The Enchanter Heir

When it comes to songs of heartbreak, I’ll fit in. 

A sad ending to your story? That’s when I’m in my glory.

If you’re here to play the blues, I’ll sit in.

The end of the song was greeted with applause and rather damp cheering. Emma blew her nose and carefully wiped mascara from under her eyes.

They worked their way through the rest of their set list. With ten minutes to go, Natalie said, “Before we wrap things up, I’d like to introduce the band.” She interjected a drum roll. “To my left, on keyboards and vocals, Mr. Rudy Severino!”

Rudy grinned and waved.

“On bass guitar, Ms. Alison Shaw!”

Alison executed a brief bass guitar riff, then bowed, doff ing her trademark bowler. “On guitar, all the way from Memphis, Lady Day, Miss Emma Lee!”

Emma curtsied awkwardly, looking eager to get offstage. “And, finally, Jonah Kinlock, on lead vocals and guitar.”

Natalie punctuated each of the introductions with a drum roll. “And I’m Natalie Diaz, on percussion. And now . . . in honor of our late lead guitarist, the immortal Mose Butterfield, a medley of his favorite guitar solos!”

Jonah kicked it off with Hendrix’s “All Along the Watchtower,” then Emma on Clapton’s “Crossroads,” Alison following with Jimmy Page’s “Stairway to Heaven,” Emma with B.B. King’s “The Thrill Is Gone.” Finally, everybody joined in on Stevie Ray Vaughn’s “Pride and Joy,” with Rudy absolutely spectacular on keyboards.

They finished up with “Doomtime,” a cheery anthem about the end of days that had been a standard with the band for several years.

“That’s it for this set,” Natalie said. “We’ll be back again in an hour.”

People crowded in from all sides, asking questions, snapping photos, trying to get some face time with the band members.

“Too bad we don’t have that EP already,” Rudy muttered, with a pointed look at Jonah. “Or T-shirts.”

By the time Jonah unleashed his Strat and looked for Emma, she’d disappeared.

Chapter Forty-six

Death Came Knocking

It was good that Emma had Tyler’s old jacket, because it was a clear night and the temperature was dropping. Even if it looked kind of silly with her torch-singer dress. Turning up her collar, she followed the walkway down to the screened gazebo by the lake. She’d had enough of mingling . . . now she just wanted this endless night to be over.

Sonny Lee always said, “If you’re worried over something you can’t do nothing about, shake it off.”

What about grief, Emma thought. Does it work for that, too?

This was not the kind of scrape she’d normally get into . . . falling for an unattainable man. Was it because of Jonah’s gift? Or because she was trying to somehow replace the men in her life that she’d lost? She’d never subscribed to the notion that the wrong man was better than no man at all.

If Jonah was hiding something, she wondered, could it be something good instead of something bad?

Leaves had found their way in to the gazebo and had collected in the corners and against the door. Emma scuffled through them and sat down on a bench, her back to the lake, the wrought iron cold under her. She could probably just hang out here until it was time for the second set. Or forever.

The interior of the gazebo was fairly large, its furniture huddling like ghosts under canvas wraps. Spiderwebs rippled like petticoats in the wind from the lake.

When she heard the crunch of gravel on the path, she thought, Stay away, Jonah. Or Natalie. Or Alison. Whoever you are . . . just leave me be.

But her bad luck ran true. The hinges squeaked as the screen door opened and closed. A tall figure stood silhouetted in the light from outside.

“So. Lady Day. It seems you were only half drowned.” Emma’s heart somersaulted into her throat. It was Rowan DeVries.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I was invited, like everyone else.” Rowan moved forward a step. There was only one door, and the wizard was standing right in front of it. Light collected on the tips of his fingers, and he extended his hand to illuminate the corner where Emma sat. “The Interguild Council wants to keep us as close as possible while they cut our throats.” He eased closer. “I caught part of your set. I must say, you’re an amazing guitarist. It seems you have all kinds of secret talents.”

“It’s no secret,” Emma said. The windows were a possibility, but he’d probably get to her before she boosted herself up and over, even if she could smash through the screen. “If you’re thinking of screaming, it’s unlikely anyone will hear you,” Rowan said. “They have a great sound system, and the volume’s cranked up all the way.”

“Why would I be screaming?” Emma said. “Unless you’re about to do something creepy.” Why did you have to bring that up? Well, it wasn’t as if he wouldn’t think of it on his own.

“I can’t believe that I fell for that amnesia story of yours. I was still grieving over Rachel . . . that’s the only explanation. I actually believed that you really didn’t remember anything, and the notion of Burroughs torturing you turned my stomach. I hoped that if I spared your life, I might one day find out what happened to Rachel. That’s why I allowed you to escape. It was a moment of weakness on my part, but it won’t happen again. Unfortunately, you still managed to fall to your death . . . or so I thought.”

“Am I supposed to say I’m sorry?”

“This alliance you’ve formed with the labrats intrigues me,” Rowan said. “Is this some kind of community- service project? Frankly, I think you can do better.”

“Frankly, I think it’s none of your business,” Emma said. Kicking off her useless shoes, she stood. “I’m going back up to the house.” She tried to slide around him, but he shifted so that he was still blocking her path.

“I have another theory . . . want to hear it?”

“No,” Emma said. “Get out of my way.”

But, of course, he told her anyway. “Here’s what I think . . . that the conspiracy didn’t end with Thorn Hill at all. That the survivors who possessed the knowledge we were looking for were right under our noses, still conspiring against us. That my sister walked into a trap and you were in on it. Things went wrong, somehow, and your father was killed and you were injured. Then we came along and assumed that you were the victim.” Emma eased back one step, then another. “Here’s what I think . . . you should stay away from those wizard drugs.” She turned, planted her hands on the window frame, and boosted herself into the opening, but Rowan wrapped his arms around her waist and dragged her back. Slamming her up against the wall, he gripped her wrists with his hot hands and pinned them above her head.

He leaned in close to Emma and said, in a low, fierce voice, “Don’t you think I deserve to know who murdered my sister? I swear, I have nothing against you. All I want is information.”

And the thing was, Emma did think he deserved to know. “Now,” he said, “we’re going to go where nobody will ever find us, and this time I’m not going to take no for an answer.” He spoke a charm and Emma felt the sizzle and burn of power pouring into her.

Emma took a step toward Rowan and slammed her elbow up, freeing her wrist with a practiced twist. She smashed her skull into his nose, with a satisfying crunch of cartilage and bone. Rowan howled in pain, pressing both hands against his nose as the blood poured down.

Emma took two steps back, her head swimming with a sense of deja vu. Why was this feeling so familiar?

“What . . . the . . . hell?” Rowan said, practically gargling blood. “But—but you’re immobilized,” he said. “Or you should be.”

“You are wrong about so many things,” Emma said. As she bolted past him, fumbling at the door, he