Witch Fire (7 page)

A farewell family dinner was held the night before he was due to fly to Zurich. Family meals had been an ordeal for some time now, composed of long interludes where only the chink of silver cutlery on good china disturbed the silence. Thursday’s gathering was different. It almost had a festive atmosphere.

This was mostly due to his stepmother. A gracious hostess and formidable networker, Marisa had married a High Inquisitor in expectation of sharing all the prestige of her husband’s position. Having a witch for a stepson was not part of the plan. But with Lucas’s embarrassing condition under wraps – covered by the Official Secrets Act, no less! – the family’s standing was secure. Even better, Ashton’s new government post meant he might still be in reach of a knighthood . . .

And now Lucas was off to boarding school, just like she’d proposed from the start. Marisa’s good spirits danced over the dining table.

‘Switzerland is a lovely country,’ she remarked as she passed Lucas the petits fours. ‘
So
civilised. I wonder if you’ll still be there for the ski season?’

‘He’s not going on holiday, darling,’ said Ashton.

‘Well, no, but it would be a pity not to make the most of his travels. Perhaps you could bring us back some of that wonderful chocolate, Lucas. Or cheese. It would be such a treat.’

Philomena yawned. ‘No wonder Swiss bankers get fat.’

‘Don’t worry, Philly,’ Lucas told her. ‘I’ll be sure to find you a slimline cuckoo clock.’

‘If we could put the souvenir requests aside,’ said Ashton, with heavy patience, ‘perhaps we might take a moment to reflect on Lucas’s new venture, and why we should applaud it.’

‘Dad . . .’ Lucas looked down at his plate, embarrassed. Marisa pursed her lips. Philomena got ready to roll her eyes, saw Ashton’s expression, and thought better of it.

‘It’s true I had reservations about you joining the agency, Lucas. I still do. That is a parent’s prerogative. But serving one’s country has always been the Stearne way, and though it’s not an easy path to take, it is – I believe – the best and bravest one.’

Lucas tried to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.

‘
To Lucas,’ Ashton said, and raised his glass.

‘
To Lucas,’ the others obediently chorused.

Glory kept picking up her passport and turning it over in her hands. She hadn’t travelled more than a few miles outside London before, let alone got on an aeroplane. Until recently, she wouldn’t have been able to find Switzerland on a map.

Witches had special passports in addition to their ID cards. They had to apply for permits to go abroad and register with the Inquisition of the country they were visiting. Because Lucas and Glory were acting the part of unregistered witches, however, they had been issued with standard British Citizen passports. They could come and go as they pleased.

It was an intoxicating idea. Glory thought of her mother and grandmother, roaming the continent from one adventure to the next, crossing borders in search of new horizons, restless and free . . .

Yet now the time had come, she didn’t feel ready for it. She was a Londoner born and bred. Its grime and grit were knitted into her bones, close as the fae. And although its streets teemed with the sights and sounds of other nations, she struggled to imagine herself as a foreigner; the person who couldn’t read signs or follow instructions, who made the wrong gestures and got overcharged buying the wrong stuff. What if nobody understood her accent? What if she didn’t like the food? Even the electricity was different abroad. She’d had to get special plugs.

Part of the anxiety was not knowing how long she’d be away. Wildings Academy was open all year round; its students stayed on campus until their graduation. Glory’s lip curled at the thought of them – a bunch of snots who’d prefer to pose as delinquents rather than face up to being witchkind. Pathetic.

Patrick had been told where she was going but not why. The official story was she’d won a place on a charitable study abroad programme for inner-city teens. He had taken the news of her departure quietly. At odd moments, Glory would go into her room and find an offering left on her bed: an inflatable travel pillow, a tin of sweets, a pair of Union Jack socks.

On her last night, he came in and watched her pack. He’d spent the afternoon with Rolf, a fellow gaming enthusiast he’d recently met through the Computer Club. Rolf was very tall and very fat, and as chatty as Patrick was quiet. They made an odd pair, Glory thought, but she was pleased Patrick had someone else to hang out with apart from Peggy.

He seemed more puzzled than worried by her departure. ‘I never liked travelling,’ he said.
‘
Too much fuss. Your mum was different. She would have liked to get out of town, gone exploring . . . Well.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I was never the adventurous type.’

Glory gave him a hug. ‘You made Mum happy,’ she told him. ‘I know it. That’s what counts.’

‘
You’
d make her happy. She’d be ever so proud.’

‘Would she? I wish I’d some proper memories of her. Mine are all from other people’s stories. I ain’t got none of my own.’

‘Your mum’s a part of you, Glory. But it’s your own self that makes you special. Don’t forget that.’

‘Is – is Mum still a part of you? After so long?’

‘Yes.’ Her dad nodded slowly. ‘Yes, I think she’ll always be. But not like a real person, more like an idea of one. A nice idea too. No painful thoughts.’ He patted her hand. ‘As you said, it’s been a long time. You don’t have to worry.’

It was true that in spite of his shambolic air, her father was self-sufficient as well as solitary. But the Cooper Street Coven had been a family as well as a business, and however dysfunctional that family was, it had offered security and support. Looking at her father now, Glory was suddenly glad of Peggy’s presence. She would get Troy to keep an eye on him too.

Glory had left a letter for her father with Zoey Connor, one of the few agents she was friendly with at WICA. She had been determined to make the letter everything Edie’s fragment of farewell was not. It was a surprise to find the words came quite easily. Afterwards, she felt relief and also optimism. It was like insurance – once it was taken out, you forgot about it. Besides, the idea of failure was inconceivable. She was Gloriana Starling Wilde. She always achieved what she set out to do, whatever it took.

However, there was something else Glory had to cross off her list before she left. It involved a consultation with Troy.

When they arranged to meet in a greasy spoon near Tower Bridge, she had looked forward to being evasive and mysterious. Even if she couldn’t namecheck Endor, she planned to drop dark hints about the mission ahead. Unfortunately, at the first mention of boarding school, Troy nearly fell off his chair laughing. ‘Jolly hockey sticks! Cold showers and double Latin! It’ll be the making of you, girl.’ The only thing he took seriously was her request to check up on Patrick.

‘
There’s something else,’ she said. ‘Rose Merle. Have you made any progress?’

Rose was the seventeen-year-old daughter of Lady Serena Merle, a bridled witch who had died in a fire she had set herself. Rose, left brain-damaged after a botched operation to remove her fae, had been put in the care of a private hospital. Her memory had gone; she couldn’t hold a thought or feel an emotion. Glory had met her briefly and couldn’t think of her blank and frozen face without a shudder.

Lady Merle had been married to one of Silas Paterson’s co-conspirators. She had also been an informant for the Wednesday Coven. But Glory and Troy had discovered her relationship with the coven was more than just business. When Serena Merle had been an aspiring young actress, and before she turned witchkind, she’d had a fling with Vince Morgan. Rose was therefore Lily Starling’s granddaughter and Troy’s cousin. Troy had been trying to track her down for some weeks now.

He grimaced in response to Glory’s question. ‘Yeah, and it’s not good news. She’s been discharged from hospital. It took a hefty sweetener before I could get the nurse to talk. She said Rose was collected by a Mr S. Evans – her uncle, allegedly. The thing is, I’ve done some research, and Serena didn’t have a brother. Nor did Lord M.’

Glory fiddled with a sugar packet. ‘You don’t reckon . . . it couldn’t have been Vince, could it? If he found out about Rose, and –’

‘No,’ said Troy firmly. ‘If that was the case, I’d know about it. Besides, this bloke was a Yank according to the nurse. Bit of a smoothie, she said.’

Glory thought about Vince Morgan; the wild red hair and the beaten-up face, the scars and tattoos. He had a way of looking at you that made you think the back of your neck would crack. How had he charmed Serena Merle, so polished and fragrant, with her dewy eyes and pearly skin? With those two for parents, Rose would have made a formidable witch.

‘How would Vince take it, d’you reckon?’

‘A long-lost kid is one thing,’ said Troy, shrugging. ‘A kid with mush for brains is another. And Uncle Vince isn’t exactly the paternal sort. He was quite the ladykiller in his younger days – in more ways than one.’ He gave a humourless laugh. ‘Could be there’s a whole litter of mini-Morgans we don’t know about.’

‘Still . . . he’s gotta find out about her someday. I mean, if the coven takes Rose in, people’ll want to know why.’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’ll keep searching for her, of course. I’ll keep asking questions. But for now, I’m afraid it looks as if we’ve hit a dead end.’

Chapter 7

Peggy had offered to drive Glory and Patrick to the airport. Glory said that she’d prefer to go on her own. It was true she’d prefer not to go with Peggy, but she had no wish to bring her dad along either. He wasn’t good in crowds, or noisy and unfamiliar places.

Glory almost regretted refusing the lift as she battled across London on public transport with her bags. The airport was thronged and echoing; wherever she looked, inquisitorial guards were on patrol. She had an irrational fear somebody would pinch her passport, and she grew hot and harassed working out which signs to follow and where to go.

She caught sight of Lucas after checking-in. They were supposed to be strangers, as part of their cover, but his family were with him and Glory would have kept out of his way in any case. She retreated behind an information desk to observe. The elegant blonde must be his stepmother, talking to the stepsister with the stupid name. The girl’s face looked stupid too. Lucas was standing next to his father.

Glory had seen Stearne Senior once before, when he’d stormed into the basement where Lucas was held captive. Her memory of him was confused by the other images of that night. Now she could really see how alike he and Lucas were. Tall, imposing, assured. Ashton Stearne could be flipping burgers in a fast-food joint, or scrubbing the airport floor, and he’d still look a High Inquisitor to the bone.

He put his arm round his son. They were posing for a photograph taken by the blonde. The girl threw back her glossy hair with the practised ease of someone in a shampoo commercial. Lucas said something, and they all laughed. There were other families all around them, saying other goodbyes, but the Stearnes stood out from the rest. So attractive and prosperous, so absolutely sure of their place in the world. Even Glory was dazzled. She screwed up her face.

‘Glory!’

Now it was her turn to be looked at. Even the Stearnes paused. ‘Glory!’ called Troy Morgan again, striding towards her. His breadth and height made it easy for him to pick her up from the floor, crush her against his chest and whirl her round.

‘How – what –’ She was pink and breathless with surprise. Troy was never demonstrative, let alone theatrical.

‘You didn’t think I’d let you go without a proper goodbye, did you?’ he said, finally setting her down. He glanced towards the Stearnes, and straightened out his suit in a satisfied sort of way.

Glory laughed. ‘So where’s me red carpet and the brass band?’

‘I’m saving them for when you get back. Got everything you need?’

‘Should do.’ She felt suddenly shy. ‘I hope things go OK for you while I’m gone.’

‘Stay lucky, Gloriana Starling.’ Troy touched her, lightly, on the cheek. He glanced again towards the Stearnes. ‘Remember who you are.’

From near the airport security area, Lucas watched as Troy Morgan swept Glory up into an embrace. There was a lot of laughter.

Ashton frowned. ‘An unfortunate association.’

‘Wait,
that’
s the coven girl?’ Philomena stared at the hooped earrings, the low-cut red top, the bottle-blonde hair. She sniggered. ‘Chavtastic.’

‘Enough of that,’ said Ashton sharply. ‘Our family, and indeed the country at large, owes that young woman a great deal.’

Marisa gave a little cough. ‘Darling, it’s time Lucas went through security. We mustn’t delay him any longer.’ She took Lucas’s hands in hers, before daintily swooping in for a farewell kiss. ‘I’m sure everything will work out for the best. You’re bound to do
splendidly
.’

Philomena bumped briefly against him in what passed for a hug. His father clapped him on the back. ‘Be safe,’ Ashton told him. ‘Be strong.’

Glory had joined the queue to screen hand luggage. Lucas turned back for a final look at his family. Troy Morgan was standing behind them, hands in his pockets, watching. Lucas could almost feel the force of that hard green stare.