The Wicked: A Novel
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The mesmerizing and highly anticipated sequel to Something Red transports readers to the harsh and enchanting world of thirteenth-century England, where a group of unlikely heroes battles an ancient evil.
A thrilling and intoxicating journey to a land of legend, where nothing is quite as it seems. . . .
Something evil has come to reside in a castle by the chill waters of the North Sea: men disappear and are found as horribly wizened corpses, knights ride out and return under an enchantment that dulls their minds. Both the townspeople and the court under Sir Odinell’s protection live in fear, terrorized by forces beyond human understanding. But rumors of a wise woman blessed with mysterious powers also swirl about the land. The call goes forth, and so it comes to be that young apprentice Hob and his adopted family—exiled Irish queen Molly, her granddaughter Nemain, and warrior Jack Brown—are pitted against a malevolent nobleman and his beautiful, wicked wife.
Richly set in the inns, courts, and countryside of thirteenth-century northwest England, The Wicked is a darkly spun masterpiece that will leave fans of epic fantasy thirsty for more.
came over and Hob said to her, “I killed this one. I wonder if he has a wife, or children, and they waiting for him to return.” Hob had been in mortal struggles before, but this was the first man he had actually killed himself. Nemain said, exasperated, “Must you always be thinking three times about everything? He’s after trying to kill us, and he failed, and there’s an end to it.” She stooped and quickly went through his pouch, finding nothing of value or interest; examined the poorly made
Molly said. “ ’Tis a command that you should do so. As though Herself had some hand in this—we thinking that ’tis Sir Odinell we’re helping, and now . . . it may be ’tis Her bidding that sent us here all along.” MOLLY WAS THOUGHTFUL AND QUIET for a while. Then she took a deep breath. “Well, ’twill be what it will. It’s ready we must be, and our skills at their keenest. A few rounds of the knife game, and then it’s to bed.” For the time Hob had traveled with them—now almost three years—Molly had
eyelids closed, and by the morning, the scent of the sea in his nostrils and Jack bustling about, he had forgotten everything. CHAPTER 12 THE SHUTTERS IN THE GREAT hall, though fastened, were flexing against their latches, producing a muffled banging that underlay the howl of the wind and the crash of the surf outside. Hob had awakened to a mild breeze outside his window. By the time the troupe had assembled and descended to the hall, a stiff wind blew from the German Sea. Sir Odinell had
to it, and the raven, wasn’t it saying that I must use my two spears of the moon to trap this rat, and to destroy it.” “But—” Hob stopped, unwilling to interrupt. Molly was subdued, and did not seem upset with Hob. “But what, lad?” “But the rat was already dead,” Hob said. “ ’Twas. And this morning, I waking up and thinking on this dream, I’m not understanding it, and let it be, that I might be pondering it later, and Hob’s now showing me . . . “The raven’s after telling me it’s a geis upon
rat, and it raised its snout, facing toward the hidden war party, and its eyes had a blue sheen to them. Hob controlled himself with an effort, and made no sound of surprise. He took a stealthy step forward and put one finger to Nemain’s shoulder. She turned and looked at him, and he pointed. The rat was still there, nose quivering, eyes searching the shadows where the knights waited. Nemain nodded, and gave a low whistle. The lump of darkness that was the owl launched itself into a long,