Page 52 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

“Cousin.” His voice didn’t sound like his, nor like theother’s. It resonated raw and feral, soft and sharp at once. Silas laughed then. Something about the situation was funny. Something he’d examine later. But he laughed so hard he bent over wheezing with it, and the soldiers exchanged uncomfortable glances. He always made them uncomfortable.

“You won’ttake me,” Silas hissed, and launched forward, only to have another wardship spell fling up before him. He smashed his chest and nose into it at the same time a warning shot exploded the groundat his feet. The woman who’d fired moved the muzzle to point at his forehead.

“Hold,” Blightree ordered. The gun didn’t move, but it didn’t fire, either. “Let me free him.”

Free him.Yes, free him! All Silas wanted was to be free—

Theotherstirred inside him, pushing against Silas’s ribs and skin. Silas gritted his teeth so hard he chipped a molar, trying to tamp it down. Trying to bury it yet again.Why won’t you stay dead?

Silas looked away. He shouldn’t have done that. Suddenly two men were at either arm, restraining him, and the wardship spell boxed in his head and neck and hips and feet. Silas writhed, pinching his skin, contorting muscle, slamming against the wardship spell until blood flowed freely from his nose. Iron and salt tickled his lips as Blightree approached, wild grasses breaking under his footfalls. Still, Silas squirmed.

“I will heal Charlie after,” Blightree murmured to the others, “once I have recovered.”

Theotherleapt up. “No!” Silas bellowed, thrashing between his captors while wrestling with that damnable spirit. “No no no no no no no!”

The older man’s thick fingers pressed to Silas’s chest. Silas screamed, the sound reverberating between the invisible walls around his head. He thrashed as the heat of necromancy dove past clothes, skin, blood, muscle, and bone—into the soul itself. Felt it wander and grip andtear—

He fell limp, supported only by the men and the spells. Breathed deeply, sharply. Sweat beaded on every inch of skin, making him cold beneath the summer sun. Then he fell to his knees, moisture from the flora seeping into the fabric of his trousers.

“Charlie?” the necromancer asked.

It took him a moment to orient himself. To remember. To wiggle each finger at a time. Each finger, his. The noise, silenced. The pressure gone. The relief, like being at the bottom of the ocean these five years and finally resurfacing ...

“Y-Yes,” he coughed. “My . . . head . . .”

The wizards on either side of him let their hold slacken. That was theirsecondmistake.

A breaking spell shattered the lingering wardship walls. Kinesis sent the wizards flying, one slamming into a tree, another flung into the bay. Bullets fired, but he flared luck. They missed. He had enough focus left to grab Blightree by the collar and pull his face right up to his own.

“You pulled out the wrong soul,cousin,” Silas spat.

Now, he would return the favor.

Chapter 20

July 9, 1851, Boston, Massachusetts

Mabol screeched in delight as Merritt bounced her on his back. They were playing alligator, a game Mabol had invented after determining that a simple horse was not enough, though the child had never actually seen an alligator. Merritt, on his hands and knees, played the alligator, though he thought he still looked more like a horse. He wasn’t allowed to bite, only tickle. And if Mabol or Hattie could stay on his back long enough, it would put him to sleep, giving them a chance to run and hide.

No one had claimed Myra’s house yet. As far as Hulda knew, Myra had possessed no will the first time she’d died, let alone the second. A worry for another day. The empty home, small and covered in dust from neglect, provided a reprieve for the day. As for the game, there weren’t a lot of places for the children to hide, and not a lot of carpeting, which was murder on Merritt’s knees. So Mabol had determined that the alligator could not reach up on any furniture, and the chairs and single sofa were safe spaces. Needless to say, the others had evacuated the area fairly quickly.

He played because he didn’t want the children to worry. And truly, it got his mind off matters as well. Merritt was desperate for the timeto pass and for someone in a uniform to walk through the doors and announce it was finally safe to return home.

Mabol clung to his neck, laughing in his ears while Hattie jumped on the sofa, and Merritt dramatized lethargy before collapsing on his stomach. Mabol rolled off him and climbed onto the sofa, telling Hattie rather loudly what their next strategy would entail.

That was when Merritt noticed Pankhurst entering through the back door, his face ghostly pale.

Merritt launched to his feet in an instant, earning a loud whine of protest from Mabol. “What’s happened?”

The question immediately drew Hulda’s, Owein’s, and Fallon’s attention—the three were in the kitchen, trying to put together some form of lunch. Ellis slept on Myra’s bed.

Pankhurst swallowed. He clutched a long column of selenite in his hand. “They found Silas.” His voice crept just above a whisper, and quavered. “But Blightree ... he cast out the wrong soul.”

Hulda gasped. “Charlie ... is gone?”

“Silas attacked. It’s Queen’s League, so of course we overwhelmed him.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his forehead. “Silas has left the Narragansett area. Fled south. He’s being followed.”

Mabol continued to complain, but thankfully fell silent when Merritt held out a hand to her. “But?”

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