The Wizard Heir (9 page)

Aaron Hanlon advised him that, given the current
unsettled political situation, it was best to shelter under the protection of a
powerful wizard. “There's going to be bloodshed,” he warned.
“Though Dr. Leicester is doing his best to prevent it. Just like during
medieval times, it wouldn't hurt to have a patron.”

It was like being rushed by a desperate and diabolical
fraternity. But, given the fact that Trevor and the other Anaweir were avoiding
him, Seph found himself spending more and more time in their company.

Seph was in the warehouse, stumbling through darkness,
his wet shirt pressed to his face to defend against the oily smoke. His throat
was raw from shouting and from breathing in the toxic air. He could see
nothing, could hear nothing, save the roar of flames and the groaning of the
old building as the timbers burned through.

“Maia! Maia, can you hear me?”

The fire crews had arrived, and were pouring water on
to the roof. He was sloshing through knee-deep water while the skin on his
upper body blistered and burned. He reached down, wet the shirt again, and
pressed it to his face. He breathed in the stench of burning hair, and realized
it was his own.

He was in a corridor now. When he extended his arms,
he could feel walls to either side. He must be in the office areas to the back.
Perhaps she'd taken refuge here when the way out was blocked. He passed through
several doorways, carefully closing the doors behind him to keep the flames at
bay a little longer.

Then he heard it, a faint cry from somewhere ahead.
“Help!”

He stumbled on, touching the walls now and then to
guide him. The walls were hot, the paint sticky under his hand.
“Maia!”

He pushed through another doorway.

“Seph!”

The voice was weak and thready, but close, now, only a
few feet ahead and to the right.

“Keep talking, Maia. I'm here to get you
out.” He crawled along the floor, groping with his hands, until he felt
fabric under his fingers. She was huddled in a corner, where she'd retreated to
try to keep her face beneath the smoke.

He tried to gather her up in his arms, but at his
touch, her skin charred and burned and turned to ash, spiraling to the floor.
He tried again, and her flesh crumbled in his hands, revealing bone. He
screamed and let go, and she fell.

“Maia,” he breathed, sliding to the floor,
gathering her lifeless body into his lap, rocking her as gently as he could.
“Maia, I'm so sorry.” The heat was blistering. His tears evaporated,
hissing, as soon as they emerged.

He was aroused by an incessant pounding. Firefighters.
He didn't answer. He'd resolved to stay and burn. Somewhere, a door opened and
closed.

“Seph?”

How did they know his name?

Everyone knew. Everyone knew he was guilty.

“Go away,” he whispered, holding fiercely to
Maia's body. “You're too late.”

Someone had hold of his arm, shaking him. “Seph!
Come on! Snap out of it.”

Seph opened his eyes to a view of Trevor's worried
face. He looked over Trevor's shoulder. He was in his room. Sunlight dappled
the hardwood floor. He had no idea what time it was. “Sorry.” He
forced the word out painfully, groaned, and wound his fingers into the
bedclothes. “I'm okay now. Please. Leave me alone.”

Wood scraped against wood as Trevor pulled a chair up
next to the bed. It creaked as he dropped into it. “I don't get it,”
he said.

Seph turned his face away. There was no point in
pretending. He felt like crap and knew he looked it. The room still reeked of
vomit and terror.

When he was younger, they'd said he was possessed. He
supposed he preferred crazy. But he knew what happened when the only people who
care about you are on retainer. You end up in places like this. He needed to
plan, to strategize. But first, he needed to get rid of Trevor.

“Look, I was up barfing all night, all
right?”

Trevor cleared his throat and looked away. “I
heard you.”

“So I don't want company.”

Trevor didn't move, but sat, biting at his lower lip.
“I don't get it,” he repeated. “You're one of them.”

Seph blinked, brushed the back of his hand across his
eyes, refocused on Trevor's face. “What?”

“You're one of them. You've been hanging out at
Alumni House. So why are you up screaming every single night? I have to wear my
headphones to get any sleep.”

“Oh. Well. Sorry. I get nightmares when I'm sick.
That's all.”

“What did you do? You must've really messed
up.”

“What are you talking about?” Seph rolled
onto his back, staring up at the ceiling.

Trevor leaned in close, breathing the words into
Seph's ear, as if afraid of being overheard. “He calls it therapy.”
Trevor looked down at his hands. “The dreams, I mean.”

Seph's battered mind grappled with this, teasing out a
revelation. “You're telling me Leicester has something to do with … with
…”

The look on Trevor's face was a yes. “It's
like, whatever you're scared of, that's what he uses.”

Seph shoved himself into a half-sitting position,
leaning back against the carved headboard. “You're saying he makes people
hallucinate. Dream. Have nightmares.”

“That's what I'm saying.”

“This happened to you?” Seph
gestured weakly, taking in the trashed room.

Trevor swallowed hard. His dark face was nearly gray,
the brown eyes muddy with remembered pain, his hands clasped tightly together.
“I acted out a lot when I first got here.”

“He uses this … as punishment?”

“He calls it therapy,” Trevor repeated.
“If you don't cooperate, I guess he thinks you need more therapy. So … in
a way …”

“And other people have dreams? The Ana … other
students? Not just us?”

“Everybody has dreams, at least at first. He says
they're working through their hostility. Only, I figured you were different. I
mean, you're like him. You and the alumni. Y'all have … some kind of power.
Elsewise, why would the alumni stay? I'd leave, quick as I could.”

Seph was only half listening. He wasn't crazy. It
wasn't his own power that was destroying his mind. It was a spell. It must be.
Leicester was spelling him, making him think he was crazy, make him desperate
enough to agree to … to … what?

“Just do what he says,” Trevor said, as if
reading his mind. “Whatever he asks. I can tell you from experience what
will happen if you try to fight him. It's up to you, but my advice is to sit up
and speak and roll over, whatever it takes. Sucking up ain't that hard, once
you get the hang of it.”

“Doesn't anybody complain?” Seph asked.

“What're you going to say?” Trevor lifted
his hands, palms up. “You had a nightmare at school and Dr. Leicester did
it? Who would believe a story like that from someone with a track record like
mine?”

“Leicester says this is a place for … for
psychiatric cases. He told me we're hallucinating.”

“I guess it's possible. I was a little rough
before I got here, but nobody ever said I was crazy. Before I came to the
Havens, all I dreamed about was girls.”

“Couldn't your parents get you out of here, if
you asked them?”

Trevor laughed bitterly. "Look. My parents love
the Havens. This is the first school that didn't expel me inside of six months.
All of my bad behaviors have been—what's the word—extinguished. I'm
getting good grades. I'm probably going to college. I'm not a problem anymore.
How'm I going to convince them to bring me home?

“A few times, since I've been here, parents have
come to campus all fired up about something they've heard. Leicester meets with
them, and they go away satisfied. Or, at least they go away. He can be very
persuasive, I guess. Anyone who complains really pays for it later.” He
cleared his throat. “Besides, it ain't so bad if you don't give him a
reason to mess with you.”

Seph remembered their visit to the Alumni House,
Trevor begging Warren not to tell Dr. Leicester. “So what are Leicester
and the alumni up to?”

Trevor shook his head. “I don't know, and I don't
want to. Tell you the truth, he don't seem interested in the other students.
I'm not sure he could pick me out of a lineup. But I'm not stupid. I figured
out that if I cut class and messed with the teachers and smoked in the locker
room, I'd pay for it. So I stopped. And since then he's left me alone.”

Seph pushed back his sweat-matted hair. “Listen,
how can I call out of here?”

“You can use any of the campus phones,”
Trevor said. “If you have a calling card, the office makes the call for
you.”

“No, I need a phone I can use myself.”

“There's some kind of code to call direct. The
office makes the calls.” Trevor hesitated. “Who you going to
call?”

“I need to reach my guardian. I've got to get out
of here. Leicester won't put the calls through.”

“Just be careful, Seph. Leicester knows
everything. What he doesn't know, he'll get out of you somehow.”

“So if he asked you about this conversation,
you'd tell him?”

Trevor raised his hands, palms up. “Look, man,
don't blame me. It's like you can't help it. He's a hypnotist or
something.”

Or something. Of course. Which meant Seph couldn't
confide in anyone, or ask anyone for help.

“You mentioned someone named Jason. What'd he do?
What happened to him?”

“Look, forget I ever said anything about
him.”

Seph rested a hand lightly on Trevor's shoulder,
looked him in the eyes. “Tell me.”

Trevor swallowed hard, as if trying to stop the words.
“He was stirring things up. Wanted people to fight back against Dr.
Leicester. Him and Sam and Peter. Then Sam drowned, and Peter and Jason are
with the alumni now.”

“Sam drowned?” Seph repeated. “Do you
think …”

“I don't think anything.” Trevor gave Seph a
look. “And don't you push, because that's all I know.”

Seph had to find a way to escape. Leicester had made
it clear he wasn't going to let him go until he got what he wanted. With
Leicester torturing him every night, Seph didn't know how long he could keep
saying no.

After the conversation with Trevor, Seph began waging
a very small, very unequal war against the Havens. He tried to run away three
times in October, but they seemed to have an uncanny ability to track his
movements. He hid in a delivery truck, but was intercepted at the gate. He
tried to steal the school van, but the electrical system shorted out when he
put the key into the ignition.

His class attendance deteriorated. He took a case of
beer from the Alumni House, and drank until he passed out, hoping to
anesthetize himself. The first part of November, he set a fire in the art and
music building after hours. When they dragged him into Leicester's office, he
said, “Expel me.” Instead, they confined him to his room and the
dreams intensified.

Night and day began to merge into a long and painful
continuum. If he stayed up all night, he hallucinated during the day. Several
times, hopelessly confused, he begged Trevor to tell him whether he was awake
or asleep.

Trevor seemed to have forgiven Seph for the sin of
being gifted. He tried to help by cooperating with all of Seph's experiments.
On the theory that his dreams were being triggered by something in his room,
Seph spent the night on Trevor's floor. The dreams followed him. Trevor stayed
over in Seph's room, so he could wake him when the dreams began. But it was
impossible to wake Seph from his nightmares, and Trevor couldn't bear to be
anywhere near while they were going on.

Meanwhile, Leicester and the alumni watched him, like
predators stalking wounded prey, waiting for him to falter so they could close
in for the kill.

Gregory Leicester sat in his favorite chair and gazed
moodily out to sea. It was unnaturally dark for that time of day, and the
lights were already ablaze out on the dock. They were predicting a northeaster,
one of the first of the season. Leicester could always detect the drop in
pressure when a storm was on the way.

Joseph McCauley was both extraordinarily powerful and
amazingly resistant. He'd been at the Havens for more than three months under
intensive pressure. Save the one previous failure, no one had ever held out so
long. Could Joseph have had some contact with Jason? No. He'd been careful to
keep the two apart.

As always, Leicester was impatient with the process,
more so in this case, given the prize that lay within his grasp. Recruitment
was messy and uncontrolled, and there was always the chance that the intended
would escape by taking his own life. This his continuing rebellion was a
warning. He resolved to have the staff keep a closer eye on Joseph.

He was sure the matter could be handled more
efficiently. He had no doubt he could quickly get what he wanted, given a free
hand with the boy. It was D'Orsay who had insisted on this tender approach, the
dreams that marked the soul and not the body. D'Orsay believed it would be
difficult for the Wizard Council to trace this kind of slow poison to them, if
it came to that. It was splitting hairs, but then that was a politician's job.

Leicester wished he had Joseph's Weirbook. It would
help to know a little more about him, his strengths and weaknesses. That might
bring some insight, provide a strategy. He hungered for the opportunity to put
that remarkable power into play.

He drained his glass, feeling a little better. The boy
knew there was a way out; he couldn't help but be tempted to take it
eventually. It might take a little research, a little more pressure, but
Leicester was confident he would be successful in the end.

Jason

You don't have to understand. You just have to
survive, Seph told himself.

He dreamed every night now, and the nightmares were
longer and more intense than before. He felt wasted mentally and physically,
yet he forced himself to get up out of bed and walk over to the cafeteria and
eat breakfast. Sometimes he went to class, sometimes he just returned to his
room and lay staring at the ceiling.

They were coming in the daytime too, striking out of
nowhere, splitting him cleanly from reality in an instant. He would awaken
screaming in math class, crying out in the middle of government, muttering and
twitching in chemistry class. He nearly blew up the building when he ignited
the chemicals in the lab.

Everyone pretended not to notice. It was as if he
traveled around campus with a dreadful disfigurement, and those around him had
been told not to stare and point. It was impossible to learn anything. He no
longer fought back, no longer spun any plots against them. The spark of
resistance was extinguished in him, save his refusal to give them the one thing
they wanted. He was like a prisoner under torture who refuses to surrender the
password long after he's forgotten why. It was all he could do just to be in
the world.

The only thing that helped was walking. As long as he
kept moving, the demons couldn't catch him. At first he walked restlessly from
building to building. Later, he put on snowshoes and walked for miles through
the woods. Once he made it as far as the wall that bordered the property. But
he couldn't find the gate and he couldn't seem to get a grip on it to climb
before they came and took him back.

Or maybe that was just a dream.

Christmas was coming, but Seph wasn't looking forward
to it. Trevor had invited Seph to spend Christmas in Atlanta, but Leicester
vetoed the idea. Seph's condition was too delicate, he said. Seph had to admit
that anyone who saw him would have to agree. He looked terrible. He continued
to lose weight despite eating all he could.

He had begun to think of ways to kill himself: clever,
foolproof ways that wouldn't land him in the infirmary. He imagined he was
locked in a room with two doors. Death lay behind one of them, Gregory
Leicester and his offer behind another. There was no other way out, as far as
he could see.

 Trevor Hill was worried about Seph. He knew from
experience that one night of “therapy” was life changing. From what
he'd seen and heard, Seph had suffered through forty or fifty of them. Yet
there seemed to be something iron-hard in Seph, some stubborn instinct for
survival that kept him going.

Still, Trevor could tell that Seph was failing. He
looked frail, insubstantial, like someone whose spirit is devouring his flesh.
By now, he might actually be mentally ill, his brain damaged by days and nights
of torture. Trevor felt guilty because he hadn't been able to offer any help.
Guilty because he was glad it was Seph and not him. Confused because he
couldn't figure out why Seph was being targeted. He wasn't like the other
alumni, who treated Trevor and the others like dirt when they noticed them at
all.

On the day the term ended, Trevor invited Seph to his
room to keep him company while he packed. Trevor had ordered Christmas presents
through the mail to take home with him. He'd wrapped up some books for Seph,
and insisted that he open them.

Seph sprawled on his back on Trevor's bed in a kind of
persistent twilight. He clenched and unclenched his hands, twitching and
shivering by turns, staring out at the world with his changeable eyes as if he
could see things no one else could see. Sometimes he touched the cross he
always wore around his neck and muttered to himself in French.

“Look,” Trevor said finally. “Give me
the name of that law firm in London. I'll call them from my folks' house while
I'm home.”

For a moment, Trevor thought he hadn't heard. Then
Seph stirred. “Won't do any good. I've written to them a hundred times.
They've never responded.”

“Well, maybe it would help if they heard it from
someone else,” Trevor insisted.

“All right. I'll get you the number.”

Trevor studied him. “Hey,” he said softly.
“You going to be all right?”

Seph didn't answer for a moment, and that hesitation
worried Trevor even more. “I'll be okay,” he said finally. “I
don't know what else they can do to me.”

The campus was eerily quiet after the departure of the
other students. The regular meal service was discontinued over break, but the
dining room in the Alumni House continued to operate. Seph took his meals there
with the faculty and other alumni who remained on campus.

It made no sense. Didn't they have families? Didn't
they have anywhere better to go for the holidays?

Seph shuffled through Trevor's books with the idea of
losing himself in fiction, but couldn't seem to concentrate. Entire days
vanished from memory. He continued to walk when he felt up to it.

Sloane's sent a large gift basket and a generous gift
certificate, a card printed with his name. Back in September, Seph had been
convinced he'd be expelled from the Havens by Christmas. Now all he could think
about was escape.

Christmas Eve dinner was served by candlelight in the
elegant, two-story alumni-staff dining hall. Bruce Hays and Warren Barber, the
two enforcers, sat on either side of Seph. The other thirteen alumni were
ranged around the table. He grappled with the names, was pleased when he
remembered most of them. He hadn't dreamed for several days, and his head was
clearer than usual.

Martin Hall was functioning as sommelier, circling the
table, opening wine and pouring. Liquor flowed at the open bar, and a different
wine was paired with each course. Leicester wasn't there.

Tension crouched in the room like a snappish dog, and
Seph couldn't help but think that he was the source of it. The others watched
him when they thought he wasn't looking and whispered together at the far ends
of the table.

“Where's Dr. Leicester?” he asked Bruce, as
the fish course was taken away.

Hays wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“He left two days ago. Went back home to England, I guess. Be gone a
week.”

“So, drink up, Joseph.” Barber put the wine
glass into his hand. “Cat's away.”

Seph had, in fact, been pacing himself, making a show
of sipping at his wine, and ignoring the whisky Barber set by his right hand.
The others drank with desperate intensity, like mourners at a wake.

After dessert, Ashton Rice sat down at the piano and
began banging out carols. Their voices rose in a drunken, off-key chorus. Hays
and Barber didn't sing. They set a whisky bottle between them and took turns
pouring.

“Doesn't anyone go home for Christmas?” Seph
asked, oppressed by the forced gaiety, yet hoping he might learn something
useful.

“Home is no longer … relevant,” Hays
mumbled, looking surprised to have come up with the word. He blinked at Seph
owlishly. “You'll find out. You'll see. We're like … blood brothers.
Bloody … Siamese twins.” He groped for the bottle.

Barber slammed his glass down on the table, rattling
the crockery. “Only, Joseph's too good to join, remember?”

The singing dwindled away, and Seph was once again the
reluctant center of attention. He cleared his throat. “Maybe if you tell
me what's going on …”

“He'd rather go crazy.” Barber clutched at
Seph's shirtfront and dragged him to his feet. “The rest of us have to
answer to Leicester. But Seph's got his principles.”

Seph found himself nose to nose with Barber's stubbled
face. “Hey, let go!” Seph tried to wrench himself free, and heard
fabric tearing. “What's wrong with you?”

Hays pawed ineffectually at Barber's shoulder.
“C'mon, Warren. Joseph'll be all right. Give him time.”

“In the meantime, we're paying for it.”
Barber shoved Seph up against the wall. “Maybe we haven't properly
explained … the benefits of membership. We're your only friends now, do you
hear me? Other than us, you got nobody.”

Seph felt the burn of power building at his core.
“Let go. I'm warning you.”

“Warren …” Hays sounded worried. Eggars rose
to his feet like he wanted to intervene, but was unsure how to proceed. The
others clustered unhappily around them.

"Leicester's been … on our backs…since

September,“ Barber gasped, punctuating his speech
by slamming Seph against the wall. ”What's it going to take?"

“Leave … me … alone!” Seph shoved out with
both hands. Months of fear and frustration seemed to detonate in his fingers
and a percussion like a gunshot sent Barber flying backward onto the table. He
slid across it on his back and off the other side, sending wineglasses and
dessert plates crashing. Seph charged after him, vaulted over the table, and
leaped on top of Barber as he lay on the floor. They wrestled briefly, Seph
smashing his fist into Barber's face, Barber too drunk to evade him. And then
they dragged Seph back, several of them together, pinning his arms, their hands
hot and electrical against his skin.

Barber staggered to his feet and stumbled toward Seph,
murder on his face. But help came from an unexpected quarter. Martin Hall
stepped between them, holding the butcher knife that had been used on the crown
roast. The blade wavered in his hand, but it was very large. “Get back, Warren.
You're not yourself.”

“Get out of the way!” Barber said, coming
on.

“And if Dr. Leicester comes back and finds you've
beaten him to death, what then?”

Barber's forward progress slowed, then stopped.

“Stop it,Warren! Hasn't there been enough
bloodshed already?” Martin waved the knife wildly, and Barber stepped
back. Martin turned toward Seph, and Seph was surprised to see that his face
was streaked with tears. He gestured with the knife. “Let him go. You know
as well as I do that he's not the enemy.”

After a moment, the grip on Seph's arms relaxed. The
hot hands dropped away.

“What's the matter with you?” Seph pivoted
so he could look into all their faces, hidden and revealed in the candlelight.
“Why do you stay here? What kind of hold does he have on you?”

Barber clenched his fists. “Who the hell do you
think you are, lecturing us?”

Seph was beyond caring. “He's gone! He's in
England. This is our chance. Let's get out of here. Or, if you like it
here so much, then let me go.”

Martin spoke with great dignity and sorrow. “We
can't do what you ask, Joseph. Now, go on back to your room and lock the door
until my colleagues have sobered up.”

They all stood watching as Seph backed out of the
dining hall, leaving with more questions than answers.

Despite the episode in Alumni House, Seph slept
peacefully on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, nearly twenty-four hours in all.
He assumed that it was because Leicester was away. As a result, his head was
clearer than it had been for a long time, and being in the Alumni House gave
him an idea.

He knew his letters to Sloane's were being
intercepted. After all, Seph was a valuable client with a large trust fund who
would gain control of it one day.

Which made him think of e-mail again.

Surely the alumni were online. That must be why they
had their own library. If there was no access in the library, he'd break into
someone's room. Maybe Trevor had called Sloane's, but Seph decided he couldn't
afford to wait until classes resumed to find out. By then, Leicester would have
returned and he would no longer have easy access to the Alumni House.

He waited until the day after Christmas, after his
third good night's sleep in a month. He ate a late breakfast with Martin and
Peter in the dining room at the Alumni House. He made it a point to sit with
them, and tried to question them, but got nowhere at all.

Barber slouched in just as they were finishing,
wearing what looked like a major hangover. Seph jumped when Barber patted him
on the shoulder, but Barber acted like he didn't remember the confrontation at
dinner. And perhaps he didn't. He'd been pretty wasted.

When the dining room began to empty, Seph went to the
washroom and took his time. Finally, he slipped through the hallway and into
the back stairwell beyond. The door into the stairwell bore a sign, faculty and alumni only. He took a deep
breath. What could they do, kick him out of school? Send him another nightmare?

The door at the top of the stairs opened onto a small
circular landing, with hallways spoking off to either side, the stairway to the
third floor directly ahead. The corridors were lined with gleaming wood
molding, shaded wall sconces, rows of closed doors. No one seemed to be around.

He'd try the library first. His presence there would
be easier to explain.

The hallway to the left was lined with classrooms,
with the library at the far end. Fortunately, the heavy wooden door was
unlocked. He glanced over his shoulder, stepped inside, and pulled it shut
behind him.

The library smelled like Genevieve's attic: of dust
and mildew and disintegrating paper. He stifled a sneeze. The books on the
first set of shelves appeared to be quite old, with dark leather covers and
stamped gold lettering. Curious, Seph pulled a volume from the shelf, tilting
it so the title caught the light. It seemed to be in Latin. Transformare. The
next one was entitled, Extracten Poysoun 1291. Not Latin, exactly. He'd
studied Latin with the Jesuits. But close. Middle English? He moved on into the
room, hoping to find what he was looking for at the rear.

He worked his way toward the back wall. More old books
and some new ones. He pulled out one of the newer ones. Spellbinding: The
Art of Influencing Others. Here was the reading he should have been doing.
Rows and rows of large volumes were shelved together, books that looked
somewhat alike. Their titles were similar, too. Weir Smy the John Artur.
Weir Thompson Harold Franklin. Weir Huntingdon Bru Amfeld.