Wizard of Most Wicked Ways (Whimbrel House #4)

Chapter 18

July 7, 1851, Providence, Rhode Island

Can’t kill them all. The bodies will leave a trail.

Silas shook his head hard, sharper to the right than the left, as he jogged through ... he didn’t know the name of the township. It was barely a township, just scattered buildings and livestock and clotheslines. The moon burned his back. He skittered behind one building and ran in its shadow until it ended. His head ached. He slapped himself. It wasn’t the other this time. Silas had long since quieted him . Habit. Habit. Habit. Stay alert.

He was being followed.

Stand and fight, run and hide. Cut them open, what’s inside? He started to hum to himself, then choked the sound with his own tongue. Humming would draw his pursuer in. No humming.

A dog barked at him.

Silas whirled around, losing his balance and falling sharply on his hip, caught himself on his hand. He cursed and choked on that, too. Pulled back his sleeve and nearly vomited at the smell. He pushed another healing spell into the wound; it kept the rot from spreading, but necromancy struggled to heal necromancy. It was like trying to clean dirt with dirt. He couldn’t erase the once-a-house boy’s mark from his flesh. He should have burned the place down when he had a chance. Slaughtered the dog and eaten its hind legs for dinner.

Scrabbling to his feet, Silas considered doing the same for the other dog, who dared bark and reveal his location. Instead, he ran. His gait was uneven, a lord’s stride weighed down by neglect and fatigue. But he ran. He wouldn’t be a prisoner, not again. No one would have power over him—not the US government, not the Queen’s League, and certainly not Owein Mansel.

The moon burned into his back, and Silas ran.