The Enchanter Heir (25 page)

“What about Byron?” Jonah said, naming Mose’s most recent boyfriend. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Oh, Jonah,” Mose said, with a heavy sigh. “That is so over.”

“Yeah, but he still might want to—”

“I just want to be with my friends,” Mose said. “My band mates and you. You were ever my true love, anyway, Jonah.”

“Where’s Gabriel?” Jonah asked. “Does he know?”

“He was here earlier,” Natalie said. “He . . . uh . . . he had to leave. He wasn’t dealing with it very well.”

What about us? Jonah thought. Anyone wondering how we’re dealing with it?

As if he’d overheard Jonah’s thoughts, Mose said, “I’m sorry to have to put you through this. It’s easy for me. All I have to do is die.”

“I thought Alison would be here,” Natalie said. “I’ve texted her, but no answer.”

“She’s working,” Jonah said. “She’ll be here. Is there anyone else we should call?” Jonah desperately wanted to share responsibility with someone else.

“The priest has already come and gone. So it’s official.” Mose took a swig of his beer. “So.
Now
will you take the vinyl?”

Jonah cleared his throat. “I’ll take it all,” he said. “The turntable, too, if you want.”

“And the Parker Dragonfly. You know you want it. You’ve always lusted after it . . . just like I’ve always lusted after you. Kind of a love triangle, in a way.”

Jonah’s cheeks heated. “You should give that to Alison,” he said. “She needs something to remember you by.”

“Alison won’t respect the guitar. You will.” Mose shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Doesn’t he have to honor last requests?”

“I believe he does,” Natalie said, her voice low and tight, her eyes swimming with tears.

“Great,” Mose said. “Request number two: Jonah takes my place in the band.”

“What? . . . No!” Jonah said, dread displacing his grief for the moment.

“I want the band to be good,” Mose said. “Better than it ever was. It’s got to be you, Jonah.”

“No,” Jonah said. “I’m not the guitarist you are, and I never will be.”

“Guitarists are a dime a dozen. It’s a great singer that’s hard to come by. I kind of like the notion that it’ll take two people to replace me. Bonus: you’re a songwriter. You can satisfy Natalie’s unquenchable thirst for new material.”

“I’ll give her songs,” Jonah said. “I don’t play in public.”

Mose opened one eye. “If I can’t get what I want on my deathbed, then when can I get it?”

Jonah looked up at Natalie, who was glowering at him, making throat-cutting gestures.

“All right, you win,” he said. “I’m in. I’ll join the band.”

“Great,” Mose said, yawning. “Hold him to it, Natalie. You know I’m doing it for his own good.”

Rudy had awakened during the conversation. He came and stood behind Natalie, rubbing her shoulders and neck, his face a landscape of grief.

Mose’s eyes drifted shut. Jonah thought perhaps he’d gone back to sleep, but then Mose murmured, “You know what they say about a watched pot? Well, it ain’t true. Not in my case.”

The door slammed open, and everyone jumped, except Mose, who scarcely flinched. Alison barged in, still dressed for battle. “Mose! I didn’t have my phone on. What the hell are you doing here?”

Jonah moved aside, giving her space, but Alison circled around to Mose’s other side and rested her hip on the edge of the chair. She gripped his hand, as if she could hold him in the world. “You are
not
dying, Mose, so get that out of your head right now. We have three gigs on the calendar, coming up, and we can’t afford to break in somebody new.”

“’S’all right,” Mose whispered. “Jonah’s going to step in. You always wanted Jonah in the band.”

Alison darted a look at Jonah, then focused back on Mose. “I’ll be glad to have Jonah in the band, but that doesn’t let you off the hook.”

“Jonah,” Mose said, a note of urgency in his voice now. “I think we’re getting close.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Jonah stripped off his gloves and laid them on the bedside table. “Don’t you dare!” Alison snapped, and leaned over Mose, her tears dropping on his bedclothes. “You can’t die, Mose, because then . . . because then . . .” Suddenly she was sobbing too hard to speak further.

“Anyone who can’t be cool about this needs to leave,” Mose said. “This is going to be hard enough for Jonah as it is.”

Alison turned away, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

“Jonah,” Mose said, from his nest of blankets.

“I’m here.”

Mose lifted up the bedclothes. “Would you mind . . . very much . . . holding me?”

And so Jonah did.

Chapter Twenty-six
Survivor

Voices were calling to her, as if from a great distance. Hands poked and prodded her—none too gently. Burning hands. Relentless hands. Needles. Liquid flame, running into her veins.

Clamoring voices. Harsh, squabbling voices. Strangers.

She’s not responding. Some kind of poison. Or a toxin. Resistant to treatment. She’s going to die, and if she does we’ve got nothing. We need to bring in a healer.

No. Absolutely not. Nobody can know she’s alive.

Well, if you don’t get someone, she won’t be for long. Gabriel Mandrake is the most gifted and knowledgeable herbalist and healer in the country. He’s right here in town.

Emma opened her eyes then, and looked into their shocked faces. Strident voices washed over her, but none of the voices she wanted to hear. She closed her eyes again.

After a while, someone new came—someone whose hands soothed her, who gave her bright liquids, one teaspoon at a time . . . liquids that tingled on her tongue, then disappeared, without her ever swallowing. Someone who sponged off her body and cooled her flushed cheeks. Who called her back from the precipice onto solid ground.

And, then . . . muttering. Unhappy muttering. Outshouted by a new voice of authority.

No you cannot question her. Not even for a few minutes. I don’t care what you think she knows. Do you want me to save her life or not?

When Emma opened her eyes again, she was lying in a small, spare room with a tile floor and rough, plaster-and-timbered walls. A fire burned merrily on the hearth under a mantel layered with pumpkins, gourds, and dried flowers. Candles burned in glass jars, emitting a fragrance of cinnamon and pine. Sunlight spilled through French doors into the room from a small garden, studded with dry seed heads and brilliant autumn grasses. Just outside, birds squabbled around a feeder.

Emma’s vision blurred, then doubled, then seemed to go back to normal.

The doors stood slightly open, admitting cold, clean air. It felt good against her heated skin. She rested back against the pillows, her head all at once too heavy to lift.

She shifted under a fluffy comforter in a single bed—the only furniture save two chairs, one on either side of the bed, and a small bedside table with a lamp. Lined up on the table were bottles and jars of remedies and sickroom supplies.

Have I been sick? I don’t remember being sick.
But her mind practically creaked from disuse.

She focused in on the bottles, hoping that they would give her a clue, but they were unlabeled. The room was painted in soothing, neutral tones, save for the jewel colors of the medicines, whatever they were.

A girl was sitting in a chair beside the bed, sound asleep. Emma studied her with interest. She was solidly built, tawny-skinned, her black hair tied back with a bandanna. She wore jeans, high-top sneakers, and a faded Cleveland Agora T-shirt that exposed muscled arms. A plaid flannel shirt hung on the back of her chair. Emma guessed she was close to her own age. A stranger.

Or was she? There was something familiar about her. . . .

Emma had no idea where she was and no recollection of how she had come to be there.

She also had a raging headache. Reaching up, she probed the back of her head with her fingers. Her hair had been clipped short over a small, tender area. A ridge of skin told her she’d had a gash in her forehead that had been repaired.

Did I fall? I don’t remember falling.

She resisted the temptation to close her eyes, leave these questions behind, and return to the vivid intensity of her dreams. A boy, rimed in light. A kiss that arrowed into her very core. Dreams or memories? She didn’t know.

“H-hello?” Emma’s voice sounded loud in her ears, rough and blunt from disuse. Until she spoke, she didn’t actually know if anything would come out.

The girl’s eyes sprang open, and she straightened guiltily. “Oh! You’re awake! I thought you might be close to waking, so I didn’t want to leave you alone. I was just resting my eyes.”

“Wh-who are you?”

“I’m Natalie Diaz. A healer.” She looked at Emma hopefully. “I’m Emma Greenwood,” Emma said.

Natalie grinned, as if Emma had passed some kind of test by remembering her own name.

“I’m sorry . . . but do I know you?”

Natalie shook her head. “No reason you should know me. I’m the one that’s been looking after you. I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you open your eyes.”

“Why? Am I sick?”

“Sick or injured or something.” Natalie sat down on the edge of Emma’s bed. “Do you remember what happened to you?”

Emma touched her forehead again. “Did I hit my head?” she guessed.

“Seems like it. Or someone hit it for you.” Natalie paused again, waiting for Emma to fill in.

But Emma had nothing to say. It was like her head was full of molasses with only the occasional thought forcing its way through. “I—I’m sorry,” she said finally. “I’m not usually like this.”

“Give yourself a break,” Natalie said. “You’ve been really sick. Sometimes it takes your brain a while to wake up.” She touched Emma’s forehead with her fingertips. Her face seemed kind, but there was a wariness in her eyes, as if she were standing on shifting ground. “Are you able to sit up?”

“I—I think so.” Flattening her palms against the bed, Emma pushed until she was upright.

“Good job. Any dizziness? Vision changes? Pain anywhere?”

Emma nodded. “I’m dizzy. Some double vision. And I—I’m kind of sick to my stomach.”

Natalie took her pulse and tested her reflexes. “Do you remember what month it is?”

“Well. Last I remember, it was mid-October. Right?” Natalie grinned in relief and approval.

“How long . . .” Emma hesitated, then gave up and spit out the standard question: “How long have I been out?”

“It’s been a week,” Natalie said. “I’ve been here the past five days. You turned a corner of sorts yesterday.”

“Does Sonny Lee know?” Emma asked. Pain trickled up from a reservoir deep inside. “No. I forgot. He’s dead.”

“Who is Sonny Lee? Was he with you when you got hurt?” Natalie asked softly.

Emma shook her head. “He was my grandfather. He died back in the summer. He—he fell.” She rubbed her forehead.

Were the Greenwoods prone to falling? “I’ve been staying with Tyler.”

“Tyler? ”

“My father.”

Natalie reached out and cradled Emma’s hands between her own, looking into her eyes. “Look, you don’t have any reason to trust me, but I’m here to help you, not to hurt you . . . do you understand?”

No! I don’t understand anything
, Emma wanted to say. But she nodded anyway.

Natalie leaned toward her so she could whisper in Emma’s ear. “When the wizards come back, we won’t be able to talk.

So if there’s something you want to tell me that you don’t want them to hear, say it now.”

The wizards?
Emma took a deep breath in and out, trying to calm her hammering heart. The wizards would be here soon. Tyler had mentioned wizards. That they were dangerous. That her mother had worked for them, was afraid of them.

Should she admit any of this to Natalie Diaz? Could she trust her?

“You’re a—a healer?”

Natalie nodded. “A sorcerer savant.”

Savant!
Where had she heard that word before?

“Not a wizard?”

“Not a wizard. Now . . . did they do this to you?” Natalie said, her voice low and fierce. “The wizards. Did they hurt you? That’s what I want to know. They refused to tell me exactly what happened. It’s like blindfolding me and then asking me to do surgery.”

Emma tried to focus—to concentrate. But it was as if somebody had swiped a huge eraser through her mind, obliterating a landscape of memories. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t remember.” She looked around, trying to regain her bearings. “Where am I, anyway? In—in a clinic? A hospital?”

“You’re in a private home,” Natalie said. “In Bratenahl Village. Up on the lake. It belongs to Rowan DeVries. Do you know him?”

DeVries. She did know the name. But from where? “I’m sorry,” Emma said. “The name sounds familiar, but I don’t know why.” She hesitated. “But if I’ve been that sick, then shouldn’t I be seeing a doctor? In a hospital?” It sounded blunt, harsher than she intended. “I—I mean, you seem like you know what you’re doing, but—”

“A doctor wouldn’t do you any good,” Natalie said. “I know a lot about poisons, so when the wizards asked Mr. Mandrake if he’d come take a look, he sent me instead.”

Poisons? Toxins?
Emma flattened herself in the bed, as if she could disappear into the bedclothes. Maybe she was still dreaming. “Wait a minute! You think somebody poisoned me?”

“Well . . .” Natalie cleared her throat. “We don’t know. They said that your father was a sorcerer. Tell me: did he keep poisons, herbals, and the like on hand? They say they didn’t find anything like that at your house, but . . .” Her voice trailed off as she took in Emma’s expression.

“Of course they didn’t!” Emma’s voice trembled. “And they won’t!”

Natalie seemed taken aback by Emma’s reaction. “I’m not calling your father careless, but sometimes sorcerers build up a resistance and they don’t realize just how dangerous—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Emma said, rubbing her aching head. Her rule was not to say anything to the authorities. Natalie didn’t look like the authorities, but it was best to play it safe. “My father didn’t poison me. He’s a musician. He’s in a band. My mother is dead. Until a few months ago, I lived with my grandfather in Memphis. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got me mixed up with somebody else.”