Page 44 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

A soft knock sounded at the door, clipping the conversation short. Miss Steverus poked in her head, keeping the door pressed to her shoulder. Myra backed up a few steps, ensuring she wouldn’t be seen by anyone in the lobby. For a person so willing to make herself known moments before, she certainly shied away from prying eyes.

“I’m so sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Fernsby,” the secretary murmured, nodding once to Myra, “but there’s a man here to see you. I asked him to wait outside, but he says it’s urgent.”

Hulda and Myra exchanged a quick glance. Any guest would have had to check in with the watchmen outside before entering. “Urgent how?”

“He wouldn’t tell me, but I can try ...”

Her words faded as Hulda waved. “Let him in. Myra, occupy yourself.”

Frowning, Myra took a book off a shelf and thoroughly buried her nose in it. Miss Steverus backed away, and the door reopened to reveal a man in well-worn but tidy clothes, albeit too large on his frame. Hisdark beard was oiled and combed, as was his hair, perhaps a little too much so, like he was trying hard to impress. But what really stood out about him were the white patches running unevenly through the locks—an almost sickly splotching of youth and age.

Hulda’s stomach sank into the tips of her toes as Charlie Temples closed the door behind him and compressed its handle with a spell, ensuring it wouldn’t open again.

Owein stretched his arms overhead as he walked through Providence, shaking off the lethargy of the weekend, though he’d slept decently well last night; public transportation was either slow or nonexistent yesterday, it being the Sabbath, so his choices had dwindled down to taking a break or walking. He couldn’t fly like Fallon, however much he wished he could, for more reasons than saving time traveling.

It felt strange walking with her now. She was human again, dressed simply by the kindness of a farmer’s wife who’d shared Hulda’s reservations about her altered clothes. The woman had even gifted Fallon a pair of shoes, though Fallon had left them behind.No point in taking something I won’t use,she’d said, but she had pressed a kiss to the toe of each shoe in a show of gratitude the elderly couple would never witness. Owein had fixed the older couple’s horse trough on the way out, though. Hopefully that would prove helpful.

Regardless, Fallon walked down the street in a dress fashionable enough for the times, her hair in a long braid down her back, her chin up with a confidence so many people lacked, despite the strange looks theybothgot. At this point, they were used to it. And it was invigorating, walking beside her like that. Just two normal people strolling down a city street. The sun was high, bringing out the scents of the street, both good—baking bread, women’s perfume, full-crowned trees—and bad—horse manure, sweat, a whiff of urine. Owein’s nose was not whatit used to be, but he could just detect the separation of the subtler scents, even if it was more from memory than ability.

Fallon’s arms moved in a relaxed swing counter to her steps; after they crossed a street, Owein caught her hand at the back end of a swing, lacing his fingers with hers, and earned himself a smile. He basked in it for another two blocks, until BIKER headquarters, two stories tall, gray brick, and unlabeled, came into view. He sucked in a deep breath and let it out all at once. Hulda was not going to be happy. Probably the least happy Owein had seen her during the time he’d been human again. But he could weather Hulda. He’d done so time and time again.

“You don’t have to come in.” He nodded to the watchmen out front; he’d been one of the first stationed at Blaugdone Island after the attack, and he recognized both of them. Owein led the way to the back door, surprised there wasn’t anyone watchingit. “She might get ... loud. And verbose.”

Fallon shrugged. “You’ve never seen Morgance angry. Nothing is more terrifying than that banshee on a rampage.”

Owein smirked, trying to imagine the motherly Druid he’d met in England on a warpath. He couldn’t quite picture—

The door whipped open just as he reached for it, nearly snapping off his fingers. Sadie Steverus, BIKER’s secretary, barreled into him, nearly knocking him over. Her hair was coming out of its pins, and frantic lines marred her pale face.

Grabbing her shoulders, Owein asked, “Sadie! What’s wrong?”

She blinked, seeming not to recognize him at first. Tears filled her eyes. “He’s hurting them—”

It was all Owein needed to hear.

He released the woman and bolted into the building, almost immediately tripping over a man’s body—the other watchman. Heart in his throat, he zipped up the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time, barely registering another fallen man in blue and the broken teapot crunching under his feet. He whirled up one, two stories. His lungs heaved as hereached BIKER’s main floor. Nothing was out of place, but he heard shouting and a loudthumpfrom the other side of Hulda’s office door. He ran to it and grabbed the handle, but it jammed. One pulse of a random subterfuge spell had it exploding in a firework of brass. He shoved the door open.

His eyes found Myra Haigh just as a cubical paperweight flew off Hulda’s desk and through Myra’s torso with the power of a cannonball.

Blood sprayed. Owein’s limbs turned cold, his ears ringing, as Myra’s dark eyes met his. She collapsed to the ground slowly, like a reed starved of sun.

Hulda, on the other side of her desk, screamed. The perpetrator, the same man who’d attacked them on the island, turned around, wild eyes framed by white-splattered hair.

Ellis, lying in the baby carriage in the corner, began to wail.

Owein roared, feral, and launched himself at Silas Hogwood, both physically and magically. His discordant-movement spell seemed to only ruffle the man’s clothes—thatdamnluck spell!—but his fists struck Silas’s chest before Silas kinetically shoved him backward into the bookcase-lined wall. Owein just caught Fallon shouting when a breaking spell snapped the bookshelves, sending wood and books avalanching onto him.

Heart thundering in his skull, Owein shoved at the pile with chaocracy, hardly noticing the loose nail digging into his leg or the pain radiating from his shoulder. He couldn’t use too large a spell, not with innocents in the room. The confusion passed quickly—he just neededout. Another discordant-movement spell sent the books flying away just as Fallon, now a dog, latched on to Silas’s forearm. Panic expanded from every organ in Owein’s body. In the corner, Hulda cried, “Please hurry! Please!” into a communion stone.

Silas grabbed Fallon by the back of her neck; the dog whined as a life-force spell sucked away her energy.

Owein snapped. Vision red, he charged from the rubble and slammed bodily into Silas, sending them both to the ground. Owein’selbow snapped one of Silas’s ribs, but before his fist could collide with the man’s jaw, another kinetic spell shoved him up and over, slamming and pinning him into the far wall, arms and legs outstretched. He gasped like a bull had sat on him. Struggled against the pressure, but it didn’t relent.

Owein didn’t need the crutch of movement to use magic, though; it was all pageantry, anyway. Chaocracy flooded from him, seizing the fallen books, sending them dancing and zipping and jumping. Yet that luck spell of Silas’s was strong enough that every random projectile missed him. One smacked Fallon’s rump, but she didn’t seem to notice. She lay on the floor, awake and breathing, but hazy, weak.

Joints stiff as wrought iron, Silas turned on Hulda, advancing on unbending legs. She clutched Ellis to her chest, shoulders heaving, eyes red. She picked up an ink jar and threw it at him. It collided with the side of his head. The blow did nothing to stop the madman’s advance, but it did distract him enough that his kinetic hold on Owein dropped, sending him tumbling to the floor. A sharp pain zipped up his ankle, and a glass vial of silvery liquid fell from his pocket, landing a few inches from his hand.

Breath catching, he snatched it, decision already made.

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