The Lost Heir (Book I)- The Violet City

Behold

"She'd probably get in trouble. Let's try to find Theophilus's shop. It might give us some clues."

Seth locked his jaw and looked as if he was trying very hard not to hurl a loogie at the waitress. "Fine."

They left the restaurant, passing clothing stores, candle stores, and a shop selling talismans and amulets. There was a pet shop and a bakery. An art-and-music shop called Oh My Muse, a clock shop named Good Timing. After several blocks, they spotted a large crowd along one of the footbridges. "It reminds me of Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica," Isabella noted.

"I want to see what's going on," said Seth.

Isabella did not. This place was weird enough already without adding strange sideshows to the mix.

"Watch me fly!" the goateed man in the center of the crowd announced. They wove their way to the front to find a man in a tuxedo and a silver tie.

"Just get on with it, Fox!" complained someone from the crowd.

Fox? Isabella gasped, thumbing the little fox engraved on her necklace, which since the encounter with the odd bird-hatted woman, hung free from inside her suit.

"Happy Wintertide, everyone! Now! Behold," said the man as he balanced himself for a moment with his arms extended, took two deep breaths and then levitated several feet off the ground. Gasps, then cheers, peppered the crowd.

Behold? Isabella had heard that someplace before. Ice chilled her veins. It had been in the room in the tunnels where the three dark figures spoke in hushed tones. She had the sudden urge to leave.

"These illusion weavers," a sallow-complexioned man with a gray beard standing next to Seth interrupted her thoughts. He looked to be about sixty years old and wore a bowler hat like the man they'd seen pulling the enormous black horse when they'd first arrived. He was with a round, sour-faced woman, who looked to be about the same age, and a tall younger man with wavy, golden hair, who looked to be in his late teens or early twenties. These were likely his wife and son. "They break the law every time."

"What law are they breaking?" Seth asked, looking intrigued.

"You know!" He pounded his fist into his palm. "Empaths are not to weave upon each other underground unless explicitly under consult."

Isabella poised herself to turn away from the scene and pull Seth along with her until her mind held on a word the old man had used. "What do you mean 'weave'?"

The man's female companion chimed in, "Must be a debut."

"Or a spy," the man finished.

"We're not spies," Isabella insisted. She wouldn't be chased off by fear so quickly. One word didn't mean anything. Maybe this was her chance to figure out what was going on, to find Jack, who would surely help her, or even her Nano.

"Weaving is like manipulating the senses," the younger man said. His voice was deep and made Isabella tingle a little. "Wish-weaving, dream-weaving. This guy is illusion-weaving..."

"A form of mind-weaving," the woman added.

"So that we think we are seeing something that we're not. All illusionists do it," the young man went on. "Of course, we are allowed to weave the elements as long as no harm to the public occurs. But elemental weaving is not the easiest thing to do for most people. We mainly just use our intuition for guidance and understanding or for whatever work we do."

"Oh," said Isabella, noticing how crystal blue the young man's eyes were. "What kind of work do Empaths do?"

"Consults—like sages, wish-weavers, emotion coaches. Then there are the artists—bards, musicians, painters, writers. My dad is a Patrolman for the Shadows. That's why he called you a spy, but I know neither of you are."