Fire Girl (11 page)

T
he wagon rocked and creaked its way into the forest. A pair of hanging metal cages guarded the entrance, each gibbet containing a crumbling
skeleton shrouded in rags. A raven sat hunched on a wrought-iron ‘C’ at the top of one of the cages.

‘
C
for Cromwell,’ David remarked. ‘Odd to think that there used to be witches in the King’s court, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ Hazel hazarded.

‘Things are very different now, of course. It won’t be long before there are no witches left in England at all. Then all of us ordinary folk will be safe from them forever. Cromwell
says the witches who remain at large will do anything to get revenge for losing the Witch War.’

Hazel looked sidelong at David
.
Are there many witches left now?’ she asked.

David shook his head. ‘Very few, I should think. The Witch Hunters under General Hopkins have seen to that. Most have gathered in the North, but Lord Cromwell himself is leading his army
to defeat them.’ He sighed. ‘I wish I was up there with him.’

The forest closed in, branches lacing together to shut out the sky. Only a few streaks of moonlight reached the road. The gloom dampened even David’s spirits. Only the horses seemed
unperturbed as they plodded down the rutted track, their perspiring flanks steaming in the cold. Hazel eventually got used to the wagon’s sway, her backside becoming so numb that she
couldn’t feel the seat. Sleep stole over her.

Perhaps it was a drop in temperature or a shift in wind direction that woke her up and quickened her heart; she knew Bramley felt it too because he stirred and shivered, his bristling whiskers
tickling her neck.

‘David?’ she said.

‘Mm?’

‘Can you . . .
feel
something?’

David nodded towards the gnarled trees encroaching on the road. ‘The mist is getting worse,’ he said. ‘Is that what you mean?’

Sure enough, fog was seeping through the trees on either side, filling the shadows with grey vapour. The first white tentacles were already uncoiling on to the road in front of them. Hazel
tasted moisture in the air and water droplets gathered on her cloak. She peered ahead at a dark shape lying prone across the road.

‘Stop the cart,’ she hissed. ‘I see something.’

‘Whoa, boys.’ David pulled on the reins and the wagon creaked to a stop. ‘It looks like a body.’ He reached under his seat, pulled out a short wooden club and climbed
down the ladder. ‘You stay here. If there’s trouble, get the boss.’

‘But you said not to wake him up,’ Hazel said.

David shrugged. ‘Just don’t get within arm’s reach. Try shouting “fire”. Actually, “ale” will probably do the trick.’

Hazel perched anxiously on the edge of her seat as David crept up the side of the road towards the shape. His boots crunched on the ground.

‘Can you smell something odd?’ Bramley asked, squirming out of Hazel’s hair and on to her shoulder.

Hazel sniffed.
Could it be . . . ?

She lowered the Entropy Goggles over her eyes. The world faded and was replaced by blurry shapes. The only thing in focus was a trail of glowing red footprints leading out of the forest, around
the body and then snaking down the road into the distance.

‘Rawhead,’ breathed Hazel. ‘He’s been here . . .’

‘I have a bad feeling about this, Hazel,’ squeaked Bramley.

David stopped a few feet from the body and crouched down, head cocked. Through the goggles he was nothing more than a shimmering wraith. ‘She’s alive,’ he called. ‘I can
see her breathing.’

Hazel ripped off the goggles just as something shifted in the branches over David’s head. A shower of leaves drifted down.

‘David,’ Hazel shouted, feeling the tremor in her voice. ‘Come back!’

He turned to her. ‘What?’

‘Come back,
right now
.’ She pointed at the drooping branches. ‘There’s something—’ Her voice seized up in her throat.

David looked up. Above him hung a huge spider; at least twice the size of a grown man. Moonlight drowned in its bulging eye-clusters. Silver venom dripped from its fangs. Eight legs, splayed
like an open hand, reached towards him.

‘David!’ Hazel screamed.

For a frozen moment the spider and David stared at one another; then the creature dropped on a glistening length of silk, smothering him before he could make a sound. Through the hideous tangle
of legs, Hazel saw the spider work its fangs into David’s cheek.

With a violent spasm, he flopped to the ground like a boned fish and lay perfectly still.

Nicolas Murrell spent many years studying

demons, and is an expert in their evil ways.

A Contemporary Study of Witches
by William Steer

H
azel pressed her back against the wagon as the spider turned its bulbous eyes towards her. She felt as if it had caught her in an invisible web;
all she could do was watch as it sidled towards her, its long hairy legs stroking the ground.

‘We’ve got to wake the Witch Finder,’ Bramley squeaked, scrambling around her hair in a panic.

A spark of hope ignited in Hazel’s chest as the woman in the road rose to her feet and sidled towards the spider. Something long and metallic glinted in her hand.

Stab it,
Hazel thought.
Save us all!

The woman was level with the spider’s back leg when she looked up and smiled. ‘Hello, Hazel,’ she said in a voice as light as snow. ‘Thank goodness we’ve found you.
Please don’t be frightened of Spindle; she won’t harm you.’

‘Who . . . ? How do you know my name?’ Hazel gasped.

The spider flattened its abdomen and shuddered with pleasure as the willowy young woman ran the silver comb through its bristles.

‘We know all about you. We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ The woman tucked her long, dark hair behind her ears and took a step forward. Her skin was so white is seemed to
glow. Spindle followed, front legs tickling the air.

Hazel stood up with her fists clenched. ‘Stay where you are – don’t come any closer.’

The woman stopped and tucked the comb into her shawl. ‘It’s all right, I’ll stay here. I’m a Wielder, like you. My name is Lilith, the last Frost Witch in England.’
She held up her bare arms, smiling as white mist poured from her skin and gathered in swirling eddies at her feet. ‘Don’t be afraid, I’m here to help.’

‘I definitely think we should be afraid,’ Bramley said. ‘That creature she’s with isn’t natural . . . It’s a demon, I’m sure of it.’

‘What’s your horrible spider . . .
thing
done to my friend?’ Hazel said. ‘He’s not moving. If you’ve killed him, I swear . . .’ she trailed off.
Swear what? What can I possibly do?

‘She told us you had a fiery spirit,’ Lilith said. ‘I can see it now. It matches your hair.’

‘Who told you?’

A frown cut a furrow in the witch’s flawless brow. ‘Why, your mother, of course.’

Hazel gawped at her. ‘My . . . mother?’

‘She’s lying, Hazel,’ squeaked Bramley. ‘Don’t listen to her.’

‘Yes. We found her lost in the forest. She was badly hurt.
Burned
.’

Dread punched Hazel in the stomach as she remembered the wave of fire she had cast back at the pool
.

‘Don’t worry.’ Lilith held up a hand. ‘She’ll recover.
We’re
looking after her now.’

Hazel distrusted her relief as much as she distrusted the witch. ‘Who’s “we”?’ she asked.

Lilith took a step forward. Hazel saw that her eyes were as cold and clear as a frosty morning. ‘Friends,’ she said. ‘Witches. People like you.’

‘Me and my mother don’t need friends – we have each other.’

‘If that’s true, then what are you doing consorting with a Witch Hunter?’ Lilith gestured contemptuously at David’s crumpled figure.

‘He said he’d help me—’

‘Help you?’ Lilith shook her head sadly. ‘Do you know what he’d do if he found out what you are? He’d kill you –’ she snapped her fingers –
‘just like that.’

Hazel stamped her foot. ‘You don’t know that for sure.’ Fire flickered in her hair.

Lilith held both hands up, palms outward. ‘Hazel, please believe me—’

‘No. You’re a liar,’ Hazel said, her voice low. ‘Now let us pass or you’ll regret it. I’m going to take David and find my mother.’ She jumped as a deep
voice rolled like thunder through the shifting mist.

‘I’m afraid I can’t let you do that.’

Lilith lowered her head and Spindle cringed.

‘Who’s this now?’ Bramley whispered, his claws pricking Hazel’s neck.

Hazel felt her magic seep away like water through her fingers. ‘Trouble,’ she replied.

‘Curses, poisons and plagues are their weapons.

Beware the witch. They live among us.’

Father Alfred Jourgensen

A
man wearing a cloak of black feathers and resting a walking stick on his shoulder strode out of the fog. ‘Cold as a grave tonight,
isn’t it?’ he said, stopping in front of the wagon and leaning on his stick. His face was shrouded in a deep hood, but the lanterns flashed on dark eyes that peered keenly at Hazel.

The man from the forest.

‘Get out of my way,’ Hazel said.

The man raised his hands. ‘I just want to talk to you.’

‘I won’t do anything until I see David,’ she said.

‘The boy is fine. Spindle just put him to sleep, that’s all.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ Hazel said, gripping the seat so hard she thought it would snap.

‘I am not a liar, Hazel Hooper. Nor am I a murderer.’ His smooth voice oozed into her mind like syrup, calming her nerves and soothing her fear.

This isn’t right,
she thought
. Why do I want to believe him?

‘Don’t listen,’ Bramley muttered. ‘He’s lying, just like that witch.’

Hazel shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. ‘You might not be a murderer, but you did take my ma,’ she said. ‘I saw you by the Border Hedge.’

‘Did you now?’ He reached out and stroked Hercules’s nose. ‘Your mother told me you were clever, and I see that she was right. Very well, let us talk honestly to each
other.’