Witch Fire (24 page)

Look at you. Look at the dirty hag
. . .

For the most part, Lucas had tried not to think about what might happen if he came face to face with Gideon again. Now the moment had come, he realised he didn’t even know what he wanted to do – confront him? Accuse him? Cage him in iron and drown him in ice?

Gideon turned to Rose, who was nuzzling his ear. ‘Lucas works for the British government. Maybe that’s why he’s looking so down at heel.’

It was true. Lucas was pale and haggard, in travel-stained clothes. He’d been skulking about in alleys and seedy hotel rooms, disguised in an even seedier glamour. He was AWOL from his job, subsisting on coven cash. Adrift and alone.

Whereas Gideon, a debarred and disgraced inquisitor, sadist, conspirator and criminal –

Gideon was clearly doing very nicely for himself.

‘We can’t all be on permanent leave.’ With great effort, Lucas kept his voice steady. ‘How’s unemployment treating you?’

‘Well, the Devil makes work for idle hands . . . and, as you know, I don’t like to be idle.’ He smiled.
‘
This place isn’t called the New World for nothing. A land of sunshine and opportunity.’

‘For criminals, maybe.’

‘Oh, indeed. That’s why private law enforcement is Cordoba’s premier growth industry. Honest citizens are crying out for order, authority, discipline. And unlike their British counterparts, they’re not squeamish about what it takes to provide it.’

So Gideon was a mercenary. It made perfect sense. The same powerful family connections that had kept him out of jail had no doubt helped ease his way into one of Cordoba’s militias. He’d probably got a crisp new uniform and shiny new gun out of it too.

A waiter had arrived and was greeting Rose like an old friend. ‘I wouldn’t have thought she’s your type,’ Lucas hissed, while her attention was elsewhere. ‘Playing with fire, isn’t it – with her mother a witch?’

‘It’s not as if I’m planning to
breed
with her,’ said Gideon, amused. He’d barely bothered to lower his voice. When the waiter moved on, he put his arm around Rose’s waist. ‘Lucas was just saying what an adorable couple we make.’

Rose smiled, then looked at Lucas doubtfully. ‘Aren’t you rather young, to be working for the government?’

‘He’s a child prodigy, darling. Whatever business he’s doing here, it will be very hush-hush. A secret mission in the mean streets of San Jerico. Am I right?’ Gideon held up a hand. ‘No – wait. You’d tell me . . . but then you’d have to kill me!’

He laughed heartily. His eyes met Lucas’s. They were as chill and pale as glass.

‘You take care, Gideon.’

Somehow Lucas managed to walk away.

Icy bands squeezed his lungs. The breaths he took were bitter and choking. It was as if Gideon himself were a bane, something twisted and unnatural, which made the air sicken around him.

Lucas had achieved nothing – Gideon’s composure was as unshakeable as his arrogance. But Lucas couldn’t waste time on regrets. His priority had to be finding out how Gideon, Rose and Glory were connected, and why.

However angry Glory was with Lucas, she would never knowingly consort with the likes of Gideon Hale. He embodied everything she most hated and feared about the Inquisition. So either she didn’t know about Rose’s boyfriend, or else Gideon was keeping his identity from her. It wouldn’t be difficult: they hadn’t previously met. And if that was the case, then Rose must be in on it too.

And if Glory thought she and Rose were friends, God knows what she might have told her; what secrets she’d confided or confessed.

Or how Gideon would make use of them . . .

And so one hour later, Lucas was standing outside the glittering high-rise that was home to Cordoba’s Chief of Police.

‘Welcome, welcome my friend!’ Raffi’s grin was as irrepressible as ever. ‘You are here for Glory, yes?’ He flung out his arms dramatically. ‘You are come to declaim your
amor
and do the grovel on her feet!’

‘No grovelling,’ said Lucas drily. ‘Or declaiming either. But I think Glory’s in trouble, and she needs our help.’

Chapter 24

Glory had enjoyed her second café-rendezvous with Rose. San Jerico was lonelier than Glory liked to admit, and getting to know Rose had given her a sense of purpose. But now it was becoming a distraction. She decided it would be better if she began to keep her distance.

Finding out what had happened to her mother was Glory’s priority. But she wasn’t naive. She knew there was a good chance Edie Starling was dead. She’d give it her best shot, and if nothing came of it, well . . . she’d be no worse off than she’d been a few months ago.

The obvious thing to do was to use the contacts she’d made at the Carabosse to get introduced to the Cordoban covens. Perhaps she’d hear about her mother that way. There would always be opportunities for a witch with her gifts. She was smart and talented. A good job in a strong coven was all she’d wanted, once.

But then she thought of the bleeding beggar on the cathedral steps, the frightened citizens clutching their charms and saying their prayers, the little boy locked away behind iron doors. A life of witchcrime . . . Did she even have the stomach for it any more?

Much as she hated to admit it, Lucas was right to say that working at the Carabosse was beneath her. She scowled at the thought of him lounging back on the purple velvet, looking down his aristocratic nose, curling his aristocratic lip. Judging her. As if she was some fallen woman in need of rescue!

She had been training herself not to think of him. She needed to believe they wouldn’t meet again. Yet that first moment, when he’d leaned out of the shadows . . . Her insides still turned over at the thought of it. A deep, hot shiver of recognition.

Glory thumped her pillow in annoyance. She was trying to have an afternoon nap, but couldn’t relax enough to drop off. She kept wondering how Lucas had tracked her down. It was possible WICA had somebody following her. Or, worse, the UK Inquisition. Not that any of them could touch her, not out here . . . The house throbbed with the sound of the TV blaring, dogs yapping, raised voices. Close her eyes, and she could almost be back in Cooper Street.

Amid the racket, she heard her name. Todd was shouting for her from downstairs.

‘WHAT?’ she yelled back.

‘VISITOR!’

Lucas
, she thought, and her insides gave another jolt.

She swung out of bed and reached for something to wear. A moment later the door to her room was pushed open by Todd.

‘Don’t you knock?’ she growled, wrapping her dressing gown round her even more tightly.

‘Don’t you listen? You’ve got someone to see you.’

‘I know. I heard. I’m coming –’

‘Seems like your pal needs a shoulder to cry on. And I’d be happy to lend one . . . she’s hot, for a ginger chick.’

So it was Rose then. With dragging feet, Glory went downstairs.

Rose did indeed look as if she’d been crying. Her face was blotched and her hands were shaking.

‘Oh, Glory,’ she gasped, drawing her outside the front door.
‘
Thank God you’re here. Something – something terrible’s happened.’

‘What’s wrong? Are you hurt?’

‘Not me. It’s Esteban. Esteban Vargas. The little boy – we – you – saw at the party yesterday –’

‘Has he had an accident?’ But even as she asked, she knew the answer.

Rose spoke in a frightened whisper. ‘It’s witchwork. He’s been got at. We don’t know how. They called the doctor at first. And then a fae-healer, from one of the private hospitals. But neither of them can do anything. And then I thought of you. You’re powerful, aren’t you, Glory? And experienced. I thought – if you could just – just come –’

‘
The kid’s been hexed?’ Glory sucked her teeth. ‘I ain’t got skills in that sorta thing.’

But that wasn’t quite true. Auntie Angel had taught her banes. And WICA had taught her how to undo them.

‘Please. If you could just
try
. If you could see him . . . it’s so horrible . . .’ Rose’s eyes were welling with tears. ‘Vargas – he’s desperate, frantic. We all are. But I know I can trust you.’

Glory had only seen Esteban for a few moments, but she had liked the kid. To inflict a bane on a child would be taboo for any witch that she could think of, criminal or not.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and see.’

There was another limousine waiting to take her to the mansion. The closer they got to their destination, the more distressed Rose became. ‘He’s just an innocent,’ she kept saying. ‘I don’t understand.’ She rocked back and forth. ‘Such darkness. It’s like I can feel it . . . feel it spreading . . .’

They passed through the same three checkpoints, the militiamen even more hatchet-faced than before. Rose said that nobody knew how the security had been breached. No bells had rung or alarms been activated; there was nothing untoward on CCTV. Disaster had struck at midday, when Esteban was in his playroom. He had pointed at the floor, and said there was a snake. His nanny could see nothing. Almost immediately afterwards, the boy had started banging his head against the wall. When he was forcibly stopped, he fell into a trance.

This time, Glory was brought through the mansion’s main entrance, but there was little opportunity to take in her surroundings. Accompanied by three soldiers and with Rose at her side, she was taken up to Esteban’s bedroom. It was large and well-lit, despite the iron shutters covering the windows, and should have been a cheerful place; the colourful walls were lined with books, the floor littered with toys. Now it was hot, noisy and crowded with frightened people. A group of servants and family members took up most of the space; muttering and weeping, clutching charms. A doctor in a white coat and a woman in a green striped uniform, who was presumably the fae-healer, were huddled together in one corner. A priest was in the other, burning incense and intoning prayers. Nobody was bridled. After all, the damage had already been done.

Before Glory crossed the threshold, her way was blocked by Vargas himself. His eyes were bloodshot, his breath sour with fear.

‘You are the girl, the witch-girl?’ he asked in heavily accented English.
‘
The friend of Rosa, from England?’

‘
That’s me.’

‘You won’t hurt him?’ His eyes burned into hers. ‘You will do only good?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I won’t hurt him. I will – I will try to help.’

‘Swear it. I have to trust you, I have no choice.
Swear
.’

‘I swear.’

Rose gripped Glory’s arm. ‘I know you can do it. I believe in you.’

‘I can only do me best,’ she said, and felt a shiver of apprehension. The pressure of Rose’s fingernails reminded her of last night’s warning to stay away. As she walked into the centre of the room, the people around her fell silent, and shrank back.

She tried not to let it distract her. She needed to keep her attention on the child. Esteban was sitting bolt upright in the centre of the bed, which had been pulled into the middle of the room. As soon as she saw him, she could sense the fae rolling off him, like a toxic fog. His eyes were wide and unblinking. His body was shaken by shudders and pouring with sweat. She could hear the dull chatter of his teeth.

Rose had said that Esteban thought he saw a snake. That made it a figment – the type of bane associated with hallucinations. It had put the boy into a literal trance of terror. All banes were very difficult to undo; if the witch who hexed it was as strong as Glory, it might be impossible. Yet the bells over the doorway were silent and still. However had it been done? It was a question that must be contributing to the tension in the room. People must be wondering about the interrogations to follow.

Glory turned to the uniformed woman standing by the doctor and asked, in halting Spanish, if she was the fae-healer.

The woman nodded, and nervously held out her hand. A little mud-man was there, wrapped in what looked like a bit of pillowcase from Esteban’s bed. It had been made in an attempt to draw the fae out of the boy and into a poppet. Glory would try the same thing, with a few amendments.

She beckoned Rose over. ‘I’ll need to make a poppet of me own. With blood from Esteban, if that’s OK. Will you explain to his dad?’

The necessary arrangements were made, and the doctor passed her a sterilised scalpel. Someone else was sent to gather earth from Esteban’s favourite play area in the garden, while Glory collected a marble from his toybox and dust from under the bed-frame. The earth was sandy, and the feel of it between her palms took her back to Dr Caron’s therapy sessions, and the long hours fiddling with the sand-tray. She used it to build a mud-man around the marble, mixed with dust and a smear of blood she took from the boy’s arm.

He didn’t seem to notice her take it, any more than when she cut off a hank of his messy black curls. This she twisted into a strand of her own, moistened with spit, to make a bracelet. The audience watched intently, and in silence.

Glory’s mouth was very dry as she climbed on to the bed to sit opposite Esteban. With the scalpel, she made a small nick in the centre of her forehead and then his. He didn’t flinch. In her right hand, she held the poppet. With her left, she took one of his, and slipped the hair bracelet over their interlaced fingers. His skin was icy, despite the sweat pouring from his body. She leaned in to press forehead against forehead, blood against blood, eye meeting eye. His pupils were dilated and oddly clouded.