Burn Mark (16 page)

The obvious candidate was Nate. He was surely the only person stupid and cocky enough to try it. His dad, Joe Junior, wouldn’t have the nerve – these days, he spent most of his time in the local boozer. Everyone knew he was boss only in name. It was old-timers Patch and Earl who really kept things going. Glory herself had little or no say in coven management. If they’d known she was a witch, it would be a different matter, of course. As it was, she was only on the fringe of things, and to get proof of Nate’s deception she’d need to access all areas.

She’d told Angeline about the task Charlie Morgan had set her, but whenever she tried to properly discuss the issue her great-aunt waved it away with a wink and a smile. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat. Just you wait and see.’ What could the old lady be up to?

Glory got the answer on Saturday afternoon, a week after turning witchkind. She and Auntie Angel had arranged to practise scrying together. Most of the coven were out, touting fake tickets to the football game at the local stadium, and Number Eight was quiet except for the
bleep . . . bleep . . . bleep-bleep
s of the computer in Patrick’s room.

Auntie Angel had recently entrusted Glory with a key to her room. After fifteen minutes of waiting, Glory went in and decided to have a go at scrying by herself. It would be the perfect opportunity to spy on Nate.

Like all witchwork, scrying was time-sensitive. You needed a personal token of your target to do it, but the longer this token had been away from its owner, the less effective it would be. It worked best if your target was in the open air, and within walking distance of your own location. It didn’t work at all if the room you were scrying on or in had iron shutters on the windows and an iron panel fixed to the door. Cooper Street’s basement was iron-proofed, and so was Auntie Angel’s living room. Glory had to fold back the shutters and leave the door open for the duration of her scrying.

Glory had filched Nate’s lighter that morning. Now she placed it in a glass bowl full of water and sat on the floor. Humming helped her focus, and so she started a soft tuneless drone, feeling her fae swell with the swirling of the water as she swayed gently from side to side. When she sensed the fae begin to flow through her and into the bowl, she set it down, spat on her forefinger, and began to stir the water in a circular motion, still humming, and keeping the image of Nate in her mind. Minuscule bubbles began to rise from the bottom of the bowl. They were so tiny, and then so numerous, that the water grew silvery with them.

Once it was entirely clouded, Glory stopped stirring and sat back. The bubbles were like pinpricks, or pixels, forming an image on the water’s surface. The picture was colourless and cloudy, no more than a few vague blurs, and would only last until the bubbles began to burst. The picture in Glory’s head, however, was much clearer. This meant that Nate was relatively nearby. There was no sound unfortunately, but she was just watching Nate join two other people outside a pub when Auntie Angel returned.

‘You and me got to talk,’ the old lady announced.

‘Uh-huh.’ Glory was still peering into the bubbles.

‘It’s about them pyros at the Inquisition.’ She locked the door behind her.

‘What about ’em?’

‘They need our help.’

Glory waited for the joke’s punchline. It was then Angeline Starling broke the news that she had become an Inquisition informant, and she was helping them bring a government witch-agent into the coven.

Glory felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. She didn’t even listen to the last part of whatever her great-aunt was telling her. It was like when she’d got back from dinner at the Morgans’, and the walls of Number Seven’s hallway had closed around her. She wheezed for breath.

Auntie Angel flicked water at her face. ‘This ain’t no time for hystericals. Pull yourself together, girl.’

‘I don’t understand,’ she said hoarsely. ‘After everything the Inquisition’s done – they – you –’

‘It’s not likely I’d forget,’ the old lady retorted. ‘The Inquisition murdered my sister and took away my ma. They dragged me into their cells and poked at me with their needles, then ducked me till I half drowned . . . I wouldn’t give those bastards so much as the spit from my lips.’

Glory took a steadying breath. ‘All right. Then they’re blackmailing you. They finally got proof you was witchkind and they –’

‘An old crone like me ain’t worth the bother. No, I’m more use as an informer than another witch-scalp on their wall. That’s why
I
went to
them
. A poor little old lady, repenting of her sins. Ha! Those prickers couldn’t believe their luck.’

‘So . . . why . . . why’re you doing it?’

‘’Cause of you.’

‘Me?’

‘You’re the rightful heir to the Wednesday Coven. If your ma hadn’t been kicked out of it, she might still be with us, and head-witch – just like Lily wanted.’ The old lady sniffed a little, and wiped her eyes. ‘It breaks my heart to see how Charlie and his brothers turned out. You’d never know they was Lily Starling’s sons. If she and Cora could see what’s become of their coven! There’s times I think my poor sisters are better off dead.

‘Well, never mind that. With fae like yours, you deserve real power; a chance to put things right, make your mark on the world. And the only way that’s going to happen is if we bring the Morgans down.’

Glory shook her head dazedly. ‘The Wednesday Coven’s untouchable. The Inquisition and the police and MI5 ain’t never got close.’

‘Times are changing. Look at Bradley Goodwin – hauled up before the Inquisition, on trial for his life. And you know why? ’Cause he’s got the dirt on every piece of witchery ever ordered by the Morgan clan.’ Angeline smiled sourly. ‘Now, Bradley’s gifted but he ain’t martyr material. If he’s convicted, he’ll squeal. Then, bit by bit, the whole damn empire’ll come tumbling down. Which is when you’ll step in, my duck, to pick up the pieces.’

Glory looked at the faded newspaper cuttings on the walls. Lily and Cora Starling: outlaws, celebrities, heroines. And Angeline, the sister who stayed in the background, and survived. The protector and schemer, keeper of the flame. All for Glory’s sake.

‘This witch-agent – Harry, you said? I remember Nate and Jacko talking about him. Some posh git who buys weed and pills off them. They think he’s a joke.’ It had been Harry too who had provided the tickets to the club-night last Friday.

‘Well, he’s going to have the last laugh.’

Glory didn’t see the funny side. She knew, of course, that some witches worked for the police and other security services. Occasionally, they even assisted the Inquisition. But fighting crime was one thing, fighting fellow witches was another. And here she was being asked to break the same taboo.

Auntie Angel told her about the kind of information Harry Jukes was looking for, and what would bring him to their coven. ‘I need you to act matey, show him round. We have to ease suspicion so he gets his invite to the Morgans’. That’s the point, remember. Nobody’s interested in Cooper Street.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘It’s part of the deal: immunity from prosecution.’ Angeline gave a crackly laugh. ‘The Inquisition ain’t what it was. There’s rules and regulations these days. It’s the only way they get those police witches and such to work with them. So don’t fret – we’re covered.’

Covered from the Inquisition’s reprisals, maybe. If the truth ever came out, the coven’s vengeance would be a different matter.

Glory thought of the Hampstead mansion, its luxuries bought with other people’s blood and sweat. She thought of Candice and Skye’s sneers; of Troy sizing her up like she came with a price tag; Kezia’s slyness and Charlie’s menace. She disliked the Morgans and everything they stood for. But she didn’t hate them. At least, not enough to risk everything for the chance to bring them down.

‘I . . . I don’t know, Auntie,’ she said at last. ‘I’m not sure I can do this. It . . . don’t feel right.’

Angeline watched her carefully.

‘The law hasn’t got anything on the Morgan kids, you know. They’ll be OK. Nobody’s facing the balefire neither; not even Kez.’

Glory looked away. ‘Maybe I’m not as strong as I thought,’ she mumbled. ‘But however much I want to claim my rights, this ain’t how I want to do it. I’m sorry. There’s gotta be another way.’

Auntie Angel sighed. ‘It’s only natural you’d have doubts. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this . . . but . . . No.’ She gave herself a little shake. ‘Hecate help me, I’m going to have to tell it to you straight. You deserve the truth.’

In spite of everything, Glory felt impatience as well as anxiety. She’d already had more than enough revelations for one afternoon. What’s more, the old lady spent so long clearing her throat and twisting her hands that Glory came close to shaking the words out of her.

‘You know,’ Angeline began at last, ‘that when the Morgan boys kicked your ma out of the coven, she came to me. My old man Joe – God rot him – had died a while back, but Joe Junior weren’t shaping up to much, and we was all at sixes and sevens.’

Glory nodded. She’d heard all this before.

‘There were some that said I ought never to have took Edie in. They said it would cause ructions with the Wednesday Coven, if it appeared Edie and me were setting Cooper Street up as a rival. When covens start fighting amongst themselves, lives get lost as well as business.

‘But Edie kept a low profile when she came here. Very quiet, she was. After she met your dad, she even patched things up with the Morgans. You came along, and life got even better . . . It was then Edie went back to witchwork. And just as profits were up and the coven was making a name for itself again, Edie went missing.’

‘She left,’ said Glory in a low voice. ‘That’s different. We got a note.’

I love you, but it’s better if I go. Forgive me . . .

‘But there was no notes afterwards, was there?’

‘What’re you trying to say? Mum spent half her childhood on the run. She knew how to reinvent herself. Could be she’s got a new life, another family.’

Auntie Angel looked at her sadly. ‘You don’t believe that.’

‘No.’ She bit her lip. ‘I s’pose I don’t. She’d have sent word, a sign. Something.’

‘’Course she would. I’m not saying Edie didn’t have her troubles, or her low days, but she loved you and your dad more than life itself. And it’s easy enough to forge a goodbye note. Ain’t it?’

Glory closed her eyes. White tiles, frozen scream, flaming hair. ‘You think the Inquisition got to her. It wouldn’t have to be official. I’ve heard the rumours. The secret squads –’

‘Somebody got to her, all right. But it weren’t the Inquisition.’

‘Uncle Charlie,’ Glory whispered.

Perhaps part of her had guessed as soon as Edie’s name was mentioned. The fact she’d suppressed this knowledge didn’t lessen the shock.

‘Uncle Charlie,’ Angeline agreed. ‘Not that he’d have done the deed himself. Giving orders is his speciality. But his brothers Frank and Vince would have been in on it – that’s how the three of them worked back then; one for all, all for one.’

Glory pressed her hands, hard, against her eyes. The darkness ached. She pressed harder, as if to blot out the world.

‘How did you find out?’ she said at last. Her vision was blackness, her voice was dust.

‘I had me suspicions from the off. But then a little bird came whispering . . . A witch had been buried, out in Dunstan Wood. If it hadn’t been for the tip-off, I’d never have found the spot – there was no markings, except for a shroud. It . . . well, it contained a strand of your ma’s hair.’

An ordinary shroud was a burial garment. A witch’s shroud was an amulet used to hide something or someone – to ‘bury’ them from view. They were sometimes used to deter animals from disturbing a grave, and people from finding it. A rusty, wrenching sob forced itself out of Glory’s throat.

‘You’re my own darling girl.’ Angeline’s cheeks were wet but her voice was firm. ‘I hid the truth from you to keep you safe, but I can’t protect you no more. You came of age, Gloriana, when you came into your fae. You came into danger too. Now you know what you’re up against. It’ll be a dirty fight, and a long war. But losing ain’t an option. D’you see?’

Glory nodded. She had choked back the sobs. Her fists and jaw were clenched. ‘I’ll win or I’ll burn. Whatever it takes.’

Chapter 14

In Jonah Branning’s second interview with Lucas Stearne it was like meeting a different boy. Lucas was courteous, cooperative, frank. ‘I know I have a lot to prove after my previous behaviour to you. In fact, I’m embarrassed just thinking about it . . .’ An expert performance.

Of course he wanted something. Jonah could sense the impatience behind the charm. He himself was simply a tedious bureaucratic obstacle to be got around. As Lucas’s witch warden, his authorisation was required if the boy was to apply for a WICA position. Jonah also knew that his agreement was no more than a formality. He’d been told as such by his boss, who’d had his own instructions.

‘Lucas isn’t the first young witch to be used in this way, and he won’t be the last,’ the boss had said, in another of their out-of-hours meetings. ‘Juvenile witches can be a valuable asset as well as a potential threat.’