Free Sorcerer's Secret by Scott Mebus Page A

here, Van der Donck?” he asked her, his thin voice imperious.
    â€œThis is my house,” Alexa replied stiffly, strong dislike bubbling up alongside the fear. “And you and your little friends are trespassing, DeLancey.”
    James DeLancey smirked. “We’re merely keeping the peace. In case you haven’t heard, more gods have been dying. My Cowboys and I are riding around, making certain no villains are given free rein in our borough.”
    â€œYou and your Cowboys are more likely to be the problem than the solution, James,” Alexa informed him. It was true: during the Revolution, the native-born Cowboys, led by DeLancey, had taken great delight in terrorizing the Bronx on behalf of the British. After their deaths, they’d continued their marauding ways in the spirit realm, which often had put them at odds with Alexa’s father. She had no doubt who they were working for now, or why they were here.
    â€œAnyone with you?” DeLancey was asking, looking around. Yes, he was definitely searching for someone in particular. “Why are you here, anyway?”
    â€œThis is my home,” she repeated, trying to keep her cool. “And you are not allowed on my property. Get out before I call the militia. You know Stephanus van Cortlandt would love an excuse to put a bullet in your chest.” He gave her a murderous look but she stood her ground, staring him down while his men shifted restlessly. Finally, DeLancey’s frown slipped into a mocking grin.
    â€œFine.” DeLancey smirked, turning his horse around. “But I will be back. We’re in Kieft’s army, you know. We’ll protect you from the Munsees whether you like it or not.”
    With that, he flicked the reins, galloping off down the path, followed closely by the horses of his fellows. Alexa watched them go—her fear only showing in her shaking hands—before turning to race inside the only home she’d ever known.
    Alexa ran up to her father’s study, heading right for his desk to tear through his papers as fast as she could. But she couldn’t find any reference to Swindlers or Fair Engineers or any of it. She didn’t understand what any of the clues meant. This was just like her father, she thought ruefully. He loved puzzles and riddles and had no problem solving them in record time. But he was gone, leaving her in charge of the game. And she didn’t know how to play.
    What had the Fortune Teller said about the Bronx? Look behind the Beloved; that was the clue. Alexa had no idea what it could mean. And nothing in her father’s papers gave her a hint. She sighed as her hopes deflated: the whole house was a dead end.
    Discouraged, Alexa made her way toward the door. But before she could walk out of the study, a portrait caught her eye, hanging next to her father’s old easy chair. In the portrait, Alexa’s mother was standing in this very room in front of her husband’s desk, wearing a beautiful blue dress with a white shawl, and her bright blue eyes seemed to be laughing at some unknown joke. This was the Marta van der Donck Alexa pictured in her head, since her mother had died soon after Alexa was born. Growing up, she’d spent many long hours staring at the portrait, wondering what advice her mother would have given her about whatever problem plagued her that day. She would sometimes walk in on her father sitting behind that huge mahogany desk and just staring at the portrait of his dead wife, tears in his eyes. He’d loved Marta so much . . .
    A thought occurred to Alexa. Look behind the Beloved.Could it be that easy? Barely able to breathe, Alexa gingerly reached out and lifted up the picture.
    Nothing. Not even a small note taped to the back. Just the cold, hard wall. Alexa carefully let the portrait fall back into place. She should have known her father would never be so obvious. Oh well, another dead end.
    She kissed the air in front of the