?”
“If she does, you know she’s been in and out of there already,” Ellen said. “I hope your wards did the job.”
Seph stared at her a moment, then stood and crossed the terrace, snatching up a metal goblet from a tray on the garden wall. Raising it to his lips, he drained it, then set it down. He closed his eyes and concentrated, body rigid, lips moving silently.
After a long pause, Seph opened his eyes. “There are fifteen wizards within the boundary, including Leesha. Barber’s not here. The crypt at St. Catherine’s is secure.” His eyes glittered green and gold, his pupils pinpricks of light. “Except for a few things Jason took a week ago, before he left for Coalton County. That makes me think he was planning something.”
Jack blinked at him. “You’re on duty? You can tell all that from here?” Always before, Seph had been semifunctional when monitoring the magical barrier.
“I’m not just maintaining the boundary. I’m watching the whole sanctuary. Hastings taught me how to do it.” And then, as if Jack had asked the unspoken question, Seph added, “I found a way to deal with it.”
Ellen picked up the goblet and raised it to her nose, sniff-ing. Then glared across at Seph. “This,” she said, waggling the cup, “is a bad idea.”
“What is it?” Jack took the cup from Ellen and passed it beneath his nose. A prickly heat ran up his neck and exploded through the top of his head. It was like sticking a finger into an electrical outlet. Or chugging brandy.
“What is it?” he repeated, a little breathlessly.
Seph remained silent, so Ellen answered for him. “Aelf-aeling. Roughly translated from the Anglo-Saxon, it means, burning mind. The common name is wizard flame. Where did you get it?”
“Mercedes had some,” Seph said, shoving back his sleeves as if overheated.
“She gave this to you?” Ellen asked, lifting an eyebrow.
“Not exactly. I used to help her out with her extractions, you know. I know where she keeps her stuff.”
“You’re not going to keep using it.”
Seph twitched irritably, his hands opening and closing at his sides. “I don’t use it all the time. Only when I’m on duty. It lets me watch a hundred things at once. I can see a leaf fall in the park and keep tabs on Leesha Middleton and track an assassin when he’s stalking me. I’d be dead by now, otherwise. Plus I’ll know if anyone messes with the stuff in the church.”
“What’s wrong with it?” Jack asked Ellen.
“The name is fairly literal,” Ellen replied. “Mind-Burner. Wizards get addicted to it to the point that they can’t function without it. Use it long enough, and you go insane.”
“How do you know so much about it?” Jack asked.
“Paige and Wylie were into performance enhancers. They used to dope me a lot when I was in training.” Simon Paige was warriormaster for the Red Rose, and Ellen’s old trainer.
“It’s just till the war is over,” Seph said, leaning against the wall.
“When exactly will that be?” Ellen demanded. “It’s been going on for centuries.”
“Does Hastings know about this? Or Linda?” Jack asked.
“No. And they’d better not hear it from you. They’re counting on me to handle this, and I will. Whatever it takes.” Seph never raised his voice, but it was clear from the set of his shoulders that this issue was nonnegotiable.
Usually wizard power, when it was noticeable at all, was a subtle thing. Seph was so hot, the air around him shimmered and his arms trailed flame, like iridescent wings.
Ellen shook her head. “Doping will ruin your body, you know that? That’s one of the reasons the Weirlind died off.”
“Look. I’m not an idiot. I won’t use it unless it’s absolutely necessary,” Seph said. “It’s just that . . . I haven’t been entirely . . . myself . . . ever since that thing with the painting.”
“Painting? What are you talking about?” Jack asked.
Seph looked like he wished he hadn’t opened his mouth. “I ran into a hex. In a painting. That’s all.”
As if he thought that would shut off the questions.
“What painting? Where?” Jack asked.
“What kind of hex?” Ellen wanted to know.
Seph sighed. “I thought Nick would’ve told you. It was in one of Madison’s paintings. It kind of knocked me out. Made me really sick. But I’m getting better. I just need . . . a little help right now.”
“How would a hex get into one of Madison’s paintings?” Ellen sat down on the swing, kicking off with her feet. “I never heard of that.”
“Who knows?” Seph said.
“How could a hex work here in the sanctuary?” Jack asked.
Seph shrugged. “Nick thinks it might be some kind of elicitor thing.”
Ellen planted her feet, bringing the swing to an abrupt stop. “Hold on. He thinks Madison did it?”
“He’s just throwing out possibilities. We don’t know.”
“Madison wouldn’t hurt you,” Ellen said with conviction.
I hope you’re right, Jack thought. In wizard politics you always have to watch your back.
Seph rose and began pacing. “I still don’t get it. Madison says Jason never showed. Something must’ve happened to him on the way down there. But we’re the only ones who knew he was going.”
“Well,” Jack said reluctantly. “He has Linda’s car. Is it possible he might have just . . . taken off?”
Seph swung around. “What?”
“It’s no secret he’s been wanting to go back to England, you know, and . . .”
“Jason wouldn’t do that,” Seph said dismissively.
Okaaay, Jack thought. If Madison had hexed Seph, was it possible she had something to do with Jason’s disappearance?
Jack knew better than to voice that theory aloud.
“What about Maddie?” Ellen asked. “Is she coming back?”
Seph shook his head. “She says she can’t. Not now, anyway.”
Jack thought it best to change the subject. “So what do you think we should do? About the assassins, I mean?”
“Everybody seems to know about the Dragonheart,” Seph said. “I can watch for magical activity, and do something if I see it, but anybody can walk into my house and try and kill me. Or walk into St. Catherine’s and walk out with the Dragonheart. There’s always the chance they’ll get away with it.”
“That’d be a trick,” Jack said. “None of us can get near the stone without getting slammed. Plus isn’t the crypt totally warded?”
“Too many things I didn’t think could happen are happening,” Seph said. “Like the hex.”
“Not that it’s done us any good so far,” Jack pointed out. “The Dr
agonheart, I mean.”
“And the sanctuary is open to everybody, technically speaking,” Ellen said.
“That’s going to have to change.”
They both turned to look at Seph.
“We need to change the way we handle security in the sanctuary.”
“How do you mean?” Jack asked.
Seph released a long breath. “Wizards are collecting like vultures. The White Rose, the Red Rose, the unaffiliated. The Dragonheart must be drawing them here. It’s like something woke it up—and now it’s sending out a beacon. Wizards are constantly in and out of town, like they’re looking for something. I’m using mind magic to keep them away from the church. Like when Leesha was poking around in there today.
“It’s delicate, though. If I’m too heavy-handed, it’ll draw their notice. If I lose focus, they’ll be into the church in no time. Meanwhile, I always have to watch my back. Nobody wants to close the perimeter, but I don’t think we have a choice.” He ran his tongue over his cracked lips. “I just . . . I just can’t do this much longer, and there are other things that need attention. As long as there was hope that no one knew about the loot from Raven’s Ghyll, fortifying the boundary would’ve only tipped them off. I think we’re past that.”
“But how can we do that?” Jack asked. “It’s a town. Not a fortress. I mean, people commute to Cleveland and everything.”
“We still let the Anaweir come and go. It’s risky, but we can’t help that. We build a Weirwall that will keep the gifted out. We’ll get the sorcerers involved. Mercedes can be in charge, she’s good with materials. We establish a gate, with gatekeepers.” He looked up at Jack and Ellen. “That would probably be the warriors, living and dead.”
“Isn’t Mercedes tied up with the artifacts at the church?” Ellen asked.
“We’ve catalogued everything we’ve been able to classify. There are still a few mysteries, but we’ve kind of run into a dead end.”
Jack eyed Seph. “I still don’t see how that would work.”
“I’m responsible for security within the sanctuary,” Seph snapped. “And I’m going to do whatever I have to.”
The Heir Chronicles Omnibus Page 91