I walk slowly up to the door. The guard huffs and yanks me over, shoving me inside and slamming the door with a clank so loud it makes me gasp.
The room I’ve entered is made of the same rock as the tunnel. There’s a little round table set with fancy saucers for tea against one of the walls, and a red divan straight out of the 1800s against the other. A fancy lamp atop a heavy mahogany desk at the back of the room shines a circle of dim light on a braided rug.
And standing in front of the desk is the Chief.
He doesn’t look anything like I’d expected him to. The name had inspired images of a long-haired, bare-chested Tarzan type, but the man standing before me wears a burgundy smoking jacket over a button-down shirt. His light blond hair is dusted with gray, and he wears it short, save for a cowlick that sweeps above his forehead. He watches me with interest, his eyes intelligent and calculating. When his mouth stretches into a wide smile, his teeth are so big they look like they belong in another man’s face.
I shudder—I think I’d prefer the Tarzan type.
“Don’t be scared,” he says, still smiling that Cheshire cat smile. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
I feel around inside for my magic. Nope, still not there.
“Would you like some tea?” he asks. “Coffee, perhaps?”
I give a tiny shake of my head, never breaking eye contact with him.
“Suit yourself. Why don’t you have a seat?” He gestures to the divan. He watches me for so long and with such intensity that I move to the seat almost not of my own volition. I clasp my shaking hands in my lap as he walks over to the round table and pours himself a cup of tea.
I flash my eyes around the room.
“You can’t escape,” he says, without so much as a glance my way. “The walls are solid rock for a half mile in any direction, and it’s heavily guarded both inside and out.” He sends me a sidelong smile meant to seem kind, but with his large teeth, it only seems demented. “You’re probably very confused,” he continues, stirring sugar into his cup. The spoon clanks against the china. “I bet you’re wondering where you are. What’s going on.”
I manage to murmur “Yes.”
“You needn’t worry,” he says. “You’ll be at peace very soon.”
I wonder if that’s supposed to be comforting.
His eyebrows rise high as he slurps his drink. “Mmm, that is fantastic. Are you sure you don’t want a cup?”
“Who are you?” I finally ask.
“Oh, how rude of me!” He sets his cup down and crosses over to me, stretching his hand out. “Everyone calls me the Chief.” I reluctantly take his hand, trying to repress a shiver as he grips mine. “And your name?”
“Ind…dia. It’s India.”
I don’t know why the fake name tumbles out of my mouth, just that it doesn’t seem smart to tell him the truth if I don’t have to.
He gives me a big-toothed smile. “India, what an unusual name—beautiful name. Welcome to my home.”
He watches me for a long moment, and I have to scream at myself not to squirm under his stare. At first I think he’s waiting for me to thank him for the compliment, but when he raises his hand up and points a long finger at my face, I realize it’s something much worse.
I gasp, automatically covering my face with my hands.
But nothing happens.
I keep waiting, and after a while, I lower my hands. The Chief’s grin slowly slides off his face.
“What did I just say to you?” he demands. I sink into myself at his angry tone.
“Um.” I rack my brain for his last words, not at all sure what I did wrong or why he’s suddenly so angry. “You said I had a beautiful name?”
“Impossible! Why didn’t it work?” He kicks his leg out, and the tea cart goes crashing to the ground. The door opens.
“Everything okay, sir?” one of the guards asks.
“Did I tell you to enter?” he yells. “Did I tell you to open the goddamn door?”
The door is pulled closed. When the Chief faces me again, his eyes flash with a terrifying rage. He looks like he wants to rip off my face.
He points his finger at me again.
It comes to me in a flash—the sad look on Cruz’s face, the Chief’s words that I’d be at peace soon—he was trying to erase my memory. Only I’m a witch, so it didn’t work. Holy crap. He’s going to find out an enemy snuck into his camp. And then he’s going to kill me.
His finger vibrates in the air. I realize with alarm that if I’m going to stay alive, I’ll have to make him think his spell worked.
I fall back on the divan, pretending that I’ve passed out. And then I remember waking up seated in Mrs. Malone’s office the day my memory really was wiped, which ixnays the possibility that passing out happens during the spell. I push myself up quickly, one hand pressed to my temple as I whip frantic looks around the room.
“Who are you?” I ask. “Where am I?”
The Chief’s mouth twists into a smile.
“They call me the Chief.” He reaches out his hand almost reverentially. I don’t take it, but his smile never fades.
“Would you mind very much if I sat down?” he asks. “I’d like to tell you a story that might shed some light on where you are. Who you are. You’re probably finding that you can’t remember much right now.”
He sits lightly on the end of the divan and smoothes his hands over his trousers.
“Once upon a time, there was a boy named”—he twirls a finger in the air—“Ivan. Ivan had a sister named Rowan. When he was just a very young boy, Ivan discovered that the world wasn’t as he thought it was: it was filled with fantastical people—witches and warlocks and sorcerers. People who used magic. He learned that he had magical potential too, as did his sister. Their parents were both sorcerers. As you can imagine, young Ivan thought that life would always be grand with this power at his hands, but that wasn’t so.” The Chief’s face grows serious.