She seemed intimidated by the very idea—Mrs. Larkin was always so sure of herself, so stiff and resolute. Silas smiled as he went on. He’d likely caught her off guard. He so rarely invited guests over, and when he did, it was only for appearances.
Slowing his step as he reached the back of the house, he glanced around once, checking for watching eyes—the basement was hardly secret, and the staff knew they were not allowed in it, but he still preferred privacy. Seeing no one, he descended the stairs, taking a lantern off the wall as he went and lighting it with the twitch of a finger. The sensation of ice shot up his hand, but it dissipated by the time he reached the last step.
He didn’t bother lighting the sconces on the wall here; instead, he continued to the trapdoor hidden in the stone beneath a rug, to the second basement he’d carved out with his own hands, his own magic. There, he lit lamps and candles, illuminating the small space in an orange glow.
This was where he kept them.
He visited often, ensuring the place didn’t get too cold or damp, ensuring his donors didn’t spot with mold or show odd symptoms. They were well preserved, but Silas wasn’t foolish enough to believe them immortal. His newest ones sat on a shelf, tied up like cured meat, ensuring they dried out entirely and didn’t bruise. The others were kept away behind a hidden and vaulted door. No one would ever find them without Silas’s help.
“One more,” he whispered to them, touching the closest, the one that had given him clairvoyance. “One more, and we’ll be complete.”
He cut the string of the first and delicately unwrapped it, cradling it as if it were more fragile than china. As he began working on the second, however, he heard a noise.
He paused, held his breath. Listened.
That noise was . . .
His blood drained from his body and pooled at his feet.
Someone had opened the hidden basement door.
Panic flooded him so suddenly he momentarily forgot himself.
Footsteps thundered on the stairs. Too many footsteps.
Snapping to wakefulness, he cut the strings binding the second and third donors and grabbed them. He didn’t have time to go to the vault, he had to hide them—
Policemen burst into the room, so many they could barely fit. A dozen, at least. Nowhere to hide the donors, nowhere to—
“Lord Hogwood! You’re under arrest!”
No.
One of the men grabbed him. Tried to bind his hands.
“No!” he bellowed as he shot out a kinetic blast at the fool, sending him barreling into a second officer. “Unhand me!”
He whipped around to strike another officer, only to hit an invisible shield. A wardship spell. His pulse throbbed in his head. King’s League. They had King’s League men here.
But . . . how did they know? How could they possibly have known?
Silas dropped the donors and retreated from the wall, shooting off a blast of fire, forcing the officers to give him a wide berth. There was no other exit than the stairs. How would he escape? He’d have to kill them all—
He smacked into another wardship spell, hard enough to loosen teeth. It dazed him for half a heartbeat, but that was enough time for his worst fears to come to fruition. A chaocracy spell of breaking shot out from his hands, only to be spell-turned by another of the king’s men.
The officers piled onto him, wrenching back his arms, binding his wrists and knees, mouth and ankles. Wardship spells pressed in like the walls of an invisible coffin. Overpowering him. Just like his father had.
Silas screamed into the gag, cursing them all. They shoved a bag over his head and hauled him up the stairs of his own home . . . Who had let them in? He tried to use magic, but a King’s Leaguer was at his feet, keeping him inside a wardship box so strong the wizard would undoubtedly be left sick and weak for a fortnight.
Still, Silas didn’t give up. He pulled at the ropes until his skin tore and bled. He pushed magic outward until his still, dry, and cold body shuddered with exhaustion. He writhed and pulled, managing to move the bag off his head—
He saw her there, standing by the front door, her mouth pressed into a hard line, her eyes resolute, her posture that of granite. Watching as the officers carried him out.
The woman with all the keys of the house. The one he’d thought perfect for her position.
As magic drained from his body, shocking him like a dagger sheathed in ice, he knew his donors were being destroyed. That Hulda Larkin had found his secret hideaway. She had known, and she had informed the King’s League. The woman had opened the doors to these men, when Silas was so close to peace.