Half Wild (4 page)

It’s getting light by the time I reach Mercury’s cottage. After my father gave me three gifts I fled from here, chased by Hunters. This is the third time I’ve been back since then. My chance to watch them for a change.

The first time I returned was two weeks ago, when I was absolutely sure that no Hunters were on my trail. I’d killed the fast one and lost the rest. I was fairly certain that they wouldn’t expect me to return. After all, there would be no point in me coming back and it would be stupidly dangerous. Given that logic I was expecting there wouldn’t be many Hunters at the cottage. Wrong! There were twelve. I think they were using it as a base from which to try to find Mercury. There was a magical cut in space that she used to travel to her real home. A cut like the one Gabriel and I used to get to the cottage from the apartment in Geneva. My father said that Hunters could detect cuts so I guess that by now either Mercury has destroyed the cut to her real home or the Hunters have found the way through and Mercury is dead too. And if Mercury is dead then I’ve no idea what will have happened to Annalise. But Mercury wouldn’t be careless, or slow, or weak. I think she’ll have destroyed the cut, covered her tracks well so this valley is a dead end for the Hunters as well as for me.

That first time I came back to the cottage Clay was here and in a foul mood, shouting a lot. Jessica was with him. She has a long scar from her forehead across her nose and cheek where I cut her—or rather where the Fairborn cut her. Clay didn’t seem to mind that, though; he and Jessica still seemed to be an item. He put his arm round her and kissed the tip of her nose. At one point he came close to the forest edge, hands on hips, legs apart. He seemed to be staring straight at me. I was well hidden and he couldn’t see me but it was as if he was waiting for me.

I came back to the cottage again a week ago. There were only six Hunters left and I expected Clay to be one of them: I thought he knew I’d come back but he wasn’t here. Instead I had the pleasure of seeing Kieran. And there was a different atmosphere this time. The remaining Hunters were sunbathing, laughing, messing around. It was almost like a holiday camp, except these are Hunters and they’re never on holiday. They definitely didn’t look as if they expected the son-of-you-know-who to turn up.

I studied Kieran: he was stripped to the waist, his hair was sun-bleached, his face ruddy brown, and his body huge and heavy with muscle. He’s almost as big as Clay. They’d set up an obstacle course of logs and climbing frames, ropes and a crawl net. Despite his size Kieran was always the fastest and he mocked the others for being slow. When it came to the sparring it was clear that the girls were beginners. Kieran’s partner was good; Kieran, excellent. Still, I reckon I could take him in a straight fight but his Gift makes it much trickier as he can become invisible. One of the girls seemed to be able to set things on fire and another could send out bolts of lightning but they were both pretty weak Gifts. I couldn’t work out what Kieran’s partner or the other girls could do.

Hunters are mainly women but there are a few skilled male witches. They only recruit the strongest and fittest, partnering males together and females together. I’ve never heard of Hunters being anything other than British before now but two of the girls weren’t. They spoke some English, but to each other and sometimes to Kieran’s partner they spoke in what I think was French. As far as I know the White Witch Councils in Europe have never trained Hunters and never hunted Black Witches like they do in Britain. Gabriel told me that here in Europe the Whites and the Blacks each kept to their own areas and ignored each other, and Hunters were only used in extreme circumstances to track specific witches, my father being one of them. If they’re recruiting local White Witches it seems to be a sign that Hunters are expanding their operations.

I watched them all day. I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew I should have been at the cave waiting for Gabriel but I couldn’t tear myself away. I watched Kieran shout at his partner and remembered the day he and his brothers caught me, cut me, tortured me. I’m more shocked now by what they did than I was at the time. I was fourteen, small, a kid. Kieran would have been twenty-one then, and he made his younger brothers join in, made Connor put the powder on my back, joked about it, joked at their weaknesses as much as mine. And he didn’t just cut and scar me but branded me too: B on the left side of my back and W on the right. And that’s what I am: a Half Code, half Black, half White, not belonging to either side.

And now I’m back a third time. I’ve approached the cottage from above, through the forest. The sun isn’t over the mountain peaks to my left but the sky is light. I’m not sure why I’m here but I won’t stay long. I just want to check on things one last time.

The cottage is built high on the steep valley wall, on the edge of the forest, with an open meadow of grass below. Most of the valley is covered in forest, though the high ridges and peaks are above the treeline and the gray rocks hold some snow in sheltered pockets even in summer. At the top of the valley there is permanent snow and the glacier, and from that runs the river. The river is far below the cottage and can’t be seen from there but still it can be heard: its roaring is constant.

I pad down to the edge of the trees. There are no sounds except for the buzzing in my head that their mobile phones set off. The buzzing is faint, though. Not many phones. Not six. Two, I guess. Both in the cottage. So they must have pretty much given up on Mercury and they think I’ve gone and am not dumb enough to come back. But guess what? Here I am.

It’s properly light now.

I really should go.

But I can’t face sitting at the cave, waiting for Gabriel, when he has to be dead. Yet I want to see Gabriel and I promised him I’d wait, as he promised me, and I know he’d wait more than a month and—

The latch of the cottage door rattles and a Hunter steps out.

I recognize his bulk immediately.

Kieran walks round the cottage, stretches, and yawns, rolls his head on his thick neck as if he’s about to start a boxing match. He goes to the woodpile, selects a large log, and places it end up on the sawn-off tree trunk that acts as a chopping block. He picks up the ax and steps into position. The wood doesn’t stand a chance.

He’s got his back to me. I slide my knife out of its sheath.

Kieran stops. He bends down to pick up the pieces of wood, loads his arms up, walks to the side of the cottage, and stacks the wood. A small bird flies past him, close. A wagtail. It lands by the cottage. Kieran watches it for a few seconds and then swings the ax onto his shoulder and selects another log to be chopped. He starts again.

The knife is still in my hand.

I can kill him now. In ten seconds he’ll be dead. And I want him dead. I know that. But I’ve never killed anyone like this: when I could have walked away. And if I kill him I’d have to flee the valley for sure. If Gabriel was trying to get back to the cave I’d be drawing more Hunters in. But I know Gabriel is dead; I just don’t want to believe it. The Hunters will have killed him: Gabriel, one of the most special, most honest, most understanding of people. And here, alive and well and chopping wood, is one of the least special, most cruel of people. Kieran deserves to die. The planet would be a better place without him.

Kieran is swinging his ax back as I tread down toward him. I can kill him before he knows a thing. He’s vulnerable: the ax is useless if I’m fast, my knife plunged straight into his neck.

I want him dead.

But, but, but . . .

I can’t kill him like this. I want to kill him but not quickly, not like I’d have to do it. I want him to look at me as I kill him, to know it’s me taking all he has, taking his life.

Or am I just thinking up excuses? Am I just unsure?

And the animal in me, the adrenaline, isn’t here at all, as if it doesn’t want any part of this.

The cottage door rattles again, then opens. Shit! I’m in plain sight of the Hunter, who steps out onto the grass. He’s scratching the back of his head, still waking up, and looking down.

I retreat fast. Holding my breath as I run up the slope to the thicker growth of trees and stop under their cover to listen.

Wood is still being chopped.

The chopping stops and I hear faint voices: Kieran’s partner and then Kieran but I can’t make out what they’re saying.

Quiet.

The chopping starts again.

I’ve got away with it.

I run.

I’m going to leave the valley. Leave and never come back. I have to find Mercury and work out a new plan to help Annalise, a plan that doesn’t involve Gabriel. But first I head back to the cave. I think I should leave something of mine just in case a miracle happens and Gabriel’s alive and he does, one day, find his way there.

On the way back I stop and sit on the grass to work on a piece of wood that I’d found. I’m making a carving of a small bowie knife, like the one I’m using to carve. I’ll leave the carving in the cave, in the nook at the back where Gabriel put his tin of letters, and then I’ll go and never come back.

While I carve I remember Gabriel giving me the knife . . .

* * *

We’ve been at Mercury’s cottage two days. I’ve only met her once, on the day we arrived, and since then she’s left me to stew and worry that she won’t help me with my Giving. So Gabriel and I fill our days with hiking and swimming. Today we leave Mercury’s cottage just before dawn and set off hard and fast. Gabriel is leading the way and I’m following. Even with his fain body he’s fast. His legs are long: one stride of his covers a third more than mine. We climb up a steep, rock-walled gully and I manage it OK. I’m copying how he does it and the holds he uses, and I’m improving but he’s effortless.

At the top of a minor peak he stops and watches me. His eye has healed, though there’s a scab through his left eyebrow and I think he’ll have a small scar—a reminder of how I attacked him when we were at the apartment in Geneva. I could have blinded him.

He holds his hand out to me and I take it so he can pull me up the final step. There isn’t much room on the rock and we stand close together.

The peaks in the far distance have snow on them. It’s cool here but I’m hot.

“You’re panting,” Gabriel says.

“We’re high. The air’s thinner.”

“This bit I’m breathing isn’t so bad.”

I nudge him with my shoulder.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he says, nudging me back.

There is a steep, long drop with sharp rocks behind me and a small drop to a grassy bank behind Gabriel. I push him but not hard and I’m holding his jacket so he doesn’t fall.

He breaks my hold with a sharp lift of his forearm and shoves me back hard with the flat of his hand. I grab his other sleeve, cursing him and pulling myself upright. He’s grinning like an idiot and there’s more pushing and shoving, each push a little harder than the last, until I break his hold on me and with two hands jab him on the shoulders and he’s falling backward, reaching for me, and he’s not smiling and he looks worried. I grab him but I’ve leaned too far and I can’t hold my balance and we fall together. I pull him to me and turn in the air so that I land on my back with him on top.

“Ow!”

I’m on the grassy bank but there are some flat, smooth rocks buried in it and they’re hard in my back.

Gabriel rolls off me and laughs.

I swear at him. “I think I’ve broken a rib.”

“Moan, moan, moan. You English complain all the time.”

“I’m not complaining, I’m stating a fact. Just cos I can heal doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt!”

“I didn’t think you’d be so soft.”

“Me? Soft?”

“Yep.” He’s kneeling beside me now and pokes me in the chest with his finger. “Soft!”

I’ve healed my rib and I grab his hand, twist and throw him to the ground so that I’m on top of him.

I poke his chest. “I’m not soft.”

“You are but don’t worry about it. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

I swear at him as I get up. I hold my hand out to him and he takes it and I pull him up.

We descend into the woods again, cross a stream, and ascend a steep, wooded mountainside, so steep that we have to use our hands to scramble up. Despite the slope the trees are tall, each with a hockey-stick curve at the base where it emerges from the ground. We arrive at a small area of scree below the wide, open mouth of a cave. The cave isn’t deep, only four or five meters and the same in width, but it’s dry and I could sleep in it, I think, without getting sick.

The smell is that forest smell: decay and life.

Gabriel says, “I thought, if anything happens . . . goes wrong, this is where we should meet.”

“What are you expecting to go wrong?”

“I’m not sure but Hunters are after you; Mercury is dangerous and unpredictable.” He hesitates, then adds: “You’re a little dangerous and unpredictable too.”

He’s right, of course.

He takes a tin out of his small rucksack, saying, “I’ll leave my things here.” He’s told me that the tin contains mementoes: love letters that his father sent to his mother, as well as the item Gabriel would have given to Mercury if she was to succeed in turning him from a fain back into a witch. I still don’t know what that is. I won’t ask. If he wants to tell me he will. He puts the tin in a corner of the cave and then fishes something else out of the rucksack.

He holds the package out to me.

“It’s for you . . . I thought you’d like it.”

I’m not sure what to do.

He says, “Take it. It’s a present.”

I can tell from Gabriel’s voice, the way he hesitates, his hand not as steady as normal, that he wants me to like it. I want to like it, for him.

The package is long and flat. From the weight of it, it could be a book but I know it isn’t—that would be too hard for me to like. It’s wrapped in the bag from the shop, pale green with some writing on it, folded over at the top and crumpled from being in his rucksack. The paper of the bag is thick and waxy.

I squat down and gently open one end. Inside is tissue paper: white, thickly folded, new, not wrinkled. I carefully pull the package out and let the bag go. It seems to float to the ground. Everything seems special. The gift has a certain weight on my palm, a balance and a thickness.

“When was the last time you were given a present?” he asks, joking, nervous.

I don’t know. A long time ago.

I place the package before me on the needle-thick ground, bright white on green and brown.

I unfold the tissue paper carefully.

As slow as I can.

As gentle as I can.

Still one fold to go.

“You’d better like it after all this.”

I like it already. And I wait, enjoying the tissue on the ground, the almost-unwrapped present.

I lift back the tissue with my fingertips. The knife lies there, black on the white paper. The handle is covered in fine black leather. The blade is protected by a thick leather sheath. There’s a clasp to attach it to my belt. The knife handle fits my hand well, not too big or too small. Not too heavy or too light. The blade slides out of its protective cover smoothly. It’s a bowie knife, the blade dramatically curved. The poor light from the sky catches on the metal and reflects into the forest.

I look up at Gabriel. He’s trying to smile.

“I like it.”

I never apologized about his eye.

* * *

I’ve finished the carving of the knife. I would love Gabriel to see it but I know that will never happen. I stand and look back toward the cottage and I want to scream with frustration at the unfairness of it all. No one can ever be a friend to me like Gabriel was, and he’s been taken from me, like they take everything, and I want to kill Kieran and all of them. But I know if I kill Kieran now the Hunters will be after me again and they might catch me, and then there’d be no one to help Annalise. For her sake, I have to be cautious.

I make my way back to the cave.

It’s dark and I’m almost there, approaching it from along the hillside, when I see a flickering flame. A small campfire.

Could it be . . . ?

I stop. Then move ahead. Slowly. Silently. Staying hidden in the trees.

The fire is in the cave mouth. There’s a small ring of stones with burning branches inside and a coffeepot standing on one of the stones.

But who made the fire? It can’t be Gabriel, can it? Maybe hikers? Not Hunters, surely? They wouldn’t have a fire or a coffeepot. There’s no buzzing, no mobile phones. Not fains. Probably not Hunters either.

Could it be Gabriel?

He loves coffee.

A movement in the cave. A man’s dark shape.

Gabriel?

But this silhouette looks shorter, stockier.

It can’t be a Hunter, can it? There’s no buzzing and there’d be two of them—or twenty . . .

Shit! Who is it?

The man comes out past the fire. He looks toward me. It’s dark. I’m standing well back in the trees. I know he can’t see me.

“Bloody hell, mate,” he says. His accent is Australian.

I wonder if there are two of them and he’s talking to a friend who’s still in the cave.

But he walks slowly toward me . . . Hesitantly, but straight toward me.

I’m frozen, not breathing.

He comes a step closer. Then another. And stares at me. He’s four or five meters away, a silhouette against the glow from the fire. I can’t see his face but I can tell that he isn’t Gabriel.

“Bloody hell,” he says again. “I thought you were dead.”

He’s definitely talking to me. He must be able to see in the dark. I don’t move, just stare back.

Then, sounding more nervous, he asks, “You’re not dead, are you?”