Page 19 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

He ran his thumb over her knee. “Because God knew I was stuck in my plot and thought to throw some novel fodder my way, I imagine.”

She swatted at his hand. Adjusted Ellis so she could hold her in one arm, then clasped Merritt’s fingers. “At least he didn’t break your sense of humor.”

“Yes. I feel nothing if not hilarious right now.” He winced. He’d inhaled too hard.

Hulda wilted. “You should take the laudanum. It will help you sleep.”

“I’d rather be alert.”

“And do what? Jest from your bed?” The words had a hard edge, but it wasn’t meant for him. Just stress. “Take it. I’ll run through my exercises, see if I can sense anything. And ...” Her eyes watered again.

He squeezed her hand.

Shaking her head, she said, “I just realized tomorrow is the Sabbath.”

He offered a weak smile. “Let’s hope Silas, or whoever he is, still fears God.”

Chapter 7

October 30, 1846, Boston, Massachusetts

Five Years Ago

Silas had nothing.

The watchmen had cleared out the run-down house in Marshfield. His contact with BIKER had turned on him, then conveniently vanished. News of his demise had likely already reached England, but that didn’t matter; his estate had been seized whenthat womanhad him imprisoned. Financially, he was ruined. Magically, castrated. He still possessed his innate spells, even after losing his body, but he’d lost so much.

He mourned his water spell, the first he had absorbed from an enchanted house. The one that allowed him to preserve his donors. That, too, had been tethered to his first body. Unless he found another trapped inside an inanimate object, his ability to collect others’ sorcery was gone.

His best chances lay in England, Europe. He’d be free there. No one would search for a dead man, especially not one wearing a new face. And yet as he approached the docks in South Boston, another sharp spike radiated through his skull, forcing him to double over. He ground his teeth, clutched his head—

No, not again.

Silas blinked. No docks in sight. Not even the ocean. Where on God’s earth was he? Shivering in a field somewhere. Twilight. Lights in the distance might have been a farmhouse. A few trees—

I will kill you,he thought loudly.I will rip your soul apart fiber by fiber, and when I find a better body, I’ll roast yours like a pig on a spit and serve it to the bottom-feeders.

Mistake. He shouldn’t have tried to talk to Charlie. Talking to Charlie gave Charlie power.

Agony radiated in his bones. Silas dropped to his knees and grabbed fistfuls of icy grass, fighting back against the rising spirit. That feeling of fullness overwhelmed him, like his lungs continued to suck in air far past the point of bursting. His vision doubled, tripled. Memories replayed behind his eyes, too fast. Some his, some not. A woman giving birth. Riding horses through a hayfield. Smashing his brother’s skull against the mantel at Gorse End.

“Stop it!” he screamed into the descending night. He beat his forehead against the earth once, twice, three times. More. Again and again, until the pressure lessened. It never abated, never gave him true relief. He’d forgotten what it felt like, to be only himself in a frame of flesh. Forgotten what silence sounded like.

He had to get to Europe. Steal away on a boat, steal a ticket, offer his rare spells in employment as a common man if need be. He had to getout, and he had to get better. Surely there were other necromancers who could free him, but only those in England could possibly have the power—

Charlie’s whispers echoed inside Silas’s ears, folding over one another until they were only nonsense. Unending nonsense. Unrelentingnonsense.

“Die!”Silas screamed, and slammed his head harder into the earth.“I. Want. You. to. Die!”

He smashed his head until his nose bled and his brow split. When he woke again, dawn lit the sky.

And Charlie was still there.

Chapter 8

June 16, 1851, Portsmouth, Rhode Island

Hulda had run herself ragged on Sunday with the exercises she’d learned from Professor Griffiths, an augurist in London, some years ago. She’d written a great deal, focused and unfocused, tossed sticks and dice and consulted tea leaves. She’d walked out on the island where Owein prowled and Fallon,Fallon, soared through the air, keeping watch, and found torn pieces of fabric she recognized as Silas Hogwood’s clothing, then brought them inside and repeated her exercises, over and over until her head ached. When her augury kindled, she recorded everything she saw down to the last detail, even when it didn’t seem pertinent. For instance, she saw Hattie throwing food in the dining room, but noted the sun was high when she did it. So she knew there would be a peaceful afternoon in the near future, when the house was still standing and Hattie, at least, was still alive.

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