Witch Hunter

For Scott

and

For England

I stand at the edge of the crowded square, watching the

executioners light the pyres. The two men, dressed for

work in dark red cloaks and charred leather gloves, circle

the narrow wooden platforms, their lit torches held high.

At the top of each pyre, four witches and three wizards

stand chained to a stake, bundles of wood heaped around

their feet. They stare into the crowd, determined looks

on their faces.

I don’t know what they did; they weren’t my captures.

But I do know there will be no apologies from them. No

last-minute pleas for mercy, no scaffold-step promises to

repent. Even as the executioners touch their torches to the

wood and the first of the flames leaps into the leaden

sky, they remain silent. They’ll stay that way, stubborn to

the very end. It wasn’t always like this. But the worse the

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Reformist rebellions get, the more defiant the Reformists

themselves become.

It doesn’t matter anyway, what they did. What magic

they used. Spells, familiars, potions, herbs: it’s all illegal

now. There was a time when those things were tolerated,

encouraged even. Magic was seen as helpful – once. Then

the plague came. Started by magic, spread by magic – we

were almost destroyed by magic. We warned them to stop,

but they didn’t stop. Now here we are, standing in a dirty

square under a dirty sky, forcing them to stop.

To my right, about twenty feet away, is Caleb. He stares

into the fire, his blue eyes narrowed, forehead slightly

creased. By his expression he could be sad, he could be

bored, he could be playing against himself a game of

noughts and crosses. It’s hard to tell. Even I don’t know

what he’s thinking, and I’ve known him longer than anyone.

He’ll make his move soon, before the protests begin. I

can already hear the murmuring, the shuffling feet, the odd

cry or two from a family member. People raise sticks, hold

up rocks. They stay their hands out of respect for the men

and women on the pyre. But once they’re gone, the violence

will begin. Against the executioners, against the guards who

line the street, against anyone who supports the justice

doled out in front of us. People are frightened of magic, yes.

But the consequences of magic frighten them even more.

Finally, I see it: a gentle tug on a lock of dark blond hair,

a hand placed slowly in his pocket.

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It’s time.

I’m halfway across the square when the shouting breaks

out. I feel a shove from behind, then another. I pitch

forward and slam into the back of the man standing in

front of me.

‘Watch it, you.’ He whips around, a glare on his face. It

disappears as soon as he sees me. ‘I’m sorry, miss. I didn’t

see you, and—’ He stops, peering at me closely. ‘My word,

you’re just a child. You shouldn’t be here. Go on home.

There’s nothing here you need to see.’

I nod and back away. He’s right about one thing: there’s

nothing here I need to see. And somewhere else I need

to be.

I follow Caleb down a wide cobblestoned street, then

through The Shambles, a maze of narrow, sludge-filled

alleyways lined with squat, dark-timbered row houses, their

pitched roofs casting a near-permanent shadow over the

street. We wind through them quickly: Cow Lane, Pheasant

Court, Goose Alley. All the streets in this area have funny

names like this, originating from when the square at Tyburn

was used for herding livestock.

Now it’s used for a different kind of slaughter.

The streets are deserted, as they always are on a burning

day. Those who aren’t watching the burnings are at

Ravenscourt Palace protesting them or at any one of

Upminster’s taverns trying to forget them. It’s a risk,

making an arrest today. We risk the crowds; we risk being

9

seen. If we were arresting an ordinary witch, we probably

wouldn’t risk it at all.

But this is no ordinary arrest.

Caleb pulls me into an empty doorway. ‘Ready?’

‘Of course.’ I smile.

He grins back. ‘Pointy things at the ready, then.’

I reach under my cloak and pull out my sword.

Caleb nods in approval. ‘The guards are waiting for us

down on Pheasant, and, just in case, I’ve got Marcus posted

on Goose and Linus covering Cow.’ A pause. ‘God, these

street names are stupid.’

I stifle a laugh. ‘I know. But I won’t need their help.

I’ll be fine.’

‘If you say so.’ Caleb reaches into his pocket and pulls

out a single crown. He pinches the coin between his

fingers and holds it in front of my face. ‘Shall we say the

usual then?’

I scoff. ‘You wish. I’ve got five times the quarry, so that’s

five times the bounty. Plus, these are necromancers. Which

means there’s at least one corpse, a bunch of blood, a pile of

bones…that’s a sovereign at least, you cheapskate.’

Caleb laughs. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Grey. Fine. Let’s

make it two sovereigns and drinks after. Deal?’

‘Deal.’ I give him my hand, but instead of shaking it, he

kisses it. My stomach does a funny little tumble, and I can

feel warmth rush into my cheeks. But he doesn’t seem to

notice. He just shoves the coin back into his pocket, then

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pulls a dagger from his belt, and flips it into the air, catching

it deftly.

‘Good. Now let’s get going. These necromancers aren’t