Page 24 of Wizard of Most Wicked Ways

Owein plaited Fallon’s hair down to its ends, then knotted a long piece of grass around it to hold it in place.

“She’s beautiful,” Mabol announced.

“She is,” Owein murmured, earning himself an approving glance from Fallon, only for him to realize Mabol had been referring to her doll, which she held up triumphantly. The mess of yarn did somewhat resemble a braid.

“Very good,” Owein offered.

Fallon stood up suddenly, squinting over the bay, one hand blocking out the sun. “Watchmen?”

Owein stood as well and peered out. A boat was sailing in. A larger one. Too far out to recognize. Definitely headed toward them.

“I’ll check.” Fallon leaned back against Owein, a silent request for him to undo the line of buttons down her back. It was a good thing Hulda was away at BIKER during the days—she’d hate this, too.

Owein’s fingers moved quickly, parting her dress to reveal a V of dark, smooth skin. He hadn’t quite finished when that skin mottled in color and lifted into feathers. Within seconds, the hawk shed its garments and hobbled forward, joints of both legs and one wing twisted from the effect of alteration magic.

Mabol clapped her hands. “I want to fly!”

“If you’re lucky, you’ll be able to talk to birds one day.” Owein scooped her and Fallon’s dress up in his arms and pulled them toward the house. “But that will be the extent of it.”

Magic often revealed itself in a person around puberty, but not always. Mabol had already shown some accuracy in predicting the future, as she had with Merritt at the breakfast table not long ago.

A minute later, Fallon took to the air, recovered. Owein tugged a giggling Mabol over his shoulder and situated her on his back as he watched the bird grow smaller and smaller in the sky.

The front door of Whimbrel House opened. “Who is it?” Merritt called, arm still tight in its sling. When Owein glanced back, Merritt added, “Winkers told me.”

If only that mourning dove could be trained to scout the way Fallon did. “Larger boat headed this way. Fallon is investigating.”

“Mabol, will you see if Beth needs help with the laundry?” Merritt suggested.

Owein let the girl slide down to her feet. Clutching her doll, she diligently marched inside while the two men waited.

Fallon glided back into view minutes later. Owein rolled up his sleeve a few times before outstretching his arm. She landed on the folded cuff, her talons onlyjustpoking into his skin, instead of flaying it open. No matter how gentle she tried to be, a hawk’s talons dug into his skin, sharp as knives.

Merritt tilted his head a moment before his expression slackened. “Englishmen?”

Owein wished he could hear Fallon’s thoughts in this form, but Merritt’s communion spells had come into the family line after Owein had entered it. “Silas?”

The hawk shook her head.

“Four of them.” Merritt headed toward the dock, clasping Owein’s shoulder with his usable hand as he went. “Let’s see what they want.”

They took the trail quickly, then watched as the boat, free of kinetic charms, it seemed, drew closer. Sure enough, there were four people there, one older, three close to Hulda’s age.

Grasping the railing, Owein leaned out, searching, then paused. “Is that ... Blightree?” William Blightree, the queen’s necromancer, was the man who’d pulled Owein’s spirit first from the crushed body of a dog, then from Merritt’s body, and into his current body, previously occupied by Blightree’s own nephew, Oliver Whittock.

Merritt shaded his face. “I ... I think it might be.”

They stepped back as the men docked; Fallon flapped off Owein’s arm, snatched her dress, and flew into the nearest copse of trees.

“Mr. Blightree.” Merritt nodded. “You’re unexpected. I’d offer you a hand, but I don’t have one to spare.”

“I see that.” The necromancer stood, his knees a little shaky, either from age or the journey there. Owein noted the other three in the boat—the first was a tall man with short light-brown hair and a rectangular face who looked to be about forty. He smelled like pipe smoke. The second was a woman, perhaps in her late forties, judging by the streaks of gray running through her brown hair and the lines around her eyes. The third, a broad-shouldered man with shoulder-length chestnut hair and a crooked nose. All three wore blue coats. If he remembered correctly, the insignia on their breasts was that of the Queen’s League of Magicians. Owein reached forward to grasp Blightree’s hand as the broad-shouldered man in the boat steadied him. He pulled the necromancer up, then stepped back to give the new arrivals space.

Blightree’s gaze lingered on Owein, taking in his patched work pants and loose shirt, one sleeve still cuffed. He smiled, though sadness weighed down the heavy lids of his eyes. “It’s good to see you, Owein.”

Owein nodded. “But why are you here?”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Merritt interjected, almost as though in correction. “Do you need anything to drink?”

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