Spellbreaker (Spellbreaker Duology #1) - Charlie N. Holmberg Page 0,107

except one. She’d picked up enough Latin to understand its purpose. Its importance. This one she folded tightly and slipped into her bodice.

“We were wrong,” she said after they swarmed her. “He was just a pawn. Abel Nash used him as a scapegoat.”

The words made her think of the American in Juniper Down. He had been right. She had been used as a pawn, too.

But whose? And how had the American known? Who was he?

The police questioned her. She asked after Bacchus and, seeing their confused looks, told them where to find him and to please hurry. She ached to lead them there herself, but Ogden . . . She couldn’t leave him, not like this. Relief that he was not entirely the villain she’d feared him to be warred with the anxiety about what all this might mean. She gave vague, tired answers to the policemen’s questions. Then she demanded Ogden be taken to a hospital.

Before they left, Ogden whispered, “I’ll take care of the truthseeker.”

The words echoed in her ears. But of course—a master rational aspector could easily make a truthseeker believe he’d already performed his interrogation. He could make him believe anything. That must have been part of the plan when the burglar—Nash?—broke into their home. The attack must have been an attempt to allay suspicion, engineered by the spellmaker who had controlled Ogden.

Elsie stayed with Ogden at the hospital. Waited in the corner as the same truthseeker from before entered, got a blank look on his face, and left. He told the officers Ogden was innocent—that he’d run only because he was scared. Nash had worked alone. The events of the night were just as confusing to Miss Camden as they’d been to everyone else.

That much was true.

Elsie wasn’t sure what to believe.

Fatigue dragged on Bacchus like wet clothes, but he trudged through the small hospital regardless, following the directions the attendant had given him. The melody of an old parlor song his nursemaid used to sing played in the back of his thoughts. The burn on his leg from his fight with Abel Nash was a dull ache, and he still picked bits of rock and sediment from his hair. The police had taken pickaxes to his prison while they waited for a spellbreaker to arrive. It would have been a quicker job had Bacchus told them where to dig to get to the rune. But then he’d have to explain how he knew, and that wasn’t possible. Not if he wanted to keep Elsie safe.

Bacchus Kelsey very much wanted to keep her safe.

He found the room. The door was cracked an inch. Knowing Elsie’s preference for privacy, he wondered if the doctor had recently been in and failed to close the door after him. Mr. Cuthbert Ogden lay on a narrow bed in the center of the small room, sleeping, looking as though he’d aged ten years. Elsie sat in a chair next to him, elbows on her knees. Her hair was unkempt from the horse ride and the fight. The police had given Bacchus an overview of what had happened, though he’d rather hear Elsie’s account. He suspected there was much the police didn’t know.

He realized he hadn’t been as quiet as he’d thought when Elsie started and turned around. As he pushed open the door and stepped out of the shadows, she jumped to her feet, wavering a little—she must have been exhausted. She rushed to him, and Bacchus readied for an embrace, but she pulled up short at the last moment, looking unsure. Instead she clutched his forearms.

“I’m so glad you’re all right,” she whispered, glancing back to Mr. Ogden.

Turning his arm around so he could take Elsie’s hand, Bacchus asked, “And you? Are you hurt?”

Shaking her head, Elsie stifled a yawn. “No. Nothing rest won’t cure.”

“Then you should rest. I’ll watch him.”

A tired half smile tugged at her lips. “No. I need to stay. I need to be here when he wakes up. The travel, the fight . . .” Pulling from him, she moved to shut the door, then crossed to the far side of the room, by the window, gesturing for Bacchus to follow. When they were significantly out of earshot of any passersby, she whispered, “He was just like you, Bacchus. Had a spell I couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. I don’t know for how long . . . I didn’t think a spell could be placed so secretly. They must have made him use his magic to