Keeper of Enchanted Rooms

Chapter 25

October 3, 1846, Undisclosed Location

With a wave of his hand, Silas beckoned water from the enclosed canal down the corridor of his new abode to wash out the grime building there, as well as the few mice and spiders who thought to build homes where they were unwanted. His skin tightened as the water churned and browned. He guided it back down the adjoining hallway and out the pipe again, eyes becoming gritty as he made sure every drop obeyed his command. His luck had cooperated in helping him find this place, but he couldn’t stand mildew. The task finished, he massaged his hands and crossed to a pitcher of water, which he gulped down to satiate the unbearable thirst so much magic had wreaked on him. The dry skin and eyes would abate on their own. Soon, he’d leave this place and find a home more suitable to him than this underground lair built by perspiration and magic. But as long as he was hunting, it was better to stay hidden. Oh, how he missed his days of splendor, rife with magic and money in Liverpool. He missed them terribly.

His footsteps echoed against stony walls as he walked to his laboratory, his attention diverted to the alcove carved out of limestone for his treasures. The King’s League had destroyed the ones they’d found, but not all. He’d known all this time—he would have felt their losses, and he still possessed their spells. All the donors behind Gorse End’s stone were intact. He set his jaw at the memory. The loss of the other bodies felt like missing teeth in his mouth. Once, he could conjure iron, see the future, and control the earth beneath his feet. Such rare spells. So much work and toil lost, because a member of his own staff had betrayed him.

He rested a hand on one of the iron bars protecting his trophies. Ten total, granting him twelve spells he hadn’t had before, and augmenting the magic he’d been born with. His gaze pulled, as it always did, to the dolls in the upper-left-hand corner. Their features were less preserved, making them look more like spoiled melons than shrunken, mummified monsters. He’d been so new to his abilities back then, so inexperienced. And yet, they were still with him. Still with him . . .

Silas shut his eyes, the darkness of old memories surfacing. He fought against the tide, pushing it down. He’d already paid his dues for those sacrifices. He’d already suffered the loss. It had nearly broken him. Shredded him, then rebuilt him into something stronger. Something that could conquer anyone and anything. Something that could carry on the legacies of the fallen.

He opened his eyes. If only his father’s husk were on these shelves, shriveled and still able to feel pain, so Silas could inflict upon him every ounce of suffering the man had imparted onto him. But his father had played a different part—he’d opened the doorway. Or perhaps God had, and his father was merely a pawn.

Stepping back, Silas shook himself. No time for reminiscing. He knew the island well by now. He was ready for the clairvoyant. Ready to take on his wolf form and live wildly for days until his opportunity came, if that’s what it took. Then he would move on. It was almost over. Surely it was almost over, and then he would live in power and peace the rest of his days. Break away from this parasitic life.

For now, though, it was time to add to his collection.