Fire Girl (21 page)

By their crafts shall ye know them.

Anon.

A
chill brushed Hazel’s face, as if the hatch was exhaling a long, freezing breath.

‘This cold isn’t natural,’ Bramley said, burrowing into the hair behind her ear. ‘Where’s it coming from?’

Hazel stared at the circular salt outline directly below. At first she couldn’t focus; her gaze skittered over the floor as if her mind was unwilling to believe it was really there.
Slowly, hard black edges appeared, strange patterns and jagged lines that hurt her eyes – and then, running around the circle’s circumference, angular writing in a language she
didn’t recognize.

Hazel rolled on to her back and stared up into the belfry, feeling breathless and sick. ‘It’s a magic circle.’

‘I don’t like it,’ Bramley said. ‘We should leave. Whatever all this means, it’s got nothing to do with us. Your mother’s not here, so let’s go before
someone finds us.’

‘You’re right,’ Hazel said, getting up and heading for the stairs. ‘We’ve been here for too long. My curiosity will kill me one of these days. Oh, I could kick
myself.’

‘Kick yourself later. For now, just
hurry
.’

Hazel flew through the doorway and down the spiral staircase as fast as she could, using a little magic to light the way. Extinguishing the light, she scurried down the nave towards the front
door.

‘We should go back to the castle,’ Bramley said.

‘Good idea. We can—’ Hazel froze with one hand on the door handle. ‘Oh, hellfire! Someone’s coming.’

‘Didn’t I tell you?’ Bramley shrieked. ‘You never listen!’

‘Where shall I go?’ Hazel whispered in a panic, running back the way she had come.

‘Behind that stone table thing over there.
Quickly.
’

The voices were right outside the door. There was a click as the handle started to turn.

Hazel skirted around the circle – unable to bring herself to cross it despite her fear of capture – scampered up some steps and scrambled behind the altar just as the church door
creaked open. Her heart hammered in her throat; she knew she was hidden from view, but she couldn’t stop trembling.

Footsteps echoed – Hazel counted about ten or more sets. Were they all Murrell’s followers? Lilith’s silky voice rose over the noise, but Hazel couldn’t make out what she
was saying. Then it hit her: the tang of blood that she had grown to loathe.

Rawhead
, she thought, burying her nose in the crook of her arm.
It’s going to find me.

‘Hazel,’ Bramley said. ‘Stop whimpering. They’ll hear you.’

‘I can’t help it.’ Hazel curled her fingers into her hair and pulled until it hurt. ‘I don’t want to be eaten . . .’

‘Calm down. I don’t think they’re here for you.’

‘What about Rawhead? He can smell magic . . . and there’s no way out.’

Bramley plopped on to her lap. ‘That horrible circle thing is leaking magic like a rusty cauldron. That’ll be more than enough to cloak your smell.’

Hazel picked him up and pressed his plump body against her cheek. ‘Thanks, Bram.’

‘Put me down,’ he spluttered.

She put him back on her shoulder, took a steadying breath, then shuffled sideways towards the corner of the altar. ‘Ready?’

‘Ready for what?’

‘I’m going to take a look.’

‘Have you completely lost your senses? They might see you. It’s this sort of reckless behaviour that got us into this mess in the first place.’

‘I know,’ Hazel said. ‘But since we’re already here . . . just a little peek?’

‘I’ll look first, and then tell you if it’s safe to poke your fat, conspicuous head out. All right?’

Hazel resisted the urge to give him a kiss. ‘Brave mouse,’ she said, setting him on top of the altar.

She waited. Seconds ticked past, then, ‘
Psst!
’ She looked up and saw Bramley poking his head over the edge.

‘It’s safe to look,’ he said, jumping down and burrowing into her hair. ‘There are about ten witches gathering near the circle. Rawhead’s prowling around, but
there’s no sign of Murrell.’ He gave her a nip on the ear. ‘I don’t need to tell you to be careful, do I?’

‘No, Bram, you don’t.’

Hazel crouched on her haunches and cautiously peered out. She counted thirteen witches, ten women and three men, all clad in black floor-length robes. They stood around the circle, muttering to
each other, their faces pinched with fear. Lilith stood a few paces apart, pale, beautiful, dressed in white. Rawhead prowled the circle, head down, sniffing at the salt.

Murrell’s followers
, Hazel thought
. I wonder why they’re so nervous. And where are their familiars?

Lilith raised her arms into the air and the other witches stopped whispering. ‘Sisters and brothers,’ she said, her voice cutting through the darkness. ‘The moon is at its
zenith. It is time for the summoning ceremony. To your places.’

‘Oh dear,’ Hazel muttered. ‘I wonder what they’re going to summon.’

‘I don’t know,’ Bramley replied. ‘But I don’t think it’s going to be friendly.’

Demonology is the blackest of the magical arts,

practised only by the most dangerous witches.

The Infernal Magi
by Robert Boyle

T
he witches spread out around the edge of the circle until they were an equal distance apart. No one spoke; tension filled the air until it seemed
ready to burst. At a signal from Lilith each witch withdrew a fat tallow candle from their robes, placed it on the floor inside the salt boundary and then raised the hoods. Rawhead prowled in an
endless circle, lips peeled back over curved teeth.

‘Everything depends on us,’ Lilith said. ‘Whatever happens, do not stop the incantation. Recite the words exactly as we practised. A single mistake and all of our plans
–’ she blew across the palm of her hand – ‘are dust in the wind.’

‘What if it doesn’t work?’ a large witch with a bulbous nose asked. ‘What if he’s lost forever?’

‘It
will
work, Tilda,’ Lilith replied. ‘Have faith. Now – begin.’

As one, the witches began to chant. It was an ugly noise, ebbing and flowing like a sluggish sea. Lilith threw back her head and cast a cold lament up to the rafters. All the candles burst into
flame and mist seeped up through the floor, gathering inside the salt barrier like a pool of milk.

The air froze against Hazel’s skin. Her breath fogged and she couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering. She peered hard. What was that? The mist in the middle of the circle seemed to
be bulging upward, as if something was growing underneath. The chant shrank to a whisper as the shape emerged. At first it was just an indistinct mass, but then details became clear: a fold of
cloth, a battered boot, a twitching hand.

‘It’s a man,’ Hazel said. ‘But I can’t see his face. The hood . . .’

The mist drained away, laying bare the circle with its pulsing magic sigils and the prone figure at its centre. Rawhead stood poised by the salt barrier, tongue flickering from between its
teeth. A few witches lowered their hoods, exposing faces pinched with fatigue.

One of them stepped towards the circle. ‘Quick, we must—’

‘No,’ Lilith cried. ‘Stay outside. It’s not safe yet.’

‘But is it him?’

Lilith craned her head forward and smiled. ‘It is.’

Bramley tugged on Hazel’s ear. ‘Who is it? I can’t see.’

Hoping to get a better view, Hazel crawled to the other end of the altar. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘But I can take a guess.’

‘Murrell? But where’s he just come from?’

Slowly, as if wary of hurting himself, the figure stood up.

‘He looks different somehow,’ Hazel said. When she had last seen him, Murrell had been middle-aged, tall and strong – but the man in the circle was bone-thin, stooped, and
swayed on the spot as if the merest breath of wind would knock him over.

Lilith glided around the circle. ‘Did you speak to our . . . patron?’ she asked. ‘Has he granted us what we desire?’

The figure drew back his sleeve. Scorched marks ran in lines all the way down his forearm. It looked like writing.

‘Is that the spell?’ Lilith asked, and when the figure nodded she held out her arms to him. ‘Then your work is done. Come back to me, Nicolas. I will look after you
now.’

Speak not dark thoughts into the night,

For they lure dark beasts that scratch and bite.

The Sad Fate of the Pendle Witches
by William Ward

‘I
t can’t be him,’ Bramley squeaked. ‘He looks completely different. He looks
old.’

Lilith waited for Murrell to cross the salt before embracing him. The other witches approached cautiously, gathering around him in a loose circle; although stooped, Murrell still stood a head
taller than most of them.

‘My love,’ Lilith said. ‘Let me see your face.’

When Murrell spoke, his voice cracked like burning parchment. ‘My friends, behold a man uniquely blessed –’ and with shaking fingers he pushed back his hood to reveal his
face.

Hazel knew with absolute certainty that she didn’t want to look, but she couldn’t help herself. Some of the witches gasped and stepped away. Lilith’s hand fluttered to her
mouth.