The Dragon Heir (21 page)

Dystrophe turned his collar up
against the raw breath of the lake, knowing he must be getting close. He had no
need to consult the scrap of paper in his pocket—he'd memorized the address and the description of the house.

Stone Cottage, it was called.
He'd been told that the boy was likely to be alone. His natural wariness had
been aroused, however, by the fact that Longbranch was offering an astoundingly
generous stipend for a supposedly easy target.

The job had its challenges, of
course. It was said that attack magic was forbidden within the sanctuary. But
then, murder was likely forbidden, also.

He fingered the blades in his
sleeves, and smiled. A scratch from any one of them would suffice to cut the
thread of life that was often so strong in the young.

He turned up Lake Street. It
was paved in brick, its wrought-iron gas lamps casting pallid pools of light
into the darkness. As an assassin, he was fond of dim historical districts.

The houses to the right were
waterfront, and some of them had little signposts labeled Land's End and Sunset
House,   Sailor's   Rest,   Dry   Dock,   and   Snug   Harbor. Excruciatingly
cute. Dystrophe disapproved.

That must be it, up ahead. An
actual stone cottage set amid a rather unkempt garden, overlooking the
lake. The porch light was on.

Dystrophe walked around the
house, securing the perimeter with magical barriers to prevent escape. Then he
turned up the walk, negotiating the uneven pavement. Perhaps the boy would
actually let him in.

But there was no answer when
he rapped on the door. Ah, well. No need to delay their meeting. It was a thick
oak door, but a precisely targeted charm slammed it off its hinges.

Would the boy be asleep? He
thought not. Boys of that age liked to stay up late, didn't they, playing video
games and what not? He secured the doors behind him, then began to search the
rooms downstairs. The boy was not in the kitchen, the parlor, the dining room,
the pantry, or the study.

Just then he heard movement in
the back of the house, and a banging noise, like someone trying to force open a
window.

Ah, Dystrophe thought. He
followed the sound.

At the back of the house was a
solarium, probably a lovely room in daylight. The wall overlooking the lake was
entirely of glass. Waves pounded against the rocks below. And there in the
dark, silhouetted against the rising moon, was the boy.

He turned when Dystrophe
entered the room and stood facing him. Dystrophe gathered light into his hands
and tossed it down on the floor between them. It flared up, illuminating the
boy's angular features, shadowed eyes, and tangle of dark hair. He was dressed
in a T-shirt and blue jeans, and still wore the big-boned, coltish look of
adolescence.

It was him, Dystrophe was sure
of it. “Joseph McCauley?” he inquired.

“Who are you?”

“Relax, Joseph,”
Dystrophe said soothingly. “I'm not here to hurt you.” I'm here to
kill you. It was an important distinction, but most people didn't seem to
find it reassuring. Sometimes, at this point, they tried to run, but McCauley
didn't, which Dystrophe appreciated. Chasing down prey was not his style.

“Who sent you? The
Roses?” McCauley's voice rose a little. He was a boy, after all.

“Is it important?”

“To me it is.”

“Then, yes. The White
Rose. Dr. Longbranch.”

The boy nodded, filing the
information away as if he had a future. It was unusual for one so young to have
so many enemies. But these were turbulent times.

Palming one of the knives,
Dystrophe glided forward, considering possible targets: the pale column of the
boy's throat, the arms that poked out of his short-sleeved T-shirt. “I
assure you, you won't feel a thing. I'm very good at what I do.”

“Don't do this,”
McCauley said, his hands still at his sides. “I'm warning you.” Not
begging. Warning. Ah, the arrogance of the young.

“Please. I'm not
impressed by threats and theatrics. It's just business, you know. Nothing
personal.”

The boy adjusted his stance,
preparing. The green eyes darkened  to   the   color  of deep   water  in  
shade.  Flame coalesced about his spare figure and splattered onto
the tile floor.

Dystrophe forced back a
trickle of doubt, then came on. When only a few feet divided them, the assassin
struck like a snake, seizing the boy's left wrist, meaning to drag the poisoned
blade across McCauley's exposed forearm.

Dystrophe gasped and nearly
let go when the heat from the boy's skin seared his fingers.

The boy grabbed his other
wrist, his blade hand. Dystrophe was stronger, but McCauley made no attempt to
shake free the knife or turn it toward his attacker. Instead, he poured in
Persuasion, a hot river of magic that filled the tributaries of Dystrophe's
mind, driving memory and will before it.

“How peculiar,”
Dystrophe thought, and then there was nothing else but the boy's voice, and he
didn't think anything more.

Jack and Ellen found Seph in
the garden, on a bench that overlooked the water. He sat rod-straight, his
hands on his knees, gazing out toward the lake. He looked whipped and
dangerous, like a frayed electrical wire, sending off sparks. Lately,
they often found him in the garden, despite the cold, as if he used this
setting to clear his mind for magical activity. Besides, he was probably hot
enough to heat the whole lakeshore.

He turned his head and watched
as they descended the path toward him. His face seemed unnaturally pale, and he
looked like he'd slept in his clothes.

“Hey, cuz,” Jack
said, lifting his hand in a kind of salute. He had the sense that Seph was not
at all surprised to see them. It was a little unsettling.

Something crunched under
Jack's foot. “Hey,” he said, scanning the ground. “There's
broken glass everywhere.”

“Yeah,” Seph said.
“Guess I need to clean that up.”

Jack looked around.
“Where'd it all—jeez, what
happened?” He pointed to the solarium window at the top of the cliff. The
glass had been smashed out as if by a massive fist, leaving the room open to
the elements.

Seph glanced up at the ragged
hole, then back at Jack. “Somebody jumped,” he said, shivering a
little, his eyes wide and haunted-looking.

“Who jumped? What are you
talking about?” Ellen sat next to Seph and put her hand on his shoulder,
then yanked it back, sucking on her fingers. “Ouch! You're really juiced,
you know?”

“The Roses sent another
assassin last night,” Seph said. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and
forefinger. “He had knives. I told him to leave and he … went through the
window. He's in the lake.”

Jack dropped onto a stone
bench, unsure what to say. “How many is that, now?”

Seph shrugged. “Three.
No. Four.”

“This has got to
stop,” Ellen muttered. “One of these days they're going to get
lucky.”

“Maybe you need a
bodyguard,” Jack said.

Seph's head came up. “And
who's going to do that? We're spread thin enough as it is.” The lake wind
stirred the trees overhead and the light played across his face. There was
something about his eyes…

“Have you heard from your
mom?” Jack asked. “She and Hastings need to know about this.”

“No,” Seph said.
“Haven't heard anything from her or Hastings. Don't know how to reach them.” He
paused. “Nick knows what happened. He came over last night, after.”
His voice trailed off.

This is crazy, Jack thought.
Some sanctuary. If you want to kill someone badly enough, you'll manage
eventually.

“How'd it go with
Leesha?” Seph asked abruptly, obviously wanting to change the subject.

“It was great,”
Ellen said, pulling off her gloves. “We were bad cop and bad cop.”

“We put on a lot of
pressure, and she caved. We think,” Jack added. You could never tell with
Leesha.

“Does she know where
Jason is?”

“She says she doesn't.
But it turns out everybody who's anybody knows Jason was at Raven's Ghyll.
D'Orsay. Warren Barber. God knows who else. She says if Jason's missing, Warren
Barbers behind it. Barber said he was going to get the stuff back from
Jason.”

“Warren Barber?”
Seph squinted at Jack. “What's Barber got to do with any of this? I
haven't seen him since Second Sister. And how does he know Jason was at Raven's
Ghyll?”

“Jason was spotted. And
Barber and D'Orsay are partners now,” Jack said.

“Partners?” Seph shed his distracted look. “What are you
talking about?”

“But wait,” Ellen
murmured. “There's more.”

“Barber has the
Covenant,” Jack said. “Leesha thinks he took it from Second
Sister.”

Seph looked from Jack to
Ellen. “If he's working with D'Orsay, and he has the Covenant, why haven't
they consecrated it?”

Ellen shrugged. “Leesha
doesn't know. But everybody's trying to get back what Jason took out of the
ghyll.”

They looked at each other
wordlessly. “Why do you suppose that is?” Jack said finally.

“Well, Jason said the
Dragonheart was supposedly a weapon that could control the guilds or destroy
them,” Ellen pointed out. “That'd be a good reason.”

“How do they know
that?” Jack persisted. “Jason said he dropped the book in the ghyll,
but…”

“So,” Seph broke in.
“Leesha is working for Barber?”

Ellen shrugged. “She was.
But now she says Barber will kill her if she leaves the sanctuary.”

“Leesha's been hanging
around the church,” Seph said. “Do you think she suspects where the
stuff is?”

“If she does, you know
she's been in and out of there already,” Ellen said. “I hope your
wards did the job.”

Seph stared at her a moment,
then stood and crossed the terrace, snatching up a metal goblet from a tray on
the garden wall. Raising it to his lips, he drained it, then set it down. He
closed his eyes and concentrated, body rigid, lips moving silently.

After a long pause, Seph
opened his eyes. “There are fifteen wizards within the boundary, including
Leesha. Barber's not here. The crypt at St. Catherine's is secure.” His
eyes glittered green and gold, his pupils pinpricks of light. “Except for
a few things Jason took a week ago, before he left for Coalton County. That
makes me think he was planning something.”

Jack blinked at him.
“You're on duty? You can tell all that from here?” Always before,
Seph had been semifunctional when monitoring the magical barrier.

“I'm not just maintaining
the boundary. I'm watching the whole sanctuary. Hastings taught me how to do it.”
And then,
as if Jack had asked the unspoken question, Seph added, “I found a way to
deal with it.”

Ellen picked up the goblet and
raised it to her nose, sniffing. Then glared across at Seph. “This,”
she said, waggling the cup, “is a bad idea.”

“What is it?” Jack
took the cup from Ellen and passed it beneath his nose. A prickly heat ran up
his neck and exploded through the top of his head. It was like sticking a
finger into an electrical outlet. Or chugging brandy.

“What is it?” he
repeated, a little breathlessly.

Seph remained silent, so Ellen
answered for him. “Aelf-aeling. Roughly translated from the
Anglo-Saxon, it means, burning mind. The common name is wizard flame. Where did
you get it?”

“Mercedes had some,”
Seph said, shoving back his sleeves as if overheated.

“She gave this to
you?” Ellen asked, lifting an eyebrow.

“Not exactly. I used to
help her out with her extractions, you know. I know where she keeps her
stuff.”

“You're not going to keep
using it.”

Seph twitched irritably, his
hands opening and closing at his sides. “I don't use it all the time. Only
when I'm on duty. It lets me watch a hundred things at once. I can see a leaf
fall in the park and keep tabs on Leesha Middleton and track an assassin when
he's stalking me. I'd be dead by now, otherwise. Plus I'll know if anyone
messes with the stuff in the church.”

“What's wrong with
it?” Jack asked Ellen.

“The name is fairly
literal,” Ellen replied. “Mind-Burner. Wizards get addicted to it to
the point that they can't function without it. Use it long enough, and you go
insane.”

“How do you know so much
about it?” Jack asked.

“Paige and Wylie were
into performance enhancers. They used to dope me a lot when I was in
training.” Simon Paige was warriormaster for the Red Rose, and Ellen's old
trainer.

“It's just till the war
is over,” Seph said, leaning against the wall.

“When exactly will that
be?” Ellen demanded. “It's been going on for centuries.”

“Does Hastings know about
this? Or Linda?” Jack asked.

“No. And they'd better
not hear it from you. They're counting on me to handle this, and I will.
Whatever it takes.” Seph never raised his voice, but it was clear from the
set of his shoulders that this issue was nonnegotiable.

Usually wizard power, when it
was noticeable at all, was a subtle thing. Seph was so hot, the air around him
shimmered and his arms trailed flame, like iridescent wings.

Ellen shook her head.
“Doping will ruin your body, you know that? That's one of the reasons the
Weirlind died off.”

“Look. I'm not an idiot.
I won't use it unless it's absolutely necessary,” Seph said. “It's
just that … I haven't been entirely…myself…ever since that thing with the
painting.”

“Painting? What are you
talking about?” Jack asked.

Seph looked like he wished he
hadn't opened his mouth. “I ran into a hex. In a painting. That's
all.”

As if he thought that would
shut off the questions.

“What painting?
Where?” Jack asked.

“What kind of hex?”
Ellen wanted to know.

Seph sighed. “I thought
Nick would've told you. It was in one of Madison's paintings. It kind of
knocked me out. Made me really sick. But I'm getting better. I just need … a
little help right now.”