Burn Mark (39 page)

Lucas saw a flash of Glory’s face, bright with outrage. The thought warmed him. ‘Pity the poor oppressed inquisitors! How lucky they’ve got you as a champion.’

‘I don’t pretend to be a hero,’ said Gideon. ‘But I’m not afraid to do what has to be done, however unpleasant. Somebody has to be prepared to get their hands dirty.’

There was a tap on the door. It opened to reveal a shaven-headed young man in a white tracksuit. When he saw the prisoner he rolled up his sleeves in a gloating sort of way, and Lucas once more stared at the angels and crosses, blood and thorns, entangled on his skin. But, course, the man didn’t recognise him. He’d only seen Harry Jukes.

‘Lucas, I’d like you to meet Mr Striker. He’s one of our most valued colleagues.’

Striker nodded in satisfaction. ‘We must “stand against the wiles of the devil,”’ he intoned, fingering the crucifix around his neck, ‘“for we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world . . .”’

Gideon and Zilla exchanged slightly weary looks. They must have had their fill of Bible-bashing by now. Still, fanatics made good foot-soldiers.

‘That’s the spirit,’ Zilla said.

Lucas did not try to resist, let alone wrestle, when Striker took him out of his chair and marched him out of the door. Gideon followed, leaving Zilla behind. He was taken to a bare concrete room. There was an iron tank bolted to the centre of the floor. A pock-marked mirror hung on one wall.

Lucas’s pulse pounded in his throat. He looked at Gideon. ‘You know there’s no reason for this. My condition is registered, and so is my position at WICA. Commander Saunders, Officer Jonah Branning and the Witchfinder General himself can all vouch for it.’

‘Mm. You always were good at name-dropping, weren’t you? I think that’s part of your problem, Stearne. Delusions of grandeur, leading to paranoia and fantasy. Frankly, I can’t trust a word you say.’ Gideon went over to the tank, and stirred the water lazily with his fingertip. ‘Are you a witch, a spy or a pathological liar? Either way, I’d like to find out.’

Lucas swallowed. Witches died in these tanks. What had Paterson’s instructions been?

Cold water, held in iron, drew out the mark of the fae. The problem was, it wasn’t just non-witches who emerged stain-free from the tank. If a witch hadn’t used their fae recently, the stain would be very faint, or not appear at all. In theory, a stain-free ducking was proof of innocence. In practice, frustrated inquisitors would sometimes push the process to the limit, thinking that if they kept going for long enough, the fae would eventually emerge. This was why people sometimes drowned, and why the process was now strictly regulated. No doubt these regulations were another of Gideon’s grievances against the bleeding-heart liberals who wanted to bring the Inquisition to its knees.

‘Are you going to get out the needles too?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be melodramatic. This isn’t personal.’

‘Crime is always personal. What about Jack Rawdon? An innocent man you’re framing for murder. Christ, Gideon – somebody
died
in your witch-attacks.’

‘A tragic error. Casualties have been kept to a minimum. That wouldn’t be the case if it was real witch-terrorism. The British public have forgotten the scale of the danger we face. They’ve grown complacent, relaxed the rules. They need to be taught a lesson.’

Lucas remembered Gideon saying something like this at the Charltons’ party, with Nell Dawson bridled at his feet.

‘Lessons? Rules? We’re not at school any more.’

‘No,’ said Gideon. ‘Unfortunately for you, we’re not.’

Because there was nothing else he could do, Lucas stripped to his underwear. He undressed himself slowly and scornfully. He was not going to fight; there was no point. He would not give the satisfaction. He felt quite calm and detached, as if he was looking at himself as a stranger would, from far away. This was how Glory’s grandmother Cora had died, he remembered. Angeline too had been ducked on several occasions. Funny to think of that nasty old woman, standing in a room like this, all those years ago.

Striker held him by the shoulders and pushed him towards the tank. It was just under a metre high, a metre wide and about one and a half metres long, filled with icy water. An iron seat was fixed on the top of one end. There was a lever at one side that, when pushed down, tipped the seat and its occupant backwards into the tank, at such an angle to ensure the face and upper body were totally submerged.

Lucas had seen the diagrams of how this worked. He remembered the little stick-man in the textbook as Striker strapped him into the seat. The leather bindings were worn and old. They must have tied down many witches. He was shivering already from the chill coming off the damp concrete, and tried to brace himself against it. He didn’t want Gideon to think he was trembling.

Striker loitered by the lever, drawing out the anticipation, waiting for the nerves to take hold. His gold tooth glinted. Lucas started to count in his head to steady himself, to keep his breathing slow and sure. He had got to twelve when the lever jerked down, and his body plunged with it, deep into the water’s bite.

It wasn’t just the cold. It was the iron containing it. Nausea rushed up his throat, his head crackled with static. All the muscles of his body struggled against his bonds. It was impossible not to try to fight.

The first ducking was short and sharp, to wind him. His heart crashed in his chest. His skin felt flayed. When he came up, the fingers of both hands shook uncontrollably. He gulped and gasped, and before he could even blink the water out of his eyes, he was smashing down into it again.

This time he was kept there. Water and metal became one, squeezing his lungs in an icy fist. They were dragging the witch-stain out of him. It was burningly, bone-crackingly cold. Just as he thought his chest and skull were at bursting point, Striker brought him up. The concrete room, the figures of the watching men, ran and smeared, as if they too were underwater. Through the flood, he thought he saw his father standing by the door. The vision dissolved into streaks, like tears.

He went down unprepared and sucked in water. It broiled around and inside him, scorching his lungs. He knew he was going to die. He thrashed about, first desperately, then limply. Blackness sparked behind his eyes. The darkness spread. He wasn’t even aware he’d been hauled out of it, until he felt the blow on his stomach. Striker’s fist forced him to spew out the water he’d swallowed, to open his eyes and wince against the light.

He coughed and retched. Over and over. In the midst of it, Striker undid the straps and pulled him upright, so he that he faced the mirror on the wall.

‘There it is.’ Gideon’s voice was rich with satisfaction. ‘Your stain.’

The Devil’s Kiss had spread. It was no longer confined to the spot below Lucas’s shoulder blade. It was bleeding out of the corners of his eyes, seeping from his nostrils and his ears, inking his fingertips. The fae was claiming him: the purple shadow that spread like ancient blood, like midnight, like the rivers of the underworld.

Gideon was standing very close. Slowly, he ran the tip of his finger along Lucas’s brow, the bridge of his nose, the curve of his cheek.

‘Look at you,’ he said softly. ‘Look at the dirty hag.’

Lucas, dripping, gasping, shuddering all over, looked back into Gideon’s pale eyes. They were light as glass. He felt his dark secret self, beating and pooling beneath his skin. He remembered the first time he’d seen the blot on his shoulder blade, and how the needle had thrust through to the bone. There had been blood, then, and tears. And though he was even more afraid now, in the grip of true disaster, he felt, behind it all, a strange and separate peace.

Chapter 35

Silas Paterson was slipping in and out of consciousness. When Troy tried to get him moving, he could only crawl drunkenly along the floor. In the end, Troy and Glory half carried, half dragged the inquisitor along the south wing of the attic. It was slow progress. ‘This pricker had better be worth it,’ Troy said through gritted teeth. Dark air rippled after them; Glory looked behind to see a lick of yellow flames.

Finally they came to the stairs and stumbled down into the main body of the house. The air here tasted fresh and cool, and they sucked it in gratefully. After the insidious hiss and sputter of the fire, the silence was a balm; if the place did have a fire alarm, Lady Merle must have found a way to disable it. It was hard to believe that an inferno was raging somewhere above and behind them. Smoke had soaked so deeply into their skin they barely noticed the stench.

They reached a gallery that surrounded three sides of the square entrance hall. From the shadows, Glory looked down to the doorway, where the last few staff were being ushered out by a health and safety official in a fluorescent jacket. The fire had been discovered in good time; it looked like an orderly evacuation.

Meanwhile, Troy had propped Paterson against the wall, and was tying his hands behind his back with the inquisitor’s handkerchief. A search of Paterson’s pockets revealed nothing useful; his phone must have been lost during the scramble through the attics.

‘Who are you people?’ he mumbled.

‘Your guardian angels,’ said Glory. ‘And don’t you forget it.’ If she wasn’t so knackered, she’d have given him a kick.

‘It’s just as well we found our own way out,’ she told Troy. ‘I don’t see nobody rushing to go pull people out of the fire.’

‘We should head for the back of the building, try to sneak out through the kitchen or whatever.’ Troy wiped his sooty face with his sleeve and surveyed their prisoner. ‘Then once the three of us are somewhere nice and private, we’ll see what the Colonel has to say for himself.’

For the moment, Paterson was saying nothing. He’d blacked out again.

‘OK. But as we’re here, we might as well take a quick look around, right?’

‘The fire brigade will be here any minute. We need to get back to the coven.’

‘It won’t take long.’

‘We’ve got a hostage inquisitor! What more d’you want?’

But Glory had had enough of accusations and suspicions and threats. They needed more. She began to hurry along the gallery, opening doors at random.

‘Goddammit, Glory!’

‘I’m nearly done –’

The final room on the left-hand gallery overlooked the avenue. From the window, she could see the huddle of party refugees. It was hard to believe there had been a ball going on, all this time. She wondered if and when the guests had realised their hosts were missing.

However, it was the room itself that caught her attention. As soon as she’d opened the door, she’d felt her Seventh Sense stir. The walls were lined with glass-fronted cabinets and display stands. She skimmed the labels.
Ceremonial
Persian Scrying-Bowl, seventeenth century. Witch’s Bridle, German, circa 1815. Gris-gris Amulet, from the grave of Marie Laveau.
Over the door hung a portrait of the crowning glory of Lord Merle’s witchwork collection: his wife. Her painted eyes stared out above the exaggerated band of her bridle. Their calm was haunting. Later, Glory knew, she would have to think about those last searing moments in the attic, the frenzy and flames.

But now was not the time. Paterson’s conspiracy had afforded Godfrey Merle the perfect opportunity to indulge his fetish, by using a captive witch to commit witchwork on his behalf. He’d surely want to keep some memento of their triumph. He’d be too arrogant not to.

Glory began to open cases and rummage through drawers. Troy shouted at her to stop whatever the hell she was doing and
get out
. He could hear sirens. The fire brigade were on their way.

‘Just a sec!’

The lower compartment of the cabinet nearest the window was locked. Thank Hecate she’d managed to hold on to her evening bag. Her ticket for the cloakroom was a small square of laminated plastic, not unlike a credit card. She slid it into the crack between the door and the frame. After a few swift wiggles and a final jerk, it popped open.

All that the cupboard contained was a small cardboard box. She opened it up to find a jumble of oddments. A sparkly red whistle, a plastic horse, a doll with scribbles over her face, and a model train. They had bits of dirt and hair attached to them. Glory thought about the witch-attacks, and how neatly these objects fitted into them. ‘Gimme a break,’ she said as Troy came into the room, hauling Paterson along by the scruff of his neck. ‘I think I’ve got something.’

‘Great,’ Troy started to say. ‘Then let’s –’

He didn’t get any further. Paterson had suddenly sprung into life. He had worked his hands free of his bonds, and now he seized the Persian scrying bowl from its stand and smashed it against Troy’s head. It was made of bronze and made a clanging sound as it struck.

Troy staggered, then fell to the floor. The Colonel snatched up Troy’s gun.

‘Put that box down, girl,’ he told Glory. ‘Whatever that is, I’m sure it doesn’t belong to you. It will be better for you to give it up, and yourself with it.’

Glory relinquished the box. She had no choice. The inquisitor’s eyes were bloodshot, and his cough was hoarse. But he wasn’t overcome with smoke or exhaustion. He looked very alert indeed. He must have been shamming all this time. In the world outside sirens blared, and the night flashed black and blue.