Keeper of Enchanted Rooms(75)

Hulda lay on the bed, her blankets pulled up chastely to her shoulders, her arms resting on top of them. Beth had brushed her hair, which splayed out across her pillow in soft waves. Her bent glasses rested on the bedside table, so there was nothing to hide the bruises on her nose and under her eyes. The edge of her bottom lip swelled.

A lot of bruises.

How many did he not see, and how terrible were they?

Her eyes were closed, but when Merritt took up the chair Beth had brought in at the bedside, her eyelids drifted open. The curtains were pulled back, so morning light illuminated them, claiming them as neither brown nor green but hazel, with a dark ring encircling the irises.

Merritt’s stomach shrunk on itself, and not because of hunger. “How are you feeling?” he murmured.

Her lips pulled upward—a good sign—until the movement tugged on that swollen bit, morphing the smile into a wince. “Safe,” she whispered.

That answer sent gooseflesh up his arms and down his back. He reached for her hand—Beth had scrubbed those clean, too—and squeezed her fingers. “Safe now. Baptiste sailed for the constable at first light. I’m so sorry—”

She squeezed his hand. “Don’t be sorry. I hardly care for unneeded apologies.”

“Whether you need one or not—”

“Thank you,” she interrupted, eyes drifting closed again, though her warm grip held on. “Thank you for finding me.”

Merritt chuckled, though he wasn’t sure why. “Thank you for screaming through a rock.”

Eyelashes fluttered. “You heard me?”

He nodded. Swallowed. Traced the side of her index finger with his thumb. “Who do you think . . . took you?”

Lines etched her forehead. She turned her neck, faced the ceiling. “Silas Hogwood.”

An electric worm zinged up his spine like Baptiste had hammered at it with his meat mallet. “Isn’t he imprisoned? He wouldn’t have come—”

“He’s supposed to be dead.” With her free hand, she rubbed her brow. “It was him. He . . . spoke to me. He was trying to take my magic.”

Merritt’s grip on her hand laxed. “Good God.”

“It must be a much slower process than I’d assumed. He said . . .” She winced, but whether from the memory or pain, Merritt wasn’t sure. The expression tore into his heart all the same. “He said I would be first this time. He was hard to hear, but . . . I’m sure he said that.”

Merritt bit the inside of his cheek. “What do you suppose he means?”

“I can think of a dozen terrible things.” She tried to sit up, never letting go of his hand, then hissed through her teeth and flopped back down.

Half out of his chair, Merritt said, “You should rest.”

She shook her head. “It’s my back. Lying like this . . . hurts.”

Pulling his hand free, Merritt reached over her for another pillow, then snaked an arm behind her shoulders to help her sit up, noticing for the first time the sore muscles from carrying her across six acres last night. She gritted her teeth hard enough for them to squeak, but together they managed.

Hulda let out a long breath, stirring her hair. “It takes a while. What he does . . . I don’t know the specifics. Multiple spells, to pull the magic from a person and place it into himself. He was born with the perfect concoction to do it. If the process were quick . . . I wouldn’t be here. Not alive, anyway. He must have thought we wouldn’t be interrupted.”

Merritt lowered himself to the chair, then pulled it forward until his knees pressed into the mattress. “Did he take any of it?”

“I don’t know.” She studied her palms. Turned her hands over. “I don’t think so . . . but the necromancy must be why I’m so tired.”

“Or the trauma of being beaten.” His voice had taken on a dark edge. He averted his eyes from the bruises still forming on her face, for the sight of them twisted his insides like taffy. He shouldn’t have let this happen.

Her lip twitched. “Or that.” This time she reached for his hand, and Merritt gladly pulled her fingers against his palm. Without meeting his eyes, she added, “If you hadn’t come—”

“I’m a good shot.” His thumb caressed her knuckles. “You’d be surprised at how liberating it is to destroy a straw dummy with a firearm.” It was a hobby he’d taken up after moving from Fletcher’s home. “Much cheaper than a medical professional.”

She rolled her eyes—good; her distaste for his humor hadn’t been damaged. “That’s good. A shot alone wouldn’t have scared him off. Mr. Hogwood . . . he would fight back. He has so many spells under his skin. Terrible, damaging spells, and healing spells, too. You must have hit him somewhere vital.”

He mulled over that for a moment. It had been too dark to tell. If I’d missed . . . What would have happened to Hulda then? To himself?

Bringing up his other hand, he encased Hulda’s. “You’ll need to tell BIKER. We’ll handle the report with the watchmen.”

“I will. Or perhaps Miss Taylor will see to it.” She winced again.

“I can call for a doctor—”

“Just bruises,” she assured him, eyelids heavy. Their gazes interlocked. “Just bruises,” she repeated, quieter.