The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

by Cinda Williams Chima

  “Maddie.”

  “So Daddy offered Carlene some kind of cut. And you set fire to the shed and hung out until Grace and John Robert tried to put it out and then took them down to town. Now tell me. What would you have done if one of the kids had been hurt?”

  “Maddie, listen . . .”

  “Don’t you call me Maddie. My friends call me Maddie. Your problem is, you think everyone else is an idiot. Don’t you think I had plans for this summer? You sit down here with your fake farm and your ‘Sylvia will be heartbroken’ when Sylvia probably wouldn’t care if you took her seven-layer cake and nailed it to the barn door.”

  Brice looked like he’d just taken a severe blow to the head. “What? What’s Sylvia got to ...”

  “Because Sylvia has a life, aside from being your housekeeper. And I have a life that doesn’t involve sucking up to you. So if you think you’re ever going to get your hands on Booker Mountain, you better think again.”

  That got his attention.

  “You’re nobody.” He looked at her as if she was something he’d scraped off his shoe. “Fifth generation inbred trash. But when I ask you out, you have the nerve to say no. Like you’re too good for me, when you’ve been with every other guy at the high school.” He snorted.

  Correction: she’d been asked out by practically every other guy at the high school. And said no. But that didn’t stop them from talking.

  “The only reason you still have that mountain is because nobody ever wanted it before,” he went on. “Carlene’s totally pathetic, but at least she understands the way things work.”

  “You leave my mother out of this,” Madison said, which was pretty stupid when you thought about it. “I’d rather be who I am than who you are, ripping the tops off of mountains, poisoning streams, crapping all over the land and never cleaning up your own mess, bowing and scraping to your daddy, who’d run over a kitten on his way to the bank.”

  “You’d better watch your mouth. I’m warning you.” Brice swelled up with power like a kind of magical toad disguised as a male model.

  Her mouth had gotten away from her again. Not that Brice didn’t deserve it, but the last thing she wanted was to have him try wizardry on her and raise more questions. She stared out the window, fighting for control.

  “Are we done here?” She turned toward the door. “We’d better get back to the house.”

  Brice was on her in three quick strides. He grabbed hold of her upper arms, stinging fingers biting into her flesh. “We’re not done here. We’re going to settle this.”

  He clumsily slammed power into her. It was meant to cause pain—meant to be a quick, convincing jab, but it was a far cry from the elegant delivery she was used to. Then his smile slid away, his eyes widened, and he reared back, struggling to free himself. Finally, drained dry, he crumpled to the floor and lay, face up, arms flung out in front of him like he was trying to grab onto something he couldn’t reach.

  Madison leaned over him. “There’s something else you don’t know about me. I’m not afraid of wizards.” She turned and walked out of the studio, leaving him lying on the floor.

  So much for hiding out, she thought as she made her way back down the path. So much for laying low. It would be nice if, for once, you could think something and not say it out loud. Who else did Brice know and who might he be talking to?

  When she arrived at the house, Grace and John Robert were sitting at the dining room table, stuffing down big slabs of chocolate layer cake and tall glasses of lemonade garnished with mint sprigs, lemon slices, and with lemon sugar on the rims. Like poor folk invited up to the big house.

  John Robert’s face was smeared with frosting and enthusiasm. “Try this cake, Maddie. It’s awesome!”

  “I’m sure it is.” Madison avoided looking at Sylvia, who was hovering nearby. “But, you know, I can’t eat chocolate cake and lemonade together. Makes the lemonade taste sour and the cake too sweet. Finish up now, J.R. We have to go.”

  “Where’s Mr. Roper?” Grace asked.

  “He’s up at his mother’s old studio,” Madison said. “He decided to stay a while.”

  “Mr. Roper says I can come back and ride Abby whenever I want,” Grace announced, daintily blotting her lips with her napkin.

  “I think Mr. Roper’s changed his mind,” Madison said.

  Grace dropped her fork onto her plate with a clatter, thunderclouds gathering on her face. “Why, what did you say to him?”

  Madison hesitated, then decided to go with the truth. “Mr. Roper’s daddy wants Booker Mountain. I said no. He’s kind of mad about it.”

  “Where would we live if he took the mountain?” J.R. asked around his last bite of cake.

  “That’s one of the problems,” Madison said. “That’s why I said no.”

  “We could move someplace else,” Grace suggested.

  “I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Madison said.

  On the way up the mountain, Grace commented that Brice Roper was kind of a jerk, but he had nice horses. Madison told her that there was no such thing as a free ride.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Strong-arm Tactics

  Leesha felt like the outside man in a crime-scene stakeout. She’d sat in her car in the far corner of St. Catherine’s parking lot all morning, watching the custodians patch a hole in the asphalt. The new blacktop steamed and reeked in the noon sun. There was little traffic in and out of the church at midday on a Monday.

  She’d been in the church a half-dozen times herself. Had spoken to the frumpy woman in the church office, to the priest, and the nerdy altar boy after Mass. Had enticed them to the garden, where at least she could use Persuasion. They’d shared all their pathetic secrets, but it was clear they knew nothing about magical artifacts. She’d searched the sanctuary, but turned up nothing. If the Dragonheart was there, it was hidden securely behind magical wards.

  Churches were like saunas. They made you sweat and flooded all your magical pores. It was a relief to be outside.

  Leesha’s new plan was admittedly sketchy. She’d wait until one of the Weir showed up, then follow them into the church and see where that led her. If the church surveillance turned up nothing, she’d have to contemplate more direct action to find the location of the Dragonheart.

  Maybe she was wasting her time. Jason could have taken the Dragonheart with him when he left. Maybe Jason was dead, and Barber already had what he wanted.

  Jason.

  She’d had no choice, she told herself. Barber wasn’t playing around. The beating he’d given her was just an introductory offer. D’Orsay had tried to kill Barber and failed. She couldn’t run away because Barber would use the torc to kill her, if she left the sanctuary. As long as she wore the torc, Barber knew just where to find her. And only he could take it off.

  No choice. She’d be dead by now if she hadn’t given Jason up. She stared glumly out at a world that seemed gray and colorless without him in it. She wished Barber would contact her, just so she’d know.

  A battered old Jeep pulled into the lot and a familiar figure vaulted out, not bothering with the door. It was that awful Ellen Stephenson, who’d hooked up with Jack after Leesha broke up with him. Who’d slimed her with hot fudge at Corcoran’s that one time. Who’d turned out to be the Red Rose Warrior and conspired with Jack to destroy the Covenant at Raven’s Ghyll.

  Definitely a person of interest.

  But Ellen didn’t go into the church. Instead, she cut across the parking lot and headed into the woods between the churchyard and the lake. Strange.

  Leesha slid out of the car and crossed the lot, trailing after Ellen.

  Ellen followed a wood-chip path that snaked north, toward the lakeshore. The warrior walked fast, and what with her long legs, Leesha had to move at a trot to keep up. The path was narrow, and briars caught at her clothing and tore at her hair while Ellen put more and more distance between them. Leesha crashed along behind, giving up on trying to move silently through the forest. I
f she’d planned on hiking, she’d have worn flats. As it was, she’d probably catch poison ivy.

  Eventually the path emerged into a small clearing, studded with stickers and small bushes. No sign of Ellen. Leesha pivoted to scan the meadow, then froze as something cold touched the back of her neck.

  “You looking for me?”

  Leesha turned to see Ellen on the other end of a very long sword that pressed into the base of Leesha’s collarbone.

  “Hey!” she said, taking a step back. “Careful. Do you know how hard it is to get blood out of silk?”

  “Won’t be a problem if you’re dead,” Ellen replied, then looked up, over Leesha’s head, and smiled. Not reassuring. Leesha carefully turned, and there was Jack, packing his own big sword and wearing a nasty expression.

  “Oh!” Leesha said. “Well. Excuse me. I didn’t mean to intrude on your woodland rendezvous.”

  “You’re not intruding,” Jack said. “In fact, you’re the guest of honor.”

  Leesha felt the first pricklings of panic, but tried to keep it off her face.

  “I was thinking of hunting renegade wizards.” Ellen shrugged. “You up for it, Jack?”

  “I’m game.” Leesha couldn’t help noticing that he had a surprisingly wicked smile. And he used to be so nice.

  “We want to know what happened to Jason,” Ellen said. “And what part you played in it.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I haven’t seen Jason for days.”

  “Jason’s disappeared,” Jack said.

  “Well, that’s a shame. But why ask me about it?”

  Jack glared at her. “You two have been hanging out.”

  “Have not.”

  Ellen’s blade pressed into her throat again.

  “OK, fine. I hang out with a lot of people.” She conjured up her most patronizing expression. “I mean, it’s nice of you warriors to be worried about Jason and all, but I think he can take care of himself.”

  “Jason’s our friend,” Ellen said. “And we’re wondering who you’re working for.”

  “What makes you think I’m working for someone?”

  “You’re a trader. Traders are always in it for the cash.” Ellen looked down her long nose at Leesha. “Still, it’s hard to believe anyone our age would be such a mercenary.”

  That’s what she was. A mercenary. She’d sold Jason out. No matter how many times she told herself she’d had no choice. Still. It wouldn’t do Jason any good if she got kicked out of the sanctuary, and Barber ended her pathetic life.

  Leesha drew herself up to her full height, which, to be honest, wasn’t that impressive. The warriors still towered over her. “I don’t answer to you. Now, why don’t you run along and hone your weapons or rattle your swords or whatever warriors do in their spare time.”

  “Whoa,” Ellen said. “Good thing we’re here in the sanctuary, where attack magic doesn’t work. Otherwise, I’d be wetting myself.” Sliding her giant sword into its case, she reached for Leesha.

  From force of habit, Leesha spoke her immobilization charm, knowing as she did so it was useless. And it was. Crap.

  Ellen gripped her wrists, bending her arms painfully behind her back. Jack lifted the tip of his sword so it rested at the base of her throat.

  Jack smiled. “One thing you can say for magical swords. Even in the absence of magic, they retain a certain functionality.”

  Which couldn’t be argued with, really.

  “So what’s up, Leesha?” Jack said. “Why are you still here?”

  “You wouldn’t hurt me,” Leesha said. Which ordinarily would be true. Jack was so the heroic type. Unless he was angry. Angry warriors could lose control. Who knew Jack and Jason were so tight?

  Then there was Ellen, who was twisting her arms, practically yanking them out of their sockets. Ellen wouldn’t hesitate to hurt her. She still held a grudge about Leesha and Jack.

  No attack magic. It was unfair.

  She couldn’t help Jason. Wherever he was, he was beyond reach. And if Jack and Ellen knew she’d played a role in his betrayal . . . But she could give up Warren Barber. She hated Warren Barber’s guts. And all his other parts.

  Besides, traders were not known for giving their lives for their employers.

  “Okay,” she said. “Ease up. What would you like to know?”

  In answer, Ellen pushed Leesha down to her knees in the tall weeds, still keeping hold of her wrists. “Tell us about Jason,” she said. “I’m not sure what happened to him, but I can tell you that Warren Barber was involved.” That was perfectly true. “Warren Barber?” Jack looked totally blindsided. “I thought he was dead or something.” Leesha shook her head. “Nope. Unfortunately.” “Why would he go after Jason?” Ellen asked from behind. Leesha knew she should choose her words carefully, but it was hard to think. “Barber knew that Jason stole some things from Raven’s Ghyll. He wanted to get them back.” “How did he . . . What gave him that idea?” Ellen demanded, releasing Leesha and circling around in front.

  Because Leesha had told him, of course. “D’Orsay must’ve told him,” Leesha said, rubbing her arms and rotating her shoulders.

  Jack squatted in front of Leesha. “Why does D’Orsay think it was Jason that snuck into the ghyll?” “I guess Jason ran into D’Orsay’s son on his way out,” Leesha said. Jack and Ellen looked at each other, then back at Leesha.

  “What was it that Jason supposedly stole?” Ellen asked. “Magical stuff.” “So Barber’s working for D’Orsay?” “He’s working for himself.” She took a breath. “He has the Covenant, you know. The one that makes D’Orsay king for life.” “What?” Jack swore under his breath. “Barber has it?” Ellen sat back on her heels. “How’d he get it?” “He took it from Second Sister in all the confusion.” Jack squinted at her suspiciously. “What good does it do him? Does he really want to answer to Claude D’Orsay?”

  “I think he sees himself as more of an equal partner.”

  “So why haven’t they consecrated the agreement, then?” Ellen asked.

  Leesha shrugged. “I don’t know. But Barber wanted to find Jason.”

  “How do you know all this?” Jack asked.

  “He wanted me to help, but I refused, of course.”

  “Right.” Ellen swept her hair off her forehead.

  “He might’ve found out Jason was leaving the sanctuary and intercepted him. So if Jason was carrying the stuff, Barber has it. If not, he probably knows where it is by now. He can be very persuasive.” Leesha resisted the temptation to touch her collar.

  “Any idea where Barber is?” Ellen asked.

  “Nope.” Leesha stood, brushing at her clothes. “Don’t say thanks or anything.”

  Jack seized her by one arm, and Ellen by the other. “Where are you staying, Leesha?” Ellen asked.

  “You know where. With my Aunt Milli. At Shrewsbury Commons. Why?”

  “Let’s go get your stuff.”

  “Why? What do you mean?” Jack and Ellen said nothing, but began manhandling her back toward the parking lot. “Oh, no. I’m not leaving the sanctuary. I can’t, not after what I’ve already told you. Barber will kill me.”

  “Just make sure you’re far away from here when he does it,” Jack suggested.

  “Look, you can’t kick me out of the sanctuary. It’s open to everybody.”

  “We’re changing the rules,” Ellen said. “Too much riffraff coming in and ruining the small-town ambience.”

  Leesha tried to dig her heels in, but the two warriors simply picked her up and carried her. It was humiliating. Leesha kicked and squirmed and swore. “I won’t forget this. You’ll be sorry.” She tried releasing Persuasion into them, but they dropped her to the ground, then picked her up again when she was done.

  In no time they were back at the parking lot and maneuvering her toward the Jeep.

  “Okay, fine!! You win!” Leesha said, in a voice that made heads turn across the street. She wrenched free of their grip and slumped against t
he side of the Jeep, breathing hard and scared to death. If she betrayed Barber, she’d be dead in a heartbeat. But she had no choice. Again.

  “All right,” she said. “You let me stay in the sanctuary and I promise I’ll give you Barber.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Mind-Burner

  Dystrophe turned his collar up against the raw breath of the lake, knowing he must be getting close. He had no need to consult the scrap of paper in his pocket—he’d memorized the address and the description of the house.

  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.