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“Thatishandy.” He turned the metal rod over.
A painful laugh rang up Hulda’s throat, but it died on her lips. “Owein.”
Dropping the crowbar, Merritt sped to the dog. Knelt at his side. “He’s all right. Breathing.” He stroked the mutt’s fur. “Hey, boy, can you hear me?”
Snatching a broken bottle, Hulda shakily rose to her feet and approached Hogwood. Stepped over a deformed doll. Hogwood’s chest moved slightly with his breaths. She knelt by his head, pushing the glass against his cheek should he wake—
Silas Hogwood drew in a fluttering breath, then released it.
His body remained still.
Hulda gaped. Dead.Dead.Too hurt to even heal himself... She couldn’t internalize it. Like her brain had disconnected from her body and sat in one of those jars on the shelves.
Her tormentor... gone. And all his magic with him.
Sounds came from overhead—footsteps, creaking floorboards, a few shouts.
Merritt stood, Owein filling his arms, and looked up. “Please don’t say those are his accomplices.”
Hulda tilted her head, listening. “I believe it is the local watchmen.”
“Ah.” He glanced at the heap that was Silas Hogwood, then at her. He hefted the dog. “Do you want to hold him?”
Hulda gave him an inquisitive look.
He merely tipped his head toward her. Hulda looked down... at her underthings.
Sighing, she held out her arms. “Yes, please.”
At least the animal would give her some sense of modesty when the patrol made their way downstairs.
Chapter 32
October 16, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
BIKER was more powerful than Merritt had given it credit for.
Watchmen had poured into the strange basement hovel that Silas had built for himself, like any true villain would, followed shortly thereafter by a Ms.Myra Haigh, an attractive woman in her late forties. Hulda and Merritt were separated—Hulda still using Owein as a modesty shawl—and thoroughly questioned, which really wasn’t a problem, as Merritt had nothing to lie about. In the end, Ms.Haigh stepped in and covered everything, assisting law enforcement, cleaning up the mess, ridding them of the... body. By dawn, after the strangest and most dangerous night of his life, Merritt and Hulda were free to go.
Which was how he ended up in Boston midmorning, stifling a yawn as he leaned against a whitewashed brick wall of Bright Bay Hotel, where BIKER was supposed to be clandestinely tucked away. He picked absently at the bandage around his forearm, where Silas had burned him with a handy streak of lightning. Owein danced nervously around his feet, taking in the sights of the city, sniffing people as they passed by. He wondered how much of the creature’s mind was mutt and how much was boy. He certainly heeled well.
Owein perked, his floppy ears lifting. Merritt turned just in time to see Hulda slip out of the back door, her trusty bag ever on her shoulder,all her bandages covered by a modest dress with a collar snug against her chin. Despite the long and arduous night, she managed not to look exhausted, though her hair looked like someone had taken her to bed in a very passionate manner. Merritt bit down on a grin and did not share the simile.
When she reached him, she held out a file. “Here.”
He straightened and took the papers, flipping over the first one. “What’s this?”
She rolled her lips together. “This is the information on your father. That is, who I believe your father to be.”
Merritt lowered the papers without reading them. “I see.”
“When you’re ready.” She rubbed her hands together like she wore gloves that didn’t quite fit. “If I’m right, then Owein is your great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-uncle. Give or take.”
The papers felt like steel sheets in his hand. He glanced at the dog, who barked at his side, tail wagging.
“Thank you.” Unsure what to do, he tucked the file under his arm. Lingered. Frowned.
“Are you well?” Hulda asked.
