The Enchanter Heir

sweet-talk you into opening your door.

He kept right on talking. “I wish I didn’t have to do this, but this is the best way to make sure you don’t get hurt. I just need a little uninterrupted time with your father.”

She wanted to float on the current of that voice, like a chip of wood in a river at flood.

I need to find a way to stop it.

Emma slammed her head back, shooting up from the balls of her feet, feeling a satisfying crunch as her skull hit his nose. His voice stopped, his iron grip relaxed, and she ripped free, hurling herself toward the stairs.

She stumbled, though, and he caught her before she got there and dragged her back, into the dirty room, one gloved hand over her mouth, pressing her tightly against his body to prevent any further head-butting. He pushed her to the floor next to the band saw, trying to pin her with one hand, but she rolled onto her back, gouged at his eyes, ripped at his mask, kneed him in the groin—used every street-fighting trick she knew to hurt him all while he seemed to be doing his best to get her tied up without hurting her.

She screamed bloody murder, too. Likely Tyler couldn’t hear her with his music going, but it did dilute Zorro’s voice a little.

In the end, she lay on her side on the basement floor, her cheek in the sawdust, breathing in that familiar scent, hands bound together behind her, feet bound, too, and handcuffed to the leg of the band-saw table, enraged and still swearing.

Was this what Tyler had been so worried about? Had she somehow brought trouble straight to her father’s door after all this time?

“What do you want with Tyler?” Emma demanded while Zorro was still fussing with the cords. “What are you going to do to him? You’d better not hurt him.”

Zorro’s hands stopped moving. “I don’t want to hurt him,” he said, sitting back on his heels. “I don’t plan to.”

“Then promise me you won’t,” Emma said.

“Can you breathe okay? Are you reasonably comfortable?” Zorro asked. He wasn’t nearly as charming now that he had her tied up.

“Promise me,” Emma repeated, tears stinging her eyes.

“Hopefully this won’t take too long,” Zorro said. He stood, and left, closing the door softly behind him.

Chapter Twenty-two

Melee

Jonah mounted the stairs, already dogged by misgivings. He’d wanted this rogue operation to be clean and uncomplicated, and already it was getting messy. There was no longer a clear win to be had, here. If Greenwood knew something, Emma would pay a price. If he didn’t, well, Jonah was back where he started.

But now that he was on this path, he had to follow through. He’d risked a lot already, and he needed to come away with something or this visit would only send Greenwood on the run again.

A wall of sound hit him when he opened the basement door—music, amped up high. It struck Jonah that Greenwood might be jamming with his band. That would be just his luck.

Jonah followed the sound, through the kitchen lined with ancient appliances, the sink piled high with unwashed dishes. Through the dining room and down the center hall to the back of the house.

Jonah found his quarry in the living room, jamming with himself, filling in the bass track alongside some vintage rhythm and blues. The Rolling Stones.

Jonah watched for a moment. Greenwood was a decent bass player, all right, so that wasn’t just some kind of cover story.

Jonah ghosted forward. He was halfway across the room when Greenwood looked up and saw him. The bass guitar cut off abruptly, though the other tracks played on. In one smooth movement, Greenwood set down the guitar and came up with a pistol, pointing it at Jonah.

The sorcerer studied Jonah through narrowed eyes. Then he chuckled softly. “You’re sure not who I expected,” he said.

“Who did you expect?”

“Not you,” Greenwood said. He paused. “Do you always bring a big old sword to a shooting match?”

“I didn’t know it was a shooting match,” Jonah said. “You always pack a pistol when you practice?”

“This neighborhood ain’t what it used to be,” Greenwood said. “What are you, some kind of ninja warrior or something?”

“Something,” Jonah said. He could tell by Greenwood’s puzzled expression that something wasn’t adding up. “You’re wondering about my Weirstone,” he said. “Sort of broken, isn’t it? Muddy, some people call it. Does it remind you of someone?” He paused, took a chance. “Emma, maybe?”

Everything changed. Greenwood went ashy gray, radiating a mix of love and fear of loss. His eyes flicked to the floor, as if he could look through to the workshop below, then back up at Jonah. The barrel of the gun drifted a little.

He really loves her, Jonah thought.

The gun steadied, Greenwood’s face hardened, and he took a step forward. “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m one of those so-called Thorn Hill survivors,” Jonah said, looking into Greenwood’s eyes. “I had some questions for you.”

“I got nothing to say about Thorn Hill,” Greenwood said. “Please,” Jonah said, increasing the persuasive pressure. “Put the gun down. I don’t want to hurt you, and I won’t if I don’t have to. But I will have answers.”

Greenwood hit the volume button, cranking up the Stones to teeth-rattling levels. “Don’t try and charm me!” he shouted. “I’m not falling for that shit.” Jonah raised both hands in surrender, and Greenwood cut the volume back to a less earsplitting volume. Still loud enough to make persuasion difficult.

“Who sent you?” Greenwood demanded. “Who else knows you’re here?”

“I’m not here to blow your cover or expose you,” Jonah said. “I’m just trying to save some people I care about.”

“So am I,” Greenwood said grimly. “Now I want you to turn around, put your hands on your head, and walk ahead of me, into the conservatory.” He gestured with the gun.

Unlike Wylie, he didn’t even tell me to drop my weapon, Jonah thought. Reason being, he’s not going to question me, he’s going to kill me.

Jonah walked ahead, pausing in the doorway of the conservatory. Glassed-in room, stone floor, with inset drains to catch any spilled water. He wants to kill me in a place where cleanup is easy. Who thinks of that?

Someone who’s done this before.

Jonah lunged sideways, then turned and charged at Greenwood. The sorcerer fired, and he must’ve been a quicker, more accurate shot than Wylie, because he got off three shots before Jonah slammed the gun away. It went spinning back into the living room. A searing pain in Jonah’s side said he’d been hit—at least once.

Greenwood could have run, but he didn’t. Instead, he attacked, pitching them both through the doorway, landing hard on the stone floor of the sunroom. The sorcerer was strong and wiry, and fought with a ferocity born of desperation. Given that and the distraction of the wound in his side, it took Jonah a few minutes to pin him to the floor.

“Now,” Jonah gasped. “Just listen to me a minute.”

Greenwood’s eyes locked on Jonah’s face. When cool air kissed Jonah’s skin, he realized that his mask had been ripped away in the struggle.

“I need to know what you know about Thorn Hill,” Jonah said. “Specifically, about the part where everybody died.”

All around them, the glass walls of the conservatory exploded inward, shards pinging on the stone floor