Witch Hunter (41 page)

centre, snaking through the opening in tendrils: down the

tablet, up the walls, across the ceiling, squirming and

undulating as though it were alive. I step back, away from

whatever magic the light possesses, but it’s no use: the

trickle of light grows until it’s nearly blinding. Then with a

rush of wind and a shattering noise – like ice breaking

across a frozen pond – the tablet crumbles.

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I leap out of the way, but I’m not fast enough. Pieces of

the broken tablet fall on top of me, and the weight of them

throws me on my back, knocking the breath from my lungs

and the Azoth from my hand and burying me in a heap of

rubble and stone. I wriggle under the debris, shifting the

stones off my stomach and limbs.

‘Schuyler.’ I cough, my voice raspy from the dust. There’s

no answer. ‘Are you there?’ I wait for him to reply. But

there’s nothing. Just the sound of my own ragged breathing

and a soft, steady rushing noise. It sounds almost like…

almost like rain.

I feel a sudden chill. It wasn’t raining when I went into

the tomb. And there was no sign of it, either; the sky was

crisp and black and full of stars. What does that mean? It

could be that I’ve been in here longer than I thought. It is

Anglia, after all, and the weather changes fast. But it could

mean something else, too.

I’m still in the illusion.

I get to my feet. Retrieve the Azoth from beneath the

dust. Step carefully over the debris, make my way up the

stairs and through the trapdoor until I’m outside again. It’s

pouring. Icy rain is coming down in sheets. There are

puddles everywhere. It’s been raining for a while. And

Schuyler – whose voice I heard just seconds ago – is

nowhere to be seen.

I feel a rush of disappointment, then terror. Because if

I’m still in the tomb, still inside the illusion, it means I

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didn’t really destroy the tablet. Worse than that, it means

whatever my biggest fear is, it’s still to come. And if my

biggest fear isn’t dying alone, or watching John and

everyone else die in front of me, then what is it? What could

be worse than that?

It also means I was tricked into using the Azoth

when I didn’t need to. I can feel the power of it still

thrumming through me, whispering to me. Wanting me

to use it. To take the power it offers me: to destroy, to

break, to kill.

I thrust it back into the scabbard, exchanging it for a pair

of serrated knives. Then I step into the rain.

I’m still at Blackwell’s, I can tell that much. I can see the

flag-topped spires on the towers, the looming stone walls. A

jagged flash of lightning brightens the sky. Thunder rumbles

in the distance. I take a few tentative steps, my feet sinking

softly into the mud. I scan the grounds carefully: the hedge

maze in front of me, the trees that surround me. Something

is out here, waiting. I know it; I can feel it.

Finally, I see it: a pair of yellow lamp-like eyes staring

through the trees ahead. Then with a rustle of leaves and the

snap of a branch, it comes for me.

The creature lumbers into the clearing, a huge, ratlike

thing, the size of a horse but with six legs instead of four

and a long, barb-tipped tail, filled with poison. Another of

Blackwell’s creations. I’ve seen it before, in training. It’s

slow and clumsy, but what it lacks in speed it makes up for

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in numbers. It travels in packs, as rats do. Which means

there are more of them.

I send both knives flying, aiming directly for the eyes.

That’s the only way to kill it, to put out both of its eyes. I

manage to hit one but miss the other, and the rat stumbles

onto its side and lets out an ear-splitting shriek. It’s calling

the others. I pull out another knife and run towards it, leap

over the whipping tail, and plunge it into the other eye. The

rat shudders and dies, but I feel the ground trembling and

know more are coming. I whip around to see three of them

heading right for me.

I’ve got four knives left. I hurl them at the rats. And even

though it’s dark and still pouring, I manage to hit each one

in the eye. Not enough to kill, but enough to slow them

down. I snatch the ax from my belt and rush to them as

they lie flailing and shrieking on the ground. I get hit several

times with their barbed tails, and although the wounds heal

instantly, I feel the effect of the poison anyway. It makes me

see double. And through the dark and the rain, I can’t tell

one rat from another. I follow their shrieks and keep

hacking away at them and getting hit with their tails over

and over until, finally, they go still.

I collapse on the ground, letting the rain wash over me,

shaking and dizzy from the poison. I consider for a moment

that the poison may not be real, that it may be part of the

illusion. I suppose it doesn’t matter. Because, like any

illusion, it’s real enough. And either way, I need to move. If

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there are more creatures around, they’ll come for the dead

rats. Blackwell could never figure out how to feed these

things he created, so he simply allowed them to feed on

whatever it was we killed. I asked Caleb once what happened

to the bodies of the witch hunters who were killed in

training, but he said it was better not to know.

Through the rain, I spot the outline of the hedge maze. I

don’t want to go there. I’ve been through it once and almost

didn’t make it out. But I also know that if I go inside,

whatever else is out here won’t follow me. They’re scared of

what’s in there, too.

I roll onto my hands and knees and start crawling along

the edge of the forest near the trees, where I won’t be so

easily spotted. Finally, the tree line ends at a stretch of open

ground that leads to the maze on the other side. I huddle

there a moment, shivering and soaking wet, my head still

swimming. I need to stand. I need to run. I need to make it

into that maze before anything else finds me. But I’m so

tired. I lie back in the mud and go still, just for a moment,

my breath coming in deep, heavy gasps. Close my eyes

against the freezing rain that splashes around me.

‘Elizabeth.’

When I hear his voice, deep and quiet, I think that’s the

poison, too. That it’s worked its way into my head and is

making me hear things that aren’t there. But when he says

my name again, I sit up so abruptly my head spins. And I

see him, standing in the clearing next to the hedge maze.

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John.

I get to my feet, stumbling a little.

‘You’re hurt,’ he says, a frown crossing his face. He

sounds so real.

He’s not real.

Is he?

I make my way towards him. As I grow closer, he flinches

at the sight of me: tattered trousers, torn shirt, covered in

mud and blood and God knows what else. My hair unpinned

and falling in tangled knots around my shoulders.

He’s dressed as he was at the masque: white shirt, black

pants, black jacket trimmed in red. Tousled hair, hazel eyes

that look at me so intently. He looks so real.

He’s not real.

Is he?

‘It isn’t really you,’ I say. It comes out a whisper. ‘I

know that.’

John – the illusion of John – glances over his shoulder,

a brief shadow crossing his face.

‘It is,’ he says, turning back to me. ‘It is me. Why would

you think it isn’t?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t know. Maybe because it’s

raining. I’m soaking wet and you’re completely dry.’

‘It was raining, but it stopped.’ I look up. Illusion John is

right. It has stopped raining. ‘And I’m not wet because I

just got here.’

I brush this off and continue. ‘Fine then. I know you

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aren’t you because you left. Schuyler told me. You’re on a

boat with Peter and everyone else, and you’re going home.

You left.’ I swallow back the lump in my throat.

‘I never left.’ His voice is as quiet as mine. ‘You left me,

remember? You ran away and I didn’t want you to go. So I

came to find you.’ He glances behind him again.

Something seems to bother him, this illusion John. He

keeps looking over his shoulder as though there’s something

there. Something lurking in the shadows, waiting to attack

him. I ignore it. It’s not real.

Is it?

‘Why would you leave the others to come after me?’ My

voice rises, angry because I want it to be true, angry because

I know it’s not. ‘Why would you do that?’

He steps towards me. ‘Don’t you know?’

I shake my head.

He looks at me. Dark eyes, moonlight. ‘Because I’m in

love with you.’

I close my eyes, the fight draining out of me. I’m so tired.

Tired of this illusion, tired of the truth, tired of the lies.

Blackwell is a wizard. Because I’m in love with you. I don’t

want any more. I want to wake up.

I open my eyes. Snatch the last remaining knife from my

belt and drive it, hard, into my leg. ‘Wake up!’ I scream, not

at John, or his illusion, but at myself.

He’s in my face before I can finish pulling it out.

Yanks the knife from my hand, flings it to the ground. Then

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he’s got both of my hands in both of his, pinning them

behind my back. He leans in close. I can feel his breath

on my cheek.

‘Stop.’

I struggle in his arms. Try to get away before this

illusion changes and he disappears or dies or turns into

anything but what he is, dark eyes and soft curls and warmth

and safety.

But when he pulls me back to him, I let him. And when

he dips his head and brushes his lips against mine, I let him

do that, too. They’re warm and soft, as I remember. Slowly,

he moves his lips from my mouth across my cheek, then to

my ear, lingering there. I can feel him and hear him and

smell him, and it’s all so real. For a moment I close my eyes

and give in to it, in to the shivers and the thrill he gives me,

until I hear his hoarse, ragged whisper.

‘Run.’

I yank away from him with a gasp; and when I do, I see

Blackwell standing beside John, slowly pulling a knife out

of his side.

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‘That was a very touching scene,’ Blackwell says. He wipes

a handkerchief across the blade and slides it back into

his belt. John lets out a muffled groan and staggers

backwards, pressing his hand to his waist. Blood pours

between his fingers.

‘No,’ I whisper. ‘This isn’t real.’

‘Oh, it’s quite real, I assure you.’ Blackwell steps towards

me. I look at him, hoping to see something that will show

me he’s just part of the illusion. But he looks the same. He’s

wearing the same clothes I saw him in at the masque: dark

trousers, red brocade jacket embroidered in gold. His chain

of office is gone, but then that belongs to Caleb now.

‘You did destroy the tablet,’ he continues. ‘And you

dispatched my hybrids quite handily, too.’ He gives a low

chuckle, like an indulgent father. Only I know better. A

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chill races down my spine. ‘I taught you well. You really

were one of my best witch hunters.’

I shake my head. This isn’t real – it isn’t. I turn away

from him then. Look around, search for something –

anything – to show me what’s really happening. Where I

really am. I see the broken tomb, the dead rats. The rain is

gone, the sky is clear, my clothes are wet, and here I am.

At Blackwell’s. Right where I started.

It’s all real.

‘John!’ I lunge for him just as Blackwell lunges for

me. Quick as a snake, he snatches the Azoth from my

scabbard. I reach out a hand to stop him, but it’s too late.

He holds it up, the emeralds in the hilt glinting menacingly

in the moonlight.

I start for John again, but Blackwell stops me, thrusting

the blade against my chest.

‘You can’t help him,’ he says. ‘He’s got thirty minutes at

most. He’ll know it, too. He’s a healer, isn’t he?’ John is on

his knees now, still clutching his side.

‘Why?’ I shriek. It’s all I can think to ask.

Blackwell shrugs, indifferent. ‘Why did I stab him? I

assume you need a better reason than his trespassing on my

property? Or do you mean why did I try to kill Nicholas

Perevil? I assume you need a better reason than his being a

Reformist, a traitor and a threat to my kingdom?’