“Joseph,” Leceister said, in the manner of a man who is trying hard to be reasonable. “Everyone else here has agreed.”
Seph looked around the circle of faces. Hays and Barber were openly smirking, eyes slitted against the rain. Some of the celebrants looked back at him stoically.
Others, including Peter, looked down at their feet or off into the distance. It was not especially reassuring.
“I’m sorry,” Seph said. “I just can’t.”
“Fine,” Leicester said venomously. “Then suffer the consequences.” The wizard took a step toward Seph, extending the staff. Seph retreated, but came up against someone—Hays or Barber—who held him in place. Leicester pressed the blood-smeared head of the staff against Seph’s chest, over his wildly beating heart. Power pulsed through it like some kind of magical CPR machine.
“It won’t be long before you’ll beg for another chance.” He motioned to the rest of the alumni. “Come along. We’re wasting time here.”
The alumni disappeared into the trees, leaving Seph to pick his way back through the wet forest on his own.
Chapter Six
Consequences
Seph woke in the pitch black, freezing and soaking wet. He pushed himself upright, his palms sliding against sodden, splintering wood. Moonlight intruded through two windows, high on the wall. He sat hip deep in frigid water, and more poured in through a great square hole in the floor. Still disoriented, he staggered to his feet.
He was in the boathouse. He recognized it from his visit with Trevor during the campus tour. He could make out the vague shapes of equipment hanging on the wall, see small objects already bobbing against the dark surface of the water.
He’d returned to his room after the aborted ceremony in the woods. How had he ended up here? And where was the flood coming from?
The water slapped against the walls, higher than before, almost to Seph’s knees. His mind was slow to process. Was the tide coming in? Surely they would build a boathouse to withstand the tide. People who knew about oceans would know better than that.
His wet khakis clung unpleasantly to his legs. The water had reached his thighs. With difficulty, he waded to the door and pulled the handle. It didn’t budge. He yanked again, bracing a foot against the doorframe. Stuck. Or locked. Panic fluttered under his breastbone. The water was rising, and he couldn’t get out.
It didn’t make sense. Surely this old building wasn’t watertight. It ought to leak water like a sieve. Had he been drugged, spelled, carried here by the alumni on Leicester’s orders? For what?
He squinted into the darkness, teeth chattering with fear and cold, looking for a way out.
He could swim out through the boat well, though he didn’t like the idea of diving into that black water. By now it was so deep, only a disturbance on the surface told him where the opening began and the floor ended. He moved cautiously forward, feeling for the edge of the floor with feet that felt clumsy and numb with the cold. Blundering off the edge, he plunged feet-first into freezing water. He shot back to the surface, propelled by the current, and raked his wet hair out of his face. Folding himself at the waist, he tried to dive deep, but was thrust back to the surface each time, gasping for air. There was no escape that way.
Coughing and spitting out salt water, he found the edge of the floor again. When he stood up, the water lapped at his collarbone. He needed to get to higher ground. He bumped into the fish-cleaning table, pulled himself up, and managed to plant his feet on it. Now he was immersed only to his waist, but he hit his head on the ceiling, and the water was still rising.
“Help!” he screamed, his shouts faint and ineffective. “I’m locked in the boathouse! Help! I’m drowning!”
While standing on the table, he could just reach one of the small windows if he stretched far to one side. Grabbing a large landing net that hung on the wall, he slammed it against the glass. The net was lightweight, and he was working at such an angle that he couldn’t produce much force against it. Finally he lost his footing, flailed wildly for a moment, and went under again.
He surfaced, spluttering, treading water. Then he gasped as something slid past him, roiling the surface of the black water like a great serpent, its rough hide scraping him as it went by.
Seph sucked in a breath and went absolutely still, save the rough pounding of his pulse. For a moment, the water was quiet. Then a thick, muscular tentacle searched along his leg, slid upward, and tightened around his waist.
He pushed at the creature, pounded on it, tried to push himself out of its grasp using both hands, getting a mouthful of water as he did so. His fists made no impression on its leathery hide. His flailing foot encountered something soft and yielding, and the monster’s grip relaxed fractionally. Launching himself upward, Seph wrapped his arms around one of the rough wooden beams that supported the roof.
He clung there, gasping for breath, but he could not lift himself completely out of the water. Ripples spread from the far corner as the creature surfaced, its pale, dispassionate eyes and razor teeth revealed in the light from the window. A squid? An octopus? Some unknown monster that had lain hidden in the ocean’s depths until now?
Once again, a tentacle quested forward, sliding beneath the water like a great snake. It explored along his thigh, then wrapped about his hips.
Slowly, inexorably, it dragged at him. Desperate, he tightened his hold on the ceiling beam, turning his face upward so he could gulp some air. He no longer tried to dislodge his attacker, but held on for dear life. His joints cracked as a relentless strength threatened to pull him apart.
Suddenly, the monster rocketed forward in an explosion of spray and fastened its teeth into his right leg. Seph screamed and tried to pull it off, losing his grip on the beam. He managed one last breath, sucking in a mixture of seawater and air, before he was pulled beneath the water and into black despair.
Light awoke Seph a second time, painful light that caused him to roll onto his face to exclude it. He was in bed. Something terrible lurked in memory, a beast kept leashed in the back room of his mind.
He swallowed; his throat was so raw it brought tears to his eyes. He felt like he’d been beaten. Every muscle in his body ached. He struggled to his knees, and then the full recollection of the night before flooded back. He vomited over the side of the bed and onto the floor. His throat felt worse than ever.
He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. It gradually came to him that he was in a bed, back in his room in the dormitory. He was soaked in sweat, not in seawater, and he was alive. He ran his hand tentatively down his right leg, then his left, and could find no evidence of injury. He checked twice, to make sure. Hot tears of relief filled his eyes, slid from the corners and onto his pillow.
The monster had ripped him apart. He’d gazed hopelessly up at the undersurface of the ocean as his own blood clouded the water, had tasted it in his mouth, had felt the great jaws close on his flesh, tearing it away in pieces. His struggles had grown weaker as he succumbed to oxygen starvation and loss of blood.
Still, it had taken a long time to die.
He sat up, drew his knees up into a protective position, and leaned his chin on his hands, shivering. Had it been a dream, then? If so, it was like no dream he’d ever had before. It was the three-dimensional, surround-sound, full-color mother-of-all dreams.
His bedding was completely mangled, evidence of a struggle that had lasted most of the night. The ceiling and walls were pocked with scorch marks, as if he’d been flinging out sparks. Good thing they hadn’t caught or he’d have burned to death.
He slid out of bed, avoiding the mess on the floor, went into the bathroom and rinsed out his mouth. His face stared back at him from the mirror, pale and haggard. Gingerly, he fingered the broken blood vessels around his eyes. Half-moon welts marched across his palms, the prints of his nails.
Grabbing a towel, he mopped up the floor as best he could. He carried it into the hall and threw it into a laundry bag, then help
ed himself to fresh towels from the linen cart, working automatically. He lay back down in bed and turned his face to the wall, afraid to sleep, too tired and heartsick to do anything else.
Leicester’s words came back to him.
It’s not unusual for untrained wizards to go insane.
* * *
The next morning was Monday. Seph didn’t go to breakfast, or attend his first class in the morning. Around 10 a.m., when Dr. Leicester returned to his office, Seph was waiting outside, seated on the floor, arms clasped around his knees.
“Joseph,” the headmaster said, looking down at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be in class?”
“I need to talk to you,” Seph said. It was more of a whisper. It hurt to speak.
“Why don’t you come back this afternoon, after classes are over? You don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.”
“I’m already off on the wrong foot. I need to talk to you now.”
“Of course. Come in.” He stood aside so Seph could enter his office. Seph moved carefully, because every part of him hurt, body and soul.
For his part, the headmaster looked almost cheerful.
“Sit down,” Leicester said, closing the door behind him and gesturing toward the table by the window.
“I’ll stand. This won’t take long.” Seph gathered his thoughts. “I came to tell you that this isn’t working out, this placement, I mean. Since I can’t be trained in wizardry here, I’m going to contact my guardian and make arrangements for a transfer.”
Leicester raised his hands to stop the speech. “Joseph, sit down.” When Seph didn’t respond, he added, “Sit down, I said.”
Seph sat. Leicester sat across from him, steepling his hands and resting his chin on his fingertips. “I’d hoped perhaps you’d come to tell me you’d changed your mind.”
“I have. I’ve realized that coming here was a mistake.”
“Are you so sure of that? Where else are you going to get the help you need?”
“I’ll find someone else to teach me.”
“Really? Who? You told me yourself you’ve been looking for a teacher for two years. I believe you’re running out of time.”
“I’ve done all right so far.”
“Have you?” The headmaster studied him. “You’re having symptoms, aren’t you?”
Seph looked him in the eyes. “No.” He’d been lying for a lifetime and was really good at it.
Leicester wasn’t impressed. “What is it? Hallucinations? Voices? Dreams? Paranoia?”
“Nothing.”
“If you are hallucinating, it is your own fault. You have to give us the chance to help you.” Leicester leaned back and folded his arms. “Cooperate with us, Joseph. That’s all we ask.” He smiled.
Seph remembered the scene at the chapel: the flickering torchlight, the altar, his blood flowing into the stone cup, the staff blazing up.
The warning on Peter’s face.
Seph leaned forward. “If you want to help me, then teach me. But I’m not joining your cult or club or whatever.”
The smile froze on Leicester’s face. Then withered. “Let me be plain. Our enemies are gathering. My House—the White Rose—is the current holder of the Hoard. That is the collection of magical artifacts handed down over the centuries through the tournament system.
“Last week, operatives believed to be working for the Dragon launched an attack against a magical repository in the southwest of Britain. They carried off weapons of unimaginable power.
“However, some believe the thieves were actually working for the Red Rose. There is talk of retaliatory action. As you can see, the stakes are incredibly high. The tiniest spark could set off a conflagration like the world has never known. I believe my initiative may be the last great hope for peace. Can you understand why I can’t risk training someone as powerful as you whose loyalty is questionable?”
It made sense. It made total sense. And yet Seph had been on his own long enough to learn to trust his instincts. And his instincts said that Leicester and Barber and Hays were not peacemakers. Maybe he was crazy, but he had nothing else.
He smiled his best smile. “Dr. Leicester. I wish you and the alumni the best of luck in preventing a Wizard World War.” If that’s what you’re really about. “But I’m really—you know—apolitical. I have a lot of personal issues to work through. I can’t be joining a movement. I’ll find someone to train me on the outside. And maybe when I’m older I’ll feel differently.” It was a pretty speech.
Seph stood. “I’m going to call Sloane’s in London. They’ll get me a flight, but I’ll need a way to the airport. I tried my calling card on the phone in my dorm, but couldn’t get through. I need to call this morning, during business hours.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said Gregory Leicester.
Seph was sure he’d misheard. “You’re not going to let me make a phone call?”
Leicester stood and leaned his hips back against the table. “It’s time to grow up, Joseph, and understand a few facts. Your guardian committed you. You are a minor, and he signed papers. Do you know what that means?”
“Committed me? Like I’m mentally incompetent or something?”
The headmaster sighed. “It looks like Mr. Houghton has not been completely straightforward with you. This is, in fact, a school for wayward and emotionally disturbed adolescents. I am, in fact, a psychologist.”
“What?” Seph thought of the glossy brochure with the sailboat on the front. “Houghton never said anything about psychiatric treatment.”
“The fact is, Mr. Houghton doesn’t want any more catastrophes. He only wants to know that you’re in recovery.”
The headmaster returned to the table and sat down, dropping the file onto the polished wood in front of him. Retrieving a pen from his pocket, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the folder and scratched out a few notes.
“I don’t believe you,” Seph said. Leicester kept scratching away. “I don’t drink or use drugs. No one ever said that I am a danger to myself or anyone else.”
Leicester glanced down at his folder. “Didn’t a student in Switzerland file assault charges against you?”
Perspiration trickled between Seph’s shoulder blades.
He wiped his damp palms on his jeans. “It was a misunderstanding. They dropped the charges.”
The headmaster tapped his pen on the papers in front of him. “There was also an . . . incident in Philadelphia.”
Seph stared at him wordlessly. How could Leicester possibly know about Philadelphia?
Unless Denis Houghton had told him.
After Genevieve died, Seph had been determined to find out more about his parents. Sloane’s had stonewalled him, so Seph had begun a search online, using the resources of adoptive children’s networks, the genealogy Web sites and mail lists, and electronic vital records. He’d finally found his birth record, showing he’d been born in Toronto to Helen Jacoby and Jared McCauley. When he’d tried to dig further, he’d found no birth records for them, no grandparents, aunts or uncles, no listings in city directories in California or Toronto, no news stories about the fire, no real estate records, nothing.
It was all just a pretty construct with no truth behind it.
He’d broken into the administrative offices of the school he’d attended at the time, in Philadelphia. He’d hoped there would be some record of his parents, or a money trail that might lead to some answers. All he’d found in his file was copies of tuition payments and vouchers for living expenses from Sloane’s. He had trashed the office in frustration. For that, he’d been expelled once again.
“Then there was the warehouse fire, of course.” Leicester opened the folder again and scanned a document inside. “You’ve quite a record with the police. Pity about that girl.”
A prickly heat collected in Seph’s hands and arms, symptoms that often portended a release. He struggled to control his anger. “Houghton doesn’t know anything about . . . about magic. Why wou
ld he blame me?”
“Mr. Houghton doesn’t think you’re a wizard. Mr. Houghton thinks you’re a violent young hoodlum who likes to set fires and blow things up.”
Seph recalled that last meeting in Toronto, Houghton’s tweeded arm about his shoulders. But who knew what Houghton might do? Sloane’s had been devoting some very expensive partner time to Seph McCauley’s problems.
“If Houghton had me committed, I want to hear it from him,” Seph said finally. His face was hot, his arms heavy, as if laden with power. And just then, he didn’t care to restrain it.
Leicester shrugged. “Write to him, if you like. You will not be allowed phone calls in your current . . . unstable condition.”
“Let me e-mail him, then.”
“Joseph. You must understand. I can’t risk having the Havens come to the attention of our enemies. And given your history, I cannot safely teach you wizardry without some element of control. It would be like putting a gun into the hand of a lunatic.”
As if to underscore the headmaster’s words, the fax machine exploded, sending shards of metal flying and clouds of toner rolling toward them.
Leicester looked a little rattled. “Joseph . . .”
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.
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 41