The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2)

The Wizard Heir (The Heir Chronicles #2) Page 14

The headmaster returned to the table and sat down, dropping the file onto the polished wood in front of him. Retrieving a pen from his pocket, he pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the folder and scratched out a few notes.

“I don't believe you,” Seph said. Leicester kept scratching away. “I don't drink or use drugs. No one ever said that I am a danger to myself or anyone else.”

Leicester glanced down at his folder. “Didn't a student in Switzerland file assault charges against you?”

Perspiration trickled between Seph's shoulder blades. He wiped his damp palms on his jeans. “It was a misunderstanding. They dropped the charges.”

The headmaster tapped his pen on the papers in front of him. “There was also an … incident in Philadelphia.”

Seph stared at him wordlessly. How could Leicester possibly know about Philadelphia?

Unless Denis Houghton had told him.

After Genevieve died, Seph had been determined to find out more about his parents. Sloane's had stonewalled him, so Seph had begun a search online, using the resources of adoptive children's networks, the genealogy Web sites and mail lists, and electronic vital records. He'd finally found his birth record, showing he'd been born in Toronto to Helen Jacoby and Jared McCauley. When he'd tried to dig further, he'd found no birth records for them, no grandparents, aunts or uncles, no listings in city directories in California or Toronto, no news stories about the fire, no real estate records, nothing.

It was all just a pretty construct with no truth behind it.

He'd broken into the administrative offices of the school he'd attended at the time, in Philadelphia. He'd hoped there would be some record of his parents, or a money trail that might lead to some answers. All he'd found in his file was copies of tuition payments and vouchers for living expenses from Sloane's. He had trashed the office in frustration. For that, he'd been expelled once again.

“Then there was the warehouse fire, of course.” Leicester opened the folder again and scanned a document inside. “You've quite a record with the police. Pity about that girl.”

A prickly heat collected in Seph's hands and arms, symptoms that often portended a release. He struggled to control his anger. “Houghton doesn't know anything about … about magic. Why would he blame me?”

“Mr. Houghton doesn't think you're a wizard. Mr. Houghton thinks you're a violent young hoodlum who likes to set fires and blow things up.”

Seph recalled that last meeting in Toronto, Houghton's tweeded arm about his shoulders. But who knew what Houghton might do? Sloane's had been devoting some very expensive partner time to Seph McCauley's problems.

“If Houghton had me committed, I want to hear it from him,” Seph said finally. His face was hot, his arms heavy, as if laden with power. And just then, he didn't care to restrain it.

Leicester shrugged. “Write to him, if you like. You will not be allowed phone calls in your current … unstable condition.”

“Let me e-mail him, then.”

“Joseph. You must understand. I can't risk having the Havens come to the attention of our enemies. And given your history, I cannot safely teach you wizardry without some element of control. It would be like putting a gun into the hand of a lunatic.”

As if to underscore the headmaster's words, the fax machine exploded, sending shards of metal flying and clouds of toner rolling toward them.

Leicester looked a little rattled. “Joseph …”

A row of Chinese vases lined a shelf over Leicester's desk. They began to vibrate—then, one by one, imploded like targets in a shooting gallery.

The headmaster spoke in his psychiatrist voice. “Joseph. You're out of control.”

The track light flickered, and the fixtures exploded. The front window bowed outward, then shattered, bits of glass glittering in the sunlight as they fell into the harbor.

“I'll go to the Roses,” Seph said. “They'll give me the training I need.”

Leicester extended his hand and spoke a charm. Something slammed into Seph, like a missile from a compressed air weapon, and he was down on his back on the floor, unable to move.

Leicester spoke from above him. “We call that a subduen charm.”

Seph said nothing.

“Given the current political situation, I can't risk your alerting the Roses to what's going on here. They would murder us all.” Leicester paused. Seph still didn't respond. “I'll let you up when you can control yourself.”

Seph lay there a moment, breathing hard, then said, “Okay.” Leicester muttered a few Latinesque words and Seph was able to sit up and drag himself to his feet. “So you're going to hold me prisoner here.”

Leicester twisted the ring on his right hand. “Write a letter, Joseph, if you must, and we will mail it. And carefully consider the choice before you. If you don't learn to manage your power, it will destroy you. I will not waste time on anyone who is unwilling to commit to our cause and submit to my leadership. It's unfortunate, but that's the way it is. Until you complete the ceremony, nothing happens.”

“There are plenty of lawyers in the world. If Denis Houghton committed me without a proper evaluation, I'll sue both your asses.” Seph stalked out, slamming the door and clattering down the stairs.

When he was sure the boy had gone. Gregory Leicester picked up the phone and pressed an extension. “Joseph McCauley may attempt to call off-property,” he said. “See that he's unsuccessful.” He thought a moment, then added, “Meet me in my office in ten minutes. All of you.” When he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he was smiling again.

He walked to the window. It was a beautiful autumn day. The sun glinted off the waves in the harbor, and the trees on the point were all in high color, the reds and golds that brought the tourists out. He sighed, flexing his hands. He must find the time to go sailing again before the weather turned.

Joseph was incredibly powerful. As soon as Leicester had reviewed the boy's carefully worded recommendations, he'd known. He had an instinct, after all these years. But he'd been overeager. He'd tried to move too fast, and the boy had balked. He should have laid the groundwork, should have softened him up before he asked him to commit.

Still, Leicester thought he could be managed, untrained as he was. Right now he was more angry than frightened. But that would change. Leicester would break him, he would rein in that wild power and put it to use. He closed his eyes, and his breath came a little faster.

It would have been easier if McCauley were younger. Twelve was ideal, but sixteen would work. He'd never known his system to fail, save once. Last year, he'd accepted an older student who had received some training elsewhere. It had been a mistake. The boy was still at the Havens, but perhaps not for much longer.

There was a knock at the door. “Come!” Leicester said. The alumni filed in, fifteen of them, all talented wizards. But none so powerful as Joseph McCauley. Leicester surveyed them, sorting through his mental notes. Being linked to them, he knew more about them than they ever suspected.

Warren Barber hated serving anyone. That, and the fact that he was the most powerful of this lot, made him dangerous. But his cruelty and his lack of a moral compass made him useful.

Bruce Hays loved having power over others. He would serve, if in turn, others served him.

Aaron Hanlon was smooth and articulate, a master of mind magic. Kenyon King was reasonably powerful, physically strong, and skilled at covert operations. John Hughes was invaluable as a systems expert. They were the core.

Wayne Eggars had accepted his role as physician. Ashton Rice and Elliott Richardson would serve, if reluctantly. They were reasonable men. They had accomplished much already.

Martin Hall and Peter Conroy were weaklings. It was not a matter of lack of power, but a reluctance to take ruthless action when required. Conroy in particular was a loose cannon, but they both contributed power to the mix.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “Joseph McCauley still declines to link to us.”

A mutter of surprise rolled through the alumni, but was quickly stifled.

"He has threatened to go to the Roses. This is unacceptable. I believe a peer-to-peer approach may be effective. I make it your charge to convince him to join us, through whatever means necessary.

“When he links with us, you will be richly rewarded. If he continues to resist, well, I think you all understand that there will be consequences.” Now they all looked down at their feet, afraid he'd use one of them as an example. He'd done it before.

“Give him to me,” Warren suggested. “I'll turn him around in a day.”

Leicester sighed. “If it were a matter of brute force, Warren, I'd have settled the matter already. This requires subtlety. Creativity. Seduction. Not your long suit, I'm afraid.” He rubbed his palms together. “We'll meet again on the subject in two weeks. Are there any questions?”

There were none.

The next day, after another night of excruciating dreams, Seph walked over to the art and music building and found a house phone back in the vending area in the basement. He picked it up and dialed 0. When the secretary in the admin, building answered, he said, “I'd like to place an outside call, using a calling card.” He gave her the calling card information and the phone number, including the country code.

There was a brief pause. “Your name, please?”

“Joseph McCauley” Seph replied, hope evaporating.

“You'll need to get administrative approval,” she said briskly. “Shall I put you through to Dr. Leicester?”

“No, thank you,” Seph said, and hung up the phone.

The classroom routine was soothingly familiar, a little eddy in the madness of life at the Havens. Lecture, discussion, homework, examinations. All of the usual tools were in evidence: wood-and-metal desks lined up in rows, chalkboards, sinks and burners and hoods in chemistry lab. New textbooks that smelled of ink, with spines that crackled when you opened them. Like students everywhere, the students at the Havens whined about homework.