The Sorcerer Heir (Heir Chronicles) (39 page)

F
itch kept his word and walked straight back to Joe’s, meaning to drown his worries in a dark-chocolate peppermint mocha. “Shaken, not stirred,” he told the barista, but she just rolled her eyes and gave him a standard one. He ordered a cinnamon bun, too, but it tasted like cardboard. The fault was not in the bun, but in himself. Every time he loosened the leash on his mind, he saw images of Leesha buried under a mob of ragtag undead.

Hey!
he’d shout.
Over here!
But they couldn’t seem to hear him, intent as they were on Leesha. Just like that night in the Flats.

Who were they? And what did they have to do with Jonah Kinlock and Gabriel Mandrake and the Anchorage? Were they allies or enemies? And what about Emma? Where did she figure in?

Minutes crept by. Fitch finally decided that he might as well make use of the time. He suspected he had an online test waiting for him that he hadn’t touched. He staked out his table with a large coffee and went back out to his car to get his laptop out of the trunk.

Though it wasn’t quite five, it was already nearly dark—one of those short December days when the light begins to bleed away almost as soon as it arrives. As Fitch unlocked the trunk, he scanned his surroundings, squinting against the bits of ice the wind flung into his face. At first, he thought the street was deserted, but then he noticed several dark shapes passing through the circle of light from the streetlights. They were all heading in one direction—toward the Keep.

Fitch shivered. Zombies? That was his first thought, but they didn’t move with the same rolling, staggering gait as the ones he’d met before. These looked more like thugs. No. Assassins. Maybe they were bouncers, heading to work in the clubs in the district.

They passed out of sight. Still uneasy, Fitch dug his computer out from under a stack of blankets. As he went to shut the trunk, he heard an unfamiliar voice coming from under the front seat. “Leesha Middleton. If you are there, and if you care about your friends, pick up the damn phone.”

Fitch circled around and yanked open the driver’s side door. Leesha’s phone was lying on the floor between the seats, lit up like Christmas. It must have slid out of her pocket onto the floor of the car.

Fitch scooped up the phone and put it cautiously to his ear. “Who’s this?”

For a moment, nothing. Then, “Who’s
this
?”

Fitch almost hung up. Instead, he said, “This is Harmon Fitch, a friend of Leesha’s.”

“This is Kenzie Kinlock, Jonah’s brother. Where’s Leesha? I need to talk to her.”

Why would Jonah’s brother want to talk to Leesha? “She’s busy right now. Can I take a message?”

Kenzie responded with an explosion of spectacularly bad language.

“Is that the message?” Fitch said, holding the phone away from his ear.

“No.” Kenzie took a quick breath. “Emma told me that Leesha is one of the good guys, that she wants to prevent any more bloodshed. Tell her—tell everyone—not to come anywhere near the Keep or the Anchorage. Tell them something is seriously wrong. I don’t know exactly what, but tell them it’s a trap.”

It was a short distance from the rented warehouse to the front door of the Keep, but Leesha couldn’t help feeling like she was crossing a no-man’s-land in an undeclared war. Tendrils of snow eddied around them like unquiet spirits as they picked their way across the icy bricks—Mercedes in the lead, followed by DeVries and Leesha, with Seph bringing up the rear.

A flicker of movement to her left caught Leesha’s eye. She spun around in time to see several muffled-up figures disappear around a corner, but she didn’t get a good look at them.

She breathed in deeply, testing the air, but it seemed as clean as it ever is in the middle of a Midwestern city in the wintertime.

“I saw them, too,” Seph murmured nearly in Leesha’s ear, and she about had a heart attack.

“Do you smell anything?”

He shook his head. “When it’s this cold, it seems to wring all the scent out of the air.” He paused. “Steady on. A lot of people live around here, and we all look like zombies in this weather.”

Still, Leesha was grateful to get inside, and not just because it was freaking cold.

It seemed peculiar to be in the ticket lobby of the Keep when it wasn’t swarming with people and ablaze with lights. Leesha killed time by walking around, studying the vintage concert posters that lined the walls. The others huddled together, just inside the door, shifting their feet, checking their watches, and generally acting nervous.

“Whoa,” Leesha said. “Five dollars to see the Rolling Stones? Those were the days.”

DeVries checked his watch for the ninety-fifth time. “Where are they?” he muttered. “I don’t like this.”

“Don’t worry,” Mercedes said. “We’re on rock and roll time.”

“What?”
DeVries said sharply.

“I’ve been working with Gabriel Mandrake for several years now, and he’s always late. You’d think the head of an international murder conspiracy would be on time.” The sorcerer slid a sideways look at DeVries.

DeVries grunted. He constantly scanned his surroundings as if he anticipated an attack at any time. But who could blame him, given what happened to him on Halloween?

It seemed like they were all edgy, because a door banged open and everybody jumped.

Leesha turned to find a youngish man in the doorway. “Welcome to the Keep,” he said. “I’m Patrick Murphy, Mr. Mandrake’s assistant.” He didn’t look much like a Patrick Murphy, with his blue hair, brown skin, and multiple piercings. He wore low-slung blue jeans, a Dragonbreath sweatshirt, and a wireless headset.

Murphy looked around the lobby a second time, then scanned the screen on his handheld. “Where are the others? I’ve got fourteen people on this list.”

“They’ve gone directly to the other buildings,” Seph said. “We wanted to be as efficient as possible with this so we don’t inconvenience you any more than necessary. While we’re talking, they’ll be searching. If we finish up here, we’ll join them so hopefully we can wrap this up within a couple hours.”

Murphy scanned his screen again, frowning. “Mr. Mandrake expected to meet with all of you first, and then provide escorts to those who go to the other buildings.”

“Damn,” DeVries said. “I wish he’d said something.”

“You would be Mr. DeVries, I believe,” Murphy said, checking off something on his screen.

“I hope that won’t be a problem,” Leesha said. “I mean, the fact that they don’t have escorts.”

Murphy shrugged. “Probably not. As I believe you know, most of the students are off-campus tonight. And you are—?”

“I’m Alicia Middleton,” Leesha said. “And this is Seph McCauley and Mercedes Foster.”

Murphy thawed a bit, at least where Mercedes was concerned. “Ah, Ms. Foster, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you. Mr. Mandrake thinks highly of you, as does Natalie Diaz, one of our students.”

“We think highly of her,” Mercedes said.

“Where is Ms. Moss?” Murphy asked. “We understood that she would be here. Mr. Mandrake was looking forward to seeing her again.”

“She’ll join us later,” Seph said vaguely.

“Is she with the search team?” Murphy persisted.

“She’s off-site right now, handling logistics and making sure everyone has what they need.”

Murphy turned away, murmuring something into his headset. He listened, murmured some more, then turned back toward them.

“Well, then,” Murphy said, “if this is everyone, come with me. We’re meeting in the small concert hall.”

Jack surveyed his little band of warriors and sighed. It was a team of scrubs—mostly people they’d wanted to keep away from the main action. Morrison. Hudson. Hackleford. Scavuzzo. And one longtime friend and ally—Blaise Highbourne, Jack’s former neighbor, and a seer on the council.

“Okay,” Jack said, “I’m pairing you up. Morrison and Hackleford, Hudson and Highbourne, me and Scavuzzo. Stay with your buddy, watch each others’ backs.”

His tablet vibrated, and Jack said, “It’s go time.”

They threaded their way through twisting downtown streets and back alleys, dodging piles of slush.

They entered Oxbow through the side door, using the pass code they’d been given, which worked like a charm. Two young women with brightly dyed hair were enthralled in a video game in the first floor recreation room. They froze mid-kill and looked up at Jack and his posse.

“We’re going to do a quick search,” Jack said politely. “Just stay right here while we do that. Ms. Morrison and Ms. Hackleford are going to get your names and take your photos, and then you can go back to what you were doing, all right?”

The two women nodded wordlessly, their eyes large and worried.

They found nothing suspicious on the first floor—a kitchen, music practice rooms, media room. What you might expect on the first floor of any school dormitory.

Nobody was home on the second floor, so they all worked together to clear it. They were heading to the third floor when Morrison said, “Where’s Hackleford?”

The wizard was no longer with them. “Hackleford!” Jack called. Nothing. He pinged her on the PCD. No response. When he checked her location, her device signal was coming from the first floor. Why’d she go back down there? Was she freelancing already?

“The rest of you, clear the third floor. I’ll round up Hackleford.”

“Shouldn’t I come with you?” Scavuzzo said eagerly. “I’m your buddy.”

“Oh. Right.”

They took the stairs down, two at a time, Jack in the lead. As he emerged from the stairwell, some tiny sound or warrior instinct alerted him, and he dove just as something whizzed overhead and thunked into the wall.

Craning his neck, Jack looked up and saw that it was a knife. It had struck with such force that the blade was halfway buried in the wall. Jack scrambled back into the stairwell, pulling the door shut behind him. He could hear someone moving stealthily, outside the stairwell.

“What’s up?” somebody said into Jack’s ear. Jack nearly throttled him before he realized that it was Scavuzzo.

“Stay back,” Jack hissed, pointing to the knife sticking in the wall.

“A
knife
?” Scavuzzo said contemptuously. He pushed past Jack and was halfway out the door when Jack dragged him back.

“You may be a wizard, but all those other wizards who were killed were stabbed, cut up, or bludgeoned to death,” Jack said. “Unless you’re wearing armor under those clothes, I wouldn’t go out there.”

“We just need to let them know we have permission to be here.”

“What if he or she doesn’t care?” Jack hissed back. He pointed up the staircase. “Let’s go up and around.” That’s when he heard footsteps, somebody descending the stairs toward them. Jack motioned Scavuzzo into the niche behind the staircase, putting his fingers to his lips. Waking his tablet, he hit the panic button. Above them, the footsteps accelerated to a run.

It must be one of ours, Jack thought. Cautiously, he edged his head around the step and peeked up the stairwell. The person coming toward him was dressed completely in black, down to the hooded sweatshirt and ski mask.

Okay,
not
one of ours, Jack thought. There was something else—something that nagged at him, but he had no time to work it out, because the ski-masked guy was at the bottom of the stairs, about to blow past them, when he skidded to a stop, turned toward them, and peered into the gloom under the stairwell.

He knows we’re here, Jack thought, the realization rippling through him like a fever chill.

Scavuzzo stood up and said, “Excuse me. We are representatives of the Interguild Council investigating the—” That was as far as he got before the masked man shot him three times.

Time seemed to slow down. Jack saw the barrel flashes, heard the
pop-pop-pop
of the silenced handgun. At this close range, the impact of the bullets threw Scavuzzo back against the wall, eyes wide with surprise.

That’s all Jack saw before he tackled the masked man at knee level, pitching him backward so that his head smashed into the concrete stairwell with a sickening crunch. Jack heard a clatter as the gun hit the wall, saw the gunman slide off the steps to the floor, where he lay motionless, facedown.

Jack scrambled to the wall and ran his hands along the floor, coming up with the gun just as the door to the stairwell eased open. Jack rolled behind the stairs and watched as another hooded figure peered through the opening. The blade man, it must be, his aura presenting an attractive target.

Were either of them Jonah? Jack considered calling his name, to see what happened, but something stopped him—something he was missing.

He took a quick glance at Scavuzzo. His buddy. Jack had done a poor job of watching his back. The wizard’s aura was fading, and Jack knew he was dying or already dead.

That was it—what Jack was overlooking. The
wizard’s
aura. Both of the hooded shooters were wizards, not savants. Wizards wielding guns? Teaming up with savants? Curiouser and curiouser.

Looking on the bright side, it was easier to shoot a wizard, if it came to that.

It had been a while since Jack had fired a gun. He knew his business well enough to know that there’s no truly safe place to shoot a person, but he hoped for the best. Hoped he could incapacitate the blade man but keep him alive long enough to question.