Heir of Uncertain Magic (Whimbrel House, #2)

by Charlie N. Holmberg

The voices spun and banged in his head, awakening a familiar headache that no tonic could dull. Merritt pressed his forehead to the cool glass of the window, trying to think about something else—his book, Hulda, the laundry, politics—but the voices pierced through, regardless.

Communion, wardship, chaocracy. Those were the magics tied up in Merritt’s blood. He’d love to get rid of the first. He’d still seen no sign of the last.

He might not have chosen the form of a dog, but it was infinitely better than being a house, most days. He hadn’t adjusted to the cost of using his magic now—confusion and disfigurement—so he tried to use it less, but magic had been all he could do for so long, it felt strange not to use it. He tried to occupy his time with reading, which was boring but necessary, he guessed.

Truly, Owein fascinated him. Despite having a spirit some two hundred and twenty-something years old, Owein still behaved like a boy. He’d died at the age of twelve, and twelve was the age engraved into his heart. Perhaps his lack of maturity came from being alone for so long, away from the social and familial interactions that would have helped him grow up. Perhaps aging was a thing of the body and not the soul.

Even when you’re gone, it’s less . . . lonely, like this. My heartbeat keeps me company.

Owein blinked. He took a moment to answer. Looked away. Why should I be sad when so much is good?

Why should I be sad when so much is good? Such a simple answer, and one Merritt wanted to cling to.

“Really, darling.” He stopped at the edge of the sidewalk, took her hand, and pulled her knuckles to his lips. Met her eyes and held them until that flattering pink suffused her cheeks. Then he whispered, “Just let me enjoy you.”

“Would you, though?” Merritt asked, barely audible to himself, but the way Sutcliffe stiffened, he knew the constable had heard it. “Would you reach out to my mother? My father? Would you tell my brothers who I am? Would you make that right?”

“Goodness, Hulda. There’s a lot of sugar in this.” She shrugged. “Sugar makes sad things better.”

“There’s a secret facility in Ohio that banks blood from wizard cadavers and placentas.”