The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4)

The Enchanter Heir (The Heir Chronicles #4) Page 57

I always want to hear it, she thought.

She hadn’t even known Tyler could read music. That was one thing she could do . . . and do well. Sonny Lee had sent her to music-theory classes since she was little. “You’re gonna do more than play by ear,” he said. “You’re gonna own it.”

She was coming to realize that there was a lot she didn’t know about her father. Would never know now.

The first song? “Motherless Child.”

Emma sat back on her heels and thought a moment, chewing on her lower lip. Taking a pillow off the bed, she pulled off the frayed pillowcase. Working quickly, she stuffed the money and the binder into the pillowcase.

Then she dragged his battered suitcase out of the back of the closet and carried it and the pillowcase down the hall to her own bedroom . . . the one she’d occupied for a few months.

Pausing in the doorway, she took a good look around.

Her bed was a heap of tumbled bedclothes, just the way she’d left it. Her cell phone was still on the floor next to her bed, plugged in to charge. A few Memphis club posters were taped to the wall, her notion of decorating. If somebody’d been in the room, she couldn’t tell.

She set the suitcase on the bed and zipped it open. Crossing to her closet, she pulled out her old backpack and set it next to the suitcase. Her music and electronics went into the backpack, clothing and shoes into the suitcase. She shoveled everything in, choosing quickly, going with her gut, not giving it a lot of thought.

When she looked over her selections, it struck her once again how much her wardrobe resembled her father’s. Jeans. Flannel shirts. T-shirts and sweatshirts. They were more alike than she’d realized. Then why had they spent so many years apart? If he’d ever made even the teensiest effort, she wouldn’t feel so divided . . . guilty and resentful and grief-stricken and pissed off.

I didn’t want your money, Daddy. I wanted you. Hot tears pricked her eyes, and she slumped down on the bed, weeping. Sometimes I feel like a motherless child a long way from home. A long way from home.

“Emma? Are you all right?” It was Jonah.

“I’m fine.” Emma wiped her nose on her sleeve, waving him away. She buried her face in her pillow, wishing she could disappear. It smelled of a previous life, and she cried harder.

Of course, he didn’t go. “Is there . . . can I . . . get you something?”

“No,” she mumbled into her pillow.

She heard the floorboards creak as he crossed the room to her. Then sat down next to her, his blue-jeaned thigh against hers. She could feel his heat through two layers of denim. “I am so sorry, Emma,” he whispered. “So very sorry.”

After a moment’s hesitation, he gently stroked her hair, murmuring soft reassurances, his voice like sweet caresses to the soul. Her guilt and sorrow seemed to flow out of her at every point of contact. Like a ship that had reached safe harbor, she drifted, anchored by his voice.

As if he sensed the effect he was having, he lay down beside her, turned on his side, and pulled her to him so they lay like nested spoons. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her body to his, still murmuring soft apologies and reassurances, his warm breath stirring the hair on the back of her neck. And the jagged pain within her dulled to an ache.

Replaced by the flame of desire.

He was reacting to her, too, at least she thought he was. His muscles trembled as if barely controlled, and his breathing was quick and shallow.

She squirmed against him, trying to turn around to face him. Her shirt rode up, and they were skin to skin at the base of her spine, and she thought she just might catch fire. His arms tightened, pinning her in place, which had the effect of pulling her in even closer. He was incredibly strong.

“No,” he said, his voice as thick and sweet as molasses in the cold. “No, Emma. Just let me hold you. Please. Just like this.”

“But . . . I just want to . . .”

“I know,” he whispered. He swallowed, hard, as if swallowing down pain. “I want to, too, but we can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

Dangerous? Emma couldn’t make sense of this. “What do you mean? You’re afraid the Black Rose will come back? Or you’re afraid we’ll go too far?”

“I mean we can’t ever do this, Emma. We can’t be together . . . not now, and not at any other time. I shouldn’t be doing this either, but . . . I just can’t stand for you to be in pain, and it seems to help.”

Hurt and confused, Emma went over his words in her mind. It seems to help.

Finally, she understood. He’s an empath. He sensed your pain and grief, and he’s trying to relieve it. He’s doing it out of compassion. Which was a fine thing, but not what she wanted.

She turned her head, and saw that his face was turned sharply away, chin lifted so she couldn’t see his expression.

It was as if he couldn’t stand to look at her. As if touching her was something he could barely endure. That tension in him wasn’t desire. It was . . . well, she didn’t know what it was.

Emma’s ironwood spine stiffened. “Let go of me right now.”

And he did. He was off the bed and halfway across the room, as if the contact between them was actually painful. He stood, fists clenched, chest heaving, his eyes closed as if to shut out the view.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just have a . . . I just have a problem with touching anyone.”

Anyone? Emma wondered. Or just me? “No harm done,” she said, sliding off the bed, straightening her clothes. “I kind of lost it for a minute there, but I’m okay now. I’m just about finished. Is there much more to load downstairs?”

Jonah opened his eyes, the blues rising up in them like thunderclouds on a midsummer day. “No, everything’s loaded,” he said, his voice thick and uneven. “You might want to do a final check to make sure I haven’t overlooked anything.”

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Emma said, zipping the suitcase shut. “I’m sure you’ve done a perfect job.”

“I’d feel better if you checked, because we aren’t going to be able to come back.” Jonah grabbed the suitcase before she could. “I’ll take this out to the van and wait there for you.”

In the end, she was glad she had a chance to say good-bye to the shop on her own. Each time she moved to a new place, she left another piece of herself behind. Each time, it was a little easier. Maybe, eventually, she’d disappear completely.

When she walked out the back door, Jonah was standing in the driveway, staring at his phone, his face a mask of fear and disbelief.

“What is it?” Emma demanded, her hurt forgotten.

“What’s happened?”

“There’s been an explosion at Safe Harbor,” Jonah said.

“We’ve got to get back.”

Chapter Forty

War Games

Jonah scarcely remembered the drive from Cleveland Heights to downtown . . . just that it seemed to take forever and cars kept getting in his way. It had begun to rain, and gaudy ribbons of light smeared the pavement and bloodied the car windows as they hurtled through the darkness, careened around corners, and muscled through intersections. Once it was only Jonah’s lightning-fast reflexes and nimble maneuvering that kept them from ending their journey in a tangle of metal.

“Hey!” Emma said, putting her hand on his arm. “You won’t do anybody any good if we never get there. And those other people deserve a chance to get home, too.”

After that, Jonah slowed down fractionally.

“Who called you?” Emma asked.

“Gabriel.”

“Did he give you any details? Did he say if anyone was hurt?”

“No.”

Ahead, St. Clair was barricaded, the area beyond swarming with emergency personnel and vehicles. Jonah resisted the temptation to plow through the barricades. Instead, he talked his way through.

Jonah left the van in a parking lot on St. Clair and charged toward Safe Harbor, leaving Emma to keep up as best she could. As he approached the scene, he saw that a fire truck was pouring water over the roof. Smoke billowed out of the building, though he saw no flame. Firefighters and Safe Harbor staff were escorting residents out of the building, carrying those who couldn’t walk on their own.

One entire corner of the building was gone, as if someone had taken a wrecking ball to it.

Jonah mapped the building in his mind. The area destroyed was mostly day-use areas—clinics and treatment rooms, the reception area, and the gym. Areas that emptied out at night. The fist in his heart unclenched a little.

Gabriel was in the alley, helping to triage the students as they emerged from the building.

“Jonah!” he said, with a quick nod of acknowledgment. “Kenzie’s out. We’re taking all the evacuees who don’t need hospital treatment to the Steel Wool Building. He’s over there.”

“Is he . . . ?”

Gabriel hesitated. “You know that everything’s harder on Kenzie than on anyone else. Help us get the rest of the students out. Then you’d better go sit with him.”

“What can I do?” Emma asked over Jonah’s shoulder, startling him. He didn’t realize she’d caught up.

Gabriel looked her over. “Since you don’t know this building, head over to Steel Wool and see if the healers need any help.”

“Which one’s Steel Wool?” she asked.

“Follow the stretchers,” Gabriel said. “Natalie and Ramon are over there. They’ll tell you what to do.”

As Emma turned away, Jonah touched her shoulder.

“Here,” he said. “If Kenzie doesn’t have his music, give him this.” He dropped his phone along with a set of earbuds into her hand. “Tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Their eyes met briefly, and then she was gone.

“Casualties?” Jonah asked, swiveling back toward Gabriel. “Two, that we know of,” Gabriel said. “Lucile Benning was the RN on duty. And Liberty Jones is dead. She must have been caught in the explosion. We found her in the street.