“When I was young.”
“And when wasthat?”
His lips purse. Just when I thought I had a grasp on his oddities, here we are again. I have a hard time believing this Warlock is afraid of anything, but something has him cautious.
“Don’t leave? Orcan’tleave?” I press.
“The difference in semantics is irrelevant in my case.”
“Okay, sowhydon’t you leave?”
“A number of reasons.”
“Great, plenty to choose from.”
His eyes narrow. “The less the Holler sees of me, the better. That’s the only answer you need.”
As if the universe is a dramatic, mischievous thing, at that very moment the afternoon glow outside vanishes, like someone dropped a giant lid over our soup pot of a farmhouse.
An earsplittingBOOMof thunder shakes the Manor to its foundation.
Unabashed fury cracks the cold stone of the Warlock’s pale face. His teeth clamp together, jaw working, as he looks heavenward to the ceiling.
“Not now,” he growls to the sky.
Chapter Eight
MONDAY, APRIL 11 (STILL)
71 DAYS UNTIL THE SUMMER SOLSTICE
Honey’s Helpful Hint, from
Honey Frost’s Southern Cookbook for Recipes Gone Wrong:
Salt. Vanilla. Spice. The smallest ingredients have the biggest flavor.
Warlock Knight moves to the window with efficient speed, neck craning as he peers out into the sudden gloom.
The wrath in his expression makes him look older. Weary. Primeval.
I check the oven—still on. Cake baking, oblivious. Phew.
Governess Zeen races into the kitchen, kitten heels clicking. “No warning?” she asks, checking locks on doors and windows. Her posture is battle ready.
“None.” The Warlock’s face drops. “Where’s Lazlo?”
“He was right behind me—”
“Here!” The boy in question skids into the kitchen, socks slipping on the freshly shined floor. He flies right into the Warlock’s open arms.
“Remember, this is no different from any other time,” the Warlock says to him. “Do not leave the kitchen—stay close. The wards are strongest closer to me.”
“Excuse me,” I say, watching the entire exchange, motionless with nerves. “Not to be a bother, but are we underattack?”
I’m not sure it’s possible for this Warlock to be afraid of anything,but. The opposite of confidence dances on his face as he looks at his ward. Goose bumps dart across my neck. I’m missing something here, but my gut agrees: If there’s any kind of distress, the most important thing is to keep Lazlo safe.
“I’m a bit frightened,” I announce. Play along, I can do. “Would you mind standing with me, Lazlo? I could use a friend.”
