“Where are we going?” she hissed. “And who are we sneaking up on?” Possibilities swirled through her mind. Assassins. Spies. Some kind of magical weapon being built in the sanctuary.
“You’ll see,” he whispered back mysteriously.
“This better be good,” she muttered. As far as Leesha was concerned, winter was nature’s way of telling you to stay indoors. All around, the snow was inscribed with animal tracks. Who knew what was out and about? “Are there bears around here?”
“Just little ones.”
Would bears notice an unnoticeable person?
They clambered down into a half-frozen creek, up the other side, circled a ravine, and pushed into a thick stand of snowy pine trees. By then, she was gasping for breath. “Will you slow down? My legs aren’t as long as yours.”
“We’re there. Wait till you see. This is really cool.”
They paused under a pine tree whose boughs swept close to the ground. The air was filled with a clean, sharp scent, like room freshener. Stepping behind her, Jason gripped Leesha around the waist and lifted her up.
Right in front of her face was the teeniest owl she’d ever seen, no bigger than a robin. It was a brownish color with white streaks radiating from its eyes and white splotches. Its tiny feet were wrapped securely around a branch. It seemed to be sound asleep, but as she watched, it opened its yellow eyes and blinked sleepily at her, then closed them again.
Cautiously, she extended her finger and brushed the ruff around its feet, holding her breath. It opened its eyes, swiveled its head, then fluffed out its feathers and settled down again.
Jason lowered Leesha gently to the ground, then leaned in for a look himself. They took turns watching the owl for about ten minutes. Then Jason took Leesha’s hand and led her out of the pine grove.
When they were a safe distance away, Jason disabled the unnoticeable charm and reappeared, grinning at her.
“What . . . what was that?” Leesha asked. “I never saw an owl that little!”
“It’s called a Saw-whet owl,” Jason said, looking pleased at her reaction. “I guess they winter around here. I saw it here the other day and looked it up online. Supposedly their call sounds like somebody sharpening a saw.”
“Can’t we take it home? It is so cute. I want to keep it!” Leesha said.
“Well. If you want. But these guys sleep during the day and eat mice, so you’d have to catch them.”
Leesha shuddered. “Oh. So now you’re the great hunter?”
“Pretty much.” He knelt, scraping together a snowball. “I guess bow-hunting season is over. But snowball season is just beginning.” He stood and came toward her, tossing the snowball in the air and catching it, eyeing her suggestively.
“Oh, no. Stay away from me!”
Jason lobbed the snowball. Leesha dodged behind a tree and the missile exploded against the bark. She knelt and patted together a snowball of her own, but when she stood up, Jason had disappeared.
“No fair! You are not allowed to go unnoticeable.”
“No rules,” Jason said from right behind her, stuffing a handful of snow down her back. She whipped around and he stole a kiss, then leapt back out of reach.
“No rules, you say? You’ll be sorry.” The fight began in earnest, then. Although Leesha had terrible aim, she found she could explode Jason’s missiles with wizardry before they hit their mark, which evened things up a bit.
By the time they called a truce, they’d been racing through the woods for an hour, Leesha was actually sweating, and it was getting dark. They walked back to the park pavilion hand in hand. Leesha kindled a fire on the hearth to dry out their wet things, and Jason heated up some cider. They sat side by side on the hearth, their backs roasting, their fronts freezing.
Leesha was amazed at how much she’d enjoyed playing in the snow. Images came back to her from when she was little. She and Aunt Milli building snowmen in the yard. Cardinals and chickadees circling the bird feeder, coasting down to eat out of her hand. Consulting Aunt Milli’s field guide to identify the rare birds.
“Come summer, we can move out here,” Jason suggested, breaking into her reverie. “You know, sleep in hammocks in the trees, live off the land.”
“You’re totally insane, you know that?” she said, thinking she must be a little crazy herself.
“We can be urban guerrillas. Hold people for ransom. Trap squirrels and pigeons and steal picnic baskets.”
“Listen, it takes a lot more than that to keep me comfortable,” Leesha said. “Like hot showers and manicures.”
Their conversations were often like this. They flirted, dancing around the hard issues that lay between them. But now Jason turned serious. He picked up her hand and examined it like he could read her fortune in it.
“It would be cool . . . if we could just . . . be together,” he said. “You know, without having to worry about all this . . . political crap.”
“We can be,” Leesha said, forcing a lightness she didn’t feel. “Who cares about politics? Let’s run away. Where do you want to go?”
But the mood was broken. Jason set his cup of cider down and rose. “I’d better go. It’s getting late.”
She gripped his hand. “Stay a while?”
He shook his head. “Hunters need their sleep.” He leaned down and kissed her. “See you.”
Leesha followed Jason onto the porch and watched until his slender form dissolved into the trees of Perry Park. Unsettled, off-balance, she went back inside the pavilion, sat down next to the fire on the stone hearth, and wrapped herself in a comforter that stank of woodsmoke. She’d wait ten more minutes before she started walking back to town herself.
Who knew there were so many back-alley places in a small town—like the snack bar at the bowling alley and the study carrels at the public library and the beach in the middle of winter. Who knew she’d be willing to spend time in any of them? At first, she’d been focused on worming her way into Jason’s confidence. But then one-on-one, they could be themselves. And, now ...
It seemed like everybody she knew was either a hero like Jack Swift (not many) or a snake like Warren Barber (many). Jack was so virtuous he made her feel . . . contaminated. Jason was in between—wicked enough to be interesting, and yet . . . he believed in things. He lived by a personal code of honor. Not that she’d ever figure it out. Finally, Jason had a crooked, self-deprecating, sardonic way of looking at the world that made her laugh.
She could use a few laughs these days.
Poking at the fire with a stick, she thought, You’re not falling for this guy, are you?
Leesha looked up, startled, when she heard a noise outside. She hoped it wasn’t some kind of animal. They’d put up wards to keep snoops away, but whether they worked on animals, she just didn’t know.
The door banged open and someone said, “Well, well. I don’t believe it. A babe in the woods.”
It was Warren Barber.
She was moving before he finished, and so was he. She tried to slam him with an immobilization charm, which, of course, didn’t work, and he flung out a few attack charms himself. Those went nowhere. While he was processing that, she tried to circle round him and get out the door, but he blocked her path and tackled her, slamming her to the floor. He pinned her to the flagstones with his forearm, his face inches from hers. She found herself looking into his iced-over blue eyes, framed in bizarre white lashes.
“So, what’s up, Leesha?” he asked. “You never call, you never answer your phone. I’m feeling just a bit . . . abandoned, know what I mean?”
“Get off of me, you perverted . . . pervert!” She shoved fruitlessly at his hands.
He brushed back her hair and touched the band around her neck. “And when I tried to apply a little discipline, nothing happened.”
“I disabled the torc,” Leesha lied breathlessly. “You might as well take it off.”
“Did you now? And did you also disable my Weirstone, because I’m noticing some of my favo
rite charms don’t work.”
“I can’t help it if you have a performance problem,” she replied. “Can’t you get something for that over the Internet?”
So, okay, that was a mistake.
The pale eyes narrowed to slits. He sat up and hit her, hard, in the face with his closed fist. Tears came to her eyes and blood poured from her nose. It felt like every bone in her face was broken.
You’re going to pay for that, she thought. I just don’t know how yet.
Barber examined his fist. “What do you know? This still works.” He looked down at her, his face framed in shoulder-length, translucent hair. “I’ve heard that attack charms aren’t allowed here in Trinity, but I never really believed they could make it stick. But now I’m thinking maybe the collar doesn’t work so well in the sanctuary, either, know what I mean? And I’m feeling like you’re getting kind of blasé about our agreement. That so?”
Agreement? Right. Leesha was drowning in blood. She blew her nose, spraying droplets all over Barber’s shirt. “I told you. It’s not easy. Everybody’s always watching, and after what happened before, they don’t really trust me.”
“My patience is running out. I have the feeling you’re not trying hard enough. You need to get Jason Haley out of the sanctuary and to someplace I can question him. You need to get me the Dragonheart. How hard can it be?”
Leesha bit back a response. There was enough damage to repair as it was.
“If you don’t deliver, I’ll tell your Dragon friends who you’ve been working for all this time. They’ll kick you out on your butt, and then . . .” He circled her neck with his hands and applied pressure until she was suffocating, prying at his hands, squirming helplessly.
Finally, he let go, and she sucked in air desperately, her heart pounding.
Barber smiled. “I’ll be around, even if they don’t kick you out.” He touched the collar. “I know where you are, every minute. Won’t be hard to grab you in some back alley.” His grin widened. “I’ll stuff you in my car trunk and suddenly, you’re way out of town.”
“Wh—where are you staying, in case I need to find you?” she asked, wondering how he could possibly move around town without being spotted.
“Never mind where I’m staying.” He stood, wiping his bloody hands on his jeans. “Someone set a nasty magical trap at my old place. I’m wondering how they knew where I lived. That better not happen again.”
Damn, she thought. D’Orsay missed. He’d seemed so capable when they’d met at Raven’s Ghyll.
Barber sat down on the bench of the picnic table, watching her as if she were the subject of some kind of violence experiment. “By the way, where’s Madison Moss gone off to?”
That question took her totally by surprise. “M-Madison Moss? How should I know?”
“You’re supposed to be the inside person, right?”
“You said to keep track of the gifted. She’s not.” Leesha paused. “Why do you care about her?”
“You weren’t at Second Sister. When Leicester fired at McCauley, Madison Moss took the hit for him. Leicester went down, and all the alumni went with him. That’s the kind of girlfriend to have.” He looked at Leesha and raised a pale eyebrow like she should be taking notes. “Anyway, I paid her a visit, and her room’s all emptied out.”
“You paid her a visit?” Leesha shivered at the thought of Barber skulking around town. “Well, I heard she’s gone, that she left town.”
“Any idea where she went?”
‘I have no clue. Maybe she and McCauley broke up. All I can tell you is, these Smallsville girls are ecstatic. They think they’ll have a chance for a change.”
Warren stood again. “Well, Leesha, as a spy, you’ve been totally useless. It’s your job to make me happy. You have my number. You have three days to deliver Haley and the Dragonheart. Let me hear from you.”
And then he was gone, and Leesha could hear nothing save her labored breathing and the wild beating of her heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Up Mountain
It was that time of day when the world holds its breath, awaiting the return of the light. To the east, beyond the mountains, it was already morning. The edge of the escarpment was iced with brilliance as the sun prepared to break overtop. Mist hung in the valley, like sheep’s wool caught between the peaks. Each clump of grass, fern, and shrub was layered in ice, and Madison was wet to her knees before she’d crossed the home yard.
Her hands shook in the predawn chill as she squeezed paint onto the aluminum pie pan she used for a palette. She was lucky she hadn’t broken her neck on the way up the mountain in the freezing dark. Any sane person would take a photograph and paint in the parlor, where it was warm and dry.
But then, everyone knows I’m crazy.
The moment arrived. The sun crested the east shoulder of Booker Mountain and splashed onto the slopes, setting each bejeweled twig and branch aflame. Madison loaded her brush and splashed paint onto the canvas she’d started the day before. Only two more days, she judged, and the sun would’ve changed position enough to ruin the effect. So she painted like one possessed.
By ten o’clock, she was on her way back down the mountain, following the ravine cut by Booker Creek, the cleanest stream in Coalton County. A half hour more, and the house came into sight.
It was two stories, with five big pillars in the front, and wide porches that wrapped nearly all the way around the house on both levels. There were red brick chimneys at either end, because it was built at a time when wood-burning fireplaces provided the heat. It had always been painted white, though after five years in Carlene’s care it could have done with a paint job. Though the house had good bones, it had the kind of beauty that needed constant care, or it began to look shabby.
It definitely looked shabby, now.
The house had been built by Madison’s great-great-grandfather, Dredmont Booker, when he was courting her great-great-grandmother, Felicity Taylor. He was a prosperous farmer. She’d been a wild thing, a legendary blond beauty, who had no intention of staying in Coalton County and marrying a farmer, prosperous or not.
He swore he’d die if he couldn’t have her. He built her the house, and a rose garden with a brick wall and gazebo and a path to nowhere. He bought her a black mare with four white stockings and a blaze on her forehead. He gave her the opal pendant that had belonged to his grandmother—blue and turquoise and green, with broad flashes of fire. It was the talk of the county because it was no proper gift from a man to a woman who was not his wife. Felicity Taylor had ignored the whispers and worn it whenever she liked.
Knowing what she knew now about inherited power, Madison wondered if Felicity had been an enchanter.
Word was, the view had finally won Felicity’s heart. You could sit on the second floor porch and look right over the Ropers’ place and see all the way to the river.
The pendant and Booker Mountain had been left to Min, who’d left them to Madison in turn, skipping right over Carlene. Min had left Carlene some money, which was long gone, and trust accounts for Grace and John Robert, to pay for their college.
The house and land would come to Madison later in the year. Ray McCartney had set it up. He might be in love with Carlene, but he was loyal to Min, too.
Madison would be land rich and money poor, once she gained control of Booker Mountain. Unless she sold it off, which everyone seemed to think she should do as soon as possible. If she sold out, she could attend the Art Institute of Chicago and shake the rocky soil of Coalton County right off of her shoes.
She reached under her sweatshirt and touched the opal, reassured by its solid presence. Maybe it was too fancy to be wearing around the house, but Madison wore it anyway. It was a tie to the past and it represented a possible future. It also felt like a link to the stone she’d left behind in Trinity.
The Dragonheart. She’d tried to put it out of her mind, but whenever she tried not to think of something, it seemed like she thought about it more. The only th
ing that could distract her from Seph McCauley was the Dragonheart. And vice versa. Some days her mind seemed to reverberate from one to the other, making her sick to her stomach. You’d think being far away from both of them would help, but not so much.
Once or twice a week, she went into town. She’d stop in at the library and find a clutch of e-mails from Seph. They were somewhat formal, polite, a little restrained, like old-fashioned love letters in digital text, where you had to read between the lines. It was as though he was afraid he’d scare her off, if he undammed his feelings.
Sometimes, she e-mailed him back, but these days she mostly wrote letters. She knew it was weird and archaic, but she didn’t want to say just anything that came into her head. Instead, she’d sit up in bed and dwell over each word, as if she could infuse them with the power to untie the knots that plagued their relationship.
As for talking on the phone, that was totally out. She couldn’t trust herself not to say something that would bring him flying down the interstate.
Nothing was stirring in the home yard, except Hamlet and Ophelia, the golden retrievers, who dutifully stood and swished their tails at Madison’s appearance.
Lifting her canvas high out of danger, Madison squeezed between the dogs and went into the barn. It was a sturdy stone-and-wood building, once the home of Dredmont Booker’s horses. During some prosperous period in the past, someone had put in water lines and servants’ quarters. Now it was used as a sometime garage for Carlene’s car. Madison had claimed the second floor as a studio and peopled it with dreams.
She should never have come home. Booker Mountain had a way of grabbing onto you, clouding your mind, and making you forget your intentions. Just like it had Felicity Taylor more than a hundred years ago.
Since she’d been away from Seph, her work had lost that lurid, dangerous quality and settled back into what Sara called ethereal exuberance. It could mean the hex magic had dissipated. She’d written to Seph, asking if he was feeling better, but he never responded.
A set of three small canvases glittered from the corner— each a view of the changeable Dragonheart stone against a matte black. The Dragonheart Series.
The Dragon Heir Page 15