Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 13

February 16, 1848, Rutland, Vermont

Three Years Ago

A man tossed a penny at Silas’s feet.

A filthy quarryman tossed a penny at Silas’s feet.

Silas hissed through his teeth. Scrabbled at the brick wall behind him, breaking his short nails. The wall was for ... He couldn’t remember. He’d sat at so many corners, lurked in so many alleyways, he couldn’t keep them straight. Sometimes he didn’t choose them; the other did.

Silas refused to name him. Refused to give him power. Power was his . No one would have power over him again. No one.

Carnal need flared in his brain. Silas launched for the penny and pocketed it. Food. He needed food. He could steal food easily; his kinetic ability allowed him to do so from a distance. But it was hard to focus, with the other always breathing in his lungs, thinking in his thoughts, thwarting his goals. Sometimes Silas was still seen, or the magic witnessed. He’d been chased out by watchmen more than once. Torn down sketches of the other’s face posted in towns he dared not return to. Constantly moving, constantly hiding, constantly muffling his pleas for help.

Trying to rub warmth into his knuckles, Silas planned. He had to get to Europe. It was the only way. But he had no money. No papers. People had begun to look at him with pity or disgust, sometimes both. This body was beginning to waste. And his mind—

His mind was fine. He needed to move closer to the coast. He could make it. He would get home, get help, and then return and make those infernal people pay for what they’d done to him.

Silas turned the penny over in his hand. Over and over, rubbing its smooth edges, tracing its imprints. He needed that water spell. One water spell, and everything would be as it had been. No one would touch him. No one would chase him, revile him, pity him.

Silas moaned, earning a disapproving look from a woman who immediately crossed the street to distance herself. He leaned heavily on the brick wall behind him, sipping cold winter air.

Slowly, Silas lowered himself to the packed dirt, rolling back and forth, listening to the creaking of wagon wheels and clopping horses—

Darkness.

Then, light.

He no longer sat at the street corner. No, now he sat on a wooden bench against a stone wall. Two scowling men, four stone walls, one narrow window, one heavy locked door.

He was in a prison.

No, no ! He hadn’t lost control to the other in weeks! He had dominated him! He had won! But no longer. He felt him squirming, clawing, calling. What had the fool done to get them in here?

The fullness suffocated him as he tried to regain his hold on the body. Limbs trembled. He held his breath for nearly a minute before putting his head between his knees and vomiting.

A groan from another prisoner as he moved away. A second spat, “This half-shot loon just fouled up our room. Hey! Someone get in here and clean this up!”

Ignoring them, Silas pressed both hands into his chest and ignited his healing spell, which made him feel a little stronger, but only increased the nausea in his gut. He stood, chunks of vomit rolling off his torn trousers.

“Ugh,” the second prisoner said. “Come near me and I’ll knock you into the wall.”

Silas glowered. “Enough out of you.”

And he kinetically shoved the man into the brick wall, cracking his skull like an egg. The other prisoner gaped wordlessly and backed away until the stone corner prevented him from retreating any farther.

Limping, stiff-legged, to the barred door, Silas wrapped both hands around its lock and compressed it until it shattered. The chaocracy spell poured confusion into his mind. Dangerous, that. It gave the other an upper hand. Even now, he fought for control.

Silas shoved him down, down, down. Beat him with iron fists and spat on the pulp.

He pushed the door open. Hobbled into the hallway.

He only had to kill two more people to escape.