Half Wild (6 page)

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The adrenaline floods into my system.

C H C H C H C H C H C H C
H C H C
H C H C H C H C H
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CHCH
CHCH

“Nathan? That you?” Nesbitt calls as he comes up the slope.

He stops.

I don’t move. Neither does Kieran.

“Oh shit.” Nesbitt turns, bends, and coughs. He coughs again and watery sick slides to the ground. He straightens, takes a breath, and turns to me, keeping his eyes on me, my face, and not on Kieran’s body, which is lying in the mouth of the cave.

“You OK?” Nesbitt asks.

I don’t feel like answering and I just stay still, sitting on the ground. I don’t remember what happened once I transformed. All I know is that I woke up near Kieran’s body, his knife embedded in my left thigh. I pulled it out and healed. I found my clothes, which were in a small pile in the exact spot where I’d waited for Kieran, as if I’d shrunk to nothing and the clothes had dropped off me when I turned into . . . whatever animal I turn into. My father’s ring was by the pile too. I sit and twirl it round my finger now. All the time I’m trying to remember something, anything, but it’s all black.

“How long is it since you left?” I ask.

“I dunno. I guess about two hours.”

The fight must have started about twenty minutes after I left Nesbitt and would have been over in a few minutes at most. I woke and went to the stream to wash and have been waiting here for around an hour. So it seems I only slept for ten minutes or so—not long at all. But I can’t remember anything between standing above the cave and waking up with Kieran’s knife in my thigh and his blood in my mouth. I had to lie in the stream to get all the blood off. It covered my face and neck and chest.

Now Nesbitt is swigging out of a hip flask and looking at me, then down at Kieran. When our eyes meet he says, “Well, kid, I guess your Gift is like your dad’s, huh?”

I don’t answer.

Nesbitt puts his hand over his mouth, moves closer to Kieran, and peers at him. “Did you break his neck first or did that happen when you ripped his throat out?”

“Shut up.”

“And his stomach is sort of all over the ground here, so I’m guessing you have big claws and jaws and—”

“Shut up.”

“Just thought it might help to, you know . . . talk about it.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Drink?” He holds the flask out to me. “Might take the taste away.”

I swear at him.

“Being practical about things, killing them both was the only sensible solution.”

“I said shut up. We need to leave.”

“Yes, and soon. But we don’t need to panic.”

“I’m not panicking.” Though I’m itching to get going.

“Those two couldn’t have told anyone what they were up to, otherwise the hillside would be swarming with Hunters by now.”

“And what makes you think the hillside isn’t swarming with Hunters?”

He grins. “Cos we’re still alive. And I admit, mate, that I did get quite a way before I decided to come back.” He takes another swig from his flask. “I don’t think there’s anyone but us and two dead bodies for miles. And they didn’t bring guns. Hunters usually carry a full bloody armory. These are the guys from the cottage, aren’t they? Gabriel told us about that place and I checked it out three days ago from a safe distance, a considerable safe distance. In fact, from the other side of the valley, with binoculars. Have you been at the cottage recently?”

“Two nights ago.”

“They’ll have found your tracks. You know, when I met you the first time I thought you left a trail cos you were ill, not cos you don’t know how to keep hidden.”

I swear at him again. I wasn’t that careful but that’s because I was planning on leaving. Or did I do it on purpose? Did I hope Kieran would find the trail? I’m not sure I really know.

Nesbitt continues. “I reckon they were out for a stroll; they never thought you’d be daft enough to go back to the cottage. They were wandering around, picking berries or something, when they saw your tracks—certainly not mine cos I never leave any and I wasn’t stupid enough to go close to the cottage—and they followed the trail here. They should have gone back for their guns but they didn’t want to risk losing you. We got lucky but they’ll be missed soon. We need to get going. We’ll have to leave them where they are. Not so nice if they’re found by fains but I think the Hunters’ll clean it all up before then.”

“Let’s get out of here.” I lift my rucksack onto my shoulder.

Kieran’s body is lying at my feet. His right eye isn’t quite shut; the left side is pulp and tiny flies are caught in the blood. Nesbitt goes through Kieran’s clothes, taking a knife, torch, money, but tossing the phone aside. He puts the booty into his rucksack before slinging it onto his back and walking away.

I set off but can’t help looking back one last time. More flies have collected on Kieran’s face so that from a distance he looks like he’s wearing a black eyepatch. His neck is mostly gone, the white of his spine visible below his head, but his upper chest is intact. I didn’t eat his heart, that’s for sure, but his stomach is open, his guts hanging out in a red and purple morass. And I wonder what sort of animal does that to a human being.

We hike fast. Nesbitt must be in his early thirties. He’s fit and clearly a good fighter but I have to slow down for him and stop when he wants to rest. I could run all day, all night, and all the next day, even though I’ve hardly slept. I can almost sleep while I run.

Nesbitt won’t say where we’re going but when we leave the mountains and the forest we walk along a path between fields, toward a town lying below us. I can see a railway line and ask him if we’re going by train. He says, “Public transport? For us? No, mate, we need to find a car.”

“
A
car or
your
car?”

He doesn’t answer but gives a little skip of delight as he spots a gleaming gray saloon. He says to me, “I love the new Audi. And these keys”—he holds a key fob, dangling it in front of me, grinning as he walks backward—“these electric sensor ones, are so much easier than the old style.”

He walks up close to the driver’s door and presses the fob. The door unlocks. We get in and Nesbitt rubs his hands. “Leather seats, air con, cruise control. Gorgeous.”

“But you don’t own it.”

Nesbitt laughs. “Ownership is theft, mate. Ain’t that what those fains say?”

“Not that I’ve heard.” I pick up the fob. I don’t know much about cars but I can see it’s for a BMW, not an Audi.

“Van put her magic on it and it opens the car you’re nearest to.” Nesbitt pulls out and screeches off at a frightening pace. I put my seat belt on tight. “We’ll be at the house in a couple of hours. It’s a humdinger of a place.”

“Van’s house?”

“Not exactly. There are many empty houses and it’s a waste not to use them. We maximize underutilized resources, like these cars that are left standing around.”

“I guess you never ask if you can maximize.”

Nesbitt grins. “You guess right, mate. Though, if Van did ask, people would agree. She has a potion for that. She’s got a potion for most things.”

* * *

Nesbitt is right. It is a humdinger of a house—a modern, sprawling, kingpin-of-the-drug-world sort of humdinger of a house. There’s a three-meter-high wall round it with a solid metal gate that looks like it could withstand a rocket attack and is operated electronically, presumably by the person watching through the cameras that are fixed on the gateposts. Van clearly found a way round the security system. I don’t see how potions could circumvent electronics, though I guess it’s the same way she can get cars to unlock.

We’ve left the Audi and walked the last couple of miles to the house. “They’ll find it. Missing a bit of petrol but no harm done,” says Nesbitt.

“Are you really bothered about that?” I ask.

“Well, some of these cars have trackers on them. Use ’em and lose ’em is my advice.”

At the gate we stand beneath the cameras, waiting. Nesbitt has pressed the buzzer and now speaks into the microphone.

“Hey! It’s me. This is Nathan. You know how I thought he was dead? Well, turns out”—Nesbitt shrugs—“he’s not.”

I glare at him.

“He’s a good kid really.” Nesbitt looks up at the camera and in a loud, slow stage whisper says, “He has the letters.”

There’s no reply, not even the buzz of an entry system.

The sun is fierce and the tarmac under our feet is like a furnace. The metal gate seems to throb with the heat but then it starts to move, silently sliding to the side, and we walk up the long, straight drive. I look back and the gate is already closing. On the ground along the inside of the wall and the bottom of the gate is a thick roll of razor wire. The house is as much a prison as it is a fortress. Ahead, half hidden in the tall pine trees, is a low building made of glass and stone.

A man comes out of the house and watches us approach. He’s dressed immaculately in a pale blue suit. The palest of blues, almost white. His trousers are wide and he’s wearing a waistcoat of pale blue too. As we get closer I see his shirt is white and his tie is pale pink, with a matching pink handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He turns his back on us as we get nearer and goes back inside. The man is tall, taller than me, and slender. His hair reminds me of Soul O’Brien’s, that white-blond, super-slick look, cut with precision to the nape of his neck. It only now occurs to me that I’ve assumed there’ll only be Van and Gabriel here but it seems there’s at least one other person.

“Who’s that? Who else is here?” I ask Nesbitt.

He glances at me and starts to dance around in front of me, flapping his arms, singing, “Ain’t nobody here but us chickens . . .” He clucks and flaps and sings and laughs all the way to the house.

We go into the house through the wide, cool entrance hall and into a living room that has a wall of windows overlooking a long, wide lawn down to Lake Geneva. The room is huge, big enough for a party, a ball I suppose, though it’s full of sofas and low tables set out in three groups.

The man has his back to me. He picks up a silver lighter from a low table and turns to light his cigarette so that I can see his profile. His skin is clear, pale, and looks incredibly healthy, and as he inhales and swallows the smoke I realize that this isn’t a man. This is Van.

She turns to look at us both and I’m amazed at how beautiful she is. She looks like a boy and yet a girl as well, maybe twenty years old.

“So?” She says this to Nesbitt. Her voice doesn’t match her looks but it does match her cigarette habit. She sounds like she smokes sixty a day.

“So. Hi there, Van. Good to see ya, good to be back. This is Nathan.”

Van inhales deeply on her cigarette and then slowly breathes out a fine trail of smoke. She comes closer to me and says, “Delighted. Genuinely delighted.” Her eyes are pale blue, as pale as her suit. I’ve only seen the eyes of two Black Witches before now: Mercury and my father. Both were different and totally unlike White Witches who, to me, have silver shards that twist and tumble in their eyes. But Van’s eyes have jewels of sapphire that turn, grow, and diminish, and then when they touch each other give off sparks that seem to turn into more sapphires. They’re the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.

“You have Gabriel’s letters?” she asks me. I notice that the smoke trailing out of her mouth isn’t gray but extremely pale pink, like her tie. The smoke almost seems alive as it curls slowly up Van’s cheek, then turns and mingles with the air in front of her eyes, and the deep blue of them deepens further.

I’m vaguely aware that I reply but I’m not sure what I say.

Van’s eyes remain locked on mine and sparkle even more as she says, “Nesbitt, you were supposed to get them.” And she turns her gaze on him.

I take a step back but it’s hard. I have to force myself to look away from Van.

Nesbitt says, “I was supposed to bring them to you, which I’ve done. I could’ve taken them off Nathan if I’d had to but it would have involved violence and it seemed best to avoid that. He’s a decent fighter, this kid, in an unconventional sort of way—brings out the animal in him. Anyway, he’s here, he’s got the letters, and he’s keen on seeing his mate Gabby.”

“So . . .” she says. She has come closer to me again, closer than before, close enough for me to feel her breath on my face. I expect it to smell of cigarette smoke but it’s strawberries.

“So . . .” I say.

The strawberry smell is faint and I inhale deeper, to get more of it. This woman is the most amazing I’ve ever met. I inhale more and say, “My friend Gabriel . . . Nesbitt told me that you saved his life. Thank you. I’d like to see him.”

“I’m sure you would,” Van replies. “And I’m sure he’d like to see you. And we’d all like to see the letters.”

The letters are in the tin that Gabriel has always kept them in and I’ve not opened it, except the one time when I first found it in Mercury’s apartment. But now I have an urge to take the tin out of my rucksack. As I bend down to reach inside I breathe different air, air that doesn’t smell of strawberries. I stand up again, holding the rucksack, not the letters.

Van smiles at me and I feel my knees buckle a fraction. Annalise is beautiful but there’s something mesmerizing about Van. She’s literally stunning. But I’ve got to keep her at a distance.

“I need fresh air,” I say, and walk to the windows and draw the door to the side. “Let’s talk out here.”

The air outside is clean. Though it’s intensely hot.

Van follows and gestures to a shaded seating area on the patio. I walk to a low sofa but I don’t sit until I see where she goes and then I move opposite her.

She calls to Nesbitt. “Ask Gabriel to join us, and bring lemonade and tea for four.” She gestures to the seat, saying, “Please, do sit. I’m sure Gabriel won’t be long.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes, Van smoking her cigarette, then I say, “Nesbitt told me that Gabriel had been shot but that he’s recovered. Is that true?”

“He was shot twice and Hunter bullets are nasty things but, yes, Gabriel is over that.” She knocks the ash off her cigarette and takes another long drag before adding, “He hasn’t quite recovered
himself,
though. He cares for you very much, Nathan, and I’m afraid that Nesbitt, my idiot assistant—”

“Business partner,” Nesbitt corrects as he walks out onto the patio with a pitcher of lemonade that he places between us. He mutters, “Gabby was in the kitchen so I’ve broken the news that you’re here.”

Van continues. “Nesbitt, my idiot assistant, told us you were dead. As I say, Gabriel cares for you very much. He—”

I see a movement to my right and, as I turn, Gabriel steps onto the patio and stares at me. I can see he can’t believe I’m here. He looks frail and thin and he says something very quietly.

I stand and I’m not sure what to say. Words won’t cover any of it. I want to tell him I owe him my life but he knows that.

I step toward him and he strides to me and holds me tight and I hug him back. He says something under his breath, the same as before, I think, but it’s in French and I don’t know what it means.

He holds his head back to look into my eyes. He’s not smiling and his face is drawn and gray. His eyes are the same fain brown but the whites are veined with red.

I’m not sure what to say and it comes out all garbled. “I waited at the cave. I made it out of Geneva because of you. I kept hoping you’d be alive. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.”

He would normally make some sarcastic comment but now he leans into me again and says something else in French.

We stay together. I hold him, feeling how thin he is, how his ribs are sticking out. I won’t let go, though, not before he does.

He says, “I thought you were dead.” And I realize that’s what he said in French. “Nesbitt said he saw your body.”

“Nesbitt is a fool,” Van chips in.

Nesbitt walks out with a tray crammed with tea things and says, “I heard that. If you’d actually seen his body . . .” And he places the tray down and sets out the china teapot, milk jug, cups, saucers, and sugar, muttering as he does so about me being gray and cold with my eyes half open.

When Nesbitt’s finished he sits down and picks up the teapot. “So, I’ll be mother, shall I?”

a a a

* * *

We spend the next half hour catching up on what has happened. Van begins with “Do tell us what happened after Gabriel left you, Nathan.”

I shrug. I’m not sure about saying anything, not sure how much she already knows.

“Let me start you off. You, or rather Rose, stole a knife from a house in Geneva. Not any old knife but the Fairborn. Not any old house but the Hunter base, and not from just any old Hunter but Clay, their leader. Rose certainly was a talented witch. However, it was not the best of plans and she paid with her life. And you were shot too.” Van draws on her cigarette and breathes out a long stream of smoke toward me. I smell the strawberries faintly. “Do tell us what happened next, Nathan.”

I look at Gabriel and he nods.

“I was shot and wounded and couldn’t run. Gabriel saved me by drawing the Hunters away.” I try to turn the subject back to her and ask, “And you saved Gabriel but what were you doing in Geneva that night? I thought all Black Witches had fled. The city was full of Hunters.”

“Let’s complete your story first,” she says, smoke curling out of her mouth with each word. “You were wounded but you had the Fairborn. You escaped Geneva through the forest—”

Gabriel interrupts. “But why were you in the forest? Why didn’t you go back to Mercury’s cottage through the cut at the apartment?”

“The poison from the bullet made me ill. I got lost. It took me a long time to find the apartment and when I got there it was swarming with Hunters. So I set off on foot—I thought I’d have plenty of time to get back to Mercury before my birthday. I stole some food, clothes, and money. I felt better at first with the food but I became weaker and weaker until I collapsed. I cut the poison out of me and then I passed out. I wasn’t dead—obviously—but I wasn’t far off. That’s when Nesbitt saw me. I woke later and set off again for Mercury.”

Van inhales deeply. “Of course the question on everyone’s mind is, “Did you make it?”“

“I made it. But Mercury didn’t perform the Giving ceremony.”

“Ah. Because you didn’t have the Fairborn?”

“Because she was busy fighting Hunters.”