Witch Hunter (31 page)

knight, I mean? I’ve never seen anything like that before.’

‘Me neither,’ Fifer says. ‘But it was definitely a curse.

Either from the sword or from the witch who entombed

him. Did you see that slab on top? All the marks on it?’

‘Yes,’ I say, shifting my attention to the treetops ahead of

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us. I just saw a pair of owls shoot into the sky. Might be

nothing; owls hunt at night. But birds flying out of trees are

also nature’s way of telling you there are people nearby.

Maybe it’s just us. ‘It was a curse tablet.’

Fifer nods. ‘You never see them disposed of that way.

They’re usually thrown in wells, dumped in lakes, rivers.

The ocean. You know. But to put one in a tomb—’

I feel a jolt of warning down my spine.

‘Tomb?’ I stop and grab Fifer’s arm. ‘What happens if

you put one in a tomb?’

Fifer frowns. ‘For one, it makes for a more effective

curse. The tablet draws upon the dark energy of the dead

and strengthens the magic. Especially if the person died

violently.’

‘Violently?’ I feel cold, sick.

‘But it’s crazy,’ Fifer continues. ‘I mean, it’s one thing in

theory, burying a curse tablet with a corpse. Entirely another

in practise.’

‘Practise?’ I’m starting to sound like a popinjay, those

ridiculous talking birds that pirates sometimes have. They

can’t really talk, of course. All they do is repeat the last few

words you say to them. Stupid, useless creatures.

‘Well, yes. Think about it. To do it you’d almost have to

plan it all along – perform the curse, kill someone, and then

bury the tablet in with the person you just killed. How

would you do it otherwise? Not many people are going to

run around town looking for freshly dug graves to put their

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curse tablet in, keeping their fingers crossed that the person

buried there died a violent death. No one wants to get their

hands that dirty, pardon the pun.’

My head is spinning. Inside, words float around,

disjointed and nonsensical. Curse tablet. Tomb. Violent

death. Plan. Corpse. Grave. Dirty hands. But then they

start to weave together like a tapestry, forming a picture I

wish I didn’t see.

Come third winter’s night, go underground in green.

What holds him in death will lead you to thirteen.

Fifer was right, but she was also wrong. It wasn’t what

the knight holds in death; it was what holds him in death.

Not the sword, the tablet. The stone slab that entombed

him. Just like the stone slab that nearly entombed me.

Suddenly, I know. I know where the Thirteenth Tablet is.

‘Fifer,’ I whisper. My mouth is dry as dirt. ‘The Thirteenth

Tablet. I know where it is. I—’

I hear it whistle through the air before I feel it: the fist

attached to the arm of the guard that just connected with

my face. There’s a sickening crunch as my nose breaks and

a gush of hot blood comes pouring out.

Next to me, Fifer screams.

‘This was almost too easy,’ the guard mutters, shoving

me aside before going after Fifer. The skirt on my dress

is so tight I lose my footing and stumble to the ground,

sprawling face-first into a pile of leaves and dirt. My

stigma fires hot against my abdomen as my nose snaps

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back into place. I barely feel it.

Before I can get up, two of the guards flip me over and

grab my wrists while a third clamps a pair of manacles

around them. I recognise them immediately: they’re the

guards we ran into on the road to Humbert’s.

‘Not so dangerous now, are you?’ one of them mutters.

I struggle wildly, trying to get to my feet. But my

hands are bound in iron, my legs in silk. The guards force

me back to the ground, one of them driving his knee into

my spine, hard.

‘You’re not going anywhere,’ he says. ‘Except to prison,

where you belong.’

I struggle more. He slams my face into the ground; the

force of it makes my head spin. ‘We’ll stay with her,’ I hear

him call out. ‘You and go help with the other one.’

I hear a shuffle of leaves, then Fifer’s panicked scream. I

turn my head to the side and see the guards circle around

her, taunting and laughing.

‘Get away from me!’ Fifer shrieks, holding the sword in

front of her. She jabs it at the two men but keeps missing.

‘Look at that little girl with the big sword!’

‘You know, witch, you’re lucky we caught up with you

instead of Blackwell’s boys. Your pretty face would be

roasting on the spit before sunrise.’

‘Isn’t that going to happen anyway?’ The other guard

says.

They laugh some more.

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I’ve got to get us out of here. I’ve got one guard on

my back, the other standing next to me. I’ve got that

triple dagger in my boot, but since my hands are pinned

beneath my chest, what good is it? I’m almost tempted

to call for Schuyler. Then I remember the necklace

and realise he won’t hear me. Which means I’m on my own.

I’ve got to get out of these manacles, but I don’t

know how.

Then I get an idea.

Quietly, slowly, I break my own thumbs. First one,

then the other, gritting my teeth against the pain. I slip my

hands out of the bindings, hear a quiet crack as the bones

snap back into place. Then I go still. Have the guards

noticed? No, they’re too busy calling encouragement to the

ones still teasing Fifer. They’re such idiots. Now they’re

going to pay for it.

I flatten my hands underneath me. In a flash, I buck the

guard off my back. Land in a crouch and yank the dagger

from my boot. The guard who rolled off me, I grab him by

the hair and stab him in the neck. He falls back to the

ground, dead. Before the other one can open his mouth in

protest, I pull the dagger from the dead guard’s neck and

send it flying towards him. It lands directly between his eyes

and he slumps to the ground. Also dead. The whole thing is

over in seconds.

The sudden silence gets the other guards’ attention.

Their eyes go from me to the two dead men and back to me

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again. They look stunned. I yank the blade from the guard’s

head and start towards them.

‘Fifer, get behind me.’

She stands there, dazed.

‘Fifer! Now!’

Slowly, she steps around the guards, lowering the sword

a little as she goes.

‘Don’t!’ I shout, but it’s too late. One of the guards leaps

forward, grabs a hank of Fifer’s hair and punches her square

in the face. Then he drives his fist into her stomach and she

drops to the ground. The sword falls limply from her hand.

The other guard picks it up and rounds on me.

I lunge forward and seize his free arm, twist it behind

his back and jerk it upward, hard. I’m rewarded with

a loud snap as the bone breaks. Still holding his wrist,

I yank him to me and drive my dagger into his gut. He

falls to the ground as the other guard leaps forward and

snatches the sword before I can get to it. He swipes at

me with it and I pull back. He does it again, then again,

missing me both times.

I drop to the ground, swinging an outstretched leg

underneath his feet, swiping them out from under him.

As he crumples to his knees, I jump up and smash my

foot along the side of his kneecap. I hear a crunch and he

screams in pain. He falls towards me and takes a final swing

with the sword.

The blade slashes across my abdomen, the cold silver red

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hot as it sears through the silk, all the way to my flesh.

Immediately, it starts gushing blood. I feel the flash of heat

in my abdomen and wait for the familiar, tingling healing

sensation. But it doesn’t come. Just more heat. And a lot

more blood. I clutch my hand to my side and feel it spurt

between my fingers.

It’s not healing.

The guard lies awkwardly on the ground, his injured

limbs sprawling uselessly beneath him. I stumble to him,

snatching the sword from his hand and thrusting it into

his chest. He gives a muffled grunt and falls back into the

grass. Dead.

I hear Fifer groaning. I stagger to her side.

‘Are you okay?’ Her eye is starting to swell, and even

in the pale predawn sky I can see a bruise blooming under

the skin.

She looks at me, her pupils dilated so large her eyes look

nearly black.

‘You’re hurt.’

I nod. ‘I guess the sword has some power after all.’

‘Will you be able to make it back?’

‘I think so.’ The blood is flowing hot and fast now,

spilling through my fingers. I’m starting to shake. Fifer

wraps her arm around my shoulders and, slowly, we make

our way back to Humbert’s.

I don’t speak at all. Whether from pain or terror, I don’t

know. All I do know is that my stigma isn’t healing me.

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What does that mean? Is it just this wound that won’t heal?

Or what if the Azoth has somehow undone the stigma’s

power permanently? If I’ve lost my stigma, I don’t stand a

chance of getting that tablet.

I may as well die right here.

Dawn breaks, weak threads of light pushing through the

thick blanket of clouds that is already filling the sky. As we

reach the edge of Humbert’s property, Fifer is practically

carrying me. I’ve lost a lot of blood and I’m so dizzy I can

hardly walk. The ground swoops in giant waves below me,

and things start to blur around the edges.

Soon we see the turrets of Humbert’s house in the

distance, poking up through the treetops like tiny teeth.

As we draw closer, I can see servants in the courtyard,

already going about their morning business. And I hear

Humbert shouting.

‘Keep your eyes peeled! If you find them, bring them to

me, sharpish! I won’t have them ruining my roses again,

climbing down the bloody wall—’

Fifer shoots me a look. For the first time since we left

the party, I start to worry about what waits for us inside.

This might be bad.

Bridget is in the courtyard as we walk up. She takes one

look at me and screams.

‘Master Pembroke! Come quickly!’ She rushes over to me.

‘Oh my goodness, miss, what’s happened to you? So much

blood…’ She clucks around me like an overexcited hen.

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Humbert comes barrelling through the door, his plump

face flushed with anger. He’s still wearing the clothes he

had on last night, a bright silk doublet over a ruffled

linen shirt, both now wrinkled and wilted. His spare grey

hair sticks up at all angles, revealing patches of baldness

underneath. He looks completely mental. I might laugh if I

weren’t about to faint.

He takes one look at us and stops dead in his tracks.

‘My God,’ he stammers. ‘What – what happened? My

God,’ he repeats, his eyes darting back and forth between

Fifer and me in horror. He seems not to notice the enormous

sword she’s holding at her side.

Between the two of us, there’s a lot to be horrified by.

Fifer’s red hair is matted and dirty, embedded with grass

and twigs and broken leaves. Her shirt is mud-stained

and her skirt hangs in tatters. But none of that compares

with her face. Her eye, nearly swollen shut now, is a

brilliant shade of purple. It stands out like a beacon against

her pale skin.

But however bad she looks, I look a hundred times

worse. I catch a glimpse of myself in one of Humbert’s

many diamond-paned windows and start at the reflection.

My face is coated in blood and dirt. My arms are covered in

moss and mud. But my stomach is the worst. Fifer’s

beautiful white dress has been torn clear open, revealing an

enormous, oozing slash across my midsection. She said

she’d kill me if I ruined her dress, but I’m wondering if the

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sword might beat her to it. My stomach lurches and the

ground slides precariously under my feet.

‘John!’ Humbert rushes to my side. ‘George! Come

quickly! We need help!’ He and Fifer slowly lead me inside

the house.

John and George run into the hallway. I lift my head to

look them over. Unlike Humbert, they’ve changed into

fresh clothes from yesterday, both wearing long wool coats,

heavy gloves, and boots. Their faces are flushed with cold,

as if they’ve been outside for a while.