Page 11 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Owein stopped at fifteen paces. Put out his hand to make Fallon stop behind him. “What business have you here?”

The man regarded Owein coolly before walking toward Whimbrel House.

“Hey!” Owein ran now, stepping onto the trail leading to his home, blocking the stranger. “Who are—”

A gale whipped between them, stealing his words and the stranger’s bowler hat, tossing it into the air and toward the wild corydalis. Oweinfroze, taking in the odd state of the man’s hair. Not that it was unwashed and heavy, which it was, but the color. Not just black, like the cloak, but white, too. White in random streaks and patches all over his scalp, not characteristic of the patterns of aging.

White patches like his dog’s body had grown, when he and the canine had shared it.

A low growl emanated from Fallon’s throat. Owein stepped in front of her, blocking her from the newcomer.

“Who are you?” Owein demanded, magic prickling in his fingertips. The wind fluttered the man’s cloak, showing his clothes beneath—tattered and patched, loose. The clothing of a poor man. A beggar.

The man took another step forward, and the wind pressed against his back, sending his scent in Owein’s direction. He caught the smell like he would have as a dog; he’d remained sensitive to scents after his life as a terrier. This odor wafted strong and sour, smelling of leather and unwashed body, but he detected something else in it. Something incredibly familiar that Owein’s nose recognized before his mind did. Something very much etched in his memory, because it was the first thing Owein had ever smelled as a dog. He’d been so disoriented, his spirit sucked from Whimbrel House and shoved into a new body, a body that could feel and fear andsmell.

Blood withdrew from his limbs, sending chills across his skin. His mouth went dry. “Fallon,” he whispered. “Get help.Now.”

She hesitated only a second before bolting for Whimbrel House.

It couldn’t be. It wasn’thim—Owein was looking right into his face. The face of a stranger. But the white hair ... and it smelled like him.

This man smelled like Silas Hogwood.

Chapter 4

June 14, 1851, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

Every hair on Owein’s body stood on end. It couldn’t be. Itwasn’t possible. Owein had witnessed the man’s death. Silas Hogwood was a powerful wizard—easily powerful enough to have taken over the run-down house in Marshfield the way Owein had taken over Whimbrel House. But that was ahouse, not a person. A person was monumentally more.

His mind spun through possibilities, pulling from everything he knew about the man firsthand, secondhand, gleaned from Hulda, Beth, Merritt, and even his occasional chats with Myra Haigh. Silas Hogwood was a necromancer.Hehad put Owein in his dog’s body. Had he somehow done the same for himself? But ... four years later?

The white hair grew in patches, just like Owein’s had when he shared a body with the dog. That meant the other spirit was still in there. Whoever this man was, he was stillin there, withSilas Hogwood.

The man took another forceful step forward. Owein didn’t have time to process.

He played his card.

“Silas.”

The wind almost stole the word from him, but it carried across the closing distance between them, stopping the stranger. Making himflinch. That flinch sent Owein’s stomach free floating, an uneasy weightlessness beneath his ribs. He hadn’t wanted to be right.

The man’s face contorted into a sneer. Venom stirred in his faded green eyes. “Out of my way, little boy.” His low voice cracked, like he wasn’t used to speaking.

Owein held his ground. “You don’t remember me, do you?” Not Owein, nor the body gifted to him. Oliver Whittock was, technically, Silas’s second cousin.

“I said”—Silas stomped forward—“out of my way.”

Silas’s hand shot up. A great, invisible ball slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs. Knocked him off his feet and pushed, pushed,pushed. Owein stumbled, the unstopping momentum keeping him upright as it tore him away from Whimbrel House. He managed to dig his heels into the ground, dragging up two long lines of dirt that smoked into the air. The push let up, and Owein fell to his backside not far from the chicken coop.

He gasped, forcing air back into his lungs. Heat built in his bones, simmering his blood as he looked up. Cracked his neck. Glowered. Stood.

Silas advanced, his steps stiffer now, thanks to that kinetic spell.

Owein ground his teeth together. “I played magic long before you were born,little boy.”

And then he released a spell his mother had always forbidden him to use. He pulled deep from that chaotic pit within himself, seizing something that scholar had calledrandom subterfugein the document he’d made on Merritt’s family line. Owein pulled it out, pushed it out, and for one moment, Oweinwasthe storm.

Magic billowed out of him like a stampede of crazed horses. It tore plants from their roots and threw great chunks of earth into the air. Caught the wind and spiraled it, pushing it the wrong direction. The ground quaked and shattered and hurled itself in the direction of the new Silas Hogwood, and Owein had the satisfaction of seeing thenecromancer’s half-dead eyes widen as the magic collided with him. The spell beat on him, knocking him back all the steps he’d dared to advance, and ... and ...

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