“Time,” I breathe.
“I asked her for a second chance at making my last twenty-five years worth something. Correct mistakes, make new choices.” His expression hardens. “I should’ve known better, but I had age and no wisdom. The Witch is a herald for magical equilibrium, but she balances the scales with her own sick creativity. She granted me the wish, but on her terms.”
More low thunder rattles the windows. I know where this is going, but I don’t want to believe it.
“I got a second chance at childhood, but not because she sent me back in time to rewrite my past—instead, shehandedme a new childhood. Like I’d asked for some party favor. A boy with no memory appeared on my doorstep.”
Lazlo.
He won’t meet my eyes. “Every time I look at him…”
Memories of our night in the garden rush into what little headspace I’ve got left.
Wetriedto send him back, but it wasn’t possible…
“Lazlo doesn’t belong here because heliterallydoesn’t belong here.” The realization feels like remaking a beloved childhood recipe, only to discover it isn’t as good as remembered. “And her terms?”
“Take care of the boy. Make him happy. Simple. But it was only after Lazlo arrived that she told me the full truth. This wasn’t a wish, it was a curse. Lazlo would succumb to an illness by my next birthday. I had a year to try to cure him. If I even could. So now this boy was—isdying and I haven’t been able to do anything about it. I have no idea where he came from, if he came from anywhere at all, or how she managed it. All I know is, he’s of my bloodline and—”
He cuts off. Swallows.
This time, he doesn’t hide his face, as if challenging me to give up on him and run, far from this house and its ghosts. Lazlo is pure light after decades of dark isolation… yet a constant reminder of the Warlock’s choice, his desperation. His true loneliness. And he’s been living with this vicious onus, his own personal beast, for nearly an entire year.
He always told me I was his last chance. My stare falls to his hands, pale and clenched.
My bloodline.
His struggling wards, the house’s erratic moods, his grim-reaper complexion lately… “It’s not just him, is it?”
It’s brief, but he hesitates before he answers. “Our shared bloodline tangles things somehow. As Lazlo’s health worsens, so does mine. And as I weaken, the Manor feels the consequences as well.”
An oven timer goes off in my head. “That’swhy you wore gloves. You thought there was a chance you’d start disappearing, too.”
Reluctantly, he nods. “I figured if he was fading, I would eventually.”
“So if we don’t cure Lazlo by the solstice…” I almost can’t say the words. Every part of the sentence is terrible. “Hold on—after all of that—youaredying! Or you will.”
He manages a half smile. “Aren’t we all dying, all the time?”
“Jesus.” Of all moments to be sardonic. My brain chugs along as it lays a track of a timeline. “But that means you stopped leavingthe Manorbeforeyour deal with the Widow Witch. I thought you stayed here to avoid her.”
“Like with Witches, Warlocks and their magic are strongest on their own land, their home. I’ve always kept to the Manor for that reason. Though when Lazlo came along, I did theorize that anchoring myself here could somehow help his strength.”
Was I really this oblivious to what was going on in my own kitchen—his kitchen? I feel like I need to run the last two months through a colander and scrub them of dirt. If only I’d paid more attention to what my patientwasn’ttelling me, I might’ve caught on earlier.
The Warlock takes a deep breath. “Lazlo and I might be connected by blood, but right now, your focus ishishealth. If you find a cure for him, we shall hope it works for me, too. So does any of what you’ve learned now really matter?”
A moldy taste runs down my throat. The Holler knows the wrath of the Widow Witch, but this is a special kind of cruel. Part of me wants to slap this man with a sheet of puff pastry for attempting such an arrogant bargain. Another part wants to just put aside my anger, grab Lazlo, and squeeze him tight. Maybe the Warlock, too.
“No. I suppose it doesn’t,” I say lamely.
The unyielding stress of our timeline hasn’t changed. If we don’t cure Lazlo of this illness by the solstice, the Warlock’s birthday is going to be a very bad day all around.
If Oris Webb manages to ask enough questions to get the Eldercraft involved, they might remove Lazlo from Mr. Knight’s care before we ever get the chance to cure him. I doubt they’d take kindly to a Warlock who struck a bargain with a dangerous Hedgewitch, much less let him keep custody of a kid with no magic. Especially if that kid… isn’t supposed to be here.
If if if.
If I had kissed the Warlock, would all this be easier to handle? Or that much harder?
