Burn Mark (19 page)

Under Zoey’s direction, he placed his self-portrait on a mirror laid flat on the table, then set it alight. As the picture turned to ash, his reflection in the mirror became faint and blurred, as if his own features were dissolving. Zoey had already warned him of this: for onlookers, it was as if he’d suddenly gone out of focus. Jonah, who was watching from a corner, looked a little green.

Ignoring his own queasiness, Lucas stirred a wisp of fair hair, a tear from a brown eye and a sliver of fingernail into the ash. He didn’t know where any of this had come from and he didn’t ask. He was concentrating on the mental image of Harry Jukes he’d taken from the film footage and photograph. He spat on the ash mixture, working the fae into it through his fingertips, and using the mirror as a work-board.

Finally, he smeared the ash-paste on to his drawing of Harry – a glorified stickman, with small brown eyes, a round pink face and scribbly yellow hair. As he folded the grimy paper into a sachet about the size of teabag, the mistiness of his reflection began to clear. And after he’d squeezed it hard between his palms, whispering the name of Harry Jukes, the mirror showed him a face to match.

Zoey nodded. ‘Nice work. Your nose is too blobby, though, and you forgot to make your eyebrows match your hair.’

Tentatively, Lucas touched Harry’s nose. It felt as straight as usual. The contours of his face felt exactly as he remembered, yet the mirror showed his hands moving over the shape of another boy’s cheekbones and chin. He could still feel the coarse grey streak he’d put in his hair on the day of his assessment. But when he pulled out a strand – using Harry’s big soft hands – it looked blondish, and was longer than it should have been.

‘Nothing’s physically changed,’ Zoey reassured him. ‘You’re still there; the glamour’s just a veil you hide behind. That’s why your identity can be exposed by biometric tests, though the technology for this isn’t yet fail-safe. We’ll create false records for your fingerprints and so on as a precaution.’

There was a knock at the door. It was Jack Rawdon. ‘Very impressive,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have done it better myself.’

He came over to shake hands. ‘We’re delighted to have you on the team, Lucas. I’ve always had a lot of respect for your father, and I’m sure your work here will do him proud. After all, there are many ways to serve your country. My own path in life has taken some unexpected turns, but I don’t regret any of them. I hope you’ll come to feel the same.’

Though not a large man, Rawdon’s presence filled the room. Even in a business suit he managed to look rugged. The grizzled hair and square jaw, the frank and manly gaze . . . Lucas was starting to see why Rawdon was the poster-boy for high-profile witchkind. He could almost have been one of the models in those hideous
Living With Fae
brochures.

‘I’m glad you two finally got to meet,’ Zoey said to Lucas after Rawdon had left. ‘Jack’s been closely involved in this operation from the start. He and Agent Barnes pretty much created Harry Jukes together.’

‘You think he ever misses being a proper spy – out in the field, I mean?’

‘Right now, Jack knows the greatest challenge is in the boardroom. It’s still early days for this organisation, and we need a leader that the public can trust.’ She glanced quickly at Jonah. ‘There’s a hell of a lot to prove, and a lot of people wanting to see us fail.’

In which case, thought Lucas, maybe Rawdon should cut back the press appearances and photo calls. His frequent proclamations that witchwork was the best answer to witchcrime might raise his and WICA’s profile, but they raised hackles too.

He turned his attention back to the glamour. ‘All right. How do I get rid of Harry?’

In answer, Zoey took a lighter and held it to the paper and ash amulet. As the little sachet burned, the air surrounding Lucas rippled and blurred. In seconds, his reflection was his own again.

‘See? Easy. The time you spend with the amulet close to your skin extends the life of the illusion. It’s a bit like charging a battery. So if you sleep with the amulet for eight hours, you can go without wearing it for another eight the next day, and still keep the glamour. We’ll show you ways to hide it too. Andrew’s was small enough to tuck in the band of his watch.’

By the time Lucas went to meet Glory and Angeline, he was much more at ease in his second skin. He could craft Harry’s glamour in under fifteen minutes, and get the perfect image each time. Zoey also used a glamour for undercover work, but even though she’d had much more practice than Lucas, it took her considerably longer to complete. It left her tired and dizzy too.

‘OK?’ she asked as they stood outside flat 9a, waiting for Jonah to let them in. Lucas nodded. It was ironic, but disguised as another person – a person who didn’t exist – he was starting to feel more like his old self. Maybe this sense of control was as much an illusion as his appearance, but he was determined to make the most of it.

They entered the kitchen-living room, Lucas using Harry’s slouchy, rolling walk. There was a guard stationed in a corner and two people at the table, an elderly woman and a teenage girl. Lucas sat down in front of the girl.

Glory Wilde was pretty much as he expected. Too much make-up, badly dyed hair scraped back in a ponytail, a large and sulky mouth. She was chewing gum loudly, and as he pulled out his chair, folded her arms in an aggressive sort of way across her chest.

Lucas was more interested in Angeline. Here was a witch who’d successfully evaded registration all her life, but was now voluntarily cooperating with the law. Maybe the Inquisition’s outreach programme was more successful than it was given credit for.

He already knew about Angeline’s sisters. Everyone did. The Starling Twins had clearly had star quality, even though it was of a criminal sort. This hardly justified some people’s attempts to rehabilitate them as folk-heroines, but it was still kind of sad to see what remained of their legend: a decrepit old lady and a hard-faced chav.

As the meeting wore on, he found that there was something naggingly familiar about Glory, and it wasn’t just because he’d already seen her photograph. At one point she turned her head towards Jonah so that her hooped earrings swung, and he realised she was the same girl who’d shouted at him and Tom the day of the Inquisition’s careers talk. It had been something about frogs. For a moment, her raucous laughter echoed in his ears . . . But she’d caught him scrutinising her, and now her glare had daggers in it. She didn’t look stupid, at least. Lucas supposed that was a good thing.

Chapter 16

On Sunday, his last evening at home, Lucas attended a lecture at the Athenaeum Club. He had been off school for two weeks now, and since Clearmont had broken up for the Easter holiday on Friday, the official story was that he was going abroad to recuperate from his recent illness. In the meantime, his father decided it would be a good idea for Lucas to show up at a public event, just in case there were rumours of something amiss. For this one night, they would pretend that it was business as usual.

There was an additional reason for Lucas to attend. The subject of tonight’s lecture was ‘International Witchcrime: Causes and Consequences’, and there would be a strong showing from the Inquisition. Two of the tribunal members suspected of being bribed by the Wednesday Coven were expected to attend. The event would provide a good opportunity for Lucas to observe them.

Besides, anything was better than having a condemned man’s last meal at home. Philomena had been told that Lucas was assisting with a high-level government research project, and had been made to sign a confidentiality agreement regarding his fae. Her air of martyrdom hung over the house like a cloud. Marisa, on the other hand, had cheered up considerably. Lucas’s stint at WICA was the ideal way to sweep her stepson’s embarrassing condition under the carpet.

His father was resigned but not reconciled to the situation. He had not asked Lucas anything about his training beyond polite and general enquiries to which Lucas gave polite and general answers. They spent the taxi ride to the event making the smallest of small talk.

Lucas approached the row of iron bells over the club’s door hoping he didn’t look as furtive as he felt. When he saw Jonah waiting on the other side, this awkwardness was replaced by annoyance. He had not changed his original evaluation of the man. A well-meaning plodder, but a plodder all the same.

Thankfully, Jonah was only there to keep an eye on his charge, not play chaperone. There was a drinks reception before the lecture, and the well-heeled crowd in the ante-room had a sociable buzz. Ashton was immediately taken to one side by a journalist friend, leaving Lucas free to survey the gathering. So far, only one of the two tribunal members he was supposed to be observing, Max Holland, had turned up.

Max Holland was a criminal barrister who had lately gone through a costly divorce. The other suspect, Ruth Mackenzie, was a senior civil servant whose husband’s business had recently been saved from bankruptcy. Mr Holland looked prim and prosperous, and was accompanied by his second wife – and her display of diamonds. Perhaps they had been bought with coven cash.

Lucas decided to move a little closer. But his next step brought him face to face with the last person in the world he wanted to see. Gideon Hale was standing in front of him, a very pretty brunette on his arm.

‘Good to see you up and about, Stearne. I heard you were ill – you certainly looked a bit off at that party the other week. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you’re still a little washed-out.’

‘I thought I’d try the pale-and-interesting look.’

‘Well, I should’ve known nothing would keep you away from tonight.’ Gideon turned to his companion. ‘Other kids dream of being footballers or pop stars when they grow up. Lucas only wants to chase witches.’

The girl gave a bray of laughter, and reached for a drink from a passing waiter. In doing so, she jostled the person behind her, who turned around. It was Jonah.

‘Now
here’s
someone I didn’t expect to see. Unless, of course, you’re here on official escort duty.’ Gideon gave Jonah a conspiratorial wink.

‘Why would a witch want to attend an event like this?’ asked Lucas, a little too quickly.

‘There’s one over there.’ The girl pointed.

A woman in a low-cut dress was standing by the side of a much older man. She had a thin iron collar around her throat. Lucas had never seen anyone bridled in such a way. She was, he realised, very lovely, with her swoop of bronze hair and violet eyes. There was something familiar about her companion, but Lucas couldn’t place him. He was squat and stooped, with a bald freckled dome of a head, and small pouchy eyes.

‘That’s Lord and Lady Merle,’ said Jonah respectfully. ‘He’s some kind of media tycoon. I think she was a model, before getting the fae.’

Lucas knew about Lord Godfrey Merle. He was the founder, chairman and chief executive officer of the Cardex News Group. Marisa had been on one of the same fundraising committees as his wife. The charity was in aid of sick children – he thought he remembered something about Lady Merle having a disabled daughter.

‘What an odd way of wearing a bridle,’ the girl observed. ‘Ugh. If it was me, I’d do anything to cover it up.’

‘Maybe she’s not ashamed of what she is,’ said Jonah quietly.

‘Well, it was brave of her husband to take her on.’ The girl didn’t bother to lower her voice. ‘Mind you, an old man like that was probably all she could get.’

To Lucas’s embarrassment, Lady Merle looked over. She didn’t seem to have heard for she gave them a sweet, rather vacant smile. Her pink silk dress was a touch over the top for the occasion, and its low neckline meant the metal of the bridle showed up dramatically on the white skin of her neck. It must be uncomfortable. Did she wear it there as a mark of shame, or a brand of courage? Either way, the sight disturbed him.

Conversation turned to the recent witch-attack outside the Inquisition. Gideon and Jonah had been eye-witnesses, and soon the other guests were asking for their account. Even Lord and Lady Merle were drawn to the discussion. There were reports of reprisals too. A bridled witch who owned a newsagent’s had been doused with petrol by a gang of teenagers and set alight. Dreadful, shocking, everyone agreed. And yet . . . one could almost . . . well, it was only natural that people were angry. Britain had always been remarkably tolerant of witches. Yes, indeed: the witchkind community should remember how lucky they were.

Lucas was surprised to find that Lady Merle was one of the most outspoken on the subject. She had a breathy, girlish voice, and a way of widening her eyes when she spoke that made her seem both flighty and fragile. ‘Oh, it so upsets me when people say that bridling is a repression. Why can’t they understand that my iron makes me feel
safe
? One day we might find a way of curing the fae, but for the moment, I’m just grateful the condition is manageable.’

‘Decorative, even,’ said her husband, running a thick finger along her collar and then, teasingly, around her throat.

‘It’s not as if you’re suited to a witch-career, Serena,’ somebody said with a laugh. ‘Much as we’d like to see you in a police-witch’s uniform.’

‘Or army gear,’ said somebody else. ‘There’s always the Marines.’

Lord Merle smiled. ‘Serena knows her limits – don’t you, darling?’