The Sorcerer Heir (Heir Chronicles)

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Beyond the stone wall, flashlights bobbed like fireflies in the dark, clustering together, then exploding apart, silvering the trunks and branches of the trees. Police cars lined both sides of the street, carrying emblems from surrounding communities. The Trinity police force had called in reinforcements.

  Would they fingerprint witnesses? Run background checks on them? Panic flared up in her again. Emma turned, scanning the crowd of people waiting until she spotted Fitch and Leesha sitting together at the edge of the terrace.

  “I’ll be right back.” Crossing the stone terrace to where they stood, Emma said, “Hey.”

  They swiveled to face her. Fitch had his arm around Leesha, and her lashes were clumped up with tears.

  Emma groped for words. “I don’t mean to bother you.”

  Leesha blotted at her eyes with the back of her hand.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Fitch said, “It’s just—this brings back a lot of memories for us.” He looked at Leesha, as if she might want to say something, but she said nothing. “There was a battle here two years ago,” he went on, “between the wizard guild and the other guilds. A number of people close to us were killed.”

  He knows about the guilds, Emma thought, even though he’s not a member. Even though she was gifted, she’d only learned about them a few months ago, when she came to live with Tyler. Sometimes she felt like the only person in the dark.

  Fitch was still looking at her expectantly, and Emma lost her courage. “I’m sorry. So sorry. I’ll leave you be,” she said, and went to turn away, but Fitch said, “Wait!”

  Emma turned back toward them.

  “Can we help you with something?” Fitch asked.

  “Well...” Emma looked over her shoulder, to see if anyone was close enough to hear, then turned back to face them. “I really don’t want to talk to the police. And, you know, since I didn’t actually see anything, I was hoping you could just keep me out of it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Fitch said, shifting his weight. “I think it’s too late for that. We already talked to them—you know, briefly. Your name was mentioned.”

  “Damn.” Emma lifted her aching shoulders, then dropped them again.

  Leesha and Fitch looked at each other. “Are you in trouble?” Fitch asked softly.

  Why, yes, Emma thought of saying. My entire family—my daddy and grandfather—have died in the past six months, and now I’m an orphan and I don’t want the county to take custody of me.

  But they had their own troubles. She wouldn’t pile on more.

  “Oh, no,” Emma lied. “I just—I just don’t want to get involved.”

  Leesha twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “But what if something you saw or heard might help catch the killer?”

  Emma fisted her hands. “I don’t know how that could be when I didn’t see or hear anything.”

  “Okay, okay,” Fitch said, raising his own hands, palms out. “Just tell them that. You’ll be fine.”

  Leesha kept gazing at Emma, but her expression was less accusatory and suspicious than it was...sympathetic. The wizard dug her phone from her tiny pocketbook. “What’s your cell number?” she asked briskly, ready to key it in. “I’ll call you, so you’ll have my number.”

  “Why?” Emma asked warily. “Why do I want your number?”

  “So we can exchange fashion tips,” Leesha snapped. Then rubbed the back of her neck like it hurt. “Sorry. Snarkiness is a habit I’m trying to break.” She looked up at Emma, her smoky eyes haunted. “Sometimes,” she said, “you just need somebody to call. I’m not saying I’m that person, but at least you’ll have the number in case.” She paused. “Or if you’d rather I didn’t have your number, just take mine.”

  Emma surrendered her number.

  “Ms. Lee?” The voice came from behind her, startling Emma so much that she nearly fell over the low wall edging the terrace. But that was good. Otherwise, she might not have responded to the unfamiliar name at all.

  She spun around to see a stocky, sandy-haired man, hands stuffed into his pants pockets, wearing a battered leather jacket and open-collared dress shirt. Despite the casual look, Emma had been on the street long enough to recognize the law.

  “Emma Lee?” The officer stuck out his hand, and Emma reluctantly shook it. “I’m Ross Childers, chief of police and head of the Investigative Bureau here in Trinity.” He flipped open a leather case to display an authentic-looking badge.

  “You’re the chief?” Emma blurted out.

  Ross Childers shrugged. “Small department. Anyway, I like to keep my hand in. I wonder if we could sit in my car a few minutes, so I could ask you some questions about what happened here tonight.”

  Emma broadened her stance, as if trying to take root. “Couldn’t you just ask me here?”

  Childers rubbed his chin. “I’m just old enough to want to sit down whenever I can,” he said. “Anyway, my laptop’s in the car.”

  Emma did not want to get into the police car, but couldn’t think of a reason to say no, so she followed Chief Childers around the side of the house and down the stone walkway to where police cars were lined up in the drive. The ambulances had gone.

  Childers yanked open the passenger door of an unmarked car, and invited Emma in with a gesture. She settled into the seat, feeling boxed in by equipment—a bulky radio, a loaded center console. Emma immediately banged her elbow on a laptop on a swivel mount. “Ow!”

  “Sorry,” Childers said, peering into the interior of the car, an apologetic expression on his face. Fast food wrappers and receipts from ATMs were scattered across the floor mats. “This thing is a mess. I didn’t expect to have guests.” Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it into the back and slid into the driver’s seat. Leaning down, he scooped up the trash, stuffing it into a plastic bag on the inside of his door. He kept fussing, tidying up, like he really was embarrassed.

  Emma drew in a shaky breath, and memories flooded back. Police cars always smelled the same: a kind of sweaty, underbelly smell. Police cars were where bad things happen to people like her.

  She’d had some brushes with the law back when she lived with her grandfather, Sonny Lee, in Memphis. Before he was killed. Maybe murdered. It seemed like a lifetime ago, and yet it seemed like yesterday that she was sitting in with bands in small clubs off Beale Street. Working in the shop with Sonny Lee, talking blues guitar with musicians and club owners like Mickey Munroe and Scott Somerville.

  Childers noticed Emma shivering. “You cold?” He cranked up the heater to full blast, even though sweat dampened the underarms of his dress shirt. He turned down the volume on the police radio, which was chattering like mad, and swung the laptop toward himself.

  “Emma Lee, right?” he asked.

  When she nodded, he began hunting and pecking, ridiculously fast.

  “Address?”

  She had no idea. You should know things like that, she thought. I’m new, she thought of saying, but that would just invite a question about where she’d been before this.

  “Um. Well, I live at the Anchorage,” she said. “In the dorms. I’m not sure of the address. It’s in downtown Cleveland.”

  He stopped typing and studied her from under bushy brows. “The Anchorage? I’ve heard of that. Isn’t that the school for the arts? The one run by that music promoter—what’s his name?”

  “Gabriel Mandrake. That’s the one.”

  Hunt and peck. Hunt and peck. “Where’s home for you?”

  “That’s it,” Emma said. “My parents died in this chemical accident in South America.”

  Childers’s hands stopped moving and he looked up at her, grimacing. “That’s tough, Ms. Lee. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “It was a long time ago.” She waited, but he didn’t say anything, so she went on. “All of the students at the Anchorage lost their parents in that accident. So, y
ou know, we have a lot in common.”

  She gave up her cell number, age, date of birth. Then added, “I know people are saying I saw something, but I didn’t. I feel like you’re wasting your time.”

  Chief Childers shrugged his shoulders. “I’m an old dog, Ms. Lee.”

  “Emma.”

  “I’m an old dog, Emma. I always do better when I follow procedures. We have a homicide checklist, and I have to go through it. That’s the thing about investigations—you never know what’s going to be helpful until it is.”

  “I guess you don’t get many murders around here,” Emma said. She bit her lip, wishing she could call back the words. He probably thinks I’m playing the big-city girl. Does he know anything about the magical goings on in his little town?

  But Childers seemed unruffled. “Oh, we’ve had our share of incidents over the years,” he said, rolling up his sleeves to expose massive forearms. He was in better shape than he looked. “Especially lately. Now, first off, have you talked to anybody else about what happened? Compared notes, like that?”

  “No!” Emma blurted. “Well, I mean, not since the cops—the police officers—told us not to.”

  “Now, how do you know Seph and Maddie?”

  “I don’t. Not really.” Emma shifted on the seat, yanking at the hem of her dress.

  “Who invited you to the party, then?”

  “I’m—I’m with the band,” Emma said. “I play guitar.”

  “Really?” Childers looked all interested. “I used to play a little guitar myself.”

  “Is that so?” Emma said. Everybody used to play a little guitar, she thought.

  But Childers kept on. “What kind of music do you play?”

  “Blues, rock and roll, like that,” Emma said. “A lot of original stuff.”

  “What’s the name of your band? Maybe I’ve heard of it.”

  “Fault Tolerant.”

  Childers thought a minute, then shook his head. “Nope, haven’t heard of it, but I bet I’m not the target audience. Who else was here, from the band?”

  Emma gave their names.

  “How’d you end up playing a gig clear out here?”

  “Cleveland isn’t that far,” she said. “I guess this friend of theirs, Ellen Stephenson, heard us play downtown. So she invited us.”

  “Ellen did, hmm?” Childers said, pecking out some notes.

  “Do you know her?”

  He nodded. “Small town. Now, walk me through what happened. What made you go outside?”

  Emma’s own guilt made that question sound accusing. “We were on our break. I just—I just needed some fresh air.”

  “So where’d you go?”

  If only she had Jonah’s skill with the lie. “I walked down by the lake.”

  “Did you see anyone else out there? You know, walking around?”

  He knows! He must know, somehow. He’s just trying to trap me. Emma’s cheeks heated, and she licked her lips.

  No. How could he know? Stick to your story. You saw nothing, heard nothing, know nothing. She’d learned her lesson. Admitting to anything was like pulling the thread that would unravel her whole life.

  “I heard other kids out there,” she said. “I could hear people walking around, laughing, talking. But I didn’t really want to talk to anybody.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’d been up on stage for an hour,” Emma said. “I needed some alone time. So I didn’t really see anybody, and I wouldn’t have recognized them if I had, since I’m not from around here.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Why’d you go and say that? She floundered for an answer. “I—ah—I’m from Cleveland. Like I said.”

  Childers rubbed his jaw. “Huh. From your voice, I would’ve guessed somewhere to the south of here.”

  “My daddy was from Tennessee,” Emma said. “I guess I picked it up from him.” Childers waited, as if hoping she might say more, but Emma kept still.

  “So. Fitch said something spooked you out there. What was it and where were you?”

  “I feel like a fool now,” Emma said. When Childers raised an eyebrow, she rushed on. “I thought I heard something, and I panicked. That’s all.”

  “Where were you then?”

  “I was on my way back to the house,” Emma said.

  “And what, exactly, did you hear?” Childers persisted.

  “It sounded like somebody was following me.” When Childers sat waiting, hands poised above the keyboard, Emma stumbled on. “I heard footsteps, twigs snapping, like that.”

  “Yet you weren’t scared before, when you heard other people out there?”

  “No,” Emma said. “I guess I—I just realized that I was out there by myself and all.”

  Hunt, hunt. Peck, peck, peck. “Did you have any reason to believe there was something dangerous out there?”

  Emma licked her lips. “Well, it was dark. And—you know—it was Halloween.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, I ran into this girl, Leesha Middleton, and her friend. They went on to get some drinks, and I walked back to the house.”

  “Ms. Middleton says you tried to keep her and Fitch from walking out there alone.” The chief paused, and when Emma said nothing, added, “Why?”

  “Look, maybe it doesn’t make sense now, with the lights on, but I had this creepy feeling,” Emma said. “I’m a city girl...I guess I’m not used to being in the woods. I thought it might be a bear or something.”

  “Did you see the bodies?” the detective asked bluntly.

  “No, sir, I didn’t.”

  “Did you know Grace Moss?”

  “No, sir,” Emma said, her heart spasming painfully. “I mean, not really. I met her tonight for the first time.”

  Childers sighed, the lines on his face deepening. “You know she’s dead.”

  Emma nodded miserably.

  “Somebody slashed that little girl right across the throat. At least she died quick.” A muscle in the detective’s jaw twitched. “I used to see her around town sometimes.” He cleared his throat, resting his large hands on the keyboard. “You didn’t happen to see her, down by the lake maybe?”

  Emma shook her head. “I saw her in the audience when we were up on stage,” she said. “That’s the last time I saw her.” Emma hesitated. “I just can’t—” She stopped, looking down at her laced fingers. She was about to say that she couldn’t imagine anyone doing such a thing, but what was the point in that? Somebody did.

  “What happened to your shoes?” Childers pointed toward the floorboards.

  Emma looked down at her stockinged feet. “I kicked them off when I started running,” she said. “I don’t know where they are.”

  “Are these them?” Childers held up a plastic bag containing her strappy black shoes. It must have been next to his feet, but Emma hadn’t noticed it before.

  “You found them!” Emma said, reaching for the bag.

  He pulled it back, out of her reach. It was then that she noticed the evidence tag on the bag. “These have been entered into evidence,” he said, his eyes searching her face. “See, they’re spattered with blood. We found them in the gazebo. There’s a lot of blood in there, too, like there was some kind of a fight.” He paused, waiting for a response.

  “Really?” Emma said, thinking, This is what happens when you lie—you get caught. “I wonder how they got there.”

  “I wonder,” Childers said gently. His eyes narrowed, focusing on her jacket. “What’s that all over your jacket?”

  Emma looked down. The battered brown leather of Tyler’s jacket was spotted with darker red-brown stains. Instantly, she knew what it must be. Rowan’s blood. Rowan DeVries had been stabbed. And here she was, looking guilty as could be.

  She scraped at one of the stains wit
h her fingernail. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “This jacket belonged to my father. I guess I never noticed there were spots on it.” That, at least, was true.

  Childers’s expression said he wasn’t fooled, not at all, and yet it was somehow kind, as if this whole thing was a problem they would work out together. “I’m going to need to borrow your jacket, Emma, and run some tests. And see if the blood on your shoes matches the stains on your jacket.”

  “You think it’s blood?” Emma whispered.

  “That’s what it looks like to me,” Childers said matter-of-factly.

  Wordlessly, Emma shrugged Tyler’s jacket off her shoulders and handed it to Childers, who slid it inside a large plastic bag. He scribbled some notes on a tag with a marker, and attached it.

  Emma shivered as the cold air hit her bare skin. Or maybe it was the realization that if she didn’t tell the truth, she’d be in more trouble than ever. And that little girl, Grace Moss, might never find justice.

  Despite the roaring heater, she felt exposed, her skin pebbled with gooseflesh. Childers reached for the dashboard. “Here. Let me turn up the—”

  “Can I start over?” she asked, looking down at her hands. “Can I change my story?”

  “It’s your story, Emma,” Childers said. “All I want is the truth.” He paused, then continued, “Just so you know, you don’t have to talk to me if you don’t want to.”

  “That’s all right,” Emma said. “I’m not guilty of anything, except for being stupid.”

  And so she told the truth, or most of it, anyway. About Rowan DeVries cornering her in the gazebo, and her smashing his nose, and Jonah intervening, and then each of them going their separate ways. She didn’t mention anything about her father’s death, the kidnapping, the rescue, any of that. In fact, she left out all references to murder. If they jumped to conclusions, they could do it on their own. Childers kept quiet through most of it, just asking the occasional question, tapping notes into his computer.

  “How do you know DeVries?” the detective asked when Emma wound down.

  Here’s where she had to lie and make it stick. “I don’t.”