Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Giving her his coat and hat, Silas continued down the hallway, leaving wet boot prints in his wake and shaking water from his curling hair. His latest outing had been successful in ways he hadn’t expected. He’d been dreading the evening’s activities, for he’d had to spend it at his neighbor’s ball to keep up appearances, and being a wealthy bachelor always brought unwanted attention. But he’d since learned the stepmother of a Miss Adelaide Walker possessed an incredibly rare hysteria spell, one she’d been sanctioned not to use by the King’s League of Magicians, for its danger. The spell that could inflict pain on another person, just with a thought!

If Silas could get his hands on that spell, his grisly work could finally end.

He’d collected a number of spells since relocating from humans and houses alike, bolstering himself and his defenses, assuring his freedom and welfare. To add such magic to his person would surely put him above all those who might seek to overthrow him. He didn’t want much—he didn’t desire the crown or political merit, didn’t seek land or prestige. He just wanted assurance.

After Mrs. Walker, he could be done. No more killing, no more hiding. He didn’t entirely mind using Adelaide Walker to reach his end, either—if anything, having a woman of the house would give him an excellent reason to dismiss LIKER’s housekeeper a year earlier than her contract demanded, which would then allow him ample opportunity to absorb the rest of Gorse End’s spells. He’d already taken its fire elemental spell, though he’d had to stage occasional magical manifestations of that power to keep the staff from noticing.

Simply put, the end was in sight.

As he headed for the basement, he spied his housekeeper down an adjoining hallway. “Mrs. Larkin!” he called. “I think I will invite the Walkers over for dinner this weekend. Could you see the place prepared?”

Mrs. Larkin stopped abruptly. “I . . . Yes. I will.”

She seemed intimidated by the very idea—Mrs. Larkin was always so sure of herself, so stiff and resolute. Silas smiled as he went on. He’d likely caught her off guard. He so rarely invited guests over, and when he did, it was only for appearances.

Slowing his step as he reached the back of the house, he glanced around once, checking for watching eyes—the basement was hardly secret, and the staff knew they were not allowed in it, but he still preferred privacy. Seeing no one, he descended the stairs, taking a lantern off the wall as he went and lighting it with the twitch of a finger. The sensation of ice shot up his hand, but it dissipated by the time he reached the last step.

He didn’t bother lighting the sconces on the wall here; instead, he continued to the trapdoor hidden in the stone beneath a rug, to the second basement he’d carved out with his own hands, his own magic. There, he lit lamps and candles, illuminating the small space in an orange glow.

This was where he kept them.

He visited often, ensuring the place didn’t get too cold or damp, ensuring his donors didn’t spot with mold or show odd symptoms. They were well preserved, but Silas wasn’t foolish enough to believe them immortal. His newest ones sat on a shelf, tied up like cured meat, ensuring they dried out entirely and didn’t bruise. The others were kept away behind a hidden and vaulted door. No one would ever find them without Silas’s help.

“One more,” he whispered to them, touching the closest, the one that had given him clairvoyance. “One more, and we’ll be complete.”

He cut the string of the first and delicately unwrapped it, cradling it as if it were more fragile than china. As he began working on the second, however, he heard a noise.

He paused, held his breath. Listened.

That noise was . . .

His blood drained from his body and pooled at his feet.

Someone had opened the hidden basement door.

Panic flooded him so suddenly he momentarily forgot himself.

Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Too many footsteps.

Snapping to wakefulness, he cut the strings binding the second and third donors and grabbed them. He didn’t have time to go to the vault, he had to hide them—

Policemen burst into the room, so many they could barely fit. A dozen, at least. Nowhere to hide the donors, nowhere to—

“Lord Hogwood! You’re under arrest!”

No.

One of the men grabbed him. Tried to bind his hands.

“No!” he bellowed as he shot out a kinetic blast at the fool, sending him barreling into a second officer. “Unhand me!”

He whipped around to strike another officer, only to hit an invisible shield. A wardship spell. His pulse throbbed in his head. King’s League. They had King’s League men here.

But . . . how did they know? How could they possibly have known?

Silas dropped the donors and retreated from the wall, shooting off a blast of fire, forcing the officers to give him a wide berth. There was no other exit than the stairs. How would he escape? He’d have to kill them all—