The Enchanter Heir

Chapter Twenty-nine

In a World of Trouble

The door to the room flew open, and two wizards walked in. A man and a woman. They looked to be in their midthirties, with lean, hard faces.

Natalie stood and turned to face them, arms folded across her chest, like a wall between Emma and the newcomers.

They froze momentarily, as if startled to see Emma sitting up. “She’s awake!” the man said. “Why didn’t you call us?”

He crossed the room to Emma’s bedside, followed by the woman. The two wizards stood over her, looking down at her like they were hungry and she was dinner.

Emma blotted at her face with her forearm, sniffling, and Natalie handed her a tissue.

The man glared at Natalie. “Why is she crying? What did you say to her?”

“She’s an emotional wreck,” Natalie said, squeezing Emma’s shoulder. “Can you blame her?”

“Don’t encourage her,” the woman said. “We don’t have time for hysterics.” She was dressed in a sweater, skirt and fancy leather boots, elaborate earrings, and a heavy gold necklace. Her red-brown hair had that carefully tossed look that stank of money.

“I gave her something to help her sleep,” Natalie lied.

“You should let her rest now, and come back tomorrow.”

“She just woke up, and you gave her something to put her back to sleep? Who do you think you are?”

Natalie lifted her chin. “I’m a healer. That’s what I do.”

“If you say so,” the woman said. “Mandrake claims that you’re a gifted healer despite your disability, but I find that difficult to believe.” She paused for a heartbeat. “How fortunate that he’s been able to find useful work for you people.”

Dismissing Natalie, she turned to Emma. “I’m Ms.

Hackleford, and this is Mr. Burroughs. We’re going to ask you some questions.”

“Just so you know,” Natalie said. “Emma’s experiencing some memory loss.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?” Burroughs asked, scowling. He was whip-thin, with close-cropped dark hair.

He might have been handsome but for his cruel lips and empty eyes.

Natalie shrugged. “Temporary amnesia is a common reaction to emotional trauma.”

Hackleford made a small, unhappy moue. “So you’ve already interrogated her, have you?”

“Of course not,” Natalie said. “It’s too risky. After all my hard work, I don’t want to see her relapse.”

“That’s a risk we’ll have to take,” Hackleford said. “It’s already been a week, and the trail is getting colder by the minute. There are eight people dead, my daughter included, and we need answers.”

It took Emma a moment to wick up the words. “Eight people dead?” she blurted. “What eight people?”

“Well, nine, counting your father.” Hackleford obviously didn’t.

“Then he is dead,” Emma whispered. “Tyler’s dead.” Once, years before, she’d been punched in the stomach on the playground, driving all the wind out of her. She felt like that now. She struggled to breathe, to take in air, but it was as if her airway was closing.

Her father had never been any kind of anchor . . . she hadn’t even known he existed until a few months ago. But still. She felt like she’d been cut loose and cast adrift, with no idea where she would eventually land. She finally understood the truth . . . that there would be no good news coming. Ever.

A door opened in Emma’s mind, and she saw blood. Blood spattered everywhere. A crowd around Tyler. Somebody slamming into her. Her father’s gun, spinning away from her. Glass raining down from overhead. She began to shake, her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

“You see what I mean?” Natalie said. “This is not the time to—”

“This is wizard business,” Burroughs said. “If you want to make yourself useful, then identify the toxin. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to be good at? Now get out.”

Natalie stood, fists clenched, and for a moment, Emma thought she might refuse to comply with the wizard’s demand. But she took a deep breath, released it, and left the room, closing the door behind her with a soft click. Hackleford gazed at Emma, lips pursed, as if studying her for vulnerabilities. “So you see, Emma,” she said, in a low, foxy voice. “We’re all on the same side. We want to find out who murdered your father and my daughter and the others. We’re hoping you can help us. You do want to help us, don’t you?”

“We know who did it,” Burroughs said. “Or at least who gave the orders. All you have to do is say the names. We’ll take it from there.”

“S-say what?” Emma looked from one to the other. “You already know who murdered my father?”

Burroughs sat down on the side of the bed. Emma shuddered. She didn’t want him there, not at all. Meanwhile, Hackleford went and bolted the door. Emma’s heart began to thud so loud that she was sure the two wizards could hear it.

“Do you recognize this person? Was he one of the killers?” Burroughs extended a tablet toward her, displaying an image of a young man with dark curls and green eyes. Totally unfamiliar.

“No,” Emma said. “I don’t recognize him.”

The wizard’s lips tightened in annoyance. “Are you sure?”

“Well . . .” Emma licked her lips. “I can’t be sure—”

“So he might have been there?” Burroughs said, leaning forward, putting one hand on her pillow, next to her ear.

“I—I think I remember somebody with a mask.”

“A mask?” Burroughs and Hackleford looked at each other. “Could it have been him?” Burroughs thrust the screen under her nose again.

“To be honest, it could’ve been anyone.”

“How about her?” Burroughs asked, extending the tablet again. This time the screen displayed a photograph of a young woman with long, wavy brown hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose.

Emma pressed her hand against her forehead. Her headache had returned with a vengeance. It hurt to shake her head, but she did it anyway. “No.”

“Look at this one,” Burroughs persisted. This time, it was a photo of two people, a young man and a young woman, both holding elaborate swords and looking like they knew how to use them.

“Look, I don’t see the point,” she said. “They may or may not have been there, I just don’t remember.”

“How about names?” Hackleford asked. “Do you remember any names being mentioned?” She paused and, when Emma said nothing, continued: “Seph McCauley? Madison Moss? Jack Swift? Do any of those names sound familiar?”

“M-maybe if you came back . . . tomorrow. I’d remember more.”

“We need to know now,” Hackleford said, “before anyone else is murdered. You don’t want anyone else to be murdered, do you?”

“All we need is a yes, Emma,” Burroughs said, “and we’ll leave you alone.” He leaned in, his copper-penny eyes fixed on hers, and brushed his fingers lightly along her jawline, leaving a nettlelike sting.

“Stop that!” She slapped his hand away. “I’m not going to lie and say yes when it’s just not true. I—I’m not answering any more questions without a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” Burroughs laughed. “Who do you think we are . . . the police? Do you think we’re going to read you your Miranda rights, you little—”

“Careful,” Hackleford warned. “You know what DeVries—”

“DeVries needs to take off the gloves, or he won’t be running this operation for long,” Burroughs said. Grabbing a fistful of Emma’s hair, he yanked her head back and leaned in so they were nose to nose, his cigarette breath washing over her.

“That hurts,” Emma whimpered, tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t. It hurts.”

“This is just the beginning. Let me be clear . . . you are in a world of trouble. The only way out is to give us what we want.”

Drawing back her arm, Emma slammed the heel of her hand against the bridge of the wizard’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Howling in rage, Burroughs wrapped his fingers around her throat and jammed her back against the headboard, each finger like a tiny torch against her skin. Emma clawed at his forearm, struggling for air. Her head was pounding. No . . . someone was pounding at the door.

She could hear Hackleford in the background. “Burroughs! Are you out of your mind? Stop it!”

But he didn’t stop. Finally, stiffening her fingers, Emma jabbed the wizard in the eyes.

Burroughs released his hold and pitched himself backward. He landed on the floor and rolled to his feet, murder in his eyes.

The door slammed open, the bolt pinging as it hit the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, glowing.

“DeVries!” Hackleford cried. Both wizards stepped back in unison, as if the move had been choreographed. “We didn’t think you were—”

“You didn’t think I’d be back so soon?”

“No . . . I didn’t, but it’s good you’re here,” Hackleford said, quickly covering his initial reaction. “The girl’s awake. We were just about to call you.”

The newcomer’s eyes flicked from Burroughs, who was dabbing at his streaming eyes, to Hackleford, and finally to Emma, trembling in the bed. Swearing, he crossed the room and stood at the bedside, looking down at her. He looked to be only a few years older than her, with fair skin, streaked brown hair, and tawny eyes, like a jungle cat’s.

“What’s going on?” DeVries asked, focusing on Emma. “What’s wrong?”

Emma shifted her gaze to Burroughs, and saw the promise of pain in those copper-penny eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, resisting the temptation to explore her blistered neck with her fingers.

“Something happened,” DeVries persisted.

“They told me my father was murdered,” Emma said. Which was true, as far as it went. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilted her head down to conceal her neck. “I just . . . I just want to be left alone. Could you please leave me alone?”

“I’m afraid we can’t. Not quite yet.” When he spoke again, it was to the wizards in the room. “Would someone else care to tell me what happened here?”

“It’s like she said,” Hackleford said. “When she woke, she asked about her father, and we told her he was dead.”

Burroughs returned to Emma’s bedside like a vulture drawn back to a fresh carcass. “I think you’ll agree, DeVries, that time is of the essence if we’re to win broader support from the Wizard Council before any more wizards are murdered. As you know, I have considerable experience in interrogation. I have no doubt that, given a little time, I can obtain the answers we want.”

“I am less interested in obtaining the answers we want than I am in getting at the truth,” DeVries said. “I told you— both of you—that I intended to handle this interrogation myself. What was it that you didn’t understand?”

“I’d hoped you’d reconsider,” Burroughs said. “We can’t afford to squander our only chance to make our case against the cabal in Trinity. We need to get more wizards off the fence and onto our side.”

“And I don’t think we want to wear our witness out talking politics,” DeVries said. “We’ll discuss this after I’ve had the chance to talk to her. Now go.”

They went.

DeVries pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing Emma. He might have been a college student, in his jeans, sneakers, and a collared shirt. “I’m Rowan DeVries,” he said.

“Emma Greenwood.”

“You’re the daughter of Tyler Greenwood and Gwyneth Hart?”

Gwyneth? Gwen. Right. “Yes.”

For a long moment, he stared down at his hands, saying nothing. Then he said, “Is it true what they said? Now that they’re gone, do you want to change your story?”

“Is it true that I’m a prisoner?”

His head came up quickly, his expression startled.

“Mr. DeVries. I may not know much, but I’m not stupid,” Emma said.

“Call me Rowan,” he said. Then added, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“Rowan,” Emma repeated, putting an edge on it. “If I’ve been so sick, then why am I not in a hospital? If I’m accused of something, then why am I not talking to the police?”

“You’re not accused of anything,” Rowan said.

“Then suppose you tell me what this is all about?” On the streets of Memphis, she’d learned to take the offensive when she got into a tight spot. A good bluff could sometimes save a person a world of trouble.

“We need to know what happened,” Rowan went on. “How you were hurt. And we need to know now. Just tell me what you remember, whether you think it’s important or not.”

“I’m not talking to anyone without a lawyer,” Emma said.

“A lawyer would not be helpful,” Rowan said stiffly.

“Not to you, maybe.”

“Look, I’ll walk you through it,” he said. “And you fill in what you know. We found you on the floor of the conservatory. Was that where you first saw the intruders?”

Emma folded her arms and said nothing.

Rowan’s tawny eyes hardened into amber, set into a face gone pale as marble and just as hard. “Don’t try my patience, Emma,” he said softly. “My sister Rachel is dead. She’s all the family I had. I practically raised her after my father was murdered. I’d prefer not to hurt you, but I will get some answers.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Emma said. “Do you want me to make something up?”

“All I want is the truth,” he said. “No games. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t remember anything.” He released a long breath and raked both hands through his hair.

“The last I remember was being in my workshop in the basement.”

“Workshop?”

“I’m a luthier. I build guitars.” She paused and, when he didn’t ask questions about this, continued: “After that, nothing. Or almost nothing. It’s just a few scenes. Like pictures, in my head. Somebody in a mask. And—and gunshots. And blood.” Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face.

He handed her a tissue. “This masked person. Can you tell me anything else? What was he wearing? How big was he? Did he look familiar? Was he gifted?”

Emma shook her head. “It seemed like he was all bundled up, so all I could see was his eyes. He had sad eyes.”

“Sad eyes?” Rowan sounded a little exasperated.

“You asked what I remembered, right? I remember that.”

“Did he try to charm you?”

“Charm me?” Emma was lost. “You mean, seduce me? Or . . .”

He flushed. “Charms. You know. Spells. Conjury.” He raised his hand and mimicked casting a spell.

“Oh. No.”

“How old was he?”

“All I saw was his eyes.”

“If you had to guess.”

“From his voice, I’d say he was younger rather than older. Teens or twenties.”

“Are any of these people familiar?” Rowan had his own array of photographs stored in his phone, the same people the other wizards had shown her. “I don’t recognize any of them.” She handed the phone back.

“How about this one?”

It was a photograph of a girl with chestnut hair in a tennis outfit. The resemblance between her and Rowan was striking. It pinged something in Emma’s memory.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Is that your sister?”

“Yes,” he said, putting the phone away. “What can you tell me about Tyler?”

“I don’t really know him that well.”

“He’s your father, right?” Rowan said, raising an eyebrow.

“I just came to live with him a few months ago.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I lived with my grandfather in Memphis. After he died, I came here.”

And then Emma could have sworn that Rowan did the flicker-eye thing. The lying thing. He looked down at his hands. Then back up at Emma. “So. Since you’ve been living with Tyler, have you seen people coming and going? Meetings at the house? Did he seem to be involved in any kind of . . . conspiracy?”

“No. Nobody ever came over. He didn’t seem to have any friends. He was pretty much a homebody, except when he went out for gigs.”

“Gigs?”

“He plays—played—bass guitar in a band.”

“Did you ever see him work with chemicals, plants, poisons, magical devices?”

“No, never.”

“He was a sorcerer.” It was a half question.

“That’s what I’m told. But I never saw any sign of it.”

“How about you? Are you a sorcerer as well?”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know what I am. Maybe nothing. Tyler said I was gifted, but that was the first I heard about it.”

Rowan seemed to have run out of questions temporarily. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead, looking about as weary and heartsick as Emma felt. “What happens now?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.

“We’ll keep trying, Emma, until you remember more.”

“And if I don’t?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But I want the truth, Emma. Nothing more and nothing less.”

“Fair enough,” she said. “Will you tell me the truth, then?”

His eyes narrowed. “It depends on the question.”

“If you can’t tell me the truth, tell me nothing at all,” she said. “I can’t stand a liar. How did they die? My father and the others?”

He shifted his gaze away. “Do you really want the details? I mean—we don’t have to—”

“I’m not like other people,” Emma said. “I’ve been told that all my life. And I want to know how my father died.”

“Very well, if you insist,” Rowan said. “Greenwood— your father—had a deep cutting wound to the thigh. He had some . . . he was burned, and he’d been cut by broken glass, but what killed him must have been blood loss.”

“And the others?”

“Two of the dead, including my sister, were badly cut up, too. Stabbed and slashed. One was shot. The others didn’t have a mark on them. We’ve seen that before. So we’ve been thinking there were several attackers, using different weapons.”

“Did you call the police?” By now, Emma was fairly certain he hadn’t. “Did you even do an autopsy?”

Rowan rolled his eyes, as if Emma were a hopeless case. “That would be a colossal waste of time.”

“Really? Maybe you could use the help. You don’t seem to be doing such a great job on your own.” Emma’s anger was bubbling to the surface again, despite her efforts to contain it. “Tell me this,” she said. “What were your sister and those others doing at my house? I assume they weren’t looking to book a gig.”

Rowan chewed on his lower lip a moment, as if debating how much to say. “We’ve been looking for people with a connection to Thorn Hill. We think there’s a connection between what happened there and a series of murders going on now. Including the killing of my sister and your father.”