Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

“I will kill you!” Hogwood leapt to his feet. Shot out a hand. Nothing happened.

Whatever spell he’d planned to use was gone.

It was working.

He shot out his other hand. Hulda’s corset began squeezing in on her, its size shrinking with an alteration spell that threatened to snap her ribs.

Merritt leapt onto Hogwood’s back. Her corset released, but a kinetic spell rippled out from Hogwood’s body, striking all three of them. Merritt, the hardest. He flew backward into a narrow alcove in the wall. He didn’t move.

“Merritt!” Oh God, what if they didn’t escape this?

Owein, limping, snatched one of the vile dolls in his mouth and shook it until something snapped.

Hogwood faltered. Another burst of lightning hit Owein’s hind leg. The dog yipped and collapsed.

Hogwood whirled around, fiery countenance focused on her. He moved toward her with stiff legs, his kinetic spells having sucked the mobility from his knees and hips. Lifting an equally stiff arm, he reached his hand toward her. A larger, unseen hand scooped her up, gluing her knees together and pinning her arms to her sides. A tendril of lightning pierced the back of her neck and needled to her ankles. Her body seized with the pain of it. A second followed, setting her limbs on fire, and the strain frosted the tips of Hogwood’s hair.

“I would love to make you suffer, little canary, but I’ve work to do.” He squeezed her tighter. Shuffled toward her, growling at the scattered dolls that no longer danced. “Give my best to that little maid of yours when you reach the other side.”

The fingers closed in, cutting off her air. Blood pooled in her face. Her head felt like an expanding balloon. Her bones bent and—

A dense whap! echoed through the chamber. Hogwood’s face slackened. Hulda dropped, landing on her feet but falling forward onto her knees. She coughed. Gasped for air. Looked up just as Hogwood teetered to one side and collapsed in a great heap on the stone.

Behind him stood Merritt, shoulders heaving, his mess of hair netting over his face.

And in his grasp was her crowbar.

They held their positions for several seconds. When Hogwood didn’t move, Merritt gradually straightened. Blew hair from his face. Looked down at his weapon.

“That is handy.” He turned the metal rod over.

A painful laugh rang up Hulda’s throat, but it died on her lips. “Owein.”

Dropping the crowbar, Merritt sped to the dog. Knelt at his side. “He’s all right. Breathing.” He stroked the mutt’s fur. “Hey, boy, can you hear me?”

Snatching a broken bottle, Hulda shakily rose to her feet and approached Hogwood. Stepped over a deformed doll. Hogwood’s chest moved slightly with his breaths. She knelt by his head, pushing the glass against his cheek should he wake—

Silas Hogwood drew in a fluttering breath, then released it.

His body remained still.

Hulda gaped. Dead. Dead. Too hurt to even heal himself . . . She couldn’t internalize it. Like her brain had disconnected from her body and sat in one of those jars on the shelves.

Her tormentor . . . gone. And all his magic with him.

Sounds came from overhead—footsteps, creaking floorboards, a few shouts.

Merritt stood, Owein filling his arms, and looked up. “Please don’t say those are his accomplices.”

Hulda tilted her head, listening. “I believe it is the local watchmen.”

“Ah.” He glanced at the heap that was Silas Hogwood, then at her. He hefted the dog. “Do you want to hold him?”

Hulda gave him an inquisitive look.

He merely tipped his head toward her. Hulda looked down . . . at her underthings.

Sighing, she held out her arms. “Yes, please.”

At least the animal would give her some sense of modesty when the patrol made their way downstairs.

Chapter 32

October 16, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island

BIKER was more powerful than Merritt had given it credit for.

Watchmen had poured into the strange basement hovel that Silas had built for himself, like any true villain would, followed shortly thereafter by a Ms. Myra Haigh, an attractive woman in her late forties. Hulda and Merritt were separated—Hulda still using Owein as a modesty shawl—and thoroughly questioned, which really wasn’t a problem, as Merritt had nothing to lie about. In the end, Ms. Haigh stepped in and covered everything, assisting law enforcement, cleaning up the mess, ridding them of the . . . body. By dawn, after the strangest and most dangerous night of his life, Merritt and Hulda were free to go.

Which was how he ended up in Boston midmorning, stifling a yawn as he leaned against a whitewashed brick wall of Bright Bay Hotel, where BIKER was supposed to be clandestinely tucked away. He picked absently at the bandage around his forearm, where Silas had burned him with a handy streak of lightning. Owein danced nervously around his feet, taking in the sights of the city, sniffing people as they passed by. He wondered how much of the creature’s mind was mutt and how much was boy. He certainly heeled well.