The Enchanter Heir Read Free Page A

breaking, along with his heart.
    He snapped the manacles around her wrists in two with his fingers, letting the chains clatter back against the wall. Gently, he lowered her to the stone floor, giving her damaged body the care it deserved, that it should have had. She’d saved his life many times over, but he’d failed her now.
    Until five years ago, Jeanette had worked in the infirmary at the Anchorage, where Jonah had spent much of his early life after leaving Thorn Hill. She would hold his head over the basin until the black sick was out of him, then clean his face and mop his sweaty forehead and change the mitts on his hands. After his doses, she would cradle him and sing songs to him until he slept. She provided the comfort of human touch at a time when he almost never got it. Most important of all, she’d saved his brother’s life. She’d left the Anchorage when he was twelve, but not a week went by without a phone call or text or e-mail from Jeanette.
    Even at the worst times in his life, he’d never stopped believing in Jeanette Brodie. And she’d never stopped believing in him.
    Stripping off his leather glove, he cradled her cheek with his bare hand, knowing he no longer posed any danger to her. “Be at peace,” he whispered, closing her eyes with his fingertips. He texted Gabriel and Kenzie, one word only: Dead . He resisted the urge to send a second text to Gabriel alone. Told you so.
    Jeanette might be at peace, but a fine, fresh anger flamed inside of Jonah. Why would anyone—even wizards—target Jeanette? She was one of the gentlest people he’d ever known. She’d only left Gabriel’s service because she could no longer steel herself against the dying of children.
    The world was full of monsters, and Jonah meant to find out which one was to blame for this.
    He mounted the stone steps two at a time, at savant speed, quiet as the vapor of death. As soon as he reached the first floor, he heard voices. When he breathed in the stench of conjured magic, he knew: wizards.
    Jonah ghosted down the hallway. The voices spilled from a large, arched entryway into an adjacent room. His unusually good hearing was, ironically, a gift from wizards.
    He edged his head around the doorframe so that he Scould see.
    Three people stood around the fireplace, though the hearth was cold on this summer day. One was a young man with sun-streaked brown hair, his lean body rigid with impatience. He looked to be in his early twenties—but it was always hard to tell with wizards. The fifty-ish woman with raven-black hair would be Jessamine Longbranch, the owner of the house Jonah had broken into minutes before. The other man was older, gaunt, with a badly scarred face. That was likely Geoffrey Wylie, a known associate of Longbranch’s.
    “Well? What did you find out?” The younger man was an American, his voice as penetrating as a sliver of ice.
    “Not as much as I’d hoped for,” Longbranch said, scowling.
    “So you’ve given up ?” The scarred man snorted.
    “I didn’t have much of a choice, Wylie,” Longbranch said. “She’s dead.”
    After a strained pause, the American spoke again. “If there was any chance at all she knew anything—which, for the record, I doubt—then why the hell did you kill her?”
    “I didn’t mean to, clearly,” Longbranch said, her voice low and tight with anger. “Sometimes they just die.”
    Everyone needs a hobby. Jonah’s was tracking wizards. Something that his mentor, Gabriel Mandrake, discouraged. In Gabriel’s view, Jonah’s mission was elsewhere—hunting shades. The undead victims of the Thorn Hill Massacre.
    “Well,” the American said, glancing at his watch. “That’s that. This has been a colossal waste of time. I’ve got to get back to New York.”
    “Hang on, DeVries.” Longbranch leaned back against the sideboard, swirling her drink. “The Thorn Hill angle is
    worth pursuing, and you know it. The best sorcerers of the age flocked there, because they knew