Fire Girl (22 page)

Murrell looked like death incarnate. Razor-thin lips. Sunken cheeks. Bald scalp. Skin laced blue with veins clung tight to his skull. He regarded his flock with maggot-hole eyes.

‘It really
is
him,’ Hazel whispered. ‘Oh no . . .’

‘What is it?’ Bramley squeaked, cowering behind her ear.

‘He’s smiling.’ Hazel closed her eyes but the image of Murrell’s lips straining away from blackened teeth haunted her.

‘It’s as we feared – you’ve caught demon blight,’ Lilith said, gently taking his arm. ‘Let me take you to the healer.’

‘The healer?’ Hazel gasped.

‘She must mean your mother,’ Bramley said.

‘My sweet consort, this affliction is a small price to pay for what I gained from our great patron,’ Murrell said, stroking her cheek with long yellowed nails. ‘I shall go to
the healer . . . but there is something we must do first.’

Lilith lowered her head. ‘As you wish, Nicolas.’

‘Is there any sign of the girl?’ Murrell asked. ‘Or that Witch Finder she’s taken up with?’

‘No. Our familiars are out looking for them as we speak. Never fear, we’ll find them.’

Hazel ducked back behind the altar, her heart pounding. ‘We’re too exposed here. We need to move.’

Bramley gnawed at his tail in frustration. ‘But where can we go?’

Hazel pointed to the nearby pulpit – a raised platform enclosed with mahogany panels tall enough to hide behind. ‘How about there?’

He frowned. ‘I’ll take a look first and make sure it’s suitable. Watch for my signal before you join me. Stay low, move quickly . . .’

‘Thank you, Bram,’ Hazel said, placing him on the ground.

The tiny mouse pressed himself to the floor and started a sort of sliding crawl towards the pulpit; he looked so ridiculous that if the situation hadn’t been so dangerous, Hazel would have
laughed.

Murrell continued his address. ‘To seal the bargain, our patron, Baal the Destroyer, demands an immediate sacrifice,’ he said. ‘Did you find someone suitable while I was
gone?’

Bramley reached the pulpit and hopped up the wooden steps. Hazel’s heart missed a beat as he disappeared.

‘We did, Nicolas,’ one of the other witches replied. ‘But perhaps if we brought the healer here . . . ?’

‘No,’ Murrell commanded. ‘We must do as Baal wishes . . .
now
. Back to your places. The ritual must be completed.’

Baal must be a demon
, Hazel thought as the Chosen scattered around the circle.
But what bargain has Murrell made with it?

Bramley appeared on the rim of the pulpit, holding out his paw in her direction. Hazel identified a spot where the pulpit blocked the witches’ line of sight.
I’ll go there
first
, she thought
. Then make a dash for it
.

‘Bring the sacrifice to me,’ Murrell commanded.

Bramley beckoned. Settling her bag more securely over her shoulder, Hazel dashed to the blind spot, keeping her head low and then skidding to a halt. She looked up, relieved to find that the
pulpit did indeed hide her from the gathered witches.

Murrell’s voice drifted through the church. ‘Ah, there she is. Good, good.’

Hazel was about to creep the final yards to safety when all of Bramley’s fur stood on end. He pointed towards the ceiling. Hazel followed his finger and her blood turned to ice water.

Lupus est homo homini
[Man is wolf to man]

Anon.

S
pindle slid as silently as a shadow between the roof beams, feeling its way on long, multi-jointed legs. The spider-demon stopped over the circle
– its bulging eyes and fangs lit up by a shaft of moonlight.

Exposed in the middle of the chancel, Hazel felt like a fly trapped in a web. An image of David being smothered under the spider’s bloated body paralysed her as effectively as any venom.
Bramley beckoned to her with both paws, his eyes bright with fear.

Hazel willed her legs to work, and after a few shaky paces her courage ebbed back. She sped up, keeping her eyes on Bramley, expecting Spindle to drop to the ground and scuttle towards her at
any moment. But luck was on her side, and before she knew it she was inside the pulpit, hunkered down in the cobwebby gloom.

Bramley plopped down on to the floor and Hazel gathered him up and held him to her chest.

‘About time,’ Bramley said. ‘I thought you were going to sit there all day.’

Being careful not to make a sound, Hazel stood up and peered over the rim of the pulpit. She knew it was risky, but at least an angled bookrest built on to the front panel hid her from the
spider-demon.

Murrell, Lilith and Rawhead stood on the other side of the circle. The rest of the witches were back in their places around the edge. They were all looking up at Spindle, and the thread-swaddled
cocoon dangling from its spinnerets. Hazel’s scalp crawled when she saw that it was about the size of a man, and it was wriggling.

Spindle’s abdomen pulsed as it let out more thread to lower the cocoon into the middle of the circle.

‘Is it safe to enter?’ Lilith asked.

Murrell nodded, scratching absently at his scarred arm.

Lilith drew out a knife, crossed the salt and knelt by the captive. ‘It would be to your advantage to stop moving,’ she said, then set to work slicing through the layers of
thread.

‘Where did you find him?’ Murrell asked.

‘In a cabin near Watley,’ one of the witches replied.

Murrell grunted. ‘The Witch Hunters purged Watley not long ago.’ He gazed down at the now-still captive. ‘I wonder if he lost anyone?’

Lilith pocketed the knife and pushed her fingers through the layers of thread. There was a dry rip as she peeled the silk away, revealing a man’s head. His face was without expression, but
his eyes darted all around.

‘Bram!’ Hazel gave a gasp. ‘I think it’s the woodsman.’

‘He must be the unluckiest man who ever lived.’ Bramley fidgeted. ‘We can’t help him. I know it’s a horrible thing to say, but we just can’t. We have to pick
our fights – pick the ones we
can
win. Us getting killed won’t help your mother.’

‘Lift him up,’ Murrell said, a light burning somewhere in the depths of his eyes. ‘He deserves to hear this standing on his feet.’

Lilith and one of the other witches hoisted the woodsman upright. He lolled between them, head drooping as if his muscles had been severed.

‘I can see that you are a man of humble means,’ Murrell said, circling the woodsman. ‘Your life is of no consequence to anyone except you, and those close to you. But I am
giving you a chance to make a difference to the
world
, a chance to do some good.’ The woodsman swallowed and let out a strangled croak. Murrell stopped in front of him. ‘Speak,
if you can. I’m listening.’

‘What are you going to do to me?’ The woodsman’s words were slow and slurred, as if too big for his mouth.

‘I am going to let a demon consume your soul.’

The awful incomprehension in the woodsman’s eyes was almost too much for Hazel to bear.

‘But why . . . ?’ he asked.

‘I do it because I
must
.’ Murrell gestured to the witches in the circle. ‘Put him down and go back to your places.’ They left the woodsman lying helplessly on his
back, too feeble even to turn over.

‘Prepare to perform the containment spell, and
whatever happens
, don’t stop,’ Murrell commanded, raising his arms. ‘Sisters and brothers – begin!’

The King was kept in Carisbrooke Castle for some years

until his execution. Cromwell often visited him to gloat.

The Secret Diaries
by Lady Catherine Coe

T
he words of the chant created a thick, impenetrable noise. The candles flared, deepening the shadows. Murrell swayed in time to the chant’s
heartbeat-pulse, his outline becoming blurry – as if he was standing behind a rain-streaked window. Colours of every shade slid up from the salt barrier, swirling like ink on water.

‘They’ve sealed the circle with magic,’ Bramley said. ‘That poor man is trapped.’

The woodsman rolled on to his stomach and somehow found the strength to crawl towards the edge of the magic circle. Unable to help, Hazel bit her lip and forced herself to watch.

Murrell lifted up his sleeve and recited the words branded on his arm. It was not English; indeed, it didn’t sound as if it could be
any
human language. Although their meanings were
unknown to Hazel, she knew from the nausea roiling in her stomach that they spoke of pain and suffering.

In the roof far above, Spindle quivered. Rawhead paced in an endless circle.

The floor inside the salt barrier rippled like liquid. Hazel saw something glide underneath, then five sinuous tentacles broke through the surface, uncoiling, undulating, feeling the air with
their delicate tips.

‘What are they?’ Bramley squeaked. ‘Is that one creature or five?’

Hazel was too horrified to reply. The tentacles were already ten feet high, with thick, muscular roots. The woodsman glanced over his shoulder. His eyes widened. He gasped. Then he screamed.

The tentacles whipped round, and in the time it took for a heart to beat twice they were on him. Two around his ankles, two around his wrists, and with a yank he was on his feet. The fifth
tentacle – thicker than the others – reared up like a cobra and swayed hypnotically from side to side. There was a wet tearing sound as its tip peeled open like a flower, revealing a
round, toothless throat. The woodman went rigid as it descended towards his head.

Hazel’s courage dissolved and she slid to the floor, pressing her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to block out the woodsman’s muffled shrieks.

‘See?’ Murrell cried. ‘See how his soul is being drawn out? Now watch, when Baal has feasted . . . Yes, he’s
changing
. Demonic gifts are being bestowed. Keep
chanting, my friends – our new brother may need taming before we set him free.’

Using every ounce of courage she possessed, Hazel peered back out from the pulpit.

The tentacles now stood straight up, swaying like reeds in a pond. They had turned from grey to washed-out pink –
Was that the colour of the woodsman’s soul?
Hazel wondered
– and as she watched, they gradually sank through the floor and disappeared.