The Wizard's Heir

Cover Design by Phatpuppy Art

Cover logo/font by Whit and Ware

First American Edition Published in 2015 by Superstorm Productions, LLC

ISBN 978-1-941994-15-3

The Wizard’s Heir

2015 Copyright by Superstorm Productions, LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Superstorm Productions, LLC, except for the inclusion of brief quotations and acknowledgement of author.

Excepting fan art, of course. All fan art and fan fiction is welcome, applauded, and encouraged.

Website address: superstormproductions.wordpress.com

Author website: devriwalls.com

Rights & requests mail: [email protected]

Other Works by Devri Walls

The Solus Series

Book one: Wings of Arian

Book two: Wings of Tavea

Book three: Wings of Nestor

Book four: Wings of Lomay

Coming Soon:

Venators

Book one: Through the Arch

Thanks to my family who support me whole heartedly, even if that means dinner’s late.

To my fans, your messages mean the world to me. Thank you for loving my work as much as I do.

Tybolt stared into the fire, kicking his heel repeatedly against the wooden chair leg. He knew it irritated his mother, which was exactly why he was doing it. The
thuds
resonated through their small kitchen.

The bread for dinner rested just inside the stone baking area above the fireplace. It had begun to brown on top, filling the room with its heavenly aroma. That, mixed with the salty smell of the ocean, was the scent he loved most. Home.

His mother reached inside the fireplace with a long wooden spoon and stirred the black kettle that bubbled with fish stew. “Tybolt.” She sighed at his refusal to acknowledge her. “You’re too young to understand.”

“You lied to me,” he repeated stubbornly.

She tapped the spoon on the edge of the kettle and sat it down on the small table to her right. “I didn’t lie to you. I misled you.”

He crossed his arms and scowled. “You always say lying by omission is still lying.”

“I do say that. But you don’t fully understand the situation.”

“Did Myla know?”

“Myla is almost thirteen.” His mother sat across from him and grabbed his hand. “It’s complicated, Tybolt, and you are too young to understand.”

“I’m almost ten!”

She smiled—the smile she wore when trying not to laugh, knowing it would infuriate him. He jerked his hand free. “Don’t laugh at me!”

“You’ll be a good man someday, a great man. A man with many responsibilities. But that day is not yet here. You’re still a boy. Someday you will meet your father, I promise.”

Tybolt’s ears burned, and his stomach rolled into tight knots of fury. “I saw him—he was here! You told me he was dead!”

“What were you doing outside, anyway?”

“The dumb dog got loose,” he mumbled. “I went down to the beach to get him.” The stupid dog always got loose, and he’d been half a mile down the beach barking ferociously at the waves. It had taken some time to convince the mutt to come home. As Tybolt had started up the steps from the beach, he’d seen his mother in the upper window of the lighthouse wrapped in the arms of a man. The fire that kept the ships safe from the rocks blazed behind them, shattering his reality in brilliant illumination.

But instead of true revelations the light only mocked him, backlighting his mother and his father and offering nothing more than the outline of the man he thought was dead. He still wasn’t sure what fed his rage the most—that his mother had made him think his father was dead, or that his father hadn’t cared enough to introduce himself to his son.

A gust of wind slapped the side of the lighthouse. The timbers creaked and groaned in protest, and the cold air from the incoming storm seeped uninvited through the edges of the aging windowpanes. Tybolt looked up. The storm had formed suddenly, even for this area.

His mother’s demeanor changed in an instant. Her eyes darted to the glass. She stood and walked gracefully to the window, moving like all Deviants—with inhuman ease.

The Deviants possessed a specific kind of beauty: fierce sharp features, green eyes, and dark hair. His mother was stunning, his sister the same. They had speed, strength, grace, and beauty. It should have made them beloved, but they were also immune to Wizard magic, and for that they were hated.

Tybolt shared all their features and skills, with the exception of his blue eyes. He was an enigma among enigmas. And he wondered for the first time if maybe his father had blue eyes. His sour mood returned. “He doesn’t love me,” Tybolt snapped. “He never has and he never will.”

The room darkened with the storm. The fire from the oven cast light and shadows across his mother’s face that emphasized her high cheek bones and thin nose. “That is not true.”

His sister hopped down the stairs five at a time and slid into the room, the spitting image of their mother. “A storm is rolling in faster than I’ve ever seen,” Myla said breathlessly. “Wizard-made for sure.”

His mother touched her fingers to the pane. “He said this would happen,” she whispered.

Myla took a step towards the window. “What is it?”

A long, low roll of thunder rumbled and the wind increased. The lighthouse protested heavily under the attack. “I hate him!” Tybolt yelled. “And I hate you for loving him more than me.”

His mother jerked back as if she’d been slapped, her green eyes wide. Tybolt bolted up, chest heaving, and the chair clattered to the floor. He ran out the door.

The wind was stronger than he’d realized. It shoved him to the side. Redistributing his weight, he leaned forward and pushed headlong into it. He turned to go down the stairs, but the waves had already enveloped the beach and were crashing against the base of the cliff their lighthouse sat on. He looked up. The sky was black, lined with purple and grays. Myla was right—the storm was wizard-made for sure.

“Tybolt!” He barely heard his mother above the wind. He looked over his shoulder to see her coming for him. Deep down he felt a twinge a guilt for what he’d said, but anger reigned and he was not ready to take it back. He sprinted across the grass, aiming for the wispy trees that grew away from the cliff. The dry grass rasped around his legs.

Suddenly the earth under his feet rolled and the sound of thunder stopped him—thunder not from above, but below. He lost his balance and fell, banging his elbow on a rock. The ground continued to reel and moan as if in pain. Tybolt pushed up.

Wizard storms were nothing new. It was how they survived in this drought-plagued rock. But this—this was far more than that. A sheet of rain rushed in from the ocean, covering the distance in moments, dulling his vision and drenching him.

The ground shook violently, and fractures appeared all around. The earth to the side of him opened and spread apart like gaping, muddy jaws.

His mother yelled something that he couldn’t hear over the storm, then she turned and ran back towards the lighthouse. A bright bolt of lightning dropped, illuminating the world for a moment before it crashed into the top of his home. His mother fell backwards as the building burst into flames.

Tybolt ran for his mother. The door of the lighthouse opened and his sister stumbled out, her figure blurred through the rain. Ahead of him a loud crack sounded, distinctly different than thunder, then another crack, and then the entire cliff face gave way.

Myla leapt, body outstretched, but wasn’t fast enough. The lighthouse tumbled out of view, her with it, down to the ocean below.