The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4)

The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4) Page 41

“Careful,” Hackleford warned. “You know what DeVries—”

“DeVries needs to take off the gloves, or he won’t be running this operation for long,” Burroughs said. Grabbing a fistful of Emma’s hair, he yanked her head back and leaned in so they were nose to nose, his cigarette breath washing over her.

“That hurts,” Emma whimpered, tears in her eyes. “Please, don’t. It hurts.”

“This is just the beginning. Let me be clear . . . you are in a world of trouble. The only way out is to give us what we want.”

Drawing back her arm, Emma slammed the heel of her hand against the bridge of the wizard’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Howling in rage, Burroughs wrapped his fingers around her throat and jammed her back against the headboard, each finger like a tiny torch against her skin. Emma clawed at his forearm, struggling for air. Her head was pounding. No . . . someone was pounding at the door.

She could hear Hackleford in the background. “Burroughs! Are you out of your mind? Stop it!”

But he didn’t stop. Finally, stiffening her fingers, Emma jabbed the wizard in the eyes.

Burroughs released his hold and pitched himself backward. He landed on the floor and rolled to his feet, murder in his eyes.

The door slammed open, the bolt pinging as it hit the floor.

A man stood in the doorway, glowing.

“DeVries!” Hackleford cried. Both wizards stepped back in unison, as if the move had been choreographed. “We didn’t think you were—”

“You didn’t think I’d be back so soon?”

“No . . . I didn’t, but it’s good you’re here,” Hackleford said, quickly covering his initial reaction. “The girl’s awake. We were just about to call you.”

The newcomer’s eyes flicked from Burroughs, who was dabbing at his streaming eyes, to Hackleford, and finally to Emma, trembling in the bed. Swearing, he crossed the room and stood at the bedside, looking down at her. He looked to be only a few years older than her, with fair skin, streaked brown hair, and tawny eyes, like a jungle cat’s.

“What’s going on?” DeVries asked, focusing on Emma. “What’s wrong?”

Emma shifted her gaze to Burroughs, and saw the promise of pain in those copper-penny eyes.

“Nothing,” she said, resisting the temptation to explore her blistered neck with her fingers.

“Something happened,” DeVries persisted.

“They told me my father was murdered,” Emma said. Which was true, as far as it went. Wrapping her arms around herself, she tilted her head down to conceal her neck. “I just . . . I just want to be left alone. Could you please leave me alone?”

“I’m afraid we can’t. Not quite yet.” When he spoke again, it was to the wizards in the room. “Would someone else care to tell me what happened here?”

“It’s like she said,” Hackleford said. “When she woke, she asked about her father, and we told her he was dead.”

Burroughs returned to Emma’s bedside like a vulture drawn back to a fresh carcass. “I think you’ll agree, DeVries, that time is of the essence if we’re to win broader support from the Wizard Council before any more wizards are murdered. As you know, I have considerable experience in interrogation. I have no doubt that, given a little time, I can obtain the answers we want.”

“I am less interested in obtaining the answers we want than I am in getting at the truth,” DeVries said. “I told you— both of you—that I intended to handle this interrogation myself. What was it that you didn’t understand?”

“I’d hoped you’d reconsider,” Burroughs said. “We can’t afford to squander our only chance to make our case against the cabal in Trinity. We need to get more wizards off the fence and onto our side.”

“And I don’t think we want to wear our witness out talking politics,” DeVries said. “We’ll discuss this after I’ve had the chance to talk to her. Now go.”

They went.

DeVries pulled up a chair and straddled it, facing Emma. He might have been a college student, in his jeans, sneakers, and a collared shirt. “I’m Rowan DeVries,” he said.

“Emma Greenwood.”

“You’re the daughter of Tyler Greenwood and Gwyneth Hart?”

Gwyneth? Gwen. Right. “Yes.”

For a long moment, he stared down at his hands, saying nothing. Then he said, “Is it true what they said? Now that they’re gone, do you want to change your story?”

“Is it true that I’m a prisoner?”

His head came up quickly, his expression startled.

“Mr. DeVries. I may not know much, but I’m not stupid,” Emma said.

“Call me Rowan,” he said. Then added, as an afterthought, “Please.”

“Rowan,” Emma repeated, putting an edge on it. “If I’ve been so sick, then why am I not in a hospital? If I’m accused of something, then why am I not talking to the police?”

“You’re not accused of anything,” Rowan said.

“Then suppose you tell me what this is all about?” On the streets of Memphis, she’d learned to take the offensive when she got into a tight spot. A good bluff could sometimes save a person a world of trouble.

“We need to know what happened,” Rowan went on. “How you were hurt. And we need to know now. Just tell me what you remember, whether you think it’s important or not.”

“I’m not talking to anyone without a lawyer,” Emma said.

“A lawyer would not be helpful,” Rowan said stiffly.

“Not to you, maybe.”

“Look, I’ll walk you through it,” he said. “And you fill in what you know. We found you on the floor of the conservatory. Was that where you first saw the intruders?”

Emma folded her arms and said nothing.

Rowan’s tawny eyes hardened into amber, set into a face gone pale as marble and just as hard. “Don’t try my patience, Emma,” he said softly. “My sister Rachel is dead. She’s all the family I had. I practically raised her after my father was murdered. I’d prefer not to hurt you, but I will get some answers.”

“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” Emma said. “Do you want me to make something up?”

“All I want is the truth,” he said. “No games. Don’t try to tell me that you don’t remember anything.” He released a long breath and raked both hands through his hair.

“The last I remember was being in my workshop in the basement.”

“Workshop?”

“I’m a luthier. I build guitars.” She paused and, when he didn’t ask questions about this, continued: “After that, nothing. Or almost nothing. It’s just a few scenes. Like pictures, in my head. Somebody in a mask. And—and gunshots. And blood.” Tears leaked from her eyes and ran down her face.

He handed her a tissue. “This masked person. Can you tell me anything else? What was he wearing? How big was he? Did he look familiar? Was he gifted?”

Emma shook her head. “It seemed like he was all bundled up, so all I could see was his eyes. He had sad eyes.”

“Sad eyes?” Rowan sounded a little exasperated.

“You asked what I remembered, right? I remember that.”

“Did he try to charm you?”

“Charm me?” Emma was lost. “You mean, seduce me? Or . . .”

He flushed. “Charms. You know. Spells. Conjury.” He raised his hand and mimicked casting a spell.

“Oh. No.”

“How old was he?”

“All I saw was his eyes.”

“If you had to guess.”

“From his voice, I’d say he was younger rather than older. Teens or twenties.”

“Are any of these people familiar?” Rowan had his own array of photographs stored in his phone, the same people the other wizards had shown her. “I don’t recognize any of them.” She handed the phone back.

“How about this one?”

It was a photograph of a girl with chestnut hair in a tennis outfit. The resemblance between her and Rowan was striking. It pinged something in Emma’s memory.

“I don’t know. Maybe. Is that your sister?”

“Yes,” he said, putting the phone away. “What can you tell me about Tyler?”

“I don’t really know him that well.”

“He’s your father, right?” Rowan said, raising an eyebrow.

“I just came to live with him a few months ago.”

“Where were you before that?”

“I lived with my grandfather in Memphis. After he died, I came here.”

And then Emma could have sworn that Rowan did the flicker-eye thing. The lying thing. He looked down at his hands. Then back up at Emma. “So. Since you’ve been living with Tyler, have you seen people coming and going? Meetings at the house? Did he seem to be involved in any kind of . . . conspiracy?”

“No. Nobody ever came over. He didn’t seem to have any friends. He was pretty much a homebody, except when he went out for gigs.”

“Gigs?”

“He plays—played—bass guitar in a band.”

“Did you ever see him work with chemicals, plants, poisons, magical devices?”

“No, never.”

“He was a sorcerer.” It was a half question.

“That’s what I’m told. But I never saw any sign of it.”

“How about you? Are you a sorcerer as well?”

Emma shook her head. “I don’t know what I am. Maybe nothing. Tyler said I was gifted, but that was the first I heard about it.”

Rowan seemed to have run out of questions temporarily. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his forehead, looking about as weary and heartsick as Emma felt. “What happens now?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear the answer.