The Dragon Heir

Page 5

He was so numb with cold, he scarcely felt the trip wire when he brushed it. He was immediately engulfed in a bright, glittering cloud, his formerly unnoticeable self totally revealed, in brilliant outline.
“Ha!” The voice came from behind him.
Acting totally on instinct, Jason dropped the unnoticeable charm and threw up a shield in time to turn a gout of blistering wizard flame. He swung round to confront his attacker.
It was a boy, younger than him, thirteen, maybe, almost pretty, pale blue eyes behind wire rim glasses, snow powdering his blond curls.
Well, crap, Jason thought. The plan was to get out without being spotted.
“I knew you must've gone unnoticeable,” the boy crowed. “There's no way you'd have got through Father's guards otherwise.”
Jason had stepped off-trail to circle around this new obstacle, but the boy's words stopped him. “Father's guards,” Jason repeated. “Who the hell are you?”
“I'm Devereaux D'Orsay,” the boy said. “I live here. Who are you?”
“Geoffrey Wylie,” Jason said, producing the first wizard name that came to mind. The Red Rose wizard could use a little street cred, anyway.
“You are trespassing, Mr. Wylie,” Devereaux D'Orsay said. He extended his hand imperiously. “Hand over the sword and the backpack.”
“Ri-ight,” Jason said. He went to turn away and Devereaux flung out an immobilization charm that Jason managed to deflect, though it left him stunned and reeling. The kid had talent. Unfortunately.
The boy frowned, drawing himself up to his puny height. “You. Come with me. I'm taking you down to the hold. Father and I will interrogate you and find out what you are doing here and for whom you're working.”
Jason sighed, releasing a plume of vapor. He and Seph McCauley had killed Gregory Leicester in self defense. He figured he could kill Claude D'Orsay without losing any sleep over it. But not a thirteen-year-old kid. And that meant he'd be leaving a witness behind.
“Just go away, okay?” Jason said, wearily, “and let's forget this ever happened.”
This seemed to enrage Devereaux D'Orsay. He flung himself at Jason, managing to penetrate his shield and knock him off his feet. They rolled together into a small ravine, a cartoon tangle of arms and legs. Devereaux ripped at him, pulling on the cords around the backpack until the book came free and tumbled loose into the snow.
Jason punched the kid in the nose and blood poured out, distracting little D'Orsay enough so Jason could lay an immobilization charm on him. He managed to extricate himself and stood, looking down at Claude D'Orsay's immobilized son, wishing he could make him disappear.
“Say hi to Claude for me,” he muttered. “Tell him I'll stop by again.” There was no time to look for the lost book. Their magical fracas wouldn't have gone unnoticed. Energized by the desire to stay alive, Jason loped up the trail, heading for the road back to Keswick, conscious of the mysterious stone in his backpack.
Behind him, the great shoulder of the mountain lay shrouded in unbroken darkness. The flame at the heart of the Dragon's Tooth had gone out.
Chapter Two Sanctuary
Madison Moss picked her way across the icy street, clutching her portfolio close to her body so it wouldn't catch the wind. The “uniform” she wore for her waitress job at the Legends Inn—a long swishy skirt and lacy Victorian blouse—was impractical for navigating small town sidewalks in a northeastern Ohio winter.
Over top, she wore a fleece-lined barn coat she'd found at the Salvation Army, and on her feet were a pair of tooled red leather boots she'd bought at a sidewalk sale downtown. That was in September, when she'd felt rich.
Now she had $10.55 in her coat pocket. Her book and supply list for spring semester totaled $455.79 plus tax. She could've probably ordered online for less, but her credit card was still maxed out from fall.
Back in her room was a bill for health insurance— $150—required by Trinity College. The kinds of jobs her mother, Carlene, could find didn't offer benefits.
What else? The transmission in Madison's old pickup was going. She could still get it moving by gunning the engine and shifting directly into second gear from a dead stop.
If she was at home, she'd talk some shade-tree mechanic into fixing it. He'd be afraid to say no. Afraid his shop or house might burn down with his family inside of it.
There were some advantages to being named a witch.
Madison's stomach clenched up in a familiar way until she could push that thought out of her mind. She was trying to keep too many worries at bay. It was like one of those games at the arcade where the alligators pop up and you slam them with a mallet before they can bite you.
Even with the state paying the tuition for courses she was taking for college credit, and even though she was living with her cousin Rachel for free, and even though she was working as many hours as Rachel would give her at the Legends Inn, she was broke and getting broker. Christmas was coming and she didn't have any presents for Grace or John Robert or Carlene.
Or Seph.
She glanced at her watch and walked faster. Trinity Square was a holiday postcard from the past: snowy commons surrounded by the weathered stone buildings of the college, bows and greenery draped over the old-fashioned street lamps. Quaint storefronts glittered with their holiday offerings and shoppers hustled by with bundles and bags.
Totally perfect.
Totally annoying.
But better than home. Back in Coalton County, she was the subject of sermons in hangdog little churches where sweaty-handed preachers used her as a bad example. “Witch,” they shouted. And whispered, “Firestarter.” People crossed the street when they saw her coming. They collected into prissy little groups after she passed by, like gossiping starlings.
Trinity's sidewalks were crowded with glittering people whose magic glowed through their skins like Christmas lights through layers of snow. They were mostly Anawizard Weir—members of the non-wizard magical guilds who'd taken refuge from the war in the sanctuary of Trinity.
It was a war unnoticed by the Anaweir—non-magical people—but the bloodletting had spread all over the world. It was a running battle between shifting factions of wizards, the nightmare the Covenant had been intended to prevent. Those in the underguilds who refused to participate had fled to Trinity—and were deemed rebels because of it.
Madison didn't shine, so they never gave her a second glance.
The scents of cinnamon and patchouli teased her nose as she stepped into the warm interior of Magic Hands, the consignment art shop on the square. Iris Bolingame was at her worktable in the back, soldering glass. Iris was a wizard with stained glass. Literally.
“Hey, Maddie,” Iris said, setting down her work and washing the flux from her hands. “I have to tell you—people love your work. It's been attracting a lot of interest.”
Madison fingered the beaded earrings hanging from the Christmas tree on the counter and gazed longingly at the jewelry in the glass showcase. “I was just—you know—I wanted to see if any of my pieces sold.”
“Hmmm.” Iris came forward to the counter and riffled through the card file. “Let's see. Three prints, one watercolor, four boxes of notecards.” She looked up at Madison. “Wow. In just two weeks. That's great, huh?”
“I was wondering if I could get the money now.”
Iris hesitated. “We usually wait until the end of the month and process all the checks at once, but if it's an emergency …”
“Never mind,” Madison said, pretending to examine the kaleidoscopes on the counter. “I was just going to do some shopping is all.” Traitorous tears burned in her eyes. I hate this, she thought, and I've done it all my life. Scraping, scrimping, making excuses.
“Are you all right, honey?” Madison looked up and met Iris's worried eyes.
“I'm fine,” she whispered, willing Iris not to call her on it.
The wizard impulsively reached out for her, then yanked her hand back at the last moment, pretending to fuss with the ornaments that dangled from her long braid. Iris hadn't been at Second Sister, but she'd certainly heard about it. Wizards were wary of a person who could suck the magic right out of them.
It's like I have an incurable disease, Maddie thought, and no one knows how contagious it is. Not even me.
“If you have anything else you'd like to place here…” Iris's cheeks were stained pink with embarrassment.
Madison straightened, lifted her chin, cleared her throat. “Actually, there's something I'd like to take back, for now, anyway.” Madison shuffled through the bin of matted drawings, pulled one out, and slid it into her portfolio. She brought the sticker to Iris, who noted it on Maddie's card. “I have a few other prints back in my room. I'll bring them in tomorrow.”
She left Magic Hands and turned down Maple, kicking at chunks of ice thrown up by the snowplow, heading for the high school.
With any luck, she'd bring in some tips that evening at the Legends. Business was usually slow in the winter, but not this year. This year Trinity was like Aspen at the holidays. That's what cousin Rachel said, anyway. She'd been there, once, at an innkeepers' convention.
Classes were just letting out at Trinity High School, and students were clattering down the steps, splintering off into adjacent streets and climbing onto buses. A few of them waved—it was a small town, after all, and they'd seen her with hometown boy Jack Swift and his friends Harmon Fitch and Will Childers.
Some of the girls studied her appraisingly, no doubt wondering what the exotic Seph McCauley saw in her. But most of the faces were empty of opinions about her. Trinity might be a small town, but compared to Coal Grove, it was a metropolis.
Clutching that welcome cloak of anonymity around her, Madison cut through the school's crowded lobby to the main office.
She pulled a manila envelope out of her portfolio and handed it to the secretary. “For Mr. Penworthy,” she said. “Progress reports from Dr. Mignon for the grading period.”