Witch Hunter (20 page)

‘When you’re down there, try to remember what

you’re fighting.’

I paused for a moment, then slipped inside. The door

slammed shut by itself, fast and hard, as if it sensed my

hesitation, as if it knew I might try to escape.

Darkness descended on me like a shroud. I took a

tentative step forward, then another, my hands held in

front of me, palms outstretched. I touched something soft,

crumbling. Dirt. I felt around me. Above, around, below.

Dirt was everywhere. Where was I? A cellar? A tunnel,

maybe? I started back towards the stairs when suddenly,

inexplicably, the world turned upside down.

I pitched forward and landed on my stomach, hard. As I

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rolled onto my back, wiping dirt from my mouth, I saw it:

the outline of a door far above me, ringed by the sun that

had just cleared the horizon. And it was no longer that

rotting, rusted, bleeding wooden door missing its handle.

It was a stone slab.

I was inside a tomb.

I scrambled to my feet just as the first clumps of dirt fell

on my head. And I started to scream. This was magic, I

knew; Blackwell had used it in our tests before. But this

time something went wrong. This was a mistake; it had to

be. He didn’t mean to put me in a tomb. Blackwell wouldn’t

try to bury me alive.

I was sobbing then, trying to get out. But the dirt was too

soft to get purchase on, the walls too unstable to climb.

Every time I tried, the dirt fell faster, harder. There was a

way out – I knew there was. I just couldn’t see it.

I heard Blackwell’s voice in my head: Your greatest

enemy isn’t what you fight, but what you fear.

What was I afraid of? The falling dirt that now reached

my waist? The magic that turned an ordinary tunnel into

a grave? I didn’t know. But if I didn’t figure it out soon,

I would die. The realisation stopped me cold. As the dirt

swirled around my face, sticking to my lips and eyelids,

I just stood there, frozen with fear, as I contemplated dying

there, in that way.

Alone, forever.

I thought of my mother. Of the lullaby she used to sing

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to me when I was a little girl. When I was frightened of

thunderstorms and make-believe monsters under the bed,

not dirt and tombs and magic and death. What use was a

lullaby against those? But it was all I had. So I closed my

eyes and began to sing.

Sleep and peace attend me, all through the night.

Angels will come to me, all through the night.

Drowsy hours are creeping; hill and vale, slumber

sleeping,

A loving vigil keeping, all through the night.

The dirt continued to fall. It crept past my lips now;

I stood on my toes, wiped clumps of it out of my mouth. I

kept singing.

Moon’s watch is keeping, all through the night.

The weary world is sleeping, all through the night.

A spirit gently stealing, visions of delight revealing,

A pure and peaceful feeling, all through the night.

Finally, the dirt slowed, then stopped. But I didn’t dare

stop singing.

To you, my thoughts are turning, all through the night.

For you, my heart is yearning, all through the night.

Sad fate our lives may sever, parting will not last forever,

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A hope that leaves me never, all through the night.

The dirt began receding around me, trickling down past

my shoulders, my waist, my legs. I moved down with it,

crouching lower and lower until the dirt was nothing more

than a floor, me curled into a ball on top of it.

When Guildford finally came for me, he had to fetch

another guard to pull me out. As he carried me across

the grounds in his arms, I was still curled in a tight, little

ball. My hands clapped over my ears, my eyes clamped

shut. I kept singing. All through the night. Over and over.

I couldn’t stop. I was far beyond fear now, and I didn’t want

to come back.

A pair of hands encircles my wrists. Gently, they try to pry

my hands from my head, but I jerk away. I hear voices.

They’re faint, far away. I press my hands harder over my

ears to block them out. I don’t want to hear anything

but that song.

Hands slip around my back, under my knees. I’m being

lifted up, carried. It can’t be easy, holding me when I’m

balled up like this. I’m deadweight. But the guard is strong.

I bury my head in his uniform, grateful to breathe something

other than earth and decay. He smells good. Clean, like

lavender. Warm, like spices. I tuck my head against his

shoulder and breathe it in.

I’m still singing, but my voice has dropped to a whisper.

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I’m so tired. I rub my cheek against the soft linen of the

guard’s shirt, wishing it were my pillow. His arms tighten

around me, holding me close.

Finally, I feel safe.

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Vines. they’re the first thing I see when I wake. They trail

across the ceiling and loop down the walls, their edges

blurred in the room’s dim light. I frown. My room at

Blackwell’s doesn’t have vines. I blink once, twice. Then the

memories come crashing down and I remember everything.

Veda. Her prophecy. The test, the dirt, the darkness.

I take a breath and push the memories away, as far back

as they’ll let me. It’s never far enough. They’re always there,

lurking in the corner of my mind like a cat in the dark,

waiting for a chance to strike.

Caleb would tell me to think of something happy,

to remember something good. But all my memories are

about him. And right now, thinking of him doesn’t

make me happy. It makes me think of Blackwell. Of

his determination to find me, of his using Caleb to do it.

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Of how I’m not sure what will happen if he does.

Nicholas seemed as surprised as I was that Caleb found

us. But if anything, it’s further proof he needs my help.

Further proof I need his. On my own, with no weapons, no

money, no way to get out of the country, I will certainly be

caught. I escaped a burning once. I don’t think I’ll be so

lucky a second time.

I feel a soft rustling by my feet and realise George must

be here. Again. This time I don’t mind. Maybe he can help

me persuade Nicholas to let me stay. I fling off the sheets

and bolt upright, a persuasive argument on my lips. But it

isn’t George.

It’s John.

He’s sitting in a chair at the foot of my bed, fast asleep.

His head and chest are draped across the mattress, one arm

curled over his head, the other stretched out to the side,

fingers clenching and unclenching the blanket as if he’s

grasping for something. That was the rustling I felt. Next to

his hand is an open book, the pages lying facedown. What

is he doing here?

Of course.

It wasn’t a guard who carried me; it was John. My

stomach twists when I think about being curled up in his

arms. Smelling his shirt. Tucking my head into his shoulder,

then falling asleep. I flush a little at the memory.

He must have brought me up here and for whatever

reason decided to stay. Why? After all Nicholas’s talk of my

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being a danger, why would he allow his healer – or for that

matter, Peter his son – to be in a room with me? Alone?

I climb out of bed – John doesn’t even stir – and walk to

the window, twitch open the curtains. It’s nearly morning

now, the sun stretching rose and cream across the horizon.

I consider the possibility Nicholas has decided to wait until

today to deal with me, but it still wouldn’t explain why

John is here. Or why he let me spend the night in a warm

room and a comfortable bed instead of tying me up,

throwing me in the larder, and letting Hastings torture me

all night. It’s what I would have done.

Unless Nicholas hasn’t told them about me. That after

seeing Caleb and the witch hunters come for me, he came

to his senses. Realised that if he dies, Blackwell will come

for them next. And the only way to stop it is to hire me to

find his tablet.

Maybe it’s not over for me after all.

I turn from the window and start towards the door,

eager to find Nicholas, eager to start planning. Then I stop.

Even if Nicholas does need me to find his tablet, it

won’t do for me to be too agreeable. I need things from

him, too, and I don’t want to sell myself short. After what

happened last night, it’s going to be harder to evade

Blackwell than I had previously thought. It won’t be enough

just to go into exile. I’ll need a way to keep moving, a way

to stay one step ahead of him. I can never stop, never rest.

Not if I want to live.

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Both of us have our lives at stake here, only Nicholas is a

lot more willing to sacrifice his than I am mine.

I crawl back into bed, careful not to wake John. He’s still

sprawled across the mattress, still sound asleep. Healing

must be exhausting; I wouldn’t know. He seems too young

to be doing it anyway. My guess is he’s around nineteen,

but he still seems very boyish. Maybe it’s because he’s

always so rumpled-looking. Like right now.

His white shirt is a wrinkled mess, unbuttoned too low

at the top, the sleeves shoved up past his elbows. He still

hasn’t shaved. And his hair. It’s completely wild, those

soft dark curls sticking up everywhere, falling across his

forehead and into his eyes. He’s about six months past due

for a haircut, obviously forgotten.

I always had to remind Caleb to cut his hair, too. I don’t

know what it is about boys, but unless there’s a girl around

to remind them, they forget even the simplest tasks. Like

cutting hair. Or shaving. Or changing their damn clothes.

I guess John doesn’t have anyone to remind him about

those things, either.

His hand shifts across the mattress then, and I spot a

tattoo on the inside of his forearm. A black circle about two

inches in diameter with a cross inside it: a sun wheel. The

circle represents life, the cross triumph over death.

I start tracing the shape of it along the bedcovers with

my fingertip. Watch the lines press into the blanket, then

disappear. I do this over and over. Then I move to the

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shapes of the vines on the ceiling. The heart-shaped leaves,

the long, looping vines that wind and curl down the wall.

I’m so absorbed in what I’m doing that when John’s finger

reaches over and touches mine, I gasp. I didn’t realise he

was awake.

‘Hi.’ He looks at me through one half-opened eye.

‘Hi.’

‘You all right?’ His voice is quiet, deep.

I shrug. ‘Fine.’

He blinks, but he doesn’t take his eyes from me. He’s

probably looking for an explanation for what happened last

night. Why I collapsed as I did, why he had to carry me

back. Just thinking about it makes my cheeks blaze.

‘I don’t like enclosed spaces,’ I say, finally. ‘Childhood

trauma.’ It’s true enough, anyway.

He props himself up on his elbow. ‘No need to explain.

I was just checking.’

‘Okay,’ I say. ‘Well, thank you for bringing me back.

And I’m sorry, I guess.’ I duck my head to hide the burning

in my face again.

‘No need to apologise, either. It’s not every day I get to

carry a girl fifty miles through an underground tunnel.’ His

voice sounds serious. But when I look up, he’s smiling.

‘It wasn’t that far.’

‘It was. Plus, you’re really heavy,’ he goes on. ‘You know.

Like a sack of feathers.’

I shake my head, but I can feel myself start to smile.

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John leans back in his chair, runs a hand through his

hair. ‘Anyway, I’m the one who should apologise. I didn’t

mean to stay, at least not all night. I was waiting for George

to come back, started reading, and’ – he gestures at his

book – ‘fell asleep.’

I glance at the cover. Praxis Philosophica: Alchemical

Formulas for Transformation.

‘I can’t imagine why,’ I say.

He laughs. ‘I don’t know why he didn’t come back. I

guess I should find out.’ He gets to his feet just as there’s

a knock at the door. It’s George. He steps into the room,

his usual carefree expression replaced with something

far more solemn.

‘I was just coming to find you,’ John says. ‘What’s