The Dragon Heir (13 page)

Don't be like me, Madison
thought. Raggedy mad all your life.

They stood side-by-side,
staring at the ruins, their breath pluming into the crystalline air, stamping
their feet to keep warm.

“So what happened to the
shed?” Madison asked, after a bit.

“Some people set it on
fire,” Grace replied.

Madison turned and stared at
her. “Who?”

Grace shrugged her narrow
shoulders. “There were four or five of them, out here in the dark. It
looked like they had torches or something,” she said.

There was nobody better than
Grace at keeping a secret. Which made Madison think she'd had too much
practice. “And you and J.R. were all by yourselves?”

Grace shrugged her shoulders
again. She picked up a stick and poked it under a charred beam, coming up with
a scrap of cloth that dissolved into ash.

“Any idea who it
was?” Madison asked.

“No. They were wearing
hoods.” She hesitated. “We tried to put it out, me and J.R.We poured
water on it. But it wouldn't go out.”

Madison shivered. “Did
you…did you find any marks or signs or anything?”

Grace shook her head.

“Did you tell
anyone?”

She wrinkled her nose.
“Who would I tell? You were gone, and Mama, well …”

“You could've told the
police.”

“They'd probably say we
made it up. Or blame it on us.”

Madison nodded.
“Probably.” Grace was another old soul. She'd remember how little
help the police had been over the past year, when Madison was the one accused.

“Must've been kids, I
guess,” Madison suggested. It could've been. Some people just liked to see
things burn. And kids from the high school liked to drive up Booker Mountain
Road when they needed to escape all the spying eyes in a small town.

It didn't have to mean the
fires were starting up again.

Impulsively, Madison wrapped
an arm around Grace's shoulders and pulled her in close. Grace resisted at
first, then gave in, laying her head on Madison's shoulder. Grace had taken a
shower as soon as she got home, and her hair smelled like the kind of shampoo
you could get a quart of for ninety-nine cents.

It smelled like home.

“Are you going to stay
with us all summer?” The words came out in a rush, like Grace had been
dying to ask the question all night.

“I don't know about all
summer. Till school's out, anyway.”

“Will you have your
truck? Can you take us places?”

“Well. I'll be working at
home. Painting for school.”

“Great.” Grace
scraped at the frozen dirt with the toe of her sneaker.

Madison thought of Grace,
stuck on the mountain with no phone, no computer, and only John Robert to hang
out with. Even the TV reception was chancy.

“Don't worry. We'll get
out. We'll go down to town a couple times a week at least.”

Grace rolled her eyes.
“As if that's a thrill.” But Madison could tell she was pleased.

Seph sprawled among the
pillows on the wicker swing. The solarium at Stone Cottage was one of his
favorite retreats in all seasons. His textbook was propped against his knees— Problems in
Democracy: A World View—but it had
been a long time since he'd turned a
page. The text might as well have been written in Old English.

With another part of his mind,
he monitored the sanctuary. Its energy hummed all around him, like a map
splashed with an occasional spot of color where wizards and the other gifted
moved through it. It was not the heavy-handed smooshing down of power like
before. It was like navigating an elaborate video game grid, exerting subtle
control over events. His father had taught him the technique.

Here and there a flareup
indicated that magic was in play—the
greens and browns of earth magic in Mercedes's garden, the silvers and golds of
wizardry, the reds and purples that signified enchanters. Nowhere the angry
orange that meant attack magic. In some essential way, he became the
town of Trinity—its magical framework, at
least. The day and its pleasures receded.

Something nibbled at the
fringes of his consciousness. A voice.

“Seph.”

All at once, the magical
schematic disappeared from his frame of vision, and power flooded back into his
body, heating him down to his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes to see Nick
Snowbeard looking down at him, his expression severe.

“Seph. You extend
yourself too much. I've warned you about this before. It makes you
vulnerable.” Nick was well into his scruffy old man persona, clad in
canvas work pants, a flannel shirt, and work boots.

Seph licked his lips and
turned his head slightly to look out toward the frosted lake. It had
disappeared into the dark. It was late—later
than he'd thought. Where had the time gone?

He managed to sit up on his
second try. He felt stiff from long immobility. “What's up?”

“Your phone was ringing
when I came in.” Nick dropped a cell phone into Seph's lap. “It was
Rachel Booker. She wants you to meet her at the inn.”

Seph palmed the phone and
squinted at Nick. “Rachel?” Rachel Booker was Madison's older cousin
who owned the Legends Inn. He hadn't seen her since Madison left for Coalton
County. As self-appointed protector of Madison's virtue, she'd always treated
Seph with cool and cynical suspicion.

Not that he was any threat
lately.

His heart accelerated.
“Why? Did she hear from Madison?”

“I suggest we walk over
to the Legends and find out.”

Seph unfolded to his feet,
grabbing the swing for support, still shaking off the effects of the mindquest.

“Are you all right?”
Nick asked gruffly.

“I'm fine.” And,
really, it seemed like he was handling his magical assignments better, lately.
The raging headaches had eased, he was less tired, less out of it, and he'd put
on a little weight. Linda's milkshakes must be working, he thought.

He and the old wizard left
Stone Cottage behind and headed west along Lake Road, an avenue lined with an
eclectic mixture of old summer cottages and modern mansions. Streetlights
bloomed under the skeletons of trees, and the wind off the lake was bitingly
cold.

Nick navigated the uneven
cobblestones without the help of his staff, as Mercedes had proclaimed it
beyond repair. He seemed incomplete without it. Seph grabbed the old wizard's
arm a couple of times to steady him on the icy street.

“You're not getting out
among people enough,” Nick said. “Madison's absence has not been good
for you.”

Seph rubbed his forehead
irritably. “I feel like I'm out among people all day long.”

“I don't mean in the
virtual sense.” Nick paused. “I think you should talk to Jason.”

Seph rolled his eyes.
“Why? Is he lonely, or something?”

“I'm worried about him.
Hastings hoped I could involve him in the testing of the sefas he
brought back from the ghyll. Jason has considerable knowledge about magical
objects, but archival work doesn't suit him, I'm afraid. He's taut as a
crossbow.”

“Jason's okay,” Seph
said, feeling guilty. It wasn't his fault things had worked out this way. In
fact, he'd gladly hand off the boundary if he could. Even when he was healthy,
it seemed like he just barely had it under control. The pressure was intense.
Everyone was counting on him, and that was just what Jason craved. “It's
just … I wish he could help with…something more important.”

Nick snorted. “He is doing
something important, he just doesn't see it that way. I'm afraid he may do
something rash.”

“Like?”

“He may go back to
Britain on his own. He knows Hastings is planning something, and he's
determined to be a part of it. And he wants to take some of the objects from
the church back with him.”

“I don't see how we can
stop him.”

“I can stop him, if I
choose.” Snowbeard was matter-of-fact. “I would prefer not to,
however. I was hoping that, as a friend, you might be able to … redirect
him.”

“I can try,” Seph
said, again feeling guilty about talking behind Jason's back. “I don't
feel like I should be telling him what to do.”

“He may not be strong
enough to handle the boundary, but there's more than enough other work to do.
You need to delegate more,” Snowbeard said.

Right, Seph thought. Delegate
more. Fine. He had plans that would require more wizardry than ever.

“What do you hear from
Madison?” Nick abruptly changed the subject again. The old wizard was on a
mission, too, and Seph was somehow the vehicle.

“Not much. Their
landline's disconnected, and cell phone reception isn't good down there. She
e-mails me from the library sometimes. She's not coming back any time
soon. Her brother and sister got released from foster care, since she's there
to watch them.”

Those e-mails were totally
unsatisfactory: I'm painting. I'm doing
fine. The kids are a handful. It's been cold and rainy. Bright and sunny. Saw a
wild turkey and a bald eagle yesterday. She
e-mailed photos of Booker Mountain and
the paintings she made, landscapes seen through a smoky blue filter.

Seph hunched his shoulders in
frustration. He did not want her to do fine in Coalton County; he wanted
her to come home. It's just as well, he told himself. If we ever got to see
each other, we'd just end up fighting.

But it might be worth it if he
could just see her again.

They turned up the walkway,
passing through the winter-scorched gardens that surrounded the inn, and
mounted the steps to the porch. The receptionist at the desk in the foyer went
to fetch Rachel. Seph ran his hand over the newel post of the elaborate oak
staircase. Here he and Madison had planned their first date—the ill-fated picnic on the river.

Rachel appeared from the
kitchen hallway, wiping her hands on her apron. Her hair was stick straight and
black, unlike Madison's gilded waves, but she shared Madison's fair complexion,
sprinkling of freckles, and slightly crooked nose.

“Thanks for coming,”
she said, nodding curtly to Seph and Nick. “I want to show you
something.” She turned and climbed the curved staircase, obviously
intending them to follow. They wound up and up, crossing the landing at the
second floor and continuing up the narrower staircase to the third, where
Madison stayed.

“We were just talking
about Madison,” Seph said, easily keeping pace up the steep stairs while Nick lagged
behind. “Have you heard from her?”

“No,” Rachel said,
eying him with a peculiar expression. “Haven't heard a word.” As they
turned down the familiar hallway to Madison's tiny room tucked under the back
staircase, Seph smelled wood smoke. Rachel stood aside at the entry to
Madison's quarters.

The door was gone, or most of
it, leaving a ragged hole. The wood around the doorframe was charred, and the
floorboards dusted with a fine gray ash, smeared now with footprints.

Seph looked up at Rachel, who
was glaring at him as if it were somehow his fault. And it probably was.
“What…when did this happen?”

“Yesterday. That's when I
noticed it, anyway. Go on in,” she said.

Seph hesitated, unsure whether
to open the ruined door or step through the gap. In the end, he did the latter,
stepping carefully over the splintered threshold.

The room was totally trashed,
the contents of drawers strewn on the floor, cupboards standing open, the
mattress yanked from the bed and cut to ribbons, trunks rifled through,
wastebaskets upended. The doors to the wardrobe had been broken open and hung
slantwise on their hinges. Even her tiny refrigerator had been emptied onto the
tile.

Though it had been a while
since he'd been invited to Madison's room, it was a jarring contrast to what
Seph was used to. Madison was a naturally tidy person.

He turned to Rachel, who had
followed him in. “Who did this? What were they looking for?”

She folded her arms, tapping
her foot in a familiar way. “I hoped maybe you could tell me.”

“How would I know?”
Seph said, knowing that the ruined door was wizard's work.

Nick stood framed in the
doorway. “My word,” he said. “What kind of devilry is
this?”

“I can't make sense of
it,” Rachel said. “I mean, her room is way up here on the third
floor, so it doesn't seem like a random break-in. A guest would be more likely
to have valuables than a server.”

“Depending on what you
think is valuable,” Seph muttered. “Did they take anything?”

“Not that I could tell.
But it could've been. She didn't have a lot to begin with. She took her art
supplies and her computer home with her. But she left her winter clothes and
furniture and other school things.”

Shrugging, Seph scanned the
room—the Impressionist prints that lined
the walls, the hat collection over the bed, the paint-splashed headboard. Her
desk had been emptied, but there was no way to tell if anything was missing.

He hadn't noticed any unusual
magical activity in the past two days. But it wouldn't take much to blow out a
door.

What would a wizard be looking
for? Magical objects? A home address? Phone records?

Apprehension flared under Seph's
breastbone, but he managed to keep his voice steady. “Does she know?”

Rachel shook her head. “I
e-mailed her, but she hasn't replied.”

“Did you call the
police?” Seph asked.

Rachel shook her head.
“Maybe I did wrong, but I didn't. Didn't seem like your usual burglary.
Like I said, why target a girl who's got nothing to begin with?”
She gave Seph a narrow-eyed look. “You sure you don't know anything about
this?”

He returned her gaze.
“What would I know about it?”

“Well, all I know is
there's something wrong between you and her. You were all lovey-dovey until
about six months ago, and since then, well, you tell me.”

Taken by surprise, Seph
stammered, “We're okay. I mean, great.”

“Really? Well, it
occurred to me that maybe you came and tore this place up to—you know—get revenge. Because she left.”

Seph was stung by the
accusation. “I wouldn't do that,” he whispered.

They stood glaring at each
other. Then Seph said, “Did she leave any of her paintings here? If
somebody wanted to wreck something that meant a lot to her, he'd start
there.”

“Well, there's just this
one.” Rachel reached behind the loveseat and pulled out a canvas. “It
looked like someone drug this out of the wardrobe.” She turned it so Seph
could see it.

The paint seemed to swim on
the canvas, nauseating swirls of brown and green. No. It was the figures in the
painting itself. They were moving. He recognized the scene with a sickening
jolt: it was the conference room at Second Sister. His father, Hastings, lay
next to Gregory Leicester's altar, cradled by his weeping mother. Leicester was
looking right at Seph, eyes glittering, his arm extended. Behind him the alumni
stood, their power joined to his. Flame erupted from Leicester's hands,
slamming into Seph's body. He screamed and stumbled backward, raising his hands
to defend himself.

He awoke to find himself lying
on Madison's bed with Nick sitting next to him, hands pressed to Seph's chest,
muttering a healing charm under his breath. When Seph opened his eyes,
Snowbeard released a sigh of relief and hissed, “Let me do the
talking,” in an odd, terse voice.

Seph struggled into a sitting
position, and immediately vomited something black and nasty into a basin that
Nick had at the ready. Nick wiped his face off with a washcloth.

“Nick,” Seph
whispered. “What did Rachel…”

“Stay down,” Nick
ordered, and went to dump the basin.

Rachel appeared in the doorway
with a glass of water. “How's he doing?” Her usual cynical suspicion
of Seph had been replaced with solicitous concern.

“Sorry for the
trouble,” Nick called from the lavatory. “He's had a touch of flu
these past few days. When I gave him your message, he insisted on rising from
his sickbed and coming over.”

“I didn't know he was
sick,” Rachel said, twisting her hair between her fingers. “You
should have said.”

Snowbeard returned with the
empty basin. Seph rinsed his mouth and spit into it. He felt awful, like the
time he'd come down with mono at that prep school in Scotland and had ended up
in the hospital. His entire body itched and burned like he was breaking out in
hives. Hallucinations swam through his head.

“What did you do with the
painting, Rachel?” the old man asked calmly.

“I put it down
cellar,” she said, shrugging,“but I still don't see why…”

“Better to be safe than
sorry,” Snowbeard said. “It's probably just the flu, but perhaps
something in the painting triggered a synaptic shock to the brain, much like
strobe lights trigger seizures in susceptible people.”