Witch Hunter (8 page)

the way I see myself – the way I fear Caleb still sees me –

that I wince.

‘I’ll never forget the look on his face when I first brought

you to him.’

I find a smile from somewhere. ‘Horrified.’

‘I pleaded with him to give you a chance,’ Caleb says. ‘I

swore to him I’d make a good witch hunter out of you.’

‘You were ruthless,’ I say. ‘Waking me up in the middle

of the night to train. Making me run until I threw up. Throw

knives until I had blisters. Throwing punches at me over

and over again until I could block them.’

He turns serious. ‘I know. You must have hated me

for it.’

‘I didn’t hate you.’

‘I had to do it,’ he says. ‘I had to make sure you’d survive.

And you did. Look how strong you are now. Look at what

you’ve become.’

What have I become?

Caleb grins then. And despite everything, I start to feel

better. Start to feel foolish for doubting him, for thinking he

couldn’t get me through this. He got me through training.

He can get me through anything.

I smile back.

‘That’s my girl.’ He glances out the window, then gives

67

my arm one last squeeze before pulling away. ‘I’d better go.

I want to be first in line to see Blackwell.’

‘Okay,’ I say, though I can’t stand the thought of

spending another minute in this cell. I glance at the witch

in the corner. She’s lying still, her eyes closed, silent.

I wonder if she died.

‘I know it’s hard, but try to stay calm,’ Caleb continues.

‘It might take some time to persuade Blackwell to free you;

you know how stubborn he can be. But whatever you do,

don’t do anything crazy, like try to escape. That’ll only get

you into more trouble. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

I nod.

‘I’ll come back for you,’ he says again. ‘I promise.’

Then he’s gone.

68

One day passes, then two.

Three.

Four.

No visitors and no guards, except when they came to

collect the dead witch in my cell, her body stiff and cold and

blue. If I’ve counted correctly, I’ve been in prison for nearly

a week now, which means tomorrow’s Saturday again.

Another burning. If Caleb doesn’t come back soon, they’ll

be burning me. My stigma can’t protect me from turning

into a pile of ash.

I kept my promise and haven’t tried to escape. For all

the good it’s done. Caleb said it would take time; but time,

I think, is running out. I have doubts about my ability to

get away now, even if I wanted to. I’ve been without food

for nearly a week. The only water I’ve managed is from

69

the rain that blows in through my window. On top of that,

I can feel a fever coming on. My hands are clammy and

my throat hurts.

Illness. Something else my stigma can’t protect me from.

Rain pours steadily outside the bars; it hasn’t let up in

days. My cell is wet, probably freezing. I wouldn’t know.

I’m burning up with fever. I started coughing last night,

and there’s a strange rash all over my arms and legs. I hope

it’s not sweating sickness. That would kill me before the

fire gets a chance to.

I’m exhausted but can’t sleep. I tell myself it’s because I

want to be ready when Caleb shows up, but, in truth,

I’m too scared to sleep. Because every minute that passes,

as the day wears on and the shadows inside my cell grow

longer, I can feel hope giving way to fear. The other

prisoners aren’t helping. The noises from their cells – moans

of pain, weak crying, murmured prayers, the occasional

panicked shriek – are wearing on me. Even if I hadn’t kept

track of time, they have.

They know what’s coming.

I’m hunched in the corner of my cell, my dress pushed

up as far as it’ll go, trying to cool off. I’m drenched in sweat;

even my hair is wet. But I can’t tell if that’s from sweat or

the rain that continues to come through the tiny window.

The cold water feels like needles on my skin, but it gives

a little relief.

I must have drifted off at some point, but I’m awakened

70

by the sound of footsteps in the hall. Caleb! He’s finally

come for me! I climb to my knees but get hit with a fit of

coughing and fall to the floor, hacking. The footsteps stop

in front of my cell.

‘Caleb?’ I whisper when I finally stop coughing.

‘I’m afraid not,’ comes a voice I don’t recognise.

I pull myself up until I’m sitting, the effort leaving

me panting.

‘Who are you?’ My voice is so hoarse.

A tiny flicker of light appears. It’s a man. I’ve never seen

him before. He’s very tall and very thin, wearing a long red

robe knotted around the waist with a thick black rope. A

black cloak falls over his shoulders down to his feet. His

short hair is a mix of black and grey like his short, pointed

beard. He stares at me curiously, his dark eyes intense

but not unkind.

He’s not a guard – I know that. He’s not one of the king’s

men; I don’t see the royal standard. He’s dressed almost

like…almost like a priest.

Oh, God. A priest. Come to give me the sacrament, the

last rites. Which means I slept too long, which means Caleb

came and couldn’t wake me and left without me…

Then I see it. The light. It’s coming from his hand, a

single flame flickering from his outstretched fingertip. He

flicks it into the air, where it hovers next to him, a tiny,

pulsating sun. He’s a wizard.

‘Get out of here!’ I croak. If Caleb sees me talking to a

71

wizard, he’ll be furious.

‘I won’t hurt you,’ he says. ‘I’m here to help you.’

‘I don’t need your help!’

‘Oh?’ The sympathy in his voice infuriates me.

‘Caleb! Caleb!’ I scream before dissolving into another

coughing fit.

The wizard grasps one of the bars on the cell door. He

murmurs something under his breath, and the door begins

to glow a soft pale blue. It starts to shudder, and with a

small noise like snapping bones, it falls into a pile of

smoking dust.

He’s by my side then, kneeling over me.

‘Child, you’re sick,’ he says. ‘Come with me. Let me

help you.’

‘No! Get away from me!’ I shuffle to my knees and crawl

away from him. I don’t get more than a few feet before my

legs give way and I collapse into the straw.

‘The guards will be coming for you soon,’ he says.

‘The burning is scheduled for this morning.’

‘You’re lying.’ But when I lift my head and tilt it to

the window, I see pale streaks beginning to cut through the

night sky. A sharp surge of panic pushes strength into

my limbs, and I manage to stumble to my feet, grasping

the wall for support.

Where is Caleb?

‘I promise you, I am not.’ The wizard walks towards

me, his hand outstretched. I shift away from him, my

72

back sliding against the rough stone wall.

‘What do you want with me?’ I glance at my now-

demolished cell door, the wide opening into the dark

hallway. There are no guards to stop me, still enough

darkness to conceal me. The only thing standing between

me and freedom now is him.

I take a step towards the door. He anticipates it, steps

forward to block me. I shift direction, take another step,

then another. He follows. A dance.

‘I’m not sure,’ the wizard says. ‘But I was told to find

you. We thought it was a mistake at first, but it turns out

it’s not.’ His voice is calm, as if he doesn’t know I’m trying

to escape. As if he doesn’t know he’s trying to stop me.

‘Please, Elizabeth. Come with me. You’ll be helping me as

much as I’m helping you.’

What on earth could a wizard want my help with?

Doesn’t he know what I am? I look at him closely. Pale,

drawn skin, bags under his dark, bloodshot eyes, his face

heavily lined. He looks old, he looks ill, he doesn’t look

dangerous at all. But then, neither do I. You can’t always

go by looks in these matters. I suppose if he wanted to hurt

me, or see me dead, he wouldn’t be here. But I’m not taking

any chances.

‘I doubt that.’ I lunge to my right, as if I’m about to run

past him. Again, he anticipates it, reaches for me. But it’s a

feint: I pull back and spin to my left, bolt for the door. I’m

not fast enough. The wizard reaches out and snatches my

73

arm, his grasp surprisingly strong for an old man. I don’t

think. I pull back my other arm, make a fist, and swing.

My hand connects with his face…then passes right

through it. I stumble forward, I nearly fall. The wall catches

me, and when I turn around, there are two of him. Two

identical wizards in two identical sets of robes, speaking

identical words:

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’

I don’t listen – to either of them. I push down my fear

as I launch myself off the wall, lunging for him again.

Swing, again. My hand hits nothing, but immediately, two

wizards become four.

‘Stop,’ they croon. ‘Come with me.’

A scream rises in my throat. I won’t go with him, with

them. I won’t go anywhere with a wizard. They step towards

me. I swat at them, lash out, hit nothing. Six, eight, ten

wizards now: dark cloaks, dark eyes, dark magic. I spin

around, looking for a way out. But they surround me,

twenty hands reaching, a hundred fingers grasping. I drop

to my knees, cover my head.

‘I can help you,’ they chant. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

A wizard can’t help me; magic can’t help me. There’s

nothing about magic that doesn’t end with you tied to a

stake with flames licking at your feet, or on your knees with

your head on a block. Straw for kindling, straw to catch

your blood…

Straw.

74

I reach out, snatch a handful of the damp, stinking stuff

from the floor and hurl it at him – at them. Watch as they

flinch from it. In the split second it takes for them to turn

from me, I reach down, pull up the last bit of strength

I have, crawl to my feet.

And I run.

Through them, past them, out the door, into the hallway.

I don’t make it ten steps before my chest seizes up and I

start coughing, so hard I can’t breathe. I fall to my knees,

sucking in air so desperately it sounds like a scream.

I force myself to my feet, stumble another few

steps. Through the darkness I can just make out a set of

stone stairs, maybe thirty feet away. I can make it thirty

more feet…

In a swirl of a black cloak, he appears, faster than I could

have imagined, standing before me – just one of him now

– his hands outstretched.

‘No,’ I say. It comes out a whimper.

A whoosh of warm air surrounds me and I feel myself

start to fall. But the warmth disappears as quickly as it

appeared – his spell either stopped or broken – and I regain

my footing. The wizard mutters something, impatient. He

raises his hand again. But instead of surrounding me with

more air, he reaches for me. Grasps my arm.

‘Come with me,’ he commands. ‘Now.’

I start to yank away, but then I pause, thinking fast.

I need to get out of here. But maybe if I capture this wizard,

75

it would be enough to prove to Blackwell he still needs me.

Enough to make him reconsider my sentence.

Enough to make him decide not to kill me.

The wizard takes my arm again, and this time, I let him…

until I’m hit with stomach cramps so strong I collapse to my

knees again. He reaches down and scoops me into his arms,

lifting me easily. I’m too weak to fight it. He carries me down

the hall, towards the stairs. I can see the other prisoners in

their cells now, watching us pass. They’ll start shouting soon.

Screaming. The guards will be on us within seconds.

But as we pass each cell, the prisoners that can still stand

rise to their feet and nod their heads at him. Some call

murmured blessings to him, others reach out through their

bars to try to touch him. Their reverence startles me.

‘Who are you?’ I whisper.

‘I am Nicholas Perevil,’ he says. ‘Forgive me for not

introducing myself earlier. But you didn’t give me much of

a chance.’

I stiffen in his arms. Nicholas Perevil! The most wanted

wizard in Anglia! I can’t believe my luck. If I brought him