Page 27 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

So the Queen’s League meant to lay a trap for Silas. Bait him back to the island, where other wizards would be waiting to entrap him.

Owein asked, “Will the four of you be enough?” He wasn’t familiar with the spells Mrs. Mirren, Lord Pankhurst, and Mr. Mackenzie possessed, but he didn’t think Blightree’s were especially offensive.

Patiently, Blightree nodded. “We are only the first; more of our comrades are coming to the bay.”

“I’ll write to the Druids as well,” Fallon offered, knitting and reknitting her fingers together on her lap. “We can help.”

Mrs. Mirren said, “I would be more than happy to relay your message.”

Fallon’s limbs drew in, like she was a drawstring bag closed tightly. “I will do it myself.”

Lord Pankhurst said, “Unless you’ve access to enchanted transport, Miss Fallon, your missive is unlikely to reach your kin in a timely manner, and they will be unable to travel here within a window that would be of any use to us.”

Fallon’s dark brows drew together. She said nothing, which was better than the very possible alternative of her tongue turning to a switch against every Englishman—and Scotsman—in the room. The Druids guarded their locations, their names, their very existence very closely.

“Is there,” Blightree began, cutting through the tension in the room, “a safe place for you to stay?”

Merritt pulled his eyes from Fallon, seeming curious about the exchange. “BIKER,” he answered, “but that’s expected, isn’t it? Not sure if an expected place is safe. Though ...” He considered. “We do have an open invitation with Hulda’s sister in Massachusetts.”

Owein bit down a groan. He couldn’t stand Danielle Tanner. She was so ... flamboyant. And acted as though Owein was of an age with Mabol. Incessantly.

Merritt glanced out the window as well as he could, given his injury. “Hulda will be home soon, and I need to sit down with my staff.”

“Of course.” Blightree nodded. “We’ll make ourselves as small as possible. And, Mr. Fernsby, if I may”—he leaned forward in his chair—“I’d be happy to assist you with that break in your clavicle.”

Merritt let out a sigh of pure ecstasy. “My dear William, you are very welcome to it.”

Owein stepped into the room then, quietly passing the box to Mrs. Mirren. “If you could see this returned to her as swiftly as possible.”

The wizard merely nodded. “Of course.”

Chapter 10

May 1, 1847, Boston, Massachusetts

Four Years Ago

Nearly there. He wasnearly there!

So long, he’d been trying to drag this broken spirit and breaking body tothem. To wring the life from their necks as he’d failed to do before. He’d tried to find a water spell to restore what he was, but there was nothing in this blasted country to help him, and he’d failed time and time again to stow himself upon a ship to his homeland. If he couldn’t have his supplemental spells back, then he’d skip right to revenge.

He breathed hard from exertion, both from travel and from suppressing Charlie. Their breaths were the same, but Silas couldhearthe echo of the other spirit’s thoughts behind his eardrums. Couldfeelthe man’s nails raking down the underside of his skin. Charlie didn’t want to kill. But Charlie was weak.

Gritting his teeth, Silas pressed his hand against a light post and closed his eyes, mentallyswallowingto force his unwanted companion down. When he opened his eyes, he realized he recognized this place, even in the thick of night. The Boston Institute for the Keeping of Enchanted Rooms was down this street and around the corner. He cackled, though it hurt his raw throat to do so. Nearly there. He wasnearly there, and then he would slaughter Hulda Larkin. Not slowly. He wouldn’t even give her a chance to beg. Oh, he wanted her to suffer, but her death was more important than her suffering. He could mutilate her after, then go for the man and the dog.

He staggered forward, legs stiff as though he’d used a kinetic spell. A moan coursed up his throat—not from him. Silas swore.Get back! Leave me alone!

Charlie pushed at him again, sending murmurs ofwrong,wrong,wronginto his skull. With an open hand, Silas beat the side of his head. “Get back!” he snarled. “Get away from me!”

“Pardon?”

The word wasn’t his, and it wasn’t Charlie’s. It took Silas a moment to realize he wasn’t alone on the street; a large bearded man in a linen work shirt addressed him. He stood on the porch of an alehouse, with three companions playing cards at a table nearby.

Silas ignored him. Focused on the end of the street. Focused on smothering Charlie. He was so close—

“Hey.” The bearded man grabbed Silas’s shoulder and whipped him around. Lack of food made Silas’s vision swim with the action. “You talking to me?”

“I think he was, Dan,” said one of the imbeciles at the table, a lit cigarette in the corner of his mouth. “This is public space, chap. Show some manners.”

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