Cinda Chima - The Enchanter Heir

“No,” Emma said. “I’m only sixteen, and I have nobody. You know they’ll put me in foster care until I’m eighteen, even if they don’t put me in jail.” She hesitated. “You know, Mickey, I was hoping . . .” She stopped talking when she saw the no in Mickey’s eyes.

“You got to go to the police,” Mickey said. “If you stay here, they’ll find you—they already been here once. It would be better to turn yourself in and answer a few questions, show Sthem you had nothing to do with it. And they’ll make sure you get taken care of, till you finish school.”

Emma would have kept arguing, but she could tell it wouldn’t do any good. Mickey was right: they would find her, sooner or later, if she stayed in Memphis. If they found her staying with him on the down-low, he might lose his liquor license.

“You know, Mickey, I just remembered. There is someone I can call,” Emma said. “Let me sleep on it and maybe we can figure something out in the morning.”

“All right, Memphis.” Mickey hesitated. She knew he didn’t quite believe her, but also didn’t want to deal with not believing her. “Good night, then. You need anything?”

Emma shook her head. “I’m fine,” she lied.

After Mickey clomped back downstairs, Emma stuffed the money back into the envelope. Before she could chicken out, she pulled out the note Sonny Lee had left for her and punched the telephone number into her cell phone.

It rang, several times, and just when Emma thought the call would go to voice mail, a man answered in a gruff voice. “Boykin.”

Her heart did a flip-flop. “Are you Tyler Boykin?”

“Now, what’d I just say?” After a pause, he added suspiciously, “Who is this?”

“My name’s Emma Greenwood,” Emma said. “My grandfather, Sonny Lee Greenwood, said I should call you.”

Tyler Boykin was quiet so long Emma thought maybe he’d hung up.

“You still there?” she said, her fingers sweaty on the phone.

“Emma Claire Greenwood,” he said finally. “I knew this day would come. What happened?” It was like he knew it was something bad.

“Well . . .” Emma cleared her throat. “Well, Sonny Lee is . . . he’s dead. He fell. In his shop.”

Tyler Boykin swore softly. Then went quiet. Finally, he said, “Did he fall or did somebody knock him down?” Hmm, Emma thought. It seems like both Sonny Lee and this Tyler Boykin suspect foul play. “He was down when I found him,” Emma said, “so I don’t know. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“I didn’t say you did.” Seconds passed, and Emma could hear him breathing in the phone. “Where are you now?”

“I’m in Memphis. At a club.”

“That figures. What club are you at?”

“Mickey’s,” Emma said. “Do you know it?”

“Yeah.” More silence, as if Tyler Boykin were thinking hard. “Look, sit tight, and I’ll come get you. Take me about twelve hours if I drive straight through.”

“Twelve hours! Where are you?”

“Up north in Ohio. Near Cleveland,” Boykin said. “You ever been there?”

“No, never,” Emma said. One thing she knew: she wasn’t going to be getting into a car with someone she didn’t know, even if he came recommended by Sonny Lee. “Give me the address. I’ll drive there myself.”

“You can drive?” Boykin sounded stunned. “How old are you now?”

“I’m going to be seventeen,” Emma said. “Next March.”

“Time flies,” Boykin muttered. “You got a car?”

“Well. Sonny Lee has—had an old van he’d drive to gigs,” she said. “It’s not much to look at, but it runs good.” That Swas stretching it, but she’d need a car to get around. Emma didn’t worry that the police would be looking for it because Sonny Lee had never transferred the title from the man he’d bought it from. It was kind of an informal deal. “Now, what was that address?”

“I’d rather come get you,” Boykin said.

“And I’d rather drive.”

He sighed. “All right, but you can’t tell anybody where you’re going. I don’t want anybody following you up here.”

“Why would anybody follow me up there?” Emma said, about to lose patience.

“Just promise, okay?”

“All right,” Emma said. “I won’t tell anyone. I don’t want anybody coming after me either.”

He gave her the address and she scribbled it on the back of Sonny Lee’s note.

But she wasn’t going to drive all the way to Cleveland without getting some answers. “Look, I know Sonny Lee said I should call you, but . . .” There just wasn’t any other way to put it. “How do you know him? Who are you and what’s your connection to me?”

Boykin laughed a low, bitter laugh. “Me? I’m Sonny Lee’s son. I’m your daddy.”

Debriefing

“Mr. Kinlock!”

Jonah lifted his head from his desk and peered, blearyeyed, at Constantine. If it was Constantine teaching, it must be calculus. At the Anchorage, the teachers moved from classroom to classroom while students stayed put, to allow some of the more physically challenged students to be mainstreamed.

But staying put made it that much more difficult to stay awake. And even harder to keep track of what class was in session.

“Sorry,” Jonah mumbled. “I was just resting my eyes.” All around him, muffled laughter.

“Well, rest your eyes on your own time. I’m not up here to compete with your dreams, delicious as they may be. I’m up here to teach you a little something about differential equations.”Constantine was a recent hire, and a bit less missiondriven than most of Gabriel’s handpicked faculty. And, of course, he knew nothing about Nightshade. What he thought

She knew about Jonah’s delicious secret life was totally wrong. I will never use calculus, Jonah thought. I won’t live long enough to use differential equations. I have other problems I need to solve. But part of the bargain at the Anchorage was that students cooperate with their Individual Education Plans, or IEPs. It went along with the shared fiction that any of them would live long enough to need a career.

Jonah was an erratic student, mostly A’s with the occasional F. He didn’t obsess much about the failing grades. What was Gabriel going to do, flunk him out? When he missed things in class, it was because (a) he hadn’t had enough sleep because of his work with Nightshade, or (b) he was distracted by the background drama. Right now calculus was the least of his worries.

Even on the best of days, Jonah felt like he was under siege in class. On this particular morning, it didn’t help that he was jet-lagged and emotionally bruised from the events in London. Any gathering of teens was bound to be a cesspool of emotions, and the classroom was no exception. Jealousy, embarrassment, grief, unrequited love—it was all there on any given day.

He was most aware of lust. Lust hung in the air like September pollen. Sometimes it was a kind of broadband hormonal yearning that splashed everyone in the room. Other times it had a specific target. Rudy Severino, for instance, was gazing longingly at Jonah’s best friend, Natalie Diaz, looking for a reaction to the sizzling texts he was sending. She’d read them, smirk, and text back. They were at that stage in their relationship where their desire for each other made everyone else feel like an extra. Even in the middle of a classroom. Jonah was glad that Natalie was going out with someone, but he couldn’t help wondering how it would all turn out.

Nat and Rudy were in a band together, and failed romance was a major cause of band breakups. Jonah wouldn’t want to be on Natalie’s bad side. She was tough. She used to run with the Outlaws in Lorain—before her extended family sent her to the Anchorage.