The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “A few times, since I’ve been here, parents have come to campus all fired up about something they’ve heard.

  Leicester meets with them, and they go away satisfied. Or, at least they go away. He can be very persuasive, I guess. Anyone who complains really pays for it later.” He cleared his throat. “Besides, it ain’t so bad if you don’t give him a reason to mess with you.”

  Seph remembered their visit to the Alumni House, Trevor begging Warren not to tell Dr. Leicester. “So what are Leicester and the alumni up to?”

  Trevor shook his head. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to. Tell you the truth, he don’t seem interested in the other students. I’m not sure he could pick me out of a lineup. But I’m not stupid. I figured out that if I cut class and messed with the teachers and smoked in the locker room, I’d pay for it. So I stopped. And since then he’s left me alone.”

  Seph pushed back his sweat-matted hair. “Listen, how can I call out of here?”

  “You can use any of the campus phones,” Trevor said. “If you have a calling card, the office makes the call for you.”

  “No, I need a phone I can use myself.”

  “There’s some kind of code to call direct. The office makes the calls.” Trevor hesitated. “Who you going to call?”

  “I need to reach my guardian. I’ve got to get out of here. Leicester won’t put the calls through.”

  “Just be careful, Seph. Leicester knows everything. What he doesn’t know, he’ll get out of you somehow.”

  “So if he asked you about this conversation, you’d tell him?”

  Trevor raised his hands, palms up. “Look, man, don’t blame me. It’s like you can’t help it. He’s a hypnotist or something.”

  Or something. Of course. Which meant Seph couldn’t confide in anyone, or ask anyone for help.

  “You mentioned someone named Jason. What’d he do? What happened to him?”

  “Look, forget I ever said anything about him.”

  Seph rested a hand lightly on Trevor’s shoulder, looked him in the eyes. “Tell me.”

  Trevor swallowed hard, as if trying to stop the words. “He was stirring things up. Wanted people to fight back against Dr. Leicester. Him and Sam and Peter. Then Sam drowned, and Peter and Jason are with the alumni now.”

  “Sam drowned?” Seph repeated. “Do you think . . .”

  “I don’t think anything.” Trevor gave Seph a look. “And don’t you push, because that’s all I know.”

  Seph had to find a way to escape. Leicester had made it clear he wasn’t going to let him go until he got what he wanted. With Leicester torturing him every night, Seph didn’t know how long he could keep saying no.

  After the conversation with Trevor, Seph began waging a very small, very unequal war against the Havens. He tried to run away three times in October, but they seemed to have an uncanny ability to track his movements. He hid in a delivery truck, but was intercepted at the gate. He tried to steal the school van, but the electrical system shorted out when he put the key into the ignition.

  His class attendance deteriorated. He took a case of beer from the Alumni House, and drank until he passed out, hoping to anesthetize himself. The first part of November, he set a fire in the art and music building after hours. When they dragged him into Leicester’s office, he said, “Expel me.” Instead, they confined him to his room and the dreams intensified.

  Night and day began to merge into a long and painful continuum. If he stayed up all night, he hallucinated during the day. Several times, hopelessly confused, he begged Trevor to tell him whether he was awake or asleep.

  Trevor seemed to have forgiven Seph for the sin of being gifted. He tried to help by cooperating with all of Seph’s experiments. On the theory that his dreams were being triggered by something in his room, Seph spent the night on Trevor’s floor. The dreams followed him. Trevor stayed over in Seph’s room, so he could wake him when the dreams began. But it was impossible to wake Seph from his nightmares, and Trevor couldn’t bear to be anywhere near while they were going on.

  Meanwhile, Leicester and the alumni watched him, like predators stalking wounded prey, waiting for him to falter so they could close in for the kill.

  Gregory Leicester sat in his favorite chair and gazed moodily out to sea. It was unnaturally dark for that time of day, and the lights were already ablaze out on the dock. They were predicting a northeaster, one of the first of the season. Leicester could always detect the drop in pressure when a storm was on the way.

  Joseph McCauley was both extraordinarily powerful and amazingly resistant. He’d been at the Havens for more than three months under intensive pressure. Save the one previous failure, no one had ever held out so long. Could Joseph have had some contact with Jason? No. He’d been careful to keep the two apart.

  As always, Leicester was impatient with the process, more so in this case, given the prize that lay within his grasp. Recruitment was messy and uncontrolled, and there was always the chance that the intended would escape by taking his own life. This his continuing rebellion was a warning. He resolved to have the staff keep a closer eye on Joseph.

  He was sure the matter could be handled more efficiently. He had no doubt he could quickly get what he wanted, given a free hand with the boy. It was D’Orsay who had insisted on this tender approach, the dreams that marked the soul and not the body. D’Orsay believed it would be difficult for the Wizard Council to trace this kind of slow poison to them, if it came to that. It was splitting hairs, but then that was a politician’s job.

  Leicester wished he had Joseph’s Weirbook. It would help to know a little more about him, his strengths and weaknesses. That might bring some insight, provide a strategy. He hungered for the opportunity to put that remarkable power into play.

  He drained his glass, feeling a little better. The boy knew there was a way out; he couldn’t help but be tempted to take it eventually. It might take a little research, a little more pressure, but Leicester was confident he would be successful in the end.

  Chapter Seven

  Jason

  You don’t have to understand. You just have to survive, Seph told himself.

  He dreamed every night now, and the nightmares were longer and more intense than before. He felt wasted mentally and physically, yet he forced himself to get up out of bed and walk over to the cafeteria and eat breakfast. Sometimes he went to class, sometimes he just returned to his room and lay staring at the ceiling.

  They were coming in the daytime too, striking out of nowhere, splitting him cleanly from reality in an instant. He would awaken screaming in math class, crying out in the middle of government, muttering and twitching in chemistry class. He nearly blew up the building when he ignited the chemicals in the lab.

  Everyone pretended not to notice. It was as if he traveled around campus with a dreadful disfigurement, and those around him had been told not to stare and point. It was impossible to learn anything. He no longer fought back, no longer spun any plots against them. The spark of resistance was extinguished in him, save his refusal to give them the one thing they wanted. He was like a prisoner under torture who refuses to surrender the password long after he’s forgotten why. It was all he could do just to be in the world.

  The only thing that helped was walking. As long as he kept moving, the demons couldn’t catch him. At first he walked restlessly from building to building. Later, he put on snowshoes and walked for miles through the woods. Once he made it as far as the wall that bordered the property. But he couldn’t find the gate and he couldn’t seem to get a grip on it to climb before they came and took him back.

  Or maybe that was just a dream.

  Christmas was coming, but Seph wasn’t looking forward to it. Trevor had invited Seph to spend Christmas in Atlanta, but Leicester vetoed the idea. Seph’s condition was too delicate, he said. Seph had to admit that anyone who saw him would have to agree. He looked terrible. He continued to lose weight despite eating all he could.

  He had be
gun to think of ways to kill himself: clever, foolproof ways that wouldn’t land him in the infirmary. He imagined he was locked in a room with two doors. Death lay behind one of them, Gregory Leicester and his offer behind another. There was no other way out, as far as he could see.

  * * *

  Trevor Hill was worried about Seph. He knew from experience that one night of “therapy” was life changing.

  From what he’d seen and heard, Seph had suffered through forty or fifty of them. Yet there seemed to be something iron-hard in Seph, some stubborn instinct for survival that kept him going.

  Still, Trevor could tell that Seph was failing. He looked frail, insubstantial, like someone whose spirit is devouring his flesh. By now, he might actually be mentally ill, his brain damaged by days and nights of torture. Trevor felt guilty because he hadn’t been able to offer any help. Guilty because he was glad it was Seph and not him. Confused because he couldn’t figure out why Seph was being targeted. He wasn’t like the other alumni, who treated Trevor and the others like dirt when they noticed them at all.

  On the day the term ended, Trevor invited Seph to his room to keep him company while he packed. Trevor had ordered Christmas presents through the mail to take home with him. He’d wrapped up some books for Seph, and insisted that he open them.

  Seph sprawled on his back on Trevor’s bed in a kind of persistent twilight. He clenched and unclenched his hands, twitching and shivering by turns, staring out at the world with his changeable eyes as if he could see things no one else could see. Sometimes he touched the cross he always wore around his neck and muttered to himself in French.

  “Look,” Trevor said finally. “Give me the name of that law firm in London. I’ll call them from my folks’ house while I’m home.”

  For a moment, Trevor thought he hadn’t heard. Then Seph stirred. “Won’t do any good. I’ve written to them a hundred times. They’ve never responded.”

  “Well, maybe it would help if they heard it from someone else,” Trevor insisted.

  “All right. I’ll get you the number.”

  Trevor studied him. “Hey,” he said softly. “You going to be all right?”

  Seph didn’t answer for a moment, and that hesitation worried Trevor even more. “I’ll be okay,” he said finally. “I don’t know what else they can do to me.”

  The campus was eerily quiet after the departure of the other students. The regular meal service was discontinued over break, but the dining room in the Alumni House continued to operate. Seph took his meals there with the faculty and other alumni who remained on campus.

  It made no sense. Didn’t they have families? Didn’t they have anywhere better to go for the holidays?

  Seph shuffled through Trevor’s books with the idea of losing himself in fiction, but couldn’t seem to concentrate. Entire days vanished from memory. He continued to walk when he felt up to it.

  Sloane’s sent a large gift basket and a generous gift certificate, a card printed with his name. Back in September, Seph had been convinced he’d be expelled from the Havens by Christmas. Now all he could think about was escape.

  Christmas Eve dinner was served by candlelight in the elegant, two-story alumni-staff dining hall. Bruce Hays and Warren Barber, the two enforcers, sat on either side of Seph. The other thirteen alumni were ranged around the table. He grappled with the names, was pleased when he remembered most of them. He hadn’t dreamed for several days, and his head was clearer than usual.

  Martin Hall was functioning as sommelier, circling the table, opening wine and pouring. Liquor flowed at the open bar, and a different wine was paired with each course. Leicester wasn’t there.

  Tension crouched in the room like a snappish dog, and Seph couldn’t help but think that he was the source of it. The others watched him when they thought he wasn’t looking and whispered together at the far ends of the table.

  “Where’s Dr. Leicester?” he asked Bruce, as the fish course was taken away.

  Hays wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “He left two days ago. Went back home to England, I guess. Be gone a week.”

  “So, drink up, Joseph.” Barber put the wine glass into his hand. “Cat’s away.”

  Seph had, in fact, been pacing himself, making a show of sipping at his wine, and ignoring the whisky Barber set by his right hand. The others drank with desperate intensity, like mourners at a wake.

  After dessert, Ashton Rice sat down at the piano and began banging out carols. Their voices rose in a drunken, off-key chorus. Hays and Barber didn’t sing. They set a whisky bottle between them and took turns pouring.

  “Doesn’t anyone go home for Christmas?” Seph asked, oppressed by the forced gaiety, yet hoping he might learn something useful.

  “Home is no longer . . . relevant,” Hays mumbled, looking surprised to have come up with the word. He blinked at Seph owlishly. “You’ll find out. You’ll see. We’re like . . . blood brothers. Bloody . . . Siamese twins.” He groped for the bottle.

  Barber slammed his glass down on the table, rattling the crockery. “Only, Joseph’s too good to join, remember?”

  The singing dwindled away, and Seph was once again the reluctant center of attention. He cleared his throat. “Maybe if you tell me what’s going on . . .”

  “He’d rather go crazy.” Barber clutched at Seph’s shirtfront and dragged him to his feet. “The rest of us have to answer to Leicester. But Seph’s got his principles.”

  Seph found himself nose to nose with Barber’s stub-bled face. “Hey, let go!” Seph tried to wrench himself free, and heard fabric tearing. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Hays pawed ineffectually at Barber’s shoulder. “C’mon, Warren. Joseph’ll be all right. Give him time.”

  “In the meantime, we’re paying for it.” Barber shoved Seph up against the wall. “Maybe we haven’t properly explained . . . the benefits of membership. We’re your only friends now, do you hear me? Other than us, you got nobody.”

  Seph felt the burn of power building at his core. “Let go. I’m warning you.”

  “Warren . . .” Hays sounded worried. Eggars rose to his feet like he wanted to intervene, but was unsure how to proceed. The others clustered unhappily around them.

  “Leicester’s been . . . on our backs . . . since September,” Barber gasped, punctuating his speech by slamming Seph against the wall. “What’s it going to take?” “Leave . . . me . . . alone!” Seph shoved out with both hands. Months of fear and frustration seemed to detonate in his fingers and a percussion like a gunshot sent Barber flying backward onto the table. He slid across it on his back and off the other side, sending wineglasses and dessert plates crashing. Seph charged after him, vaulted over the table, and leaped on top of Barber as he lay on the floor. They wrestled briefly, Seph smashing his fist into Barber’s face, Barber too drunk to evade him. And then they dragged Seph back, several of them together, pinning his arms, their hands hot and electrical against his skin.

  Barber staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Seph, murder on his face. But help came from an unexpected quarter. Martin Hall stepped between them, holding the butcher knife that had been used on the crown roast. The blade wavered in his hand, but it was very large. “Get back, Warren. You’re not yourself.”

  “Get out of the way!” Barber said, coming on.

  “And if Dr. Leicester comes back and finds you’ve beaten him to death, what then?”

  Barber’s forward progress slowed, then stopped.

  “Stop it, Warren! Hasn’t there been enough bloodshed already?” Martin waved the knife wildly, and Barber stepped back. Martin turned toward Seph, and Seph was surprised to see that his face was streaked with tears. He gestured with the knife. “Let him go. You know as well as I do that he’s not the enemy.”

  After a moment, the grip on Seph’s arms relaxed. The hot hands dropped away.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Seph pivoted so he could look into all their faces, hidden and revealed in the candlelight. “Why
do you stay here? What kind of hold does he have on you?”

  Barber clenched his fists. “Who the hell do you think you are, lecturing us?”

  Seph was beyond caring. “He’s gone! He’s in England. This is our chance. Let’s get out of here. Or, if you like it here so much, then let me go.”

  Martin spoke with great dignity and sorrow. “We can’t do what you ask, Joseph. Now, go on back to your room and lock the door until my colleagues have sobered up.”

  They all stood watching as Seph backed out of the dining hall, leaving with more questions than answers.

  Despite the episode in Alumni House, Seph slept peacefully on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, nearly twenty-four hours in all. He assumed that it was because Leicester was away. As a result, his head was clearer than it had been for a long time, and being in the Alumni House gave him an idea.

  He knew his letters to Sloane’s were being intercepted. After all, Seph was a valuable client with a large trust fund who would gain control of it one day.

  Which made him think of e-mail again.

  Surely the alumni were online. That must be why they had their own library. If there was no access in the library, he’d break into someone’s room. Maybe Trevor had called Sloane’s, but Seph decided he couldn’t afford to wait until classes resumed to find out. By then, Leicester would have returned and he would no longer have easy access to the Alumni House.

  He waited until the day after Christmas, after his third good night’s sleep in a month. He ate a late breakfast with Martin and Peter in the dining room at the Alumni House. He made it a point to sit with them, and tried to question them, but got nowhere at all.

  Barber slouched in just as they were finishing, wearing what looked like a major hangover. Seph jumped when Barber patted him on the shoulder, but Barber acted like he didn’t remember the confrontation at dinner. And perhaps he didn’t. He’d been pretty wasted.