Page 50 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

He sighed and picked at a mend in his trousers. “Will we ever be done with this?”

The words stopped her pacing cold, and her body threatened to deliquesce. “S-Silas is the most wanted man in the eastern United States.” She’d reiterated as much to herself several times. “He’ll have a hard time navigating the area. His best chance is to head west.”

Merritt tilted his head to one side. “But your vision.”

Hulda pinched her lips together and touched her bruised neck. Shook herself. “He’ll be here. Daytime, fog. Me and Fallon. That’s all.”

And there was nothing to be done for it. One unfamiliar with augury might think it a sign that the family should leave the island immediately. But the future as Hulda saw it could not be changed. It took into account whether or not Hulda told Merritt and the Queen’s League of Magicians, whether or not they tried to flee inland, and any other circumventions they might attempt to change their fate. One way or another, for or against her will, Hulda would be on Blaugdone Island in the fog with Fallon and Silas Hogwood in the future. The hopelessness of that fact made her very heart wilt.

Merritt stood, crossed the room, and gingerly touched her elbows. When she softened, he took her into his arms, holding her closely. Hulda burrowed in, smelling his petitgrain, absorbing his warmth. Here was the one place left where she felt safe. Here, in his arms, she could conquer the world, or at least forsake it for a moment.

“I don’t want to think about it right now,” she admitted. “I’m so tired of thinking about it.”

“I know. We’ll get through it. Every story has an end, one way or another.”

She pulled back just enough to gently kiss his lips. Meet his eyes. “Please give me something else to think about.”

He didn’t tease her, make a joke, even smirk. That alone spoke volumes of the gravity of their situation. But Merritt’s callused hands cupped the sides of her face, and he kissed her, demurely at first, like she might startle away. But the children were asleep, Owein was looked after, and watchmen and wizards alike roamed the bay. Who knew how many more chances they’d get? What if this was the last?

They made love slowly and thoroughly, forming unspoken promises and eternal declarations, even after the candlewick drowned. And through it all, despite the loss, the sorrow, and the fear, Hulda couldn’t help but be incessantly grateful for all she had. Even if Silas returned tomorrow to take it all, Hulda would die knowing hers was a life well lived.

Chapter 18

July 7, 1851, Providence, Rhode Island

Can’t kill them all. The bodies will leave a trail.

Silas shook his head hard, sharper to the right than the left, as he jogged through ... he didn’t know the name of the township. It was barely a township, just scattered buildings and livestock and clotheslines. The moon burned his back. He skittered behind one building and ran in its shadow until it ended. His head ached. He slapped himself. It wasn’t theotherthis time. Silas had long since quietedhim. Habit. Habit. Habit.Stay alert.

He was being followed.

Stand and fight, run and hide. Cut them open, what’s inside?He started to hum to himself, then choked the sound with his own tongue. Humming would draw his pursuer in. No humming.

A dog barked at him.

Silas whirled around, losing his balance and falling sharply on his hip, caught himself on his hand. He cursed and choked on that, too. Pulled back his sleeve and nearly vomited at the smell. He pushed another healing spell into the wound; it kept the rot from spreading, but necromancy struggled to heal necromancy. It was like trying to clean dirt with dirt. He couldn’t erase the once-a-house boy’s mark fromhis flesh. He should have burned the place down when he had a chance. Slaughtered the dog and eaten its hind legs for dinner.

Scrabbling to his feet, Silas considered doing the same for the other dog, who dared bark and reveal his location. Instead, he ran. His gait was uneven, a lord’s stride weighed down by neglect and fatigue. But he ran. He wouldn’t be a prisoner, not again. No one would have power over him—not the US government, not the Queen’s League, and certainly not Owein Mansel.

The moon burned into his back, and Silas ran.

Chapter 19

July 9, 1851, Boston, Massachusetts

The small chapel was situated in South Boston, away from the bustle of city life, not far from the little home Myra had abandoned when she went into hiding. Nothing bore her name—not on the death certificate, not in the hymns, not on the lips of Owein’s family, who made up the bulk of attendees at the quiet funeral. They, and a few members of the Queen’s League. Myra Haigh was already dead, or so the world believed. It didn’t make her second death any easier for those who’d known better.

Owein glanced to Beth, who sat to his left on the hard, wooden pew. He was beyond happy to reunite with her, if only for the day, but the funeral squashed the joy and relief until they were hardly recognizable. She and Hulda had both worked for Myra and known her personally; they took her murder the hardest. Hulda especially, since she’d seen it happen. Owein had seen it, too. His mind had a hard time piecing it together, the way Myra had died. As though the sky and the ocean had switched places. Still, it would be burned into his memory for as long as he had one.

He thought about the first time he’d met Myra. He’d caught a glimpse of her shortly after Silas Hogwood had pulled him from the house and shoved him into his terrier’s body, but he’d formally met her on a dark Boston street in late winter, standing with Merritt at a lightpost, fueled on hope that she would find them. The cobbles had smelled like rain and horses.

Merritt was the first person to have heard Owein “speak” in over two hundred years, Myra the second. Locked without words for so long, having someone who could trulyhearhim had been monumental. She’d talked to him as a person, not an animal, something even Cora had struggled to do. For that, he would always be grateful to Myra Haigh. For that, he would miss her and forever regret not getting to BIKER ten seconds sooner. Ten seconds would have made all the difference. But, as Fallon had whispered in the dead of night, Owein couldn’t turn his life inside out for ten seconds. Still, sitting there in the chapel, he counted in his mind, one to ten. So brief. So monumental.

Dropping his gaze to his hands, he opened and closed his fists. Fallon, to his right, reached over and smoothed out his fingers, patterning her brown against his white. She said nothing. They all just sat there in the quiet chapel, taking in its heaviness and its peace. Everyone who wanted to speak had already spoken. Even Mabol and Ellis seemed to feel the reverence of the moment, though Hattie started to squirm in her mother’s arms. Henri hadn’t come; the Babineauxs had left him with Beth’s mother.

Leaning back in the pew, Owein closed his eyes. He still felt weak. Fatigued, like he’d only just ended an entire day of harvesting work. But he was recovering. Nearly there.

And when he was, would he be strong enough?

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