Fire Girl (15 page)

‘I just used wood shavings and oil,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘It went up so quickly it nearly took off my eyebrows.’

‘I saw fire coming out of your fingers . . . Hazel, what’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ Hazel said, her heart hammering. ‘I’m just making you some food—’

‘I saw you . . .’ The confusion on his face crumpled into fear and before Hazel could move he grabbed the pistol from the bedside table and aimed it at her. ‘Stay
back!’

‘David,’ she said, holding out her hands. ‘Please, put that down.’

‘You lied to me.’ His eye narrowed. ‘You’re n-not one of us at all.’

‘Don’t be silly—’

‘You’re a w-witch. A
Wielder
.’ He spat the word out like poison.

Hazel took a hesitant step forward. ‘You’re sick, delirious. David, you can barely see.’

His face flickered with uncertainty, but the pistol didn’t waver. She stared down the barrel, expecting it to explode at any moment.

‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to the straw doll in her belt. ‘Is that yours?’

‘What, this? I found it in the outhouse. I was going to use it as kindling.’

‘Show me,’ David said.

Hazel tossed the doll on to the bed and David picked it up with shaking fingers. ‘Tell me what you need this for. Quickly!’

‘I don’t need it for anything,’ she said. ‘I’ve never seen such a curious thing before. It’s not mine, I swear.’

‘Don’t play innocent with me. This is a poppet, a witch’s tool of sorcery. What were you g-going to do with it? Lay a curse on m-me? Kill me?’

Everything was spinning out of control and Hazel didn’t know what to do. ‘Think about what you’re saying. Why would I have carried you here if all I wanted to do was kill
you?’

He fell back on to the bed, shaking with exhaustion. ‘You lied to me. And I fell for it.’

‘No, I promise I didn’t lie. The demon’s poison is making your mind play tricks on you.’ She crept forward and took the pistol from him. ‘David, I’m your
friend. I don’t want to hurt you.’

‘Tell me again,’ the boy wheezed, refusing to look at her. ‘Where d-did you find it?’

‘In the outhouse.’

‘Didn’t you think it would be b-best to just leave it alone?’

‘I didn’t know—’

‘You should have left it there.’ His teeth chattered despite the warmth of the fire. ‘The boss once told me about a witch who murdered a merchant. She strangled h-him with a
horse whip and used b-black magic to rip out his soul and trap it in a straw doll.’

Cold fingers traced down Hazel’s spine as she waited for David to continue.

‘But that was not the worst of it – b-because as the soul found no rest, n-neither could the corpse, so it wandered the moors, searching for a p-peace it would never find.’

Hazel picked up the poppet and held it gingerly in front of her. Outside, the wind whispered around the eaves.

‘How do you know that this doll was used for the same thing?’ she asked.

‘The boss said the witch’s doll had its head w-wrapped in cloth, just like th-that one. It could be calling out right now.’

‘Calling out?’ asked Hazel. ‘To what?’

‘Its mortal remains.’

Fear will not hold me back.

I am ready to face the Lord of Flies.

Extract from the diary of Grand Magus Lars Göran Petrov

H
azel tried to wrap her mind around what David had just said. ‘Are you trying to tell me that if there is a soul trapped in this doll, it is
going to start calling out to . . .
its dead body?’

He opened his eye and nodded.

‘But. . . whose?’

‘How the h-hell should I know? That poppet c-could have been here for years until you d-disturbed it.’

‘I hate to say this,’ Hazel took a deep breath, ‘but this looks new to me. The straw’s fresh.’

She hugged herself and looked through the grimy window at the shadowed skirts of the forest. Something caught her eye. Movement. She dragged her gaze towards it, quaking with dread.

A
thing
edged up the garden path; a wasted husk of human remains wrapped in rags, crawling on its stomach like a wounded animal. A canvas sack, tied to a choke around the neck, covered
its head.

Hazel wiped a trembling hand over the misty window and shut her eyes.
It’s not real
.
When I open my eyes it’ll be gone. Please, please be gone.
She opened her eyes; it
was still there, and closer. Closer to the door. The
unlocked
door.

‘Something’s out there,’ she croaked. ‘It’s standing up . . . it’s
pointing
at me.’

The little colour left in David’s face drained away. ‘Put the poppet back where you found it. It’s our only—’ he collapsed back, his good eye rolling up into his
head.

The thing, whatever it was, lurched up the path. Clods of mud stuck to its rags.
Like it’s crawled from the ground
, thought Hazel.
From its grave . . .

She grabbed the poppet, dashed down the stairs and stopped dead by the door. She swayed on her heels, staring at the solid wood and stout latch. In her mind’s eye she saw the creature
waiting for her on the other side – arms outstretched and ready to grab her.

How far is it to the outhouse?
She desperately tried to recall how many steps it was.
Will I get there before it catches me?

Her hand closed over the handle and she threw open the door.

The thing crouched on the threshold, close enough for her to see its cracked fingernails reaching for her. Rot enveloped it like an invisible shroud. Paralysed with terror, Hazel could only
stare.

‘For pity’s sake, close the door,’ Bramley squeaked, standing up in his teacup.

Hazel slammed the door and slid home the bolt.Asecond later the creature crashed into it. The planks shivered under the blow and the wood around the hinges cracked. Hazel backed away.

‘Pick me up,
pick me up
,’ Bramley cried. Hazel lifted him from the cup and placed him on her shoulder. ‘What was . . .
that
?’

‘I don’t know.’ Still staring at the rattling door, Hazel retrieved the poppet from the floor. ‘Whatever it is, I think it wants this.’

‘Then give it back!’

Hazel dashed to the windows to check they were closed, and then heaved the heavy kitchen table in front of the door. ‘I’m not letting that
thing
in here. We’ll just have
to hold on until Titus finds us.’

‘And what if he doesn’t?’

Hazel had no answer. She climbed the stairs, closed the bedroom door and jammed a chair under the handle. Feeling her heart slow a little, she perched on the bed next to the unconscious David,
worrying the hem of her dress with trembling fingers. The crashing from downstairs finally stopped. Everything went quiet.

‘Do you think—?’

A low moan came from outside; there were no words, but the desolation in the sound chilled Hazel to her bones.

‘It’s circling the cottage,’ she whispered. ‘Trying to find a way in.’

Branches scraped against a downstairs window. Hazel put her hands over her ears to shut it out. ‘It can’t get in, it can’t get in . . .’

Leaves rustled on the far side of the cabin, and then slowly the moaning faded away. Hazel waited. The silence stretched, disturbed only by David’s laboured breathing.

‘Has it gone?’ Bramley said.

‘I think so. For now, at least.’

Hazel stood up and put him on the windowsill. Together, they peered out of the window at the empty garden. Clouds sagged, scraping the treetops as if weary of holding so much rain. She turned
away and looked at David.

‘He knows, Bram,’ she said. ‘He knows I’m a witch.’

‘What?’ Bramley spluttered. ‘How did he find out?’

‘He saw me use magic to light the fire.’

Bramley slapped a paw to his forehead. ‘You couldn’t have kept it secret for just a few days?’

‘It was so cold, and David was freezing . . . I was trying to do the right thing.’

‘You haven’t done the right thing since we left the Glade,’ Bramley snapped.

They fell into a sullen silence. Hazel moved to the fire and stared into the flames.

‘Are you going to leave me up here forever?’ Bramley said from the windowsill.

‘Yes,’ Hazel said.

The fire crackled, sending sparks up the chimney.

‘You do know that the first thing the boy will do when Titus gets back is tell him you’re a witch,’ Bramley said.

‘Of course I know that.’ Hazel slumped to the floor.

‘So? Don’t you think it’d be best not to be here when he does?’

‘You mean we should just leave him?’

‘I know you liked the boy,’ Bramley said. ‘But he’s our enemy now.’

Beneath the bandages across David’s face, Hazel saw the once handsome boy who had agreed to help her find her mother. She shook her head. ‘I can’t leave him. It’s my
fault he’s here in the first place. It’s my fault he might die.’

‘But—’

‘Enough.’ Hazel got up and tapped Bramley on his twitching nose. ‘Not another word.’ She picked him up and tucked him behind her ear. ‘I mean, look on the bright
side – if that creature comes back, we’ll be dead long before Titus gets a chance to kill us.’

In England, Witch Hunters are regarded with

a mixture of respect and terror. In France they

are celebrated for being wildly heroic.

Travels with a French Witch Hunter
by Markus Corrigan

A
lone on a frozen lake, the shores lost in mist. Her bare feet crunch on frost. Above, a starless sky stares down coldly. Below, black water
swirls under ice. As she walks, a spider’s web of cracks begins to radiate around her. . .

Hazel awoke with a start, the cracking of the ice becoming the crackle of the fire. It took a few moments to remember where she was. Dusk settled under a dark blue sky studded with stars. David
was still asleep, his face tight with fatigue.

‘Bram,’ she whispered as she stoked some life into the fire. ‘Are you awake?’

‘No,’ he grumbled from his nest in her hair.

She got up and sat in the chair next to the bed. David stirred, his one healthy eye roving under the lid. The simmering stew on the hearth didn’t mask the ripe smell coming from his
wounds. ‘I’ll have to change his dressings when he wakes up,’ she said, wondering where she might find more bandages.