The Enchanter Heir

Chapter Two

Too Little, Too Late

By the time Jonah broke into the dungeon, Jeanette was dead. She hung from the wall, her long plait of gray hair matted with blood, her face swollen, her body bruised and broken. Tools of torture had been flung carelessly aside— useless now.

Jonah knew she was dead because he couldn’t feel her pain. The pain he was feeling was all his own. “Jeanette,” he whispered, his voice breaking, along with his heart.

He snapped the manacles around her wrists in two with his fingers, letting the chains clatter back against the wall. Gently, he lowered her to the stone floor, giving her damaged body the care it deserved, that it should have had. She’d saved his life many times over, but he’d failed her now.

Until five years ago, Jeanette had worked in the infirmary at the Anchorage, where Jonah had spent much of his early life after leaving Thorn Hill. She would hold his head over the basin until the black sick was out of him, then clean his face and mop his sweaty forehead and change the mitts on his hands. After his doses, she would cradle him and sing songs to him until he slept. She provided the comfort of human touch at a time when he almost never got it. Most important of all, she’d saved his brother’s life. She’d left the Anchorage when he was twelve, but not a week went by without a phone call or text or e-mail from Jeanette.

Even at the worst times in his life, he’d never stopped believing in Jeanette Brodie. And she’d never stopped believing in him.

Stripping off his leather glove, he cradled her cheek with his bare hand, knowing he no longer posed any danger to her. “Be at peace,” he whispered, closing her eyes with his fingertips. He texted Gabriel and Kenzie, one word only: Dead. He resisted the urge to send a second text to Gabriel alone. Told you so.

Jeanette might be at peace, but a fine, fresh anger flamed inside of Jonah. Why would anyone—even wizards—target Jeanette? She was one of the gentlest people he’d ever known. She’d only left Gabriel’s service because she could no longer steel herself against the dying of children.

The world was full of monsters, and Jonah meant to find out which one was to blame for this.

He mounted the stone steps two at a time, at savant speed, quiet as the vapor of death. As soon as he reached the first floor, he heard voices. When he breathed in the stench of conjured magic, he knew: wizards.

Jonah ghosted down the hallway. The voices spilled from a large, arched entryway into an adjacent room. His unusually good hearing was, ironically, a gift from wizards.

He edged his head around the doorframe so that he Scould see.

Three people stood around the fireplace, though the hearth was cold on this summer day. One was a young man with sun-streaked brown hair, his lean body rigid with impatience. He looked to be in his early twenties—but it was always hard to tell with wizards. The fifty-ish woman with raven-black hair would be Jessamine Longbranch, the owner of the house Jonah had broken into minutes before. The other man was older, gaunt, with a badly scarred face. That was likely Geoffrey Wylie, a known associate of Longbranch’s.

“Well? What did you find out?” The younger man was an American, his voice as penetrating as a sliver of ice.

“Not as much as I’d hoped for,” Longbranch said, scowling.

“So you’ve given up?” The scarred man snorted.

“I didn’t have much of a choice, Wylie,” Longbranch said. “She’s dead.”

After a strained pause, the American spoke again. “If there was any chance at all she knew anything—which, for the record, I doubt—then why the hell did you kill her?”

“I didn’t mean to, clearly,” Longbranch said, her voice low and tight with anger. “Sometimes they just die.”

Everyone needs a hobby. Jonah’s was tracking wizards. Something that his mentor, Gabriel Mandrake, discouraged. In Gabriel’s view, Jonah’s mission was elsewhere—hunting shades. The undead victims of the Thorn Hill Massacre.

“Well,” the American said, glancing at his watch. “That’s that. This has been a colossal waste of time. I’ve got to get back to New York.”

“Hang on, DeVries.” Longbranch leaned back against the sideboard, swirling her drink. “The Thorn Hill angle is

worth pursuing, and you know it. The best sorcerers of the age flocked there, because they knew that they could source any botanicals they needed without the risk of anyone coming after them in Brazil. Their expertise could be the key to freeing ourselves from the underguild tyrants in Trinity.”

“No doubt,” DeVries said. “After all, the Thorn Hill conspiracy was a smashing success—or would have been, if they hadn’t managed to poison themselves.”

“Fine,” Longbranch flared. “Moss and her cohorts can go right on killing wizards until we are extinct.”

“What’s the count now?” Wylie asked.

DeVries shifted his gaze to Wylie. “Fifty-seven dead,” he said. “And I understand that some from the underguilds have been killed as well.”

“Red herrings, no doubt,” Wylie said. “To obscure the real culprits.”

“Maybe,” DeVries said, as if he didn’t care, one way or the other.

“Are there truly no clues at all?” Wylie asked.

“Some of the bodies don’t have a mark on them. Others have been found—to be blunt—dismembered. The commonalities are that their Weirstones are destroyed, their magic drained, and all of the bodies have dead flowers scattered over them.”

“Roses?” Longbranch guessed.

DeVries shook his head. “Nightshade.”

Nightshade? Jonah’s hand crept inside his neckline, to his Nightshade pendant, brushed over the engraved design. Really? Was it possible that someone from Nightshade was moonlighting? Somebody besides him?

“Any updates on the Interguild Council investigation?” SWylie asked.

“Don’t look for any help from them,” DeVries said bitterly. “Some on Council are probably responsible for the killings; the rest merely celebrate them. Madison Moss has to be involved. Wizards just aren’t that easy to kill.”

“That’s exactly why we need to take matters into our own hands,” Longbranch said. “The survivors of Thorn Hill represent the greatest reservoir of knowledge about materials magic and Weirstones that exists.”

“Existed,” DeVries said.

“Don’t you see?” Longbranch continued undeterred. “What if we could modify Weirstones so that they no longer require the connection to the Dragonheart in order to function? Failing that, if we could determine exactly what agent got into the water supply at Thorn Hill—”

“Why? Are you planning some kind of mass murder, now that we’re finally at peace?” DeVries said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look, investigating Thorn Hill seemed like a good idea,” he said, as if Longbranch had crocheted an especially clever potholder at the old folks’ home. “But we’ve no way to pursue it if there aren’t any records, and if everybody who knew anything is dead.”

“The healer survived. There must be others,” Longbranch said. “More who left before the disaster.” She paused. “Perhaps some of them are working for you.”

“Working for me?” DeVries said, his eyes narrowing. “Do go on.”

Wylie and Longbranch exchanged glances, as if negotiating the next move.

“We’re well aware of your expertise in poisons and toxins,” Wylie said, trying for charm, and failing. “You were brought up in the business, after all. And isn’t it true that yourfather was murdered by some in the underguilds who blamed him for this so-called Thorn Hill Massacre?”

“I have no idea who murdered my father,” DeVries said, clearly not seeking a heart-to-heart with Wylie. “He was a successful businessman, and successful businessmen attract enemies. Those were violent times, if you recall. As for poison, that’s a sorcerer’s weapon. Wizards have other options.”

“I’ve heard rumors that the Black Rose is back,” Wylie persisted, “that it’s resurfaced in response to the recent killings. We thought, perhaps, that you—er, the Black Rose—might have recruited some Thorn Hill survivors to—”

“Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said, glaring at him. “We don’t want to imply that young DeVries here is in any way involved with assassinations and the like.”

“Another day, another conspiracy theory,” DeVries said, rolling his eyes. “People who consort with assassins have a rather short shelf life, don’t you think?”

After another exchange of glances with Wylie, Longbranch decided to change the subject.

“What about the Anchorage?” she said. “Every one of the inmates there is a Thorn Hill survivor. One of them might know something. They may even have records and archives from the camp.”

Jonah stiffened. He didn’t like that these wizards had the Anchorage in their sights.

“I can’t imagine that they would be of any help,” DeVries said, his voice laced with contempt.

“Why haven’t you mentioned this place before?” Wylie asked, seemingly annoyed to be on the outside. “I never Sheard of it.”

“I only just thought of it,” Longbranch said. “The Anchorage is an institution that houses the children of the rebels at Thorn Hill, the few hundred who didn’t die with their parents. The ones that survived the mass poisoning ended up as magical cripples. Some are barely functional, requiring round-the-clock care. Others are kept confined, because they pose a danger to themselves and to everyone else. A few run loose on the streets.”

“Fascinating. But who would want to do that—take care of underguild freaks, I mean?” Wylie mused. “Moreover, who would want to pay for it?”

“You’ve heard of Gabriel Mandrake—the American music promoter?” When Wylie nodded, Longbranch continued. “He’s a sorcerer who’s adopted the labrats, as they’re commonly called, as his pet charity. If you ask me, it would have been cleaner to have dealt with them at the time. It’s easier to dispose of mutants and monsters when they’re small.”

Bitterness boiled up in Jonah. This proves, once again, that wizards are the monsters we should be targeting, Gabriel. Not our own kind.

“You have a point, Jessamine,” DeVries said, paging through messages on his phone. “The magically damaged are really quite . . . useless.” He looked up at Longbranch, a smile curving his lips. “They shoot horses, don’t they?”

Longbranch’s face paled and her lips tightened. Jonah felt the sharp push of her rage meeting the chill of DeVries’s indifference.

Wylie broke the charged silence. “Why don’t we go after Mandrake? He might know something. Or be able to finger someone who does.”

DeVries shook his head. “Gabriel Mandrake is an extremely visible figure who lives a stone’s throw from the headquarters of the Interguild Council. He also has the best security system money can buy. I don’t need that kind of attention.”

“Fine. Maybe the Anchorage is out, but there must be leads we could explore,” Longbranch said. “We can’t give up now.”

“Who says we’re giving up?” DeVries smiled, more a showing of teeth than anything else. “Don’t contact me again unless you have a solid lead. It’s too risky. And, next time, turn your prisoner over and let us handle the interrogation. No doubt we’ll get better results.”

Jonah ducked away from the doorway to allow DeVries to stride past him. He left through the front door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

Jonah returned to his vantage point just in time to see Longbranch snatch up a vase and smash it against the doorframe, sending shards of glass flying past Jonah’s ear. “What an insufferable, smug bastard,” she snarled. “We don’t need him.”

“Yes we do,” Wylie said. “If we want to regain any real power, that is.” He motioned toward the sideboard. “I’ll have a drink, if you’re offering.”

“Pour it yourself !” Longbranch stalked to the large windows that overlooked the gardens and pulled them open. The scent of roses wafted in. “For all we know, DeVries is behind the killing. Everyone knows the Black Rose will kill anyone for a price. Maybe the council gave him a contract.”Jonah rubbed his aching head. He’d had enough. He had no interest in hanging out, listening to bickering wizards. He knew who to blame for Jeanette’s death, and that was what

Scounted.

He yanked off his gloves with his teeth and tucked them into the waistband of his jeans, then rounded the corner and walked toward the two wizards.

Longbranch was the first to spot him. Her eyes widened at first, then narrowed speculatively. “How did you get in here?” she demanded.

Wylie spied Jonah in that same moment, his face contorted in surprise. “What the—?”

“How did you get over the security fence?” Longbranch interrupted.

“Well,” Jonah said, shrugging. “It wasn’t much of a fence.”

Longbranch rolled her eyes, as if Jonah’s presence were more an annoyance than a threat. “Why am I paying for twenty-four-hour security? I’m going to fire them all.”

“No need,” Jonah said, raking his hand through his hair. “They’re dead.”

“Ah.” Longbranch nodded. “Well, then. That’s the price of failure, I suppose. How many of you are there?”

“Just me,” Jonah said. “That’s usually enough.”

“Why, you arrogant son of a—” Wylie began.

“Shut up, Wylie,” Longbranch said. Her eyes traveled over Jonah approvingly, lingering on the sword hilt poking up over his shoulder. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a breathtaking young man?”

A thousand times, Jonah thought. A lot of good it does me.

“Are you a warrior, then?” Longbranch continued. “Or a wizard?”

Jonah shook his head. “Neither.” Wizards were unable to identify Weirstones—one of the few advantages the under guilds had.

“Hmm . . . definitely not a seer. They are so tiresome. A sorcerer—no—an enchanter, perhaps?” Lust glittered in the wizard’s eyes. “An enchanter with a sword? Like—like a gladiator. How intriguing. And versatile. Would you like a job?”

“I have a job,” Jonah said. “I’m here about Ms. Brodie.” Longbranch smiled. “Wylie, our luck may be turning. Just when we think we’re at a dead end, fate hands us this second chance.” She took a step toward Jonah. “Who was she to you?”

It was a verbal ambush. “She—she—” Jonah’s words stuck in his throat. He took a ragged breath, then regained control of himself. Get a grip, Kinlock. You ought to be used to losing the people you love by now.

“I’m not here to answer your questions,” Jonah said, back to icy calm.

Wylie thrust his hand under his sweater and produced a massive pistol, which he pointed at Jonah. “Think again,” he said, waving the thing like a movie badster.

Compensating for something? Jonah thought wearily.

Longbranch tilted her head back, studying Jonah like she was hungry and he was dinner. “Brodie wasn’t much help, even after hours of torture. In retrospect, I’m thinking that maybe she didn’t actually know anything. You, on the other hand . . . you’re much more promising.” Her cheeks were flushed, her breath coming faster. Like most wizards, she took pleasure in inflicting pain.

Jonah, on the other hand . . . not so much. He pushed back his sleeves. He had to try to come away with something, anyway. Something that would convince Gabriel to act. Easy questions first. “You’re Jessamine Longbranch, Sright?” he said. “And you’re Geoffrey Wylie?”

“Shut up,” Wylie said, motioning with the gun. “Put the sword on the floor and step back from it.”

“No,” Jonah said.

“No?” Wylie looked down at the gun in his hands, as if to make sure it was still there. Then back up at Jonah. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean I’m keeping the sword. It was a gift,” Jonah said.

Fragarach, was one of the Seven Great Blades made at Dragon’s Ghyll. Gabriel had given it to Jonah when he signed on with Nightshade. It was ensorcelled bright metal, good for killing both gifted and Anaweir, for cutting up cadavers to free the shades inside. Ideal for multitaskers like Jonah.

“Now,” Jonah said. “What did you want from Jeanette?”

“Drop the sword or I’ll shoot!” Wylie roared, his face going purple.

Jonah sighed. Fine. He needed to make an example of one of them. “So shoot me,” he said, feinting a move.

Wylie fired, but Jonah was already across the room. He disarmed the wizard before he could get off a second shot. It was as if Wylie were moving in slow motion, his eyes widening, his mouth opening, and words rolling out slowly, along with drops of spittle.

Jonah closed his bare hands around Wylie’s neck. A light touch, a gentle kind of violence, but enough. Wylie’s eyes went wide with wonder, and then his face took on a familiar, blissful expression.

He crumpled, and Jonah let him go, his still-open eyes glazed over before he hit the floor.

This was how Jonah’s interrogations tended to go, since he couldn’t deal with the blowback associated with inflicting pain. Still, killing wizards was so much more satisfying than killing shades. Especially these particular wizards.

Jonah stepped over Wylie, advancing on Longbranch. Her eyes had gone round with horror, her complexion dead-fish pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but it took some time for words to emerge. “Who are you?” she croaked. “And what are you? An enchanter with a sword and a deadly sting?”

“Me? I guess you could say I’m kind of a monster hunter.”

“M-monster hunter? I don’t understand.”

“You know how in the movies the monster turns on theevil scientist who created him?” He shrugged. “That’s me. I’m a monster who hunts monsters.”

“Look,” she said. “I have lots of money. You want this house? You can have it. There are five cars in the garage. Choose any or all of them.” When that didn’t draw a positive reaction, she added, “I—I have a boat.”

“I’m not a thief,” Jonah said. “I’m more of an assassin, really.”

“You’re the one who’s been killing wizards!” Longbranch took a step back.

“No,” Jonah said, with a sigh. “Actually, I’m not.”

“Of course not,” Longbranch hastened to say, “but if you are, you should know that I don’t have a functional Weirstone.” She paused. “So, technically, I’m not a wizard.”

“Not a problem. If you’re not a wizard, you’re definitely wizard-ish.”

Longbranch licked her lips and said, “You mentioned— weren’t there some questions you want to ask me? Before—before you—”

“Why did you kidnap Ms. Brodie? What did you think Sshe could tell you?”

“We were hoping to get files and records from Thorn Hill. Information about the weapons they were working on.”

“Weapons? You mean like perfumes and skin creams and medicines?”

“Oh, come on,” Longbranch snapped. “Don’t be naive.”

She really believes that Thorn Hill was the center of some kind of antiwizard conspiracy, Jonah thought. “What do you need weapons for?”

“To protect ourselves.”

Why are there ever wars? Jonah thought. Everyone only needs weapons to protect themselves. Jonah noticed that the ex-wizard had moved three or four feet to the left over the course of the conversation.

“Do you have anybody else on your list? People to torture, I mean?”

Longbranch shook her head.

“That DeVries that was here—tell me about him.”

Longbranch seemed more than happy to give up her co-conspirator. “That’s Rowan DeVries, an American, of course. Very wealthy. He’s a new member of the Interguild Council, but he’s also the principal in a syndicate of assassins for hire.”

“The Black Rose?”

Longbranch looked thunderstruck. “You’ve heard of it?”

“The Black Rose has been around for a long time,” Jonah said. “Do you think Madison Moss is behind these killings?” When she hesitated, he took a step closer. “Tell me.”

“She could be. She’s certainly capable of it. Only . . .” She paused. “Why would she? She’s got all the power. Moss disabled my Weirstone, but I’m still alive—if you can call it that. If it’s her, then why are these wizards dead? If it’sher, why doesn’t she just do everyone at once and get it over with?”

“It’s not just wizards,” Jonah reminded her. “Other mainli—guildlings are dying as well.”

Longbranch snorted. “What happens to the other guilds is no concern of mine.”

She was still moving, and now Jonah could see that she was headed toward a desk at the side of the room.

Jonah watched her inch along with part of his brain while the rest wrestled with Longbranch’s revelations. “And it’s happening all over?”

“Everywhere,” Longbranch said. “Starting about two years ago.” She’d reached her goal. Now she stood, her hips braced back against the desk, leaning on the heels of her hands. “May I ask you a question?”

“You can ask. I may not answer.”

“Who sent you? If you’re not working for Madison Moss, then who are you working for? McCauley?”

“McCauley?” Jonah shook his head. “No.”

“Hastings? Hastings, then?”

“No. Not Hastings.”

“I have it!” Longbranch said. “You’re working for DeVries. You were sent to find out how much we know. And then to kill us.”

“I told you. I came for Ms. Brodie. But you tortured her, and then you murdered her.” He paused, long enough for his words to register, then said, “I want to know why. Specifically. Who’s working with you, and what are you planning to do?”

Just then Jonah’s secure cell phone went off. Incoming Stext from Charlie Dugard, head of Nightshade’s European operation.

He scanned the screen. Slayer down. Regent’s Canal, near Camden Lock. All hands.

That would go out to any slayer within range.

Taking advantage of Jonah’s momentary distraction, Longbranch scooped a dagger off her desk, turned, and lunged at him, attempting to bury the blade beneath his breastbone. Jonah intercepted her hands, gripping both wrists, and slammed her up against the wall.

Longbranch looked down at the dagger between them, just pricking his sweatshirt, at his hands gripping her bare wrists. Then looked up into his eyes.

“Oh,” she said, her lips curving into a dreamy smile. “My dear. You are such a pretty one.”

Jessamine Longbranch died happy. Now Jonah Kinlock had someplace he had to be.