The Wizard Heir

Heir 2 - The Wizard Heir

Prologue

Their target was a run-down three-story building in an
area of the City of London that had not yet been gentrified. The surrounding
streets had been emptied of people and traffic, and the filthy pavement
perspired in the thick air. Magical barriers overlaid the soot-blackened brick,
beautiful as spun glass. It might have been an ice sculpture, or a fairy castle
that hid the menace within.

For once the Dragon had stayed online long enough for
them to pinpoint his location. Perhaps he'd thought it safe to emerge in the
small hours of the morning.

Six wizards came through the front door like wraiths,
shields fixed in place, knowing the Dragon would attack when cornered. It took
them less than a minute to discover there was no one in the apartment to kill.

D'Orsay followed them in. The flat was shabby and
small. The furnishings looked to be castoffs accumulated over several decades.
Layers of grime ground into the carpet made it impossible to guess at its
original color. He passed through a front room, a kitchen, into the bedroom in
the back. The keyboard and monitor were still there, a harness linked into a
tangle of cables, but only a faint outline in the dust of the desk surface
revealed where the laptop had been.

An inside staircase at the back of the flat led to the
roof. The apartment would have been chosen for that reason, and not for the
decorating. They stormed up the steps to find the roof occupied only by cats.
D'Orsay scanned the grid of streets surrounding the building. There was no
movement anywhere.

Something had spooked him. Perhaps the use of magic
had given them away. Somehow he'd sensed they were backtracking through the Net
to find him, crawling past all the online blind alleys and mail drops he'd set
up to mislead them.

Or someone had tipped him off. The Dragon's spy network
was legendary, his operatives astonishingly loyal. For months, D'Orsay had been
searching for the flaw in it, the loose end that when pulled would unravel the
web.

A loose end. Someone he could carry to the dungeon in
Raven's Ghyll and torture into spilling the Dragon's secrets.

But nothing. Even worse, it was possible D'Orsay's own
organization had been compromised.

The newly minted Wizard Council was struggling to
overcome the centuries-old blood feud between the Wizard Houses of the Red and
the White Rose so it could deal with the recent rebellion of the servant
guilds. Ending the feud would be difficult under the best of circumstances, but
it was nearly impossible with the Dragon fanning the flames of old rivalries,
spreading rumors, and posting confidential correspondence to the Internet.

It was particularly galling to someone like D'Orsay,
who had so much to hide.

Wizards were murdering each other in the backstreets
of London, in castles in Scotland, and in the glittering nightspots of Hong
Kong. Magical artifacts were disappearing from vaults and safe-deposit boxes
and wine cellars. Traditionally submissive, sorcerers, seers, and enchanters
were fleeing their wizard masters. And the Dragon's hand was in all of it.

This was the third near miss since the tournament at
Raven's Ghyll. Six weeks ago, they were sure they had the Dragon cornered in a
ghetto in Sao Paulo. Then they'd blundered into a magical quagmire, a network
of diabolical traps that had decimated D'Orsay's team of assassins and left the
Council empty-handed. Three wizards dead, and they were no closer to finding
him than before.

D'Orsay recognized his handiwork, the elegant
simplicity of the charms and devices. The wizard might as well have scrawled
his signature all over it.

Most recently, the Dragon had freed a dozen sorcerers
from a stronghold in Wales. That had been triply infuriating because it had
been D'Orsay's own project. D'Orsay had hoped that, given enough pressure, the
sorcerers might rediscover some of the secrets of the magical weapons of the
past.

They found no photographs in the flat, no personal
items that might have provided a clue to who the tenant had been.

D'Orsay was disappointed, though not surprised. He was
confident he knew the Dragon's identity. In any case, he wasn't fussy about
being right. But this was no rat to be caught in an ordinary trap. D'Orsay was
uncomfortable with this kind of operation anyway. He was a strategist, not an
assassin. He was present only because of the power of their adversary and the
need for discretion. It was what you might call an unauthorized operation,
outside of the purview of the council.

Why would a wizard involve himself in a rebellion of
the lesser magical guilds? What could he possibly have to gain?

Twenty minutes later, Whitehead returned to the
kitchen carrying a manila folder. “I found this between the filing cabinet
and the wall.” She handed it to D'Orsay. “He probably didn't realize
it was back there.”

D'Orsay paged through the contents of the folder—
letters and copies of e-mails to and from a law firm in London, relating to the
guardianship of a minor. There was also correspondence with a private school in
Scotland regarding housing, tuition, and financial arrangements for the same.
All of it was at least two years old.

The student's name was Joseph McCauley. D'Orsay
frowned. The name didn't bring to mind any of the Dragon's known or suspected
associates. He couldn't relate it to any of the Weir families, either, though
it would be more reliable to check the databases. Through the centuries,
genealogy had enabled the Wizard Houses to find warriors when they needed them,
to hunt those who carried the gift and didn't know it. Computers only made the
process more efficient.

What could be the connection between this boy and the
Dragon? Possibly none, but D'Orsay's instincts told him different. What else
would explain the presence of material so personal in the midst of the enemy
camp? And why was a law firm handling this kind of routine correspondence?
Unless the intent was to hide a relationship that might prove to be a
vulnerability. D'Orsay smiled. That would be too good to be true.

This was worth spending a little time on. By now, the
others were returning to the kitchen. He finished his cider and handed the
folder to Whitehead.

“Find this boy for me, Nora. Contact the school
mentioned in the letters and find out if he's still there. See if you can get
any information from the law firm about who engaged them.” He thought a
moment, stroking his chin. “Check with the General Register Office also.
Look for a birth registry, baptismal papers, anything at all. If you don't find
any British records, try overseas. See if he's in any of the Weir databases.
But be discreet.”

They left the building a half hour after they had
arrived, leaving a few traps behind in the unlikely event the Dragon returned.
At least they may have driven the Dragon underground for a time. Any delay was
to their benefit. By the time he got back into business, it might be too late
for him.

Perhaps by then, they would have another card to play.

Toronto

The August heat had persisted deep into the night.
Thunder growled out over Lake Ontario, threatening a downpour. When Seph walked
into the warehouse a little after 2 a.m., it felt like he had blundered into an
urban rain forest. He sucked in the stink and heat of hundreds of bodies in
motion and squinted his eyes against the smoke that layered the room.

It was his habit to arrive late for parties.

Seph smiled and nodded to the bouncer at the door. The
man was there to intercept the underaged, but he just smiled back at Seph and
waved him on. Access was never a problem.

Music throbbed from high-tech speakers wired to the
struts of the warehouse ceiling. Sweat dripped onto the scarred wooden planks
as the crowd thrashed across the dance floor. The black lights painted the
faces of the dancers while leaving the perimeter of the room unviolated. An
illegal bar was doing a brisk business in one corner, and the usual customers
were already trashed.

He was stopped six times on his way across the room by
people wanting to make plans for later.

Seph and his friends always held court to the right of
the stage. Carson and Maia, Drew and Harper and Cecile were already there; Seph
could tell that they'd been there all evening. They surrounded Seph, fizzing
with excitement and the kind of euphoria that comes with hours of sensory
overload. His friends were older than him, but the party never really started
until he arrived.

They all started talking at once—something about a
girl.

“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands and
grinning. “Say again?”

Harper glared around the circle until everyone else
shut up. “Her name is Alicia. She just moved to Toronto, and she's totally
cool.”

“She reminds me of you,” Cecile added.
“I mean she…well…there's just something about her,” she trailed off.
“We told her about you, and she said she might come back later—you know—to
meet you.”

Prickly Maia was the only one who seemed unimpressed.
“I don't think she's like you at all.”

Maia was Asian, a part of the stew of races that was
Toronto. She had an anime quality, with her spiky hair and quirky quilted
cotton clothes. Plus, she could swear in three Chinese dialects.

Seph spoke into Maia's ear so he could be heard over the
music. “So you don't like her?”

“I don't know. It's like, I don't trust
her.” Maia looked up at him, studying his face as if looking for clues,
then plunged her hand into the beaded pouch she wore over her shoulder. She
came up with a tissue-wrapped package. “I made you something.” She
thrust it toward him.

He weighed it on his palm. People were always giving
him things. “What's this for? You didn't have to…”

“It's for your birthday. Open it.”

“My birthday was two months ago.” He smiled
at her and tore the tissue away. It was a gold Celtic cross on a chain,
centered with a flat-petaled heirloom rose, cast in Maia's distinctive,
delicate style. “You can't give me this. It must've taken hours.”

“It was just an art project for school.” She
took it from him, stretched up onto her toes, and fastened it around his neck,
taking longer than was absolutely necessary. “I thought you'd like
it.”

“I do like it, it's beautiful. But …” He
searched for the right words. He didn't want to start something that would ruin
what they had. “I mean, you are such a cool friend, and I don't want
to—”

“Just take it, okay? As … as a friend. No
strings.”

He couldn't refuse. “Well, thank you. It's
brilliant.” He embraced her carefully. All arms and no body, elbows down
to keep a little distance. But she burrowed into him, winding her fingers into
his curls, pressing her face against his shirt as if to breathe him in. Seph
patted her back, soothing her with his touch. Spilling a whisper of power, but
not too much.

“Here she comes!” Carson said, all excited,
at his elbow. “That's Alicia.”

Seph looked up to see a girl making her way across the
crowded floor, dancers parting to let her through. She was small, but somehow
lush, like an exotic tropical flower. She wore tight black jeans and a lace
blouse that slid off her shoulders. Her blue-black curls were streaked with
purple and loosely bound with a flowered scarf. She carried a gypsy bag over
her shoulder. Her eyes were cat yellow.

“You must be the famous Seph McCauley.” She
looked him up and down like she was used to being disappointed, then extended
her ringed fingers. “I'm Alicia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, letting go
of Maia and gripping her hand.

Seph felt like he had stuck his hand into an
electrical outlet. For a long moment they stood frozen, the current flowing
between them. Then they both dropped their hands, took a step back, and stood
staring at one another. All his life, people had reacted to his touch. Now he
knew what it was like.

She recovered first. “Well, well,” she said,
studying him with new interest, running her tongue over red-stained lips.
“You are the powerful one, aren't you?”

“I get by,” Seph said, massaging his
tingling fingers, fighting down a rush of hope. Power. She had power, too.
“You…you're…Where'd you say you're from again?”

“Here and there. I was just in the States, but I
had to leave.”

He rose to the bait. “Why did you…?”

“I was totally bored.” She squinted at him.
“How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” he said, automatically adding
two years to his age. “Listen, can I … can I buy you a drink?” Lame.
That was lame. “Maybe we could go somewhere and talk?”

“Well.” Alicia surveyed Seph's friends, who
were pressed around them in a tight circle. Maia scowled, swiping back her
ragged fringe of hair, biting her lip and looking from Seph to Alicia.

“You.” Alicia pointed at Carson. “Be a
sweetheart and get us something to drink. Absolut and lime for me.” She
looked inquiringly at Seph.

“I don't…” he began, raising his hands.

“And a soda for Seph, who doesn't,” she
said, shaking her head.

Seph rolled his eyes at Carson, but he was already
gone, hurrying to comply.

“Listen, I'll catch you all later.” Seph
gripped Alicia's elbow, half expecting another spasm of power, and guided her
toward a table along the wall, leaving Maia and the others by the stage.
“Who do you think you are, ordering my friends around?”

“And you don't?” She laughed softly.
“You should. Who do you think you are?”

He'd never had a good answer to that question.

Seph chose a table in the corner between the speakers,
where the din retreated enough so that they could actually hold a conversation.
Carson brought their drinks and departed, giving Seph a wink.

“So why are you hanging out with them?”
Alicia asked, reaching across the table and running her finger along the rim of
his glass.

“Who?”

“Your friends. The Anaweir. It must get boring, I
mean, aside from being lead dog, and all.”

He risked a question. “Anaweir? I'm not sure I
…”

“The ungifted. The powerless. Even less relevant
to a wizard than the servant guilds.”

Seph bit back a response. They were all talented, but
none of them were wizards. Nor even members of the other magical Weirguilds:
the sorcerers, the seers, or the rare enchanters and warriors.

Wizards were different from the other magical guilds,
because they required charms, words to shape the magic. His foster
mother, Genevieve, had told him that much.

“I've been trying to make contact,” he said.
“It's hard to find other people…like us.” There, he'd said it.
“I mean, I'd like to learn more, to get some more…training.” Implying
that he'd already had some.

Alicia lifted an eyebrow. “Training comes through
the Houses. What's your affiliation?”

“Affiliation?”

“Your Wizard House.”

He just blinked at her, then focused on rolling up his
sleeves, carefully creasing the rough-woven cotton fabric. It seemed to be
getting hotter.

Alicia leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Look,
I realize you can't be too careful these days. No one knows what the rules are
anymore.” She shook back her mane of curls. “I was at Raven's Ghyll,
you know.”

“Where?”

“Raven's Ghyll. The tournament where the rules
were changed. I mean, I used to go out with Jack Swift. I can't help thinking
that if I hadn't broken up with him, none of this would have happened.”

She looked to him for a reaction, but he just stared
at her, groping for a response that wouldn't give away his ignorance. He felt
stupid, something he wasn't used to, and which he did not like.

He reached for his glass. The soda ran down his throat
and exploded somewhere beneath his breastbone, leaving him breathless and
dizzy. What was the matter with him? He had to keep his head.

He smiled and looked her in the eyes, a technique that
had always been successful in the past. “I was hoping we could work
together. You know—collaborate.” Usually all he had to do was ask.

Alicia studied his face as if it were a book in a
foreign language. She reached out and ran her thumb along his jawline, as if
fascinated by his bone structure, then tilted his face into the light and
brushed back his curls. Her touch was like tiny explosions against his skin.

“Do you know your eyes change color? Green and
brown and blue.”

“So I've been told.” Seph shifted uneasily
under her scrutiny.

She seemed to reach a decision. “Fine. I'll tell
you what House I'm in. I wouldn't bother, except it's so hard to meet
interesting people, and I think you're … you know … interesting.” She
untucked her blouse, exposing a tantalizing strip of skin, a pierced navel.
There, above the waistline of her jeans, was a tattoo of a white rose.
“All right,” she said, rearranging her clothes, as if that explained
everything. “Now you.” She looked at him expectantly. “Red Rose
or White?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,”
Seph admitted, feeling like he was playing a rigged game of Truth or Dare. He
slid his hand under his collar, pulling it away from his hot skin."

Alicia looked annoyed. “Trust me, I don't care
what House you're in. I leave politics to the Wizard Council. I'm a trader. I
sell what people want to buy. I have to deal with everyone.”

“Look, I can't tell you what I don't know.”
He drained his glass and slammed it down on the table. “I know I'm a
wizard. I know I have power, but I don't know how to use it. I know there are
others like me, but the ones I've been able to find don't know any more than I
do.”

He grabbed her hand and pinned it to the table.
“Like I said. I need training. I have questions.” He knew he was
giving away too much, that it was a bad idea to let a powerful stranger know
how desperate he was.

Alicia tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand,
embarrassed by his neediness. “What about your family? What about your
Weirbook? That should give you a start, at least.”

Seph swallowed hard. He felt like his head was going
to explode. “I don't have any family. That I know of. I don't have a
Weirbook, whatever that is. My foster mother told me a little, but now she's
dead. And things … they're out of control. If you're a trader, then find me a teacher.
Find me a Weirbook, if that's what it takes. I have plenty of money. I'll pay
whatever you ask.”

Alicia looked across the table at him and began to
laugh. “I can't believe it. You're sort of a magical virgin. You should
see your expression. So serious.” She brushed his cheekbone with the back
of her knuckles. “You're gorgeous, you know. You have a face like a god.
An angry god. And so … powerful,” she whispered.

Seph's skin prickled and burned. Something like a heat
rash spread upward from his collarbone. His lips were numb and his tongue felt
thick in his mouth. He could not speak. Something sinister rippled under his
skin, seeking an outlet. He felt too big for his body, as though he might split
along his backbone and spill onto the floor like a snake shedding its skin.

“What…what's going on?” he muttered. The
music clamored in his ears, and the lights intruded into their dim corner. He
threw up an arm to shade his face.

She gave his hand a pat. “Believe me, it's great
stuff. Like nothing you've ever had.”

He gripped her hand tighter, helplessly spilling
power. "What did you do to me? Is it some kind of a spell, or … or …

Alicia fished in her gypsy bag and retrieved an
iridescent glass bottle, stoppered with a crystal. “Will you relax? It's
called wizard flame. The street name is 'Mind-Burner.' Sorcerers make it for
the trade. Let's call this my special introductory offer.”

Panic fluttered at the edge of his consciousness.
“You drugged me?”

“It's an accelerator for the gifted. It strips
away all the barriers and lets the power flow. You'll love it. After this,
everyday life will seem like black and white.”

He shook his head. “No. You don't understand. I
can't control my power when I'm sober. Things happen.”

She smiled at his distress. “Don't worry, it'll
wear off in an hour or so. Here, let me show you something else.” She
leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Then flinched back, fingering her
seared lips. “Hey!”

His lips were no longer numb—they were burning. His
skin was burning. The music assaulted him. The stench of the crowd was making
him sick. He couldn't think.

Alicia struggled to withdraw her hand. “You're
burning me! Let go, will you?” He released his hold on her, and she
staggered backward, disappearing from his field of view. Yet he could see every
person in the hall, hear a hundred conversations all at once, as if all his
senses had been sandpapered.

He had to get out. He headed for the door, sliding
through the crowd, twisting and turning to avoid touching anyone, leaving
charred and smoking footprints in his wake. He brushed a table and it burst
into flame. Incendiary sparks flew from his fingertips, igniting the curtains
around the stage, the sound-deadening mats that draped the walls. All around
the room, burnables ignited, vaporized, shriveled into ash. Flames licked at
the walls, and molten metal dripped from the ceiling. The music still played
and the black lights danced, but now a smoke alarm was clamoring as if it were
the end of the world.