Burn Mark (9 page)

Glory nodded, breathless.

Angeline’s old fierce face didn’t soften, but tears began to slide quietly down her cheeks.

‘All these years . . . These years of waiting and watching, hoping . . . But I always knew. In my blood and my bone, I knew. You were one of us.’ She closed her eyes. ‘It’s all paid off,’ she murmured, as if to herself. ‘The sacrifice, the suffering. Yes, it’s come good at last.’

She let out a long, wavering sigh. Then she went over to her great-niece and clasped her solemnly by the hand, like somebody making a pact.

‘A life lived through fae is the best and bravest in the world. I never had a chance to fill my potential, nor did your darling ma. But it will be different for you. I’ll make sure of it.’

Glory tried to smile back. Her eyes welled, she was ready to laugh and shout and cry all at once. But Auntie Angel was already tidying her emotion away. Briskly, she sat down on the chintzy sofa and patted the space by her side. ‘Right then, sit yourself down and tell me all about it. Every last detail, mind.’

This was what Glory had been waiting for. When she came to the cat, Auntie Angel’s breath hissed. ‘You summoned
a familiar? Hecate help us! Don’t you know how dangerous that is? There’s been witches as have gone mad that way – merged their minds with some dumb beast’s and never got ’em back.’

‘It happened so quick I didn’t have time to think.’

‘Hmph.’ Auntie Angel pursed her lips. ‘Well, summoning’s a rare skill. Chances are you’ll be a powerful witch. Which is just as well, seeing as those pyros at the Inquisition will’ve had you on their watch-list since the day you was born.’

Glory glanced at the three smiling girls on the wall. Their exploits had been her bedtime stories, but she’d always known that, just like in the old fae-tales, witches often met unhappy ends. Legend had it that the persecutions suffered by her own family had started back in the seventeenth century.

Denouncing a witch to the authorities remained the greatest taboo in the coven world. Two years ago, a freelancer who’d done some witchwork for Charlie Morgan was shopped to the Witchcrime Directorate. The man who informed on him was found dead three days later with every inch of his body pierced through with rusting pins. It was coven tradition to punish witch-snitchers with tortures derived from Inquisition techniques. The deterrent worked, for despite vigorous campaigning by the Inquisition, denouncements remained few and far between.

Thinking of this, Glory said, ‘At least I’ll have the coven watching my back.’

‘The coven mustn’t know. Not yet.’

Glory stared. ‘What?’

‘You heard me. This has got to stay between the two of us.’

But what about her party, and the presents, and swanking around Nate . . . ‘You mean I can’t tell
no one
? Not even Dad?’

‘Not one solitary soul.’

‘I don’t understand. The coven needs me.
You
need me. I thought I was going to help, to learn alongside you, and –’

‘And so you shall, my girl. But if you’re even half the witch I think you are, it’s not only the Inquisition you’ll have to watch out for. The Wednesday Coven will be after you just as quick.’

Glory frowned. ‘The Wednesdays don’t need no more witches. They can afford the best. ’Sides, Kez is already training up Candice to be head-witch after her.’

‘The only training that girl is capable of is the quickest way to snort white powder up her nose. Besides, her fae’s even weedier than her ma’s.’ Angeline sniffed. ‘Kezia Morgan may be a smooth operator but she’s a workaday witch.’

‘What about Candice’s brother and sister?’ Glory tried. ‘Skye’s only nineteen. She could still get the fae. So could Troy, for that matter.’

‘They could. But it’s a long shot, and Charlie Morgan ain’t a gambling man. No, once he knows you’re witchkind, he’ll want you on his books, doing his bidding same as the rest.’

‘I ain’t going to be no one’s hired help, specially not for that crowd. They lord it over us enough as it is.’

‘For good reason. Cooper Street’s only allowed to operate on the Wednesday’s say-so. Without their backing, we’re finished.’ She looked at Glory slyly. ‘There’s another thing too. Breeding witches is a risky business, but Charlie Morgan plays a long game. My guess is he’s already fixing to set you up with his son and heir. Troy’s got a brain on him; ambition too, unlike those daft sisters of his. Give it a year or two, and he’ll have you popping out witch-babies for the Morgan bloodline.’

‘
Eurgh
. No, I bloody won’t!’

‘You might not have a choice, missy. If you won’t be one of their assets, then you’ll be a threat. And you know how the Morgans deal with those.’

Glory went pale and cold, then hot again. ‘They wouldn’t. We’re not just allies – we’re family, for Christ’s sake. I don’t believe it.’

‘Then you’ve as much to learn about families as you do about fae. Look how they shafted your ma.’

Lily Starling had adopted Edie with the intention of bringing her up to be head-witch after her. But when Lily died, the other members of the Wednesday Coven decided that twenty-one-year-old Edie was too inexperienced to take her place, and Charlie Morgan’s wife Kezia became head-witch instead. That was when Edie came to Angeline. If it hadn’t been for Angeline, she would have been out on the streets.

‘Charlie Morgan’s been watching you, and waiting, same as I have. Same as those witch-prickers at the Inquisition. Lucky for you, I’ve kept one step ahead of both.’ Angeline lit a cigarette, squinting at her through a cloud of smoke. ‘Now, I’ve got us a plan but there’s still some things what need putting in place. So in the meanwhile, we sit tight and we keep quiet. Business as usual.’

‘Plan? What kind of plan?’

‘All in good time.’ She patted Glory on the knee, then laughed at her stormy expression. ‘And no sulking! First things first: you sure nobody could’ve seen you messing with that cat?’

‘Positive. But . . .’

‘But what?’

‘There was . . . there was one other thing. You see – I, uh, did a bit of extra witchwork earlier. Just to test things out.’

‘Testing like how?’

Glory described her encounter with Trish. ‘It’s fine, though,’ she wound up. ‘Trish didn’t suspect a thing.’

But now she wondered if this was true. She remembered the searching look Trish had given her as the pain began to recede, and the way the woman had shrunk away from her as she went to the door. She felt another stab of shame.

‘It were only a little headache,’ she added lamely.

‘That’s not the point,’ her great-aunt snapped. ‘Mab Almighty! Don’t you know where Trish Warren is working these days? That bar in Cannonby Street: The Angel. The one managed by
Felton Cobbs
.’

That brought her up short. Felton was an informant for the Wednesday Coven. ‘Oh . . . OK. Still, I don’t reckon there’s any cause for her to –’

Somebody rapped on the door.

‘Piss off,’ Angeline called. ‘I’m busy.’

‘It’s for Glory,’ Nate’s voice replied sullenly. ‘Charlie M’s on the phone. He wants to see her, pronto.’

Chapter 8

‘Can I have a word, Dad?’

‘If it’s a quick one.’

From behind the stack of papers on his desk, Ashton Stearne gave a slightly tense smile. He was due at a colleague’s memorial service that afternoon, and so was in his ceremonial dress uniform: a military-style affair of silver-grey and scarlet, adorned with his service medals. It was what he wore in court, Lucas noted grimly.

‘I, er . . . It’s rather important.’

‘Then you’d better come in.’

Lucas closed the door behind him and advanced to the desk. He was unsure whether to sit down or remain standing. The frenzied horrors of the night had passed; at this point, he was conscious only of blankness. He felt light-headed and unreal. Everything was unreal. This moment of confession in the study was certainly too theatrical to be true. He stared stiffly ahead, like a bad actor in a worse play.

Ashton’s hands fidgeted with his pen. He saw Lucas noticing the fidgeting and put the pen down. He tried an encouraging smile. ‘Right then, old chap. Speak up. What’s this all about?’

Lucas cleared his throat and said, too quickly, ‘There’s something you need to know about me, and I’m afraid it’s going to be a bit of shock.’

His father waited, but all the other scripted, rehearsed, impossible words had died in Lucas’s throat.

‘Are you in trouble?’

He gave a half nod, half shrug.

‘Have you done something wrong?’

‘Not on purpose. The trouble – the problem – is . . . personal.’

‘A problem with your friends? Or with a girl?’

Lucas felt a wrench of comic bitterness. He almost laughed. He took a deep breath. ‘No, the problem’s me. There’s something I’ve discovered about myself, you see. A difference. It’s hard to admit to, but I need to tell you what kind . . . what kind of person I am.’

His father looked down. For the first time, his hesitancy matched his son’s. ‘Is this about . . . boys, then?’

‘Boys?’ Lucas repeated blankly. Understanding dawned. ‘No!
No
. God –’

‘In that case,’ said Ashton Stearne with heavy patience, ‘what exactly are you trying to say?’

Lucas waited. His father waited. The words still wouldn’t come. Dumbly, Lucas began to unbutton his shirt. He kept his head bowed, hatefully aware of the flush of shame flooding his skin. Once his shirt was loose, he turned around and tugged it down, exposing his bare shoulder blade. The small velvety blot.

He heard Ashton get up, muttering, and lean over the desk towards him. He felt the nearness of his father’s warmth on his skin, sensed the lightness of his curiosity, followed by a sudden tightening of focus. The sharp indrawn breath.

‘Is that . . . is it . . . ?’

‘Yes.’

Ashton did not touch the mark. His back was very straight and his face was very still. In the silence, Lucas straightened his shirt and redid the buttons, but awkwardly, because of the trembling of his hands.

‘How long have you known?’ his father asked eventually, as if from very far away.

‘Since last night.’

‘And have you told anyone else?’

‘No.’

‘Soon you must. You must inform the Inquisition. Within twenty-four hours, that’s the rule.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’

More silence.

‘You’re very young.’

‘I know. It should be impossible. The whole thing should be impossible. It –’

His father didn’t seem to be listening. ‘You are so very young,’ he said again, quietly. He closed his eyes, and his own face grew old.

But when he opened his eyes again, his gaze was steady and his tone brisk. He put his hand on Lucas’s shoulder and gave a resolute smile.

‘I am sure you’ll deal with this very well. Admirably, in fact. There’s no point pretending this won’t change a great many things, but together we will stand firm and do whatever has to be done. Of course, you have my full support. You always will – I hope you know nothing can change that. No doubt Marisa and Philomena will be entirely supportive too.’

He did not say that everything would be fine. He did not say,
I’m sorry
, and,
I love you
, and neither did Lucas. They both knew the other wanted to, though. For the moment that would have to be enough.

The rest of the day was the loneliest of Lucas’s life. He stayed shut in his room, dazed by a bewilderment so heavy it was as if he’d been drugged. Occasionally he would be overcome by panic. His thoughts would hop and sputter manically. Then he would have to get to his feet, wrapping his arms around himself, and pace back and forth until the shaking stilled.

The house was deathly quiet. Philomena was still in bed, nursing her hangover; Marisa was at the tennis club. Ashton had left to attend the memorial service as planned. Everything else, he said with uncharacteristic vagueness, would be settled on Monday, after the weekend. He would ‘drop by the office’ on his way home.

By this, he meant that he was going to break the news to the Witchfinder General. Afterwards he would set up an appointment for Lucas to be registered.

Lucas knew the registration included a test of his witchkind abilities, but not exactly what this would involve. Inquisitorial techniques were not publicised; he had learned about them in general, not specific, terms. He would have to exchange his ID card for a new version stamped with a ‘W’. Then there was the bridling itself. The iron cuffs would remain until he left school and found a public-sector job as a practising witch. Even then, he would be monitored to ensure he only committed witchwork as part of authorised government business.

So these were his last hours of freedom. Lucas looked at his wrists, picturing the metal bands that would soon circle them. A bridled witch was like someone with a disfigurement. The civilised, polite thing to do was not to look. You always noticed, of course, but you and the witch both pretended you hadn’t. If you weren’t civilised then it was a different matter. People would spit and jeer; Lucas had seen it. There were beatings too.