8
Blood dripped from Hiram’s lips to quench the thirsty soil, and he spit to clear his mouth. The ropes binding his arms behind his back prevented him from reaching for his wand or otherwise using magic.
“You disappoint me.” Father struck the tip of his black lacquer cane on the dirt floor of the stables. “Tell me it was greed, that you wished to take the Winterbourne coven all for yourself.”
To speak the words Father wished to hear was to betray what he felt for Howl, but it might yet save her.
“Yes.” Hiram’s bruised temple throbbed with the effort of speaking. “It was greed.”
“It was weakness,” Penn, one of Father’s hatchet men, hissed. “You saw him with the girl.”
The girl.
How had Hiram ever seen Howl as simply the girl? She was so much more. She was…everything.
“You’re young,” Father explained as if Hiram were a child. “Your hungers are confusing you.”
“Sex is a fleeting pleasure.” Penn fisted Hiram’s hair, yanking back his head. “Hearts are power. Power is eternal.”
“I invited your minx to join us.” Father watched for a reaction Hiram refused to show. “She ought to be here soon.” He tapped Hiram’s chin with his cane. “Kill her. Take her heart. Feast on her power.” His hot breath blew metallic in Hiram’s face. “And I will forgive you your folly.”
“Set me free, and I will take a heart,” Hiram rasped, “but it will be yours.”
Hiram was a powerful witch, stronger than his father. His mother was a mystery, a question mark, a ghost that haunted him when he was younger, but one he exorcised in order to ingratiate himself to his father, who despised the mere suggestion of her existence.
“Your scenario wouldn’t be ideal.” Father leaned back. “I prefer a living heir.”
For all that Howl believed Hiram was free to do as he pleased, she had no idea much she was mistaken. She might live in a gilded cage, but he wore a shackle locked around his neck that gave only the illusion of freedom. His father used its chain to track Hiram wherever he went, allowing him only so much slack, and when he strayed, his father yanked on it as if he were a collared dog.
“Put him down.” Penn sounded bored. “Here.” He drew his wand. “I’ll do it for you.”
The crack of Father’s cane as it struck Penn’s skull was as familiar as breathing.
“Touch my son,” Father said coolly, “and your heart is forfeit.”
Penn rolled in the dirt, his eyes glazed, clutching his bleeding temple.
Light steps on the cobbles outside the stables jerked Hiram’s attention from Penn to the entryway.
“Ah.” Father straightened his jacket. “Our guest has arrived.”
“Howl,” Hiram yelled. “Run.”
Pain exploded across his jaw when Father swung his cane to silence him.
“Hush.” He strolled to greet her, smile on his face. “You must be Amalthea Winterbourne.”
The instant she crossed the threshold, placing her within the stables, she wrinkled her nose at the smell.
Black magic.
Father was seeped in the cloying sweet perfume of death and decay.
So was Hiram.
But Hiram was a scout, and one whiff of the sins coating his soul sent prey running. He wore charms to lull white witches into complacency. He bought their wares, talked craft with them, but he never used his power in their presence. He couldn’t, not without revealing his true nature.
When Phillip turned them away the night of the full moon, Howl ought to have listened to her friend.