The Lost Heir (The Gryphon Chronicles, Book 1)

by E. G. Foley

  He had his nose in the air, as usual, and a smug smile on his face, one fist propped on his hip, his elbow bent at a cocky angle.

  Blimey, that man’s an egomaniac, thought Jake. Who kept a life-sized portrait of himself right at eyelevel—what, so he could kiss his own image?

  The painted Waldrick stood between the closet and a full-length oval mirror on a stand.

  The rest of Sir George’s face now materialized like a ghostly mask over his uncle’s painted face on the canvas. “Don’t you want to know what I saw that night?” Sir George pursued.

  “Of course,” Jake said impatiently.

  “I floated up out of the jail and I saw…her.”

  “Her who?”

  “The siren-hag! The singing-witch! The ugly-beauty. I followed her here. To Waldrick’s.”

  Jake furrowed his brow. “Fionnula?”

  “Yes. She’s behind it all, Jacob. Fionnula Coralbroom. Do you know anything about her?”

  “Only that she’s a sea-monster or something in her true form. With tentacles. On the train, I saw her use some sort of magical red feather to transform herself from that beast into a pretty woman. She rubs it in her hands and it turns into a poof of sparkly dust.”

  “What sort of feather?”

  “Don’t know. They do their best to keep me in the dark about everything.”

  “That’s why I’ve come. To help you, Jacob. I’ve seen many strange things since I’ve been dead. Things I’d have never believed when I was alive… Things you’re going to have to see for yourself to believe. Go on, punch me!” Sir George suddenly taunted.

  His face vanished, then instantly reappeared on the right side of the painting. He poked his head out of the portrait near Uncle Waldrick’s elbow.

  The ghost tapped himself on the chin. “Come on, boy! Right here! Take a swing! You know you want to.”

  “You’re right about that,” Jake muttered. He clenched his fist and socked the apparition in the face.

  Sir George let out a playful “Ow!” (since he surely felt nothing) but Jake gasped, for the blow he had landed had popped the right side of the painting forward.

  He stared. What the—? Cautiously he touched the edge of the portrait. It creaked inward…a hidden door!

  He opened it, inch by inch, and found a secret passageway behind it. Narrow wooden stairs headed straight down into the darkness.

  “There, was that so hard?” Sir George asked, floating over the staircase with his arms folded across his chest and a told-you-so smirk on his face. Then he turned around and started gliding down them. “Come.”

  Jake’s heart pounded. Hesitating, he glanced over his shoulder. Any moment now, they’d be calling him to make his grand entrance into the ballroom.

  But he wouldn’t likely get a chance again to find out what exactly his uncle was hiding. His mind made up, he stepped through the secret doorway and pulled the Waldrick painting shut behind him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Hidden Memories

  Dim light shone from the bottom of the stairs. Jake trailed his hand along the cool, clammy wall, steadying himself on the steep descent. When he came to the end of the stairs, he stepped into a strange, cave-like room.

  He glanced around at everything while Sir George floated on ahead. “What is this place?” he murmured.

  “What does it look like?”

  Jake shrugged. “I don’t know. Some sort of…wizard’s workshop. We’re underground?”

  “Indeed.” The ghost flew into the rounded alcove over a large, dark pool of water on the left. Jake stared at the worktable in the center of the room. It was heaped with dusty old books and scientific instruments that Archie would have loved.

  The distant wall was lined with wooden shelves, but he couldn’t see much in that area. It was cloaked in shadow. The only light came from the single lantern hanging on a peg behind him by the doorway.

  Sir George floated toward him, lowering his voice. “What if I told you I made some inquiries about Madame Coralbroom on the Other Side? Don’t ask how, more important is what I learned,” he advised when Jake started to interrupt. “Fionnula is a sea-witch, a fugitive from justice, and your uncle has been hiding her here for years, right under the Order’s nose.”

  “Why?” Jake asked.

  “Why, indeed?” the spirit whispered. “You know by now your uncle doesn’t help anyone unless he’s getting something out of it in return. He hides her from justice, and she uses her magic to help him reach his goals. Like stealing the title from his elder brother. And from you.”

  “Do you have proof?” Jake breathed. “Show me.”

  Sir George flew into Fionnula’s alcove, hovered over her stone-carved desk, and made the pages of her thick book of spells flutter open. “Look. What your uncle doesn’t know is that there are rumors on the Other Side that Fionnula has been in contact with the Dark Druids.”

  Jake’s eyes widened. He glanced at the ghost, but wasted no time, climbing around the pool for a closer look. Steadying himself on the slippery stone edge around the dripping pool, he nervously eyed the razor-toothed eel swishing around in the black water. If he fell in, he was quite sure the thing would eat him, leaving nothing but his bones.

  Fortunately, he reached her writing desk safely. He leaned closer to read the page Sir George was showing him in the witch’s grimoire. Across the top of the page was written:

  Dissembler’s Spell.

  For assuming the appearance of another.

  “You see?! Waldrick set me up!” Sir George grew as agitated as he had been in Newgate. He began to pace, a legless half-orb, half-apparition. “He was at the ball that night! He heard me make those stupid threats to your father—but I didn’t mean a word of it! I was just being a jealous fool! Haven’t you ever said something you didn’t mean, simply out of anger?”

  Jake thought instantly of Dani and nodded in regret. He laid his fingertips on the page to scan the list of ingredients. But the moment he touched the book, a strange thing happened. A rush of images flooded his mind.

  He suddenly felt like he was falling at breakneck speed, sliding feet first down some dark, weird tunnel full of twists and turns, coils and crevices—taking him into the darkest depths of Uncle Waldrick’s brain!

  He did not realize that was where he was at first.

  Understanding dawned a few seconds later as Jake found himself inside his uncle’s point of view, jarringly, at some moment in the past. A moment when Waldrick and Fionnula had been standing here in this very chamber, conspiring together.

  Waldrick was looking at himself in the rusty mirror, only it wasn’t his own face he saw, but the chubbier face of Sir George—well, an alive version—not the ghostly, bluish one that Jake had gotten used to.

  “This spell had better last long enough for me to get the job done, Fionnula.”

  The squidy sea-hag stood behind Waldrick in the memory. “It will. Just make sure you don’t lose your nerve,” she said in a hard tone.

  “There’s no fear of that—as long as you take care of Derek Stone. I trust you have prepared the spell to scramble his Guardian instincts?”

  “Of course. We’ve already sent it to him in a bottle of wine from your brother and wife, with a note of congratulations on his latest successful mission.”

  “Oh, the irony,” Waldrick drawled.

  “That’s not all. I have a surprise for you—special bullets I made just for your task! Strong enough even for a pair of Lightriders. Here you are, dear.” She emptied a handful of round silver bullets into Waldrick’s hand.

  “Why, that’s very kind of you.” ‘Hobbes’ smiled at her and loaded the magic-dipped bullets into his pistol. “I’ll go through the village in my disguise to make sure some of the locals see ‘Hobbes.’ The castle servants, as well. That drunken idiot will be doomed. Don’t forget to send the servitor to drive my carriage through Hyde Park this afternoon,” he added, “so that everyone will see ‘me’ far from the scene of the crime.”


  “Child’s play,” she replied.

  “Then I believe we are all set.”

  Fionnula nodded. “I’ve done my part. Now you do yours.” She turned him around and stuck a warty finger in his face. “Satisfy your revenge on your brother and his family, if it pleases you—”

  “Indeed, it does. When Hobbes shot off his mouth in front of everyone in that ballroom, he gave me the perfect opportunity. I don’t intend to pass it up.”

  “As you wish. But whatever happens, bring me that creature. I mean it. Do not fail me, Waldrick. Elemental magic of an immortal beast like that is extremely rare. I need its feathers to override the mermaids’ curse. I must be beautiful again. If you fail me, you will pay. Do you understand?”

  “No need for ugly threats, my dear!” he chided. “Soon we’ll both have what we want.” He pushed her hand away with a frown. Then Waldrick-as-Hobbes turned to his servitors arrayed by the wall. “Ready the cage. The creature will come flying out to attack the moment it smells Griffon blood. We’ll have to work quickly. If we’re not careful, that monster will tear us all limb from limb—and eat whatever’s left.”

  “Aye, sir,” his henchmen said.

  Suddenly, a low, menacing growl coming from somewhere below jolted Jake out of the memory and pulled him back into the present.

  He yanked his hand away from the book while the deep snarl rumbled through the chamber. “What was that?” he exclaimed, shaking off his daze.

  No one answered.

  He looked around. Sir George had disappeared.

  Jake shook himself again, still foggy-headed from the brief but appalling scene he had just witnessed inside Uncle Waldrick’s memories. He was not exactly sure how this vision had occurred, but he suspected it had something to do with the link between their minds created by the Oboedire spell.

  At least he knew for certain now that it was Waldrick who had killed his parents, and he knew how it had been done, too, but still not why. What had made him want revenge on his elder brother?

  More to the point, Jake realized he had no way to prove what he had witnessed in his uncle’s memories. It was his word against Waldrick’s—and he’d already seen which of them the world believed when he had faced the magistrate. Everyone thought that Waldrick was some sort of saint. Well, he knew the truth, and it seemed his only option was to confront his uncle head-on.

  There was only one problem—the Oboedire spell. If he got within a few feet of Waldrick, Jake became his slave. His voice, his own will, even his telekinesis were of no use. The Oboedire spell made him virtually powerless around that rat. All Waldrick had to do was give an order and Jake was magically forced to obey it like some mindless servitor.

  He was really starting to understand why Great Aunt Ramona had come to dislike magic.

  As he stood there, trying to work out his next move, he suddenly felt someone—or something—staring at him.

  He hoped it wasn’t the thing that had growled, for it had sounded big. And hungry.

  Then he noticed ten shiny little eyes that all blinked at once inside a box atop the worktable. Jake walked over to it cautiously.

  “Uh-oh,” said a little, clinkety voice.

  Jake recoiled. Inside the box was the largest spider he had ever seen: brown and hairy, with white spots and large fangs. But the monstrous spider looked more scared of him than he was of it.

  It let out a small whimper and ducked down behind a clump of grass in its cage, trembling. “The Jake! No broom, please!”

  “You can talk? How?” Jake furrowed his brow and backed away. This place just kept getting weirder. I’d better get back upstairs before they miss me. “Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

  As he turned to go, another voice suddenly called to him out of the shadows. “Excuse me? Young master, wait, if you please! If you wouldn’t mind—a little help?”

  He whirled around, startled. “Who’s there?”

  “Don’t be alarmed! It’s just us! I-I’m Stanley. I’m an accountant from Tidwell! Please don’t go, sir! We desperately need your help!” the polite, halting voice said in distress. “I’m afraid you are our only hope!”

  On his guard, ready to zap any threat with his telekinesis, Jake walked over and saw a little goat-man in a cage. He stared at him. “Was that you talking?”

  “Yes, sir, if you please. You’re the one called Jacob, aren’t you? The earl’s nephew?”

  “I’m the earl!” Jake retorted. Then he squinted at the creature. “You say you’re an—accountant?”

  “He’s a satyr, kid,” came a grumpy, sarcastic retort from the next cage.

  Jake glanced over and gasped at what he saw—a winged baby in a cage! He stared in amazement at the baby’s stubby gold wings. They looked too small to support its chubby body.

  “What are you starin’ at?” the baby demanded in a very annoyed, adult voice, like a grown man who smoked too many cigars. “Are you just goin’ to sit there gawkin,’ or give us a hand?”

  Jake nearly fell over. “What are you two doing in there?”

  “We’re on holiday. Can’t you tell?”

  “Really?”

  “No, you idiot!” the winged baby retorted. “Waldrick locked us up in here to try to steal our powers. Who’ve you been talkin’ to all this time, anyway? You some sort o’ loon-bat?”

  “I may be,” he answered, shaking his head in shock.

  “I’m sure he’s nothing of the kind!” Stanley nervously assured him. “Don’t mind Charlie, sir. That’s just his way. He doesn’t mean any harm. He’s not, er, like other cherubs. Hearts and flowers aren’t quite his idiom.”

  “Charlie the Cherub?” Jake echoed.

  The sarcastic flying baby glared at him. “Not a word, kid. I’m warnin’ you.”

  “Charlie, don’t be rude to the young gentleman. He’s our only hope of escape! If you wouldn’t mind, sir, please let us out of these cages before she comes back. All we want is a chance to go home to our families—”

  “Of course.” Jake got to work at once, unlocking their cages. “My uncle did this to you?”

  “Yeah-h-h-h,” Stanley bleated.

  “I’m so sorry! What’s that thing?” He nodded toward the next cage.

  “Giant silk glow worm. He’ll want out, too.”

  Jake nodded, then hurried to pry open the dirt-filled terrarium. The enormous worm rolled out, then began wriggling across the chamber.

  “Avoid the ballroom,” Jake warned them as he freed another little fellow introduced to him as Mo the cobbler’s elf. “Waldrick and Fionnula have got guests.”

  “Oh, thank you, sir!”

  “Not sir, just Jake,” he said.

  “The Tidwell satyrs will write poems in your honor!” vowed Stanley. “I wouldn’t expect much thanks from him, though.” He nodded at Charlie in discreet disapproval.

  “Oh, I’ll catch up with you one day, kid. Pay you back. Don’t you worry about that.” Laughing, Charlie flew up from his cage with the clumsy, lurching path of a bumblebee. He flapped his wings harder, rising to grab his golden bow and arrows from a shelf above. “I’ll make sure you meet a real nice girl one day. Then, direct hit, boom! Bulls-eye, and she’s yours.”

  “No hurry on that!” Jake fairly yelped. Last thing he needed right now was a girlfriend to add to his headaches.

  Charlie winked and tossed him a cheeky salute. “Right, kid. Some other day, then.” The cherub flew ahead, scouting out the territory for the satyr, who followed, bounding up the steps.

  “Oh, don’t forget about her!” Stanley called over his shoulder.

  “Her, who?” Jake asked as they hurried away.

  “Over there, in the little box! If she’s still alive… I honestly don’t know, poor thing,” the satyr said sadly, then they both disappeared up the dark stairs.

  Jake knew he shouldn’t waste time dawdling. Any minute now, Waldrick and Fionnula would be summoning him to the ballroom.

  He looked around, unsure of what
final prisoner the satyr had been referring to. The spider, perhaps? Not eager to get closer, he forced himself to help it, cautiously opening the spider’s cage.

  The talking spider hunkered down inside. “Malwort stay with Master.”

  Jake shrugged. “Suit yourself.” But then he noticed the small pasteboard box on the shelf by the wall.

  A faint golden glow emanated from it. It entranced him. He went toward it. Slowly, carefully, he took the little box down from the shelf. He noticed tiny air-holes in the lid as he set it on the worktable before him.

  He lifted one corner of the lid, unsure of what might happen if he removed it. It could be anything in there. Between talking spiders, sarcastic cherubs, satyr-accountants, cobbler’s elves, squidy old sea-hags, and crime-solving ghosts, not to mention belligerent water nymphs and shape-shifting teachers, there was no telling what might be lurking in this box.

  Whatever it was, it was small.

  As he eased the lid upward, Jake was relieved that nothing exploded, nothing zoomed out, nothing growled or tried to bite him. Still cautious, he pulled the lid away.

  His eyes widened as he gazed down at a tiny person lying with her back to him, curled up in a ball.

  Oh, no, he thought. Stanley was right. Whatever she is, I think she’s dead. “Hullo?” he asked in gentle concern. “Are you all right in there?”

  The tiny person didn’t move.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Lost Fairy Found

  Jake wasn’t sure what to do, but when the tiny person began to stir, relief flooded through him.

  She’s alive!

  As she sat up, Jake gazed at her in wonder.

  Her lowered head and drooping shoulders communicated miniature despair. She wore a pale, tattered gown with little ballerina slippers, and had a shiny circlet around her head like a delicate metal wreath.

  As small as she was, she had the saddest face he had ever seen. His heart clenched with concern for the tiny thing. Trapped inside the pasteboard box, there was nothing in there for her comfort but a thimble of water and a shred of muslin for a blanket.