The Enchanter Heir (37 page)

“I’ve been meaning to ask you, Jonah. What is your gift?”

He should’ve been ready for that question, but it still caught him by surprise somehow.

“I’m an empath. Do you know what that is?”

Emma shook her head.

“I can read people’s emotions,” Jonah said. “Gabriel finds that helpful sometimes.”
Along with my other skills. Like killing. Oh, right. Not anymore.

Emma stopped dead in her tracks, embarrassment rolling off her in waves. “You read
minds
?”

He shook his head. “Feelings. I can’t tell what a person is thinking, plotting, or planning, but I can sometimes tell when they’re lying, or when they’re afraid, angry, and so on.”

She didn’t look reassured. “Great,” she muttered, peering at him out of the corner of her eye.

“Don’t worry about it,” Jonah said. “I’ve learned to filter most of it out. It’s just background noise. Otherwise, I’d go crazy.”
Liar.

“Who’s Kenzie?” she asked then.

“My brother.”

“Younger or older?”

“Younger.” Jonah guessed he should give more than one-word answers. “His real name is McKenzie. So Kenzie for short. He lives at Safe Harbor.”

“Safe Harbor? What’s that?”

“It’s a skilled facility for savants with severe disabilities,” Jonah said. He pointed up St. Clair. “It’s a few blocks that way.”

“Oh.” A blush stained Emma’s cheeks to a coppery red. “He’s disabled because of the . . . because of what happened at Thorn Hill?”

“Because of the poison,” Jonah said bluntly. “It hit some of us harder than others. Kenzie has intractable magical seizures.”

“Magical seizures? What’s that like?”

“Unforgettable. Life-changing, even.” He turned up the walk to the arts-and-crafts building. “The woodshop is in this building.”

“Will I get to meet him?” Emma persisted.

“Do you want to?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“He’d like that.” They stood on the porch of A&C. “It’s in here, first floor, to the rear. Your key card should open the door. If I leave you here, now, can you find your way back to Oxbow?”

“No problem,” Emma said.

Chapter Thirty-eight
I’m with the Band

Emma awakened with a jolt, momentarily disoriented, her arms crossed over her face to ward off danger. Propping up on her elbows, she looked around. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the window, flaming dust motes in the air.

Right. She was in the Oxbow Building, eighth-floor studio, view of downtown.

She pulled her shirt away from her clammy skin. Jonah’s shirt. She’d bought pajamas at the store in the student center, but when it came down to it, she’d slept another night in Jonah’s clothes. She pressed the faded cotton against her nose. It still carried his scent.

They ought to bottle that, she thought. And call it Boy Blue. Or, maybe, Bad Idea.

She had nothing to bring to this game. She had no skills. It was her kind of luck to fall for a boy who could read minds. Well, emotions. Did that include lust? It was humiliating . . . like walking around naked with someone who was fully clothed. A just God would have given that gift to Emma . . . so she could sort out the liars.

What time was it? She groped for her phone. Not there. Where was her phone?

Oh. It was back at home. Tyler’s home. It seemed so far away, now. Just one more dream that fades upon waking. A stopping place on a journey to nowhere.

Her groping hand found the notebook paper with her wish list on it—the notes and measurements she’d taken at the woodshop the day before. The shop at the Anchorage was top-shelf, just like everything else on campus. Still, it had an air of neglect, as if the administration had sunk a lot of money into it at the front end, but nobody had paid much attention to it since. It didn’t
smell
like any woodshop she’d ever been in. Not even any sawdust on the floor.

She’d made a slow circuit of the larger tools, trying them out with scrap lumber she found in the discard bin. The tools looked nearly new, though some of the blades needed sharpening and everything was covered with a fine layer of dust. She was used to Sonny Lee’s tools and their quirks. For instance, how the pulley on the table saw would slip on the shaft and bind against the body of the saw and you had to act quick if you smelled burning rubber or you might burn up the belt. Or how you had to give the old disc sander a spin to get it going because the capacitor didn’t work and it wouldn’t start up on its own.

There wasn’t much in the way of materials—woods, fittings, and the like. Wistfully, she recalled the racks of seasoned woods she’d left behind at Tyler’s, and wondered if they were still there. I need to get back there, she thought. Somehow.

Propping herself up in bed, she scanned the rows of tiny, precise handwriting, making a few additions and clarifications. New saw blades. Lubricants. The specialized wood glue Sonny Lee always ordered from Germany. And woods: birch and ebony and book-matched maple.

Setting her list aside, she slid out of bed and padded across the floor to the bathroom. She was at a boarding school, where they had set times for things. She’d probably already missed breakfast. She didn’t want to miss lunch, too.

A blinking light in one corner of the mirror caught her attention. She squinted at it, puzzled. Then poked at it with her finger without result.

Then she remembered. Jonah had said something about a digital display embedded in the mirror.

A remote was propped against the backsplash. She scooped it up and began hitting buttons until a message appeared.

We’re in the practice rooms on the first floor. Take the elevator down (use your key card). Entry key is GIST27. Nat.

Emma pulled on the jeans she’d bought the day before, crispy and new. She chose a black T-shirt with
Security
in stark white letters on the back and a line drawing of a castle keep on the front. She tugged a brush through her resistant hair, twisted it into a knot, grabbed a hunk of crumb cake from the refrigerator, and went to find the practice rooms.

Emma stepped off the elevator on the first floor. To her left, toward the front, was a common area, with a flat-screen television, comfortable furniture, and a fireplace. It was deserted.

The rear of the warehouse was a rough-finished workspace that showed its warehouse bones, partitioned off with dividers. She walked down a short hallway lined with doors. Displays next to each door listed the room schedule for the day. As she neared the end of the hallway, she began to feel the thud of percussion under her feet, and heard the faint, anguished cry of a blues guitar, the wail of keyboards. Next to the last door, the display said simply
Diaz
.

Through the door, she heard a voice that all but brought her to her knees.

Just one kiss,
That was never meant to be. Just one kiss
One more bitter memory.
A blighted love, a mortal sin, A doomed encounter skin to skin.

She eased the door open. It was Jonah, a vintage Stratocaster slung low on his hips, knees bent, head thrown back, eyes closed as he searched out the chords with his fingers. Which should have been difficult, since he was wearing fingerless gloves in studded black leather. Who wears gloves, even fingerless ones, to play guitar?

And why was Jonah playing with the band she’d first heard at Club Catastrophe? She looked them over. Their lead guitarist was missing—the one who’d played the Parker Dragonfly.

The other players were the same. Natalie hunched over a drum kit, her sticks a blur, face gleaming with sweat. The purple-haired girl from the fitness center played an Ibanez bass guitar, and the boy who played keyboards was the same, too.

Emma leaned against the doorframe, head swimming as Jonah’s voice poured over her.

Just one kiss,
Was enough to break my heart. Just one kiss,
A disaster from the start.
Like the kiss of frost that chars the rose, An assassin in a lover’s clothes.

Jonah prowled back and forth, exuding a feral heat, his movements mesmerizing, his T-shirt plastered to his washboard abs, jeans riding low on his hipbones.

Get ahold of yourself, girl, Emma thought. You of all people know better than to fall for a musician.

Just then, the music tangled up in itself and dwindled away amid laughter and good-natured swearing.

“What the hell was
that
, Severino?” Nat asked.

The keyboardist blotted his face with his sleeve. “I was . . . you know . . . improvising.”

Natalie snorted. “I thought maybe you were starting your own band, right here and now.”

Severino looked up and spotted Emma in the doorway. “Hel-lo there! Who are you?”

Jonah had been trying out some riffs, but now the guitar cut off abruptly. He stared at Emma with a stricken, guilty, almost horrified expression. The kind you get when you’ve been caught making out with your best friend’s boyfriend.

“Emma!” Natalie said, grinning. “You’re finally up. How are you feeling this morning?”

“What are
you
doing here?” Jonah demanded. He’s blushing, Emma thought. He’s actually blushing. “I invited her,” Natalie said. “Why?”

“Because she said she wanted to hear us play,” Natalie said, giving Jonah a behave kind of look.

“Great to see you, too, Jonah,” Emma said. She strode over to the keyboardist and stuck out her hand. “Hi, I’m Emma Greenwood, from Memphis.”

“Rudy Severino,” Rudy said, grinning at her. He was good-looking, and knew it, but sometimes confidence looks good on a person. It was more stage presence than arrogance.

“And this is Alison Shaw,” Natalie said, pointing at the bass player. “Rudy, Alison, this is Emma Greenwood, a new student here at the Anchorage.”

“We’ve already met,” Alison said, around the pick in her teeth.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Emma said. “Pretend I’m not here.” She straddled a chair, resting her arms on the back. “Was that one of your original songs? The one you just played?”

“Yes,” Jonah said, keeping his eyes fixed on his fingerboard, busily tuning a guitar that was already in tune.

“That one’s brand-new,” Natalie said. “Jonah and his brother collaborate on songwriting.”

“Your brother Kenzie?” Emma asked. “The one you mentioned?”

“Yes,” Jonah said. “There’s nothing wrong with his mind.”

“He’s a genius,” Natalie said.

Ducking out of the strap, Jonah set the Strat in its stand and grabbed up a water bottle. Tilting it, he took a drink, the long column of his throat jumping as he swallowed, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

Wrenching her eyes away from him, Emma focused on the Strat. How long had it been since she’d held a guitar in her hands? A week? It seemed like an eternity. It was all she could do to keep from crossing the room and snatching it up. But she knew how people could be about their guitars. Herself included.

Somehow, she had to get home and get back what was hers.

Jonah was taking his time. It was like he was intentionally stalling. Like he didn’t want to play in front of Emma.

“Hey!” Natalie said. “Let’s get back to it,” she said. “I have to be in clinic at four.”

Jonah lifted the Strat and slid back into it. “Let’s move on to something else. I think we’ve got that one down.”

They played another original, something called “Doomtime,” which was less bluesy and more rock and roll, with a thrumming percussion and in-your-face lyrics. Jonah sang lead, and Severino layered in a harmony. It was the kind of song that made you want to get up and move, with a refrain that stayed in your head. Next was a song called “A Tientas.” Natalie sang lead on that one, with Jonah harmonizing. The lyrics were in Spanish, but it seemed to be a song they both knew well. Next was a bluesy ballad, something called “I’ll Sit In.”

I don’t play no love songs,
I just can’t harmonize.
There’ll be no sweet kisses in the dark, I’ll never look into your eyes.
But if you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.
When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in.
For emotional disaster
You know I am the master.
If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

Severino got a phone call, and the band took a break. Emma nodded toward the Strat. “Do you mind if I give that a try?”

Jonah gazed at the guitar for a long moment, a muscle in his jaw working, then shifted his gaze to Emma. His expression was an odd mix of dread and anticipation. “Do you play?” he whispered.

“I play a little.”

“Be my guest,” he said.

She lifted the fine weight of the Stratocaster onto her lap.

“Nineteen-fifties?”

Jonah nodded. “’Fifty-seven, yes.”

“Do you know about vintage guitars?” Natalie asked, toweling off.

“Vintage is where I live.” Emma launched into the open ing riff of “Heart of Stone.” Feeling that rush that always made picking up a guitar worthwhile. Hearing the sweet sound of the Strat beat against the practice room walls. “So sweet,” Emma breathed as the last notes faded. The action was a little high for her taste, but otherwise this guitar made it easy to sound good.

She looked up to find three people staring at her, Natalie grinning as if delighted, Alison looking stunned, Jonah wearing an odd mix of pain and longing and apprehension on his face.

“You’re lucky to have this,” she said, running her fingers over the saddle. “It must’ve been pricey.”

“Gabriel has a large collection of guitars,” Jonah said, his voice hoarse and strange. “He’s a total geek for equipment.” Emma tried to hand the guitar back to Jonah, but Natalie put a hand on her arm and said, “Play something else.”

“No, really, I—”

“Play something else,”
Natalie ordered. “Do you sing, too?”

“Natalie,” Jonah said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we—”

“Play something else.
And sing
,” Natalie said, glaring at Jonah.

It was just way too tempting. Like a street junkie confronted with the offer of a fix, Emma couldn’t say no. For the first time since leaving Memphis, she felt like she was in the right place, wearing the right clothes, jamming with the right people. She flexed her fingers, pitched her voice low like they did down on Beale Street, and said, “This here is a little number by Big Mama Thornton called ‘Ball ’n’ Chain.’” She wrung everything she could out of that Stratocaster, pouring weeks’ worth of rage and pain and grief into voice and fingering. Partway in, Natalie began a soft cadence with brushes and sticks, providing a floor for Emma’s anguished flights of notes.