BOOKS BY CINDA WILLIAMS CHIMA
THE HEIR CHRONICLES
The Warrior Heir
The Wizard Heir
The Dragon Heir
The Enchanter Heir
The Sorcerer Heir
THE SEVEN REALMS SERIES
The Demon King
The Exiled Queen
The Gray Wolf Throne
The Crimson Crown
Copyright © 2013 by Cinda Williams Chima
Cover design by Tyler Nevins
Cover illustration © 2013 by Larry Rostant
Except from The Demon King copyright © 2009 by Cinda Williams Chima.
All rights reserved. Published by Hyperion, an imprint of Disney Book Group. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information address Hyperion Books, 125 West End Avenue, New York, New York 10023
ISBN 978-1-4231-8789-9
Visit www.un-requiredreading.com
Contents
Title Page
Books by Cinda Williams Chima
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Acknowledgments
Preview of The Seven Realms Series, Book One: The Demon King
For Eric: After all these pages turned and scenes shared between us, you are writing your own stories.
Jonah awoke to suffocating heat and the sound of screaming.
He jerked upright, his sheets drenched with sweat, his head pounding. The screams came from outside, through windows that had been left open to capture the night breeze. A wan, gray light oozed between the shutters.
Inside the dormitory, the other Sevens were moaning and the sound foamed up from the beds all around Jonah. He squinted through the darkness, but his vision flickered and swam like one of the paintings in Mama’s books.
“What’s going on?” he whispered, his voice hoarse and strange. As he swung his legs over the side of the bed, the smell of sickness smacked him in the face.
He sat still until the churning in his middle settled a little. He would not throw up. He was nearly seven years old—old enough not to make work for other people. That’s what Mama said, anyway. People will always be willing to do things for you because you’re an enchanter, because of your gifts of empathy, charisma, and persuasion. But that’s wrong, Jonah. You need to learn to do things for yourself.
His chest burned, smoldering like someone had lit a fire inside him. He pressed his hands against his T-shirt, as if he could put it out. Somebody in one of the other beds was calling, “Daddy?” over and over.
Where was Jem, the dorm-master? He would know what to do.
Jonah slid off his bed, his bare feet hitting the floor with a thunk. For a moment, he stood, head swimming, as the flame in his chest burned hotter. Then, staggering, holding on to bed frames for support, he worked his way toward the door.
Just as he reached it, he nearly stumbled over a body sprawled across the threshold.
It was Jem, eyes rolled back in his head, his blackened tongue sticking out, his hands fisted. Like he was still fighting.
“Jem,” Jonah whispered, kneeling beside him. Jonah could no longer sense the mingled love and exasperation that was Jem.
Jem was dead, but some of the Sevens were still alive. A healer. Jonah needed to find a healer. And Mama and Dad and Kenzie and Marcy.
Jonah pushed the door open, carefully stepped over Jem’s body—and walked into a nightmare. People in nightclothes filled the okara, blundering around the square, running into things as if they were either blind or out of their heads. Bodies lay everywhere, like broken dolls flung aside. Some, he recognized. There was Foster, who worked in the metal shop and gave Jonah interesting bits of metal to play with. And Lilith, who helped make the medicines the healers used. She lay, facedown, just outside the lab building, her pale hair spread around her head like a halo.
Somebody ran into him, nearly knocking him over. It was Patrice, who built the sets for the theater, still in her nightgown. She was the first grown-up he’d seen who wasn’t dead.
“Patrice!” Jonah cried, snatching at her sleeve. “Have you seen Mama and Dad?”
Patrice swayed, holding on to Jonah to keep from falling over. Foam bubbled on her lips, dripped down her chin. She stared at him, wide-eyed, like she didn’t recognize him, then floundered backward and wobbled on, heading for the lake.
People were running in all directions, some toward the lake, maybe hoping to cool themselves in its waters. Others toward the healing halls. Some ran, screaming, flailing their arms, like they were being chased by monsters. Jonah saw one man barrel into another. They both fell to the ground, punching and kicking each other.
Terrified, Jonah ran for the cluster of family homes, called oka, that housed those that worked in the performing arts. Until a month ago, Jonah had lived there with his parents, his younger brother, and baby sister. Then, since it was getting crowded and he was nearly seven, he’d moved into the Sevens dorm. All the seven-year-olds stayed there, regardless of what guild they came from.
Some of the oka were dark, ominously quiet. Others were ablaze with lights. Dogs barked at Jonah from open doorways as he followed the familiar path to his own family’s dwelling. He had to stop once and throw up into the bushes.
The house was dark, but through the front windows, Jonah saw an odd flickering light. Like flame, but more bluish than orange and red.
He burst into the house, calling, “Mama? Dad?”
No answer.
He slid back the screen that divided his parents’ room from the main room.
They were still in bed. He could see their familiar shapes in their double hammock, but no reassuring rush of love came his way. Jonah inched closer. Mama lay on her back, a rag on her forehead, face milk white, her lips blue. There was a cup on the window ledge next to her. His father lay facedown beside her. They were dead.
Jonah had been punched in the stomach once—so hard that he couldn’t seem to drag breath back into his body. It felt a lot like that.
Shaking his head no, he b
acked out of the room, hands raised in front of him. Once in the main room, he smelled smoke. Something was definitely burning, and the smell seemed to be coming from the space that Kenzie and Marcy now shared. Jonah eased open the screen to his old room.
Marcy was standing in her crib, giggling and pointing, the light from the flames painting her face an odd color of blue. Kenzie’s side of the room was ablaze, and now and then a flame arced out from the inferno as if someone were shooting off rockets. At the center of the fire, Jonah’s five-year-old brother, Kenzie, burned brightest of all, like a human sacrifice to the old gods one of the healers, Jeanette, sometimes talked about. Burning and burning, yet not burning up.
Dizzy, sick, and confused, Jonah wanted to lie down on the floor, close his eyes, and go back to sleep. He wanted Mama to wake him from this nightmare and stroke his hair and tell him it was all a dream. He wanted a grown-up to figure out what to do.
But there was only Jonah, and he was almost seven years old, and if he didn’t do something, nobody would. Blotting the tears from his eyes, he snatched up a blanket draped over the side of the crib and wrapped Marcy up in it. Dropping the side of the crib, he lifted her out.
Marcy pointed over Jonah’s shoulder and cried, “Kee!” which was her word for Kenzie.
“Come on, Marcy,” Jonah said. “Let’s get out of here before this place burns up.”
She struggled in his arms as he crossed the threshold. “Kee!” she cried. “Kee!”
She continued to kick and squirm, and Jonah’s strength was dwindling fast.
“Marcy,” he pleaded as they left the shelter of the trees. “Hold still. I can’t carry you if you’re wiggling.”
“Kee!” she said again.
“I know,” he said. “I didn’t forget him. I just can’t carry both of you at once.”
Two of the Twelves were plodding toward him, girls who’d helped out in the healing halls. They looked half dead themselves, moving like they were sleepwalking through a nightmare. One girl’s skin was covered in blisters. Jonah tried not to stare.
“We’re meeting in the okara,” one of them said dully. “Go there.”
“Take my sister,” Jonah said. “I’m going back after my brother.”
“Jonah!” Marcy cried, clutching on to his nightshirt.
“It’s all right,” Jonah said. “I’ll be back.” He bent his head and kissed her on the cheek.
Marcy’s blue eyes opened wide, then closed. A smile curved her lips. Her color faded like a winter-blasted rose as she died.
Jonah didn’t know how long he drifted between waking and sleeping. He was strapped down, so he couldn’t move, and there were tubes and needles poking him everywhere, and thick mittens covering his hands so he couldn’t rip them out. Hardly anyone came in, and when they did, they left in a hurry. He slept most of the time, anyway.
Then one day he woke up, drowning in his own vomit. When the healers finally came in, they seemed angry, like it was his fault. After that, they unstrapped him so he could use the basin by his bedside. They unhooked all the tubes, but they left the mittens and a big clanking chain attached to his ankle. It was long enough for him to get to the bathroom and walk around the room, but that was it.
He knew a few things. For instance, he knew where he was—in one of the classrooms at school. But why was he here, all by himself, instead of in the healing hall?
They must have been giving him something that made him sleep most of the time, because now he was more awake. Now that he was awake, he saw who came in. There were two in particular—strangers who must have been healers, but they were unlike any healers Jonah had ever known. Not at all like Jeanette, who’d cared for him since he was a baby.
These healers never touched him unless they had to, and then only with gloved hands. Whenever they came close, their fear slopped over him like a cold fog. Often, they stood by the door and talked in low voices. He guessed they were talking about him.
Jonah called them Thing One and Thing Two.
Jonah wasn’t used to being feared. He was used to affection. He wished Jeanette had stayed—she always knew how to make him feel better when he was sick. She’d left Thorn Hill before any of this happened. But, if she’d stayed, then she’d probably be dead, like all the other grown-ups.
They brought him food to eat, leaving it on the bedside table, even though half the time he was too sick to eat. Every time one of them came in, Jonah asked a question, collecting information like puzzle pieces. The wells had gone bad, they said. Mama and Dad and Kenzie and Marcy were all dead. No, he didn’t have anything catching. No, he couldn’t take the mittens off.
His seventh birthday came and went without anyone noticing. Meaning two months had passed since everyone died. Jonah rested, and ate, and kept the mittens on, and wondered why he was still alive. The more he rested, the stronger he got and the more he saw and heard, whether he wanted to or not. His ears seemed to hear better than they ever had before. And if he looked out the window, through the bars, he could see all the way across the lake, to where white tents had sprouted, like mushrooms after a rain.
Most importantly, now he could hear those muttered conversations between Thing One and Thing Two. Thing One did most of the talking. Thing Two didn’t say much.
“He’s not paying us enough to do this work,” said Thing One. “Nobody told us they’d need twenty-four-hour nursing care.”
“Mm-hmm,” Thing Two said.
“They brought this on themselves, you know.” Thing One scratched his neck. “Did they think the Wizard Guild was going to stand by and let them build an arsenal?”
“But that’s not the kids’ fault. Besides, Mandrake claims they weren’t making weapons.”
“And you believe that?” Thing One snorted. “Guess the Wizard Houses didn’t. Now their parents are all dead, and nobody knows what kind of monsters they’ll grow up to be. They’re in agony, most of them, and they’ll probably die anyway. More die every day. It seems to me that the kindest thing to do would be to put them out of their misery.”
“What are you suggesting?” Thing Two said sharply. “I need this job. I don’t plan on leaving until the mine’s played out. A few more months in Brazil, and I’ll never have to work again. I consider it combat pay.”
“I’m just saying that it’d be easier if there weren’t so many.”
“Mutant kids or diamonds?”
Their laughter faded as they walked on down the hallway.
Fear prickled the back of Jonah’s neck. Were he and the others going to die? Jonah touched his chest, which still burned sometimes, enough to wake him from sleep. Sometimes he still had to use the basin they left beside the bed. Sometimes he sweated blood.
But at least now he was strong. Strong enough to explore.
As he slid to the floor, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the sink. He didn’t look like a monster. He looked the same as always—shaggy black hair, blue eyes, the tattoo of a flower on his arm, like everyone else’s. Maybe thinner and sadder than before.
Jonah gripped the cuff around his ankle, trying to slide his foot through. It wouldn’t fit. All he did was scrape off some skin. Frustrated, he yanked at the ankle band, and it came apart in his hands. Startled, he let the pieces fall onto the coverlet and looked around, but of course nobody was watching.
If he’d known it would be so easy, he’d have done it before now.
He snuck to the door, only to find that it was locked. Frustrated, he wrenched at the handle, and managed to pull the door right off its hinges. He tumbled backward on his rear, the door on top.
He scrambled to his feet in a panic. I didn’t mean to, he thought. I didn’t mean to break the door.
They shouldn’t have locked me in.
At the end of the hallway, in what had been the gym, he found dozens of children lying in row after row of beds. Some he recognized, and some he couldn’t. Some were covered in wounds and blisters, others in scales and feathers. Some were beautif
ul, frail, pulsing with light, like the fairy children in Jeanette’s stories. Some didn’t look like children at all. All were hooked up to machines and bags of fluids that dripped into them. It was a horrible place. A horrible room.
“Jonah?”
Jonah flinched, startled. The voice came from a nearby bed. It was Alison Shaw, another Seven. She looked thinner than he remembered, and pale, with dark circles under her eyes.
“Alison!” he said, thrilled to finally find someone he knew. “Are you—?”
“Shhh!” Alison put her finger to her lips. “Don’t let them hear.” She held up her hands, and Jonah saw that she had mittens on, too. And chains that bound her to the bed frame. “How did you get out? They said you were locked up.”
“I broke the door,” Jonah said, to keep it simple. “Why do they have you chained up?”
“Never mind. Can you get me loose?”
Jonah took hold of the chain and broke it.
“How did you do that?” Alison asked, squinting at him, looking impressed. “Show me.”
Jonah shrugged. “These chains aren’t very good, I guess. Where is everyone else? What about Rudy? And Miranda?”
“I don’t know. They never let me out of this room. Have you seen Kenzie?”
“He’s dead,” Jonah said around the lump in his throat. “Didn’t you know?”
“No, he isn’t,” Alison said. “They have him locked up, too.”
Jonah’s heart stuttered. Then started up again, beating hard and fast. “Where? Where is he?”
Alison slid off her bed and onto the floor. “I think it’s this way.”
They crept out of the Horrible Room and down the hallway. They turned a corner and practically collided with Thing One and Thing Two. Two of the nursing assistants were with them. Jonah might have run back the way he came, but now they stood between him and Kenzie.
“Jonah!” Thing One said, taking a quick step back. It was the first time he’d called Jonah by name. “How’d you get out of your room?”
“Where’s Kenzie?” Jonah demanded, fisting his hands.
“We were just coming to get you,” Thing One said, glancing at Thing Two. “Would you like to see him?”
Alison and Jonah looked at each other. “Why’d you tell me he was dead?” Jonah said.