The Wizard Heir Read Online Free PDF Page B

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,