Witch Fire (25 page)

As her fae began to rise and tingle, warming the spot beneath her collarbone, she reached deep into her own dark secret heart. From here, the fae flowed out to the child; through the blood they shared, the ring of hair that bound them and the poppet she held. As she did so, she could feel the other witch’s fae resisting her. It was a creeping coldness and sickness; a fuzz in the brain.

She stared deep into Esteban’s eyes, trying to get past the haze that clouded them. The cut on her forehead burned. And, just for a moment, she heard it: a rasping slither and hiss, a squirm of darkness in her head . . .

She gasped, and flinched away. At the same moment, a scribble mark appeared on Esteban’s lower left arm. It was a serpentine scratch, where beads of blood formed. Vargas cried out in anguish, and the other onlookers rustled and hummed. Rose was twisting her hands together and murmuring, as if in prayer.

Glory blocked them out. She took a deep breath and resumed her position. She didn’t know whether the appearance of the snake-mark was a good or bad sign, but she clutched the child’s hand more tightly, and the poppet more firmly. She started to whisper his name, over and over. There was a bitter taste in her mouth. As she began to sweat and shake, and a fearful coldness crept over her skin, she began to realise this wasn’t something she could win. The bane was too strong for her. If she wasn’t careful, whatever had infected Esteban would start to infect her too.

‘I can’t –’ she choked out. ‘I can’t –’

All of a sudden, the pressure vanished. It felt like a warm breeze blowing through her body. With a crack, the marble fell to the floor, for the mud-man built around it had crumbled into a vile-smelling greenish dust.

Esteban gave a sharp cry. Then he blinked, and shook his head blearily, like someone coming out of a deep sleep. The bloody scribble on his arm had vanished. ‘
Papá!
’ he explained. ‘
Vi una serpiente!
’ Then he looked at the floor, clearly wondering where the snake had gone.

His father rushed at him, weeping and babbling, crushing him in his arms. Other people crowded around the bed. Glory was happy to step back, feeling shaky and confused. Several people came and pumped her hand, asking questions she was too dazed to respond to. But others, including the fae-healer, kept their distance. They seemed almost more nervous of her now than when she’d first entered the room.

Rose came and hugged her. Panic over, she was bright-eyed and pink-cheeked, almost giddy with relief. ‘Oh, Glory! Thank you so, so, so much. You were wonderful! Miraculous.’

‘I don’t . . . I don’t understand what happened.’ Glory frowned. ‘I thought I couldn’t do it. I was
losing
. And then, out of nowhere –’

‘Like I said, you’re a miracle-worker! I shouldn’t be surprised if you get a government honour out of this. Or a statue in the Plaza de la República. It’s the least you deserve. As I’m sure the Senator will tell you . . .’ She looked towards her boss, still cradling his son and barely visible through a knot of well-wishers.

‘If it’s OK with you, I won’t stick around. I mustn’t be late for work.’ Glory smiled shakily. ‘Could do with some fresh air too, if I’m honest.’

Rose glanced at her watch. ‘Actually, I should be heading to the office too. I’ll walk you out.’

‘Bit past office hours, I’d have thought.’

‘
The Red Knights are on duty twenty-four-seven.’

‘Wait – you’re in the
militia
? I thought you was working for Vargas’s campaign!’

‘Oh, I am. But I also do some of the admin for the Senator’s security detail. It’s how I met my boyfriend, as it happens. He’s a Red Knight lieutenant. I’ll have to introduce you next time around.’ Rose smiled. ‘Maybe he should bring along a friend for you. No girl can resist a man in uniform!’

Raffi’s family was very welcoming to Lucas. A noisy tribe of sisters crowded round to greet him, while Senora Almagro didn’t stop beaming. The Comandante had the same small merry eyes and spiky quiff as his son.

Bribery and corruption had certainly treated the police chief well. The penthouse duplex was stuffed with Louis XVI antique furniture and American pop art. Lucas and Raffi stretched out beside the swimming pool on a blue-tiled roof terrace, sipping coconut lemonade and eating savoury pastries brought out by the maids. The city sprawled below, rooftops shimmering in a smoky haze.

Lucas, however, was unable to relax. He didn’t want to get Raffi too involved, yet needed his local knowledge and support. In the end, he kept Cambion out of the story, while explaining who Gideon was and why he was dangerous, particularly for a witch like Glory.

Raffi’s response was not reassuring. He told Lucas that the militias were made up of ex-inquisitors and soldiers, mostly foreign, and all with shady pasts. The Red Knights were funded and administered by a consortium of Cordoba’s wealthiest families. He suspected that Senator Vargas aimed to take them under state control if he was elected and use them as a basis to re-establish the Cordoban Inquisition.

It was no surprise Raffi distrusted Vargas’s ambition to restore order to Cordoba’s streets and integrity to its public life. His father owed his position to the current president, Ignacio De Aviles, a doddery old rogue who was embroiled in several lawsuits. This led Lucas to reconsider Raffi’s departure from Wildings.

‘You told me you were going home because the political situation had changed,’ he reminded him. ‘And that it would be safe for you here. But Vargas is ahead in the polls. He’s still the favourite to win, right?’

Raffi smiled, and tapped his nose. ‘Ah, but my
papá
, he hears things. Whispers that bad things are to happen to Vargas’s campaign. Soon, he is to withdraw.’

‘Is the source of these whispers reliable?’

‘Some of them maybe yes, some maybe no. But one whisper is the most reliable of all.’ Raffi lowered his voice conspiratorially.
‘
They call her La Bruja Blanca.’

La Bruja Blanca . . . the White Witch.

‘I think I’ve heard of her,’ Lucas said. ‘Somebody tried to sell me a charm she made.’

‘She is fighter-hero from the revolution, many years ago. An ancient lady, though it is said she can appear young and beautiful, because she is so strong in her fae. She is hiding in the mountains. The peasant people, they think her very good and very powerful, and they tell her things. She has spies in the city too. Sometimes, they cause trouble for my
papá
. La Bruja Blanca does not like him. But she hates the Inquisition worse, and also the militias.’

Lucas dipped a hand into the gleaming water of the swimming pool. ‘Sounds like a useful person to know.’

‘La Blanca is no help to us here, though. If Glory gets in trouble with the militia, then that is very bad. Even my
papá
cannot control them. They make many witches disappear. You must warn her about this Gideon.’

‘It’s getting her to listen that’s the trouble. She’s . . . well, she’s very angry with me.’

‘Aha, but Glory is not angry with
me
. Tonight we will go party in the Carabosse, and I will talk to her. My family, we know the owner. So there will be no worries.’ Raffi settled back on his sunlounger. ‘Seriously,
amigo
, now is time to chill. Me, I can make all things right.’

But when he and Lucas turned up to the Carabosse that night, they found the street closed off and the building evacuated. An excitable crowd had gathered behind the cordon, where a policeman was arguing with a soldier in a red uniform. The club had been raided by the Red Knight militia, said the man nearest to Raffi. A member of staff was accused of bane-hexing and assault. Some said she had escaped over the rooftops; according to other reports, she was already captive.

Chapter 25

The vileness of Esteban’s bane clung to Glory for a good while after leaving Rose. But after food and a shower, she felt more like herself. She didn’t have to explain anything to her housemates, since it was Candy’s night off and she and Todd were out. By the time Glory left for the Carabosse, her thoughts had turned to possible rewards. Maybe she could use Vargas’s gratitude as leverage to get a better job. Or help with looking for her mum. Or a nice fat wad of cash. She wouldn’t say no to a statue in the Plaza de la República either.

Not bad, for a girl from Cooper Street . . . !

Her revival was short-lived. Work was even more busy than usual and dominated by her least favourite type of punter: an English stag party. Fighting the bane had drained her more than she realised. After less than an hour the crush got too much and she slipped back into the staffroom for a moment’s peace, on the pretext she needed supplies for a fascination.

‘
They are looking for you in the club,’ somebody said from the passage outside.

It was the cat-woman, Sheba, dressed for her act in the silver leotard, the animal draped round her shoulders like a fur wrap. It was the first time Glory had heard her voice: a low and scratchy purr.

‘Yeah, well, I’ll be there in a sec,’ she said irritably.

The woman’s eyes shone yellowish in the dim light. ‘It is the militia.’

Her cat opened its mouth and yowled. Glory stared at its white pointed teeth and ribbed red throat. And yet, somehow, she wasn’t as shocked as she should have been. For hadn’t she been tensed for this her whole life? Boots on the stairs, fists on the door. Rough hands, dragging her through the night.

Her thoughts flashed confusedly – Esteban’s bane – Rose – the Red Knights –

It never occurred to her that there might be a reasonable explanation, or that she should try to face it out. Flee or fight: those were your only options in a witch-hunt. Hardly aware of what she was doing, she kicked off her spindly high heels and thrust her feet into the trainers she’d used for the commute. Fight or flee . . . But she had no weapon, and the basement was windowless. Helplessly, she moved towards the back door, knowing it was already too late. Of course they would have posted a guard there.

‘Not that way,’ said Sheba, blinking her golden eyes.
‘
This.’

She beckoned Glory into her dressing room. It was cramped and frowsty, smelling of cat. ‘Emergency exit,’ she said impassively, and pointed to a built-in wardrobe. Sounds of barked orders and indignant protests were coming from the main club.

Trembling, Glory opened the wardrobe and drew back a tangle of costumes to see that stairs lay behind. Sheba pressed something into her hand – a white feather, a knucklebone – before moving away to sit at her mirror. The last Glory saw of her, she was licking her hands to smooth her hair. The cat sat beside her, grooming its own sleek fur.

The stairs only went up one level. It wouldn’t take long for the soldiers to work out where she had gone. But the rest of the building was used as an archive store and would be empty at night. Glory’s hand closed more tightly around Sheba’s parting gift. Though she didn’t understand the feather, the bit of bone was important. If she could get on to the roof, she could use it as a lodestone. Witches, like cats, were good with heights . . .

She could feel the music from the club vibrating through the floor. She ran through a succession of storage rooms, the grandeur of their stone carvings and polished wood obscured by ranks of shelving towers.

Already, she could hear sounds of pursuit. She burst out into the entrance hall, lined by broken busts of inquisitors past, and headed up a sweeping marble staircase. The main door thumped and rattled. More soldiers.

The house to the north side of this one had a roof terrace. If she could get to a top-storey window, she could sky-leap across to it. The terrace would provide a flat landing, while the alley that ran between the buildings would put some distance between her and the militia.

A thunderous crash announced that the front door was open. Looking down the shaft of the stairs, she saw a hand grabbing the banister only two flights below, then slide up towards her, fast.

On the next landing, she swung right into a dark corridor and then into a long gallery cluttered with more filing cabinets and shelving. Pounding feet were not far behind. In her desperation, she tugged at one of the towering stacks to try to block their way. The shelves crashed down behind her, with a flurry of yellowing papers and a satisfyingly solid crack. She pushed the next row down, and the next.

Finally, she reached the window at the north end. The shutters’ heavy iron panels and rusty hinges were a struggle to open, and sickening to touch. But at least there were no bars. Glory picked up a chair and smashed it through the glass. She summoned the knucklebone to her sweaty palm and swung herself up on to the ledge, bent almost double to fit within the opening. Shards of glass were still sticking up round the frame. Her flimsy silver dress offered no protection and soon it and the glass were speckled with blood.

Behind her, men were clambering over the tumbled racks. There was a warning shout, a stutter of gunfire. Too late: Glory had hurled the lodestone with as much force as she could manage over the alley and on to the terrace below. In seconds, she swung after it.

She landed painfully, the impact jarring upwards through her feet, knees, spine. Nonetheless, she dragged herself to her feet and plunged unsteadily on. The next leap took her to a new building, and a slope of uneven clay tiles. It was as well she didn’t delay. A thud and crack behind her alerted her to the fact she’d been followed. There was another sky-leaper, wearing the militia’s red uniform. A big man, he was also swift and sure-footed, and equipped with a headlamp to illuminate his path.