The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III

  Hastings gripped Jason’s wrist before he could raise the glass to his lips. “Not a good idea. You need to stay sharp. Just because you can get away with something doesn’t mean you should.”

  You like your pints, Jason thought, but knew better than to say it. He shrugged and let go of the glass. “Bloody filthy weather, as the locals say.”

  “Pronounce it more like blue-dy,” Hastings corrected him, taking full possession of Jason’s pint. “You still sound American.”

  Must’ve saved up lectures while I was gone. “I am American.”

  “It makes you stand out. It makes people remember you.”

  Hastings just didn’t get it. Jason wanted to be remembered.

  “Where have you been? I told you to stay put.” Hastings was never one to waste time on pleasantries.

  There was no point in holding out on Hastings. He’d have it out of him soon enough, anyway.

  “I decided to check out Raven’s Ghyll.”

  “You what?” The wizard didn’t raise his voice, but it seemed loud just the same.

  “You were gone. I had some time.” Jason took a breath and forced himself to look into Hastings’s eyes.

  “I told you to watch and let me know if Jessamine Longbranch returned to London. That was your assignment.”

  “That’s make-work,” Jason protested. “Her place has been shut up for months. There was nothing to do.”

  “Oh?” Hastings lifted an eyebrow. “She’s been back now for at least three days. And I have no idea what’s gone on since her return.”

  “Wylie was there yesterday. And a bunch of others. They’ve been meeting every day.” Jason slid a paper across the table at Hastings. “I . . . um . . . persuaded the neighbors to keep track while I was gone.”

  Hastings tapped his long fingers on the battered tabletop. “I did not give this assignment to the neighbors. What did you hope to accomplish? In Raven’s Ghyll, I mean.”

  “Well. Everyone’s afraid to go in—the Roses, the—ah— everybody.” Jason focused on the table. He’d been arguing for an attempt on the ghyll since he’d arrived in London, and Hastings had refused.

  “We’ve discussed that. You knew the ghyll was likely to be heavily fortified. There was little to gain and a lot to lose by going in. If you’d been captured, the consequences would have been dire. I’ve been to the cellar of Raven’s Ghyll Castle, and it’s not a place I’d want to revisit.”

  “I figured that one person, alone, could probably slip in unnoticed.”

  “And did you? Slip in unnoticed?”

  I bet he already knows the answer to that, Jason thought. He cleared his throat. “No. They—ah—noticed.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Well. It was like kicking an anthill. He has an army up there, and they all turned out. I went unnoticeable and headed for the hold.”

  Hastings frowned. “You should have left immediately when you knew you were outed.”

  Right. I bet you’d have stormed the castle with your bare hands, Jason thought. “I figured that’s what they would expect me to do.” He realized his foot was jittering and consciously stilled himself. “Then D’Orsay—or somebody— flooded the ghyll with Luciferous mist.”

  Hastings swore. “You’re certain? I didn’t think anyone still knew how to make it.”

  “It was that, or something like it. I left off making for the castle and headed for higher ground. I climbed up Ravenshead as far as the Weirstone. Then there was this earthquake.”

  “And fire and pestilence as well, I suppose,” Hastings said dryly.

  “Ha. Anyway, a big crack opened up on Ravenshead, just below the Weirstone. I hid there until the mist cleared.” Jason lit a cigarette, connecting on the second try, then blew out a stream of smoke.

  “Were you seen? Were you recognized?” Hastings waved away the smoke, making no effort to hide his disapproval of Jason in general and his smoking in particular.

  Jason hesitated. “I was seen,” he admitted. “I don’t think I was recognized.”

  “If you were seen, you will be identified. You made quite an impression at Second Sister.” Hastings slammed his hand down on the table. “Despite your unrelenting thirst for confrontation, going after D’Orsay doesn’t really help us. At least he diverts the Roses’ attention. We need to get hold of the Covenant and destroy it before someone tries to ram it down our throats.”

  “What if D’Orsay has the Covenant?” Jason countered stubbornly. After all, the former Master of Games had disappeared from the ill-fated meeting on the island of Second Sister along with the document the guilds had signed under duress.

  “Maybe he does,” Hastings growled. “But I don’t think so. Else he’d have called in his allies and held a big ceremony in the ghyll consecrating the document and declaring himself ruler over all of us.”

  “I didn’t find the Covenant, all right? But there’s this.” Jason lifted the backpack from between his feet, unzipped it, and dumped the contents onto the table—everything except the opal and its stand, which were hidden in the side pocket. He hadn’t exactly decided whether to share that with Hastings.

  Hastings looked down at the loot on the table and up at Jason, raising an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “I found this stuff in a cave behind the Weirstone.”

  Hastings raked through the mixture of gems and jewelry and magical artifacts on the battered wooden table, held some of them up to the light so he could read their inscriptions, looked up more than once as if to make sure the door remained secure.

  It seemed that, for once, Jason had impressed the unimpressible Leander Hastings.

  Finally, Hastings spoke. “Is this all of it?”

  Jason shook his head. “It was all I could carry out. The mountain was still unstable. The entrance caved in around me as I was leaving,” he added. Why did he always feel like he had to defend himself?

  “Do you think D’Orsay knew about these things?”

  “Nah.” Jason shook his head. “It looked like nothing had been touched in centuries. Plus, I mean, wouldn’t he have used this already, what with the fix he’s in?”

  “How did you decide? What to take, that is.”

  Jason shrugged. “My mom taught me a lot about amulets and talismans. So I chose the pieces that seemed most powerful, either by their inscriptions or the—you know—the vibes. I took mostly magical pieces. Plus a sword,” he added.

  The wizard’s head came up. “A sword?”

  “I left it back in my room. I didn’t think I should cart it through the streets of London. It was hard enough smuggling it down here on the train.” He’d used a golf bag. Come to think of it, a ski bag would have been more in keeping with the season.

  “Right,” Hastings said, taking natural command. “Let’s pack these things up.” He reached for the backpack.

  Jason held on to it. “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. There’s this other thing.” Jason fumbled in the front pocket, pulled out the opal and handed it to Hastings.

  The wizard weighed the bag in his hand, then undid the drawstring and dumped the opal out onto the tabletop, corralling it with his arms. The faint glow from the stone threw the wizard’s planed face into high relief.

  “What is this?” Hastings whispered.

  “It’s a sefa, I guess,” Jason replied. “I thought maybe you could teach me how to use it.”

  Now that it was free of its velvet covering, the stone seemed to yank at his insides. Images of a broken landscape brushed his consciousness, like wings. A seductive voice whispered in his ear, but he couldn’t make out the words.

  Hastings quickly put the stone back in its bag, drawing tight the cord. “We’ve got to get this . . . all of this ...to a safe place. And that’s nowhere in Britain.”

  Jason was pleased by Hastings’s reaction, but confused by his words. “What do you mean? Why?”

  Hastings didn’t respond immediately. He sat thinking, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, green eyes glittering in
the firelight.

  “We’ll take this lot to Trinity,” he announced finally. “It’s the safest place, because we’re already maintaining a boundary around the sanctuary, and no one will ask questions about increased security.”

  “Trinity?” Jason squinted at Hastings. “I thought you and I could use some of this stuff to go after D’Orsay. And the Covenant.”

  “Claude D’Orsay is not our first priority,” Hastings said, biting off each word. “I want Nick Snowbeard to take a look at these things. And Seph, since he’s involved in maintaining security in Trinity.”

  Seph. Of course. Jason fought down a surge of jealousy.

  “I thought maybe we could ...” Jason began, but Hastings raised a hand to shut him up.

  “I’d like to see the sword, but I don’t think we can risk being seen together. Go straight back, collect the sword, and catch the first plane back to the States.”

  Jason’s weary mind stumbled. “You want me to carry this stuff back to Trinity myself?”

  “Well, yes,” Hastings replied, as if Jason was impossibly slow. “It has to be you. The fewer people who know about this, the better.”

  “But I don’t want to go back,” Jason protested. “Give me another chance, and I know I can get into the ghyll on my own. If I can’t find the Covenant, I’ll look for the hoard. Maybe I can get back into the cave.”

  “You’ll never get in again, especially not after a failed attack.”

  “Who else is going to do it? You? Everybody knows who you are. Everybody knows your face. You won’t get within miles of the ghyll. The Roses will murder you, even if you’re supposed to be their ally against D’Orsay.”

  “I am not allied with the Roses,” Hastings said stiffly. “Even if our interests temporarily coincide, we’ll end up fighting them in the end.”

  “So this is what I get for failing,” Jason said bitterly. “I’m out.”

  Hastings drained his glass and slammed it back down on the table. “This is what you get for taking a foolish chance for no good reason. Do you think your face isn’t known? D’Orsay’s no fool. Do you think I advise a nondescript appearance because I’m a bloody conservative? You’re overconfident, Jason, and you’re flamboyant and careless, and that combination is going to get you killed. I don’t want to be responsible for the mess you leave behind.”

  This was ironic coming from a man who had one of the most memorable faces and personages of anyone Jason had ever known. Whose daring escapades were legendary.

  Jason leaned across the table. “Listen to me. I’ll lose the earring.” He touched his earlobe. “I’ll lose the plumage.” He sluiced his fingers through his bleached hair. “I’ll wear a bloody tweed and ascot if that’s what you want. Just let me stay and work with you.”

  Hastings sighed. “Don’t think this means it’s all gone wrong.” He rested his hand on the backpack. “This is a tremendous find. Sometimes I’m not very . . . liberal with compliments.”

  “I don’t want compliments. I want to stay here. I want to do something.”

  “And I want someone I can trust to take these things back to Trinity before D’Orsay manages to track us down. Do you think he’s not looking?” Hastings sat back, extending his long legs. “It’s not enough to do something. It’s important to do the right thing.”

  “I know it is,” Jason said, trying not to sound sullen. “But nothing’s going to happen in Trinity.”

  “Don’t be too sure. I have a feeling that the pieces you found are important. The battle may well turn on them.”

  “Then why take them to Trinity? You’ll put the whole town in danger.”

  “That is exactly why no one must discover where they are. And, bear in mind: if we lose this war, Trinity will be destroyed along with everything else.”

  Jason stood and began pacing, pivoting at each end of the room. “Can’t you at least try to understand?”

  “I understand you better than you realize.”

  “Why? The Roses killed your father and sister a hundred years ago so you understand how I feel about Leicester and D’Orsay murdering my father?”

  “Because I know what it’s like to want to prove yourself so badly it destroys everything else that matters,” Hastings replied, gazing into the fire. “Sometimes it’s just an excuse to avoid dealing with your own demons.”

  So now Hastings was a psychiatrist, in addition to being a wizard and warriormaster. Jason bit back a hot reply. “Look. I’m an orphan. Like you were. No one cares what happens to me. It’s my choice. Mine.”

  “I assumed responsibility for you when I brought you to Britain.”

  Jason noticed that Hastings didn’t claim to care about him. “Please. I want to help.” He was perilously close to begging. “Jack and Ellen are out drilling their warriors. That’s what they’re good at. Seph is maintaining the barrier. I can’t do any of that. I want to be where I’m useful.”

  “The most useful thing you can do for me now is to get the sword and the rest back to Trinity,” Hastings said, without looking up. “Have Nick take a look at the blade. It may very well be one of the seven. If it is, pass it along to Ellen. She deserves a weapon worthy of her skills. She and Jack may play a critical role if it comes to a war.”

  Nick. Ellen. Seph. Jack. All important to the Cause. Everyone was except him.

  Jason knew the argument was over. His mistake was thinking Hastings was actually participating. He slumped back into his chair. “When will you come back to Trinity?”

  The wizard shrugged. “Soon, I hope. I’m going to try to find out what’s going on at Raven’s Ghyll. Whether it’s been noticed that things have gone missing, and whether they may be on your trail. Maybe I can muddy the water a bit. Draw them off.”

  And that, as they say, was that. Jason’s brief career as operative for the Dragon House was over.

  Jason fell asleep on the tube on the way back to his apartment, missing the Mornington Crescent station and getting off at Camden Town. He walked back through the city streets to clear his head. On his way, he stopped in at an Internet café and booked a flight from Heathrow to New York that departed the following morning.

  So the man loitering near the Underground exits at Mornington Crescent with a photograph of Jason Haley didn’t spot him there.

  Jason stopped in to see a girl who lived in the building next door to his own. They ordered pizza and he stayed late. By then, it was sleeting. The buildings were set atop a common cellar, so he passed through the laundries into his own building without going outside.

  So the woman sheltering in the entryway of Jason’s apartment building didn’t realize her fox had gone to ground.

  Back in his room, Jason packed up his meager belongings. He’d planned to take the train from Euston, but now Hastings had gone and made him jumpy. In the end, he called a car service and booked a car to pick him up at 4 a.m. He gave his name as Bob Roberts and didn’t name a destination. He’d bring his backpack as a carry-on, and convince the airline to let him gate-check the golf bag with the sword in it.

  Golfers were funny about letting go of their clubs, weren’t they?

  He’d only been in the UK for a month. He hoped his banishment wouldn’t last long.

  Chapter Four

  The Art of the Deal

  Leesha Middleton shook the snow from her curls and extended her frozen hands toward the fire. Why couldn’t Claude D’Orsay den up in Belize for the winter, like any sane person?

  She glanced around the parlor with an educated eye. Everything had a stuffy, old-money look, like the museum rooms at her grandparents’ estates. They smelled the same, too—like cigars and leather and old men’s musty wool cardigans. Leesha ran a finger under her high-necked sweater and touched the gold collar—the torc—that circled her neck. Touching it was becoming a habit.

  “Who are you?”

  Leesha jumped and turned round.

  The boy had slipped up behind her. He was slender and bookish-looking, with blond curls, a fa
ir complexion, and eyes that were such a pale blue—behind frameless glasses—as to be almost colorless. He might have been fourteen, too young to be interesting, though Leesha was only seventeen herself. He was almost pretty, but the effect was marred by a black eye and a nose that had been recently broken.

  “I’m Alicia Middleton,” she said, seeing no reason to lie.

  “Devereaux D’Orsay,” the boy replied, standing rather too close and staring fixedly into her face. “Father didn’t mention we were expecting guests.”

  “Didn’t he?” It hadn’t been easy to get this invitation. A fax of the last page of the Covenant signed by the guilds at Second Sister had done the trick. She’d ordered her grandparents’ chauffeur, Charles, to drive her here from their estate in Scotland. If she could manage to live through the day and avoid being grounded, she’d be very very lucky.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Devereaux asked, nodding toward the sideboard, where there was an array of bottles and cans of soda.

  Leesha shook her head. “No, thank you.”

  The boy leaned against the sideboard. “We’ve more of a selection down in the cellar,” he said. “Would you like to see?”

  “No, I’m quite all right, thank you.” Looking to change the subject, she said, “Who beat you up?”

  That struck a nerve. “No one beat me up, Miss Middleton,” the boy said, straightening, his fair face flushing dark rose against the bruises. “From a power standpoint, I totally had the advantage. Had it not been for . . .”

  “Devereaux.”

  Now it was the boy’s turn to jump and look guilty.

  Claude D’Orsay stood framed in the doorway, dressed in wool trousers, cashmere sweater, and tweed jacket. The wizard’s hair was dark and close-cropped, his face fine-boned and aristocratic.

  “Miss Middleton, a pleasure to see you again. I see you’ve met my son.”

  “Yes,” Leesha replied. “I wouldn’t have known it from his looks.”

  “He favors my late wife.” D’Orsay came into the room and extended his hand to Leesha. His grip was cool and dry, with a wizard’s electrical sting.