He leaned onto his knee in her back. Hulda screamed into roots and earthworms as lightning coursed through her body, overwhelming the subtle pull of the spell. Her backbone was going to snap.
“Hardly worth it.” He pulled back, unaffected by the sobs shaking her chest and shoulders. She gasped for air and sucked up dirt, barely able to cough it out. She tried to kick, but the spell restraining her wrists also glued together ankles and knees.
She was going to die. God help me, I’m going to die.
“I thought about you every day.” A new spell jolted through her, one that truly felt like lightning. She cried out as it burned the backs of her thighs. Was this part of the draining, or just a means to torture her? Grit clung to her eyelashes and melded with her tears. “Every day in that Godforsaken place.” He shoved her head down again, burrowing her face so deep in the muck there was no air to be had. She struggled, twisted, jerked. “Never thought it would be—”
Thunder exploded. It crashed into Hulda’s head and made her ears ring.
Suddenly the unbearable weight on her head and back lifted. Hulda wrenched away, tears streaming down her face. Her arms and legs, unexpectedly free, prickled from lack of blood. She fell back into the grass. Picked herself up again. Her glasses hung off one ear.
Through a single lens, she saw a shadow approaching.
And Mr. Hogwood . . . Mr. Hogwood was gone.
“Show yourself!” The demonic and grating words sounded in Merritt’s voice. Thunder ripped through the air again, and Hulda’s hands rushed to her ears. Some distant piece of her recognized it wasn’t a storm she’d heard, but a firearm.
The shadow rushed across the grass, swinging the butt of a musket like a sword. Heart in her throat, Hulda twisted, searching the marsh for Mr. Hogwood, but it was as if he’d never been there. And with the repertoire of spells that man possessed . . . he could truly be gone.
“Hulda.” The edge of the voice dissipated as the shadow dropped down beside her. Her frenzied mind managed to recognize it.
Bloodied lips struggled, “M-Mister . . . Merritt?”
His hands cradled her jaw. It was so dark she could barely see his outline against starlight. He felt so warm against her cold skin, his touch nearly scorching. “You’re hurt. You’re—”
A rustle in the grass, likely only a hare, but panic shocked Hulda from crown to heel. Merritt leapt to his feet, musket in hand.
Nothing but the wind greeted them.
“Baptiste!” Merritt bellowed. “Baptiste, bring the light! I found her!”
Hulda gawked at him, shaking, teeth chattering, her mind a flurry of disjointed thoughts and fears. Her body still burned from spells.
She didn’t see or hear what he did with the gun. But Merritt Fernsby crouched beside her and drew her trembling body into his arms, lifting her from the shallow grave of muck and reeds. Far in the distance, a lantern swung, slowly making its way toward them.
Finally, one thought managed to rise above the others: Safe. She was safe.
Hulda turned into Merritt’s shirt and wept.
Chapter 27
October 6, 1846, Blaugdone Island, Rhode Island
Merritt didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until Beth’s hand on his shoulder roused him. His head bobbed up, the hallway outside Hulda’s room coming into focus. His posterior ached, as did his back. His knees were propped up to give his arms something to rest on, which had rendered the soles of his feet numb. His trousers and fingernails were still stained with mud.
He’d been there all night.
“She’s awake.” Beth’s timid smile bolstered his spirits. “She’s fine, just scrapes and bruises.” The smile fell. “A lot of bruises.”
He gritted his teeth, the misery of the long night resurfacing again, souring his throat and mouth. If he had been paying better attention . . . He’d promised her she’d be safe here. With a psychometrist and augurist in the house, one would think . . . but Merritt knew better than to lean on those capricious fragments of magic. No one could have predicted this.
Beth offered a small but strong hand to help him to his feet. He had to wait a moment before going in, as the blood in his body reordered its priorities, one of which being his head. Running his hand back through his hair and catching on more than one snarl, he slipped into his housekeeper’s bedroom.
Hulda lay on the bed, her blankets pulled up chastely to her shoulders, her arms resting on top of them. Beth had brushed her hair, which splayed out across her pillow in soft waves. Her bent glasses rested on the bedside table, so there was nothing to hide the bruises on her nose and under her eyes. The edge of her bottom lip swelled.