The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2)

The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2) Page 52

“So here you are,” he said.

He crossed the room until he stood over her. He put out his hand and dropped something into her lap. It was a plastic bag containing two pictures, some wadded up cloth, and a lock of hair, dark, with a little curl to it. Hair that could have belonged to Leander Hastings, but didn't.

She looked at the pictures first. They had come off a computer printer. It was Seph in a filthy green shirt and blue jeans, looking warily at the camera. In one view she could see that his hands were tied behind his back. She pulled the cloth from the bag. It was the shirt he was wearing in the photograph, smeared with blood and dirt.

She looked up at Hastings, waited for him to explain.

“Gregory Leicester contacted me. He's holding Seph. He wants to meet and make a deal.” His voice. Something in his voice. But Linda's thoughts were already swirling madly.

Seph was alive! Panic and hope and fear flooded through her by turns. And then, Why did Leicester contact Hastings?

Hastings squatted so that his face was almost on a level with hers. Close. She pressed herself back against the wall, but could put no more distance between them.

“Now here's the strange part. He told me he was holding my son.” He paused. “And I was confused, because I don't have a son.”

Linda looked away.

He already knows the truth. As soon as he'd heard it, he must have known. All the man had ever needed was a clue. She was cornered, literally, in every way, her back against the wall. She knew it was no use dissembling. “I'm sorry, Lee.”

“You disappeared. I searched for you for more than a year. I nearly went crazy. Then all of a sudden, last year, as from the grave, you call me. All business, as if the past never happened. Could I help your warrior nephew Jack and save him from the wizards.” He made an irritated sound. “I guess you knew where I was all the time.”

She spoke hesitantly. “Well, you have to admit, you cut a rather wide path.”

The wizard sat down on the floor and leaned against the wall next to Linda. He looked sideways at her. “You never told your family about the baby? Not even Becka?”

She shook her head. “No one knows. Except Nick. Genevieve LeClerc helped me. I knew her from some of the networks. I stayed with her until I delivered. She was a godsend,” Linda said. “She was great with Seph.”

“So you just went off and left him with this woman?” He intended it to be cruel, and it was.

“Seph needed the kind of stability I couldn't provide. I couldn't risk anyone connecting him with us. It was the right thing to do,” she added defensively.

“He should have been with his parents. You made that choice for both of us. That wasn't fair. And it wasn't fair to Seph.”

“Can't you see that this is the proof that I was right? Someone's discovered his parentage, and now he's paying for it.” Tears slid down her face. “I gave up everything to keep him safe. First you. Then him.” She was unable to speak for a moment.

Finally, fiercely scrubbing the tears away with the back of her hand, Linda asked, “What does Leicester want?”

“He wants me to travel to New York tomorrow, and come alone. He'll contact me there, and tell me the terms.” He massaged his forehead as if it hurt. “You know he thinks I'm the Dragon. He has for a long time. I've let him think it.”

“What if he finds out you're not?”

Hastings shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Let me go meet Leicester,” Linda said quickly. “Let me talk to him. You know it's a trap.”

“What makes you think you would be an acceptable substitute?” He shook his head. “He doesn't see you as a political figure. Leicester just ends up with two hostages instead of one. The message was addressed to me, Linda. If I don't show tomorrow, Leicester says he'll mail me another piece of our son, something that won't grow back.”

Linda buried her face in her hands.

Hastings stroked her back, soothing her. “Besides, I've done nothing for the boy in sixteen years. I want Seph to know who his father is.”

Chapter Seventeen

New Threats

Each time Seph surfaced, the pain returned, so he dove deep and stayed there as long as he could. He felt oddly inverted. During his time at the Havens, he had come to fear the descent into the abyss of sleep. Now it was a refuge from what seemed like years of torture at Leicester's hands.

But hands plucked at him and voices nagged at him relentlessly. “Joseph.” He gave up, opened his eyes, and looked into Martin Hall's worried face.

“What do you want?” he meant to say, but it emerged as a painful croak. He'd been screaming, as if in a nightmare. But it wasn't a dream. It was real.

The thought amused him, and he laughed. Unsuccessfully. More of a wheeze.

“Come on, Joseph,” Martin said. “You have to eat something. You've been sleeping for three days.” He picked up a sweet roll and waved it enticingly under Seph's nose. The mingled scents of yeast and sugar turned his stomach.

“Go away, Martin. I mean it.” Seph tried to organize his face into a scowl, but his body wouldn't obey his commands. He felt as if his skin had been flayed off, his flesh exposed. Even the pressure of the sheet was almost too much to bear.

But Peter appeared on his other side, and together they hauled him into a half-sitting position. Peter gripped his jaw, forced his mouth open, and Martin poured in the Weirsbane. Seph offered only token resistance. It was an established routine by now.

But this time was different. They brought him a basin of warm water, soap, and a washcloth. Peter supported him while Martin carefully removed his sweatshirt and washed the blood from his body. They stripped off his jeans, stiff and stinking of lake water, sweat, and terror, and dressed him in fresh clothes, while he bit his lip to keep from groaning.

“So what's up, Peter?” he asked, feeling a little giddy. “Do I go to the gallows today, or has Leicester finally decided to surrender to me?”

It was a feeble joke, but Peter lit up anyway. “He's really p-pissed, you know, because he can't get anything out of you.”

Seph rolled his eyes. The only part of him that didn't hurt. “I don't know anything. That's why he can't get anything out of me.”

“But you haven't g-given in, either,” Peter said, admiration plain on his face. “You won't link with him. It makes him c-crazy.”

“Yeah, well, I can't hold out forever.” Seph took deep breaths, fighting down despair. He didn't need the alumni making him into a hero. Three things kept him going. First, the months of mental and emotional torture at the Havens had desensitized him somewhat. Second, he knew from Peter that surrender to Leicester was only the beginning of a lifetime of torment. And third, he knew that to give in was to betray Maddie's presence on Second Sister.

“He's scared of you,” Martin confided. “That's why he keeps you doped up on Weirsbane.”

“It was so c-cool,” Peter said. “How we came in and you had him smashed up against the wall, and his eyes were b-bulging out. He was practically c-crapping himself.”

Seph dragged his fingers through his resistant curls. “Oh? Then why didn't you let me finish him?”

“We're linked,” Martin said. “If Leicester dies, so do we.”

“There's got to be a way to break it.” Seph looked from Peter to Martin, but they wouldn't meet his eyes.

Seph released a long, exasperated breath. “Are you guys holding anyone else down here?”

Martin and Peter glanced at each other, shook their heads. “Just you,” Martin said.

So Maddie wasn't in Leicester's hands. Where was she then? Stay hidden, he said to himself. Stay hidden until it's all over.

He plucked at his clean shirt. “What's this all about?”

Peter looked about warily, as if someone might be eavesdropping. “I think you have a visitor.”

Once he was more or less presentable, they led him back up the narrow stairway and down quiet corridors to the study where he'd met with Leicester the night of his arrival. A half dozen of the alumni milled about nervously. They took charge of him when he arrived, sitting him in a chair and binding his hands to its arms with cord. Seph submitted without protest. The Weirsbane was working, and he had no chance against those odds without magic.

Leicester entered, wearing jeans and a pristine white shirt. He spoke briefly to Bruce Hays and then stood behind Seph, resting his hands on his shoulders. By now, Seph could read the wizard's touch. Power and excitement and, yes, fear bled through Leicester's fingertips.

“What's up?” Seph asked, trying not to react.

“Your father's come. He's demanding proof that you're still alive.”

Before Seph had time to process this, the door opened and Warren Barber entered, followed by another man. It was Leander Hastings.

Hastings advanced quickly toward them until Leicester put up a hand, stopping him several yards away. Hastings studied Seph from that distance, as if assuring himself that he was complete.

Leander Hastings his father. Could it be true? Seph sat pinned to the chair, feet on the floor, back straight, inhaling as if he could breathe in the image before him: the structure of the face, something like his own, but leaner, crisper in profile. The tumbled dark hair, unruly, familiar. The thick brows overshadowing deepset eyes. Seph wanted to fling himself forward. Leicester must have felt his muscles bunch under his hands, because his grip tightened and he said, “Don't.”

“I've come as agreed,” Hastings said. “That was the deal: a trade—me for the boy.”

Seph found his voice. “Don't negotiate with him! You can't trust him!” Leicester tightened his grip and new pain laced into him, effectively stopping his speech and bringing tears to his eyes.

Hastings's expression didn't change, but rather crystallized, the green eyes like shadowed pools unruffled by any movement of air.