The Enchanter Heir

“You never applied your gift to yourself before,” Jonah said. “And you’ve been sick. It stands to reason that you’re off your game.”

Mose snorted. “Let’s go over that argument: you’ve been sick, so you can’t be dying. You’re going to have to do better than that, Kinlock.” He propped his chin on his fist. “Persuade me. I do love to hear you talk.”

Jonah looked at Natalie. He could tell by the expression on her face that Mose was right.

“What about Byron?” Jonah said, naming Mose’s most recent boyfriend. “Does he know you’re here?”

“Oh, Jonah,” Mose said, with a heavy sigh. “That is so over.”

“Yeah, but he still might want to—”

“I just want to be with my friends,” Mose said. “My band mates and you. You were ever my true love, anyway, Jonah.”

“Where’s Gabriel?” Jonah asked. “Does he know?”

“He was here earlier,” Natalie said. “He . . . uh . . . he had to leave. He wasn’t dealing with it very well.”

What about us? Jonah thought. Anyone wondering how we’re dealing with it?

As if he’d overheard Jonah’s thoughts, Mose said, “I’m sorry to have to put you through this. It’s easy for me. All I have to do is die.”

“I thought Alison would be here,” Natalie said. “I’ve texted her, but no answer.”

“She’s working,” Jonah said. “She’ll be here. Is there anyone else we should call?” Jonah desperately wanted to share responsibility with someone else.

“The priest has already come and gone. So it’s official.” Mose took a swig of his beer. “So. Now will you take the vinyl?”

Jonah cleared his throat. “I’ll take it all,” he said. “The turntable, too, if you want.”

“And the Parker Dragonfly. You know you want it. You’ve always lusted after it . . . just like I’ve always lusted after you. Kind of a love triangle, in a way.”

Jonah’s cheeks heated. “You should give that to Alison,” he said. “She needs something to remember you by.”

“Alison won’t respect the guitar. You will.” Mose shifted his gaze to Natalie. “Doesn’t he have to honor last requests?”

“I believe he does,” Natalie said, her voice low and tight, her eyes swimming with tears.

“Great,” Mose said. “Request number two: Jonah takes my place in the band.”

“What? . . . No!” Jonah said, dread displacing his grief for the moment.

“I want the band to be good,” Mose said. “Better than it ever was. It’s got to be you, Jonah.”

“No,” Jonah said. “I’m not the guitarist you are, and I never will be.”

“Guitarists are a dime a dozen. It’s a great singer that’s hard to come by. I kind of like the notion that it’ll take two people to replace me. Bonus: you’re a songwriter. You can satisfy Natalie’s unquenchable thirst for new material.”

“I’ll give her songs,” Jonah said. “I don’t play in public.”

Mose opened one eye. “If I can’t get what I want on my deathbed, then when can I get it?”

Jonah looked up at Natalie, who was glowering at him, making throat-cutting gestures.

“All right, you win,” he said. “I’m in. I’ll join the band.”

“Great,” Mose said, yawning. “Hold him to it, Natalie. You know I’m doing it for his own good.”

Rudy had awakened during the conversation. He came and stood behind Natalie, rubbing her shoulders and neck, his face a landscape of grief.

Mose’s eyes drifted shut. Jonah thought perhaps he’d gone back to sleep, but then Mose murmured, “You know what they say about a watched pot? Well, it ain’t true. Not in my case.”

The door slammed open, and everyone jumped, except Mose, who scarcely flinched. Alison barged in, still dressed for battle. “Mose! I didn’t have my phone on. What the hell are you doing here?”

Jonah moved aside, giving her space, but Alison circled around to Mose’s other side and rested her hip on the edge of the chair. She gripped his hand, as if she could hold him in the world. “You are not dying, Mose, so get that out of your head right now. We have three gigs on the calendar, coming up, and we can’t afford to break in somebody new.”

“’S’all right,” Mose whispered. “Jonah’s going to step in. You always wanted Jonah in the band.”

Alison darted a look at Jonah, then focused back on Mose. “I’ll be glad to have Jonah in the band, but that doesn’t let you off the hook.”

“Jonah,” Mose said, a note of urgency in his voice now. “I think we’re getting close.”

Slowly, reluctantly, Jonah stripped off his gloves and laid them on the bedside table. “Don’t you dare!” Alison snapped, and leaned over Mose, her tears dropping on his bedclothes. “You can’t die, Mose, because then . . . because then . . .” Suddenly she was sobbing too hard to speak further.

“Anyone who can’t be cool about this needs to leave,” Mose said. “This is going to be hard enough for Jonah as it is.”

Alison turned away, burying her face in her hands, shoulders shaking.

“Jonah,” Mose said, from his nest of blankets.

“I’m here.”

Mose lifted up the bedclothes. “Would you mind . . . very much . . . holding me?”

And so Jonah did.

Chapter Twenty-six

Survivor

Voices were calling to her, as if from a great distance. Hands poked and prodded her—none too gently. Burning hands. Relentless hands. Needles. Liquid flame, running into her veins.

Clamoring voices. Harsh, squabbling voices. Strangers.

She’s not responding. Some kind of poison. Or a toxin. Resistant to treatment. She’s going to die, and if she does we’ve got nothing. We need to bring in a healer.

No. Absolutely not. Nobody can know she’s alive.

Well, if you don’t get someone, she won’t be for long. Gabriel Mandrake is the most gifted and knowledgeable herbalist and healer in the country. He’s right here in town.

Emma opened her eyes then, and looked into their shocked faces. Strident voices washed over her, but none of the voices she wanted to hear. She closed her eyes again.

After a while, someone new came—someone whose hands soothed her, who gave her bright liquids, one teaspoon at a time . . . liquids that tingled on her tongue, then disappeared, without her ever swallowing. Someone who sponged off her body and cooled her flushed cheeks. Who called her back from the precipice onto solid ground.

And, then . . . muttering. Unhappy muttering. Outshouted by a new voice of authority.

No you cannot question her. Not even for a few minutes. I don’t care what you think she knows. Do you want me to save her life or not?

When Emma opened her eyes again, she was lying in a small, spare room with a tile floor and rough, plaster-and-timbered walls. A fire burned merrily on the hearth under a mantel layered with pumpkins, gourds, and dried flowers. Candles burned in glass jars, emitting a fragrance of cinnamon and pine. Sunlight spilled through French doors into the room from a small garden, studded with dry seed heads and brilliant autumn grasses. Just outside, birds squabbled around a feeder.

Emma’s vision blurred, then doubled, then seemed to go back to normal.

The doors stood slightly open, admitting cold, clean air. It felt good against her heated skin. She rested back against the pillows, her head all at once too heavy to lift.

She shifted under a fluffy comforter in a single bed—the only furniture save two chairs, one on either side of the bed, and a small bedside table with a lamp. Lined up on the table were bottles and jars of remedies and