Read The Wizard Heir

The entire book, The Wizard Heir.

Prologue
Their target was a run-down three-story building in an area of the City of London that had not yet been gentrified. The surrounding streets had emptied of people and traffic, and the filthy pavement perspried in the thick air. Magical barriers overlaid the soot-blackened brick, beautiful as spun glass. It might havd been an ice scuplture, or a fairly castle that hid the menance within.

For once the Dragon has stayed online long enough for them to pinpoint his location. Perhaps he'd thought it safe to emerge in the small hours of the morning.

Six wizards came through the front door like wraiths, shields fixed in place, knowing the Dragon would attack when cornered. It took them less than a minute to discover that there was no one in the apartment to kill.

D'Orsay followed them in. The flat was shabby and small. The furnishings looked to be castoffs accumulated over several decades. Layors of grime ground into the carpe nade it imporrisle to guess its original color. He passed through a kitchen, into the bedroom in the back. The keyboard and monitor were still there, a harness linked into a tangle of cables, but only a faint outline in the dust of the desk revealed where the laptop had been.

An inside staircase at the back of the flat led to the roof. The apartment would have been chosen for that reason, and not for the decorating. They stormed up the steps to find the roof occupied only be cats. D'Orsay scanned the grid of streets surrounding the building. There was no movement anywhere.

Something had spooked him. Perhaps the use of magic had given them away. Somehow he sensed that they were backtracking through the Net to find him, crawing past all the online blind alleys and mail drops he'd set up to mislead them.

Or someone had tipped him off. The Dragon's spy network was ledgendary, his operatives astonishingly loyal. For months, D'Orsay had been searching for the flaw in it, the loose end that when pulled would unravel the web.

A loose end. Someone he could carry to the dungeon in Raven's Ghyll and torture into spilling the Dragon's secrets.

But nothing. Even worse, it was possible D'Orsay's own organizatioin had been compromised.

The newly minted Wizard Council was struggling to overcome the centries-old blood feud between the Wizard Houses of the Red and the White Rose so it could deal with the recent rebellion of the servent guilds. Ending the feud would be difficult under the best of circumstances, but it was nearly impossible with the Dragon fanning the flames of old rivalries, spreading rumors and posting confidential correspondence to the Internet.

It was paticuarly galling to someone like D'Orsay, who has so much to hide.

Wizards were murdering each other in the backstreets of London, in castles of Scotland, and in the glittering nightspots of Hong Kong. Magical artifacts were disappearing from vaults and safe-deposit boxes and wine cellars. Traditionally submissive, sorcerers, seers, and enchanters were fleeing their wizard masters. And the Dragin's hand was in all of it.

This was the third near miss, since the tournament at Raven's Ghyll. Six weeks ago, they were sure they had the Dragon cornered in a ghetto in Sao Paulo. Then they had blundered into a magical quagmire, a network of diabolical traps that had decimanted D'Orsay's team of assasins and left the Council empty-handed. Three wizards dead, and they were no closer to finding him than before.

D'Orsay recognized his handiwork, the elegant simplicity of charms and devices. The wizard might has well scrawled his signature all over it.

Most recently, the Dragon had freed a dozen sorcerers from a stronghold in Wales. That had been triply infuriating because it had been D'Orsay's own project. D'Orsay had hoped that, given enough pressure, the sorcerers might rediscover some of the secrets of the magical weapons of the past.

They found no photographs in the flat,  no personal items that might have provided a clue to who the tenant had been.

D'Orsay was disappointed, though not surprised. He was confident that he knew the Dragon's identity.In any case, he wasn't fussy about being right. But this was no rat to be caught in a ordinary trap. D'Orsay was uncomfortable with this kind of oreration anyway. He was a stratagist, not an assasin. He was present only because of the power of their sdversary and the need for discretion. It was what you might call an unauthorized operation, outside of the purview of the council.

Why would a wizard involve himself in a rebellion of the lesser magical guilds? What could he possibly have to gain?

Twenty minutes later, Whitehead returned to the kitchen carrying a manila folder. "I found this between the filing cabit and the wall." She handed it to D'Orsay. "He probably didn't realize it was back there."

D'Orsay paged through the contentc of the folder - letters and copies of e-mails to and from a law firm in London, relating to the guiardianship of a minor. There was also correspondence with a private school in Scotland regarding housing, tuition, and financial arrangements for the same. All of it was at least two years old.

The student's name was Joseph McCauley. D'Orsay frowned. The name didn't bring to mind any of the Dragon's known or suspected associates. He couldm't relate it to any of the weir families, either, though it would be more reliable to check the databases. Through centries, geneaolgy had enabled the Wizard House to find warriors when they needed them, to hunt those who carried the gift and didn't know it. Computers only made the job more efficient.

What could be the connection ebtween this boy and the Dragon? Possibly none, but D'Orsay's instincts told him different. What else would explain the presence of material so personal in the midist of the enemy camp? And why was a law firm handling this kind of routine correspondence? Unless the intent was to hide a relationship that might prove to be a vurnability. D'Orsay smiled. That would be too good to be true.

This was worth spending a little time on. By now, the others were returning to the kitchen. He finished his cider and handed the folder to Whitehead.

"Find this boy for me, Nora. Contact the school mentioned in the letters and find out if he's still there. See if you can get any information from the law frim about who engaged them." He thought for a moment, stroking his chin. "Check with the General Register Office also. Look for a birth registery, baptismal papers, anything at all. If you don't find any British records, try overseas. See if he's in any of the Weir batabases. But be discreet."

They left the building a half hour after they had arrived, leaving a few traps behind in the unlikely event the Dragin returned. At least they may have driven the Dragon underground for a time. Any delay was to their own benifit. By the time he got back in buisness, it might be too late for him.

Perhaps by then, they would have another card to play.

Chapter One: Toronto
The August heat had persisted deep into the night. Thunder growled out over Lake Ontario, threatening a downpour. When Seph walked into the warehouse a little after 2 a.m., it felt like he had blundered into an urban rain forest. He sucked in the stink and heat of hundreds of bodies in motion and squinted his eyes against the smoke that layered the room.

It was his habit to arrive late for parties.

Seph smiled and nodded to the bouncer at the door. The man was there to intercept the underaged, but he just smiled back at Seph and waved him on. Access was never a problem.

Music throbbed from high-tech speakers wired to the struts of the warehouse ceiling. Sweat dripped onto the scarred wooden planks as the crowd thrashed across the dance floor. The black lights painted the faces of the dancers while leaving the perimeter of the room unviolated. An illegal bar was doing a brisk business in one corner, and the usual customers were already trashed.

He was stopped six times on his way across the room by people wanting to make plans for later.

Seph and his friends always held court to the right of the stage. Carson and Maia, Drew and Harper and Cecile were already there; Seph could tell that they'd been there all evening. They surrounded Seph, fizzing with excitement and the kind of euphoria that comes with hours of sensory overload. His friends were older than him, but the party never really started until he arrived.

They all started talking at once—something about a girl.

“Whoa,” he said, raising his hands and grinning. “Say again?”

Harper glared around the circle until everyone else shut up. “Her name is Alicia. She just moved to Toronto, and she's totally cool.”

“She reminds me of you,” Cecile added. “I mean she…well…there's just something about her,” she trailed off. “We told her about you, and she said she might come back later—you know—to meet you.”

Prickly Maia was the only one who seemed unimpressed. “I don't think she's like you at all.”

Maia was Asian, a part of the stew of races that was Toronto. She had an anime quality, with her spiky hair and quirky quilted cotton clothes. Plus, she could swear in three Chinese dialects.

Seph spoke into Maia's ear so he could be heard over the music. “So you don't like her?”

“I don't know. It's like, I don't trust her.” Maia looked up at him, studying his face as if looking for clues, then plunged her hand into the beaded pouch she wore over her shoulder. She came up with a tissue-wrapped package. “I made you something.” She thrust it toward him.

He weighed it on his palm. People were always giving him things. “What's this for? You didn't have to…”

“It's for your birthday. Open it.”

“My birthday was two months ago.” He smiled at her and tore the tissue away. It was a gold Celtic cross on a chain, centered with a flat-petaled heirloom rose, cast in Maia's distinctive, delicate style. “You can't give me this. It must've taken hours.”

“It was just an art project for school.” She took it from him, stretched up onto her toes, and fastened it around his neck, taking longer than was absolutely necessary. “I thought you'd like it.”

“I do like it, it's beautiful. But …” He searched for the right words. He didn't want to start something that would ruin what they had. “I mean, you are such a cool friend, and I don't want to—”

“Just take it, okay? As … as a friend. No strings.”

He couldn't refuse. “Well, thank you. It's brilliant.” He embraced her carefully. All arms and no body, elbows down to keep a little distance. But she burrowed into him, winding her fingers into his curls, pressing her face against his shirt as if to breathe him in. Seph patted her back, soothing her with his touch. Spilling a whisper of power, but not too much.

“Here she comes!” Carson said, all excited, at his elbow. “That's Alicia.”

Seph looked up to see a girl making her way across the crowded floor, dancers parting to let her through. She was small, but somehow lush, like an exotic tropical flower. She wore tight black jeans and a lace blouse that slid off her shoulders. Her blue-black curls were streaked with purple and loosely bound with a flowered scarf. She carried a gypsy bag over her shoulder. Her eyes were cat yellow.

“You must be the famous Seph McCauley.” She looked him up and down like she was used to being disappointed, then extended her ringed fingers. “I'm Alicia.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, letting go of Maia and gripping her hand.

Seph felt like he had stuck his hand into an electrical outlet. For a long moment they stood frozen, the current flowing between them. Then they both dropped their hands, took a step back, and stood staring at one another. All his life, people had reacted to his touch. Now he knew what it was like.

She recovered first. “Well, well,” she said, studying him with new interest, running her tongue over red-stained lips. “You are the powerful one, aren't you?”

“I get by,” Seph said, massaging his tingling fingers, fighting down a rush of hope. Power. She had power, too. “You…you're…Where'd you say you're from again?”

“Here and there. I was just in the States, but I had to leave.”

He rose to the bait. “Why did you…?”

“I was totally bored.” She squinted at him. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Eighteen,” he said, automatically adding two years to his age. “Listen, can I … can I buy you a drink?” Lame. That was lame. “Maybe we could go somewhere and talk?”

“Well.” Alicia surveyed Seph's friends, who were pressed around them in a tight circle. Maia scowled, swiping back her ragged fringe of hair, biting her lip and looking from Seph to Alicia.

“You.” Alicia pointed at Carson. “Be a sweetheart and get us something to drink. Absolut and lime for me.” She looked inquiringly at Seph.

“I don't…” he began, raising his hands.

“And a soda for Seph, who doesn't,” she said, shaking her head.

Seph rolled his eyes at Carson, but he was already gone, hurrying to comply.

“Listen, I'll catch you all later.” Seph gripped Alicia's elbow, half expecting another spasm of power, and guided her toward a table along the wall, leaving Maia and the others by the stage. “Who do you think you are, ordering my friends around?”

“And you don't?” She laughed softly. “You should. Who do you think you are?”

He'd never had a good answer to that question.

Seph chose a table in the corner between the speakers, where the din retreated enough so that they could actually hold a conversation. Carson brought their drinks and departed, giving Seph a wink.

“So why are you hanging out with them?” Alicia asked, reaching across the table and running her finger along the rim of his glass.

“Who?”

“Your friends. The Anaweir. It must get boring, I mean, aside from being lead dog, and all.”

He risked a question. “Anaweir? I'm not sure I …”

“The ungifted. The powerless. Even less relevant to a wizard than the servant guilds.”

Seph bit back a response. They were all talented, but none of them were wizards. Nor even members of the other magical Weirguilds: the sorcerers, the seers, or the rare enchanters and warriors.

Wizards were different from the other magical guilds, because they required charms, words to shape the magic. His foster mother, Genevieve, had told him that much.

“I've been trying to make contact,” he said. “It's hard to find other people…like us.” There, he'd said it. “I mean, I'd like to learn more, to get some more…training.” Implying that he'd already had some.

Alicia lifted an eyebrow. “Training comes through the Houses. What's your affiliation?”

“Affiliation?”

“Your Wizard House.”

He just blinked at her, then focused on rolling up his sleeves, carefully creasing the rough-woven cotton fabric. It seemed to be getting hotter.

Alicia leaned forward, lowering her voice. “Look, I realize you can't be too careful these days. No one knows what the rules are anymore.” She shook back her mane of curls. “I was at Raven's Ghyll, you know.”

“Where?”

“Raven's Ghyll. The tournament where the rules were changed. I mean, I used to go out with Jack Swift. I can't help thinking that if I hadn't broken up with him, none of this would have happened.”

She looked to him for a reaction, but he just stared at her, groping for a response that wouldn't give away his ignorance. He felt stupid, something he wasn't used to, and which he did not like.

He reached for his glass. The soda ran down his throat and exploded somewhere beneath his breastbone, leaving him breathless and dizzy. What was the matter with him? He had to keep his head.

He smiled and looked her in the eyes, a technique that had always been successful in the past. “I was hoping we could work together. You know—collaborate.” Usually all he had to do was ask.

Alicia studied his face as if it were a book in a foreign language. She reached out and ran her thumb along his jawline, as if fascinated by his bone structure, then tilted his face into the light and brushed back his curls. Her touch was like tiny explosions against his skin.

“Do you know your eyes change color? Green and brown and blue.”

“So I've been told.” Seph shifted uneasily under her scrutiny.

She seemed to reach a decision. “Fine. I'll tell you what House I'm in. I wouldn't bother, except it's so hard to meet interesting people, and I think you're … you know … interesting.” She untucked her blouse, exposing a tantalizing strip of skin, a pierced navel. There, above the waistline of her jeans, was a tattoo of a white rose. “All right,” she said, rearranging her clothes, as if that explained everything. “Now you.” She looked at him expectantly. “Red Rose or White?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Seph admitted, feeling like he was playing a rigged game of Truth or Dare. He slid his hand under his collar, pulling it away from his hot skin."

Alicia looked annoyed. “Trust me, I don't care what House you're in. I leave politics to the Wizard Council. I'm a trader. I sell what people want to buy. I have to deal with everyone.”

“Look, I can't tell you what I don't know.” He drained his glass and slammed it down on the table. “I know I'm a wizard. I know I have power, but I don't know how to use it. I know there are others like me, but the ones I've been able to find don't know any more than I do.”

He grabbed her hand and pinned it to the table. “Like I said. I need training. I have questions.” He knew he was giving away too much, that it was a bad idea to let a powerful stranger know how desperate he was.

Alicia tried unsuccessfully to withdraw her hand, embarrassed by his neediness. “What about your family? What about your Weirbook? That should give you a start, at least.”

Seph swallowed hard. He felt like his head was going to explode. “I don't have any family. That I know of. I don't have a Weirbook, whatever that is. My foster mother told me a little, but now she's dead. And things … they're out of control. If you're a trader, then find me a teacher. Find me a Weirbook, if that's what it takes. I have plenty of money. I'll pay whatever you ask.”

Alicia looked across the table at him and began to laugh. “I can't believe it. You're sort of a magical virgin. You should see your expression. So serious.” She brushed his cheekbone with the back of her knuckles. “You're gorgeous, you know. You have a face like a god. An angry god. And so … powerful,” she whispered.

Seph's skin prickled and burned. Something like a heat rash spread upward from his collarbone. His lips were numb and his tongue felt thick in his mouth. He could not speak. Something sinister rippled under his skin, seeking an outlet. He felt too big for his body, as though he might split along his backbone and spill onto the floor like a snake shedding its skin.

“What…what's going on?” he muttered. The music clamored in his ears, and the lights intruded into their dim corner. He threw up an arm to shade his face.

She gave his hand a pat. “Believe me, it's great stuff. Like nothing you've ever had.”

He gripped her hand tighter, helplessly spilling power. "What did you do to me? Is it some kind of a spell, or … or …

Alicia fished in her gypsy bag and retrieved an iridescent glass bottle, stoppered with a crystal. “Will you relax? It's called wizard flame. The street name is 'Mind-Burner.' Sorcerers make it for the trade. Let's call this my special introductory offer.”

Panic fluttered at the edge of his consciousness. “You drugged me?”

“It's an accelerator for the gifted. It strips away all the barriers and lets the power flow. You'll love it. After this, everyday life will seem like black and white.”

He shook his head. “No. You don't understand. I can't control my power when I'm sober. Things happen.”

She smiled at his distress. “Don't worry, it'll wear off in an hour or so. Here, let me show you something else.” She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth. Then flinched back, fingering her seared lips. “Hey!”

His lips were no longer numb—they were burning. His skin was burning. The music assaulted him. The stench of the crowd was making him sick. He couldn't think.

Alicia struggled to withdraw her hand. “You're burning me! Let go, will you?” He released his hold on her, and she staggered backward, disappearing from his field of view. Yet he could see every person in the hall, hear a hundred conversations all at once, as if all his senses had been sandpapered. He had to get out. He headed for the door, sliding through the crowd, twisting and turning to avoid touching anyone, leaving charred and smoking footprints in his wake. He brushed a table and it burst into flame. Incendiary sparks flew from his fingertips, igniting the curtains around the stage, the sound-deadening mats that draped the walls. All around the room, burnables ignited, vaporized, shriveled into ash. Flames licked at the walls, and molten metal dripped from the ceiling. The music still played and the black lights danced, but now a smoke alarm was clamoring as if it were the end of the world.

“Get out!” he shouted. His voice, strangely amplified, reverberated throughout the hall. Faces turned toward him, pale spots in the ruddy dark as he stood, fountaining flame like a Roman candle. His cotton clothing smoldered and smoked. People stared at him, horrified, then ran for the exit, screaming and shoving each other in an effort to get away from him. A crowd collected at the front door, like a panicked beast trying to force itself into a narrow burrow, while embers rained down from overhead. Too many people were jammed into the opening, and no one was getting through. Those who weren't crushed stood to burn to death.

Seph charged toward the warehouse wall, arms extended, driven by nothing more than raw power and a determination not to preside over another disaster. Flame roared from his fingertips, blasting through the battered wood, leaving a charred and smoldering opening that smelled like the wood fires of winter and looked like a gateway out of hell. He stared at it, stunned for a moment, then shouted, “Through here! Go!” The crowd poured through the new doorway. He was overtaken by the mob and carried along with the press of bodies.

Finally, he was out on the street. The storms that had threatened all day let loose, and he stood steaming in the pouring rain. Within seconds, he was soaked to the skin. Refugees who hadn't fled the scene huddled under an overhang across the street, watching him warily. Somewhere close a siren sounded.

Where were Carson and Maia and the others? Blinking water from his eyelashes, he scanned the crowd but could not find his friends. Nor Alicia, the girl who had set this train of events in motion. He struggled back toward the entrance, against a tidal wave of humanity.

“Maia!” Maia was small, and likely to be trampled. He finally forced himself back through the opening, only to be met by a wall of flame and smoke. “Drew!” He circled the exterior of the warehouse, desperately seeking a way in, and finding none. How could it burn like this in a deluge? Sparks gouted skyward as the roof caved in. The fire burned so hot that he had to retreat across the street again.

Pressing his back against a building, he slid to the ground and wrapped his arms around his knees. Gripping Maia's cross, feeling the gold soften under his hot fingers, he turned his face up to the downpour, letting it cool his fevered skin, wishing it could wash away the memory of what he had done. The meeting was held in Sloane, Houghton, and Smythe's Toronto offices. When Seph arrived, they showed him to an opulent little suite lined with walnut bookcases, the carpet so thick it swallowed sound. Denis Houghton, Seph's legal guardian, had traveled all the way from London for this event. He probably wanted to make sure that Seph came nowhere near the home office.

Seph had only seen his guardian two or three times. The solicitor was a tall man with graying hair and a taste for expensive watches and elaborate pinky rings. His custom-tailored suits couldn't hide the beginnings of a paunch. Seph couldn't help wondering how many suits and pinky rings his guardianship had paid for. His foster mother, Genevieve LeClerc, had died three years ago. It was only then that he'd learned that he had a legal guardian, a very large trust fund, and a crowd of lawyers to look after his interests.

She'd kept so many secrets. While Genevieve had taught him how to make an omelet and hang wallpaper and choose bottles of wine for their guests at the bed-and-breakfast, his feeble knowledge of magic had been acquired in fits and starts, grudgingly released, pried from her like oysters from their stubborn shells. She had a sorcerer's mistrust of wizards and their ruthless ways, born of long service to a wizard in her native France. Her wrists had been braceleted with layered scars, evidence of the shackles she'd worn. She'd loved Seph with a fierce devotion, but seemed to hope that his wizardliness would go away if unacknowledged. Instead it had sent out long runners, climbing fences, and sprouting unexpectedly between the cobblestones.

Seph's fingers tickle, his nursery school classmates said. His teachers had loved him in those days, surrendering to the boy with the dark curls, changeable eyes, and sweet smile. The classroom guinea pig denned up under his desk and wouldn't allow anyone but Seph to handle him. The pond at the park froze in the middle of July when Seph wanted to go skating. He liked recess best of all. Sometimes it lasted all day. All he had to do was ask nicely. Until Genevieve found out and intervened. But as he grew older, the magic grew stronger, more dangerous, more difficult to control. It had become worse since Genevieve's death. He was the ugly cowbird in the sparrow's nest, impossible to ignore.

Houghton came out from behind his huge walnut desk and motioned Seph to a table by the window. It was to be a toe-to-toe, compassionate sort of meeting, then. Seph settled into a leather armchair and Houghton sat in the chair opposite. The lawyer regarded Seph sorrowfully for a moment, removed his glasses, polished them to a sheen, and replaced them. Then heaved a great sigh.

“So. All right now, then, are we?” “I'm all right,” Seph said, looking the lawyer in the eye, daring him to ask another question. Seph didn't want to talk about the warehouse. He was afraid he would lose control.

Houghton soldiered on relentlessly. “A bad business,” the lawyer said. “A bad business, indeed. But then, with those after-hours parties, one never knows. Completely unsupervised. Often attract the wrong sort.” “Yes.” One-word answers were safest.

“One hears there are drugs, drinking, and so on.” Houghton paused and raised an eyebrow in inquiry, but Seph looked out the window, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths. “Right,” Houghton said, disappointed. “Well, at any rate, we've managed to make those preposterous charges go away.”

“Good.” “I mean, really. Flinging flame from your fingertips like a character from a graphic novel? Rubbish. But people become hysterical, you know.”

“Yes.”

“Of course, the university has some liability in this. All summer-camp students are required to be in the dormitories by ten o'clock, so it said in the brochure. And yet, there you were, sixteen years old, running the streets of Toronto at four in the morning.” Seph was finally goaded into speech. “I wasn't running the streets. I was at a party. I've gone to lots of parties, and nothing ever—”

“Then they're doubly liable. They knew, or should have known, that—” Seph leaned forward. “You know I go to clubs. You've been paying the bills.”

Houghton cleared his throat loudly. Seph half expected him to stick his fingers in his ears. “Well, then. There you are. I think we can agree that your idea of spending the summer at the university in Toronto has been … a disaster.” “Toronto's not the problem,” Seph said. “Toronto's great. I …”

“No.” Houghton toyed nervously with a paperweight. His forehead gleamed with sweat. “Not this time. The Metropolitan Police have required my assurance that you will leave town as soon as possible.” Seph felt a great weight descending. “I thought you said the charges had been dismissed.”

“There were a number of witnesses who tied you to the fire.” Seph gripped the arms of the chair. “Really? And what do you think?”

Houghton mopped his brow with a snowy handkerchief. “What should I think? You seem to have a penchant for combustibles. There was that incident in Switzerland, the fires and explosions on the chapel roof, the … ah … demolition of the bell tower.” “I went up there with a … a friend. I did not go up there to blow a hole in the bell tower.” Marie wanted to see the stars, Seph thought. It was after they kissed that the fireworks began.

“And that boy at St. Andrew's. That Henri Armand. Attacked by a flock of ravens, wasn't he?” Seph shrugged. He couldn't conjure any regret about Henri. Armand was an older boarding student from Marseille, rumored to be the illegitimate son of the head of a French crime family. He was also a skilled street fighter, a talent unusual among private-school students.

Armand had considered Marie to be his personal property, like his gaudy gold jewelry and his Italian sports car. When he'd heard about the incident on the chapel roof, he'd ambushed Seph in a remote corner of the campus, pounding away at his midsection so the bruises wouldn't show. Then the ravens had come.

“Those birds tore the boy's clothing to shreds,” Houghton persisted. Armand had been so frightened he'd wet himself. Afterward, several of the huge black birds had settled gently onto Seph's arms and shoulders, watching naked Armand with their shiny black eyes. Never mind that Seph was just as frightened of the birds as Armand.

Well, maybe not quite as frightened. Seph looked at Houghton and raised an eyebrow. An appeal to logic was usually effective. “So you're saying I sent a flock of ravens after Henri?”

Houghton smiled a tight little smile. “I'm saying that you've been expelled from four schools in the past three years. We are running out of options.”

“But I'm going to UTS. It's all set.” “That is no longer possible.”

“What about St. Michael's, then?” “No.”

Seph saw where this was going. He needed to stay in Toronto. He needed to find that girl Alicia and get some answers. She was the only lead he had. He was reduced to begging. “Please. Let me stay here for school. There has to be someplace that'll let me in. I swear, I won't get into trouble.” He extended his hand toward Houghton. If he could just make contact…

Houghton put up his hands and leaned away, as if to fend Seph off. “Don't … It won't work. Not this time. Our hands are tied. The police have made their position quite clear.” “Let me talk to them.”

“You'd better leave well enough alone. Thank God they've lost interest in you. It's time you learned that you cannot talk yourself out of every situation.” “I already know that.”

“Besides, it's all arranged.” “What is?”

“Your new school.” “Where?”

“Maine.” “Maine?”

“Seems a lovely place from the photographs. It's right on the ocean.” Houghton thrust a brochure into Seph's face. “Luckily for us, this came in the mail right after the warehouse story broke.” Seph took it reluctantly. “I hate the ocean.”

“Perhaps you'll grow to love it.” The front cover featured a sailboat. He scanned the text and shook his head. “A boys' school?”

Houghton shrugged. “Beggars can't be choosers. And perhaps the absence of young ladies will help you…focus.” “You never asked me what I wanted.” Seph scraped the toe of his sneaker over the hand-knotted rug.

“As I said. We didn't have a lot of options this late in the day.” “Is there even a city in Maine?”

“Yes, I think so. Portland, I believe it's called.” He frowned and rubbed his chin. “Or is that in New Hampshire? Well, no matter,” he said briskly. “You'll need to leave immediately. The term's already begun.” Seph shrugged and slid the brochure into his pocket. Ordinarily, he would have continued to argue the matter. But just then he felt like he might deserve to go to Maine. Or any other place with a scarcity of people.

Houghton looked at his watch, relieved that Seph hadn't put up more of a fight. “So. Well. Do you have any questions?” “Yes. Who were my parents?”

Houghton sighed. “Not that again. You've seen the documents. The photographs. I don't know what else you—” “I know they're fake. I've checked it out. I've been online. It's made up.”

Houghton stood and fussed with his cuffs, straightened the crease in his trousers, put a little more distance between himself and his client. “I know these past three years have been trying. It is difficult to lose one's parents at a young age. And it is likely that your foster mother's death has renewed your feelings of abandonment…” Seph came to his feet, and Houghton took a hasty step back. “You're a lawyer. No one's asking you to be a bloody psychiatrist.” Power prickled in his hands and arms, and he struggled to damp down his anger. It doesn't matter, he told himself. It's not worth it.

“… and now this…event at the warehouse. So tragic. That young girl. What was her name again?” “Maia.”

“You knew her?” “Yes.” He was back to one-word answers.

“Well, best not to noise that about. It could complicate matters just as things are settling.” Houghton hesitated, then cautiously draped an arm around Seph's shoulders. He smelled of expensive tobacco, wool, and aftershave. Seph resisted the urge to flinch away. “It may be that this is just what you need, Joseph. Go to Maine. Focus on your studies. Get away from all this for a while.” The lawyer's voice was not unkind. “You've managed to come away without a police record. Your grades are good. See if you can finish strong at the Havens. Then we can begin to talk about University. Perhaps you can even come back to Toronto for school.”

Two more years, Seph was thinking. Two more years, and I claim the trust fund and dismiss Sloane, Houghton, and Smythe. Two more years, and I'll have the time and money to find out who I really am. Two years sounded like an eternity.

Chapter Two: The Havens
Seph pressed his face against the cool glass of the airplane window, watching the rugged New England coastline pass beneath him. From this altitude, the Atlantic seemed a gentle lake, a deep gray-green with a delicate frosting of lace where it broke against the beaches. The music pounding through his headphones was not enough to occupy his relentless mind. He thrust his hand under his sweatshirt, pulling free the half-melted cross Maia had made for him. Surprisingly old-fashioned for a free spirit like Maia. When he closed his eyes, he could still feel the ropy intensity of her embrace. Seph didn't consider himself particularly attractive. He knew enough about art to realize he met no classical standard of beauty. His face looked like something he needed to grow into: all bony prominences and sharp angles. His hair tumbled into unruly loose curls if he didn't gel it into submission. He'd grown so recently that he still felt awkward and poorly put together. But girls still made excuses to touch him, to play with his hair. Maia had always talked about his eyes: how they changed color with the light— brown, and then green or gold. And now she was dead. Because of him. He stared down at his hands. Murderer's hands, though they looked like normal flesh and bone. He was… pathological. Was it merely a lack of knowledge, or was it some kind of fatal flaw? He pressed his fist against his chest, imagining that he could feel the weight within. “Vous avez un cristal sous votre coeur,” Genevieve had said. You have a crystal beneath your heart. A source of power that is different for each of the guilds. For sorcerers, enchanters, warriors, and seers, the use of power is more or less hardwired. But wizards needed training in order to use and control their power. Genevieve had told him that when magical accidents happened. So he wouldn't think he was possessed, as the Jesuits had claimed when he was still small. But she hadn't told him the truth about his parents. And for that, he felt betrayed. He needed a teacher. If he couldn't learn to control his gift, it was "better not to have it at all. Could the stone be removed, like a diseased gallbladder? At least Genevieve had not had to deal with the warehouse. She would have gone to church and lit a candle and prayed for him. She would tell him that in God's eyes he was perfect, though how she knew this, Seph couldn't say. Seph's ears told him they'd begun their descent. The aircraft was a sixteen-seater, with only six other passengers—hunters and tourists, by the looks of them. Seph liked the intensity of small planes. Perhaps he'd buy a plane now that he was old enough for flying lessons. He smiled at the thought, his first smile of the day, and pulled off his headphones. The plane banked and circled. The ground rushed toward them and bumped down on the grassy runway. Before they had rolled to a stop, he was on his feet, pulling his bag from the overhead compartment. He closed his eyes and centered himself, as Genevieve had taught him. You can do this. You've done it before. You're good at meeting people. Only, this new school was small, about one hundred students, according to the brochure. He'd never done well at small schools. He made too many waves to survive in a small pond. Somehow, he had to find a way to succeed here. Two years, and he could go back to the city and disappear. The airport boasted one battered, sheet-metal building. Grass feathered the asphalt of the parking lot. A man waited by the metal fence that surrounded the landing strip. He was tall—taller than Seph by at least half a foot. He was absolutely bald, but whether he was naturally so or shaved his head, Seph couldn't tell. Despite the brisk weather, he wore a white, short-sleeved golf shirt that showed off his muscular arms. He looked to be about fifty, but it was hard to tell with bald men. Seph waited until the crew had unloaded the baggage compartment, then pulled his other bag from the cart, swinging it over his shoulder. As he walked toward the gate, the man stepped forward to meet him. “You must be Joseph McCauley,” he said in an upperclass British accent. “I'm Dr. Gregory Leicester, headmaster of the Havens.” Up close, the headmaster's eyes were a peculiar flat gray color, like twin ball bearings. The absence of hair and the fact that his lips were the same color as the rest of his face gave him a strange, robotic quality. Relieved that the headmaster didn't offer his hand, Seph conjured a smile and said, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Must be a small staff, he thought, if the headmaster comes to collect you at the airport. “Is that all you have?” Dr. Leicester asked, nodding toward the luggage. “That's all. I shipped some books ahead, and my computer.” Seph traveled light, which was convenient when you moved around as much as he did. Of the half dozen vehicles clustered in the lot, Dr. Leicester directed Seph toward a white van with THE havens and a sailboat stenciled in gold on the door. The van was unlocked. The headmaster took Seph's bags and tossed them easily into the backseat. He motioned Seph to the shotgun position, and climbed in on the driver's side. “We're just about an hour away from school,” Leicester explained. “It will give us a chance to get to know each other.” They pulled out of the gravel parking lot and turned onto a two-lane highway. From the maps, Seph knew there was a small town south of the airport. But their destination was about fifty miles north, with nothing much in between. Why would anyone build a private school in such a remote location? A hunting lodge or a prison, he could understand.

“Did you come directly from St. Andrew's, or did you spend some time at home?” Leicester asked, keeping his gaze on the road. “I came from Toronto. I was at a camp there all summer,” Seph replied. His head ached, as if metal bands were tightening around his forehead, and he felt dizzy and disoriented. It could've been the aftereffects of the flight, though he was usually a good flyer.

They swept past two gas stations, a scattering of houses, and then plunged into a thick forest of pine and aspen. He lowered the window, hoping the fresh air would revive him, and was rewarded with the sharp scent of evergreen. “You've had a long day, then.” Dr. Leicester broke into his reverie. “I hope you were able to sleep on the plane.”

“Yes. Some.” “Where are you from originally?”

“I was born in the States, but I grew up in Toronto.” “Do your parents still live in Toronto?”

“My parents are dead.” Seph stared straight ahead. “Ah. Well. We've corresponded with your guardian, Mr. Houghton. I assume you have relatives in England, then?”

“Mr. Houghton is just a solicitor. An attorney. I don't know much about my family.” Nothing, in fact. What he'd been told of his parents was frail and colorless, like a line drawing, an outline of a story without the flesh and bone. His mother was a Toronto-based flight attendant; his father a software entrepreneur. They had died in a fire in their California canyon home when Seph was a year old. Genevieve LeClerc had been his childcare provider, and became his foster mother. That story had been repeated to him since he was very small.

And now he knew it was a lie. “I think you'll like it here, Joseph, once you settle in,” Leicester said. “I know you've changed schools several times. Often talented students get into difficulty when their needs are not met. Here at the Havens we rarely lose a student. In fact, we integrate high-achieving secondary students into our more specialized programs. We're believers in tailoring the curriculum to the student.”

“I see,” Seph said. “That sounds like a good approach.” He couldn't help being distracted by the view. He was a city creature. For the past half hour, he'd seen nothing but trees on either side of a fragile strip of pavement. Not even another car on the road. “It seems…um…isolated.”

“You can wander for miles and never leave the property,” Leicester said, as if that were a plus. Many of the crossroads were now dirt roads that carried the names of beaches. Following a long stretch of unbroken trees, they reached a turnoff marked with a tasteful brick-and-stone sign that said, the havens and PRIVATE PROPERTY.

A high stone wall extended in both directions, as far as he could see. To keep the trees from wandering, no doubt. He blinked and rubbed his eyes. The wall had a smudged and fuzzy quality, as if shrouded in tendrils of mist. Maybe he had a migraine coming on.

They turned right, through a high wrought-iron gateway onto an oiled dirt road. Along the lane, the trees stood so close Seph could have reached out and touched them. Their leafy tops arched and met overhead, sieving the light into frail streamers that scarcely colored the ground. The air hung thick with the scent of green things long dead and half decayed. They drove through dense woodland until the trees thinned and the light grew. Glimpses of water and a freshening of the air said they'd reached their destination.

They pulled up before a large cedar-and-stone building separated from the water by a broad boardwalk. A long dock ran out into the harbor. Several sailboats bobbed alongside, sails furled and tied to the masts. “This is the administration center,” Dr. Leicester explained. “The cafeteria, gymnasium, library, commons areas, and other student services are all in here.” He drove a hundred yards farther and stopped in front of another building. “This is Gareth Hall. Most classes are held here, with the exception of physical education, art, and music. We've been in session for several weeks now, so you'll have some hard work ahead of you.”

Art and music shared their own building. It couldn't really be called a campus—there wasn't enough open space for that. Each building stood isolated in its own clearing, the forest crowding in on all sides, as if struggling to hold it at bay. The tall, straight trunks of trees marched away until they collided in the gloom. All of the buildings were of similar construction, as if the school had erupted, fully formed, out of the ground. It was a jarring contrast to St. Andrew's, with its ancient stone lecture halls, bell towers, and green lawns, the mountains framing every vista. And UTS—he shoved images of the city out of his mind.

“You must see a lot of wildlife here,” Seph observed, because Dr. Leicester seemed to be expecting him to comment. Middle of nowhere, he thought. “A little bit of everything: moose, bear, wolves, deer. The raccoons and bears can be a problem.” Leicester laughed like it didn't come easy. It was hard to imagine this man presiding at a fundraising dinner or glad-handing parents.

They stopped in front of a more modest three-story structure, stone and glass and cedar, similar in design to the other buildings, but on a smaller scale. “This is your dormitory.” He handed Seph a key card. “You're in suite 302. Need help with your luggage?” “No, thanks. I'm fine.” Seph climbed out and retrieved his bags from the back seat.

“I'll arrange for one of our students to give you a full tour before Monday. If you're hungry, you ought to be able to find something in the cafeteria in the admin, building.” Seph wasn't hungry. His headache was worse. He felt as if someone had been beating against his skull.

“Swimming is at four thirty,” Leicester said. “Change into your swim gear and follow the signs to the cove. Everyone will be down there, and you'll have the opportunity to meet the other boys.” The headmaster didn't give him a chance to argue. The van lurched forward, spitting gravel from beneath its wheels. Seph looked around. Sunlight painted the tops of the trees, and here and there a break in the canopy overhead allowed it to penetrate all the way to the forest floor. Otherwise, the ground was bathed in a cool green twilight. Leaves shuffled overhead and branches rattled in the wind. A squirrel scolded him furiously from a nearby stump. He was already chilly, even in his hoodie. Maybe this was swimming weather in Maine, but not where he came from.

Wherever that was. He slung his bags over his shoulder, ignored the elevator, and climbed three flights of stairs to his floor. His room was at one end of the building, rather isolated, off a short corridor. Leicester hadn't said anything about a roommate, and Seph wasn't surprised to find he had a room to himself. Students at expensive schools were used to their own space and plenty of it.

Each school he'd attended was captured by single image in his mind: the cavernous great hall at Dunham's Field School in Scotland; the view from the bell tower at St. Andrew's in Switzerland; Montreal illuminated at dusk in midwinter, where the sun seemed to set in midafternoon.

This room boasted a gas fireplace and a screened porch overlooking the woods. The furniture included a single bed with a heavy oak headboard and a thick comforter with a pine-tree pattern, a dresser, a serviceable desk and bookcase, two upholstered chairs for guests, rag rugs on the floor, and ceramic tile in the bathroom. The walls had been left empty, a fresh canvas for someone to paint on. Only, Seph didn't do much to personalize his rooms anymore. There was no point. He'd learned to carry his sense of self around with him.

A basket of fruit and several bottles of water were arranged on a small table with a note, Welcome, Joseph, imprinted on cream-colored stock embossed with a sailboat. His books had arrived and were waiting in boxes in front of the bookcase. His computer had been unpacked and left on the desk. There was no phone, however, and no data port that he could find. Pulling out his cell phone, he scanned the screen. No signal. He swore softly and returned it to his jeans pocket.

Methodically, he unpacked his bag, put away his toothbrush and paste and the rest of his washroom supplies, and took two ibuprofen. He located the electrical outlets, set his MP3 player in its cradle, and placed the speakers. He had the best sound system money could buy. He turned the music up loud, hoping it might draw visitors. It didn't. His clothes only occupied three drawers out of six. He moved his books from the box to the bookcase, running his fingers over the familiar titles in French and English. Maybe he didn't need to carry so many books around with him, either. How often did he read a book more than once? He'd learned to pare down, to simplify, like a business traveler trying to force his life into a carry-on.

By four o'clock his headache had eased somewhat. He wanted more than anything to lock the door and collapse into bed. But it was his custom to get introductions over quickly.

There was no answer at any of the nearby rooms, until he knocked on the door of the room at the far end of the hall, on the other side of the staircase. A solid, athletic-looking black student answered, clad only in swimming trunks. A silver amulet hung from a chain around his neck: a stylized Hand of Fatimah. Protection against the evil eye.

Seph smiled and stuck out his hand. “I'm Seph McCauley. I just moved in at the other end of the hall.” Good social skills, it always said in his evaluations, along with Excels academically. “I'm Trevor Hill,” the boy replied, grasping Seph's hand, then flinching and letting go quickly. “Whoa, you shocked me!”

Seph shrugged, accepting no credit or blame. How often had he heard that one? “I heard someone new was coming this week.” Trevor's voice was like a slow-moving river: warm and rich with Southern silt. “Would you like to come in?”

Trevor stepped aside so Seph could enter. It was a mirror image of Seph's room, but seemed smaller, because it was crowded with extra furniture: a small refrigerator, a television, posters of sports figures. Seph's room was spartan in comparison.“This is cool!” Seph said. “Did you do all this in the last three weeks?”

“Nah, I've had the same room for three years.” Trevor glanced nervously at his watch. “I guess we have a little time. You can clear the stuff off of that chair and sit.” Seph sat in the desk chair. “Are you a senior?” he asked, trying to put the other boy at ease—knowing he could do it with a touch of his hand, but best not to try that with someone he'd just met.

“Junior,” Trevor replied. “I'm from Atlanta. Buckhead area. Got no business being so far north. I about freeze to death every fall.” He snatched up a heavy sweatshirt from the bed and pulled it over his head. “I'm a junior, too,” Seph volunteered.

Trevor asked the inevitable question. “Where're you from?” “Toronto, but my last school was in Switzerland. So I'm used to the cold.”

“Switzerland, huh?” Trevor stopped looking nervous and started looking impressed. “Why'd you leave?”

“It didn't work out.” Seph rolled his eyes. Trevor nodded, as if this answer wasn't unexpected. “The Havens your parents' idea?” He gestured vaguely at their surroundings.

“My parents are dead. I have a guardian. A lawyer. He set it up,” Seph replied, thinking that he should buy a T-shirt that said, ORPHAN from TORONTO. It would save time in these situations. “So what's the deal here? How do you get along with the staff?” Seph continued. Not that Trevor's advice was likely to be helpful in his case.

Trevor leaned forward, putting his hands on his knees. “Oh, I was in trouble a lot before I came here, too. You just need to follow the rules. Do that, and you'll be okay. They specialize in boys who've had problems at other places.” “Really?” Great, Seph thought. I've landed in some kind of upper-class reform school. Trevor seemed normal enough, though, and he'd been there three years. “Do they kick you out if you get in trouble?”

“No one gets expelled from the Havens,” Trevor said. “You'll see. Their program is very—what they call— effective.”

Something in the way he said effective sounded almost sinister. It made Seph want to change the subject. Trevor's laptop caught his eye. “I have my computer set up, but I don't see any jacks in my room. Is the cabling included or do I have to pay for wiring?” “We don't have our own Internet access,” Trevor said.

Seph stared at him. “Why not? It's so easy. They could use a campus-wide wireless network if they didn't want to lay cable.” Trevor shook his head. “No, I mean, we're not allowed. They have computers in the library. You can do searches in there if you want, but they screen the sites.”

“That's crazy. They can't do that. I have friends online.” Seph didn't remember that being mentioned in the glossy brochure. Trevor shrugged and looked at his watch again. “Well, it's about time for swimming. You'd better get changed if you don't want to be late.”

Seph rubbed his aching temples. “I'm going to pass. It's been a long day already.” Trevor's eyes widened in surprise. “Dr. Leicester excused you?”

“Not exactly.” Trevor stood up. “Then you'd better get ready.”

It seemed that the visit was over, so Seph stood also. “Oka-ay, guess I'll get ready, then,” he said. “I'll wait for you, if you hurry up.”

But Seph didn't hurry fast enough, because a few minutes later he heard Trevor at his door. “I'm going ahead. I'll see you down there.” Seph changed into his trunks and pulled his sweatshirt and jeans on over them. Descending the stairs two at a time, he left the building and followed a wood-chip path back through the woods toward the waterfront. He didn't see any students around; they must've already gone down to the cove. A sign at the dock pointed him to the right, down the shoreline, to a well-worn path along the water. A cold slither up his spine said he was being watched. Twice, he turned and scanned the path behind him, then shrugged and walked on. Finally, the path turned back into the woods. Hey.

He turned again, and this time a stocky boy with wire-rimmed glasses and a ruddy complexion stood in the middle of the path. He wore husky-style jeans and a sweatshirt, and blinked his eyes really fast, like he was nervous. “Hey,” Seph said. “You late for swimming, too?”

“No, I … ah … I d-don't …”The boy began coughing, struggling to draw breath. He groped in his pocket and produced an inhaler. He took a long pull off of it, and put it back. Then, with a determined look on his face, he extended his hand to Seph. “I'm Seph McCauley,” Seph said, thinking maybe you got excused from swimming if you had asthma. He gripped the other boy's hand, then flinched as he recognized the sting of power. “Hey! Are you … ?”

“Listen. I n-need to talk to you.” The boy looked up and down the path, mopping sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “I'd really like to talk to you,” Seph said, unable to believe he'd met two wizards in the space of a few weeks. “But I have to get to swimming. Could we meet later, maybe at dinner?”

“No. I c-can't … That won't …” “Hello, gentlemen.” Seph looked up to see a handsome young man in a tweed sport coat with leather patches on the elbows, carrying a battered leather briefcase.

“H-hello, Aar … M-Mr. Hanlon.” The other student looked petrified, like he was about to wet himself. Or have another asthma attack. “Joseph. Aren't you supposed to be at swimming?” Mr. Hanlon asked, smiling.

“I was just on my way.” “Good. Best be going. Dr. Leicester doesn't like it if you're late.” Hanlon placed a hand on the boy's shoulder and propelled him down the path the other way.

“I didn't get your name!” Seph called after him. But the boy only hunched his shoulders and kept walking. That guy has issues, Seph thought, continuing down the path. I don't know how much help he'll be. But I'll try to find him at dinner.

Eventually, the path broke out of the trees at a place where the ocean cut back into the shoreline, creating a protected inlet, lined with stones, out of sight of the school buildings. There must have been sixty boys in the water, their heads sleek and dark against the gray surface. A few more were stripping off their sweatshirts on the shore. All of them looked miserably cold. Seph spotted Trevor treading water ten yards out.

Dr. Leicester stood on the shoreline, dressed in a heavy sweatshirt, jeans, and windbreaker. When he saw Seph, he blew sharply on a whistle to get everyone's attention. “Boys, meet Joseph McCauley. This is his first day at the Havens, and he is late for swimming.” The reaction to this was remarkable. The other boys all looked away or looked down, as if they wanted to avoid any connection to his transgression. Some of them peered back toward him, when they thought Leicester wasn't looking.

Seph smiled, lifting his hands in apology. “Sorry. I got confused. I was waiting for everybody at the spa.” Laughter floated across the water, then quickly dwindled under Leicester's disapproving gaze. The headmaster didn't seem susceptible to Seph's legendary charm.

Seph left his clothes on a pile of rocks some distance from the water's edge, and hobbled over the stony beach to the water. He'd hoped that the water would be warmer than the air, but was disappointed. It was like stepping into snowmelt. His feet went numb immediately. He waded out to his knees, then to his waist, gasping. The water was murky and unpleasant. The rocks along the bottom were slippery and invisible, so that even in the cove the waves threatened to knock him over. Something squirmed under his left foot and he thrashed backward, into unexpectedly deep water. His head went under, and he swallowed a mouthful. He came up like a sounding whale, spraying water everywhere.

He'd had enough. A few quick strokes took him back to the shallows. Shivering, teeth chattering, he hauled himself onto the shore. He'd almost made it back to his muddle of clothes when someone gripped his arm. It was Trevor, covered in gooseflesh, lips pale with cold, water sliding off his dark body onto the rocks. “Get back in the water, Seph,” he said, without meeting Seph's eyes. “Just do it. Come on.” He put a cold hand on Seph's shoulder as if to urge him along.

Seph blinked at him. He looked over his shoulder at Dr. Leicester, who stood expressionless, watching. All right, he thought. If he was going to try to stay here two years, it was best not to get into a battle of wills on his first day. Gritting his teeth, he picked his way back across the beach and waded out into the water, not looking back to see if Trevor was following. This time the water seemed more tolerable. Maybe he was getting used to it. His extremities tingled as the feeling returned, and he was no longer shivering. He strode ahead more confidently, continuing until the water lapped at his collarbone. Though the sun was gone, intercepted by the surrounding trees, he felt almost warm.

He looked around. The other boys stood as if frozen, staring down at the water in disbelief. Another minute passed, and the surface of the water began to steam in the cold air. He might have been neck deep in the warm Caribbean. No. This can't be happening. Seph looked over at Leicester, who was in conversation with one of the boys on shore. He hadn't noticed that anything was amiss. Seph splashed toward a crowd of boys standing to one side, near the shoreline, positioning himself so that his head was just one of many pocking the gray surface. Now, just relax, he commanded himself, closing his eyes, trying to loosen his muscles, to empty his mind.

How long could he last? He was in trouble already, and it was just the first day. He sorted through a litter of memories from his school career. The homicidal ravens at St. Andrew's. The explosions and fires in Scotland. The wolves that had startled the nuns in Philadelphia.By now the water was close to spa temperature. All conversation in the cove had died. The swimmers looked down at the vapor collecting at the surface, rising up around them like morning mist on an upland lake. No one said a word, to each other or to Leicester.

Finally, the boy who had been speaking with the headmaster broke away and stepped into the water. He stumbled backward with a yelp of surprise and sat down, hard, on the rocks. Gregory Leicester swung around and stared at the boys in the water and the steam boiling up around them. Then he began searching the faces of the boys in the water until he found Seph. Try as he might, Seph couldn't look away. The headmaster stood, studying him like a specimen on a slide. No questions, no disbelief, no challenge or confusion, only this intense and clinical scrutiny, as if he were looking into Seph's soul with full knowledge of what lay within. Then Leicester smiled like it was Christmas.

Shuddering, Seph took a step backward. The headmaster's gaze shifted to include the whole group. “Gentlemen, perhaps it is a bit brisk for swimming after all. You are dismissed to your own pursuits until dinner.”

For a moment, no one moved. Then the exodus began, silent as lemmings in reverse. Seph left the water on the far side of the cove, keeping as much distance between himself and Leicester as possible. He pulled his sweatshirt and jeans over his wet skin and picked up his shoes, unwilling to linger long enough to put them on. Slinging his towel about his shoulders, he followed the others toward the woods. “Joseph.”

Seph froze in midstride and stood waiting without turning around. The headmaster's gaze pressed on the back of his neck. “Come up to my office after dinner. I think it's time I explained a bit more about our program.”

Seph nodded and walked on, into the trees.

Chapter Three: A Magical Collaborative
Seph awoke to a loud pounding. Still groggy, he stumbled to his door and opened it. It was Trevor, dressed for the outdoors, smiling tentatively.

“Seph. Supper's at seven thirty. We have time before then, if you want to look around.”

Seph rubbed his eyes and looked back at his bed. “Sure. Thanks. I'm glad you knocked. I might've slept right through.” He yawned. “Do we have to dress for dinner?” “Collared shirt or sweater. No jeans or sweats.” “Okay. Give me a minute.”

Trevor hovered by the door while Seph changed his clothes and ran his fingers through his hair. They descended the stairs and pushed through the front doors.

The frail autumn daylight had already fled. It would have been pitch-black under the trees, save for the tiny lights that outlined the paths between buildings. Seph braced himself for questions or comments about the peculiar events in the cove, but none came, so Seph said, “That was pretty weird. What happened at swimming, I mean.”

“You never know what's going to happen around here,” Trevor said, shrugging.

“What do you mean? Are you saying weird things have happened before I—before now?”

“I mean nothing.” Trevor hunched his shoulders like a turtle retreating into his shell.

“I ran into this guy in the woods. A student, I think, kind of stocky, with glasses and an inhaler. Do you know who that would've been?”

Trevor looked him in the eyes. “I don't recollect anyone like that.”

Seph debated whether to force the issue. He guessed he could get what he wanted from Trevor. But decided not to push it. It's my first day, he thought. I can use all the friends I can get.

Trevor took his role as tour guide seriously, pointing out features of the campus: the tennis courts, the amphitheater.

“There's almost a hundred students here, freshmen through seniors. They come from all over, and a lot of them get scholarships. There's also a bunch of alumni living here on campus, doing research with Dr. Leicester.” They passed more dormitory buildings. “All the dorms are pretty much the same. The alumni have their own dorm, cafeteria, and commons area.”

“Why would alumni hang around on campus after graduation?” Seph asked. “What about college?”

Trevor looked away, focusing on the path ahead. “You'd have to ask them.”

They walked through Gareth Hall, the classroom building, past empty lecture halls. “School's been going for a couple weeks, so you're going to have to catch up with your assignments,” Trevor said. “Let me know if you need help with anything.”

The art and music building was farther north along the shoreline. “They make us all take a musical instrument,” Trevor explained. Seph nodded. Typical. He'd brought along his saxophone.

Next Trevor led him down to the waterfront and out onto the dock. “Dr. Leicester's a sailing fanatic. Our sailing team has held the Atlantic Seaboard Scholastic Cup for three years. Everyone helps.”

“Mmmm,” Seph replied, committing himself to nothing. He couldn't very well tell Trevor he expected to be gone by Christmas, given the start he'd made at the cove.

“This is our boathouse.” Trevor pushed open the door to the small, weather-beaten building Seph had noticed when he arrived. It was a plain, square wooden structure with a rough planked floor. A narrow wooden walkway ran along the far side of the room, surrounding the boat slip. The water sucked and slapped at the pilings underneath. The building smelled of marine gasoline and what Seph assumed to be fish guts.

“They keep the motorboat in here most all the time, and sometimes the sailboats if they need to be fixed. You'll get really good at slapping on varnish, believe me.”

That was no problem. Seph was used to hard work. He'd spent every summer cleaning and changing beds and washing dishes at Genevieve's bed-and-breakfast.

“Time to eat,” Trevor announced, and turned back toward shore.

The dining hall was on the first floor of the admin, building, with a full wall of glass overlooking the water. Servers circulated through the room, clearing tables and refilling water glasses.

In addition to burgers and pizza, there was hand-carved roast beef, a fish entree, a sauté of the day, a vegetarian wrap, grilled sandwich, and a salad bar. Could be worse. Seph had been raised to appreciate good food, but he wasn't a snob.

Seph scanned the dining room, but he saw no sign of the boy with the glasses.

He and Trevor carried their trays to a large, rectangular table by the window. A half dozen boys were already seated there. Conversation died away when Trevor and Seph sat down, but then everyone took turns introducing themselves. Troy was a small, scholarly-looking black student, dressed in a white dress shirt and bow tie. Harrison had the kind of clean-cut, preppy look that is often misleading, while James was blunt and cocky with overdyed black hair and multiple piercings and tattoos.

Troy was from Philadelphia. “I've been in public school, private school, every religious school you can think of,” he explained. “They said I was hyperactive.” Seph found that hard to believe, given his buttoned-down appearance. Troy was a senior, and said he hoped to attend Yale the following year.

Harrison and James were juniors, Harrison from San Diego and James from Houston. Both readily admitted to a history of heavy partying.

“I had a trust fund, you know?” Harrison said, stuffing down the last bite of a burger and chasing it with soda. “So I didn't see much point in school. I got high a lot, cut class a lot. Meanwhile, my parents were spending all their time getting a divorce. Then my grandfather said I had to come here, or there would be no more money. I guess I forgot that a trust fund has a trustee.” He laughed loudly and punched Seph playfully in the shoulder.

This place is full of misfits, Seph thought, rubbing his shoulder. Just like me.

Well, not exactly like me.

Once again, he waited for mention of the incident of the cove, but it didn't come up. It might as well have never happened.

“What about you?” James asked Seph. “How'd you end up here?”

“I had to leave my last school.” Seph tilted back a bit from the table, resting his palms on the edge of the hardwood, rocking back in his chair. “I had a difference of opinion with the administration.”

“About what?” Troy leaned forward.

“They thought I should come to class,” Seph replied, making eye contact with each of them. “I had other priorities.”

“Like what?” Harrison grinned in anticipation.

“You know. Hanging out with girls. Hacking into the school computer.” He rocked forward, so all four legs of the chair struck the floor with a bang. “Skinny-dipping in the faculty pool.”

This brought hoots of laughter from Harrison, smiles all around. An end to the inquisition.

Time to change the subject, he thought. Seph never had any difficulty directing a conversation. “How do I get my schedule? I guess I should've asked Dr. Leicester about it.”

“They'll deliver it to your room before Sunday night, with the books you'll need,” Trevor replied.

Seph went through the rest of his usual list of questions. All the students had mailboxes in the administration building. He could get money at the cashier's office, but there wasn't much to spend it on. He could use his student card to rent movies and order pizza through the bookstore.

“So what do you do for fun around here?” Seph asked, pushing a last bite of fish around his plate.

“Not much,” Troy replied. “Watch movies, hang out. And hey, you can go see the bears and raccoons at the Dumpster.”

Harrison added, “There's lots of sports, like crosscountry skiing and snowboarding. Sailing's over, but it'll start up again in the spring. Over at the rec. center you can do tennis and racquetball.” He shrugged. “That's about it.”

“Don't worry about having nothing to do,” Trevor said, rolling his eyes. “They work us pretty hard.”“What about girls?” Seph had attended boys' schools before, but mostly in cities, where there was ample opportunity for socializing.

“You'll have to wait until summer,” Harrison said regretfully. “Or winter recess, anyway.”

Seph took this news philosophically. N'exigez pas beaucoup et vous ne serez pas déçu. Don't expect much, and you won't be disappointed.

One thing he did expect was Internet access. “What's this deal about not being able to go online?”

“It's weird,” Harrison said. “They're up-to-date in a lot of other ways.”

“Let's go ask Dr. Leicester about it,” Seph suggested. This was greeted by a notable lack of enthusiasm. Which was surprising, because people always liked his ideas. He tried again. “We could get up a petition. Have a demonstration.”

Troy cleared his throat. “Um … I don't think that's such a good idea.” “Don't you even care?” Seph demanded, exasperated. Being online was like having access to oxygen.

“You could ask Dr. Leicester about it,” James ventured, making it clear Seph was on his own. “But I wouldn't get your hopes up. I think the alumni go online, but that's it.”

“That's another thing,” Seph said. “The alumni. What's up with them? What are they doing out here in the middle of nowhere?” He looked around the table, but nobody met his eye. “I mean, aren't you curious?” There was some shrugging of shoulders and clearing of throats. But no real response.

“Okay. So you're not curious.” Seph pulled out his cell phone, wondering if the change in location would make any difference. It didn't. “My cell phone isn't getting a signal. Should I change providers?”

“I guess there's no transmission towers around here,” Trevor said. “Nobody's phone works. You'll have to use a land line.”

This was the most passive group of students he'd ever met. It was as if something had taken the rowdy right out of them. “Is there a Catholic church near here?”

“There are no churches of any kind that you can get to,” James said. “You'll have to make it up to God in the summertime.”

“There's nothing?” Seph looked around the table. “I can't believe that.”

“They have an outdoor chapel here, though I can't tell you why, in this climate,” Trevor said. “There are ecumenical services once a week, either there or in the admin. building.”

Genevieve had been a devout Catholic, so Seph had attended Jesuit schools until she and the Fathers had disagreed on how to deal with his magical extravagances. The Jesuits had proposed an exorcism. Genevieve had declined.

Church had always been a sanctuary. The Latin Masses relaxed him. He liked the reassuring cadence of the old language, like ancient charms against the darkness, the perfumed smoke rising from the censers, the cavernous architecture within which his problems seemed small and manageable. He seemed to have an affinity for ritual.

No Masses. Well, he didn't expect to stay long. “Which one of you is Joseph McCauley?”

Seph looked up, startled, realizing that the table conversation had died away. Two young men, perhaps college age, stood at the head of the table. One was tall and whippet thin, with hair and lashes so pale as to be almost transparent. The other was dark haired, broad shouldered, and bulked-up. The kind of guy who had creases in the back of his neck and needed two-a-day shaves.

“That's me,” Seph said, raising his hand and waggling his fingers. “What's up?”

“Dr. Leicester would like to see you in his office.”

Seph noticed that everyone else at the table was focused on the floor. Like in class, when you hadn't read the chapter and were afraid the teacher would call on you. “Oka-ay. And you are … ?”

"I'm Warren Barber,” the blond one said. “This is Bruce Hays.” As if that explained anything.

Seph glanced at his watch. Almost eight o'clock, and, despite his nap, he was bone tired. Best to get this meeting over with so he could go to bed. He pushed back his chair and smiled around the table. “Hey. Good to meet you. Thanks for all the inside. Guess I'll see you later.”

They all studied him as if they were trying to fix his image in their minds, like they might forget what he looked like after he was gone.

“Good luck, Seph,” Trevor said softly.

“Welcome to the Havens,” Hays said as they climbed the stairs from the cafeteria level to the administrative offices on the third floor.

“Thanks. Ah—are you faculty members?” Seph asked, while trying to imagine what these two could possibly teach.

“Nah. We're alumni,” Barber replied. “We're the alpha wolves in this organization. Hate to tell you, but you've been dining with the sheep.”

“I … um …” Seph had no clue how to respond to this.

“Dude, you're going to like it here,” Hays said, clapping him on the back. “We promise.”

Dr. Leicester's office occupied the choice position at the front of the building, with the best view of the ocean. It was like no headmaster's office Seph had ever seen: sleekly modern, with a fax, computer, printer, and scanner. He saw none of the usual diplomas, awards, and other detritus of interschool competitions, save several large sailing trophies.

Seph looked longingly at the array of cutting-edge hardware, then leaned his hip against a table by the window. “So. What exactly do you do here?” he asked Hays and Barber. “Are you like, teaching assistants?”

Hays and Barber looked at each other. “I guess you could say we're more like, you know, research assistants,” Barber said, grinning.

Seph thought they looked more like, you know, thugs. If you saw Hays and Barber walking down the street, you'd cross to the other side.

Well, maybe good help was hard to find. “What's your research about?” Seph asked. “Do you have a grant, or what?”

“Dr. Leicester will tell you more about the—ah— research,” Hays said. “The thing to remember about us is that we rule on this campus. We answer only to Dr. Leicester.”

Well, if so, it's kind of a remote kingdom, Seph thought. I'd rather rule a few square blocks of Toronto than—

“Hello, Joseph.”

Seph swung around. Dr. Leicester stood in the doorway.

“Thank you for coming up. Have a seat.” Leicester pointed to one of two chairs drawn up to a table in the corner. Seph sat. Leicester took the other seat. “You've met Mr. Hays and Mr. Barber? Good.”

A file folder lay on the table. Leicester pulled it toward him and began leafing through the contents. “Joseph, I told you earlier today that here at the Havens we pride ourselves in tailoring the curriculum to the student. Based on your record and the difficulties you've been having, I suspect that you may require special attention.”

Seph peered at the pages between Leicester's hands, trying to read upside down. “I'm not sure what you mean. What difficulties?” Muddled by fatigue, his mind was not as nimble as usual. “I've been doing really well. If you look at my transcripts, you'll see that…”

“I'm talking about the episode down at the cove this afternoon.”

Admit nothing—that was his first rule. “I'm sorry I was late. I'll make sure it won't happen again.”

Leicester waved away his answer impatiently. “The ocean very nearly came to a boil. Most unusual, even in midsummer. In fact, it's never happened before.”

Appeal to logic—second rule. “What's that got to do with me?” Seph looked from Leicester to the two alumni and back again.

“We believe you were the cause—intentional or not.”

Delay the inevitable—third rule. “Look, I'm really tired, and none of this is making sense. Could we talk about this tomorrow?”

Leicester riffled through his papers. “You've changed schools four times in three years.” “Sometimes it takes a while to find a good fit.”

“I understand there have been other incidents. Fires. Explosions. Flying sheep?” Leicester raised an eyebrow.

Seph was baffled. If Leicester knew his history, then why had he been admitted in the first place? He shoved back his chair and stood. “Flying sheep? Sorry. I don't know what you're talking about. I've really got to go.” He turned toward the door, but Hays and Barber blocked the way.

“Sit down, Joseph,” Leicester said calmly. “Please. Trust me, it's in your best interest to hear me out.”

Hays and Barber weren't moving. Seph returned to the table and sat.

“That's better.” Leicester sighed and thought a moment, as if unsure how to begin. Finally, he reached out and closed his hand on Seph's forearm. Seph flinched, expecting the crushing grip characteristic of men who make a religion of working out. What was surprising was not the strength, but the raw power that roared through. Seph sucked in his breath, struggling to keep a stunned, stupid look off his face and not sure he succeeded. After a moment, Leicester released his arm. The print of his hand remained.

Dr. Leicester was a wizard, too.

Leicester's voice trickled into his brain, exploding with a heat like Genevieve's brandy. “None of what's happened is your fault, Joseph. Wizards need training, and I expect you've had none. You are very powerful, from what I've seen. And power will find its … outlets.” He paused, then spoke aloud. “So. Am I right so far?”

Wordlessly, Seph nodded, still trying to grapple with this sudden twist of events.

Leicester patted him on the shoulder. “I know this must be a bit …jarring.” The wizard settled back in his chair. “Once, Mr. Hays and Mr. Barber were just like you—gifted but unschooled. Now they are well on their way to becoming masters.”

Hays and Barber smiled modestly.

If I were a master of magic I would work on my appearance, Seph thought.

“What about everyone else?” he began. “Are they all … ?”

“Most are not. Most are only what you would call wayward.” Leicester shrugged dismissively. “We recruit students who've had difficulty elsewhere because often that includes persons like yourself. The untrained gifted.” The headmaster toyed with an elaborate ring he wore on the middle finger of his left hand. “How much do you know about the guilds and the elements of power?”

“A little.”

“Tell me.”

Seph searched his memory. “Um. The gifted are born with Weirstones, a crystalline source of power that sits behind the heart,” he recited. “The power runs in families. The … ah … kind of Weirstone you have determines the nature and extent of your power and which of the guilds you belong to.”

When Seph paused, Leicester nodded, encouraging him to go on.

“The magical guilds include sorcerers, seers, warriors, enchanters and wizards. In the specialty guilds, the magic is more elemental, more direct. Wizards are the most powerful, because they shape magic with words.”

“And who told you all this?”

“My foster mother. She was a sorcerer.”

Genevieve claimed she'd promised his parents not to involve him in the dangerous world of wizardry. So she'd left him with a thousand questions and a power he couldn't control.

“And where is your foster mother?”

“She died three years ago.”

“Pity.” Leicester mustered up the familiar, sympathetic look. “So you don't have any family.”

“Not really.” “What is your House affiliation?”

The same question Alicia had asked. Maybe now he could finally get some information. “I guess I don't know much about the Houses.”

Leicester studied him with his ball-bearing eyes, as if trying to decide if he was telling the truth. “As the ruling guild, wizards have been required to develop systems for the allocation of power. Else we would have had Armageddon on our hands.”

Seph sensed that Leicester had delivered this speech many times before.

"There are two major Houses of wizards, the Red Rose and the White. Wizard families align themselves with one or the other, and many of those allegiances go back to the War of the Roses in fifteenth-century Britain. Interactions between the Houses have been governed by a document called the Rules of Engagement, the treaty that ended the war.

“For centuries, power has been allocated between the Houses by a series of tournaments. Members of the Warrior Guild fight as proxies for the Roses. The winning house rules the Weir—the magical guilds—until the next tournament is held. It's a system that has worked well.” Seph leaned forward. His weariness seemed to have disappeared. “Why haven't I heard of this?”

“Here in the States, many of the Weir don't know they are gifted. Old connections have been broken. Some who came here made a conscious decision to leave their Houses behind.” Leicester sighed. “I suppose the underguilds saw it as an opportunity to escape from service. But for wizards, the result is that young people like yourself have no guidance or instruction. And that can be disastrous. Our purpose here at the Havens is to remedy that.”

“So you're saying you can train me in wizardry?”

Leicester smiled. “I am saying that, yes.”

“And I'll learn how to control magic, and how to avoid…accidents.”

“Yes.” After the warehouse, Seph had wanted to have nothing to do with magic, ever again. But he had no choice. In his case, power had a way of surfacing in uncontrollable ways. To be able to control magic, to use it properly … that would be a miracle.

But he knew enough to question wizards bearing gifts.

“What's in it for you?” Seph asked.

Leicester stood and walked to the window. He gazed out at the harbor, hands clasped behind his back. Then turned back to face Seph.

“These are troubled times for the Houses, a time of great danger. Back in the summer, a tournament in Britain went wrong. The Rules of Engagement were broken. A group of mostly servant-guild rebels has taken sanctuary in Ohio. An anarchist who calls himself the Dragon is fomenting rebellion and attacking wizards of both houses all over the world. Alliances are shifting. If war breaks out between the Houses again, we are all at risk.”

He paused, as if expecting a reaction, but Seph said nothing. He'd always found that he learned more if he kept quiet.

“To answer your question, I am still nominally affiliated with the White Rose. But it is my hope that through our work here at the Havens we can create a new path, a new order that ends the bloodshed and eliminates the constant warfare between the Houses. Think of what we could accomplish if we were not focused on murdering each other.”

That made sense.

“Are there students from other guilds here?” Seph asked. “Like warriors and … and sorcerers?”

“They hardly need the kind of instruction I can provide. After all, they are bred to a purpose.” Leicester's expression was faintly disdainful. “No, we focus on wizards. Our graduates become the most powerful users of magic in the world.” “How long have you been doing this?”

“We graduated our first class five years ago.”

“How do people find out about the Havens? I've been looking for help for three years, and I've never heard of it.”

Leicester smiled thinly. “The nature of wizard politics requires that we be discreet. You may have heard that we closely control communications in and out of here. There is a reason.” “But I don't understand why …”

“When you know more, you'll understand,” Leicester said sharply. “We can't risk discovery by those who would destroy our only real hope for peace. There are those who have a strong vested interest in maintaining the status quo. For that reason, it's important that no whisper of this reach the Roses.”

From what he knew of wizards, Seph wasn't surprised to learn that Leicester had a political agenda. Genevieve had infused into him a deep suspicion of wizard politics, which often seemed to involve bloodying the underguilds. No doubt the headmaster would try to get him involved sooner or later. But he'd deal with it, if he could get the help he needed. “How does it work? Who does the teaching? How long does it take?”

“Shall we assume, then, that you are interested in joining our magical collaborative?” Leicester's eyes glittered. “Yes. Absolutely.” The precision of the wizard's language was a warning, but he could not afford to say no.

“Good,” Leicester said. “I thought that would be your answer.” “When do we get started?” Seph persisted.

“Take a few days to settle in and get caught up with your other classes. Then we'll talk again. We have techniques that streamline the process.” “Isn't there something I could be reading in the meantime, some way to prepare?”

Leicester studied him a moment. “Perhaps. Do you have a Weirbook?”

“I don't know what that is.” Alicia Middleton had mentioned Weirbooks at the party.

“Each member of the Weirguilds has a Weirbook, created at birth. Even those in the servant guilds. It summarizes the member's magical lineage and family history. Wizard Weirbooks include charms and incantations that have been handed down through families over the centuries.” He paused, raising his eyebrows in inquiry.

“I don't have one,” Seph admitted.

“Actually, you do have one,” Dr. Leicester said. “It's a matter of locating it. What is really key is what I told you earlier: we require total commitment from our wizardry students. Are you capable of that?”

“Yes, sir,” Seph replied. “You won't be disappointed.” He'd lived precariously for years, like someone with a terminal disease, never able to plan more than a few months ahead. Whatever the consequences of this decision, he'd risk it.

“Good,” Leicester said. “Oh, and it would be best for you not to discuss any of this with the Anaweir.” At Seph's blank look, he added, “The ungifted students. It only causes resentment, and we don't want them spreading rumors once they leave the Havens. In fact, it would be best for you to keep your distance from them outside of class.”

Seph thought of Trevor and Harris and Troy and the others. “I don't understand. Why do we …”

Leicester waved his hand impatiently. “Oh, be polite, of course. But you'll find you'll have little in common with them as your training progresses. Once you are properly enrolled, we'll move you into the Alumni House with the others.”

Seph remembered how Trevor and the others had responded when he mentioned the alumni. “The wizard students live in the Alumni House?”

Leicester nodded. “All of the alumni are gifted.”

Seph glanced at Hays and Barber. “Are they … have they all graduated? I mean … is there anyone else my age? Will I still be in class with the others?” He felt connected to Trevor and the others now that he'd met them.

“We'll get into that once your training is underway.” The wizard stood, signaling that the interview was at an end. “Now, you'd better get on to bed. You've had a long day.” And Seph realized he had been dismissed.

Chapter Four: A Visit to the Alumni House
As promised, Seph's books and class schedule were delivered to his door early Sunday morning. He found the locations of the classroom buildings on the campus map, reviewed the syllabi, and started in on his reading. He'd always been a good student, so he didn't think he'd have any trouble catching up. He wanted to get as much work as possible out of the way before his classes in wizardry began.

By late afternoon, however, he was having trouble concentrating on eighteenth-century European history. He tried it with and without headphones. He moved from his bed to his desk, hoping sitting upright would enforce some discipline. But he found himself punching randomly at his keyboard, wishing he could go online. He was used to spending hours every day online with his friends, a stimulating blend of media, music, IMing, and homework.