Chapter 17
July 7, 1851, Providence, Rhode Island
Owein woke to a white ceiling. His eyelids felt heavy and dry, his skin itchy, his bones sore. His body pressed into the stiff, narrow mattress as though his weight had doubled. His head enthusiastically repeated every heavy thump of his heart, and the cut across his chest echoed it.
“He’s awake!” Fallon’s head butted into his vision. He realized she held his hand. “Owein, are you all right?”
“Of course he’s not all right!” Hulda shouted, and Owein winced. “How could he possibly be all right after ...” She chewed on her words, though from the sounds she made, it seemed the words fought to escape. She pressed both hands to Ellis, strapped to her chest, and lowered her voice. Tears fogged her glasses. “You stupid, insolent boy. What were you thinking?”
Owein lifted a heavy arm and ran it down his face. “I saw an opportunity to help, and it worked.”
“And nearly killed you in the process!” Hulda spat.
Fallon shot back, “We were going to die one way or another. He hedged his bets and won.”
Hulda whipped to the Druid woman. “I am dying to hear what your part is in all this.”
Squaring her shoulders, Fallon said, “I’m the one who showed—”
“Not. Now,” she ground out, bouncing lightly on one foot to keep Ellis soothed.
Owein pushed himself halfway to sitting, which was when he noticed a third person in the room with them, sitting in a chair across the room. The room, he recognized: one of the chambers on the second floor of BIKER headquarters, where employees could sleep the night when they passed through or otherwise needed accommodations. The person, he didn’t recognize. She was young—younger than Hulda, older than Fallon—and had brown hair loosely pinned to stay out of her face. Caucasian, slender, but what really caught his attention was her blue uniform.
“Queen’s League?” His voice sounded like he felt.
Hulda’s tension rushed out of her, and Owein saw for the first time the sorrow clinging to her every inch. “Miss Watson is one of the wizards assigned to Providence. She’s the one who found you.”
Miss Watson waved, but the gesture carried little enthusiasm. Her smile looked forced. “Jonelle is fine.” She spoke with a British accent. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Mr. Mansel. Excited to have you join our ranks.”
Fallon frowned. Owein coughed. Hulda surged forward with a handkerchief, followed by a glass of water. He downed the entire thing in three swallows. Looking out the window, he asked, “Who was it? In the stairwell.”
Jonelle’s smile fell. “John. Mackenzie. He is ... not well. He’s been taken to hospital, but ...” The words she didn’t say sat on Owein’s chest like a millstone. But he probably won’t pull through.
Voice rough, Owein asked, “The watchmen?”
“The rear is deceased. The two at the front door are hale.”
He nodded, absorbing this. Myra ... he needn’t ask about her. He doubted even Blightree could have saved her, with that much damage. He could smell her blood, in the back of his throat.
So many people dead. If Owein had been a little quicker, tried a little harder ...
“Miss Watson”—Hulda’s voice snapped him from the spiral of his thoughts—“if you would excuse us for just a moment?”
The woman nodded, stood, and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind her.
“You want to know about the vial,” Fallon guessed.
“Yes, you fool girl, because what we need to talk about is classified , and that woman isn’t even an American citizen, let alone part of BIKER or the Congressional Committee for the Continuation of Wizarding.”
“I’m also not an American citizen,” she pointed out.
“I am well aware.” Hulda clutched Ellis, blinking rapidly and swallowing. She took a full ten seconds to build back her ire and refocus it on Owein. “Outside the fact that you could be arrested for entering that facility ... why, Owein? What was the goal?”
He cleared his throat and masked a wince from his pounding head. “Why don’t you tell me what it’s doing to me,” he managed in a slightly less raspy tone, “and then I’ll tell you why I have it. Had it.”
Fallon added, “We came to talk to you about it. He didn’t plan to use it.”
Hulda wilted and sank onto the edge of Owein’s bed by his knees; Fallon occupied a chair beside his head. His left leg, where he’d injected the serum, felt sunburned and itched something fierce. He scratched at it under the blanket, but it didn’t help.
“What you imprudently injected into yourself was an experimental serum derived from the cadaver of Silas Hogwood.” She spoke quickly, softly, not giving Owein a chance to reel from the information. “ Very experimental. We cannot test it on animals, as animals do not and cannot carry magic genetics. And we’ve been unable to test it on living persons. It’s tied up in a legal mess.” Sliding her fingers under her glasses, Hulda rubbed her eyes. “Myra knew more than ...” Her voice choked to a stop.
“‘Patient A’ is Silas ?” Owein’s gut threatened to overturn again. When Hulda didn’t immediately respond, he handed her back the handkerchief, which she didn’t accept, so he set it on his blanket. “I’m sorry, Hulda. If I’d been there sooner—”
Withdrawing her hands, Hulda blinked tears from her eyes and kissed the top of Ellis’s head. The babe stirred but didn’t wake. “I’m so, so glad you came at all, Owein,” she whispered. “Or we would be dead, too. I am so incredibly wroth with you, and yet unceasingly grateful. I hardly know what to do.” She laid her cheek on Ellis’s soft hair.
Owein swallowed against a rising lump in his throat. “Keep explaining. I saw the laboratory.”
The woman’s posture sunk in her defeat. “The serum is made from bones. Which is where blood is made, too, so there’s a connection.”
“Merritt said magic connected to spirit.”
“Well, we can’t harvest that .” She knit her hands together in her lap. “Perhaps the spirit in the body influences the blood. Who knows? What we’ve discovered is there are differences in blood between persons—different types . We don’t all bleed equally.” She rubbed her temples, perhaps trying to remember. “A, B, I think there was a C in there as well. I tried not to be too involved, even if the place lies within my jurisdiction.” She sighed. “I do remember Silas Hogwood was A. And I know that if the blood types don’t align perfectly, there could be very adverse side effects. Side effects we’ve yet to document because we’ve yet to test them.” A dry chuckle escaped her throat. “I should be documenting everything happening to you , but I cannot bring myself to care about the science today.”
Owein adjusted himself on the bed, hissing through his teeth at the acidic flash in his leg and pull on his chest. “I’ll write you a thorough list.”
Fallon squeezed his hand.
“So,” he went on, blinking away the sensation of grit from his eyes, “I took this serum, but I don’t have the right blood type? Oliver Whittock is related to Silas Hogwood. Unless we’ve pulled another Sutcliffe I didn’t know about.”
Hulda passed him a withering look. “Hardly. But being a blood relation doesn’t guarantee anything.”
Lifting his free hand from the blankets, Owein opened and closed it. His fingers felt thick. “Silas ... I know his spells. You told me his spells. He didn’t have ... whatever that was.”
“Necrosis,” she stated, and a shiver coursed down Owein’s spine. “You used necrosis on him. It’s under the doctrine of necromancy. Myra’s theorized that the serum would not simply grant a person new magic, but rather enhance that which already exists.”
“So Oliver,” Fallon interjected with care, “ did have magic.”
“Dormant necrosis, it would seem.” Hulda pulled her hands apart and rubbed them together. “Silas Hogwood likely had dormant necrosis as well, since you two are from the same family line, and his maternal genealogy is rife with necromancers. The serum must have activated something in your body.” She took a shuddering breath. “There’s still so much we don’t understand about blood and genetics and physiology, let alone magic’s tie to them. You do seem to be doing better, Owein, but I don’t know if your condition will worsen. I don’t know anything. It’s all hypothetical. Untested. Mr. Blightree will arrive soon to heal you.”
They sat there in silence for nearly a minute.
“I went to the laboratory”—Owein managed to sit up, though light-headedness forced him to lean against the wall at his back—“because I knew I wasn’t strong enough to defeat Silas on my own.”
Hulda’s face fell, like she was about to cry. “I thought that might be the case.”
“I was only going to ask you about it, as Fallon said. But the opportunity presented itself.”
Hulda held out her hand. It took Owein a moment to understand before he placed the handkerchief in it. Hulda dabbed at the corners of her eyes.
“It wasn’t Fallon’s doing,” he added.
“Oh”—some of Hulda’s earlier fury returned—“Fallon is a woman perfectly capable of making her own choices. I blame both of you.”
Then she crumpled, pressing the handkerchief to her face to hide it as one sob, then another, coursed up her throat. “I thought I was going to lose all of you.”
Owein stiffened. “All of us? Mabol? Merritt?”
Fallon squeezed his hand so hard it hurt.
Hulda wiped her eyes and nose. “They are safe. Silas targeted BIKER first.” She swallowed. “However much I hate this, it was a godsend you came when you did. There are watchmen outside, waiting to question you. For better or for worse, this has aggrandized beyond the borders of our family.”
A soft knock sounded at the door. Hulda frowned. Owein wondered if Jonelle had been eavesdropping. “Say nothing about the serum, understand? I’d rather the three of us avoid prison,” she whispered, before turning and calling, “Come in.”
Jonelle let herself in and resumed her seat on the far chair. “I have a few questions for you.”
Owein nodded. Fatigue dragged at him—he could sleep a whole day—but he knew the value of his information.
Jonelle said, “It was awfully brave, what you did.”
Hulda bristled.
“You found me,” Owein said. “But did you find him?”
The wizard frowned. “Not yet. But I will. I’m good at tracking people.”
Again, Owein eyed her uniform. “Is that your skill, then? Your ability?”
That hopeful smile, still not reaching her eyes, returned. “I’m a communionist. A magical polyglot, if you will. I’m fluent in several languages, but the ones I’m not? I just use my magic to understand what’s being spoken. I can’t speak it back, but I learn quickly. The rest is just natural talent.” She winked.
“Amazing,” Fallon murmured. “ Ansin, an féidir leat mé a thuiscint? ”
“Indeed I can.” She glanced at Fallon. “You know, you would be an excellent resource for the Queen’s League as well.”
Fallon scoffed.
Pulling out a roll of paper and a pencil, Jonelle continued, “A few questions before Blightree interrupts us. Let’s start from the end and work backward. Where was the last location you saw Charlie Temples, also known as Silas Hogwood? Be as specific as possible.”
Hulda desperately wanted the day to end. The clock on her bedroom wall reading a quarter to eleven promised they were almost there, and yet unlike in a fairy tale, she knew the stroke of midnight would change nothing.
They’d made it back to Whimbrel House, at least. After sundown. Mr. Blightree’s hurried trip to Providence had proven fruitless; John Mackenzie perished an hour before his arrival, and the necromancer’s abilities had no effect on Owein, other than healing the gash Silas had inflicted on his chest with a knife. Hulda’s best theory was that the malady, as caused by the serum, was magically based and therefore resistant to magical intervention. She couldn’t fathom anything else. But Owein still lived, and however Hulda might feel about Fallon, she was grateful to have her as a nursemaid. Grateful someone loved Owein enough to stay by his bedside all night long, in case his symptoms worsened.
She didn’t know if they would worsen or not. Myra might have known. Oh, Myra. Her heart crumpled and her gut soured. Their friendship had never been the same after Myra’s resignation, but Hulda still cared for the woman deeply. Still trusted her, despite earlier betrayal. Myra had come to Providence to help, and Silas Hogwood had murdered her without fanfare. Would have murdered Hulda, too, if not for Owein’s intervention.
She paced the length of the room, her lone candle casting long shadows. “He cannot do it again,” she said aloud. “The toxins might be additive in nature. There’s not enough research to know!”
Merritt watched her from where he sat on the long trunk at the foot of their bed, a steady and quiet presence through all of this upheaval. “What will you do with the laboratory?”
“I don’t care about the damn laboratory.”
He sighed and picked at a mend in his trousers. “Will we ever be done with this?”
The words stopped her pacing cold, and her body threatened to deliquesce. “S-Silas is the most wanted man in the eastern United States.” She’d reiterated as much to herself several times. “He’ll have a hard time navigating the area. His best chance is to head west.”
Merritt tilted his head to one side. “But your vision.”
Hulda pinched her lips together and touched her bruised neck. Shook herself. “He’ll be here. Daytime, fog. Me and Fallon. That’s all.”
And there was nothing to be done for it. One unfamiliar with augury might think it a sign that the family should leave the island immediately. But the future as Hulda saw it could not be changed. It took into account whether or not Hulda told Merritt and the Queen’s League of Magicians, whether or not they tried to flee inland, and any other circumventions they might attempt to change their fate. One way or another, for or against her will, Hulda would be on Blaugdone Island in the fog with Fallon and Silas Hogwood in the future. The hopelessness of that fact made her very heart wilt.
Merritt stood, crossed the room, and gingerly touched her elbows. When she softened, he took her into his arms, holding her closely. Hulda burrowed in, smelling his petitgrain, absorbing his warmth. Here was the one place left where she felt safe. Here, in his arms, she could conquer the world, or at least forsake it for a moment.
“I don’t want to think about it right now,” she admitted. “I’m so tired of thinking about it.”
“I know. We’ll get through it. Every story has an end, one way or another.”
She pulled back just enough to gently kiss his lips. Meet his eyes. “Please give me something else to think about.”
He didn’t tease her, make a joke, even smirk. That alone spoke volumes of the gravity of their situation. But Merritt’s callused hands cupped the sides of her face, and he kissed her, demurely at first, like she might startle away. But the children were asleep, Owein was looked after, and watchmen and wizards alike roamed the bay. Who knew how many more chances they’d get? What if this was the last?
They made love slowly and thoroughly, forming unspoken promises and eternal declarations, even after the candlewick drowned. And through it all, despite the loss, the sorrow, and the fear, Hulda couldn’t help but be incessantly grateful for all she had. Even if Silas returned tomorrow to take it all, Hulda would die knowing hers was a life well lived.