The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3)

The Dragon Heir (The Heir Chronicles #3) Page 23

Madison folded her arms and tapped her foot on the weathered wood floor. “I'll bet they do.” They had to find somebody else to talk about and blame things on.

Brice smiled down at her, and she took an involuntary step back. He always seemed to be crowding her, taking up more than his allotted space.

“So,” he said, perfectly aware of the effect he was having. “When are you coming back to school?”

She shook her head. “I'm not. I'm … um … being home-schooled. It's a distance course.” So I can keep my distance from all of you.

He stared at her a moment, a slight frown on his face, like he didn't know whether to believe her or not. “That's too bad. Well, listen, I'll call you, then. We can hang out. I'll introduce you around,” he added.

Un. Be. Lievable. After everything that had happened, Brice Roper was hitting on her. Again. For a minute she was speechless, the words seeming to stop up in her mouth. “Why…thanks so much, but I'm from here, I don't really need an introduction.” In fact, there were people she'd like to be unintroduced to. Guess who was top of the list?

“Besides, I'm going to be really busy, and, anyway, we don't have a phone right now.”

“Right,” he said. “Carlene's been using our phone a lot. Stop by and use it any time you want. I'm usually home in the afternoon unless there's something at school.” He reached out and lightly brushed back her hair with his hand.

She slapped his hand away and he caught hold of her wrist, his face flushing to the color of old brick.

Bryson Senior spoke from the doorway. “Brice. What the hell are you doing? Come on. We're late already.” He pointed at his watch, turned, and stalked out the door.

Madison looked back at Brice in time to see hatred pass across his face before he swept it clean. He let go of her wrist. “I'll be seeing you,” he said, and turned away.

Not if I see you first, Madison thought.

“What did young Brice want?” Carlene asked as they descended the broad, shallow steps of the courthouse, Ray trailing hopefully behind.

“He wanted me to know everybody misses me.”

“I believe he has a crush on you, Madison,” Carlene said, reapplying her lipstick without breaking stride. “That boy has a hungry look.”

“Mama. Just…don't.”

“They say the Ropers have scads of money.”

“They say a lot of things.” Too much and too often. “Gramma Min told me to steer clear of him.”

Carlene shrugged. “She never liked any of my boyfriends, either.”

Ray followed them all the way to the car, buzzing around like a locust in summer. Carlene handed Ray the brush and he cleared snow off the car while she started the engine.

“I'll get the terms of the custody ruling in writing and get back to you on that,” Ray was saying. “When's your birthday, Maddie?”

“Not till August.”

“As long as you'll be here, we can arrange the paperwork so we're ready to transfer the deed to the house and all whenever you turn eighteen.” Ray was the executor of Min's estate.

“I still don't know why Min would leave you the mountain,” Carlene muttered. “I'm her daughter.”

“Because if she'd left it to you, it'd be gone already.”

Carlene shut up, then, fumbling for a cigarette, lower lip trembling.

There goes your wicked tongue again, Madison thought. Min always said you never could suffer a fool.

Carlene worked a shift that night, so after supper Madison helped John Robert with his bath, washing the foster-mom gel out of his hair and letting it dry into its natural ringlets.

While he brushed his teeth, Madison dug the Christmas presents out of her duffle and laid them under the artificial tree in the front room. She'd bartered for most of it with the Trinity Square merchants. There was a CD player for J.R., a handwoven shawl for Grace, and a bracelet for Carlene.

Pulling on her coat, she walked out onto the porch. She rested her hands on the splintered porch railing, and breathed in the raw cold like a tonic. Lights glittered in the valley below. Off to the left, Booker Creek worried over stones and whispered secrets on its way down the mountain.

She explored the vacancy left by Seph's absence, like she might the space once occupied by a broken-off tooth. He was a constant presence in her peripheral vision, tall and silent and accusing, pale face framed in a tangle of curls. But he disappeared each time she turned her head.

There was something else, now, too. Ever since the encounter in the church basement, the Dragonheart seemed to be constantly on her mind, filling any unoccupied space, like images of fireworks seared into her retinas.

Navigating the crumbling stone steps, Madison crossed the side yard to where the charred remains of the shed huddled next to the greenhouse. Carlene had left the wooden bones to molder.

Her great-great-grandfather had shaped the timbers with a hand axe. Had laid the stones of the foundation higher at one end to account for the slope of the land.

Madison knelt and poked through the ashes with a stick, hoping not to find any witch signs.

A slight sound behind Madison alerted her to the fact that she was not alone. She stood and turned. It was Grace, who still couldn't decide if she was speaking to Madison or not.

Don't be like me, Madison thought. Raggedy mad all your life.

They stood side-by-side, staring at the ruins, their breath pluming into the crystalline air, stamping their feet to keep warm.

“So what happened to the shed?” Madison asked, after a bit.

“Some people set it on fire,” Grace replied.

Madison turned and stared at her. “Who?”

Grace shrugged her narrow shoulders. “There were four or five of them, out here in the dark. It looked like they had torches or something,” she said.

There was nobody better than Grace at keeping a secret. Which made Madison think she'd had too much practice. “And you and J.R. were all by yourselves?”

Grace shrugged her shoulders again. She picked up a stick and poked it under a charred beam, coming up with a scrap of cloth that dissolved into ash.

“Any idea who it was?” Madison asked.

“No. They were wearing hoods.” She hesitated. “We tried to put it out, me and J.R.We poured water on it. But it wouldn't go out.”

Madison shivered. “Did you…did you find any marks or signs or anything?”

Grace shook her head.

“Did you tell anyone?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Who would I tell? You were gone, and Mama, well …”

“You could've told the police.”

“They'd probably say we made it up. Or blame it on us.”

Madison nodded. “Probably.” Grace was another old soul. She'd remember how little help the police had been over the past year, when Madison was the one accused.

“Must've been kids, I guess,” Madison suggested. It could've been. Some people just liked to see things burn. And kids from the high school liked to drive up Booker Mountain Road when they needed to escape all the spying eyes in a small town.

It didn't have to mean the fires were starting up again.

Impulsively, Madison wrapped an arm around Grace's shoulders and pulled her in close. Grace resisted at first, then gave in, laying her head on Madison's shoulder. Grace had taken a shower as soon as she got home, and her hair smelled like the kind of shampoo you could get a quart of for ninety-nine cents.

It smelled like home.

“Are you going to stay with us all summer?” The words came out in a rush, like Grace had been dying to ask the question all night.

“I don't know about all summer. Till school's out, anyway.”

“Will you have your truck? Can you take us places?”

“Well. I'll be working at home. Painting for school.”

“Great.” Grace scraped at the frozen dirt with the toe of her sneaker.

Madison thought of Grace, stuck on the mountain with no phone, no computer, and only John Robert to hang out with. Even the TV reception was chancy.

“Don't worry. We'll get out. We'll go down to town a couple times a week at least.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “As if that's a thrill.” But Madison could tell she was pleased.

Chapter Eleven Painted Poison

Seph sprawled among the pillows on the wicker swing. The solarium at Stone Cottage was one of his favorite retreats in all seasons. His textbook was propped against his knees— Problems in Democracy: A World View—but it had been a long time since he'd turned a page. The text might as well have been written in Old English.

With another part of his mind, he monitored the sanctuary. Its energy hummed all around him, like a map splashed with an occasional spot of color where wizards and the other gifted moved through it. It was not the heavy-handed smooshing down of power like before. It was like navigating an elaborate video game grid, exerting subtle control over events. His father had taught him the technique.

Here and there a flareup indicated that magic was in play—the greens and browns of earth magic in Mercedes's garden, the silvers and golds of wizardry, the reds and purples that signified enchanters. Nowhere the angry orange that meant attack magic. In some essential way, he became the town of Trinity—its magical framework, at least. The day and its pleasures receded.

Something nibbled at the fringes of his consciousness. A voice.

“Seph.”

All at once, the magical schematic disappeared from his frame of vision, and power flooded back into his body, heating him down to his fingers and toes. He opened his eyes to see Nick Snowbeard looking down at him, his expression severe.

“Seph. You extend yourself too much. I've warned you about this before. It makes you vulnerable.” Nick was well into his scruffy old man persona, clad in canvas work pants, a flannel shirt, and work boots.

Seph licked his lips and turned his head slightly to look out toward the frosted lake. It had disappeared into the dark. It was late—later than he'd thought. Where had the time gone?