When they spot me and the Warlock’s half-faded upper body, they droop like wilting plants. We stumble over to where they’re gathered around a fluffy lump of fur by the island.
Beauregard yips his hello. And snuggled up with him on the floor, his back leaning against the island, is Lazlo.
My eyes prick at the sight of him, and the Warlock flinches against me.
Disappearing skin now crawls up Lazlo’s neck and above his socks, and his little hands are gone. His unfocused eyes brighten as we come closer, but he doesn’t move to get up.
Jesus. I’m not ready for this. But there’s nogetting readyfor something like this. Lazlo doesn’t belong with us. He needs to go home,now.
Wincing, the Warlock kneels next to the boy. “Comfortable?”
Lazlo nods, his head nestled against the poodle like his neck is too tired.
“Did you bring me anything from your trip?” Lazlo asks.
“Of course,” the Warlock scoffs. “Cave crystals.” With an invisiblehand, he brushes a strand of hair from Lazlo’s pale forehead, but it looks like a breeze just whipped by.
“You’re disappearing, like me,” Lazlo says with a shuddery breath.
Everyone in the room goes rigid.
I’ve been operating on sheer muscle memory since we left the Witch’s cottage, my mind too busy counting the hours, the minutes, we have left. So it’s only now I let myself think the worst: What if the Witch’s spell doesn’t work? What if she lied to us?
“I don’t feel good today,” Lazlo says. “Beau can tell, too. He won’t eat his treats.”
The Warlock’s clenched jaw releases. “Ms. Frost and I are going to help with that.”
The boy’s eyelids flutter. “I wanted to bake you a birthday cake but Ms. Zeen wouldn’t let me.”
“IbelieveI said you should rest,” the Governess says. “I don’t get paid enough to supervise that.”
My palms smart under the pressure of my fingernails. I’m not sure what’s worse, seeing my mom in the hospital orthis.
An abrupt banging echoes from the front of the Manor.
Arna Jean shifts to the windows facing the porch. “Oris Webb again,” she groans, and tosses up a middle finger through the glass. The banging escalates.
Rett joins his sister at the window. “And half his congregation this time.”
Some impressive swearing runs through my head. Webb promised he’d get enough folks to believe the Warlock is a threat to the Holler as long as the Widow Witch’s target is on his back. A part of me didn’t think he’d actually follow through on his plan to try to pitchfork the Warlock right out of the Holler.
Shouts carry in from outside, like Webb is now giving an impromptu sermon right on the front porch. “No Eldercraft as far as we can tell,” the Bookwitch adds.
“Yet,” the Warlock says.
Ms. Zeen gives me a dry look. “Glad to see you’re back in one piece. Did the Widow Witch agree to help?”
“She gave us a spell to right things for Lazlo. We have to perform it now, before the solstice ends.” I share a glance with the Warlock. We can explain the rest later. There’s no time.
Arna Jean and Rett join us at the island again as the banging knocks turn into outright pounding. I begin to doubt the strength of the old farmhouse door. Beauregard unleashes a deluge of barking.
“The Manor has wards, right?” Silas asks over the noise.
It should. Even if the house was going haywire the last few weeks as the Warlock was losing his power and control over his magic.
That’s when it strikes me—why the house feels off. It’snotthrowing a fit for once. No jumpy floorboards, no humming faucets, no sounds of tinkering from otherwise empty rooms.
The house isn’t calm. It’s just… empty.
