Page 107 of Mortdale

Cradling the bump in my forehead, I quickly crawled out, stepping out of the room as quietly as I could without waking Piper.

Guards lined the entry hall, holding their rifles at the ready in the direction of the house.

I climbed down the stairs, joining Christof’s side as a cold sweat settled at the back of my head. “Why are their weapons drawn?”

Henry left the wall of guards, putting a hand on my shoulder to guide me back upstairs. “Best you head to sleep for tonight, Willow.”

“I know he’s here, Henry. Is…is that woman with him?”

Henry shook his head. “Please, go back to your room. It’s for the best. Don’t argue, Willow. Not this time.”

I glanced up at his other friend posted at Logan’s study room door. But Arthur’s back was not against his door. He was facing it, his rifle drawn and held tightly, his fingers slipping on and off the trigger.

“Art, where is he?”

When he lowered his head, I grabbed Henry by his shirt. “Tell me where he is or I will light you both on fire even if it is the last spell I will ever cast.”

“I promised his mother on her deathbed I’d look after him, you can’t light him on fire.”

I spun around at the sound of Logan’s voice, my limbs shaking with relief. He was leaning against his study door, a cigarette between his lips. The relaxed expression on his face almost distracted me from the harsh blood stain spreading from his stomach in a crimson gradient.

He held a hand against it as he tipped his head back and blew a cloud of smoke. “I also happen to like the bastards a little.”

Both his friends tensed, their grip on their weapons harsher as they lifted them in Logan’s direction. As did the rest of the soldiers.

“Put them down,” I said, climbing down the stairs in a hurry. “Art! Put them down.”

“They can’t,” Logan said, stepping a foot back into his study when I came to stand in the foyer. “I’ve ordered them not to.”

The question almost slipped past my lips when I realised.

No.

I shook my head.

No.

“Stop right there, witch-woman,” Arthur shouted, making me flinch. He lifted his rifle in Logan's direction. “Move away from him.”

Pulling my skirts up, I took off my slippers and launched them at both their heads. “How can you do this to him?” My own vocal cords strangled me as I said, “And how dare you?”

“It was his orders,” Arthur said through a gritted jaw, his rifle unsteady in his hands, and eyes practically begging that I move away and didn’t force him to do what he didn't want to do.

“Willow, no!” Henry bellowed when I dashed as quickly as I could, shoved Logan into his study, and locked the door behind us.

Heavy rattling filled the room as Henry and Arthur tried to break in.

Logan’s eyes flashed when he saw me pull a thread from his shirt and wrap it around my fingers. “Honey, don’t.”

“Tomb of stone, hinges of bone,” I murmured to myself, feeling the wooden door behind me solidify into rock.

Logan took a few small steps back. “You’ve seen how it is, Willow. It’s best if you get out. Please,” he begged.

His breathing grew harsher, hurried, when I grabbed his shirt, lifting it up to inspect his wound.

“Why haven’t they called a doctor?”

He took a few steps away from me again. “We usually heal on our own in a few hours.”